Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“You can bet I won’t be going to any banquet while Marvel is still missing!” Pancho declared through gritted teeth. “I dare anyone to even suggest it to me!”
Phoenix was hot, but not as hot as Yuma. The skies were clear and blue, that horrid sandstorm left behind. She would’ve traded it all just to be sitting beneath Marvel’s wing with her, though. Where are you, Marvel?
“Fretting isn’t going to help any,” Amelia murmured.
“Neither will sitting on some stage, on display like a prize heifer, eating rubbery chicken,” Pancho informed her tartly.
Amelia’s lips twitched with humor that faded as fast as it had appeared, leaving Lady Lindy grim faced like the rest of them. Pancho paced back and forth, sweeping the skyline for any sign of Marvel.
“It’s too dark for her to be flying now,” Amelia said. “She’s put down somewhere.”
“I tried so hard to get her to stay in Yuma,” Pancho ground out.
A few yards away, Marvel’s brother was wearing a path back and forth on the ground, same as Pancho.
“Joe Crosson, why didn’t you make her stay in Yuma?” she demanded.
“I tried! Talked to her on the phone until I was blue in the face. I told her to wait for me! But my sister’s determined to win this derby. You have no idea how stubborn she can be when she sets her mind to something.”
Pancho kicked at the dirt. “Actually, I do. I did my darnedest to talk her out of leaving Yuma, too.”
Amelia said reasonably, “We all need some rest. Or else fatigue is going to start taking us out, never mind the sabotage.”
“I doubt I’ll sleep a wink,” Pancho groused.
“A bath won’t hurt you. C’mon.” Amelia wasn’t taking no for an answer.
Pancho rolled her eyes. “I do stink worse than if I wandered into a den of skunks and made ’em all mad.”
She wasn’t ready to leave the airfield, however.
Something had gone very wrong for Marvel.
She was out there somewhere, maybe alone, maybe stranded in the middle of nowhere, hungry, thirsty, and cold, maybe scared.
There had to be something she could do to fix Marvel’s predicament.
But if she left the airport to go to the hotel, she was admitting there was nothing she could do to help her friend—no, her sister.
She locked eyes with Amelia. But then Amelia glanced significantly at the other women standing around, silent and worried. Amelia’s gaze returned to her knowingly, and Pancho sighed. Everyone was waiting on her to make the call on when they stopped waiting for Marvel to arrive tonight.
She felt as if walking off this field would crush her heart.
But what choice did she have? If Marvel had stayed in the air, she would have run out of gas hours ago.
If she’d landed somewhere with a phone, she would have called in long before now.
Marvel had been forced to set down somewhere and was either waiting for a rescue or hiking to the nearest civilization at this very moment.
And there was absolutely nothing she could do to help. Marvel was on her own.
The moon, a few days before full, was rising, looking so darned beautiful it made Pancho tear up. Marvel had better be somewhere, looking up at that big moon. I can’t lose you.
She forced herself to start walking toward the hangar, feeling defeated, as if she were quitting on Marvel.
Her chest was tight, every breath hard to draw in.
Don’t break. Don’t lose your composure. Joe’s watching you.
Heck, everyone was watching her. As long as she remained convinced Marvel was fine, so would the others.
Amelia fell in beside her as the other pilots followed Pancho to the line of cars that had been waiting for hours.
Pancho’s steps slowed. You’ve got to get the others into bed, or tomorrow night another one of them might go missing, too.
Fatigue was as deadly as any sabotage. Missing details could be a death sentence.
All the women were running on fumes after several late nights and early mornings, not to mention the stress of the sabotage, the crowds, and the race itself.
If Marvel were here, she’d tell Pancho to get the others off the field. That decided it for her. She lifted her chin and headed for the nearest car. She was going, but she wasn’t giving up hope. Tomorrow, they would find Marvel. Trouble was, Pancho didn’t know if she would be alive or dead.
CALIFORNIA, PONCHO’S HOME
“Tonight, dire news from the National Women’s Air Derby . . .”
“Father! Mother’s race is on the radio!” William called from the living room.
Rankin hurried to join his son, who was on his knees in front of the radio, his young face tight with anxiety.
“The current race leader, Miss Marvel Crosson, failed to land at Phoenix tonight,” the radio announcer continued.
“Fears for her well-being were clearly reflected on the faces of her fellow aviators and her brother, Mr. Joeseph Crosson, who was at the airfield. Speculation as to the reason Miss Crosson didn’t arrive at her destination runs from getting lost to falling prey to sabotage.
“Mr. Erle P. Halliburton, Texas oilman and owner of a flying service, had this to say: ‘Women have been dependent on men for guidance for so long that when they are put on their own resources, they are handicapped.’ Halliburton went on to urge that this dangerous race be canceled before any more young women go missing.”
“Father, is Mother still flying in the derby?” William asked, his young voice rising in concern. “You said you would stop her!”
Rankin strode across the room and turned off the radio before the announcer upset William further.
“Father? Didn’t you tell me that it was your duty to keep Mother from getting hurt? The man said ‘sabotage.’ I know what that word means.”
“Very soon, your mother will no longer be in the derby, William,” Rankin promised his son. “In the meantime, you are too old for such outbursts. Emotions belong above the stairs.”
William pushed to his feet, drew in a shaky breath, and found his composure. “Yes, Father.”
Rankin nodded approvingly at his son. “Learning to control yourself will serve you well in life, William. You must never show weakness to others. They’ll take advantage of you if you do.
” He relented from his lecture long enough to say kindly, “Don’t allow the radio announcer to unsettle you with speculation. Always wait for the facts.”
William looked at the radio. “You’re right, Father. The announcer was making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Exactly. The radio is full of stories created for the sole purpose of stirring up your emotions.”
“Why, Father?”
Rankin smiled at his son. “So you will be vulnerable to the marketing of their products, William. They want you to seek comfort in the things they try to sell to you. They want you to believe that objects and possessions are where we find happiness. But true happiness comes from family.” He added belatedly, “And God.”
William looked at the radio and then back at his father. He flashed Rankin a smile before heading upstairs.
Rankin listened to make sure William was out of hearing range before he went into his study and quietly closed the door. He sat down at the desk and picked up the telephone receiver.
“Mr. Barnes,” Willard Templeton’s voice said warmly a few moments later.
“Have you heard the news this evening, Mr. Templeton?” Rankin bit out.
“Yes, I have. Troubling, very troubling, this business of sabotage.”
“I’ve paid you a hefty fee to see to it my wife no longer takes part in this air derby. You promised me timely results.”
“I’m working on the matter with great urgency even now, Mr. Barnes,” Willard assured him.
“None of your efforts will matter if Florence is the next pilot to suffer catastrophe.”
“One more day, and we shall have your wife in the care of licensed medical professionals,” Willard assured him.
Rankin said tersely, “I pray it will not be one day too many.” He ended the call and opened the door, listening to the house. It was too quiet. His heart felt very much like the house, full of empty rooms. Don’t hate me, Florence. I merely want the best for my family.
RACE DAY 3, PHOENIX, ARIZONA
Pancho was awake to see the sunrise. The air was clear, the sky blue.
Even in August, desert nights were cool, and some of that chill lingered in the air.
Good thing Marvel had worn a leather flight jacket.
She wouldn’t have been too cold last night.
And she could always wrap herself in the ball gown the race officials had made them fly with for extra warmth.
Marvel Crosson was from Alaska. She’d do just fine.
Today, everyone wanted to be up and flying before the heat built up to torment them like it had in Yuma. As she left her room in search of breakfast, she wasn’t surprised to see the other pilots up and around. She’d bet dollars to donuts none of them had slept well either.
She gulped down a plate of food she didn’t taste and headed over to the airport with the other women to inspect their planes and make sure they were properly refueled.
Joe Crosson was already at the field. Or maybe he’d never left it. He was scanning the horizon for any black specks of inbound airplanes. He turned and looked bleakly at Pancho.
“There’s word. Some people say they saw a plane go down on the north bank of the Gila River yesterday afternoon. It was in a steep nosedive.”
His voice caught.
Pancho felt like someone had stabbed her straight in the heart. I’m not going to believe it . . . I will not!
“Witnesses always get the details wrong,” Pancho pointed out. “And . . . Marvel had a parachute. She would’ve used it if her plane was going down the way those folks described. She promised me.”
Amelia chimed in, “Right. The parachute. Even if the plane was lost, Marvel’s probably fine.”
Joe Nikrent and Dr. Ayers arrived, and the reporters already gathering at the airport shouted questions at the men.
“Dr. Ayers, is it true that Marvel Crosson is dead?”
“Can you confirm Marvel Crosson has been killed?”