Ragged Man (30 page)

“
Can we?” Rick said.

“
If I’m gonna sign your ticket, I’ll have to see at least one.”

“
What’s a touch and go?” Chief Harpine squeaked again.

“
Make your climbing turn to the right and level off at a thousand,” Mitchel said.

“
I remember,” Rick said.

“
Mr. Harpine,” Mitchel turned toward the back, “what’s the problem?”

“
I heard you telling him what to do. Maybe it took me a bit to figure it out, but now I got it figured. He don’t know how to fly a plane. You didn’t tell me that.”

“
Let me assure you, Mr. Gordon is an excellent pilot. But we have rules. If you haven’t flown in a year, you have to have a licensed instructor sign you off to stay legal. Since I’m licensed, we decided to kill two birds with one stone. Mr. Gordon will fly us up to Bakersfield and I’ll sign off his log book and he’ll be legal again.”

“
That’s it? You’re not shitting me?”

“
No, I’m not shitting you. Other than a practice landing and a few maneuvers in the air, that’s it. By the time we land in Bakersfield, Mr. Gordon will be as qualified as he ever was.”

“
Serious?”

“
Serious. You can just sit back and take in the view. Enjoy the flight. I brought a thermos of coffee along. As soon as we get the touch and go out of the way, we’ll sit back and relax. How’s that sound?” Mitchel’s voice was soothing and smooth.

“
Fine. Sorry I got excited,” Harpine said.

“
Okay, Rick, we’re at seven-fifty,” Mitchel said, “climbing at a hundred and fifty a minute, that’s fine, make your turn to your downwind.”

Rick turned the aircraft, then leveled off at a thousand feet.

“
You want to make one of your famous side slip landings?” Mitchel asked.

“
I’ve never done it after dark.”

“
Plane flies the same.” Mitchel picked up the mike. “Long Beach tower this is Cessna One-Six-Tango in a right downwind for Two-Five Right, requesting permission for a touch and go.”

“
Sorry, One-Six-Tango, we have noise abatement here. No touch and goes after dark.”

“
Come on you piece of toe scum, give us a break. Just one, I wanna sign off a ticket tonight.”

“
That you Mitchel, you slimy piece of weasel droppings?”

“
It’s me, Jimmy.”

“
Okay, Bobby, Just one. Hope I don’t get my you know what in a ringer, never know who’s listening.”

“
You don’t have to worry,” Mitchel said into the mike. “We’re going to cut power now and slip it in so quiet, the neighbors won’t even know we’re here. We’ll land at the halfway point and be outta here quieter than a soft rain.”

“
This I gotta see. Permission granted.”

Rick shoved the power in, turning the Cessna into a glider.

“
What?” Harpine said.

“
It’ll be all right, Harrison. Trust me,” Rick said.

Rick shoved his left foot forward, giving it full left rudder as he cranked the ailerons to the right, cross controlling the aircraft, keeping it in control as he went into the slip, dropping fast.

“
I don’t like this,” Harpine said.

Rick kept the nose pointed to the right, toward the runway. They were dropping at two hundred and fifty feet a minute. Rick stayed in the slip, keeping the plane pointed toward the runway.

“
Going down a little fast,” Mitchel said.

“
It’ll be fine.” Rick pushed down on the yoke a bit, increasing the rate of descent even more.

“
Shit!” Harpine said.

“
Shit!” Mitchel said.

Rick pushed down some more on the yoke.

“
Fuck a duck,” Harpine said, loud.

“
You sure you have it?” Mitchel said, louder. The ground was coming up fast.

“
I have it.” Rick pushed the nose down more and the cross controlled plane turned forty-five degrees to the runway.

Mitchel started to reach for the yoke on his side of the plane.

“
Keep your hands off the controls!” Rick said, voice firm, but calm.

Mitchel pulled his hands back like they’d been burnt.

Two hundred feet from the ground and Rick started to ease off the left rudder.

A hundred and fifty, the plane was almost all the way around, and he released the left rudder altogether. A hundred feet and he added a little right rudder and eased off the pressure on the ailerons, straightening them a little.

“
Oh, fuck!” Harpine, squealed.

“
Shit, shit, shit!” Mitchel said.

Fifty feet from the ground and Rick eased off the right rudder and straightened the ailerons. He was flying straight and level, only a hair’s breath to the right of the runway. He eased the plane to the left and at ten feet he was over the center line. At five feet he started his flare, squeaking it in smack in the center of the four thousand foot runway.

“
Motherfucker!” Harpine said.

“
I’ll sign your ticket right now!” Mitchel yelped as Rick added full power and started his takeoff roll.

Four and a half hours later Harpine was dozing in the back seat as they were lined up for a straight in to Bakersfield.

“
For a man who wanted out of the plane like there was no tomorrow, your friend sure ’nuff settled himself in,” Mitchel said.

“
Harrison can sleep anywhere,” Rick said.

“
Guess that’s what makes him such a good chief of police.”

“
You’re underestimating him. Many a man’s found out it doesn’t pay to underestimate Harrison Harpine.”

“
You’re right, I don’t know him.”

“
He’s a good man,” Rick said, conscious of the fact that Harpine was probably listening.

“
Okay, ’nuff said. I’ve written down all the frequencies you need to get up to Palma-Tampico. All you gotta do is keep putting them in and keep the arrow centered. Piece of cake. Child could do it.” Mitchel stretched, then yawned. “I’ve signed your logbook so now you’re legal.”

“
Thanks,” Rick said.

“
Mind if I bring it in?” Mitchel asked.

“
No problem.” Rick released the controls, sat back and relaxed as Mitchel landed the plane and drove it off the runway to the terminal.

“
Again, thanks for everything.” Rick shook hands with Mitchel on the ground. Then he was back in the plane, with Harpine in the right hand seat, taxiing to the runway.

“
I appreciate what you said about me, back before we landed,” Harpine said. As Rick had suspected the wily police chief had been listening.

“
Only spoke the truth,” Rick said.

“
Well, I appreciate it,” Harpine said.

“
Here we go,” Rick said, then he was shooting down the runway, then into his takeoff roll. This time he was the pilot in command. There was one to help him if he screwed up. When he’d owned the plane all those years ago, he’d spent countless hours in the pattern, practicing all kinds of landings, but he’d very rarely gone anywhere. He’d fooled Mitchel and Harpine with that power off landing. He set the frequency into the VHF radio, hoping the weather held. The last thing he needed was any surprises.

And he didn’t get any till daybreak. Harpine was waking up with the sun. It promised to be a gorgeous day. The wind was rushing away from the mountains on the right, toward the sea, when all of a sudden they were caught in turbulence and Rick lost control of the airplane.

Chapter Twenty

When J.P. left the car he knew exactly where he was, the end of Old Luke’s Road. Where the road ended, the hiking trail started, winding through the pines for several minutes till it met Bear Clearing, a man-made meadow where two or three times a year the boy scouts came to set up their tents and camp. The younger kids sometimes played there during the day and the high school kids sometimes lit campfires and drank beer during the early evening. Tampico was a small town and the young people had to make their own entertainment.

The path picked up on the far side of Bear Clearing and continued on for ten minutes at a brisk walk, snaking into Lover’s Hideaway, a small natural clearing, where the high schoolers went to make out and sometimes do a little more. From Lover’s Hideaway the path twisted its way to Prospector’s Donkey Road and a five minute walk down the dirt road would find him on Mountain Sea Road and only ten minutes from home.

He walked fast, away from the burning car, wanting to put as much distance from it as possible. When the Ragged Man came back he wanted to be long gone. He wanted to run, but his feet hurt and they were swelling up, forcing him to hobble along like an old man. He wanted to stop and rest, but he forced himself to go on.

“
Ow!” He stubbed his toe on a baseball sized rock. He looked down to inspect the damage. His right big toe was pouring blood and the toenail was broken. The front half of the nail stuck up ninety degrees, hinged on only by a flap of skin. It bobbed and flapped as he moved his foot, reminding him of a raw piece of meat, and it hurt like all get out.

His old man’s hobble was slowed to an older man’s limping stumble. He wanted to quit, to rest, but he remembered something his dad used to say. “Winners never quit and quitters never win.” He didn’t want to be a quitter. And besides, when the Ragged Man came and found out what he’d done to his car, he was going to be really, really mad. So J.P. stumbled on toward Bear Clearing.

Then the forest went quiet, like it did that day the Ghost Dog chased his mom and tried to get his birds. J.P. stopped and listened.

Nothing. No sound.

This is bad, he thought. He turned his slow stumble back into a faster hobble, then into a slow run. His feet no longer hurt and he picked up his pace, bursting into Bear Clearing at a fast run.

He stopped in the middle of the clearing, dead out of breath.

The sun was going down in a sea of orange haze. The shadows were getting darker.

He looked around the clearing.

“
I’m not a quitter,” he said, panting, “I just need a minute to rest.” His bloody foot was throbbing and his sides ached where he had scraped against the rough metal, getting out of the trunk. Gingerly, he felt a bruised side and was shocked to find his hand covered in blood. He checked and found that both sides of his chest, under his arm pits and the insides of both arms were bruised, scraped and bleeding. His feet, battered against the rocky path, fared no better. He needed to rest.

He walked over to one of the two fire pits. The charcoal remains were surrounded by tree stump stools, empty beer cans and junk food wrappers. He bent over and picked up a Ding Dong wrapper. It’s Ding Dongs that got me into this, he thought, and if I ever get home, I’ll never eat another one as long as I live.

He sat on one of the tree stumps and tried to imagine what it would be like in front of the campfire, safe, with lots of friends. He closed his eyes, his head fell forward. He jerked it back. A quitter would fall asleep. He just wanted a few minutes rest.

He roamed his eyes around the clearing. The ground was covered with leaves and pine needles. The circling trees offered a wall against the outside world and the open sky allowed the setting sun to work its shadow magic on the trees, giving the clearing a ghostly, vampire feeling.

He wished he was home with his mother, but wishing wouldn’t make it so. He had to get there himself, without help, without wishes, so only marginally rested, he got up from his stool and limped through the clearing to the path on the other side. He was tired, hurt, bruised and scared, but he wasn’t a quitter. He was going home, no matter how rough the going was.

He heard a noise at the edge of the clearing, a movement through the brush, or the wind through the trees. He stopped, afraid to turn. A low rumbling growl froze him in place. The growl turned into the sound of deep breathing, then into the purr of a big cat, like the tigers in the San Diego Zoo. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t. He had to see. No matter how dumb it was, and he knew it was dumb, he had to see.

He turned his head and followed it with his body, swinging around, pivoting in place like a slow motion kung fu fighter. His skin was on fire and he felt his hair trying to stand. His mouth, dry from several hours of no liquid, got dryer and his hungry stomach churned. His feet, sides and arms screamed with pain and his mind said run, but he had to see.

And he saw.

Across the clearing, standing on the opposite side of the path, where he had entered it only a short while ago, stood the Ghost Dog. Only it was no dog. The red eyes bore into him and he met its cat-like stare head on, as curious as he was afraid. He knew what he was seeing, and it was no dog. No dingo dog like Rick told about in his story. No wolf. No bear. It was big, black and it was a saber-toothed tiger.

Its long white tusks gleamed in the setting sunlight and its glaring claws dug into the hard earth like it was Jell-O. Its smooth black fur glistened with sweat and its powerful looking legs resembled slick, black-oiled, muscle covered tree stumps. It was tiger-big, tiger-dangerous and it growled a tiger-growl. It didn’t take a genius to know that it was tiger-mean. It snorted misty smoke from its nostrils and J.P. hoped that it wasn’t hungry.