The Saint (5 page)

So, now he was here. Truth be told, he would rather have signed on with Molybdenum. But L.A.'s hive master had a low tolerance for gang violence and would never let him on staff. And General Anaximander had offered this job as his secretary— perhaps as an apology for strangling Miffith's father, who had also worked for him? No, more likely because Miffith spoke four human languages and also fey. Anyhow, it had seemed ideal at the time. But now . . .

Anaximander hissed something into his phone, and Miffith hunched down, trying to make himself invisible. Someone was in trouble. He just hoped it wasn't him.

Adora's small house already looked vacant, as though it could sense that she intended to be gone for a protracted period of time. It was strange and a little sad to think of it muddling along without her, its lights on timers, the plants watered by a sprinkler system. It would miss her, though; she could tell.

She stood in the yard and looked at the small garden she had coaxed out of the horrid clay soil that plagued their neighborhood. It had been a particularly hard winter by California standards, and the shy flowers were only just beginning to show off their fans and ruffled skirts, and she was leaving the glorious show just as it began. A part of her—a dark part whose existence she usually denied—wondered whenever she left if it would be for the last time. That happened sometimes: People went away one morning and never came back.

Like Mom. Like Dad.

“It's Ben's fault. I didn't want this assignment. . . . Look, I'll miss you too,” Adora said quietly to the house. She sighed. “I can't lie. I love the idea of travel, and I really need the money, but you know I like you best. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

The stunted lilac sighed back and forgave her. She turned to the house, laying a hand on the doorframe. Perhaps it was the cool breeze, but the wood seemed to shiver. This was her house—her
home
. It was the only place she had ever felt she truly belonged. However, the house loved her unconditionally and knew she had to go. It whispered a fond if sad farewell.

“Good-bye,” Adora replied.

That done, she gave herself permission to run down her checklist one last time: She had her portable. She had an overnight bag. She had killer shoes—

And your voice of reason. Don't leave home without it,
Joy added.
Not that you'll listen.

As if I could ever be so lucky as to leave you behind,
Adora replied.

She sighed again. Voice or no voice, she was ready—or as ready as she would ever be. There was no reason to delay. Shutting the door softly, she set off on her adventure.

The taxi driver, whose English was sketchy, assured her that she was in the right place before pulling away, but Adora still had doubts about her location. Where was the jet she had been promised? All she could see was a . . . what was that exactly on the runway in front of her?

Adora inched toward the contraption. Squatting in the middle of the runway where she stood was a giant wooden plane that head-on had the face of a beagle wearing aviator goggles. The canine head was mounted on the body of a somewhat skinny goose with splayed feet. She recognized it now from research she had done for an abandoned book on Mussolini. The plane was called a Fieseler Storch. The outlandish-looking high-winged plane had changed German history when it rocketed into the aeronautics scene after the First World War. It had an eight-cylinder, invert-V, air-cooled engine, a fifteen-thousand-foot ceiling, a stall speed of thirty-two miles per hour and a two-hundred-forty-mile flight range. And one machine gun, though it appeared that was missing.

It was also supposed to be a very safe airplane. Which was good, because though large by the standards of most modern, private planes, it was still smaller than the jet Adora had expected. Which meant it was too small for her liking. In fact, just standing near it made her nervous. And that— however irrational—made her mad.

On the other hand, this absurdity was a device of great historic value. She had always respected age. Anything that endured cruel, ravaging time deserved some deference.

Uh-huh, it's just old enough for the wings to be rotten—but don't listen to me,
Joy said.

Fear of flying fought with Adora's love of history. Was this a sign, or was Joy right? Should she call off the trip?

High time you started believing in omens,
Joy said nastily.

“Hey, there!” a cheerful voice greeted her.

“Robin Christkind?” Adora asked, turning to the young man who appeared around the back of the plane, hoping that he would tell her she had made a mistake and wanted the small Lear jet on the next runway.

“That's me. And you must be the writer, Adora Navarra. I hear you're an historian and come from a family of pilots.” He stepped forward and offered a hand. It was encased in a fine kid glove. She was also amused to see that he was wearing a leather helmet with aviator goggles and a long white scarf.

He looked like a young Charles Lindbergh. She liked a man who knew how to dress for a role.

Still, the clothes were a little odd under the circumstances, so she consulted her inner weirdometer and was relieved when nothing stirred on the psychic dials. This guy was eccentric but probably safe.

Probably—but you can't really be sure,
Joy inserted.

“Adora Navarra. The one and only,” she agreed.

“Do you have any other bags?” Robin asked.

“No, this is it. I travel light. But—”

“Then let me tuck it away and we'll be off. Can you manage on your own?” he asked, eyeing her skirt and heels. “The seats are a bit high.”

“Of course, but—”

“Good. We're running a little late, and I hate to keep Kris waiting. His schedule is so tight these days.”

“I'm so sorry if I delayed you,” Adora said immediately. “We had some bad traffic—”

“It's fine. But maybe I better help you in.” Robin reached out, but Adora stepped back quickly.

“No. I can manage.” She barely stopped herself from smacking away his outstretched hands. She thought she liked Robin Christkind, but that didn't mean she was ready for him to touch her. She didn't like strangers getting too close. She'd manage the climb somehow.

“Okay. Holler if you get stuck.” His tone was good-natured as he turned away.

“I will.”
Not
.

It helped that the second seat was in the back of the plane and somewhat closer to the ground. Still, it took a bit of maneuvering to get in without snagging her stockings or showing off far more than was polite on two minutes' acquaintance. True to his word, it took Robin only a moment to stow her bag, and then he joined her in the cockpit, looking back as she was arranging her somewhat twisted skirt. Adora frowned at him and he turned to face forward.

The plane interior was larger than expected, not much like a coffin at all. Still, she could feel her heart skittering nervously. A part of her feared planes for reasons that were not entirely logical. Though it made no sense, something inside her was convinced that if she ever went up again, she might jump out.

“Don't be such a coward,” she muttered to herself. Adora braced herself and then leaned out to close the door.

“Ready?” Robin asked, looking over his shoulder one last time. His gaze stayed on her face.

“As I'll ever be,” she muttered, then gave him a thumbs-up.

He smiled once and leaned forward to touch the starter. The plane hesitated for a moment before clearing its throat. There was a pause, then it coughed loudly. Finally, a bronchial wheezing began that lasted for almost a minute.

Adora raised her voice. “Uh, Robin? Is that normal?”

“Don't worry. The old girl's not an early riser and has spent too many years smoking. But she's as reliable as the sunrise, and Jack Frost serviced her himself. Give her a minute and we'll be off.”

“Sure.” Adora folded her hands in her lap and bit her lower lip; she wouldn't ask to be let out of the plane. But the cockpit was shrinking inch by inch as she waited for the engine to stop wheezing, and she wished desperately that she could open a window—or a door, though the bright sun scorched her eyes and warned that she would be sick if she tried to exit.

“Okay, we're ready now.” The words were hardly out of his mouth when Robin released the brake and advanced the throttle a few degrees. Adora felt her muscles tighten as the plane moved, but nothing alarming happened. The vehicle rattled out onto the runway, acting very much like a harmless old lady out for a stroll. Adora reminded herself to breathe.

“See? Nothing to it. She's a lamb, and I can get this old girl in the air in just under a hundred and sixty feet,” Robin announced proudly. “First time, I needed two hundred, but I'm getting better.”

“Amazing, but let's not try to set any records today, okay? I'm actually not real fond of small planes. They make me a little nervous,” Adora confessed.

“This isn't a plane. It's
history,
” Robin said earnestly. “There are only a handful of people alive who've had the pleasure of piloting one of these babies!”

Adora was touched by his enthusiasm. She didn't meet too many people who shared her affinity for the past.

She said, “I know. I've read about the Storches. They're amazing planes. Who would have guessed that an airplane could actually land on the roof of an alpine fortress and get away again? I wish I had seen it.”

Robin laughed. “Mussolini's rescue? Well, if you know about that, then you know what an honor this is. I still can't believe that Kris lets me fly this thing.”

“Kris?”

“Oh—Bishop Nicholas. We call him Kris.”

“I see,” she said, though she didn't see at all. There was no way that she knew of to get
Kris
from either
Bishop
or
Nicholas.
The engine was louder now, and she had to raise her voice. “He must be an interesting man. Is he interested in all antiques, or just planes?”

“Kris is pretty much interested in everything,” was Robin's diplomatic reply.

The Storch waited politely for the pilot to finish his sentence before ceasing its dainty gait and demonstrating that it could actually run like a cheetah. With no warning beyond the flick of Robin's hand, it leaned into the hazy sky and leapt for the horizon. It ran flat-out, screaming mechanically as it raced along the runway. Adora was pretty sure that she heard Robin shouting “
Woohoo!
” right along with it.

Adora shrieked too, though not with enthusiasm, and she said some really bad words. Her hands, still clasped together, did their best to strangle one another. She wanted to close her eyes to the horror but couldn't.

The plane gave one last playful skip and then jumped for the sky with an ecstatic scream. It nearly pulled a loop-the-loop before Robin brought her back under control.

“What a rush!” the pilot exclaimed. “God! I feel so alive!”

“Enjoy it now. I'm going to kill you as soon as we land,” Adora said loudly to the back of his head. “And I may punish you first by vomiting on you.”

He glanced back at her, contrite.

“Hey, I'm sorry. Here.” He reached under his seat and offered her a thermos. “Have some mint tea. It'll soothe your stomach.”

“Thank you,” Adora said. “But I think it might be best if I did nothing right now.”

“Okay—I really am sorry. I heard your mom was a pilot, and I thought you were kidding about being
scared, since you got on the plane and knew all about Mussolini.” His boyish smile was appealing.

“Hmph! Just don't do it again.
Please
.”

Adora had calmed by the time they reached the L.A. basin, but she could still measure her heartbeats in the throbbing of her joints and spine. She told herself to relax, but it wasn't really an option. Though she hadn't felt any urge to do a swan dive herself, her mind was still half-convinced that they were going to fall out of the air, collide with a mountain or have a smashup with one of the many jets that filled the busy southern sky arching over the immense sprawl of overlapping cities below.

“Why is the plane shaking?” she asked, proud that her voice didn't quaver any more than it should, given the vibration of the plane.

“Currents off the San Gabriels,” Robin said. “Just hang on another second or two. We're almost there.”

“What airport are we going to—not LAX?”

“No, today we're flying into Santa Monica. Morrison will meet you there.”

“Morrison?”

“The limo driver. I think he has the little girl today. You're in for another treat.”

Another treat—and a little girl at that. Adora wondered if she could stand it.

“Look out your left window,” Robin commanded as they started to descend toward the vast sea of buildings that had finally turned into miniature tract homes rather than what looked like the rough leather of an alligator purse. “Isn't that the second prettiest thing you've ever seen?”

Adora complied, but gingerly. She didn't fancy seeing the ground rushing up at her.

“Holy cow! What is that?” she asked, staring down at what was clearly an automobile and yet something so much more.

“That is a nineteen thirty-seven Packard Town Car, with an independent front suspension and an eight-cylinder engine that runs smooth as fine whipping cream. It used to belong to Mae West. What a gal!” There was some question about whether he was referring to the vehicle or the actress. “She's one of Jack's restorations. He's great with cars.”

Adora stared, mesmerized. The engine wasn't the only thing creamy about the vehicle. The entire automobile was a long vanilla undulation that gleamed seductively in the noonday sun. Adora had never suffered from automobile lust, but she felt the pangs now. It even made the flight in the small plane worthwhile, since she got to see the car from the air.