T. Bunn - Winner Take All

She was in the middle of talking to Dale and the DA, explaining what they needed, when everything just seemed to shift. The next thing she knew, she was in a police car with Marcus, the siren wailing and the light positioned on the dashboard blinking at her. Calling for her to focus. Only she could not remember how much she had said, or how to fit all the strands together.

But when they arrived at the airport, a two-prop Cessna was there waiting. The pilot was a young buccaneer equipped with aviator shades and mustache and jacket and grin. Marcus had obviously taken the doctor’s offer of painkillers, because his eyes were dilated and his bearing unsteady as he sat and waited for people to help him rise to his feet.

When Dale pried himself from the car that rolled up behind them, Kirsten walked over. “You can’t come.”

Perhaps she had already said the words before and forgotten. Or perhaps it was merely that he trusted her enough to do whatever she required. “All right.”

“You need to be at home in case they call,” she lied. For an instant she even forgot why it was vital that he not be with them, she was that tired. “We’ll phone as soon as we know something. You have Marcus’ mobile number?”

“Yes.”

“One question.” Though her tongue drifted lazily over the words, she managed to ask, “Why did you come looking for us?”

“You already asked me that.”

“Tell me again.”

“I got an anonymous call.”

She rested a hand on his arm, wishing there were some way to draw strength from him. “Did anything about the voice seem familiar?”

“She had a cloth or something over the receiver.”

A woman. Kirsten nodded. “Do you remember anything about the way she spoke, anything odd?”

“Only that she was very precise. You were in danger. I would find you somewhere around a stretch of very empty beach.”

Wilma Blain moved up alongside them. “There’s only one beach around Wilmington where you can be fairly sure you won’t find other people. The two islands opposite Monkey Junction are nature preserves.”

“Folks boat over sometimes for picnics, but it stays pretty isolated,” Dale said.

“We didn’t want to move out on this,” the DA admitted. “But your man here just wouldn’t let go.”

Kirsten started to bid the DA a firm farewell, but Wilma Blain halted her with “Don’t you even start on me. I’m going and that’s that.”

Kirsten had no strength to argue. “Could you please give Marcus a hand?”

The DA and a policeman both had to help Marcus reach the plane’s rear seat. His hands still looked tortured and swollen. His feet were hidden in oversized sneakers now, but the way he shuffled made it apparent he could not feel the pavement. The pilot was too much a macho player to find any grace in helping an apparent invalid. He leaned against a wing stanchion and gave Kirsten the careful eye. She ignored him until they had Marcus safely stowed away. She knew the pilot’s next move would be to make some smooth offer for her to take the seat next to him, have a chance to see what it was like to do it at fifteen thousand feet. She caught him with a glare so hard he swallowed the grin and the words both. Then she pushed her way past Wilma Blain and took the seat beside Marcus.

The Cessna was designed to carry three times their number. Once they powered up and took off, Kirsten fitted a blanket around Marcus. Though she could not hear him, she saw his mouth shape the words, I can’t do this.

She patted his arm. Said back, Don’t worry. Then she moved to the next row and stretched out as best she could.

Wilma Blain watched her with a grindingly intense gaze. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I can’t. Not yet.”

“You’re going to have to, sister. And sooner rather than later.” When Kirsten merely settled lower into the seat, Wilma went on, “We’ve got APB’s out for Sephus Jones and the German fellow.”

“Reiner Klatz. My guess is, he’s already left the country.”

Wilma accepted the news with a careful nod and asked, “Then I’ve got another question for you. Who’s calling the shots here?”

Kirsten did not awaken until Wilma Blain shook her shoulder. The Cessna’s motors were off. They were stationed on a sun-drenched tarmac. The pilot was gone. Wilma handed her a coffee and said, “Decided to let you sleep as long as I could.”

The plane was empty save for them. “Where is Marcus?”

She pointed over her shoulder. “He made a call for a friend to come drive us around. I figured there wasn’t any need to wake you before our ride got here. You ready to go?”

“Getting there.” She sipped from the Styrofoam cup and willed herself to full alert status. “Thank you for the coffee.”

Wilma Blain remained where she was, blocking the exit with her bulk. “I’m repeating my earlier question,” she said. “Who is singing the tune we’re all dancing to?”

“I’m on your side, Ms. Blain.”

“Maybe so. But my concern is, do you know enough to keep us to the legal straight and narrow?”

“You’ll tell me if I don’t.”

“You can count on that.”

Kirsten set the cup aside. Swept back her hair. Took a breath of the steamy air. Knew she was as awake from this little confab as the day was going to permit. “All right. I’m ready.”

The section of the airport reserved for private planes was empty save for the car up ahead. A group of pilots and mechanics lolled in the shadows of a distant hangar. Otherwise all the noise came from the commercial jets landing and taking off on the other side of the highway. The shimmering asphalt was an oven set on full broil. Kirsten shielded her eyes, but could not make out the figure behind the wheel. Wilma Blain pointed her to the front passenger seat, then climbed into the rear beside Marcus before she could object.

Deacon Wilbur smiled at her arrival. “How you doing, child?”

She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around that corded neck. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Before we get started,” Wilma interrupted, “I got some questions that need answering. Such as, why do I have a banker’s check sitting in my office safe for five million dollars?”

Kirsten swiveled around. A single glance was enough to assure her that Marcus was not answering anything. He watched her with a gaze fogged by painkillers and exhaustion.

“While you’re at it, maybe you could also clear up why you didn’t want Dale Steadman along on this little jaunt.”

“I don’t know about the check.”

Marcus licked his lips, and muttered, “I do.”

“I’m hoping the rest of the answers will be confirmed at our first stop,” Kirsten continued.

“And just where might that be?”

Kirsten directed her answer to Deacon. “The Raleigh offices of Senator John Jacobs.”

The DA crossed her arms. “I guess I don’t have any trouble with that. Long as you talk along the way.”

The explanations took them down I-40, along Ridge Road, onto the Downtown Boulevard and the five blocks down Hargett Street to the underground parking lot’s entrance. Wilma did not say a word the entire time. Nor did her gaze move from Kirsten’s face, not even when Marcus attempted his own drifting additions.

Kirsten waited until Wilma was helping Marcus hobble across the parking lot and into the downtown building housing Senator Jacobs’ regional offices. Then she told Deacon, “I need to thank you.”

“What for, daughter?”

She reached over and settled her hand upon his own. His palm was hard as dry leather. “Everything.”

He peeled away the present with his gaze and stared into her recent past. “This has been a testing time for you.”

Kirsten swallowed down the heat of weary sorrow. She made do with a nod.