“Nothing like experimentation,” Felicity said.
Stone canceled his flight plan with Augusta Approach and descended toward the Islesboro airfield. He retarded the throttles, lowered the landing gear and put in a notch of flaps to lose speed. “The key is to cross the threshold at Vref,” he said, “which is the final approach speed, given the landing weight of the airplane. We’ve burned off a thousand pounds of fuel, and there are just the two of us, so we’re light.”
“That’s terribly reassuring,” she said, looking unconvinced. “Exactly how long is that runway?”
“Two thousand four hundred and fifty feet,” Stone said.
“Have you ever landed on a runway that short?”
“No, but I’ve landed on several that were only three thousand feet and with plenty of room to spare. Our speed is right on the money, and it takes only twelve hundred feet to stop the airplane once it’s on the runway, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Trust the airplane.”
“I hardly know the airplane,” she said.
“Shhh, I have to concentrate now.”
“Please do,” she muttered.
As Stone cleared the treetops near the end of the runway, he pulled the throttles back to idle and aimed just under the numbers. The little jet settled onto the paved strip, and Stone deployed the speedbrakes and stood hard on the brakes, which were excellent. They turned off the runway and taxied to a parking spot.
“May I open my eyes now?” Felicity asked.
“Of course,” Stone said. “We had about seven hundred feet to spare when we turned off the runway.”
“I suppose you’re very pleased with yourself,” she said.
“I am,” he replied, setting the parking brake and working through the shutdown checklist. He turned off the last switch, got out of his seat, opened the door and deployed the little set of stairs. A man stood outside the door, and Stone handed him his briefcase. “Hello, Seth,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. Seth Hotchkiss was the caretaker of the Stone property, and he drove a 1938 Ford station wagon, beautifully restored.
“Hello, Mr. Stone,” Seth replied. “You have a new airplane, I see.”
“I’m afraid it’s only borrowed,” Stone replied, unlocking and opening the forward luggage compartment.
Felicity appeared at the airplane’s door. “Is there actual earth I can set foot on?” she asked.
“No, there’s just tarmac,” Stone replied, taking her hand. “Seth, this is Felicity Devonshire.” The two shook hands.
He put the engine plugs in place, the pitot covers on, and switched off the airplane’s battery to preserve its charge.
TEN MINUTES LATER they were at the house, a handsome and roomy shingle-style home, and Seth’s wife was giving Felicity the tour. Stone dug a card from his pocket and called an extension at state police headquarters in Augusta.
“Captain Scott Smith,” a deep voice said.
“Captain, it’s Stone Barrington.” The two had met when Stone was investigating his cousins’ murders.
“Mr. Barrington, how are you? Are you in Maine?”
“I’m well, and I’m on Islesboro.”
“How can I help you?”
“I’ve just flown a friend here from New York. Yesterday she and her driver were attacked outside my house by a woman of my acquaintance wielding a knife. The driver was hurt, and the woman got away, but in the past she has been unusually persistent in finding me.”
The captain asked for her description, and Stone gave it to him. “Tell you what,” the captain said. “I have a regular patrol in the Camden-Lincolnville area. I’ll have the car swing by there whenever the outbound ferry is boarding and keep an eye out for her. They’ll see that nobody matching that description gets on until they’ve contacted you. I assume you’re at the Stone house.”
“That’s correct, and I appreciate it, Captain.”
“Glad to be of help.”
Stone hung up as Felicity entered the room. He unlocked Dick’s little office and showed her the room, with its computers and other equipment.