Lark (26 page)

Horse groaned.

“Crank it up,” Lark said.

The small plane shivered and quickly taxied out to the far end of the single concrete runway and did a neat about-face so that it faced into the wind. The RPM gauge began to climb as the young pilot revved the engine. The airplane began to quiver as if anticipating its final dash down the runway and lift-off.

Lark had a map on his knees and was rapidly making circles with a dark Magic Marker. The Tripacer's brakes were released and it moved down the runway and lifted into the air. It struck a patch of turbulence at the far end of the airport and canted to the side for a moment until the pilot realigned its flight path. He pushed it to maximum RPM for a slow climb.

“Where to?” the pilot said into his microphone.

Lark gave him a compass reading for a NNW trajectory and sat back to study the map some more. He still thought Harper would take to the back roads after Waterbury. The camper would be parked near fishing water, but that could be a narrow trout stream hidden from the air by heavy foliage or one of the larger lakes in the area.

Certain of the lakes in the thousand-square-mile area they would be searching were part of the watershed for the Hartford area. This meant that they were closed to recreational use, and many were fenced in. He made large X's on the lakes. If Harper were headed toward an isolated recreational area, that meant his victim was already in hand. A young woman was either riding in the seat next to him, or was already imprisoned in the sound chamber in the rear of the camper.

There wasn't any time.

The photographs and other grisly items Lark had seen in the Harper basement revealed that the sessions with the young women were protracted and were hours long. He would be starting soon.

Lark drew vertical lines connected at the state border and shoved the map at the pilot. “Fly this pattern,” he instructed. “When we spot a camper, go in low. Got it?”

“Sure, but there's going to be one hell of a lot of those up here at this time of year.”

“This one has a skiff tied on the top deck,” Horse yelled over the engines. “A red-bottomed job.”

“That should help.”

It should have helped, but it didn't. They flew Lark's route for two hours, often diving to tree-top level when they spotted a moving camper or one parked in the woods or at a campsite. They didn't find any with a red boat lashed to the roof.

“We've got another fifteen minutes before I have to turn back,” the pilot said. “The range on this baby isn't like a Seven-four-seven, you know.”

Lark continued sweeping the ground below with his binoculars.

It was a few minutes later when the pilot tapped Lark on the shoulder. “We're heading back to the airport. I've only got a few minutes' gas left and I don't like to bring her in with bone-dry tanks.”

“We stay here,” Lark said without stopping his visual sweep. “We have a change of tactics. We skip the regular campgrounds and ignore any campers on the road. We're only going to check those parked alone in isolated areas.”

“You don't understand, Lieutenant. We have to return now.” The pilot put the plane into a low bank that turned it onto a southerly heading.

“Get back on my course before I break your arm,” Lark said.

The pilot turned in his seat in order to face Horse. “Will you tell this guy that we're running out of gas—G-A-S—and that by the time we get home, refuel, and get back in the air, it will be too dark to see anything. We can come back up here first light tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow's too late,” Lark said. “Keep flying.”

“Where am I going to land?”

“A golf course, a meadow, a road. It really doesn't make any difference.”

“The hell you say.” The plane banked again.

“Tell him I mean it, Horse.”

“He means it,” Horse said. “Man, does he mean it.”

It was on their second pass over Loon Lake when Horse, who had relieved Lark with the binoculars, spotted a sliver of red in the water. “I think I see the boat.”

Lark motioned to the pilot to go in low over the water. The plane dived to treetop level and made an east-to-west pass over the lake. A small, bluntended boat was tied to a tree branch protruding from the water near the shore.

“That boat's green,” the pilot yelled. “I thought you guys were looking for a red one?”

Lark didn't answer as he reached for the binoculars. The tree surrounding the small lake came down to the water's edge. No prepared campsites were visible, and the area seemed deserted. The only access to the lake was by a narrow, overgrown logging road that wound for two miles from a minor highway. No camper was in sight.

He trained the glasses on the small boat tied to the tree branch. The interior was green, but he could see a strip of red along the waterline. Its sides and bottom could be red.

“We gotta go,” the pilot said as he gazed in despair at the fuel indicators.

“I want another pass at water level. I think there might be a camper in the trees.”

“This isn't a float plane, Lieutenant. If I misjudge my distance, we go into the drink.”

“Take it down,” Lark said.

The plane banked steeply and approached Loon Lake from the south. Once over the water, the pilot flew at an altitude only a few feet from the lake's surface. A covey of ducks quacked in alarm and flapped across the lake out of reach of their prop wash.

“There's something in the trees up there,” Horse yelled.

“It's a goddamn camper,” Lark said.

The camper was parked a dozen feet from the lake's edge under a heavy canopy of trees. A man exited the door at the sound of the approaching plane and shaded his eyes as he looked toward them. He stood in the shadows of the trees and they couldn't make out his features as the plane climbed in a steep upward angle of attack in order to pull over the treeline.

“Is it him? Could you tell?” Lark yelled.

“I'm not sure,” Horse replied.

“Do it again,” Lark ordered the pilot.

The pilot shook his head. “We're not going to make many more of these before we go down.”

“Just do it.”

They were halfway across the lake on the final run when they saw the camper pull out of the woods onto the winding logging road. The skiff still floated placidly at its anchorage.

“It's him,” Lark said. “He knows we're after him. He's left his boat and is driving away.”

Horse put his hand on the pilot's shoulder. “Follow him and keep him in sight until we get the state police on the radio.”

“We're not following anything for more than another two minutes. We are dry.”

Below them, the camper was twisting its way down the logging road. Lark knew that once they pulled away and sought a safe landing spot, the camper would make it to the highway, travel a few miles in either direction, and pull into a deep cove of trees. It might be days until they found it again, and by that time Harper would be gone and his newest dead.

“Land in front of him,” Lark said. “The road's too narrow for him to turn that thing around and it will be a bitch for him to go far in reverse.”

“I can't land down there.” The pilot pointed. “Look at that thing. It's hardly a road at all. It's a wide trail.”

“Land,” Lark said, simply.

“No way.” The pilot put the plane into a steep bank to change heading. Below them the camper was hidden by tree shadows as it continued its rapid way toward the highway.

Lark pulled the Python from its holster. He laid the barrel against the pilot's head. “Land on the road.”

“You don't frighten me. You shoot me and we all go down.”

Lark fired.

The bullet perforated the side window as the gun's blast rocked the plane. “The next time I shoot your balls off,” Lark said.

The plane banked again and took a heading designed to approach the logging road directly in front of the camper.

The pilot's jaw clenched as a tiny muscle in his right cheek began to twitch. “We're not going to make it.” He lowered the flaps once, then again, and the plane seemed to hang in midair over the trees as it followed the meandering dirt trail. “I'm going to try to stall us in.”

The airspeed began to drop and the stall warning device began to beep.

Horse retched in the rear seat.

Lark held the Python across his waist with both hands. He glanced over at the door on his side to make sure he knew how it operated and how he could eject from the plane in the fastest possible time.

They were now below the treeline only feet above the logging road.

The camper hove into view directly in front of them. Herb Harper, in his seat high above the ground, looked at them in horror and slammed on the brakes. The camper slithered sideways into a ditch and stalled out. Harper disappeared from view as he left the driver's seat.

The plane's landing gear touched the dirt surface. Ahead, just before the stalled camper, the trees marched to the edge of the road. The pilot fought with the brake pedals, and the plane's tail jerked back and forth until the right wing broke off at midpoint as it slammed into a towering fir tree. The plane did a half-circle and nosed over, its tail surface pointed nearly straight up.

Lark unlatched his seat belt and fought to open the side door. He heard Horse cursing in a foreign language that he could only assume was Armenian. The pilot was unconscious and slumped over the flight panel.

The two police officers began running up the logging road toward the camper fifty yards away.

The first burst was high and to the right, but the gunner quickly corrected and brought the barrage down to waist level.

Lark threw himself to the ground and rolled into the drainage ditch by the side of the trail.

Horse gave a cry as his service revolver dropped from his fingers. He tumbled into the road.

The bastard had an automatic weapon. A damn machine gun? Lark thought.

Another burst of rounds kicked up dirt at the top of the ditch where Lark lay.

Lark knew he was a dead man. There was no way a man armed with a handgun could do combat with an automatic rifle and hope to survive. If he stood and charged the twenty remaining yards to the camper, he wouldn't make ten feet before the automatic fire tore him apart. If he stayed where he was, it was only a matter of time until Harper cautiously approached the ditch with the rifle on full automatic ready to cut him down.

He tried to identify the weapon. It wasn't an Uzi, and it didn't have the distinctive sound of the M-16, and yet it was familiar.

Another burst. This time high and to the right. The rounds ripped through the foliage and showered him with leaves.

He had heard the shot pattern before when he was in the service. It was an army-issue M-1 carbine. Harper had filed down the sear so that when the trigger was pulled, the whole magazine went off in rapid-fire sequence. This meant that he couldn't fire single shots, nor aim with any accuracy. There must be an advantage to that, but for the moment he couldn't think of what it was.

Lark reached over the edge of the ditch and without raising his head fired two carefully spaced shots in the general direction of the camper.

His fire was returned with another magazine burst from the carbine.

He immediately drew himself up on his hands and knees and sprang from the ditch. He ran for the deep cover of the trees lining the road.

He knew that Harper would have to eject the now-empty magazine and insert another, aim, and fire again. It would give him a few seconds to reach cover.

The carbine fired and Lark dived for the protection of a large tree stump. The final rounds from the last burst tore into the top of the stump and showered him with wood splinters.

From his protected position behind the stump he could see the road, the crashed Tripacer, and Horse faceup on the dirt track. One arm moved. The large officer was still alive. There would be no way to reach him to give first aid until he took out Harper.

Lark watched in horror as the young pilot climbed from the crashed plane and wandered dazedly onto the logging trail. He seemed disoriented and held one hand over a bleeding scalp wound. He saw the fallen officer, struggled to find his balance, and rushed over toward the stricken Horse.

“Get down!” Lark screamed. “For God's sake get—” His warning was cut short by the burst of rapid fire from somewhere near the camper.

The pilot threw up his hands, almost in supplication, as two rounds ripped into his chest and toppled him backward.

Lark catalogued options and advantages: in his favor was the factor that Harper's rounds were all fired in rapid sequence without control, which meant he had to reload after each burst. To his detriment was the realization that he couldn't fire any more poorly placed shots at the camper, for his bullets could easily pierce the thin metallic skin of the vehicle and kill Harper's latest victim, who, he was convinced, was held inside. To his advantage, he had the inchoate feeling that Harper would stay close to the camper in the hope that Lark would reveal himself.

The day was beginning to darken. The whole matter would be complicated at last light.

He examined the terrain to his side. Second-growth timber was interspersed around large glacial boulders and a profusion of heavy underbrush. In the distance, the small lake shimmered under the rays of a low sun. In minutes the sun would fall behind the brim of the hills and last light would follow in minutes.

It was during this time span that he would have to make his final moves.

Prone, Lark slithered to the far side of the stump and fired two carefully spaced shots far to the right of the camper. He knew that he would be wide of the mark, but the intent was to cause return fire. He pulled back behind the stump as the carbine burst walked across the base.

Lark jumped to his feet and ran deeper into the woods on a tangent to the right that would put him in a line moving away from the camper. When he reached a large boulder ten yards from the stump, he threw himself to the ground again.