He went to the bed and stretched out on top of the sheets.
The room was hot and uncomfortable. New Mexico would be even worse. Yet for all the hardships Braun had seen, this he did not mind. He only wanted to never be cold again.
When Braun arrived at seven the boy had the airplane ready to go, tie-downs removed and fully serviced. Breakfast had been better— it was hard to mess up eggs — and by ten minutes after seven he was cruising westward, following the Rand McNally map he'd purchased at a gas station near the motel. It would take the entire morning to traverse Kansas, and the Luscombe would need one more refueling to reach New Mexico.
He considered what to do with the airplane when he arrived in Santa Fe. Should he try to keep it hidden as a potential means of escape? Sell it for cash? Unfortunately, the Luscombe was the one thing that tied him to Newport and a missing flight instructor.
The flight across Kansas was familiar — flat, incredibly uniform features. Endless dirt roads demarked square farm plots. Each was tended by a small house, with larger buildings to shelter equipment and harvests. Braun had taken to following a rail line, easily distinguishable from the roads, and punctuated with precision regularity by grain elevators. It was all very orderly and functional, a well-thought-out design, he decided.
The fuel stop came after four hours, a place called Liberal, Kansas. The midday heat was insufferable, its companion a stiff breeze that did nothing to cool but instead acted as a bellows to the fire. The facilities around the airfield looked in decent shape, but Braun was surprised to find that there was no fuel service here. He was forced to walk two miles to the nearest gas station, where he again tried to use Hiram Mitchells postal credentials. The surly attendant groused that he'd been having trouble getting letters through to his son in the Pacific, but ten dollars eventually sufficed for eighteen gallons of high-test, the use of two ten gallon cans, and a ride back to Liberal Municipal. It was noon when he departed.
As he taxied to the end of the runway, Braun noted the different landing surface. It was a hardpan dirt strip as opposed to the grass he was used to. There was a stiff crosswind, and when he began the takeoff roll Braun wrestled awkwardly with the controls to keep the machine headed in the right direction. The Luscombe seemed to hesitate, building speed much more slowly than in the past. His first idea was to shove the throttle forward, but it was already against the stop.
He felt a sudden pang of discomfort. Was something wrong with the engine? Was a dirt strip different than grass, some coefficient dragging him back? He watched the airspeed build with glacial speed. The end of the runway came closer — not trees or a fence, but rather squat bushes, the boundary where clearing work had simply stopped. At fifty miles an hour it was clear that the Luscombe might not get airborne. A wall of tangled brown bushes rushed toward him. Braun considered trying to stop. But could he? Or would he only go careening into the scrub?
Finally, the tail began to respond, rising lazily to his command. Braun waited until the last moment, then pulled back firmly. The main wheels came up, lumbering, and the wings seemed to wobble. Somehow the plane rose just enough, skimming across flat terrain as the airspeed crept upward. He milked the thing up until he had a hundred feet, two hundred, and finally a thousand. Only then did Braun realize how his heart was racing.
Outside, the remains of what looked like a tumbleweed was tangled in his right wheel, fluttering crazily in the wind stream. He took a deep breath. How had that happened? Braun wondered. Have I become reckless? He measured it all, and soon the answer filtered down. No, he was not reckless. Braun was unaware of his specific mistake during the takeoff, yet he knew where it was rooted. Overconfidence. He had gotten too comfortable in an unfamiliar discipline. Braun remembered the grip of success he had felt as a new sniper — one good shot tempted another. And another. But the odds would find you.
He looked ahead and found his railway, the curvilinear guide that had brought him here. It still meandered west. The sky had filled with clouds, thick and puffy, and to the north he saw a thunderstorm, classic in its anvil shape. Braun figured it must be beating the hell out of a farm somewhere. He recalled that Mitchell had always checked the weather by phone before each flight. Braun should have learned how this was done. Of course, now it was too late. And in any event, his next landing would likely be his last.
It was Hiram Mitchells wife who broke things open. The untouched apple pie on the sill above the kitchen sink loomed ominously, and when she didn't hear from her husband by midday on the third day, she got worried. If the Luscombe had broken down he would have called. Not knowing who to call to report a missing airplane, she decided on the local police. The operator there almost pushed her off on the Civil Aeronautics Board before an astute desk man made the connection.
A squad car was sent to the airfield, and it took another ten minutes for the officer to get permission to whack the padlock off the hangar door. He reported that he'd found the missing Buick, and a short time later the news reached the library at Harrold House.
Chapter 27
Lydia was in her room, arranging the flowers Edward had given her only a few days ago. They were beginning to wilt, black at the edges, and she turned the freshest side of each forward. She wondered, perhaps, if she could plant a row of the same variety on the east side of the house and tend to them herself. Lydia knew nothing about gardening, but Wescott could teach her.
Hearing the telephone ring in the distance, Lydia headed for the library. It was a considerable effort, the aches and bruises from being sent down the stairs still fresh. The pain pills made her woozy, keeping the world in a haze. She hated the drugs, but the doctor had insisted.
When she reached the library her father was already talking, scribbling down information. Major Thatcher was also there, and Lydia took a chair next to him. Father had put the Englishman up in a small room, and he'd become a fixture around the place. Lydia studied the little man with the limp who seemed so direct and focused. It was odd, she thought. She'd always imagined her father to be a strong man, and physically he was, but the Englishman carried a different sway, an intensity of purpose that she recognized, but didn't quite understand.
Her father hung up the phone.
"Have they found him?" Thatcher asked.
"They found the car," Sargent Cole said. "Mitchell's Flying Service — its a little operation off State Road Seventy-seven."
Thatcher winced. "We've been looking everywhere else — the bus and train stations, the airport in Providence."
Through her drug induced stupor, Lydia made a connection. "Frank! Of course, I should have remembered."
Thatcher said, "Remembered what?"
"Cousin Frank — he and Alex went up for a few flights the last time Alex stayed with us. He'd know about the airfield. How stupid of me not to remember."
"Did Brown know how to fly?" Thatcher asked.
"No, I don't think so. He and Frank just went joyriding, as I remember it."
Sargent Cole said, "That was five years ago. For all we know, he could be a Luftwaffe ace by now."
Thatcher moved to a large map of the United States that was situated centrally on the wall behind an ornate writing desk. He stood with his hands on his hips and wondered aloud, "So where have you gone now, my friend?"
Lydia looked at the map and instantly knew the answer. "Santa Fe!" The words came in a strong, clear voice that belied here foggy mind. She took Thatcher by the elbow and pulled him closer to the map. "He's going to Santa Fe! The other day I came into this room and he had his finger parked right on it. He gave me some story about tracing his route out west. I remember the name perfectly because I decided he was taking the train. The Santa Fe Line."