Steven Havill: Heartshot

I shook my head slowly, no longer really caring what Sprague had to say.

“Barrie decided it would be cute to use the old Consolidated Mine. The security guard there, as you no doubt already know, is something less than bright, and was thoroughly enjoying some extra income. The last flight, we came in right at dusk. That’s a tricky time, as you are probably well aware. Barrie was on the ground, and took the handoff. I suppose the Salinger boy saw the radio-controlled plane, or heard it, and drove down the road to see it. For whatever reason, Barrie was not able to just ignore his audience. He caught the fence coming in and crashed the plane. Salinger, being the helpful soul that he was, rendered assistance and saw the wrong things. So Barrie shot him. You know the rest.”

He looked at me and frowned. “Or at least, if you don’t, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

I wanted to swear at Sprague, or punch him, or something. But I was gelatin. “You’re too persistent, Sheriff,” Sprague said. “Reyes, I don’t worry about. She jumps when you tell her to jump. And that idiot Holman is just that. Your illness is convenient, however. I’m sure it will be another jolt to our little town to have another funeral so soon. But believe me, the jolts haven’t even started, Sheriff. They haven’t even started.”

I tried several deep breaths, and even that was too much effort. The giant vise was again constricting my chest. Sprague’s voice was soothing.

“Sixteen thousand feet, Sheriff. That’s quite an accomplishment for a man as sick as yourself.”

Sixteen thousand? A little clear space formed in my muddled skull. I knew I had to act now. There was no more time, no more air. And maybe I had waited too long.

Sprague reached forward and fingered a small switch. The airplane bumped slightly as the autopilot disengaged. Sprague’s hand was on the yoke, and he pulled back gently. The aircraft’s nose lifted a little more until we were climbing steeply.

“There’s no point in prolonging your agony, Sheriff. It should be quite peaceful up a little higher.”

The urge for self-preservation did wonders. “There will come a time when you won’t be able to lift a finger,” my son had said. I remembered his exact words. I turned toward the window, willing every particle of effort to my right hand. It moved, but agonizingly slowly. The stubby-barreled Magnum was covered by the loose tail of my sport shirt. I could hardly feel the butt, but my fingers closed automatically and my thumb pushed the holster snap. I drew the revolver clumsily. Sprague watched me, and smiled.

“Incredible,” he said.

“Down,” I mumbled. “Take it down.”

He shook his head, unperturbed. “It would be almost comical if you shot me, Sheriff. This airplane will do almost anything, but it does require a pilot.” He grinned, and reached down to spin a big wheel low down in the center console. My peripheral vision was long gone, and the black walls of the tunnel grew narrow. I wondered if he had thought that all the other deaths were comical. He was looking down at the short barrel, no doubt wondering what small flick of the wrist was necessary to twist the gun from my grip with minimal danger to himself. I didn’t have the strength to squeeze the trigger. But at two feet, the bull’s-eye was a big one. I didn’t need to squeeze. I concentrated on my right index finger, and jerked the trigger. The explosion of the.357 Magnum inside the confines of the airplane was so violent that my vision cleared for a short moment.

Harlan Sprague rose up tall in his seat, mouth wide open. His hands flew off the control yoke and fluttered wildly in the air even as his body sagged forward. His eyes were open and staring as his head slammed down, cracking against the yoke. The Cessna’s nose jarred down in response to the weight on the controls. Sprague’s arms hung straight down, hands almost touching the floor.

I didn’t have any time to congratulate myself. My own tunnel vision narrowed, and the light at the end gradually flickered to gray.

Either machine guns or static on the radio jarred me to a form of agonizing consciousness and washed away the gray. My head was ready to split, with pain lancing down between my eyes so savagely my cheek-bones ached. I groaned and tried to move stiff joints. And then I remembered where I was and came fully conscious with a jerk that damn near threw my back out of joint. All the pain suddenly became a source of wonder mixed with relief.

The Centurion was thundering through the blue skies with its left wing slightly low and the nose just barely dipping below the horizon. I could breathe almost comfortably. I rubbed my face and looked over at Harlan Sprague. Blood ran from his nose and mouth. The puddle between his feet was enormous. And then I really woke up. “Son of a bitch,” I said aloud. And then added, “Jesus H. Christ.” I hated airplanes. I knew nothing about them. The hundred or so dials and switches on the Centurion’s dashboard looked me fair in the eye and dared me.

“Shit,” I said. It would have been easier to remain unconscious. “Use your head, Gastner,” I said, and I leaned over toward Sprague and looked at the controls. The autopilot switch was pretty obvious, and even I could see the “Off” and “On” designations. I unfastened the harness that held me and then gently pulled on Sprague. I was weak as a kitten, but I was ahead of the rigor, and I managed to pull him back until the controls were free. The Centurion immediately lifted its nose.

“Shit,” I muttered. I yanked Sprague’s shoulder harness tight across his bloody shirt and ignored the airplane until I was sure the corpse was going to stay put. Then I pushed on the yoke, and was pleased to see the nose drop. I knew that pilots turned the yoke to make the wings flip-flop, and I experimented. With the plane at what I thought was level, I snapped the autopilot switch to “On.” The wings stayed level. I released the yoke. The nose lifted.

“Well, son of a bitch, how the hell do you keep this thing down!” I shouted. “What the hell good is an autopilot if it doesn’t work?” I sat for a minute with my hand pushing on the yoke. With a little work, I could manage to keep the Centurion on a mild porpoise through the skies. My head still pounded, but it felt good to be in one piece, if only for a little while. I searched and finally found the little things that had to be fuel gauges. There was plenty. The airspeed indicator was simple enough. It told me that I was going about 150 miles an hour…to where, I had no idea. The damn altimeter was something else. It had three hands. I squinted, then gave up. What did it matter? I could breathe, and wasn’t in any danger of hitting trees. I guessed something on the order of eight to ten thousand feet, and what I could figure out from the altimeter agreed.

I looked down. The terrain was an even, scrub-dotted adobe. I leaned forward and looked at the compass. The needle was pasted just off south at 176 degrees. With my luck, I would be south of the border. If that was the case, I’d be seeing the bleak inside of a Mexican prison for the next thousand years if I pulled off a landing. It’d be tough explaining the corpse. The Centurion had spiraled down from probably close to seventeen thousand feet, and I had no idea how much air space that took. “Why not north?” I said. Tentatively, I tried turning the yoke to the left. I felt resistance and remember the autopilot. My hand hesitated, but I took the plunge. I snapped off the autopilot switch. Holding my breath, I moved the yoke about a thousandth of an inch. Sure enough, the Centurion turned ever so slightly. “My kind of turn,” I said, and then to Sprague’s quiet form, “Too bad you can’t see this, you miserable bastard.” I glanced at the compass. I had 172. “More, Gastner,” I said. I was too eager. As I turned the yoke, still pushing forward against the plane’s tendency to climb, the left wing dropped smoothly. I overcorrected like an old lady on icy pavement. The Centurion bellowed up and to the right, and I cussed a blue streak. “Go left, you son of a bitch,” I said, and wrenched the yoke. The Centurion hauled around toward the north. I fought the airplane for four or five minutes, until I was wet with sweat and my heart was banging a tattoo against my ribs. But I won. I snapped on the autopilot, tried to maintain a constant pressure against the yoke, and looked at the compass. The needle settled on a couple of clicks off north.