Not surprisingly for a Thursday afternoon in mid-September, no planes sat ready on the tarmac for takeoff. Not even a helicopter from the Training school buzzed around in one of its practice patterns.
Hardy called out, but no one answered. He quickly went behind the counter and into the office. Mesa could see him looking at a row of keys on a wooden rack on the wall.
“We’ll need a four-seater,” Garrett said. He motioned her to join him at the window that overlooked the tarmac, and suddenly Mesa had a sinking feeling. “You can’t take me with you,” she said. “I won’t do you any good.”
Hardy joined them. “The trainer’s out there, but I can’t guarantee how much fuel it’s got. Could be close to empty if somebody had a lesson today.”
“What about fueling up?” Garrett said and nodded toward the BP fuel truck parked in front of the helicopter school.
“Too big a risk for a face-off with Tyler, the guy who runs this place. Why don’t we just take the SUV and make a run for it.”
The crunch of gravel startled them. It was Chance in his Land Rover pulling into the parking lot. Mesa looked at Hardy and said, “Turn yourself in, Hardy, while you still can.” If she could convince Hardy, maybe Garrett would feel he had no other choice, and he’d give himself up too.
Out the window, she and Hardy could both see Chance, who was talking on the cell phone. Then he looked back at Mesa. “I can’t. Garrett and I have a deal, and I need to go through with it.”
“Looks like we’re out of time on all counts. Let’s go,” Garrett said, and before she could say anything else, Hardy had opened the door to the tarmac. Mesa felt Garrett’s large hand around her bicep, urging her toward the door to the tarmac. The three of them put their heads into the wind and strode toward a row of several tied-down planes. Mesa felt her stomach pitching, her palms getting clammy. She had not ridden in a small plane since Chance had tried to take her up more than two years ago. She had changed her mind before they had even begun to taxi.
Hardy dropped the packs on the ground next to a gray and white plane that had “Silver Bow Flying School” lettered on its fuselage. He opened the door, pulled himself onto the metal footstep, reached into the cabin, and flipped a switch. Flicking the fuel gauge with his finger, he yelled over the wind at Garrett. “She’s down to a quarter tank.”
“That’s enough to get us across the East Ridge, isn’t it? It’ll have to do,” he said.
“What about me?” Hardy said, thumping his chest, his face reddened with anger.
“You can do what you want after you let me out,” Garrett said.
Hardy threw the bags onto the far backseat. Then he looked at Mesa and yelled at Garrett, “Let her go. She hates small planes. We don’t need her now.”
At that moment, Mesa wanted to throw her arms around Hardy, but his expression looked foreboding again. She turned to see Chance running toward them.
Garrett moved Mesa forward. “Get into the plane now if you don’t want anything to happen to your brother.” His voice had lost its reassuring calm. He reached for the blue pack on the front seat. “Start up the engine,” he said to Hardy. “I’ll get rid of him.”
Chapter 22
Chance could not believe his eyes—Mesa willingly stepping into that small aircraft, with Hardy going through some kind of preflight routine, and Garrett Birch headed this way. “What do you think you’re doing?” Chance yelled as a dust devil swirled around them.
“We finally meet,” Garrett said. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Hardy and your sister.”
“Fine, so now you can kidnap her?” Chance said. “If you think that’s going to help your situation, you’re crazier than I thought.”
“She came voluntarily,” Garrett said. “She’s got guts. She keeps trying to make a case for us to turn ourselves in, but that’s not going to happen. I’m just taking her along for a little insurance. I won’t hurt her as long as you cooperate.”
“The wind’s come up,” Chance said. “A storm front must be blowing in. Hardy will tell you this is no time to go flying. But if that’s what you want, take me, not Mesa,” Chance said. “I’ll be of more use to you than her.” He took a step forward as if to get around Garrett.
The stockier man reeled him in with his left arm and said, “I understand you’re just trying to protect your sister, but don’t be stupid. Get back inside the office now and stay there until we’re gone.” He reached inside the backpack and pulled out the 44 Magnum. “If I see you, or anyone else, try to stop our takeoff or intercept this plane once we’re in the air, your sister will pay the price. If you’re smart, you’ll keep quiet. I promise to release her once I get where I’m going. You have my word, but don’t cross me.”
These last four words he said slowly, and Chance found himself holding his breath. The sounds of the plane’s revving engine drowned out anything else they could say. Still holding his hand inside the backpack, Garrett retreated, motioning Chance to return to the terminal.
Chance turned away, angry and frustrated. The trainer was a Cessna 172, in good shape for a fifteen-year-old plane. But a thousand things could still go wrong, especially if you were flying with a gun at your head.
He didn’t know what to make of Birch. He had expected the grim, ruthless avenger. Instead, he seemed resigned to what was happening and weary—determined to get away maybe, but bone tired.
Chance looked back once more as the plane began to taxi and then checked his watch. It was just past five o’clock. He could see Mesa’s face at the back window of the plane’s cabin. She pressed her hand to the Plexiglas and then the plane turned, taxiing toward the south end of the runway.
Chance opened the door to go back inside the lobby when something caught his eye. Through the window of the reception area, he could see into the parking lot. Sheriff Solheim was getting out of his black police cruiser, accompanied by the two FBI agents, Perryman heading for the door first. “Now you bastards want to show up,” Chance said under his breath.
* * *
“Put your headphones on,” Hardy yelled at Mesa from between the front seats, and pointed to the floor. She reached down and picked up what looked like a new set of black vinyl earmuffs with a slender, wire mouthpiece and sponge mike. Then Garrett stuck his head around his seat and handed her a stick of gum.
“Have some Juicy Fruit.” She could hear his voice now clearly through the headphones. “It helps keep your mouth from getting so dry.”
They sounded like they were talking into a tin can. The roar inside the cabin had been distracting. Now with the headphones, she could hear herself think. Not that that was a good idea, given her penchant for panic attacks when enclosed in small places.
Back against the seat with her belt fastened, she felt her breathing quicken. The seat next to her was piled high with gear, the backpacks, and a down jacket. Headrests on the front seatbacks blocked her view of the cockpit, and any sense of human comfort. She felt like she was inside a shoebox. Her throat began to tighten.
Only the plane’s windows gave her some relief. She was thankful the sun was passing in and out of the clouds. At least the cabin wasn’t stuffy. The one time she had flown with Chance in his little two-seater, he had cracked a window so she could feel the reassuring flow of air on her face. No such luck now.
As they approached takeoff, she thought about seeing her brother back track. She knew he felt helpless, which was never good. Powerless, his frustration would build, making him prone to do or say something stupid. He wouldn’t let go of his curiosity about what had happened to the plane and Austin, and look where it had led. She knew he would blame himself.
She felt the vibration of the plane’s engine, and as the Cessna’s speed increased for takeoff, she told herself she was in good hands. Hardy was never more suited to anything in life than flying a plane.
“We have less than an hour of fuel,” she could hear him saying to Garrett. “I don’t know where you think you can go.”
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p; “Where there aren’t any roads,” Garrett said.
Great, thought Mesa. When more than half the state had a population of less than six people per square mile, there were plenty of choices. She watched as the plane left the bounds of earth, the ground below becoming a series of rooftops that turned into squares of green and brown as they gained altitude. She chewed her gum ferociously, craning her neck enough toward the front to see that Garrett had spread a topographical map on his lap. “Head east,” she heard him say.
Hardy banked the plane to the right. Mesa began thinking about Lowell Austin and wondered what had gone through his mind in the moments after takeoff on his final plane ride. She could see the steeple of St. John’s a block from where the plane had crashed, and she wondered what exactly had triggered Garrett’s attack.
She could see how getting Austin into an airplane had been a good idea. From her back seat view, it was apparent how vulnerable Austin had been. He couldn’t get away, and he would have trouble fighting back.
Apparently, the flight path had triggered Hardy’s curiosity too. “Why did you hit him when we were right over the town, for Christ’s sake?” she could hear Hardy asking.
“That’s what I don’t get,” Hardy said. “Why not wait until I landed the plane somewhere. Were you trying to kill us all?”
Hardy was talking about Austin’s death as if it was a poorly played hockey match, Mesa thought. She felt anxious making Garrett talk about it at all.
“I didn’t plan it,” Garrett said, muttering into the map. “I spent most of my adolescence fantasizing about ways to avenge my father’s death. But when I finally came face to face with the chance, I felt numb.
“I’ve seen plenty of useless loss of life in Afghanistan. Children, old people, soldiers giving out candy.” Garrett stopped for a minute, and then said, “I wanted to confront him, that’s true, but I didn’t intend to kill him. If he had kept his mouth shut, he might still be alive.”
“What did he say?” Mesa asked.
“Too much,” Garrett said. “I’m not sure I would have even recognized him if he hadn’t bragged about doing a stretch in the Idaho penitentiary at the Hoist House.”
“So you didn’t know anything about your sister inviting him to Butte,” Mesa asked. “You didn’t see him at her house?” The irony of it all, Mesa thought. You could make the argument that Austin’s death was justifiable in some karmic way. It wasn’t like Kathy DiNunzio or Garrett Birch had conspired to cause his death. Yet their actions, even Austin’s own, had converged to cause it.
“Nope,” Garrett said. “I knew Kathy had company. When I walked up to the house, I could see the light in the dining room, people sitting around the table. That’s why I didn’t go in. I wasn’t in the mood. You know what I mean. I just dropped my stuff and went for a walk up toward the practice football field up at Tech. Sat down on a bench. Nice view from there.”
“Let me get this straight,” Mesa said, beginning to finally understand. “Hardy invited you to ride in a plane you didn’t know was stolen.”
“I borrowed it,” Hardy said, correcting her.
“You guys got to Butte Saturday afternoon,” Mesa continued.
“We went over to that bar in the Copper Baron and eventually hitched a ride uptown,” Garrett said.
“Some alum from the college gave us a ride,” Hardy chimed in.
“So when did you finally meet Austin?” Mesa asked.
“He was getting into his truck when I walked back to the house. He asked me if I was Kathy’s brother. I thought he was just some guy she knew. He ended up giving me a ride up to the Hoist House to meet Hardy. So I asked if he wanted to have a beer.”
“This doesn’t seem possible,” Mesa said. “It’s like fate.”
“Maybe. I don’t much believe in that stuff,” Garrett said. “He talked himself into a grave. When he told me my sister had written to him in prison, and invited him to come to Butte, I got this uneasy feeling. Then Hardy showed up and Austin introduced himself, I couldn’t believe it.”
“Why didn’t you confront him then?” Mesa asked, still reeling from the odds that something like this could happen.
“I don’t know. Suddenly I didn’t feel like there was any hurry. I wanted to see how he would act, if prison had changed him. I knew I could take him down whenever I wanted. And because I could, I didn’t.”
“So when I invited you guys to take a ride in the plane,” Hardy asked, sounding as curious as Mesa “you didn’t have a plan to kill him?”
“Nope, but after I left the Hoist House, I went back to my sister’s and slept like a baby for the first time since I got back to the States.”
“She wanted to break his heart, you know,” Mesa said. She wanted Garrett to understand what his sister had done. “She wrote to him to entice him to come here, then she was going to confront him, but by the time he showed up, the desire for revenge was gone. Austin never knew who she was.”
“Me either,” Garrett said quietly. “I just told him to call me Tree.”
“I still don’t get how you did it,” Hardy said. “He was fiddling with that Leatherman one minute and the next thing I know he was all over the controls, and we were in a nose dive.”
The tone of Garrett’s reply was unmistakable. “His fate was in his own hands by that point. He passed me the Leatherman with that thin knife blade already out. We had an ex-grunt in our unit who used to read all these magazines about weapons and mercenaries. One night when we were sitting around waiting for who knew what, the guy started showing everybody this stealth shit like how to kill somebody without the victim making much noise. We used to practice on cantaloupes.”
Garrett was quiet again. Across the East Ridge, in the distance Mesa could see Delmoe Lake, where their parents used to take them high in the mountains to swim at least once a summer. Garrett’s quiet determination had calmed her fears for her own safety but she couldn’t help thinking about the mistake Garrett was making.
He was taking his chances heading into the back country, thinking to lay low while the authorities concentrated their search along the Interstates and the more populated urban areas. More likely, he would die of hypothermia or fall and break a leg in the rugged terrain. Either way, Mother Nature would do the feds’ work for them.
“How much air time do we have?” Garrett asked.
“In this wind, maybe another fifteen minutes.
“Keep going,” Garrett said, and pointed to a place on the map.
“There are no roads all right,” Hardy said, “but no water either unless you head toward Whitetail Reservoir.”
Garrett nodded. “Find a flat place to put ’er down.”
* * *
Chance cursed himself for following Irita’s office protocol for once, and telling Erin where he was going. When Solheim called the Messenger to talk to Chance about Hardy, Erin had done her best as always and passed on the information. He prayed Birch had not looked back and seen Solheim’s police cruiser.
When Chance explained Birch’s threat, Roy Perryman promptly went into overdrive. Solheim spread out the topo map on the desk in the pilot lounge and showed Perryman the area in the direction Hardy had flown. “Tyler says the trainer maybe had 45 minutes of fuel left. Depending on the turbulence, he could probably get over to Belgrade before he needed to gas up.”
Perryman took a pen and traced a crescent arc an equal distance through Belgrade, Montana—north toward Townsend and Canyon Ferry, south toward the Gallatin National Forest and Yellowstone. “Get the Salt Lake office on the phone,” he said to his assistant. “Tell them we have a hostage situation. Alert all local airfields.”
Chance leaned on the wall next to Solheim. “They’re not going to land in another populated area. Dozens of small airstrips have been built all through this part of the state. Forest service strips for fire camps, ranches with their own strips, small-town strips where there’s nobody around—just a self-service pump that takes a credit card. Hell, I’ve s
een Forest Service pilots land on frontage roads and taxi into a regular gas station. Maybe that’s what Hardy’s got in mind.”
Rollie gave Chance one of his patented “watch your mouth” looks. Chance jammed his hands into his pockets and walked over to the window near the hangar, his frustration level teetering on overload. To keep from lashing into Perryman, Chance stared into the surrounding skies, and made a promise to himself.
The FBI had all kinds of resources at their fingertips, but he had no faith that they could match the mixture of resolve and regret he had seen in Garrett Birch’s eyes. If Mesa got out of this one, he would make it up to her, he swore.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Rollie’s. “Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t get these guys to move any faster.” Chance shrugged.
“Any ideas where else they might be headed?”
“Hardy can land a plane anywhere. We’ve all been witness to that, even Birch. That’s what I would take advantage of in his shoes. They could land somewhere near the Interstate and Birch could hitchhike north. The Canadian border is only 250 miles away. Just because they headed east out of Butte doesn’t mean they couldn’t change directions once they were out of sight of the airport.”
* * *
Mesa knew the dense foliage of the Deer Lodge National Forest below them, ponderosa pines and granite boulders in every direction. Only twenty minutes from Butte, national forest land accounted for every acre, a small part of the more than nineteen million mostly empty acres of federal land in the state.
Where Garrett Birch was going, she couldn’t imagine. But she was struck by the irony of his tactics. He was taking to the wilderness just like Lowell Austin had done. He had spent a year and a half in the backcountry eluding authorities, reaching the FBI’s ten most wanted list, and adding to his folk legend as a mountain man turned renegade.
“Mesa, are you buckled up?” Hardy asked. “I’m putting her down on this two track just north of the reservoir.
Mesa looked below at the opening of a relatively unobstructed flat stretch with a narrow dirt road. Hardy banked the plane to the right and began a descent before she could decide to be scared. The wheels of the plane hit the bumpy trail, and she held her breath as the plane stopped just short of where the path disappeared into the trees.