The Crazy School (33 page)

The guys on the ridge couldn’t see inside to tell.

They did see a pink-clad arm reach out for the door handle after a while, pulling it to.

They heard a distant whine as the pilot twisted his collective’s throttle grip.

No instructor, no guidance. First time.

The rotors started moving slowly, looking slightly soft until their increasing rpm’s lifted them stiff, then made them blur—

the pitch of the engine’s shrill voice rising, as did the slender blades themselves.

The pilot raised the collective to pick up the bird, rotor disk 3 2 6

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coning, downwash blowing snow outward to denude grass, crisp and brown, across a widening circle.

The left skid was last off the ground, hanging low as tail rotor pushed craft toward the right. The fl edgling pilot overcompen-sated with his left pedal, making the Bell’s nose jerk to port.

The boys watched him wallow in the air—drifting and bouncing like a tired yo-yo—until he got the craft in trim.

With the cyclic now pushed forward, the bird nosed over to pick up airspeed, slipping the surly bonds of earth as its pilot pulled up on the collective.

“Not yet,” said Sitzman.

“Not by a long shot. We want him
up
there.”

Fifteen feet. Twenty.

The two-man audience didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

The chopper came level with the fl at roof of the dining hall at last, then the more graceful chimneys of the Mansion.

Sixty feet and rising.

It lifted above the farthest, tallest trees in the surrounding woods.

Up, straight up.

As it drew close to the boys’ eye level, the pad of Wiesner’s thumb moved slowly across a button at the center of a lopsided remote he’d cobbled together out of wire and tape and solder and plastic, with batteries sticking out its side.

He touched it again, that button. A caress.

“Lifts,” he said, pressing the half-inch disk of plastic downward.

At the juncture of tail boom and fuel tank, a blasting cap detonated General Electric’s missing wad of C-4 explosive.

“And separates,” said Wiesner as eighty gallons of aviation kerosene blossomed orange with a deep, resonant whomp.

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The shock wave rocked the two boys, fl attening their hair back and away from their faces. Making them scrunch their eyes shut.

When they looked again, there was little left of David Santangelo’s Bell 206B-3 JetRanger III, or of David Santangelo himself.

There was only the hunk of turbine housing plummeting back into those surly bonds, surrounded by a slow rain of fl aming bits—none bigger than a fi st—dropping and arcing and sometimes even corkscrewing down onto the glittering white expanse of campus.

Little circles of snow melted away around each on contact.

“Will you look at that,” said grinning Wiesner, who, it must be remembered, really, really
liked
to blow shit up. “In excelsis

David.”

Sitzman shook his shaggy Saint Bernard head slowly, back and forth.

Finally, he was moved to say a single word—one syllable, so drawn out by the shock and reverence and horror with which its speaker brimmed that the sound of it seemed to linger and shimmer on the very air, until the utterance dissipated like the steamy, curling puff of breath expelled along with it.

The word was “Fuck.”

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AcknowledgEments

My thanks to:

Charles King and Lee Child, most of all.

Mandy! For the helicopter!!!! May you top the windswept heights with easy grace. (If Dwight’s amenable to that kind of thing, in the
Cantina.
)

My family, especially my daughters Grace and Lila, my sister Freya, my aunt Julie and uncle Bill Hoyt, and my splendid mom, Deborah.

The wonderful people at Grand Central Publishing, who have been such a pleasure to work with: Susan Richman, Celia Johnson, Les Pockell, Jamie Raab, and Tareth Mitch. And of course the erstwhile Kristen Weber.

The excellent duo of Michelle and Catherine Lapautre.

Members of the wondrous Mysterious Writ, my writing group: Charles King, Karen Murphy, Sharon Johnson, Marilyn MacGregor, and Daisy Johnson. Without whom I would never have started the fi rst book, or fi nished the second.

And of the group that will SOMEDAY meet again: Bob Young and Gaylene Givens, Dave Damianakes, Heidi Kriz.

The independent bookstores which have been so kind and supportive about my fi rst book, and whom I hope will like my second: Mark “Bitsy Ramone” Farley (aka Bookseller to the Stars), London; Elaine and Bill Petrocelli of Book Passage, Corte Madera, California (and Karen and Hannah and Reese and all y’all cool people); Ed Kaufman and gang of M is for Mystery in San Mateo, California; Bobby and Linda at The Mystery Bookstore, Los Angeles, California; EVERYONE at Mysterious Galaxy in San Diego and at Mysteries to Die For, Thousand Oaks, California; Bill and Lynne Reed of Misty Valley Books, Chester, Vermont; Barbara Peters and the most excellent people of Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale, Arizona; and the tremendously kind staff of Houston’s Murder By the Book, who very nicely did not mention having overheard me throw up a few minutes before the signing. And, last but assuredly not least, 3 2 9

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Janine and Fran and Tammy at Seattle Mystery Books—especially Janine for greeting me at Sea-Tac with my very own green plastic beach bucket, having heard about the whole throwing-up-from-nerves-right-before-the-signing-in-Houston thing. And thank you to Cody’s in Berkeley, most especially the inimitable Tova Zeff.

Hillary Huber, the goddess of all things relating to voice talent, telegrams, Pucci sandals, and daughters of renegade dads. Pat Fraley for the spookily perfect music on the audio version and the wonderful stories over sushi.

Alice Williams my favorite newfound cousin, MBH—Mags, dude! Someday we have to fi gure out how
we’re
related, and that goes for Auntie NZ, too . . .

My blogmates at nakedauthors.com: Patty Smiley, Paul Levine, James Grippando (at large), Jim Born, and Our J, Jacqueline Winspear.

Rae and Maggie and Deanie and Heidi and Dot and Stuart and Sneaky Thief and Janine (again) and all the cool Reacher Creatures.

My band, the Sad Anoraks: Andi Shechter (and Stu) and Shaz Wheeler and Louise Ure.

Writer peeps who have been there when most needed: Sandra Ruttan, Ken Bruen, Martha O’Connor, Joshilyn Jackson (We’ll always have Paris. And Nicole.), Laura Lippman, and Cara Black.

Sarah Weinman, Jon and Ruth Jordan, David Thayer, Lesa Holstine, Elizabeth Montgomery, and Michael Leone.

Ariel Zeitlin Cooke, sister friend.

Luan Keller, who survived it with me and is an endlessly fi ne friend and boon companion.

Candace Andrews, friend without equal (in a good way). And of course if you hadn’t worked there fi rst, I wouldn’t have a book.

And fi nally, Rolph Blythe. I hope it goes well for you at Gray Wolf.

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Document Outline

• Also by the author
  
• Title Page
  
• Dedication
  
• PART I
  
  • Chapter 1
    
  • Chapter 2
    
  • Chapter 3
    
  • Chapter 4
    
  • Chapter 5
    
  • Chapter 6
    
  • Chapter 7
    
  • Chapter 8
    
  • Chapter 9
    
  • Chapter 10
    
  • Chapter 11
    
  • Chapter 12
    
  • Chapter 13
    
  • Chapter 14
    
  • Chapter 15
    
• PART II
  
  • Chapter 16
    
  • Chapter 17
    
• PART III
  
  • Chapter 18
    
  • Chapter 19
    
  • Chapter 20
    
  • Chapter 21
    
  • Chapter 22
    
  • Chapter 23
    
  • Chapter 24
    
  • Chapter 25
    
  • Chapter 26
    
  • Chapter 27
    
  • Chapter 28
    
  • Chapter 29
    
• PART IV
  
  • Chapter 30
    
  • Chapter 31
    
• PART V
  
  • Chapter 32
    
  • Chapter 33
    
  • Chapter 34
    
  • Chapter 35
    
  • Chapter 36
    
  • Chapter 37
    
  • Chapter 38
    
  • Chapter 39
    
  • Chapter 40
    
  • Chapter 41
    
  • Chapter 42
    
  • Chapter 43
    
  • Chapter 44
    
  • Chapter 45
    
  • Chapter 46
    
• PART VI
  
  • Chapter 47
    
  • Chapter 48
    
• PARTVII
  
  • Chapter 49
    
• Acknowledgements