He brought the Buick Special to a stop and smacked his fist on the dashboard. This had been his insurance if things ran foul. He'd come here yesterday after lunch to make an idle inquiry about flying lessons. Years ago, during his summer with Lydia, he had tagged along on some flights with her cousin Frank, who was a licensed pilot. Braun had met old Mitchell back then, and the little airfield, a remote strip of level ground cut from the surrounding forest, was now his first choice for escape. The authorities might think of it, but it would be far down their list after scouring roads, buses, and train stations.
Yesterday the old man had been at work, tinkering with an airplane in one of the hangars. There were no formal business hours posted on the office door, and Braun suspected that Mitchell kept his own schedule. It was nine fifteen — still early. Would he be here by ten? Noon? Or might this be his self-appointed day off? Braun couldn't wait to find out.
He left the car and walked quickly to the office. An after-hours telephone number was posted on the sign. He committed it to memory and circled the small building. Braun knew there was a telephone inside, and it would be far less risky than heading five miles back to town to use a telephone booth. The only door to the place was locked and looked solid. He circled around and found a window on each side. The second, in the back, gave way with a solid tug. Braun climbed in, quickly found the phone, and dialed the number. Mitchell picked up on the second ring.
"Hello, Mr. Mitchell, this is Alex Brown. We spoke yesterday out at the airfield."
"Yes, yes. What can I do for you? Have you decided to go ahead with the lessons?"
"Well, in a way. I actually have a crisis on my hands. I've got some important business back in Minneapolis, and I was hoping to hire you out on a charter."
"Minnesota? That's a long way from here, boy."
"Yes, I know, but I thought we could combine things — do some instruction along the way."
"I see. And when did you want to go?"
"That's the catch. It would have to be right away. I'm near the field now. I could be there in fifteen minutes." There was a pause, and Braun imagined the old man cupping his stubbled chin as he had a penchant to do.
"I have a lesson scheduled for this afternoon," Mitchell said.
"And Minnesota would take two days — maybe more, depending on the weather."
Braun forced a slight British whim into his voice, a tendency he had adopted from the local upper crust, a quiet registry of social standing. "I know it must be a terrible bother, but I'll gladly make it worth your while. Would two hundred do it?"
"Two hundred dollars?"
"Plus expenses — fuel and that sort of thing."
"Young man, you got yourself a deal."
Mitchell showed up thirty minutes later. Braun was leaning on the fender of the Buick, toying with a lit cigarette. He'd already closed up the office and made sure nothing inside had been disturbed. It would set an uncomfortable precedent if the old man discovered that he had broken into the building just to use the telephone.
Mitchell parked his old truck next to the office. "I'll have to get a few things," he said, pulling a handful of loose keys from his pocket. He tossed one to Braun and pointed to the nearest hangar. "We'll take the Luscombe. She's the gentler of the two, plus she's the one with the fuel ration." The old man winked. "I carry mail a few times a week — it gets me all the gas I need."
Mitchell unlocked the office and went inside. Braun took his cue and unlocked the hangar. Two corrugated metal doors, sagging on rusty hinges, had to be lifted and dragged aside. Fortunately, the white Luscombe nestled inside had seen far better care. She looked clean and tidy. There was one engine, a single high wing, and, as Braun had heard around the airport, she was a tail-dragger — high at the front on two main wheels, and a small pivoting wheel underneath the tail. Mitchell came out of the office with an armful of charts and books. He locked the office door and strode to the hangar.
"I checked the weather. Might be a few rain showers this afternoon in Ohio, but just the usual summertime puffies. Let's get her out into the daylight."
Braun moved a toolbox and an old bicycle clear so that the aircraft could be brought outside. He remembered the first time he had moved an airplane, surprised that such a big machine could be so light.
"Now, if you re gonna fly there's bookwork to be done. But since we re in a hurry, I'll bring the manual with us. It'll be three long flights to Minnesota. On the first, you watch and I'll fly. You'll get your stick time after that." He walked around to the far side of the aircraft and threw his gear into the cockpit. "Grab a strut, son. On three—"
Braun put both hands to the support brace that ran from the fuselage to the bottom of the wing.
"One, two—"
Both men pushed, and in seconds the Luscombe was clear of the hangar. Mitchell busied himself checking the oil and fuel, talking as he went. Braun wasn't listening as he stared at the empty building. He said, "Since we might be gone for awhile, can I leave my car inside?"
"Sure. Don't have much trouble out here, but lock her in if you want."
Five minutes later Braun had the Buick secured neatly in the hangar.
"I'll start in the left seat," Mitchell said, "then we'll switch out at the first fuel stop."
"All right."
"Now, watch close." Mitchell put a hand to the propeller. "She won't start now 'cause the ignition's not on. When I say contact,' you turn it like this." He pulled down on the propeller. "Then get the hell clear. Got it?"
"Sure."
Mitchell climbed into the small craft and took the left seat. He flipped a few switches before shouting, "Contact!"
Braun turned the propeller and the engine coughed once, then stopped.
"Again!"
On the second try the engine caught. It spit a cloud of blue smoke, as if trying to rid itself of some respiratory malady, before latching to an idle. Braun kept clear as he scurried around and climbed in on the right-hand side. With the old man running through his checks, Braun struggled to pull the door shut. One shoulder was jammed against the side window, the other against Mitchell. The last time he'd flown, it had been in a different type of aircraft — he didn't remember it being so cramped.
Braun studied his new surroundings. There was a control stick between his legs. The dash in front displayed a half-dozen gauges, along with some levers and switches. A few of the gauges were obvious enough — airspeed, engine tachometer, altimeter. "Why is the compass up there?" he asked, referring to the lone instrument above the dash.
"It's magnetic. You have to keep it away from the rest. I set a metal thermos up on the dash one day — ended up over Lake Erie before I figured it out."
Mitchell pushed the throttle forward and the Luscombe began to move toward one end of the long clearing. He explained his choice as they went, "Not much wind today, and the trees are lower at the east end. She's a testy old kite when she's heavy."
Braun looked at each end of the clearing, noting little difference in the height of the trees. Perhaps a few feet. How could it matter? he wondered.
Mitchell went through a few checks, running the engine up to power, then back to idle. Finally he turned down the strip and added full throttle. The machine shook and rattled as the propeller pulled them ahead, the big wheels bouncing jauntily over ruts in the grass. Acceleration was slow, the airspeed indicator barely rising. Indeed, the trees at the far end of the clearing began to fill the windscreen. But then the bumps and noise dampened as the Luscombe levitated away from the ground. Braun looked down as they cleared the trees by at least a hundred feet.