It had taken about fifteen minutes from Keaton’s driveway to the edge of Newburgh, a town of about three thousand just east of Evansville. It was in Warrick County, and so Piper called their sheriff to let them know what she was doing; he’d already been on alert for the girl.
Piper had been here a few times when she was in high school, once doing research for a history paper on the Newburgh Raid. In the eighteen hundreds it was one of the largest river ports between Cincinnati and New Orleans, and had been the first town north of the Mason-Dixon Line that Confederate forces captured during the Civil War. Re-enactors gathered yearly to do battle.
It was a pretty place, with a charming downtown filled with specialty boutiques and antique shops. There were good restaurants along the riverfront. It was a place to live if you worked in Evansville and desired a slower pace when you came home.
And apparently it was where Cassidy Keaton intended to hop on a boat.
But why not Evansville? The big city had better river traffic. Better chance to book a boat.
“Why come here?” Oren mirrored Piper’s thoughts. “Newburgh? What the hell?”
“She’s at the Old Lock and Dam,” Keaton said. “I don’t understand why she’d—”
“Oren?”
“Almost there, Sheriff.”
“Keep the siren off.” She heard Oren growl, like she hadn’t needed to tell him that.
In the distance they saw the Celica, trunk popped, driver’s side door open, car empty, at the parking lot. The old Newburgh Lock and Dam was a recreation area now, complete with cement boat ramp that Cassidy Keaton was standing on.
Except she wasn’t getting into a boat.
The sign nearby said JERRY W. HUMPHREY SEAPLANE BASE.
A single-engine white and blue floatplane, Ohio Angel on the side, had come in low and pulled up, the prop still turning. Cassidy tossed in a duffle and a backpack, and jumped in just as Piper and Oren got out of the Ford. Piper ran.
They’d told Keaton to stay in the car, but of course that didn’t happen.
“Cassidy! Cass!” he hollered as he and Oren raced after Piper. “Cassssssssssssss!”
Piper hadn’t expected a floatplane. But neither had she expected that a teenager was capable of killing two elderly men just for money. In a heartbeat she’d left Oren and Keaton behind, good arm swinging, feet pounding across the parking lot, over a strip of grass, and then onto the cement landing.
Cassidy had closed the door and was yelling something to the pilot. Piper couldn’t make it all out, except for the, “Go, go, go!”
The plane moved away from the ramp, and Piper sprinted down the cement, feet touching the edge of the river as her leg muscles bunched. She leaped with every measure of her strength, right arm out and fingers grabbing a strut and Nikes landing hard against the pontoon. Slippery, she almost fell.
The plane rocked from the sudden impact, and she ducked under the single wing and grabbed the strut closer to the pilot’s door. Looking in she saw it had four seats, but only two were occupied—Cassidy in the back, and the pilot in the front, big duffle on the seat next to him.
The spray soaked Piper and made gripping the strut difficult, and she knew she had made the plane unsteady, maybe was keeping it from taking off.
“Stop!” Piper hollered. She figured the pilot would be suicidal to take off with her hanging on the side, plane off balance. If she dropped into the water and managed to hang on, he’d have drag on top of that. But she didn’t want to test that notion. “Stop you sonofabitch!”
The pilot didn’t. The propeller turned faster, the engine sounded louder, and the plane picked up speed, bouncing harder on the river’s chop.
Macho pilot, Piper thought, gritting her teeth. Suicidal, macho pilot. Maybe he’d been promised a lot of money. Maybe he was good enough—or stupid enough—to lift off with someone hanging on the outside.
Maybe the pilot couldn’t hear her; he had a headset on. But he had to have noticed her hitching a ride, unbalancing his attempt to take off. Perhaps Cassidy was promising him even more money.
It’s always about money.
Oren was shouting on the ramp, Keaton screaming, “Casssssssssssss!”
Piper steadied herself and leaned against the plane, released the strut and fumbled with her right hand on the fastening of her sling, yanked the tie lose and nearly fell in the river in the process. She recovered and grabbed the strut again. She praised the Army for putting her through rigorous training exercises. But this hadn’t been something Fort Campbell had covered.
The plane picked up more speed, bounced harder, and angled toward the center of the river. That was the Jerry W. Humphrey Seaplane Base’s runway—the Ohio River.
“Stop! Spencer County Sheriff! Stop!”
The pilot glanced at her, and then looked forward.
“Shit.” She tugged at the sling again, finally wholly freeing her left arm. She had two hands now. Her left arm felt like she’d dipped it in fire. One to two weeks she was supposed to use the sling. Hell with that. Grabbing the strut once more with her right hand, she reached her left to the pilot’s door, turned the handle, and flung it open. He’d tried to grab it, maybe hold it closed or lock it, but she was strong and fast and fueled by anger.
“Shut the damn thing off!” she howled. “Shut it down now!”
“Nooooooooooooooooo!” Cassidy keened. “I’ll pay you more. Keep going!” The girl looked just like she had the day Piper met her in the library, cherubic face—no longer looking innocent—pierced eyebrow, wearing the same t-shirt, Music + Cats Make Life Worth Living.
“Shut it down!” Piper screamed. Her voice was going. Even if the pilot couldn’t hear her—with his headset and the plane’s engine, he could damn well get the intent. “Shut. It. Down.”
It bounced a few more times, Cassidy continued to yell, and the pilot cursed and turned off the engine. He removed the headset. Cassidy opened the passenger door and flung her backpack into the river.
“Great. Your laptop, I’m guessing,” Piper said. “Cassandra Keaton, you’re under arrest for a shitload of things.” To the pilot, “You’re under arrest, too. For something. I’ll figure it out.”
Somehow Oren had commandeered a boat. Minutes later everyone was back on the shore, where cars from the Newburgh Police Department and the Vanderburgh County Sheriff’s Department were arriving, lights flashing.
“They can have the pilot,” Piper told Oren. “Sheriff, police. I don’t care who takes him. Miss Cassandra Cassidy Blossom Keaton is ours.”
On the ride back to Rockport, the Keatons shared the backseat.
Cassidy fumed and wiggled. “Handcuffs, really?”
“Protocol,” Piper said. “You’re a thief.” She was about to add and a murderer, but stopped herself. They’d cover all of that when the girl was formally charged at the jail.
“It’s not like those old farts needed the money,” Cassidy spat. “All that money just sitting in their accounts. They were so stupid about computers. It was so easy to take their—”
“Don’t say anything else, Cass,” Keaton cautioned. “Nothing. Don’t say another word until I call an attorney.” He reached into his pocket, retrieved his earbud, and started making calls.
Piper was glad the girl was taking the advice. She wanted the miles to pass in as much silence as possible. It felt like the Mailbox Mauler had shot her all over again.