CHAPTER FOURTEEN

We entered the hangar and met Alan. He told another guy who was working on the tail of a glider plane that he was taking us up. Then he led us out to the helicopter pad. After he and Jock spoke legalities, he ushered us into our seats, handed us headphones, made sure we were properly buckled in, and slid into the cockpit directly ahead of me.

I looked front to back and side to side, my palms sweaty, my mouth dry. It wasn’t a huge chopper, and it wasn’t tall. Not only had we needed to duck under the propellers when boarding, but the inside appeared even more snug. Too snug.

My heart seemed to swallow itself, and I couldn’t breathe. Last thing I needed was a panic attack. I told myself to think happy thoughts. Forget I was about to fly in a sardine can. Absolutely. I could do this.

I angled forward, curious about the dozens of switches, dials, and buttons on the instrument panel. Holy moly. This wasn’t helping. Governor light? Hydraulic system? Manifold pressure? I knew a little about blood pressure since mine was evidently rising, but what the heck did manifold pressure and the other things mean? And who would fly this thing if something happened to Alan?

I peeked to my right at Jock. He’d been in the navy, traveled the world, and probably knew all about aircrafts. Whew. What was I worried about? “You ever flown a helicopter before?”

He grinned. “You mean was I trained to man the anti-torque pedals, collective control, and throttle?”

“Yeah. That.”

“No.”

“What? What did they teach you in the navy if you didn’t learn how to fly a chopper?”

He leaned over me, brushed his fingers across my breasts, and gave the seatbelt a firm tug. “How to work under stress, how to be loyal, how to be a minimalist.” He waited a beat until I stared up into his face. “How to make eye contact when speaking.”

My eyebrows jerked so high they almost reached the band on my headphones. “What good is making eye contact when your plane is going down?”

He gave a deep laugh that almost matched the pounding of my heart. “You’d be surprised.”

I gaped at him. “Let me get this straight. You speak a dozen languages, you’re a master-at-arms, and you’ve done all kinds of stunt work. Yet you can’t fly a helicopter.” I shook my head in disgust. “Remind me not to give you the Purple Heart for bravery.”

“You mean the Medal of Honor.”

I made a tight line with my lips. “Yeah. That’s what I mean.”

Alan spoke into his headset to someone at the other end about cyclic friction, tail rotor, and trim control. It all sounded like gibberish to me, unless cyclic referred to biking, rotor meant sailing, and trim involved sewing. But in part of my brain—the part that didn’t understand mechanical things—I knew my guess was way off. This was aviation talk, and the only thing I did understand was that the tank was full of fuel. Thank God for that.

“Ready?” Alan smiled back at us, then pushed and held a white starter button. Swiftly, the engine roared to life, and overhead, the propellers wound up.

My throat went tight, and my heart knocked so loud, the waft-waft from the propellers dimmed in comparison. I looked heavenward to say a short prayer and spotted a fire extinguisher sitting above our heads.

Fresh panic set in. Why was there a fire extinguisher? Were fires common in the cockpit? Were we going to crash? Oh boy. What had I gotten myself into?

Logically, I knew Jock had been a firefighter in the navy, but what good would that do when we were burning in midair? And how would one tiny fire extinguisher save us when we’d all die from a crash landing?

I tapped Alan’s shoulder. “Where’s the nearest hospital?”

He gave me a sideways glance. “Eight point five miles.” He grinned. “You asking out of curiosity or concern?”

“Both.”

Jock slipped my hand into his. “This will be fun. You’ll see.”

In that instant, I thought about Max’s wisecrack about riding Jock’s bike. I wished that was all the fun I was dealing with at the moment.

We went straight up, and Jock gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “You’ll get more out of it if you open your eyes.”

“They’re open. They’re looking inward instead of outward.”

I could feel him smiling next to me. “The main goal of this excursion is to look outward.”

I took a second to inhale and exhale, then squinched my eyes open.

Jock was right. The view was spectacular. Winding roads. Colorful lights. Neighborhoods. Forests. There was too much to look at to worry about nerves. My heartbeat settled into a steady pattern, and Jock’s warmth reassured me.

Within minutes, we approached a white halo surrounding a city. The bright lights of Boston. We flew over the John Hancock Tower, Quincy Market, and TD Garden. The city was alive with action, from sports nightlife, to the theater district, to bumper-to-bumper traffic. We swooped over the Zakim Bridge and wowed at the reflection of the city lights on the Charles River.

Jock massaged his thumb across my hand and spoke into his headphone. “Special, isn’t it?”

Words wouldn’t come for the tears in my eyes. I lugged my bag onto my lap and scrounged around for my phone.

“What are you doing?” Jock asked.

“Max wanted an update on where we went.” I fumbled with my phone but managed to get a few shots I could show Max.

Before I knew it, we were heading back to Rueland. A hollow pang gripped my heart at leaving the dazzling lights of the city behind, but I was enjoying the ride too much to feel letdown.

Alan explained landmarks as we neared the south end of Rueland: parks, churches, powerlines. He swerved to the right and pointed to a long one-story building. “That’s the last one before landing.”

Jock and I both tipped to the side to see what he was talking about. “What is it?” I asked.

“An abandoned puppy mill. Guys who ran it went to prison for murdering some dog groomer a few years back.” He shook his head. “I’d be glad to see the place burned down.”

My eyes got huge, and I forced down a swallow. Suddenly, it hit me what had struck a chord earlier with Luther. He’d mentioned the puppy mill that he’d run with Ziggy. Maybe it was abandoned like Alan said. But I didn’t believe it. This had to be it. This was where Ziggy was hiding out. I snapped a picture of the building and dropped my phone in my bag, anxious to get on land.

“What was that shot for?” Jock asked. “A keepsake?”

I stabbed my finger back toward the puppy mill. “That’s where Ziggy’s hiding.”

“What?” He blinked like he hadn’t heard right. “How do you know that?”

I exhaled with a tad of impatience. “Facts. We know Ziggy’s been taking cover nearby since escaping prison last night. First, there was the dildo delivered to my doorstep. Then the painted shop window. And it’s almost certain he was the gunman at Kuruc’s. He has to be staying somewhere close.”

Jock grimaced. “Okay. Say that’s all true and Stoaks is the culprit. That doesn’t prove he’s hiding in the old puppy mill. I’ve been by there before. It’s all boarded up. Trust me. No one’s living there.”

Alan gently lowered us onto the tarmac. Once we touched ground, I swiveled back to Jock. “The police think Ziggy stole a car after the shooting and ditched it in the south end of town.”

“So?”

“This is as south as Rueland gets. If he’s not here, where else could he be?”

“I like your logic.” He flicked the tip of my chin.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Are we going to drive by the puppy mill? Check it out?” I was almost on top of his lap, impatient with the prospect of capturing Stoaks.

Alan pressed a button that cut the engine and wound down the propellers. He helped us out of the helicopter and aimed for the building. “It’s none of my business,” he said, turning, “but there’s been no action at the puppy mill for years. Like I said, it’d be better to burn the place down.”

“Thanks, Alan.” Sheesh. Like his word was gospel because he flew a helicopter over a building now and then.

Jock arched an eyebrow at me. “You just dismissed the guy.”

“Did not!”

“Did too.” He shook his head. “Maybe you should take someone’s advice once in a while.”

“What, because he flies in and out of here all the time? That makes him an expert on the puppy mill?”

“Yes!” He stood, legs apart, hands on hips. “Now that you’ve insulted the guy, I’ve got to go in there and pay him for giving you the ride of your life.”

I jutted my chin forward in defiance, ignoring how sexy he looked, dressed in black leather, his brown shoulder-length hair blowing in the wind. “I’m grateful for the ride. And I’m sorry if I was short with Alan. But it’s not him or you who’s getting dildo deliveries and being shot at. And if you don’t want to take me three hundred feet to see what’s up at that building, then that’s okey-dokey with me.” I’d just do it on my own. I planned to get more active finding Ziggy Stoaks anyway, right? I didn’t need Jock de Marco’s help.

Tomorrow was Monday, and the shop was closed. I’d come back then.

Jock gave me a penetrating stare, as if he was trying to read my thoughts. The stare zinged me right to the core, but I wouldn’t cave. Maybe I did speak out of turn, and maybe I was a bit on the stubborn side, but this was something I was willing to bet my life on.

I bared my best poker face, and he blew out a sigh that all but said he gave up. Then he turned on his heel and trucked to the building, the fading echo of his boots on the tarmac leaving a pit in my heart.

* * *

I watched Jock disappear, then hauled my phone out of my bag again. “Don’t worry about me,” I shouted to no one in particular. “I’m going to call Romero.”

“Need rescuing already?” Romero said when I dialed him. Cheeky.

“Not quite.” I imagined Iron Man rescuing me from Hercules. Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?

“What’s up?”

I tucked away my absurd thoughts and waited for a moment while a plane engine stopped and started in the background. “I found where Ziggy’s staying,” I shouted into the phone.

“What do you mean you found where he’s staying? Where are you?”

“Rueland Area Airport.”

“What?” He wasn’t exactly hollering, but he wasn’t exactly calm. “What the hell are you doing at the airport?”

I rolled my eyes at his reaction, then put my back to the aircraft rumble. “Relax. We went for a helicopter ride over Boston.”

“Oh. Perfect. Now I can put my feet up and have a cigar.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“I’m trying not to let it be.” He took a moment like he was thinking this through. “Why were you flying over Boston?”

“It was Jock’s idea. And before you ask where he got the idea, he simply wanted to relax me after the horrendous day I had.”

“I could’ve relaxed you without you leaving the ground.” His voice took on an intimate tone, and I could almost see the predatory look in his eyes.

I turned up my collar from the wind gusting around me, deciding to make this short. “About Ziggy’s whereabouts…”

I heard a whack like he’d bashed into his desk, followed by the squeaky sound his chair made when he parked himself in it. “Damn drawer.” Another whack. This time as if he’d slammed it shut.

I chose to play it smart and refrain from saying anything. It hadn’t been an easy day for Romero either. On top of a sore foot—compliments of yours truly—and another murder case with few leads, I had an inkling he was put out because of my night with Jock.

“Okay.” He released one of his aggravated sighs. “So you know where Stoaks is staying. Want to let me in on the secret?”

“It’s not such a big secret. It’s the old puppy mill by the airport.”

“What? Forget it. Nobody’s there.”

“Not you, too. Everyone seems to think the place is abandoned.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Alan. Jock.”

“Alan?”

“The pilot. He said there hasn’t been any action there in years.”

“He’s right. And if he’s flying over the place on a regular basis, he’d know. I’m ticked I didn’t think of that myself. I could’ve saved the manpower.”

I pressed my phone closer. “What manpower?”

He took a heavy breath. “I had a couple officers investigate the puppy mill.”

“When?”

“Today.”

I straightened, my bag squeezed to my side. “When today?”

Papers rustled at his end. “You want an exact time, Chief, or will a rough estimate do?”

I squinted into the phone and made a face. “Doesn’t matter. Forget I asked.”

“Yeah, right. Upon learning of Ziggy’s escape, I had some uniforms check it out first thing this morning. I figured there was a possibility he’d revisit his old haunt. But I was wrong. There were no signs of life on the grounds. Everything’s been boarded up. Locked. Abandoned.”

Hmm. “Okay. You win.”

“Does that mean you’ll let go of this idea?”

How could I argue facts with Romero, Jock…and Alan? “Consider it stricken from my brain.”

“Hmph.”

I couldn’t remember Romero ever using a hmph on me before. Hearing him mutter it now sounded unnatural, skeptical. Well, I wasn’t going to stand here and worry about what he thought. I said I’d strike it from my brain, and I meant it.

Of course…if something happened to make me think otherwise, I’d simply alter my course of action. That was a woman’s prerogative, wasn’t it?

After telling me to stay close—but not too close—to Jock, he hung up.

* * *

I pitched my phone in my bag, meditating on Romero’s news. If Ziggy wasn’t hiding in the old puppy mill, then where was the creep?

I was summoning ideas when a right arm came around my neck and forced me back against a solid body. My bag was ripped from my arm and tossed on the ground. A second later, I saw the edge of a straight razor right before it was pricked under my chin.

“Scream, and I’ll slit your throat.”

I could barely hear the soft voice at my side for the howling wind, the plane engine in the distance, and blood rushing through my ears. Somewhere in my subconscious, I was trying to determine if the voice was the same one I’d heard at Kuruc’s. There was nothing I could do to confirm my suspicions, but it didn’t matter. The trench-coat sleeve under my chin that I’d seen sweeping the shelf of items at the deli told me Ziggy was my captor.

“How do you like it, hmm? Not so nice having a hair tool threatening you.” Despite the background noise, his soft voice once again sounded unnatural to me.

His trench coat flapped around my legs. The razor’s steel edge scraped my skin. His grip was strong, making it hard to breathe, let alone find words. All that came out was a whimper.

“This ain’t nothing compared to where you’re going to feel this blade next.” He lowered his razor hand to my groin, nudging me suggestively. “Tit for tat, shall we say.”

Fear hurtled my heart into my mouth. After all these years, Ziggy was finally making good on his promise to get back at me for maiming him and sending him to jail.

He towed me toward the woods, and I knew without a doubt if I screamed, he’d slice me on the spot.

My nails bit into my palms, my mind racing with horrible thoughts. Wait! Where was Jock? How long did it take to pay for a chopper ride? My gaze swept the dimly lit area, hoping he’d materialize.

Maybe I could keep Ziggy occupied until Jock showed up. Oh boy. Who was I kidding? Once other males met Sir Worldly, they got all chummy, asking him questions about his diverse past, boasting about their own scrawny muscles in an effort to measure up.

Face it, Valentine. You’re on your own. I gurgled back hysteria, scanning the area again. I had to escape this lunatic, but how? Ziggy wasn’t a big man, but he was still bigger than me. And without my tools, I felt weak and outmatched.

Tears filled my eyes, the reality of my situation torpedoing me in the stomach. I shivered, the chill in the night air multiplying my fears as Ziggy dragged me away from the helicopter pad. My gaze fell to my bag ten feet away, and I choked back a desperate cry.

I was going to be brutally tortured and die cold and alone, and I wouldn’t even have a lousy hairbrush to fend off my killer. I felt woozy from the images I was conjuring up of my bloody, dismembered body, not found for days…maybe weeks.

I forced myself to snap out of it. I envisioned Dooley’s slight, lifeless form curled up in a broken beer keg. He’d been murdered and had no one to speak for him. That wasn’t going to be me. Dooley needed a voice, and so did I.

I sniffed back tears, a surge of determination swelling inside. I wasn’t going to be another murder victim and let Ziggy carve me up and leave me for dead in some forest beside a small-town airport. I’d been beaten and come close to death before, and in those weakest moments I realized I had the strongest will to live.

I squirmed in Ziggy’s arms, digging my heels in the ground while a plan formed in my mind. “Let me wipe my eyes,” I cried. “My mascara’s burning and blinding me.”

“What the hell?” He stopped in his tracks.

“It’d be a lot easier for you if I wasn’t writhing in pain.” I squirmed again for emphasis.

“Geez, you’re a pain in the ass. I heard you were a Type A, but this takes the cake.” He jolted me up to keep my legs from buckling under me. “You’re going to be dead in a few minutes. What does runny mascara matter?”

I blinked like a madman, which I was close to becoming, pretty sure my tears were doing a bang-up job of smearing my makeup. “I can’t see!” I wailed, sniffling and sobbing, then cut it at once in outrage. “Who said I was a Type A?”

“Everyone! Brother. You’re not exactly a recluse. Every time I turn around, you’re in the news.”

“So?” I thrashed around some more, trying to get him to loosen his chokehold. “Being in the news doesn’t make me a Type A!”

“You’re impatient, strictly organized, and anxious. If that isn’t a Type A, I don’t know what is.” He secured my wriggling. “And you’re a control freak. That’s from my own observations.”

“I am not a control freak!” I yelled, attempting to get control of the situation.

He held on tight, his voice rising furiously. “You had control of that perm rod you wrapped around my bangers.”

“That’s because you were going to stick me with a knife,” I retorted angrily. “And I don’t appreciate you talking vulgar to me.” Yowza, fear was making me nervy.

“You really are something,” he said. “Excuse me for not using the proper term.”

I coughed and blubbered and sniffed, adding some moaning to the mix. It must’ve been appalling because I felt him loosen his grip.

“All right, all right already.” He produced a tissue, probably from one of his trench coat’s many pockets, and waved it in my face. The razor was firm in hand, his right arm still around my neck. “Try anything funny, and I’ll cut you open right here.”

My nose was running, my cheeks wet, and I could taste salty tears on my tongue. I snatched the tissue from his hand, wiped my eyes, and gave my nose a good honk.

“Geez.” He shook his arms away from me and my runny mucus. “You’re a mess. I should kill you now and put us both out of our misery.”

I blubbered some more. “I was quite happy until you came along.”

“Type A’s are never happy.” He shoved his sleeve under my nose. “And look what your crying did to my coat. Black makeup everywhere! This was right out of the Goodwill bin. A genuine London Fog. You think London Fogs grow on trees?”

I was too stunned to speak and not brave enough to turn around.

“I’m going to make you pay for this coat.” He spelled it out in my ear. “Right after I kill you, I’m going back for your bag and taking what’s owing.”

“I’m not paying anything for that crappy coat, dead or alive. I wouldn’t even pay to have it dry-cleaned.”

Not sure how much longer I could antagonize him, I slid my hand to my braid, ripped the elastic from my hair, and formed a slingshot. Then I spun around and fired it in his face.

Smack. Right in the eye!

He yelped and dropped the razor to the ground. “I knew I couldn’t trust you!” He scrubbed his eye fiercely. “You witch!”

I’d been called worse before, but I didn’t stop to point that out. Gulping for air, I stumbled away from him and swiped my bag off the ground. The helicopter was the closest thing to safety, and I ran straight for it.

Ziggy was on my heels, one hand to his eye, the other flailing in the air. I gathered every ounce of strength I had and hauled off with my bag, clouting him in the head.

He didn’t seem to see that coming, which surprised me since he’d met my bag straight on once before. I only hoped the crack was from his skull and not my blow dryer.

For a second, his eyes glazed over and rolled up into his head. Then he collapsed knees first to the ground.

I didn’t trust he’d stay down for long, and I didn’t wait to find out. The aircraft was twelve feet away. I was shaking so badly my legs barely carried me there. I finally wrenched open the door, climbed into the cockpit, and fell on top of my bag onto the seat. Yee-ouch.

I twisted my bag out from under me, tugged the door shut, and frantically searched for a lock. What? No lock! How did anyone stay safe in this contraption?

I pulled on my bag straps. Maybe I could tie these around something to keep me locked in, and more importantly, keep Ziggy locked out. It had to work! I could loop them around the door handle. But what could I secure them to? Eek! Nothing in sight.

I felt around the door, patting my way up around the window. Wait. What was this? A metal hook? Seemed sturdy enough. I didn’t know if it was a coat hanger or a place to drape curtains, and I didn’t care.

I wound the straps through the handle, pressed one foot up on the door for leverage, then rose and yanked the straps up as hard as I could. If I could just stretch them…and force them over…ackkk! They snapped upward off the handle, and my bag sprang in my face.

I flew back and landed hard on some buttons. Before I realized what I’d done, lights flashed on the instrument panel, and the engine powered up. Please, no! I gawked up. And the propellers began to rotate. Yikes! Where was the horn on this thing?

Ziggy was on his feet, staggering to the helicopter. A lunatic hell-bent on a mission, oblivious to how low the propellers were spinning above him.

I screeched and punched buttons and dials, praying something I did would get him to back off. I finally remembered the throttle by the pilot’s side. Not sure what this would do, I lifted the black spongy handle and rolled it left and right.

The helicopter bounced up and down on the tarmac, and Ziggy hopped back and forth like a bug about to get squashed under the landing skids.

The wind gusted around him like a small tornado, violently flipping the ends of his trench coat up in the air. Ziggy fought the wind, and in one bold move, he leaped for the door.

Bad move.

The chopper danced and dipped, and in that instant, one of the blades caught a corner of his coat and wound it around him like a cocoon, sweeping him off his feet.

In horror, I watched him spring in the air, and then Smack! He landed face down on top of the blade.

Aah! I leaped in my seat. I blinked and shook my head. How was this possible? Must’ve been my mascara running in my eyes that was playing tricks on me. Worse, it was a nightmare.

I dared look up.

Nope. Ziggy was bound to the blade, spinning above me ’round and ’round.

I had a sudden memory of a wartime video clip where a guy went through helicopter blades and survived with a broken wrist. God had taken mercy on that poor beggar. I wasn’t sure Ziggy would be so fortunate.

The propellers couldn’t shake him loose, and I didn’t know what to do. Not having much success with the throttle, I rammed the left pedal down with my foot. The nose lurched left while the tail flew right. Oh Lord. Forget that. I jerked my left foot up and stabbed my right foot down, but this only caused the nose to swerve back to the right, and the tail, left.

Ziggy’s body circled in and out of view, his belt flapping in the wind.

I whacked at more buttons. Something had to steady this thing! I recalled how Alan spoke into his headphones, using frequency switches. Yes. Maybe I’d alert the guys in the hangar. What were they doing in there anyway? Playing poker?

“Can anyone hear me?” I shouted into the headphones, pressing anything that looked like it might help.

Ziggy yelped from above.

Great. Just the person I wanted to hear from.

I finally stopped playing with the pedals and noticed the starter button. I pushed it in, and at once the engine died and the propellers wound down. Ziggy’s holler faded into the distance, and suddenly I didn’t see him circling above. I wasn’t sure if this was good news or bad.

I yanked the fire extinguisher from above and tore out of the helicopter. If Ziggy was out there, I’d be prepared.

By now, adrenaline was speeding through my body. I was Zorro in heels, my mascara-blackened face, a mask. No one was going to touch me. I had my bag on my back and the fire extinguisher aimed clumsily like a sword. I scouted the area but didn’t see Ziggy anywhere. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I shrieked and wheeled around, ready to fire my weapon, but I couldn’t pluck the stupid pin. Not the first time this had happened. Damn things.

The fire extinguisher was ripped from my hands, and in a fit of panic, I blinked from my empty palms up into Jock’s probing face.

Terror from the entire day came to a head, and my whole body quaked in shock. Before I could gain control of myself, night closed in around me.