Page 47 of Calder Country

He could see the plane now, a speck against the fading dawn sky, growing larger by the second. It was coming in low—too low, as if carrying too much weight in the front cargo bay. Worry tightened a knot in Mason’s stomach. By now, Ruby would be experienced with the plane. She would know what she was doing. Still, he’d seen enough landings to recognize a steep descent. He didn’t like what he saw.

His throat jerked tight, cutting off a cry as the plane swooped in low and fast. It met the earth at a sharp angle and plowed nose first into the runway, raising a cloud of dust as it crumpled like a paper toy.

Ruby! She was the only thing on his mind as he raced down the runway, plunging toward the wreck. But as he reached the plane, he could tell that the pilot, slumped over the controls, wasn’t a woman. It was the young man who’d delivered cargo here before.

Even as he unfastened the seat belt and lifted the inert body to drag it out of the cockpit, Mason knew that the fellow was dead. Above the rim of his shattered goggles, his crushed forehead, embedded with glass from the windscreen, gave mute evidence of what had happened. Mason cursed as he hefted the slight weight. The pilot was small, not much more than a boy. He was somebody’s son, perhaps somebody’s brother, friend, or sweetheart as well. Mason had liked him. He had been friendly and cheerful, even at that godawful hour of the morning. He had never offered his name.

Tragedies happened in life, especially in a dirty business like this one. But the young pilot’s death had been so wrong. Such a waste.

The fuel line was leaking. He could smell the fumes. If the engine was hot enough, it could touch off another explosion. But if Mason wanted to keep doing business with Leo Colucci, he would have to try to salvage the cargo.

After laying the pilot’s body at a safe distance from the wreck and covering it with a spare tarp, he ran back to the plane and climbed into the cockpit. Unloading cargo with a single pair of hands was awkward. The crates had to be lowered from the front cockpit onto the wings, and from there to the ground. The whole time, Mason could smell the gasoline fumes. The fuselage and wings of the DH-4 were fashioned of wood, with cloth glued over the surface. Once ignited, the plane would become a torch.

As he worked, Mason swore a string of the vilest curses he could imagine. He cursed Colucci. He cursed the business and the twist of fate that had killed the young pilot. He cursed the cargo—the contraband liquor that was worth more than human lives. Last of all, he cursed himself for ever thinking that bootlegging was an easy shortcut to riches, and the fact that he was in too deep to walk away.

By the time Mason had unloaded the crates, a breeze had come up, cooling the engine and blowing the gasoline fumes away from the wrecked plane. With that danger passed, he lugged the cargo into the depths of the cave and moved the dead pilot under the shelter of the entrance. After wrapping the body in the tarp to protect it from scavengers, he mounted up and rode back to the house. It was time to phone Colucci and give him the bad news.

* * *

Ruby returned from her flight to find Colucci waiting for her alone in the kitchen. Handing her a cup of hot, black coffee, he told her about Mack’s death. The news brought a surge of tears. She’d allowed herself to feel a sisterly affection for the young pilot. Here at the farmhouse, he’d been the closest thing she had to a friend. She would miss him.

“Damned lousy timing,” Colucci muttered. “Dollarhide saved the cargo, but the plane’s a total loss. I told him to burn it and bury the body someplace where it won’t be found.”

“What about Mack’s people?” Still standing, Ruby sipped her coffee. “I know that he had a sweetheart. He probably had a family as well. Shouldn’t someone be notified?”

“That’s not my problem, or yours,” Colucci growled. “When you sign on for this business, you don’t have people anymore. Sooner or later, if they don’t hear from him, the boy’s family—if he has any—will figure out what must’ve happened.”

Ruby knew better than to point out that what he said wasn’t true of Colucci. He had a family. But she knew better. She would mourn her young friend privately. But the immediate concern was, with most of the current shipment left to deliver, there was only one plane—the Jenny—and she was the only pilot.

“I can’t do it all,” she said. “You’re going to have to find a second plane and pilot.”

“Capone’s going to be sore about that,” Colucci said. “He pulled strings to get us that De Havilland. I can probably find another pilot, and there are Jennies on the market. But that will take time. For the next few days, you’ll be flying double shifts. That’s the only way we can keep to our delivery schedule.”

“Can’t you change the schedule? If I’m too exhausted to keep a clear head in the air, you could end up with no plane and no pilot.”

Colucci’s gaze darkened. “Drink more coffee if you have to. The schedule is set, and you’ll do as you’re told.”

“What if it’s too much? What if I say no?”

The flat of Colucci’s hand struck the side of her head, setting off explosions in her brain. Flashes of light seemed to pass in front of her eyes. The cup she’d been holding shattered on the floor.

As her vision cleared, she saw Colucci glaring down at her, his face a florid mask of rage.

“I let you tell me no just once, Ruby.” His voice grated between clenched teeth. “With me, one no is all you get!”

His hand caught her wrist. Whipping her around, he dragged her out of the kitchen and into the hall toward the bedroom he used when he stayed at the farm. Ruby twisted and struggled, kicking and scratching. But his grip was like iron, and any pain she inflicted only heightened his rage. They were alone in the house. If she screamed, no one would hear—or even dare to come to her rescue.

“You need me, Colucci!” she gasped as he kicked open the bedroom door. “I’m the only pilot you’ve got. If I’m not fit to fly, you’ll be in a bad way! You’ll have nobody to deliver the goods!”

He paused, panting like a winded bull. Had she reached him? Or was he beyond any kind of control?

As if in answer to a silent prayer, came the one sound that could stop him—the urgent ringing of the telephone.

The phone was in the kitchen, and no one was there to answer it. With a muttered snarl, he flung Ruby aside and stalked back up the hallway to answer it.

Ruby could hear his voice now. She could tell from his submissive tone that he was talking with someone important, maybe Capone. If she stayed, she might learn something she could pass on to Agent Hargrave. But Ruby had had enough. She got her feet under her, left the house by the front door, and rushed around to the hangar where the ground crew was loading the Jenny for the next delivery. Picking up a crate, she pitched in to help.

For now, she would work the double shift without complaint. Keeping busy would be the best way to avoid Colucci. When she was on the ground, she would make every effort to keep from being alone with him. He had a temper, but he also knew that he depended on her as a pilot. She’d be walking a tightrope—but hadn’t she been doing that all along?

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