Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

Maggie turned the page, almost dropped the book. Margo on Second Street, standing in front of the candy store next door to the Lounge. The pink sign by the entrance was less than a year old. Maggie could have been inside the Lounge with Nick. They could have met. Known each other.

All of a sudden, a sadness welled up in her. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor. She bit her lip to stop the feeling, but it didn’t work. Quiet tears streamed down her cheeks. She was powerless against the emotion.

“Mom!” Jasmine said, almost a whisper. Maggie looked up, face wet. Jasmine was in the middle of the living room with another girl. Cafe au lait skin, wide brown eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Maggie sobbed.

“Get your mom,” Jasmine said and the other girl left at a run.

“It’s okay, I’m okay,” Maggie said.

“You don’t look okay.”

“What’s going on?” A woman’s voice.

Maggie looked into a dark face, knowing eyes, high forehead. “I know you.”

“Of course, I live next door.”

Maggie put her hands to her head, ran her fingers through her hair as she studied the other woman. The Afro was gone, but it was her. “You’re Gaylen Geer.”

“Girls, go next door!” Gaylen had the kind of voice that commanded respect. The girls obeyed. Then to Maggie, “My name is Sullivan.”

Maggie wiped her face with her hands, looked into the woman’s eyes. “No it’s not.”

The black woman met Maggie’s eyes, shook her head, then left.

Maggie closed the door, slumped down on the couch. “Well, you certainly handled that well.” She stretched out. She was so tired. She cried for her sister. She cried for her baby. She cried for Nick, because just maybe she’d found a way to keep her baby and keep her promise to Jasmine, but it meant she’d never see her husband again.

After awhile there were no more tears. She was spent. She stared at the ceiling, imagined stars and planets floating there, imagined herself at peace. She needed to turn off, to rest. In college, when she was up at all hours studying and partying, she’d learned to grab sleep whenever she could and she did it now. She closed her eyes, made her mind a blank and in seconds she was asleep.

Horace Nighthyde shut off the engine in the Condor Aviation parking lot. He’d spent the later half of the night at a motel on Lakewood, near the Traffic Circle. Better there than going home. Ma would’ve waited up for her darling. Sometime around 2:30, she’d have started pacing, wearing out the linoleum in the kitchen. He couldn’t bear to see her gnashing her teeth as she worried about Virgil.

It was gonna be hell for her. That was a major downer for Horace. She shouldn’t have to spend the time she had left worrying about a son who was never coming home. But it was better if she thought he ran off with a teacher from Long Beach State, than if she knew what had really happened. Far better.

He got out of the car, slung his flight bag over his shoulder, went to the trunk and got out the bricks, closest thing to cement he could come up with. Not quite the same, but they’d have to do.

“Hey, Horace, how’s it going?” Startled, he turned to see Sara Hackett, the race car driver, getting out of her Jap Jeep. “Going up today?”

“Yeah.” He nodded.

“Bummer.” Sara was taking flying lessons and had rented Horace’s plane through the flight school on several occasions. She liked it better than the others at Condor. Horace didn’t like renting his plane out, but he couldn’t afford to keep it otherwise.

“Sorry,” he said.

“What’s with the bricks?” She was close enough to smell.

“Samples for a friend in Big Bear,” he lied.

“They don’t have bricks up there?”

“At three times the price. I’m driving up in a couple of weeks. It’s a chance to make a buck.”

“So, you’re flying up now?”

“Right.”

“You want company?”

“What?” Did Sara Hackett just ask if she could fly up to Big Bear with him? There and back would take all day.

“I need more cross country time. If you don’t mind riding on the right while I fly. I’d pay, of course.”

Horace bit his lip. She was gonna pay, too. But he shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve gotta stay overnight.”

“I could get a motel, come back with you tomorrow.”

He bit into his lip again, harder. “Sorry, I’d like to, really, but I might need to stay longer.”

“Alright then, some other time.”

“Sure.” Sweat trickled under his arms. All he could do was stand, feet lead, and watch as she made her way into the Condor building to rent somebody else’s plane.

Turning his attention away from Sara Hackett, he looked out at the wind sock. There was a gentle breeze blowing straight down Two-Five-Right. A Piper Cherokee was starting its take-off roll. There were clouds over the ocean, but they were at altitude, no problem flying under them. It looked like a good day for a VFR flight out to Catalina.

He started toward the plane with a brick in each hand. His Cessna was at the end of the line, closest to the runway, farthest from the hanger. At the plane, he set the bricks down and looked around. Nobody within viewing distance. He opened the passenger door.

The smell attacked him first. Meat. Not rotten, but getting there. Steeling himself, he wrapped a hand around Virgil’s wrist. Cold. He gave a gentle tug. Stiff. Rigor.

He picked up a brick. He was loath to touch the corpse again, but he had no choice. The feet were hard to push apart when he moved them aside for the bricks. Once they were in place between the legs, he pulled a couple short lengths of rope from his flight bag and tied one to each ankle. Finished, he studied his work. He was good with ropes and knots, they wouldn’t come loose.

“Best I can do, Virge.”

A fly buzzed by, then another, then more. They went for the eyes. Inside the plane there had been no way for the insects to get at the body. They’d come in droves now, making up for lost time. Horace shooed as many away as he could before closing the door.

He was careful about flying. Usually he did a complete preflight, talking to himself, so he wouldn’t forget anything, as he worked his way around the plane. Not today.

He pulled off the sun protectors, no choice, but he was far enough away from prying eyes. He was just a plane getting ready to go. Satisfied he was safe, he called ground control and got permission to taxi to Two-Five-Right. Then a shudder rippled through him. There was a chance they’d train binoculars on him from the tower. Would they be able to see his passenger was dead?

On the runway, he did his run up, then set the radio for the tower frequency.

“Long Beach Tower, this is Cessna 27 Yankee seeking permission for a straight out over the harbor.”

“Hold, 27 Yankee. There’s a Piper Cherokee on final, another turning base and a Bonanza in the downwind, you’re cleared after the Bonanza.”

There was nothing for it but to sit and wait.

“Damn, Virge, you look bad.” He shuddered at the sight of Virgil’s waxy, translucent like skin. Looked into his sunken eyes. Virgil’s lips were stretched tight, as if he were about to bare fangs. That and the blue hands made Horace think of vampires. He shuddered again. If only he could feed his brother some blood. If only he could make him live.

A couple of flies landed on the dead eyes to lay eggs that would never hatch, because shortly Virgil was going to be resting in the arms of Davy Jones. Horace loved his brother too much to let him become bug food. He waved a hand at the flies, shooing them from the face.

The tower cleared him for take off.