Diane Davidson - The Main Corpse

“Hangar C-Nine,” the general muttered as we came down the incline to the south gate security fence. “Now if we can just… oh, for Pete’s sake.” He stopped the Jeep. Ahead of us a dozen cars stood motionless while a tow truck pulled a station wagon out of a large pool of rippling water. “What the hell – “

I craned my neck. “Flooding. No one’s going in or out of the south gate for at least a quarter of an hour.” I pointed. “That’s the brook that used to go through the ranch.”

“What ranch?”

“The ranch that used to be where the airport is.”

He wheeled us in a U-turn. “Is there a north entrance to this godforsaken place? We need to find another way to C-Nine.”

At my direction we raced up the state highway until we came to a sign for the small northern entrance to the airport. Like its southern counterpart, the north entrance road also sloped downward to our right.

“Ha!” exclaimed the general, triumphant. He careened the Jeep onto the road and accelerated down the hill. Just as quickly, he braked and stared at the road ahead. “Holy Mother of God.” Hangar C-9 was up a hill to the right, about a hundred feet away. But the security gate and fence were underwater, claimed by the fast-rushing, no-longer-diverted brook. On the far side of the fence, the roofs of two cars were barely visible above the swirling, muddy torrent. “Damn this rain. How are we ever going to get around that?”

I sighed. “Fly.”

Of course, I didn’t think he’d take me literally. But I should have remembered who I was talking to. Bo turned the wheel sharply and gunned the Jeep off the road. Up and down we rocked, with Bo keeping a sharp eye on the water. Finally the road took us past the perimeter of the airport property. Abutting the highway was a small cliff that rose above the original brook. Over the centuries, the water had cut through the stone, so that on the far side of the brook, perhaps fifteen feet away, was another cliff. Bo expertly piloted the Jeep off the road, then brought-it to a stop at the bottom of the hill that led up the cliff.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No, I’m not,” I replied. “Remember the last time you and I were together on a cliff over water? With all the moisture in the rock, we could easily precipitate another slide – “

“So you’re just willing to let Marla go back to jail for, killing this guy who’s about to split forever?”

“There must be another way – “

“There isn’t. I could take a tank over that cliff: We’ll make it, Goldy.”

What other choice did we have? “We’d better,” I told General Bo.

His face set with determination, Bo pressed the accelerator. The speedometer needle soared upward. My breath seemed permanently caught in my throat. We raced to the edge of the cliff, and then suddenly, we were airborne. My heart beat out the seconds as we flew through the air. Oh, Tom, I’ll never, ever get involved in crime again. I’ll –

We landed with a thud on the opposite cliff. But before I had a chance to express relief, there was a deafening roar behind us. I twisted around and experienced a sight that was familiar, but still terrifying: rocks and dirt disintegrating in a landslide. Where there had been two cliffs and a picturesque brook, there was now a landfill created by an avalanche of dirt.

“Damn,” murmured the general as the Jeep hurtled through the only nonflooded gate into the airport. “I just got kicked out of the Sierra Club.”

Hangar C-9 was a large, pale green building with no cars parked outside. The general scanned the area, then said, “I want you to drive over to C-Seven, leave the Jeep in back. Royce might have seen this car when he ran out of the mine.” He paused, his face as serious as I had ever seen it. “Goldy, I’m going to take this guy out. I don’t want you involved. Watch for him from outside. Call in the troops if things get rough. I don’t mean Tom, I mean the whole damn sheriff’s department. Trotfield said his plane’s a small jet, a Citation with the numbers four-eight-two-six Golf. I’ll go into the hangar at the front. You watch for Royce or Trotfield from out here, then come in after me only if you don’t see or hear Royce. If you do see or hear him, call the cops as quickly as possible. Last resort. With any luck, though, we’ve got at least fifteen minutes before they arrive.” He checked the Glock. “Got that?”

I protested feebly, “Isn’t the hangar locked?” “A numbered security lock, and I got the code from Trotfield. Don’t worry. You just do your job, and I’ll do mine. Okay?”

I nodded and drove the Jeep to C-7, where I parked in back. The weather was finally clearing; where were all the pilots? Probably waiting to come in through the south gate. I scanned the road to C-9 for a dark green Explorer, and saw none.

I could not let the general undertake this alone. There had to be something I could do. I hopped out and sidled along the back of C-8. I listened and waited. Not a sound. I knocked on the door to C-9 and felt dizzy when the handle turned.

The barrel of the gun was pointed straight at me. “Goldy, for crying out loud,” the general said amiably. He quickly holstered his gun inside his new bomber jacket.

“I want to help.”

He glared at me, then pointed. “Go stand in the office behind that Gulfstream. Stay where you can get a good look at the Citation without being seen. Don’t turn the light on. Check for a phone. And please, don’t get involved… .” His head turned sharply to a sound that hadn’t reached my ears. “Here he comes. Move.”

I scooted into the office and scanned the space quickly. In the corner of the office was a shovel. I picked it up just as I heard Tony’s all-too-familiar voice. “Excuse me? Who are you?” he demanded of General Bo. “How did you get in here?”

“I’m Trotfield’s copilot,” Bo announced genially. “Came in by the north gate. Glad to meet you, Mr. Royce.”

No time to close the office door; it would make too much noise. Through a crack in the blinds, I saw Tony stride in wearing chinos and an expensive red leather windbreaker. His hair was perfectly blown dry, his mustache was evenly clipped. He was carrying a metal briefcase. The general gave Tony a huge smile. I gripped the shovel.

“Now all we need is Sandy,” General Bo persisted in a jocular voice. “He’s got the approach plates for Ordaz International, and our flight plan is already filed in the county’s airport computer. Are the cars coming through the south gate pretty smoothly now?” He really appeared to be enjoying this. He even made a mock salute, before he turned and trod smartly toward the plane.

“It’s not too bad. Look, we have some bags,” Tony announced in a voice that indicated he expected the copilot to fetch them. But when General Bo continued I toward the Citation, Tony followed. He asked mildly, “You been Sandy’s copilot before? How do you think he looks with that new beard?”

The involuntary, incredulous grimace on the general’s face as he turned back to face Tony sent nervous ripples up my skin. But Bo instantly wiped the look off and assumed the same easy tone. “Oh, I thought he looked better – “

But it was too late. Royce had tested Bo and he’d failed. The metal briefcase sailed up toward the general’s head and caught him offguard. Bo flailed backward awkwardly and went down with a thud. He grabbed for his gun, but Tony ran forward and kicked itout of his hand. The heavy gun skittered across the hangar floor.

Oh, God, help me, I prayed. I raised the shovel and leapt for the office door. Tony trotted toward the hangar entrance. When I called his name and started to run toward him, Tony hesitated, his mouth open, stunned to see me. The caterer, of all people. And armed… .