The Four Corners of the Sky_ A Novel - Michael Malone [67]
Hart asked quickly, “Is there some way you can get me a ride on this guy’s jet but not tell him I’m a cop looking for Annie? I swear to God, I’m really trying to help her. Jack Peregrine’s got some major-league crooks after him, and he’s got the U.S. fucking government after him, which as we all know…”—he gestured at the political stickers on D. K.’s wheelchair—“…makes organized crime look like babies in a playpen.”
D. K. stared at the detective a moment. Then abruptly he spun his wheelchair toward the restroom door just as Brad was slamming out of it. The crippled pilot looked at Brad and then at Daniel Hart. He made another of his snap judgments. He growled, “Dan, this is Brad Hopper. That’s his jet. Brad, Dan’s a friend of mine, local businessman, needs a quick ride to St. Louis. He paid me two-hundred bucks and I’ll give it to you.” (Dan looked at him alarmed.) “That’s all he’s got. It’s about a woman he’s in love with. Ain’t it always? Give him a lift and you’re cleared for takeoff.”
Brad made a derisive noise. “I get it. Your radio’s working fine. You just been holding me up so I could give a lift to your lovesick bud here.”
D. K. nodded cheerfully. “We’re all standing in the shadows of love, Brad, don’t you know that?” He wheeled himself backward to his desk and opened a metal cashbox, from which he took two hundred-dollar bills. “Better use Runway Two-Seven. Only one we got.”
When Brad took the money, D. K. made sure their fingers didn’t touch.
“Thanks for the loan. I’ll pay you back,” Dan told D. K. after Brad had left the room.
“That guy loves money.” The cranky vet had never forgiven Brad for breaking Annie’s heart. “I lost my legs and that was nothing compared to losing Dina. My wife. Money don’t mean shit and only shits don’t know that.”
Chapter 21
Imitation of Life
On the slow drive home to Pilgrim’s Rest, Clark and Sam talked as they always did, slowly, easily. They talked about Annie’s risky flight—it distressed them—and about Brad’s reconciliation prospects, which Clark considered nil.
They speculated about what Jack really wanted from Annie, and why he wanted it. Was he trying to cut some deal with the law to reduce a sentence, or with criminals to stop them from beating him to death for unpaid debts? What was he trading—the plane, the emerald?
“That was a very real emerald in his jacket,” Sam mused. “That emerald was big enough to be in the Smithsonian.”
“Oh, Sam, come on.”
“Clark, you don’t know your jewelry. Remember the summer Jack showed up like North by Northwest, right after Annie graduated, when the highway patrol almost got him, that little ruby he gave me for Annie; it’s worth thousands now. You know what? Maybe Kim was never crazy. Maybe there were Peregrine jewels buried at Pilgrim’s Rest.”
Clark snorted his skepticism. “Sam, you’ll believe anything. That ruby came out of a bucket at some ruby farm in the Smokies. And if that emerald’s real, then Jack stole it. Maybe he stole it from the Smithsonian.”
Sam nudged him impatiently. “Just listen. Say Kim was right and there was a stash of precious stones. What if Jack found them? He always said he was going to be a millionaire.”
Clark drove slowly, approaching the turnoff for River Hill Road. “You just listen! One, practically all that Peregrine land is gone. You sold it. That land is now sitting under a hundred acres of sweet potatoes and Christmas trees.”
“That doesn’t mean there’re not gems buried in it.”
“Two, you’d never find them. A hundred acres of clay and muddy river? You couldn’t even find your motorcycle when it flew out from under Annie and crashed