“Excuse me!” shouted the Highlander.
The startled mechanic turned around suddenly, and in the process his hammer went clattering to the floor.
“Good heavens, where on earth did you two come from?” he anxiously questioned.
“Actually, from Edinburgh,” answered Colin in his best Scottish brogue.
“We’ve been in your beautiful country fishing, and were wondering if it’s possible to find someone to fly us back home.”
Eyeing them suspiciously, the mechanic replied.
“You’ll be wanting the charter airport at Dundalk, then… it’s about seven kilometers south of here.”
“We were hoping we wouldn’t have to go that far,” returned Stewart with a forced smile.
“Are you certain we can’t hire a plane here? We’d be willing to pay top dollar.”
This last statement seemed to get the mechanic’s attention as he thoughtfully scratched his grease-stained forehead.
“So you’d be wanting to fly all the way over to Edinburgh. That’s quite a long flight, especially for the likes of the small planes kept here. Why, the only aircraft with that range would be Patrick Rayburn’s twin-engine Cessna.”
Colin Stewart briefly eyed his sandy-haired associate before answering.
“Is that Patrick Rayburn the flight instructor?”
“The same,” shot back the mechanic.
“If you’d like, why don’t you give him a call at home. And don’t forget to tell him that Paddy Murphy sent you.”
While the mechanic unsuccessfully searched his stained coveralls for something to write with, Private
Robert Campbell alertly stepped forward with a pen and pad.
“Why thank you, lad,” said the mechanic as he scribbled down the pilot’s telephone number.
“Can we see his plane?” asked Colin Stewart.
“I don’t see why not. It’s parked on the other side of the flight line, beside the gasoline pumps. She’s a first class piece of equipment, with radar, a multi frequency radio, and auxiliary fuel tanks.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murphy,” said Stewart as he pocketed the pilot’s phone number.
“Not at all, sir,” replied the mechanic as he bent down to pick up his hammer.
“And don’t forget to tell him that Paddy sent you!”
Quick to exit the hanger, Colin headed straight back to the car.
“Corporal Duncan, bring along the tool kit,” whispered Stewart.
“And the rest of you, follow me to the other side of the flight line.”
By way of the hangar’s rear, they quickly proceeded to the line of planes parked on the other side. All of these were small, single-engine models except for the last, which sported dual engines and an elongated white-and green steel fuselage.
After stationing lookouts, Stewart climbed up to the cockpit. Peering through the plexiglass windows, he found it littered with empty cups, cigarette butts, and other assorted trash. To examine the interior closely, he signaled Corporal Angus Duncan to join him. The brawny native of Inverness deftly climbed up beside his commanding officer and utilized a pick to force open the Cessna’s door lock.
The scent of sour milk was overpowering as Stewart climbed inside the messy cockpit. Holding his breath to keep from choking on this nauseating smell, he rummaged through the assortment of items stored here.
He found several charts on the copilot’s seat, beneath a partially eaten cheese sandwich. Hurriedly he flipped through this stack, halting on that which lay on the bottom. A substance that looked much like dried blood stained the edges of this chart, and Colin Stewards pulse quickened as he unfolded it and found a course drawn in red pencil, extending from Dumbarton, Scotland, to their current location north of Dundalk, Ireland.
“We’ve got it, lads!” revealed the rugged Highlander as he gratefully scrambled out of the smelly cockpit with the chart in hand.
As his men excitedly gathered around him, he added, “Not only is the exact course drawn out for us, but it appears our suspect’s blood stains the map as well.”
“What do we do next?” asked one of the enlisted men.
Stewart grinned.
“That’s easy enough, lads. Now it’s time to pay pilot Patrick Rayburn a little visit. Shall we?”
A quick telephone call found the pilot at home.
Having nearly to scream to be heard over the assortment of children bawling in the background, Rayburn somewhat reluctantly gave Colin Stewart directions to his house. This stone cottage turned out to be less than ten minutes from the airfield. It was situated on an isolated rural lane, with a thick stand of evergreens set behind it.
“I believe I can handle this alone, lads,” offered Stewart.
“Why don’t you deploy in the forest, in case I need you.”
The bricks of the walk were cracked and out of place as Colin proceeded to the front door. A television set could be heard blasting away inside, along with the incessant cries of a wailing infant. The Highlander had to knock loudly on the wooden door several times to produce a response.
“Who’s there?” screamed a man.
“Mr. Rayburn, it’s the chap who called earlier from the airfield. Paddy Murphy gave me your number.”
The door opened with a squeal, revealing a slightly built, beard-stub bled man in his mid-twenties. He wore a dirty t-shirt and shorts, and talked without taking the cigarette out of his mouth.
“So you’re the fellow who wants to fly to Scotland.
I don’t know why Paddy even gave you my number in the first place. I’m merely a flight instructor. For commercial flights you should go down to Dundalk or Dublin.”
“But I don’t want to fly from either of those locations, Mr. Rayburn,” replied Stewart coolly.
Taking a moment to size up the solidly built Scotsman, Patrick Rayburn shrugged his skinny shoulders.
“Well, then, it’s going to cost you, my friend.”
A young boy dressed in a cowboy hat suddenly came running into the living room, chased by two screaming girls dressed as Indians. Their high-pitched cries of mock warfare were almost deafening, and the pilot disgustedly turned and shouted at them.
“Please, kids, Daddy’s talking business here!”
Completely ignoring this, the children continued their battle, while in the background the infant’s wails intensified.
“I’m sorry,” offered the shaggy-haired pilot.
“The wife just started a new job down at the linen mill, and I’m a little new at babysitting.”
The Highlander smiled.
“There’s no need to explain, Mr. Rayburn. I’ve got some youngsters back home myself.
Why don’t we talk out in the backyard, if that’s okay with you.”
“That would be fine,” said Patrick Rayburn, who stepped outside and squinted at the bright sun shining forth from the heavens.
“Looks like the good weather’s still holding,” he matter-of-factly observed as he led the way around the cottage.
The tree line extended to the very edge of the backyard, which was filled with broken furniture, partially burnt trash, and a rusted-out Ford. Well aware that his men were hidden close by, Colin Stewart inhaled a deep breath and turned to face the pilot directly, his forced smile suddenly absent.
“Mr. Rayburn, I’d like to know the identity of the passenger whom you flew back from Dumbarton, Scotland, several nights ago.”
“Whatever are you talking about?” asked the puzzled pilot.
The Highlander’s glance turned deadly serious.
“Oh, come off it, Rayburn! I’m in no mood for games!”
The redfaced pilot gathered himself and exploded in rage.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, mister. But I do know that I want you off my property this instant!”
“It’s not going to be that easy to get rid of me,” said Stewart as he reached into his jacket and pulled out the bloodstained map.