A Fountain Filled With Blood

He crawled in behind the wheel and leaned back against the headrest. “We’ve got an APB out on her, but it’s not going to do us a damn bit of good if we don’t know what the hell car she’s in. ’Scuse my French.”

“Could she have rented a car?”

“That was my first thought. The nearest car-rental place is at the Fort Henry Ford dealership. I sent Duane and Kevin off to check it out.”

Officer Entwhistle’s car came to life. He pulled away from the side of the road and headed toward town, waving through the window at Russ.

“We need to get someone to secure that Volvo,” Russ said, sounding weary. “We’re so damned overextended at this point that I’m going to have to call the staties in. God, I hate that.” He reached for his keys and started the truck. “We’d better get back to the house and start calling names in Peggy’s Rolodex. Maybe we’ll find a girlfriend who just happened to have plans to drive out of town today.”

Clare’s mind returned to the party the night before. Sitting in the window seat of the Landry house while the guests swirled around her. The expression of disbelief on Hugh Parteger’s face. The smell of black currants and Thai chicken. Peggy saying, “John Opperman’s flying to Baltimore tomorrow afternoon, and he won’t be back until Tuesday.”

“I know where she is.”

He looked at her.

“No, really. I know where she is. John Opperman’s supposed to fly out of town this afternoon. I bet she called him and asked to come along. I bet he’d pick her up, no questions asked.”

He shoved his hand into his hair, spiking his sweat-stiff locks in every direction. “He would, wouldn’t he? A little freebie business trip.” He slammed the heel of his hand into his steering wheel. “Damn, that woman thinks fast on her feet. We’re not going to find her with an APB because she’s not going to be on the road. Or buying a ticket anywhere.” He threw the truck into gear and pulled onto the road. “Do you know when Opperman’s supposed to leave?”

“She just said he was leaving this afternoon. And that he was headed for Baltimore.”

He heeled the truck hard to the left and stomped on the gas pedal. “If I take the back roads, I can be at the Glens Falls Airport in twenty minutes.” He glanced at her for a split second. “I don’t suppose you have your cell phone with you?”

“In my car. Sorry.”

“Never mind. If they’re still there, we can stop them before he takes off. And if they’ve left, they would have had to tell the airport-control people where they’re going, right?”

“He would have to have filed a flight plan, yeah. And if he’s flying on instruments, he’ll be passed from one flight-control center to another. You’ll be able to call ahead and have someone waiting for her at their destination.” She grabbed the door handle as he took another hard turn onto an unmarked road. They jounced in and out of potholes as they flew through thickets of sumac and ancient overgrown apple orchards. “You know, I like to speed, but isn’t this—”

“Hang on.” He turned onto a one-lane bridge. Steel plates ca-chunk-ca-chunk-ca-chunked beneath the tires.

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

He grinned at her. “Do you trust me?”

She groaned.

At one point, she was sure they’d passed under the Northway, but other than that, she had no bearing on where they were until they emerged from a tree-shaded road and saw the airport in front of them, its four runways stretched like a top-heavy X past a handful of hangars and a tiny tower. They drove through a gate marked EMPIRE EAST AVIATION.

“Where do you think he’d be?” Russ asked.

She glanced around as he slowed the truck to a crawl. There were twenty or twenty-five small planes at tie-downs and another two on the tarmac. As she watched, a Beech King took off from runway 12.

“Could that have been it?”

“No,” she said, still scanning the area. “That’s a single-engine. If he’s actually using it for long-range transport, he’s got to have a double-prop, maybe a jet, and I don’t see any around here. Head for—whoa! There! Pull over, pull over.”

She was scrambling out of her door before he turned the engine off. In front of the next hangar, past the tie-down area and ready to roll onto runway 1, was a Piper Cheyenne II, twin turboprop, six seats—the biggest plane she had seen so far. A skinny young man in greasy overalls was rolling back a fuel hose. Whoever was in the plane was in a big hurry—finishing the refueling only minutes before getting the go-ahead. She could hear Russ behind her, yelling, “Millers Kill PD. Stop that plane!”

Clare skidded to a halt in front of the fuel attendant’s tubing spool. “Who owns this?” she said. He gawped at them. “Who owns this turboprop?” she demanded.

“Uh…uh…”

She snatched an order pad from the front pocket of his overalls.

“Hey!”

“Is this the order?” she asked, pointing to the top sheet.

“Yeah, but—”

She had already read the owner’s name beneath the grimy fingerprints. She waved the pad at Russ. “It says BWI!”