Stuart Woods - Dark Harbor

Stone reached down between the seats and handed Young the airport directory. “Look up Rockland and give me the unicorn frequency,” he said. “There’s no tower on the field.”

Young took a painfully long time to do so, but finally he said, “One hundred twenty-three point zero five.”

Stone dialed in the frequency. “Rockland unicorn, November one, two, three, tango, foxtrot. Anybody in the pattern?” No reply.

“Says here their hours are eight a.m. to eight p.m.” Young said. Stone looked at his watch: It was a little after five.

“Rockland traffic,” Stone said, “anyone in the pattern?” No reply. The sun was up but low in the sky, casting a beautiful glow over the sea. Stone entered the airport identifier, RKD, into the GPS, and pressed the direct button. The arrow on the horizontal situation indicator swung to his left, pointing the way, and he adjusted his heading.

The sun rose into the overcast, and the light became dull and dusklike. “Twelve miles,” Stone said aloud, reading the distance off the GPS.

“I think I see the airport,” Young said, “dead ahead.”

The airplane’s speed was right at redline, and now Stone could see the runway. He switched on his strobe and landing lights, the better to be seen by other aircraft. He grabbed the airport directory from Young and checked the runways: 13-31 was 5,007 feet, the longest. Stone squinted into the distance. He thought he had it in sight.

Then he saw strobe lights on the ground; an airplane was taxiing to runway 31. Stone adjusted his course to put him on a base leg for the opposite runway, 13. He dialed the automatic weather frequency into his second radio. The wind was 310 at ten knots, straight down runway 31. He was about to change direction for that runway when the radio came alive.

“Rockland traffic, Cessna taxiing onto runway 31 for takeoff,” a voice said.

“That’s got to be the twins,” Young said. He began speaking into his handheld radio and putting it to his ear to listen. “Two patrol cars are ten minutes out,” he said.

Stone could see the Cessna, its strobes flashing, only a few yards from the runway. At that moment, his engine began to cough. Jesus, he thought, he had forgotten to switch fuel tanks. He flipped the lever to the other tank, switched on the auxiliary fuel pump and prayed. The engine roared back to life. He reduced power and turned from the base leg to the final approach for runway 13.

“You can’t land this way,” Young said. “They’re taking off in the opposite direction!”

The Cessna was starting its roll on 13. Stone put the landing gear down and put in two notches of flaps. “Mayday, mayday, mayday!” he yelled into the radio. “Malibu is declaring a fuel emergency, landing on runway thirteen!”

“Negative, Malibu!” a voice came back. “We’re rolling on 13!”

“I don’t have a choice!” Stone replied. He pulled the throttle back to idle. “No power, no fuel! Stop your roll now!” Stone was hot and high, and he put in the last notch of flaps and flipped up the speed-brakes. Still, he was doing ninety knots when he touched down and stood on the brakes.

The Cessna had stopped rolling halfway down the runway. Stone had thought the other airplane would turn off onto the grass, but the pilot seemed frozen. Now the Malibu was rushing toward the Cessna, and Stone could smell his brakes. He braced against the seat back, straightened his legs and pushed on the brake pedals as hard as he could. “Help me with the brakes,” he yelled at Young. “Use your toes!” Young started to help. Stone had already decided not to turn off the runway; if he did that, they’d get away, and it was awfully hard to spot a low-flying aircraft from another airplane. Anyway, he didn’t have enough fuel to follow them. They’d be gone.

The Malibu came to a final halt less than three feet from the Cessna, with both propellers still turning. If Stone had run head-on into the other airplane, there would have been a real mess, he thought. Normally, he would run the engine for five minutes on the ground before stopping it, to cool the turbochargers, but he yanked back on the mixture control and cut his engine. The prop wound down and came to a halt. The Cessna prop was still turning, but the twins weren’t going anywhere; there is no reverse on a piston airplane.

“Cut your engine, Cessna,” Stone said into the radio. The twins sat, staring at him, no more than twelve feet away. “Listen to me, boys,” he said. “There’s still a way out of this.”

“Sure,” a voice said back. “Just get out of our way.”

“The money is gone. It’s not in the account.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There is no million two in the Singapore bank; we transferred it back to the original account. The only money you have is what’s in your pocket.”

There was a long silence.

“Which of you is driving?” Stone asked.

“Ebert.”

“It’s not as bad as you think,” Stone said, “if you listen to me, you can still walk.”

“What are you talking about?” Eben asked.

“There’s a way out of this, if you’ll just listen.”

“Start talking.”

“I’m not your lawyer; I want to emphasize that. But, you can still walk on an insanity plea.”

“We’re not insane.”

“When they question you, tell them you hear voices, and the voices told you to do what you did.”

“Nobody’s going to buy that.”

“They will, if you agree on a story and stick to it. There’ll be a psychiatric examination, but if you stick to your story, you’ll get through it. You’ll do a couple of years in a mental hospital, and then you’ll walk.” He could see the two boys talking, arguing. Still the Cessna’s prop spun.

“Open the rear door, Dino,” Stone said. “Do it slowly, and if they run, go after them, but remember, they’re probably armed.”

“Right,” Dino said.

Stone could hear the Cessna engine get louder as Dino opened the door.

“Will you represent us, Stone?” Enos asked.

“I can’t do that; any judge would remove me for a conflict of interest. I’m Dick’s heir. But I’ll get you the best defense lawyer in the country.”

“If you don’t get out and move your airplane, we’re going to start shooting,” Eben said.

Stone could see Enos talking, gesturing, while Eben looked stonily ahead.

“Come on, boys,” Stone said. “This will work, believe me.”

They argued some more, and then the Cessna’s prop wound down and was still. The twins sat, slumped in their seats, looking defeated.

Stone turned and looked over his shoulder. “Before you get out of the airplane, you all heard me tell them I’m not their lawyer, right?”

“Right,” everybody said.

Holly spoke up. “We all heard you tell them to act like they’re crazy, too.”

“Right,” Stone said. “And don’t forget that when you testify. Now, let’s go get them. Me first.”

“No,” said Sergeant Young. “Me, first.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY they sat around the living room at the house, their luggage piled at the door, waiting for Sergeant Young to call from Augusta. It was three in the afternoon.

“Lance,” Stone said. “It’s a good thing they’re sending an airplane for you, because we’d never get off the ground with all this stuff.” He had refueled at Rockland before returning to the island.

Seth came into the room. “You folks ready to go?”

“Not until we hear from Sergeant Young,” Stone said.

As if on cue, the phone rang. Stone pressed the speaker button. “Hello?”

“It’s Tom Young.”

“Yes, Tom. We’re all here. What’s going on?”

“First of all, Caleb Stone’s wife is dead.”