A Maidens Grave

Helicopter School. Lessons, Rides. Hourly, Daily.
    Despite that claim, however, the place was mostly a residence. A pile of mail sat on the doorstep and throughthe window in the door Budd could see a yellow light burning, a pile of clothes in a blue plastic hamper, and what appeared to be a man’s foot hanging off the end of a cot. A single toe protruded from a hole in his sock.
    “Come on!” Budd pounded hard. He shouted, “Police! Open up!”
    The toe moved—it twitched, swung in a slow circle—then fell still.
    More pounding. “Open up!”
    The toe was fast asleep once more.
    The window shattered easily under Budd’s elbow. He unlocked the door and pushed inside. “Hey, mister!”
    A man of about sixty lay on the cot, wearing overalls and a T-shirt. His hair was like straw and spread out from his head in all directions. His snore was as loud as the Sikorsky’s engine.
    Budd grabbed his arm and shook violently.
    D. D. Pembroke, if D. D. Pembroke this was, opened his wet, red eyes momentarily, gazed through Budd, and rolled over. The snoring, at least, stopped.
    “Mister, I’m a state trooper. This’s an emergency. Wake up! We need that chopper of yours right now.”
    “Go away,” Pembroke mumbled.
    Budd sniffed his breath. He found the empty bottle of Dewar’s cradled beneath the man’s arm like a sleeping kitten.
    “Shit. Wake up, mister. We need you to fly.”
    “I can’t fly. How can I fly? Go away.” Pembroke didn’t move or open his eyes. “How’d you get in here?” he asked without a trace of curiosity.
    The captain rolled him over and shook him by the shoulders. The bottle fell to the concrete floor and broke.
    “You Pembroke?”
    “Yeah. Shit, was that my bottle?”
    “Listen, this is a federal emergency.” Budd spotted a jar of instant coffee on a filthy, littered tabletop. He ran water in the rusted sink and filled a mug, not waiting for it to turn hot. He dumped four heaping tablespoons into the cold water and thrust the dirty cup into Pembroke’s hands. “Drink this, mister. We gotta get going. I need you to fly me to that slaughterhouse up the road.”
    Pembroke, eyes still closed, sat up and sniffed at the cup. “What slaughterhouse? What’s this shit in here?”
    “The one by the river.”
    “Where’s my bottle?”
    “Drink this down, it’ll wake you up.” The instant grounds hadn’t dissolved; they floated on the top like brown ice. Pembroke sipped it, spit a mouthful onto the bed, and flung the cup away. “Jeeeez!” Only then did he realize that there was a man in a blue suit and body armor standing over him.
    “Who the fuck’re you? Where’s my—”
    “I need your helicopter. And I need it now. It’s a federal emergency. You gotta fly me to that slaughterhouse by the river.”
    “There? The old one? It’s three fucking miles away. You can drive faster. Fuck, you can walk! God in Hoboken . . . my head. Oooooh.”
    “I need a chopper. And I need it now. I’m authorized to pay you whatever you want.”
    Pembroke sagged back onto the bed. His eyes kept closing. Budd figured even if they managed to take off, he’d crash and kill them both.
    “Let’s go.” The trooper pulled him up by his Oshkosh straps.
    “When?”
    “Now. This instant.”
    “I can’t fly when I’m sleepy like this.”
    “Sleepy. Right. What do you charge?”
    “A hundred twenty an hour.”
    “I’ll pay you five hundred.”
    “Tomorrow.” He started to lie down again, eyes closed, patting the dingy sheets for his bottle. “Get the hell outta here.”
    “Mister. Open your eyes.”
    He did.
    “Shit,” Pembroke muttered as he looked down the barrel of the black automatic pistol.
    “Sir,” Budd said in a low, respectful voice, “you’re going to stand up and walk out to that helicopter and fly it exactly where I tell you. Do you understand me?”
    A nod.
    “Are you sober?”
    “Stone cold,” Pembroke said. He kept his eyes open for a whole two seconds before he passed out once more.
     
    Melanie lay against the wall, caressing Beverly’s sweaty blond hair, the poor girl gasping with every breath.
    The young woman leaned forward and looked out. Emily, crying, stood in the window. Now Brutus turned suddenly and looked at Melanie, gestured her forward.
    Don’t go, she told herself. Resist.
    She hesitated for a moment then walked out of the killing room toward him.
    I go because I can’t stop myself.
    I go because he wants me.
    She felt the chill sweeping into