Her Last Flight(11)

Now, I’ve been watching Foster’s face throughout this little biographical sketch. I want to see how she reacts to my assessment of Mallory, how she reads the story of my life, abridged edition, and whether she notices all the little spaces between the lines. And of course, the last part. The Spanish air force. The war. The thing about war, if you’ve been in one, you never really leave it, even when it’s all over and everybody goes home. A piece of you remains behind, buried in the blooded earth, and when somebody calls it back—as I just did—that piece sort of jumps to attention, if you know what I mean. And you can’t hide a thing like that.

But maybe this woman isn’t like everyone else, after all. Maybe Irene Foster has been hiding from the world so long, she’s just buried too deep beneath her own skin for anyone to discover in some flicker of eyebrow or quiver of chin. Maybe this woman has become a Lindquist after all. She listens to me, strokes her cat with one hand and her coffee cup with the other, and when I pause, as I do now, she takes a sip and asks me to continue. What strange thing, Miss Everett? What did the Spanish fellow tell you?

“He told me that he knew Sam Mallory in Spain, that he’d helped the Republicans during the civil war. And he knew when and where Mallory’s plane went down, in May of 1937.”

Lindquist bends her head to snuggle the cat on her lap.

“Well?” I say.

“Well, what?”

“Well, aren’t you fascinated to learn how Mallory died? Don’t you want to know the rest of the story? How we found the wreckage?”

She lifts her head, and her eyes are wet. The lashes are stuck together.

“I’ve got a flight in an hour,” she says. “I need to go check the airplane.”

“Now hold on. Am I just supposed to wait around until you get back?”

Lindquist finishes her coffee, sets the cat on the floor, and steps gracefully from the counter stool. “My husband will give you a lift back into town. In the meantime, you can clean up the kitchen.”



The damn cat just stares at me as I wash out the pan and the plates and wipe the toast crumbs from the counter. When I’m done, I pour myself another cup of coffee and light a cigarette. The windows have steamed up, so I don’t notice anybody coming until the bell tinkles on the door.

He’s a big fellow, muscular, pink faced, just starting to grow the paunch of middle age. He wears the usual island costume of pale shirt and pale cotton trousers, and his hair is even paler and thinning fast. He glowers at me and growls You’re the one? in some kind of faintly discernible Scandinavian accent, though I couldn’t tell you which part.

“Probably.” I stick out my hand. “You must be Olle, here to give me a lift back into town.”

“What the hell did you say to my wife?”

“Me? I just told her I know who she is, and I won’t call the press on her, so long as she’s a good girl and tells me all about herself.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I think it all might have been a little much for her, so early in the morning.”

Olle Lindquist gives me the goggle eyes and slumps into a chair. Honestly, I might have expected more from him. I think a husband should stand up for his wife, don’t you? Only maybe he’s the kind of fellow who will punch the lights out of the man who threatens him, but can’t figure out what to do with a feminine adversary. There are such fellows. This one pulls his hand through what hairs remain to him and stares at the foggy window in the direction of the hangar.

“If you want to go to her—” I begin.

“No. She’ll want to be alone.” He looks back at me. “As for you. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Janey Everett. I’m a photojournalist.”

“What’s that?”

“A journalist who tells stories with photographs. Except I’m through with that for a while. Hanging up my camera. Dusting off my typewriter to write a scintillating, no-holds-barred biography of Sam Mallory. I figured the only way to get the real story was to go to the horse’s mouth.” I flick out a little ash into a nearby tray. “The horse being your fascinating wife.”

“Yes, but how did you know? How did you find out?”

“Oh, that little mystery? Nothing some careful research and a few well-placed friends couldn’t solve. I’m afraid I can’t reveal my sources, however.”

He raises a finger and wags it at me. “You. Are a dangerous woman.”

“They are the best kind, you know. You should try one sometime.”

Olle stands up. “I am taking you back to town in the automobile,” he says, “and you are going to get on board the next boat back to Oahu, is that clear? You’re going back where you came from, and you are not saying a word about any of this.”

“Are you giving me an order, Olle? Because I don’t take orders, not from four-star generals and not from you.”

“Who the devil are you?” he asks, incredulous.

“I am Persistence, Olle. I am Curiosity.” I glance to the cat and back again. “I am Heartbreak. I am Survival. I am Recklessness and Perseverance. You can’t win.”

He swears. I shrug.

The bell tinkles again. A pair of men walk in, pilots by the look of them, talking some shop. They spot me right away and the conversation dies.