Stuart Woods - Palindrome

"There's something else, something that may make me seem the meddler again."

"Oh, no, Liz," Germaine said. "I know he likes you a lot, but I hope you don't mean he's made you a beneficiary."

"Please don't be alarmed about that, Germaine. I know I'm not a beneficiary, because he said the reason he was asking me to witness the will was that I was the only person around who didn't have an interest in it."

Germaine leaned over and placed a hand on Liz's arm. "Please forgive me; I know I must have sounded like the disinherited relative talking to my grandfather's doxy."

"It's all right; I understand."

"A will has to have two witnesses, though, doesn't it?"

"Yes. He said he would find another one."

"I wonder who? He was right; you're about the only person he knows who isn't mentioned in the will; certainly he would remember the servants."

"There's something else," Liz said slowly.

"What?"

"I think I am truly meddling in family business, now, but it might be worse if I didn't. I couldn't tell Keir this last night; I thought he might be too depressed to react properly."

"What are you talking about, sugar?"

"It's James Moses."

"You mean he's mentioned in the will? I should hope so, after all the help he's been to Grandpapa."

"James may be a more… significant part of the will than that."

"How do you mean, more significant?"

"Angus told me that James is his son."

Germaine's face collapsed. "He what?"

"Surely that doesn't come as a complete surprise? There is a resemblance, after all."

Germaine put a hand to her breast. "Surprise? Honey, that's the single greatest shock I've had in my life!"

"I thought everybody in the family must at least suspect it was true."

She could see Germaine's mind begin to work, now. "Well, I wasn't around when James was born. My ex had taken me away at that point. I guess James must have been five or six when I came back to the island." Liz waited while Germaine's mind got around to the point.

"Jesus H. Christ!" Germaine said suddenly. "I hope to God he has made a will, because if he hasn't…"

"Keir told me about Aldred Drummond's will, about how the estate would be divided if the owner died intestate."

"The children inherit first, then the grandchildren,"

Germaine breathed. "So that must not be how Angus wants it to happen; otherwise, he wouldn't have made the will." Germaine laughed. "It's just coming to me; James Moses is my… Well, I'll be… shit, I almost said, I'll be a monkey's uncle. That's wrong; I'm a monkey's niece!"

"Germaine!"

"I'm sorry, I know it's not nice to call them monkeys. I'm just a little addled, I guess, having found a brand-new uncle."

"Are you upset?"

"Just stunned."

"I'm sorry I shocked you so. I figured you must have an idea about it. Do you think Hamish and Keir know?"

"Probably. They're smarter than I am."

"Well, why don't you see if Hamish knows, and I'll tell Keir."

Germaine shrugged. "Okay."

Liz got up to go. "Germaine, your grandfather loves you and the twins; he wouldn't do something crazy at your expense, even if he loves James, too."

Germaine put her head in her hands. "Jesus, I hope not."

That night, Keir took the news about his new uncle differently. "I've always liked James." He shrugged. "I guess I can't like him any less because he's my grandfather's son." He smiled wryly. "It's a good thing Jimmy isn't around to hear the news. Jimmy would have murdered the boy."

Miami was hot and humid, and Lee Williams didn't like it much. He liked it even less when he found that Bake Ramsey's alibi for the weekend was practically impenetrable. He confirmed the football player's every move during that weekend, and he couldn't prove that Ramsey was not in his hotel room between 10:00 P.M. Friday and 8:00 A.M. Saturday. Not yet, anyway. There was still the airport check to do. First, he checked with Miami Flight Service and discovered that no aircraft had filed a flight plan from the Miami area to Atlanta Dekalb-Peachtree Airport during the hours in question.

When he sounded disappointed, the man explained that airplanes aren't required to file flight plans. "Any light aircraft could just fly to Atlanta under visual flight rules, if the weather was okay, and as long as the pilot checked with air traffic control before entering a terminal control area on his route of flight," he said.

"Are you saying that such a flight would be untraceable?" The man nodded.

"It might be untraceable, even if the pilot didn't care if it was traced. If he didn't want to be traced, he could use a false tail number to identify himself, or he could just do what the drug dealers do: turn off his transponder and stay off the radio."

"I see."

"Would your man have made a round trip?"

"Yes."

"In that case, he'd probably need fuel. Miami-Atlanta-Miami has got to be farther than the range of just about any light aircraft I know about. Of course, he could buy fuel at any number of airports along his route that would be open all night."

Williams thanked the man and left. Now his only hope lay in legwork, checking all the airports. He climbed into his rented car, turned the air conditioning up full blast, and started driving. He started southwest of the city at Tamiami Airport, checking with each charter service and flight school, and he came up empty-handed. He then worked his way north to Miami International, with no better luck, then to Opa-Locka and the smaller Opa Lock West. In each place he could find no trace of an airplane flying to Atlanta and back on the Friday night. He stood next to a small Beechcraft trainer at Opa Lock West and mopped his brow. "I've checked all the Miami airports I could find," he said to the flight instructor he had been questioning, listing the fields he had visited. "Have I maybe missed one?"

"Well," the young man said, "there's Dade-Collier."

"Where the hell is that?" Williams asked, searching his road map again.

"It's this really wierd place out in the Everglades. It was built purely for airline training purposes; there's a ten-thousand-foot runway and an instrument landing system, and that's about it."

"A ten-thousand-foot runway in the Everglades?"

"Yep, you can go out there and practice instrument approaches in a 747, if you've a mind to." Williams mopped his brow again and asked directions. An hour and a half later, after getting lost twice, he drew up to a gate in the middle of nowhere. A sign said, DADE-COLLIER TRAINING AND TRANSITION AIRFIELD. He drove slowly until an enormous runway appeared, heat shimmering from its concrete surface. There was a tower, which looked deserted, a low building, and only one airplane, a small, twin-engine job, parked on the apron, some distance from the tower. No other aircraft of any kind was in sight, in the air or on the ground.

"What a fucking waste of time," he shouted, banging on the steering wheel. Then he took a deep breath and drove toward the building. As he pulled up, a man came out to meet him. "What can I do for you?" the man asked. "This field isn't open to the public."

Williams flashed his badge. "I'm trying to trace the flight of a light aircraft from the Miami area to Atlanta last Friday night, and I wonder if you could help me."

"Mister, that sort of stuff don't fly in and out of here," the man said, shaking his head. "This is purely a training field; general-aviation aircraft can't take off or land here without a permit from Dade County, and nobody's even applied for a permit in weeks."

Williams slumped. This had been his last hope. He was hot, tired, annoyed, and thoroughly defeated. "Well, thanks, anyway," he said to the man. "Don't mention it," he replied, and started back into the building.