and his lofty I’m-the-veteran-around-here attitude. Well, maybe that was all right. Maybe even the top hog in the sty needed to have his curly little tail twisted every now and then, just to refresh his memory on his place in the scheme of things.
‘I thought you were supposed to be over at the Museum of Natural History, talking to the penguin guy,’ Morrison said. The corners of his mouth curved up in a small but undeniably evil smile. ‘The one who thinks they’re smarter than people and dolphins.’
Dees pointed to the only other thing on Morrison’s desk besides the folder and the pictures of his nerdy-looking wife and three nerdy-looking kids: a large wire basket labelled DAILY BREAD.
It currently contained a single thin sheaf of manuscript, six or eight pages held together with one of Dees’s distinctive magenta paper-clips, and an envelope marked CONTACT SHEETS DO NOT
BEND.
Morrison took his hand off the folder (looking ready to slap it back on if Dees so much as twitched), opened the envelope, and shook out two sheets covered with black-and-white photos not much bigger than postage stamps. Each photo showed long files of penguins staring silently out at the viewer. There was something undeniably creepy about them — to Merton Morrison they looked like George Romero zombies in tuxedos. He nodded and slipped them back into the envelope. Dees disliked all editors on principle, but he had to admit that this one at least gave credit where credit was due. It was a rare attribute, one Dees suspected would cause the man all sorts of medical problems in later life. Or maybe the problems had already started. There he sat, surely not thirty-five yet, with at least seventy per cent of his skull exposed.
‘Not bad,’ Morrison said. ‘Who took them?’
‘ I did,’ Dees said. ‘I always take the pix that go with my stories. Don’t you ever look at the photo credits?’
‘Not usually, no,’ Morrison said, and glanced at the temp headline Dees had slugged at the top of his penguin story. Libby Grannit in Comp would come up with a punchier, more colorful one, of course — that was, after all, her job — but Dees’s instincts were good all the way up to headlines, and he usually found the right street, if not often the actual address and apartment number. ALIEN INTELLIGENCE AT NORTH POLE, this one read. Penguins weren’t aliens, of course, and Morrison had an idea that they actually lived at the South Pole, but those things hardly mattered. Inside View readers were crazy about both Aliens and Intelligence (perhaps because a majority of them felt like the former and sensed in themselves a deep deficiency of the latter), and that was what mattered.
‘The headline’s a little lacking,’ Morrison began, ‘but — ‘
‘ — that’s what Libby’s for,’ Dees finished for him. ‘So . . . ‘
‘So?’ Morrison asked. His eyes were wide and blue and guileless behind his gold-rimmed glasses. He put his hand back down on top of the folder, smiled at Dees, and waited.
‘So what do you want me to say? That I was wrong?’
Morrison’s smile widened a millimeter or two. ‘Just that you might have been wrong. That’d do, I guess — you know what a pussycat I am.’
‘Yeah, tell me about it,’ Dees said, but he was relieved. He could take a little abasement; it was the actual crawling around on his belly that he didn’t like.
Morrison sat looking at him, right hand splayed over the file.
‘Okay; I might have been wrong.’
‘How large-hearted of you to admit it,’ Morrison said, and handed the file over.
Dees snatched it greedily, took it over to the chair by the window, and opened it. What he read this time — it was no more than a loose assemblage of wire-service stories and clippings from a few small-town weeklies — blew his mind.
I didn’t see this before, he thought, and on the heels of that: Why didn’t I see this before?
He didn’t know . . . but he did know he might have to rethink that idea of being top hog in the tabloid sty if he missed any more stories like this. He knew something else, as well: if his and Morrison’s positions had been reversed (and Dees had turned down the editor’s chair at Inside View not once but twice over the last seven years), he would have made Morrison crawl on his belly like a reptile before giving him the file.
Fuck that, he told himself. You would have fired his ass right out the door.
The idea that he might be burning out fluttered through his mind. The burnout rate was pretty high in this business, he knew. Apparently you could spend only so many years writing about flying saucers carrying off whole Brazilian villages (usually illustrated by out-of-focus
photographs of light-bulbs hanging from strands of thread), dogs that could do calculus, and out-of-work daddies chopping their kids up like kindling wood. Then one day you suddenly snapped.
Like Dottie Walsh, who had gone home one night and taken a bath with a dry-cleaning bag wrapped around her head.
Don’t be a fool, he told himself, but he was uneasy just the same. The story was sitting there, right there, big as life and twice as ugly. How in the hell could he have missed it?
He looked up at Morrison, who was rocked back in his desk chair with his hands laced together over his stomach, watching him. ‘Well?’ Morrison asked.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘This could be big. And that’s not all. I think it’s the real goods.’
‘I don’t care if it’s the real goods or not,’ Morrison said, ‘as long as it sells papers. And it’s going to sell lots of papers, isn’t it, Richard?’
‘Yes.’ He got to his feet and tucked the folder under his arm. ‘I want to run this guy’s backtrail, starting with the first one we know about, up in Maine.’
‘Richard?’
He turned back at the door and saw Morrison was looking at the contact sheets again. He was smiling.
‘What do you think if we run the best of these next to a photo of Danny DeVito in that Batman movie?’
‘It works for me,’ Dees said, and went out. Questions and self-doubts were suddenly, blessedly set aside; the old smell of blood was back in his nose, strong and bitterly compelling, and for the time being he only wanted to follow it all the way to the end. The end came a week later, not in Maine, not in Maryland, but much farther south, in North Carolina.
2
It was summertime, which meant the living should have been easy and the cotton high, but nothing was coming easy for Richard Dees as that long day wound its way down toward dark.
The major problem was his inability — at least so far — to get into the small Wilmington airport, which served only one major carrier, a few commuter airlines, and a lot of private planes.
There were heavy thunderstorm cells in the area and Dees was circling ninety miles from the airfield, pogoing up and down in the unsteady air and cursing as the last hour of daylight began to slip away. It was 7:45 P.M. by the time he was given landing clearance. That was less than forty minutes before official sundown. He didn’t know if the Night Flier stuck to the traditional rules or not, but if he did, it was going to be a close thing.
And the Flier was here; of that Dees was sure. He had found the right place, the right Cessna Skymaster. His quarry could have picked Virginia Beach, or Charlotte, or Birmingham, or some point even farther south, but he hadn’t. Dees didn’t know where he had hidden between leaving Duffrey, Maryland, and arriving here, and didn’t care. It was enough to know that his intuition had been correct – his boy had continued to work the windsock circuit. Dees had spent a good part of the last week calling all the airports south of Duffrey that seemed right for the Flier’s MO, making the rounds again and again, using his finger on the Touch-Tone in his Days Inn motel room until it was sore and his contacts on the other end had begun to express their irritation with his persistence. Yet in the end persistence had paid off, as it so often did.
Private planes had landed the night before at all of the most likely airfields, and Cessna Skymaster 3375 at all of them. Not surprising, since they were the Toyotas of private aviation.
But the Cessna 337 that had landed last night in Wilmington was the one he was looking for; no question about it. He was on the guy.
Dead on the guy.
‘N471B, vector ILS runway 34,’ the radio voice drawled laconically into his earphones. ‘Fly heading 160. Descend and maintain 3,000.’