Dark Harbor (Stone Barrington 12)

The Cessna was starting its roll on 13. Stone put the landing gear down and put in two notches of flaps. “Mayday, mayday, mayday!” he yelled into the radio. “Malibu is declaring a fuel emergency, landing on runway thirteen!”

“Negative, Malibu!” a voice came back. “We’re rolling on 13!”

“I don’t have a choice!” Stone replied. He pulled the throttle back to idle. “No power, no fuel! Stop your roll now!” Stone was hot and high, and he put in the last notch of flaps and flipped up the speed-brakes. Still, he was doing ninety knots when he touched down and stood on the brakes.

The Cessna had stopped rolling halfway down the runway. Stone had thought the other airplane would turn off onto the grass, but the pilot seemed frozen. Now the Malibu was rushing toward the Cessna, and Stone could smell his brakes. He braced against the seat back, straightened his legs and pushed on the brake pedals as hard as he could. “Help me with the brakes,” he yelled at Young. “Use your toes!” Young started to help. Stone had already decided not to turn off the runway; if he did that, they’d get away, and it was awfully hard to spot a low-flying aircraft from another airplane. Anyway, he didn’t have enough fuel to follow them. They’d be gone.

The Malibu came to a final halt less than three feet from the Cessna, with both propellers still turning. If Stone had run head-on into the other airplane, there would have been a real mess, he thought. Normally, he would run the engine for five minutes on the ground before stopping it, to cool the turbochargers, but he yanked back on the mixture control and cut his engine. The prop wound down and came to a halt. The Cessna prop was still turning, but the twins weren’t going anywhere; there is no reverse on a piston airplane.

“Cut your engine, Cessna,” Stone said into the radio. The twins sat, staring at him, no more than twelve feet away. “Listen to me, boys,” he said. “There’s still a way out of this.”

“Sure,” a voice said back. “Just get out of our way.”

“The money is gone. It’s not in the account.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There is no million two in the Singapore bank; we transferred it back to the original account. The only money you have is what’s in your pocket.”

There was a long silence.

“Which of you is driving?” Stone asked.

“Ebert.”

“It’s not as bad as you think,” Stone said, “if you listen to me, you can still walk.”

“What are you talking about?” Eben asked.

“There’s a way out of this, if you’ll just listen.”

“Start talking.”

“I’m not your lawyer; I want to emphasize that. But, you can still walk on an insanity plea.”

“We’re not insane.”

“When they question you, tell them you hear voices, and the voices told you to do what you did.”

“Nobody’s going to buy that.”

“They will, if you agree on a story and stick to it. There’ll be a psychiatric examination, but if you stick to your story, you’ll get through it. You’ll do a couple of years in a mental hospital, and then you’ll walk.” He could see the two boys talking, arguing. Still the Cessna’s prop spun.

“Open the rear door, Dino,” Stone said. “Do it slowly, and if they run, go after them, but remember, they’re probably armed.”

“Right,” Dino said.

Stone could hear the Cessna engine get louder as Dino opened the door.

“Will you represent us, Stone?” Enos asked.

“I can’t do that; any judge would remove me for a conflict of interest. I’m Dick’s heir. But I’ll get you the best defense lawyer in the country.”

“If you don’t get out and move your airplane, we’re going to start shooting,” Eben said.

Stone could see Enos talking, gesturing, while Eben looked stonily ahead.

“Come on, boys,” Stone said. “This will work, believe me.”