ELEVEN
Chance dragged himself out of bed and shook off the strange dream. One more moment of fooling himself into believing the plane crash had only been a dream couldn’t hurt, could it? His head still pounded. Before he’d gone to bed, he’d made it to the convenience store next door to grab junk food and sodas and pain relievers.
His ribs still ached, but he figured he would live, and his most serious injury had been to his head. Even that was slightly—only slightly—better this morning.
He thought through the last forty-eight hours.
The airstrip.
He’d never made it. He was supposed to have met someone there, though he had no idea whom. Really, it was a handoff and not a meeting. A package drop.
He should at least go to the airstrip and start there, but he no longer had a package to drop.
Chance counted his cash. He had one more night in this motel and then he would need cash. But maybe he would have answers and his package returned by then. Unless the authorities had the package.
He pressed his palms against his eyes. But no. Jim had found him, and Jim had been murdered. He’d bet his left arm Jim had been murdered for the package. Those who knew its value would commit murder.
And to that end, Chance had to find the person behind the delivery. The person who’d been blackmailing him all these years and who’d set up this particular delivery as if to get some sick retribution.
On the burner phone, he called for a cab to pick him up. He stuck his head under the faucet and shoved his wet hair back. Rinsed his mouth. One glance in the mirror, and he wished he hadn’t. He looked like he’d climbed out of a hole that had been drilled straight from hell.
Fifteen minutes later, he asked the cabbie to take him to the airstrip in the woods.
“I’m not familiar with it.”
Chance scratched his head. How did he explain? “Out by the old Blankenship place. That old flour mill that was turned into a restaurant that failed. It’s out there somewhere. Can you just drive? I’ll direct you.”
Half an hour later, Chance got out of the cab near the smallest of the buildings at the end of the airstrip. Private or public, he wasn’t even sure. There was no tower. He leaned in through the passenger side window of the cab. “Wait here. I won’t be long. I’ll pay you when I’m done.”
The cabbie frowned but had no choice if he wanted his money.
Chance hadn’t realized he had a limp. His leg started hurting. Maybe the drugs he received during his hospital stay had masked it before and now the pain was only beginning to ignite. Accident injuries could often appear hours or days later. What more could he expect?
He limped toward the building and found the door locked. Chance glanced back at the cabbie, who watched him. The man turned away as if he didn’t want to be complicit in Chance’s crimes or a witness to be dealt with later.
With his good leg, Chance kicked in the door. Worth it. A man had been murdered.
Had the authorities already been to this airstrip or searched the building? Were they watching now to see who showed up? He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Difficult to think clearly with a pounding head and now an aching leg to add to his throbbing ribs.
The building had a counter and chairs like some sort of short-term waiting area or meeting place. Would he have met someone here in the building if he had landed? He hadn’t been instructed to leave the package here, but maybe he would have received a call with those instructions.
Had someone been waiting here for him to land? He closed his eyes and waited like that would conjure up an image. Who was the person who was supposed to have received the hazardous package?
Had Jim been waiting here for the airplane? Heard the plane, then saw him go down? The crash site wasn’t all that far. Jim had probably driven up the forest road to help Chance. But like Chance, Jim would have hidden the package from authorities, or he might have already delivered it.
Did Jim’s contact kill him?
Too many thoughts fought for space in Chance’s mind and confused him. He shook off the madness and focused.
He couldn’t know if it had been Jim or someone else who had waited on him here. Chance moved around the ancient counter. On the floor behind the counter he found a tiny strip of paper with a phone number written in blue ink. The writing looked masculine, though he was no expert. He folded the slip of paper and stuck it in his pocket. The phone number could mean everything or nothing. Still, his heart pounded as if he’d hit the jackpot.
With a bounce in his good leg, he made his way out of the small building.
The cab was gone.