Spooning Daisy (35 page)

“Nah. Man’s got a death wish. Scully’s got it right,” the third said. “Kaboom into Dall Mountain. Too bad about the turtle, though.”

Daisy spun around. “What turtle?”

The five stared at her.

“What turtle!”

The man with the Dall Mountain theory shrugged as if it
weren’t no big deal
. “Fitz has got a turtle with him.”

“What
kind
of turtle?” Daisy demanded. “What’s it look like? How big is it?”

“About so-so.” Dall Mountain spread his hands about six inches. “A
turtle
turtle. Green.”

“Kinda brown, too.”

“Had her at the Lighthouse,” another offered. “Bought her a beer.” The group chuckled.

Daisy sputtered her disbelief. “He gave Elizabeth
beer
?”

“Fitz drank most of it hisself,” Dall Mountain said. “Turtles ain’t known for holding their liquor.”

The group laughed, elbowing each other.

Daisy fumed. “You people are all idiots!” She stormed off as the Cessna reappeared on the horizon. “I’m gonna shoot Fitz myself!” She made a beeline for the hangars
and Max.

The plane was nearing the landing strip, dropping toward earth. Maybe Fitz was going to land this time; Daisy stopped to watch his approach.
Dear God, please, please, please . . .

Down, down, down, the Cessna floated, its engine calming to a purr. The crowd behind her held its collective breath.

The tires touched gravel and bounced. Caught by a crosswind, the Cessna fishtailed. The crowd let out a grateful holler. Daisy trembled with relief.

“Just get here as soon as you can!” she heard Max shout into his cell.

The engine revved. The wings caught air.

Daisy froze. The crowd moaned as the plane was once again airborne.

Max looked through the sights on his rifle.

“No, no, no!” Daisy screamed.

Max swung around.

“He’s got Elizabeth,” Daisy screeched. “He’s got Elizabeth!”

“Who the hell’s Elizabeth?” someone asked.

Max waved off the question as Daisy reached him. “What’re you doing here?” It was a mix of anger, concern, and dread.

“We followed you,” she answered, breathless with fear.

Looking for Rita, his eyes darted to the crowd behind.

“Fitz has Elizabeth,” Daisy repeated. “Up there.” Motioning to the sky. “He’s got Elizabeth.”

“That doesn’t make sense. How? Why?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know! His drinking buddies told me. That’s all I know. He’s got her.”

Max raked fingers through his hair. “Christ.”

“He’s coming back around,” one of the men said. “Now’s your chance.”

Max turned away from Daisy and raised his Remington, sights on the Cessna.

“You can’t shoot Fitz. He’s just a kid!” She grabbed his arm.

Max roughly shook her off and regained his sights.

“What about Elizabeth?”

Someone repeated the question. “Who the hell’s Elizabeth?”

But Max wasn’t about to make the situation worse by explaining.

Daisy, unfortunately, didn’t know better. “She’s my turtle!”

“Christ,” Max mumbled.

Faces went blank, then laughter rolled.

“Shoot the sonofabitch,” a stocky woman said. “Before he takes out Main Street.”

But Fitz stayed over Sedna Bay, circling the blue skies. Max lowered the rifle. “Let’s try the radio again.”

Relief settled Daisy’s stomach as the group moved into the hangar en masse.

Max spoke calmly into the microphone. “Wild Man six-eight-zero, this is Otter Bite radio. Come in.” One collective heartbeat, two collective heartbeats, three collective heartbeats . . . “Wild Man six-eight-zero, this is Otter Bite radio. Come in.”

The group focused on the empty skies. “Do you see ’im?” the stocky woman asked.

“Come in, Fitz,” Max said with authority.

“Uh-oh,” someone warned, as the drone of the engine got louder. They ran outside as the 185 raked the hangars, splitting the crowd on the field like Moses parting the Red Sea.

“Cut it out, Fitz!” Max demanded into the mike. “You’re going to hurt a lot of innocent people. Land the plane!”

Max was holding it together better than most, but Daisy saw granite invade his shoulders and jaw. “Maybe I could try,” she said.

Max dipped his chin at her, waited a thought, then handed her the mike.

“Wild Man six-eight-zero, this is Otter Bite radio. Fitz, it’s Daisy. Do you copy? Fitz? Please, Fitz, come in.”

Max lifted a brow at Daisy’s easy use of flight lingo.

“Fitz, it’s Daisy. You’re really scaring me. Please, talk to me.” At the silence, her expression sagged, along with her spirits.

“So much for plan B,” Max said. “Don’t take it so hard, Daisy. He probably doesn’t have the radio switched on.”

“He’s just a kid, Max.” Eyeing the rifle. “You can’t kill him.”

“He’s not a kid, Daisy. He’s a grown man
acting
like a kid. And it’s not my intention to kill him, but I have to stop him before
he
kills someone. Or a whole lot of someones.”

“Why you? You’re his friend. Why
you
?”

Max shook his head; Daisy couldn’t possibly understand. “It comes with the territory.”

“There’s got to be another way.”

“If you think of it, let me know.” He turned for daylight.

“Max—”

The radio crackled. “ ‘Daisy, Daisy, gimme your answer do . . . ’”

If they’d been dogs, their ears would’ve pricked up. Daisy grabbed the mike and pressed the button to send. “Fitz. This is Daisy. Come in,
please
.”

“—I’m half-crazy all for the love of booze . . .”

“Fitz! Please land. You’re scaring everyone! You’re scaring
me
!”

Max was again beside her, followed by the rest of the group. Together, they hung on Fitz’s every slurred word.

“Daisy, baby, I’ll be true-ooo-ooo,”

“Buddy Holly,” someone in the group muttered.

“Didn’t he die in a plane crash?” Another asked.

“This is ridiculous,” the husky woman spat. “Just shoot the s-o-b.”

Max spun around and shoved the rifle toward her. “Here, Marge, you do it.”

She eased back. “Hey, I’m not the trooper.”

“That’s right, you’re not. So why don’t you shut the hell up?”

“Give a man a badge . . . ,” Marge grumbled.

Max turned to Daisy. For a moment he was taken aback by what he saw in her eyes.
Respect? Gratitude? Admiration?
Her lips lifted slightly and then, as if remembering what was going on, she turned her attention back to the microphone.

“Fitz, this is Daisy. You know your mom wouldn’t be happy with you flying around like this.”

“Mama?” came the response.

“Keep talking,” Max whispered.

“That’s right, Fitz. Mama.”

“I love Mama.”

“I know you do, Fitz. And she wants you to land and come home.”

The drone of the plane became louder. As if one entity, the small group moved outside and looked toward the sound. “He’s awfully low,” a voice warned.

“I’m gettin’ sleepy, Mama.”

“He’s awfully low!” someone repeated.

“Wake up, Fitz!” Daisy shouted. “Pull up!”

The Cessna arced toward the ozone. A sigh escaped the group.

“You’re doing great, Daisy,” Max said.

But Daisy didn’t feel great. Her stomach clenched, her mike hand trembled, and sweat covered her palms. “Fitz? Mama wants you to stay awake and land the plane. Mama’s waiting for you. Land the plane, okay?”

“ ‘Here we go loop t’ loop . . .’” Fitz began singing.

“No loops!” Daisy shouted as the crowd oohed and aahed. Daisy dropped the mike and joined the spectators, who watched the Cessna shoot skyward then belly over and slip back down. “Oh my God. Elizabeth,” she whimpered, rushing back to the mike. “Fitz? Come in, Fitz!”

“I don’t feel so good, Mama. That loop the loop has thrown me for a loop! Uh-oh. I’m gonna be—”

Sick
, Daisy silently finished for him.

“We’re losing him,” Max told her. “Give it your best shot. It may be the last one you get.”
Before my best shot.

Daisy sucked in a breath and tried to steady her nerves. “Fitz . . .” Her brows knitted as if something tangled her thoughts. “Fitz,” she began again with more certainty. It was risky, what she was about to do, but it might be the only chance Fitz had. “Martin’s waiting for you at the hangar, Fitz. Come on home.”

Max looked at her as if to ask,
Who’s Martin?

“Did you hear me, Fitz? Marty’s here. Marty’s here with your mama and they want you to land the plane. And we’ll all have a nice barbecue.”

Several heartbeats of silence. “Marty’s home?”

“Marty’s home. And he wants you to land the plane. Will you do that for Marty? Will you land the plane for Marty?”

“I’m so sssorry,” Fitz breathed as if he’d lost all hope.

“Marty knows you’re sorry. It wasn’t your fault.” Then she held the mike toward Max and quietly said, “Tell him you’re Marty. Tell him it wasn’t his fault.”

“What wasn’t—”

“Just tell him.”

“Fitz? This is Marty. It wasn’t your fault. Now come on home. We’re all waiting for you.”

“Marty?” And then a few sobs and a sniffle before the radio went dead.

“Fitz?” Daisy asked. “Fitz?”

Nothing.

“Fitz!”

“He’s coming back around,” someone announced.

Daisy hung up the mike and quickly made it to daylight; the Cessna buzzed the field and headed straight for Dall Mountain.

“Pull up, pull up, pull up,” Daisy prayed, shutting her eyes and waiting for the explosion.

Max looked down at her, at her eyes scrunched shut and her balled fists. He corralled her in his arm. “You did everything you could.”

She felt tears starting to well and then someone yelled, “He’s turning!”

Her eyes popped open. The Cessna banked past the mountain and returned to Sedna Bay, circling wide around the docks, straightening until it almost disappeared, then banking once again toward Otter Bite.

“What’s that sonabitch doing now?” Marge asked.

“Shut your damn pie hole!” Daisy snapped.

It was an unexpected moment of levity and Max allowed a bittersweet smile. He squeezed her shoulders.

“I guess she told you,” one of her companions said.

“Bitch,” Marge grumbled.

“I think he’s landing,” someone voiced with surprise.

“I think you’re right,” another said.

Her heart racing, Daisy left Max for a better view. She watched as the Cessna floated toward earth, wings bobbing from the cross-breeze, but very much on final approach. Then the tires hit the ground and bounced, once, twice, before steadily rolling along the strip, past the crowd that ran toward the Cessna like a wave on the shore. The brakes screeched as the plane greedily used the whole length of gravel and kept going, going, going . . .

The Cessna rolled off the runway, down the embankment, and slipped into the slough, tail in the air.

Daisy gasped and raced toward the plane. She didn’t know how she managed it—Rita would later tell Daisy that she muscled her way through the crowd while screaming
Elizabeth!
—but she made it to the plane ahead of the others, jumped over the embankment and slid down the muddy slope, coating her jeans in the process, as most of the crowd peered over the edge from higher, dryer ground.

The propeller was dipped in muddy water, as if taking a drink. The engine died and the plane was unmoving, creaking and sizzling. Daisy saw Fitz through the windows, slumped forward over the wheel, his seat belt cinching his waist. She pounded on the door, yelling his name, her eyes searching the interior for her turtle. She grabbed the recessed latch and pulled, but the door remained resolutely shut.

Looking dazed, Fitz lifted his head from the steering column and started to move; that’s when she saw the revolver. A few brave souls approached the plane, then someone yelled, “He’s got a gun!” and the onlookers scrambled as the warning bounced around like a pinball.

Even the booze couldn’t mask the pain radiating from Fitz’s boyish face as he lifted the 9mm toward his head. Daisy screamed and pounded on the window.

It all happened so fast, it barely registered. Like a flash of lightning. You don’t see it coming and in an instant it’s gone.

The butt of the Remington exploded the passenger-side window and it was only later that Daisy realized the power behind it. In practically the same moment, Max reached through the fractured Plexiglas, sprung the lever on the door, and yanked it open.

On reflex, Fitz flashed the gun toward Max. Stunned at the sight, Daisy banged on the window with all her might, screaming Fitz’s name.

His face flashed at her and then back at Max. Fitz looked dazed, confused, cornered, as if he wasn’t sure who posed the greater threat. The gun pointed in her direction, then at Max, before Fitz pressed the barrel to his own temple.

Her heart stopped. Visions of splattered blood and brains filled her head. She wasn’t prepared . . .

Her eyes moved off Fitz and caught Max on the other side of the cockpit.

“Daisy! Get down!”

Her knees miraculously folded. She dropped to the mud as the fuselage rocked and thumped. A blast deafened her, its power thundering through her as it fractured the windshield and echoed into the wilderness.

The Cessna started to slip down the embankment, farther into the slough. Her eyes popped as the tail threatened to roll over her.

She scrambled to get out of harm’s way, but the muddy slope held no leverage. Her only other choice was to go with the plane as it inched farther into the creek. As water lapped her mud-caked feet, the Cessna stopped.

For an eternity she crouched there, unmoving, staring at the water, her senses muted by the blast still echoing in her ears.

She jumped at the pressure on her shoulder and shot her eyes to the blood-streaked hand resting there. She followed its natural course and found Max’s face. Blood smeared his right cheek like paint. She winced, wide-eyed.

“Daisy?”

She just stared at him.

“Daisy?”

Somehow her name made it through the blast. She blinked, softened.