Stuart Woods - Shoot Him If He Runs

He went back to the house, cleaned the chain saw, poured the remaining fuel back into the spare tank and put the chain saw away. Everything was ready for when it might be needed.

Finally, he picked up the DVD that had come with the equipment and inserted it in his computer. It took him, step by step, through the operation, and every bit of it made perfect sense to him. He would run the drill over and over in his mind at odd moments of the day, to keep it fresh in his memory.

Stone drove out to the St. Marks Airport and found the fixed-based operations now called Wells Air Services. He found Don Wells in the service hangar, working on the engine of a Cessna 150.

“Good morning, Don, my name is Stone Barrington; I’m a friend of Thomas Hardy.”

Don, a short, thick black man, wiped his hands with a greasy rag and shook hands. “Any friend of Thomas’s,” he said.

“I just need a little information. About how many privately owned airplanes are based here?”

“Well, except for the King Air, which is owned by the government, all of them, I guess.”

“How many?”

Don did some counting on his fingers. “Seven,” he said.

“Are all of them owned by local residents?”

“Yes.”

“How many of the owners are white men?”

“Ah, five.”

“Do you know all of them personally?”

“In a manner of speaking. Some of them have been customers since before I bought the business.”

“Any new airplane owners in the past few weeks?”

“Two of them,” Don replied, “a Bonanza and a Cessna 140.”

“Who owns them?”

“The Bonanza is owned by one of the casinos, or, I guess, by one of the people there. His name is Brent; he’s one of the top people in the company, I think.”

“Can you describe him?”

“About thirty-five years old, five-ten, well over two hundred pounds, dark hair.”

“And who’s the owner of the 140?”

“He’s fairly new on the island, older fellow, a retiree from England. His name is…let me think a second…Robertson.”

“Description?”

“Close to six feet, slim, thick salt-and-pepper hair, early seventies, I’d say. Nice fellow.”

“Where is the airplane?”

“I’ve got four T-hangars,” Don replied. “It’s in one of them.”

“Could I have a look at it?”

“Sure. Follow me.” Don led the way outside and down a row of hangars, stopping at one of them and entering the combination for its padlock. He hauled the door upward to reveal the airplane.

Stone walked slowly around the aircraft, then opened the pilot’s door and climbed in, looking at the instrument panel. Stone was impressed. The Cessna 140 was the predecessor of the 172, the world’s most popular airplane, and it qualified as an antique. This one was in beautiful condition and seemed to be entirely original; all the equipment-radios and flight instruments-was period stuff.

“This is really something. Do you know where he got the airplane?”

“He said he had owned it for more than forty years, since it was new. When he bought his house here, he had the wings taken off, then shipped the whole thing in a container to St. Martin, where they put the wings back on. Then he flew it over here.”

“Well, thanks, Don. It was a treat just to look at this machine.” Stone made a note of the airplane’s British registration number.

“Anything else I can do for you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You a pilot?”

“Yes, I am.”

“What do you fly?”

“I’ve had a Piper Malibu Mirage for a few years, and I’m having it converted to a turboprop right now.”

“Sounds hot.”

“It will be.”

“Well, I’ve got to get back to work; gotta have that 150 finished today.”

“Thanks very much for the information,” Stone said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep our conversation to yourself.”

“Sure, I will. Say hello to Thomas.”

“I will, Don. Good day.”

Stone got back into his car and headed back to the inn. Holly could get Lance to check out the registration number of the 140.

As Stone drove back toward the inn he recognized the turning to Sir Leslie Hewitt’s cottage, and he swung left into the road. As long as he was out this way, he might as well stop in. He drove up a long hill then turned into the drive, marked by a mailbox, then parked the car in the gravel turnaround and knocked on the door. No answer. He tried again, then he walked around the cottage and let himself through the garden gate. Sir Leslie was a few yards away, kneeling on a gardener’s stool, digging in the soil with a trowel.

“Leslie?”

The old man turned and peered at him through thick, steel-rimmed eyeglasses. “Stone? Is it Stone?”

“Yes, it is.”

Sir Leslie struggled to his feet and walked toward Stone, taking off his gloves. He was a small, very black man with white curls and a clean-shaven face. They shook hands. “I am so very glad to see you, Stone; I had heard you were on the island, and I had hoped you would come to see me.”

“I couldn’t visit St. Marks without seeing you.”

“Will you have some tea?”

“Thank you, yes.”

Sir Leslie waved him to a table and chairs in the garden and went into the kitchen. He came out shortly with a teapot and a plate of cookies and set them down. “How have you been? What have you been up to? Any interesting cases?”

“I’ve been busy doing a lot of things, but I haven’t spent all that much time in court lately.”

“I’m sorry to hear it; it is your natural habitat.”

“Thank you, Leslie; that’s high praise coming from such an eminent barrister. How about you? Any interesting cases?”

“Only the small stuff. As usual, I specialize in annoying the government in small ways.”

“That must give you great satisfaction. I hear there have been a lot of changes around here.”

“Oh, yes, and it has been fascinating to watch. Winston is in what you Americans call hog heaven; he is enjoying himself immensely, while turning the screws on anyone who gets in his way.”

“I hope you’re staying out of his way.”

“Oh, yes, I just peck around the fringes, but I hear a lot of things.”

“Thomas told me you are a fount of information.”

“Well, if there were a St. Marks version of the parlor game called ‘Trivial Pursuit,’ I would do very well at it, I think. Are you looking for information, Stone?” Sir Leslie asked.

“I think I’m looking for more of an opinion.”

Sir Leslie grinned. “I am full of opinions.”

“Well, then, here’s the situation: Some friends and I are staying in one of Thomas’s new cottages, and we came home last night to find that someone had searched the place. We also discovered that all the telephones had listening devices planted in them. Now who would do such a thing? What is your opinion?”

“Oh, that’s an easy one,” Sir Leslie said. “Colonel Croft. Colonel Croyden Croft, who is in charge of a department called Internal Investigations-ostensibly under the Home Secretary, but he is a creature of Winston Sutherland.”

“And why would he wish to bug the cottage of some tourists?”

“Because he can, and very likely because Winston wished it. As I recall, you were a tourist the last time you were here, but before you left you had caused Winston a great deal of bother. As much as I enjoyed watching it and being a part of it, I must tell you that I feared more for your safety than I let on at the time.”

“Do you fear for my safety just because I’m here again?”

“Let me put it this way: I think that if Winston could think of a plausible reason to arrest you, and perhaps your friends, jail you for a few days, then throw you ignominiously off the island, it would give him great pleasure to do so.” He smiled. “But I think it is unlikely that he would go so far as hanging you, as he tried so hard to do with the lovely Allison.”