5 - Choker: Ike Schwartz Mystery 5 Page 3

  “Fine. Good idea. I’ll call her and see if she will do it.”

  Mavis Bowers looked as if she’d received a last-minute pardon from the governor. He retreated to his office and made the call.

  Dorothy Sutherlin answered the phone on the third ring. Blake held the receiver away from his ear. Dorothy had raised seven boisterous boys and in the years of their upbringing had been forced to communicate with them in a voice which could only be described as stentorian.

  “Hello. That you, Father Blake?”

  “Yes, Dorothy. Listen, we have a problem here at the church. Mavis has discovered the silver cruets and a small chalice we evidently never use are missing. Before we call one of your boys in, she thought we might call on Esther Peepers first…on the outside chance she might have taken them home to polish and forgot to return them.”

  “And Mavis said maybe I’d be a better choice to brace Esther than her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Figures. Mavis has the backbone of a slug.” Blake spun around to see if Mavis was within earshot. He doubted Dorothy would care if she’d been overheard, but Blake tended to assume the embarrassment of others. Mavis was nowhere in sight.

  “Oh, my, the old gal isn’t there, is she?”

  “No, she’s not.”

  “Well, that’s good, I guess. When do you want to call on Esther? I’m tied up ’til three. We could go after that.”

  “We’ll plan on meeting here at three, then. I’ll call Esther and set it up. If you don’t hear from me in the next twenty minutes, it’s a go.”

  A call to Mrs. Peepers resulted in her agreement to see Blake.

  “Oh, gracious, do come by. Can you take tea? I’ll make tea. I hope regular tea is acceptable. So many of you young people want decaf these days, or green, or something new, you know…herbal. But it isn’t the same is it? You’re not one of those people are you? It’s not a church thing, I hope. No, of course it isn’t, we have a coffee hour, don’t we? Would you rather have coffee?”

  Blake assured her that he did, indeed, drink regular tea and coffee and had no feelings for or against the use of caffeine, nor did the church. Mrs. Peepers seemed relieved by that.

  “You haven’t seen Ogden, have you?” she asked.

  “Sorry. Who?”

  “I’m missing my cat, Ogden. I named him after my first husband. He was so sweet. My husband, I mean. And the cat, too. That’s why I—”

  “Yes, I see. No, I haven’t seen your cat, I don’t think. What does he look like?” Cats for Blake were an amorphous category. Seen one, seen them all.

  “Black. Black as the ace of spades, Father Blake, and sweet.”

  “I’ll try to remember to look around. See you after three.”

  He hung up and stared out of his office window. The leaves were beginning to turn. He made a mental note to invite Mary Miller, for an afternoon drive along the Skyline Drive to look at the fall colors. Officially, Mary was the church’s organist. Unofficially, to Blake, she was considerably more.

  Except for drug money, why would anyone break into a church and steal silver that is only used in a church ritual. What other possible use could it have?

  Chapter 5

  It had been a while since Ike had run down a preflight check list. He circled the Cessna 170S pausing to inspect, adjust, and study the plane and its exterior. The agent from Delmarva Aviation stood off to one side with his hands in his pockets, watching. In addition to serving as a local fixed-base operation, the company rented planes and gave flying lessons. The latter transactions produced a certain level of anxiety for them. The planes represented an important asset, and even though they viewed renting one to a stranger as a business transaction, they fretted over them, like parents who worry about the family sedan when the resident teenager takes it out for the first time.

  They’d taken Ike’s credit card, and a few eyebrows shot up when he’d slid it across the counter. They hadn’t dealt with that many government credit cards in the first place and certainly none like the one Charlie had supplied. He’d wondered if Charlie would catch any Agency flak for using government assets in his, so far, personal investigation, and then decided he wouldn’t make it his problem. He’d waited patiently while a few long-distance phone calls were placed and a smiling acceptance granted. He’d signed an open-ended contract. He didn’t know how long he’d need the aircraft; no more than three weeks, though.

  Satisfied, he gave the agent a thumbs-up and climbed into the cockpit to continue his pre-flight . The plane had been fueled . He snapped on the radio, adjusted the squelch, and signaled to the ramp attendant to pull the chocks. The big engine turned over easily, and he taxied to the end of the runway.

  Cleared for take-off, he turned onto the runway and sent the Cessna rolling down its length. The plane lifted gracefully from the ground and Ike was airborne. Up in the air, junior bird men. Up in the air…upside down. Upside down—not good.

  Ike made three wide turns over the airport with a touch and go on each loop. His hours in the air had been scant, but he still had the skills. Like riding a bike. He needed practice, and that was his excuse to fly to Martin State and take some instruction. Nick Reynolds had received his at Brett Aviation. That would be where Ike would register for lessons. He set a course to Martin State and settled back in the left seat. BWI traffic control called him twice to request he change altitude. The corridor over the bay carried a lot of commercial traffic, it seemed.

  ***

  There wasn’t much to see out by the streambed. The bones were gathered in a tight grouping. He studied a skull in the center of the pile. Barney’s description of an “arrangement” eluded him. It was just a pile of bones. A goat, he decided. He stepped back to take in the area and noticed the stones in the stream bed. They had been placed there, of that he was certain. He looked at the bones and then at the stones again. Barney’s “arrangement” popped out at him. He couldn’t be sure, but he sensed the bones, or at least the skull, had been placed to point toward the stones and by implication the field beyond. He crossed the stream, careful to keep his balance as he stepped gingerly on the stones in the stream. They were neither set firmly nor designed to bear his bulk. A path led away from the stream uphill and at an angle toward a wood farther away. He followed it, his eyes scanning the ground as he moved toward the trees. The grass had been trampled. He could not tell how recently or how often.

  The area’s karst topography had created a sinkhole many years ago. Frank recognized it as a gathering place for teenagers in his past. The Passion Pit, they’d called it. He supposed it must still serve that purpose. He worked his way down into its depth. At the bottom he realized he would be invisible to anyone walking in the fields above. The sinkhole had to be twenty feet deep, at least, and sixty across at the top.

  In its center, someone had erected a low table or perhaps a high bench from three rock slabs. Two unmatched shorter blocks formed the base or legs, and a larger flagstone its top. Because the two upright stones were uneven in length, the table-bench sloped left to right as he faced it. He glanced down at a trampled fire pit at his feet. To his right and left he could make out two more. He circled the area and discovered another two. All five seemed roughly equidistant from the table and each other. If he connected them in his mind’s eye, they formed a five sided figure with the table/bench in its center. He kicked at the ashes in the first fire site and saw what appeared to be the burnt end of a stake in its center. The other four seemed to have the same. Someone had measured the positioning of the fires with more than casual accuracy.

  He didn’t need any help identifying rusty stains on the table’s surface. Blood.

  “Essie,” he said into the microphone on his shoulder, “I need you to call the lab and have them send out a crew to the State Park.”

  “Where you at?”

  “Tell them to come out the Covington Road. After the second little hill look for me on their right. There’s a sinkhole out here I want them to look at. If the
y can’t come pretty quick, call me back.”

  “Roger that, Frank. I know that place. Everybody does…or did. Didn’t you used to go out there when you was in high school?”

  “Not much, I mostly missed out on the sinkhole action back then. Why’d anybody go there anyway?”

  “Oh, yeah, I guess you might not know, since you never was much of a lady’s man. Say, what did you mean I should talk to Ma?”

  “Not now, Essie. Just get the lab boys out here.”

  He strolled back to the stream, to the bones, and with some care, moved them to the side. After he’d moved a half dozen he realized someone had already tried to do that and the plastic trash bag which apparently held them had split. He carefully lifted a corner. Beneath laid the remains of what he took to be a cat. A black cat, as nearly as he could tell. He stood and scratched his head.

  His radio crackled. “Frank, the lab is on the way. They said they knew the place.”

  “Good, Essie, you know of any body missing a cat? A black cat?”

  “Nope, but Ma might. She knows near everybody. Speaking of which—”

  “Later, Essie. Oh, and tell the ETs to be sure and bring a camera and a tape measure, if they weren’t already planning to anyway.”

  He paced the distance between the fire sights, placing his heel on the stake. Six steps exactly to have his toe on the next stake. A pentagon, a table with blood on it, and a black cat. He scratched his head, unsure what any of that meant but whatever it was, he guessed, it was not good.

  Chapter 6

  Ike got a visual on Martin State Airport and began his approach. Cleared to land, he set the plane down on the runway and pulled into the taxiway. He found Brett Aviation and eased the plane to one side, where a ramp attendant wig-wagged him to a tie-down at the side of their building. He shut down the engine. He asked to see the manager. The ramp girl pointed to the office entrance. Inside he asked to speak to Trent Fonts and was referred to a tall, balding man in a back office.

  “I’m Trent Fonts.” He extended his hand.

  “Ike Schwartz. I’m here to sign up for some refresher lessons.”

  “Fine. We can surely do that. How’d you hear about us, if I may ask?”

  “I heard about you from a friend of a friend, you might say.”

  “Friend of a…who might that be?”

  “Nick Reynolds. I guess you remember him?”

  “Good kid, too bad what happened.”

  Ike nodded and glanced around the room. Pictures of airplanes, the vision of the late Glen L. Martin’s jet sea plane, and a smattering of ‘B’ list celebrities covered the walls. “Any thoughts about what put him in the drink?”

  “Who’d you say you were?”

  “Ike Schwartz.”

  “And you want flying lessons?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were close to Nick?”

  “A friend of a—”

  “Friend. Yes, I heard you. It’s just that since his accident, all kinds of people have come around asking about him…and it.”

  “All kinds?”

  “Family, ‘friends,’ police, FAA, you name it, and others.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like you, for example. And some spooky people who could be ICE, FBI, or CIA for all I know. What’s up with Nick? Was he an undercover somebody?”

  “Okay, I’ll need your help. Truth is, I really would like some lessons. It’s been a while. Also Nick’s fiancée’s uncle, who is one of those spooky people you mentioned, thinks something is not quite right about the disappearance. So it’s semiprofessional but also a personal call. I volunteered to poke around, that’s all.”

  “Credentials?”

  Ike dropped his ID, badge, and Air Force certification on the table.

  “You’re ex-Air Force?”

  “No. I used to be one of those spooky people, too. Air Force taught us how to fly. Long time ago.”

  Trent studied Ike for a full minute, shook his head and signaled for Ike to take a seat.

  “Nick. Good kid, good pilot too, for a newbie, but, like all young kids, he thought he was invincible. It was the Fourth of July, you know.” He paused and sipped from the coffee cup on his desk, made a face and put it down.

  “It was like this. I didn’t want him to fly that night. He was a good pilot, like I said, but night flying can be tricky. Well, you know about that, I expect.” Fonts’ eyes focused on the wall behind Ike. He took another sip of coffee, put the cup down and shoved it away.

  “Coffee’s in that pot behind you.”

  “No, thanks, not now.” The aroma of badly burnt coffee convinced him he could wait. “What do you remember about that night?”

  “That night…well, okay. The sun had set and with no moon; it got dark in a hurry. We were standing right out there,” Trent pointed to the T hangars, “and I argued with him. I warned him, but he was itching to see his girl, and he had this fancy box…had a present, one of those little necklaces, you know, a choker, he called it. ‘You don’t approve?’ he says. Nick knew what my answer would be but must have figured he’d better get the argument over with as quick as possible. Like, he was late already or something. I was angry and worried. His flight plan is letter-perfect, but he wasn’t asking me about that. He wanted my blessing for the flight. ‘Well, you won’t get it.’ I says.

  “‘Look,’ he says, ‘I can do this. It’s no big deal. I fly south past the Bay Bridge and turn southeastward to Cambridge, then south to Salisbury. I could do it flying by the seat of my pants.’

  “Seat of his pants! I told him he wasn’t ready for it. ‘You’ve logged the minimum hours to fly at night. There is no moon so you will not have a visual on the horizon.’ ‘I’ve got instruments,’ he says, like that would be enough, like some real experience flying in the pitch black didn’t amount to anything. ‘There will be lights on both sides of the Chesapeake and fireworks. No problems.’

  “I practically shouted at him. ‘Will you listen to me? You are a good pilot. But this is different. Too many new pilots like you think they can fly over water at night. I got instruments—there will be lights—yahda, yahda, yahda—but then no one ever sees them again. Junior Kennedy had more hours and experience than you, and he’s gone. You think you’re better?’”

  Ike let Fonts rant on. He obviously had an emotional investment in the situation and needed to vent. Expiation.

  “‘I’ve done this one many times. No moon won’t make a difference. Worst case, I follow the channel markers.’ Worst case, my foot.

  “‘I’ll be on BWI radar the whole way down. I fly straight and then east. If I slip off course, all I have to do is head southeast and turn on the transponder. When I am in range, the runway lights at Salisbury will go on and I just make my approach and land.’ Like he knew all about it. I should have stopped him right then and there. I could have done it, you know.”

  Ike heard the guilt and grief in Trent’s voice. He knew the feeling, remembered the times years ago in the field when he’d let someone go into a high-risk situation, when he knew no was certain it might go south.

  “‘This may be my last chance to fly this bird. Do you have any idea what I had to do to get the plane for the Fourth of July weekend?’ He tells me that and, I don’t know, I guess I just caved in.

  “Sitting on the apron in the dark outside the hangar, that plane was damn near invisible. Only the white stars amidships and wing tips showed up in the light from inside the hangar. It practically disappeared in the moonless night. I never saw him again. I wish—”

  “That he’d listened to you? He was young and cocky. There wasn’t anything you could or should have said that would have made any difference.”

  “Yeah…still, I wish…”

  Ike waited for Fonts to regroup.

  “His plane was a beefed-up Cessna 172, high wing, an old war bird, painted olive drab, and had seen action as a spotter plane. Vietnam, Korea—I don’t know which—never asked. He, and two of his pals had purch
ased it from a woman down on the Eastern Shore. They kept it hangared here and flew weekends mostly. Anyway once he’s in the air, the tower at BWI picked him up and assigned him an altitude. I don’t know anything else.”

  “Your best guess, Trent, did he slip into a death spiral or some other rookie screw-up?”

  “Guess? Okay, I would say, no. He was raw, maybe a little rash, but not easily distracted in the air. You get to know things about people when you fly with them. He’d call in and ask for help, turn around before things got too dicey. He was Navy, you know, not a pilot, but smart and not reckless.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “Do what?”

  “Fly the course he took that night, like it’s a lesson, only we scan the land and bay all the way down to where he dropped off the radar at BWI. There has to be something. Planes don’t just disappear into thin air.”

  “Maybe. See, I already flew that patch and…” Trent’s voice trailed off.

  “And?”

  “It’s just a maybe, but I thought I saw something the next day.”

  “Did you report it?”

  “It was in the wrong place. It didn’t make any sense. I figured it must have been something else.”

  Ike let it pass. If Trent connected it to something later, he’d say so. In the meantime, he felt sure he was missing something important.

  Chapter 7

  Trent Fonts cleared the clutter from his desk, unfolded a large aeronautical chart, and spread it out.

  “I pulled his flight plan and made a tracing.” He put his index finger on the chart. “This was his course and here, the check points.” He tapped the map and traced a line he’d drawn with a red felt-tipped pen. Ike looked at the line, which ran from Martin State straight down the center of the Chesapeake Bay, then, south of the Bay Bridge, turned easterly toward Cambridge, then veered again south-southeast to Salisbury. “The X shows where he dropped off the radar at BWI.”