The White Knight (14 page)

The return address was in Galveston, Texas. Galveston might as well have been on the moon. Luke had no money for bus fare or food. He stood there uncertainly for a moment until a dim glimmer of an idea occurred to him.

He traced his way through the rougher part of town until he came to a storefront with a hand-painted sign:
Rescue Mission.
Luke had been there before when he had depleted his funds, for the mission offered a meal every night—mostly soup and sandwiches—although you had to listen to a sermon in order to get it. Taking a deep breath, he entered and was greeted by the director.

“Hello, Brother Lindsey.”

“Well, Luke, come on in. How about a cup of coffee?”

“That would be good.”

The small, neat man led Luke back into the kitchen. “Nobody here just now, but I think we've got some pie left. You hungry?”

“I am, Brother Lindsey, but I've got a bigger problem.” He felt like a hypocrite calling the man “Brother Lindsey.” That implied they were both Christians, and Luke knew he was anything in the world but that.

“What's the problem?” Lindsey scurried around getting a cup of coffee and a big slice of apple pie. “Haven't seen much of you lately, Luke.”

“Well, I've had tough luck. I know you hear that story a lot,” he said with an effort.

“Quite a bit. What's the matter?”

“I've got a job, but it's in Galveston. I don't have any way to get there. I'm totally broke.”

“What kind of a job is it?” the man asked. He had a pair of steady gray eyes, and Luke had the uncomfortable feeling he was looking deep into his soul. He mentioned Streak Garrison, how they had flown together in Spain, and how he had offered him a job flying.

“Well, Luke, I think you know you're not fit to fly. You're not fit to drive.”

“I know it, but this is my chance. I'm going to quit drinking and pull my life together.”

Lindsey did not even smile. He leaned forward and said, “Do you believe in God at all?”

“Of course I do.”

“Have you ever given your life to Christ?”

“No. Most of my family are Christians, though,” Luke said slowly. “Pretty much all of them except me.”

“But you believe in God, you say?”

Luke took a deep breath. “Preacher, I just don't know what I believe anymore.”

“All right. God believes in you. I'll ask you to do one thing and then I'll help you.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to let me pray for you.”

Luke had expected this, for Lindsey prayed with everyone. “Sure, Preacher. You go right ahead. I need all the prayer I can get.”

The two made their way to a table and Luke closed his eyes and listened while the man prayed. He had long ago lost his faith in prayer—if indeed he had ever had such faith.

When Lindsey finally said amen, Luke dug into his pie.

“I can't give you much cash, but I'll give you a little eating money.” Lindsey put his hand in his pocket and pulled out three dollars. “You wait right here. I think I can help you with a ride to Galveston.”

Luke sat there looking down at the money in his hand. At one time, he had been a man of pride, but now he had been reduced to begging. Bitterness seeped through him, and he lowered his head, suddenly uninterested even in the pie.

“Well, you're in luck, Luke. One of our sponsors owns a truck line. He drives a route down to Galveston. He said you could ride with him. They got one leaving in the morning at seven o'clock. You got any place to stay tonight?”

“No.”

“Well, better stay here, then. I'll get you up early and give you a good breakfast and take you over to the truck line.”

Luke forced himself to look up into the steady gray eyes. “I never thought I'd grow up to be a beggar, Preacher.”

Lindsey shook his head. “We're all beggars in one way or another, Luke. Remember that thief on the cross? He was a beggar too, but he made it to heaven.” He leaned forward and put his hand on Luke's shoulder, his face filled with compassion. “I know you will too, sooner or later, Luke.”

****

Charlie Dickson told stories during the entire drive from Broken Bow to Galveston. For the first hundred miles Luke had tried to listen and make appropriate comments when the man paused, but after that he had simply collapsed back against the seat of the semi and let the man go on and on, wondering if he would ever stop. They had driven straight through, and Luke's nerves were crying for a drink.

Charlie finally slowed the truck and came to a stop. Luke roused himself and looked around bleary-eyed.

“This is the airfield. Good luck to you, Luke.”

“I appreciate the ride, Charlie.”

“No problem. Take care of yourself, you hear?”

Luke practically fell out of the truck. He was weak and sick, but he forced himself to move forward. He approached a man gassing up a twin-engine plane. “You know where I can find Garrison Air Transport?”

“Right down that road,” he said, pointing. “You know Streak?”

“Sure.”

“Well, he's set up in one of the old hangars about a quarter mile down there. Hey, you don't look so good.”

“I'm okay,” Luke said. He turned and began walking. With every step he took he doubted he would make it all the way. The quarter mile seemed more like five. His legs were
trembling with weakness, he was nauseated, and he couldn't wait to get his hands on a bottle. Finally he approached the old hangar and saw a plane outside with
Garrison Air Transport
painted on the side.

“Well, I made it, but Streak may shoot me.” He went into the building and immediately heard his name called.

“Hey, Luke, you no-account rascal!” Streak Garrison came over, a broad smile on his face. But Luke saw something change in Streak's eyes at the sight of his old friend.

“Don't tell me, Streak. I look like a bum, which is what I am.”

“You look terrible, Luke.”

“Well, I'm not in my prime.”

“I can see that. Come on.” Streak couldn't conceal the disappointment in his expression. But he shrugged his shoulders and came up with a smile. “Are you hungry? Let's get something to eat. I'll tell you all about my business!”

****

Luke ate a hamburger and fries as Streak told him about his attempt to get started in business. Streak had bought his first plane when he was living in Charleston soon after he returned from Spain. But business was sporadic and he soon realized he would get more flights if he had a more central location. Whenever he got a flight to anywhere in the middle of the country, he took some time to scout out the local airfields and try to get a feel for what it would be like to live there.

Before long he decided to move to Galveston and within a few months had located a small house to rent. Streak was able to buy a second plane with the additional business he was getting flying to the west coast.

Luke was impressed with what his friend had accomplished. “You've done better than I have, Streak.” He hesitated and then said, “You offered me a job, but now that you've seen me, I'll understand if you don't want me. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't.”

Streak leaned back and sipped at the coffee in his thick mug. “How much are you drinking, Luke?”

“Up until now, all I could get. If you hire me, Streak, not a drop when I'm flying.”

“Most guys who are used to drinking don't do so well when they try to cut it back. You know that as well as I do.”

Luke had a vision of himself hanging on by the tips of his fingers. If he didn't make it here, he would fall into an endless chasm of horrors. “I can handle it. I've got to. You're my last chance, Streak.”

Streak made up his mind. “We'll give it a shot. One slip and you're out, though. No second chances, Luke. I'll be smelling your breath ten times a day.”

“I don't envy you that, but I won't touch a drop when I'm flying or when I'm due to.”

“That's good enough for now.” Streak reached over and punched Luke in the arm. “Well, it won't be as dangerous as flying against the Condor Legion, but the way these old planes are rattling, there's not much difference. Come on and I'll show you the ships.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A Promised Meeting

As Luke lined the plane up for a landing, he felt like he had flown around the world. He had christened the two-engine plane
The Old Devil,
for it had proved to be such on every flight he had made in her. He spotted the field below, glad there was still enough daylight to land by. The sun was dropping down in the west, and the shadows were long. He wrestled the plane down, muttering, “Well, I'm glad I got you back in one piece, you old devil. Now, just don't fall apart on this landing.”

A sudden lurch of the plane pulled it over to the right, and Luke had to physically wrestle it back. The wheels hit, and the entire plane shuddered as he bounced along the airfield with excessive force. It was a struggle to hold the plane steady, but he managed to keep it going fairly straight until he slowed down to a crawl. Taking a deep breath, he turned the plane and taxied up to the hangar. He saw Streak waiting to greet him, an anxious look on his face, with Herbert, the mechanic.

Herb guided him into the hangar; then with a sigh of relief, Luke cut the engines. The one engine exploded with a loud backfire, and Luke shook his head with disgust. Groaning, he got out of the seat and stepped out of the plane.

“How was it, Luke?” Streak asked. He was covered with grease.

“It's like flying a cement mixer, Streak. We've gotta do some work on it. That port engine cut out three times. She went absolutely dead. I thought I'd never make it.”

Lines made their way across Streak's broad forehead, and he chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “We'll have to overhaul it.”

“I know what that means,” Herb said. “Lots of overtime.” He was a small man with a wealth of dark blond hair and light blue eyes. In the three months Luke had been working there, he had learned that Herb always liked to touch people as he talked to them. Now the man came over to Luke and began nudging him with his elbow. “Where'd it cut out, huh? Did you think you were going to lose it?” He peppered Luke with questions, punctuating each with a nudge, and finally Luke shoved him away.

“Herb, you heard what Streak said. We're going to have to overhaul it. Now I've got to go get some sleep.” Luke had started his day at five o'clock that morning and was exhausted after the long day.

“All right,” Streak said. “Herb and I'll start on the overhaul first thing in the morning. I can't afford to have one of my planes out of commission. Let's call it a night, everyone.”

Luke made his way wearily to the small room that Streak had provided for him in the hangar. It had been a storage room once, and there was only one small window. It was unbearably hot—not that he'd expected anything else from Texas in August—but Luke had used his first paycheck to buy a small fan, which he had set in the window. It wasn't perfect, but it helped. As he stepped inside the room, he turned on the fan, then grabbed a towel. Streak had even installed a shower in the hangar's bathroom for him.

Stripping down, he stepped under the cool water, letting it sluice down his body as he felt his fatigue press at him like a giant fist. He had worked hard and kept his word to Streak about his drinking. He drank when he had time off on his own but never when he was flying or when he was due to fly. He gave his hair a final rinse and tore himself away from the cool shower. He dried off and put on clean clothes before plodding wearily back to his small room.

He noticed two envelopes on the small table by his bedside. Streak must have put his mail there when he'd been flying. Luke sat down on the bed and picked them up. One was from his mother and one was from Tim. He opened the one from his mother first. She had written a rather long letter, which he read slowly. It was filled with news from home as well as her concern for his well-being. His dad had included a smaller note, which simply said,
I know things get tight sometimes, Luke. If you need help, let me know. I'm always here for you. We love you and think about you every day.

He had enclosed a ten-dollar bill, as he did in almost every letter he sent. A warmth came over Luke as he realized how fortunate he was to have parents like this.

The letter from Tim urged him to return to Arkansas.
There's a place for you here, and I know you can do well if you put your mind to it, Luke. This is going to be your business someday, yours and mine, and I'm praying that you'll come home and we can pick up where we left off.

Luke shook his head and muttered, “You never give up, do you, Tim?” He put the letter down and lay down flat on the bed, which was merely a cot with a thin pad for a mattress. He sighed and let the fatigue seep out of him, and as he drifted off to sleep, he realized he had come a long way since he had started working for Streak. He still craved drink almost constantly, but he had cut back enough so that he had recovered some of his physical vitality.

Sleep came to him finally like a warm darkness. At some time during the night he had a dream about Melosa. They were in Spain, walking down a corridor between two lines of fruit trees that were blossoming in brilliant colors. In the dream she looked up at him and smiled, and he smiled back at her and then they started talking about what life would be like after they were married and moved to the United States.

Then she began to fade. He cried out to her, but she disappeared into a swirl of mist, crying out his name. “Luke—Luke!”

He woke up abruptly, as he always did after such dreams. He did not feel rested, but he knew he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep again that night. He looked at his pocket watch and saw that it was almost six o'clock. He got up quickly and dressed.