that’s where we’ll go.”
“How we going to find out where he is?”
“I’m gonna call my nephew, who works in real estate, and have him do a search of the property records on the island.” Frank got out his phone and tapped in a number. “It’s ringing,” he said.
“How’s he going to search the property records? It’s Saturday.”
“Real estate agents work on Saturdays,” Frank said. “So do computers. Hello, Eddie? It’s Uncle Frank.”
On Sunday morning, at the crack of dawn, Frank and Charlie set out for Essex County Airport in New Jersey. Frank carried a large briefcase that held what he liked to think of as tools, plus a large-scale map of Islesboro with the location of Stone Barrington’s house marked. They were met at the airport by their new friend, the pilot, and paid him in advance for the charter, plus an extra hundred for flying on Sunday.
“The weather’s a little iffy,” the pilot said, as they buckled into their seats.
“What exactly do you mean by ‘iffy’?” Charlie asked.
“Scattered thunderstorms in the area of the island. Don’t worry, I have radar and Nexrad.”
“What’s Nexrad?”
“It’s the weather you see on TV. Helps us fly around the bad stuff.”
“Don’t worry, Charlie,” Frank said, “he can deal with it.”
They took off and headed northeast. They were half an hour out of Islesboro when they flew into clouds.
“I can’t see anything!” Charlie shouted.
“Shut up, Charlie!” Frank shouted back. “You don’t need to see anything. Everything’s under control.”
Charlie tried to tighten his seat belt, but it wouldn’t move; he unfastened it to get a better grip. Suddenly, it got dark in the airplane, and there was a flash of lightning. The airplane dropped fifty feet like a stone, and Charlie banged his head on the ceiling.
“Fasten your seat belt, Charlie!” Frank shouted.
Charlie, who was still plastered to the ceiling as the airplane continued to drop, could only scream. Then he was pressed against the floor of the plane as it began to climb again. Finally, Charlie was able to scramble back into his seat and get his seat belt fastened. A clap of thunder nearly deafened him and masked his next scream.
Then, magically, the airplane broke out of the clouds and the runway lay dead ahead of them. The pilot set the plane down as if nothing had happened, and on the ramp, everybody got out. Charlie vomited a couple of times. “I ain’t going back in this thing,” he vowed.
“Don’t worry,” the pilot said, “the storms are passing to the north as we speak. In an hour, it will be bright sunshine.” It began to rain heavily.
Frank got out his phone and dialed the number he had called yesterday for the cab.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice.
“Can I speak to Ernie, please.”
“He’s asleep.”
“Well, I need a cab at the airport.”
“Ernie don’t work on Sundays. He’s a Holy Roller.”
“Huh?”
“A Holy Roller—you know, religious-like.”
“Do me a favor and put Ernie on the phone.”
“He don’t like it when I wake him.”
“He won’t like missing the money I’m gonna offer him.”
“All right, I’ll try. Hang on.” She put the phone down, and Frank could hear a couple of kids babbling and whining in the background.
“What’s going on?” Charlie asked, wiping the rain from his eyes.
“She’s getting Ernie for me.”
“Hello?” Ernie sounded sleepy and pissed off.
“Ernie, it’s me from yesterday. I need a cab at the airport now.”
“I don’t work on Sundays.”
“Two hundred dollars,” Frank said.
“Not even for two hundred.”
“Tell you what, Ernie, I’ll rent your car for a couple of hours for two hundred, and I’ll drive it myself.”
“Listen, that’s a classic Plymouth—can’t be replaced.”
“Come on, Ernie, how much?”
“Five hundred.”
“Done. Get your ass to the airport.” Frank hung up. “He’ll be here in a minute.” They joined the pilot, who
“How we going to find out where he is?”
“I’m gonna call my nephew, who works in real estate, and have him do a search of the property records on the island.” Frank got out his phone and tapped in a number. “It’s ringing,” he said.
“How’s he going to search the property records? It’s Saturday.”
“Real estate agents work on Saturdays,” Frank said. “So do computers. Hello, Eddie? It’s Uncle Frank.”
On Sunday morning, at the crack of dawn, Frank and Charlie set out for Essex County Airport in New Jersey. Frank carried a large briefcase that held what he liked to think of as tools, plus a large-scale map of Islesboro with the location of Stone Barrington’s house marked. They were met at the airport by their new friend, the pilot, and paid him in advance for the charter, plus an extra hundred for flying on Sunday.
“The weather’s a little iffy,” the pilot said, as they buckled into their seats.
“What exactly do you mean by ‘iffy’?” Charlie asked.
“Scattered thunderstorms in the area of the island. Don’t worry, I have radar and Nexrad.”
“What’s Nexrad?”
“It’s the weather you see on TV. Helps us fly around the bad stuff.”
“Don’t worry, Charlie,” Frank said, “he can deal with it.”
They took off and headed northeast. They were half an hour out of Islesboro when they flew into clouds.
“I can’t see anything!” Charlie shouted.
“Shut up, Charlie!” Frank shouted back. “You don’t need to see anything. Everything’s under control.”
Charlie tried to tighten his seat belt, but it wouldn’t move; he unfastened it to get a better grip. Suddenly, it got dark in the airplane, and there was a flash of lightning. The airplane dropped fifty feet like a stone, and Charlie banged his head on the ceiling.
“Fasten your seat belt, Charlie!” Frank shouted.
Charlie, who was still plastered to the ceiling as the airplane continued to drop, could only scream. Then he was pressed against the floor of the plane as it began to climb again. Finally, Charlie was able to scramble back into his seat and get his seat belt fastened. A clap of thunder nearly deafened him and masked his next scream.
Then, magically, the airplane broke out of the clouds and the runway lay dead ahead of them. The pilot set the plane down as if nothing had happened, and on the ramp, everybody got out. Charlie vomited a couple of times. “I ain’t going back in this thing,” he vowed.
“Don’t worry,” the pilot said, “the storms are passing to the north as we speak. In an hour, it will be bright sunshine.” It began to rain heavily.
Frank got out his phone and dialed the number he had called yesterday for the cab.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice.
“Can I speak to Ernie, please.”
“He’s asleep.”
“Well, I need a cab at the airport.”
“Ernie don’t work on Sundays. He’s a Holy Roller.”
“Huh?”
“A Holy Roller—you know, religious-like.”
“Do me a favor and put Ernie on the phone.”
“He don’t like it when I wake him.”
“He won’t like missing the money I’m gonna offer him.”
“All right, I’ll try. Hang on.” She put the phone down, and Frank could hear a couple of kids babbling and whining in the background.
“What’s going on?” Charlie asked, wiping the rain from his eyes.
“She’s getting Ernie for me.”
“Hello?” Ernie sounded sleepy and pissed off.
“Ernie, it’s me from yesterday. I need a cab at the airport now.”
“I don’t work on Sundays.”
“Two hundred dollars,” Frank said.
“Not even for two hundred.”
“Tell you what, Ernie, I’ll rent your car for a couple of hours for two hundred, and I’ll drive it myself.”
“Listen, that’s a classic Plymouth—can’t be replaced.”
“Come on, Ernie, how much?”
“Five hundred.”
“Done. Get your ass to the airport.” Frank hung up. “He’ll be here in a minute.” They joined the pilot, who
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