When The Devil Whistles (9 page)

“Very good. I’m impressed.”

“Do the guns still work?”

“They do. In fact, I was just firing them today. A movie studio is making a war movie called
Blood on the Sun
, and they paid me to fly down and shoot up a Japanese air strip—or pretend to shoot it up anyway. I loaded the guns with blanks today. The real bullets are locked up back at my hangar.”

“Cool, I’ll have to see that movie when it comes out.”

Connor tapped the metal skin of the wing. “You know, my grandfather actually built the guns in this plane during World War II.”

“Whoa, he built P-51s?”

“Well, not quite. He owned a company called Lamont Industries that made all sorts of machinery. One of the things they made was machine guns for the P-51. When the war was over, he bought one of the planes that had his guns in it.”

“I wish my grandfather had a P-51.”

“Stein!” called a pretty blonde woman who had just emerged from an office building. “Time to go!”

“Hold on just a sec.” Connor felt around inside the wing and found a small loose cylinder. He pulled it out and handed it to the boy. “Want an empty cartridge from today’s movie shoot?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Thanks!” Then he turned and ran to his mother, showing her his prize as soon as he reached her.

Connor chuckled as he watched them go. Twenty years ago, he had been exactly the same. He pestered Grandpa Lamont for a ride in the
White Knight
at least once a week, and when they were in the air, he always begged to shoot the guns. Grandpa had soon learned to keep them unloaded whenever he took his trigger-happy grandson for a ride.

Grandpa had been convinced that Connor would be a fighter pilot and had given him the P-51 when he got his pilot’s license. Grandpa hadn’t exactly said he was disappointed when Connor chose Stanford over the Air Force Academy, but he had made Connor promise that he wouldn’t let the
White Knight
get rusty.

That hadn’t been a hard promise to keep. Connor loved the old plane and kept it in mint condition. He flew it at least once a month when he was in California and had trained himself to be a competent P-51 mechanic.

As for Grandpa Lamont’s desire that Connor spend his life shooting down America’s enemies, Connor liked to think that he was doing just that—even if he generally didn’t get to use machine guns on them.

12

O
KAY
,
MIGHT AS WELL GET THIS OVER WITH
. Allie picked up the phone and hesitated. She eyed the bottle of margarita mix in the liquor cabinet, but decided against it. Better to do this sober.

She took a deep breath and dialed. The phone rang three times. Four. Five. She began to hope that Mom and Sam had gone to bed early.

But no. “Hello, Allie.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Thanks for calling, sweetheart. It’s so nice that you remember to call every July twenty-third.” She paused. “It’s ten years today.”

“I know. Sometimes it feels like a hundred years ago— sometimes it almost feels like it’s still happening. How are you and Sam doing?”

“We’re fine.” She sighed, and Allie could hear the tired smile in her voice. “Samantha and the girls made oatmeal-raisin cookies and we sat around the kitchen table and ate them and looked at pictures of Grandpa.”

“Wow, he would be a grandfather now, wouldn’t he? It’s weird to think of him like that.”

“I know. He’s forever young, isn’t he?” Mom’s voice got rougher and softer. “He’ll always be the man in those pictures.”

“Which pictures were you looking at?”

“The ones from our last trip to the Dells. The girls loved the one of you and Sam on his shoulders. Do you remember that one?”

“Oh, sure.” She and Sam, each wearing bikinis and each standing on one of Dad’s shoulders in the hotel swimming pool. All of them wet and laughing in the sun. Dad was a big man, proud of his size and strength. One of his favorite pool or beach stunts was to balance his two teenage daughters on his shoulders like a circus strongman. Sometimes they even stayed up long enough for Mom to snap a picture. That had been the last time.

Less than forty-eight hours after that picture was taken, he’d been lying next to Allie in a pile of twisted steel and shattered glass, his face too pale and—

Waves of guilt crashed over Allie, driving her down and suffocating her. She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed hard. Her eyes were suddenly wet and she fought back sobs. “So, how are you and Sam doing?” she forced out.

Mom paused a second before answering. “We’re fine, dear. How are you?”

She sniffed and took a deep breath. “I’m good. Just started a new job. Lots to do. These guys can build an underwater power plant, but they can’t balance a checkbook.” She laughed, a brittle and harsh sound. “So anyway…”

“Are you sure everything’s all right, Allie?”

No.
“Yes. I’m just… work is just really busy and I’m kind of distracted and tired.” She faked a yawn. “Sorry.”

Mom paused again. “All right. Well, I’ll let you get some rest then. Have a good night, honey. I love you.”

“I love you too, Mom.” She sniffed again and wiped her eyes on a sheet of paper towel, leaving little smears of mascara. “Give Sam and her girls hugs from me, okay? And if you need any money or anything, just let me know.”

“Thank you, but you’re already too generous. We still have over twenty thousand from the last wire transfer you sent.”

“When that starts to run out, let me know.”

“Good night, Allie.”

“Good night, Mom.”

She hung up and took out the margarita mix. She dumped some ice in a big plastic mug, filled it halfway up with mix, and then the rest of the way with pure tequila.

Last year had been a lot easier. She had held it together for nearly two hours, chatting and reminiscing about Dad with no problem. Come to think of it, the year before hadn’t been too bad either. Maybe this year was rough because it was the ten-year anniversary of the crash. She took a swig from her mug, and the strong tequila aftertaste promised a powerful buzz by the time she reached the bottom. Good.

The annual Dad calls were like going to the dentist for a checkup. Sometimes all that poking around was basically painless. But other times, ka-BLAM—it hit a nerve with no warning. It felt like being slapped with an oven mitt covered in broken glass.

She popped her iPod into the stereo and set it to shuffle. She took another swallow of super-charged margarita and flopped down on the sofa as the first song came on: “Novocain for the Soul.” She laughed and tipped back the mug again. How appropriate.

13

P
REDICTABLY
,
THE CALL CAME AT
7:00
ON A MORNING WHEN
M
ITCH
Daniels was trying to sleep in. First Mate Randy Jenkins told him that the
Grasp II
was sailing in 24 hours, and anyone not on board would be left behind. Mitch said he’d be there, hung up the phone, and rolled over. His wife, Sherrie, was snoring vigorously. He thought about trying to roll her onto her side, but if she woke up she’d yell at him, insist she didn’t snore, and they’d have a fight. Too early for that. He put on his headphones and buried his head under a fat down pillow. He had just started to drift back to sleep when the phone rang again.

Mitch groaned and dragged the handset to his ear. “Hello?”

“Mitch, pick up a can of WD-40 on your way to the dock, okay?” said Ed Granger’s voice. “I’ll see you there at eight.”

Out of deference to the sleeping Sherrie, Mitch didn’t yell. Instead he whispered, “It’s seven in the morning, Ed. Go do your own shopping.”

“Can’t. Jenkins told me Tuesday he didn’t think we’d be sailing until next week, so now I gotta get down to the G-2 and do four days worth of work on Eileen in twenty-four hours.”

“Yeah, well that sucks for you. I’m going back to sleep.”

Ed gave an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, fine. If you don’t want to know what else Jenkins told me when he called me this morning, that’s fine.”

“What’d he say?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re on the G-2.”

Mitch flopped his head back on the pillow and stared at the popcorn ceiling. There was no way he’d be able to go back to sleep now. “This better be worth it.”

Ed cackled. “Oh, yeah. And don’t forget the WD-40.”

“Up yours, Granger.”

The familiar scent of bunker oil, seawater, and diesel exhaust met Mitch as he stepped out of the cab he had taken from the 12th Street subway station to the Port of Oakland. The sharp, incessant cry of sea gulls mixed with the sound of the sea breeze and the rumble of the trucks that were picking up or dropping off shipping containers.

The
Grasp II
lay in her berth, her freshly painted hull gleaming blue and white in the morning sun. She was squat and low, and her two cranes looked like mismatched mantis arms on her deck. The G-2 wasn’t a beautiful or graceful ship, but she had a certain magnificent ugliness that Mitch liked.

He picked up his duffel and stainless-steel mug and walked across the stained concrete dock to his ship. First Mate Jenkins leaned against the gangplank railing, a clipboard in one hand and an Egg McMuffin in the other. He wore a clean uniform shirt, but didn’t look like he’d showered. So even he had been surprised by their sailing date and time. Interesting.

Jenkins checked him in and confiscated Mitch’s cell phone and laptop. When Mitch asked why, the second officer just shrugged. “Captain’s orders.”

“Any idea why? We’ve gone on some pretty hush-hush trips before, but the captain never ordered us to turn in computers.”

Another shrug. “He’s ordering it this time.”

Jenkins didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood, so Mitch gave up and went below to stow his gear and find Ed Granger. As he expected, Ed was in the machine shop tinkering with Eileen. Man and machine looked remarkably alike: ugly, powerfully built, and bulging in odd places.

“Hey, Ed.” Mitch pulled a can of WD-40 out of his jacket pocket and tossed it to his friend.

Ed caught it nimbly. “Thanks, Mitch.”

“Just make sure you pay me back.” Mitch drained the last inch of lukewarm coffee from his mug and yawned. “So, what did Jenkins tell you?”

“Hey, you want a reload?” Ed pointed a greasy finger toward a battered orange Thermos. “I got some Italian roast in there. Not the garbage you get from Starbucks—roasted and ground those beans myself. Pretty good if I do say so—that’s as full-bodied and sensuous a cup of joe as you’re gonna find.”