Stuart Woods_Stone Barrington 14

whole thing, making sure all the bolts had been properly torqued at the factory, then he joined the three parts, tightening the main bolts only with his fingers. When he was satisfied that everything was properly assembled, he removed the main bolts and set them next to the thing in a teacup, ready to be used when needed. He’d have to get it out of the cellar before it could be finally assembled.
    That done, he filled the tiny fuel tank of the chain saw, went upstairs and outside and walked around to the other side of the building. A ravine ran along one side, and a concrete spillway about four feet wide, meant to handle the overflow from the cistern during the rainy season, ran from the building down to the ravine. Two fairly tall trees had grown from one side of the ravine and, bracing himself carefully, he started the chain saw with a couple of pulls of the cord and cut down both trees, leaving them to wash down the steep ravine with the next rain.
    He went back to the house, cleaned the chain saw, poured the remaining fuel back into the spare tank and put the chain saw away. Everything was ready for when it might be needed.
    Finally, he picked up the DVD that had come with the equipment and inserted it in his computer. It took him, step by step, through the operation, and every bit of it made perfect sense to him. He would run the drill over and over in his mind at odd moments of the day, to keep it fresh in his memory.

    S tone drove out to the St. Marks Airport and found the fixed-based operations now called Wells Air Services. He found Don Wells in the service hangar, working on the engine of a Cessna 150.
    â€œGood morning, Don, my name is Stone Barrington; I’m a friend of Thomas Hardy.”
    Don, a short, thick black man, wiped his hands with a greasy rag and shook hands. “Any friend of Thomas’s,” he said.
    â€œI just need a little information. About how many privately owned airplanes are based here?”
    â€œWell, except for the King Air, which is owned by the government, all of them, I guess.”
    â€œHow many?”
    Don did some counting on his fingers. “Seven,” he said.
    â€œAre all of them owned by local residents?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow many of the owners are white men?”
    â€œAh, five.”
    â€œDo you know all of them personally?”
    â€œIn a manner of speaking. Some of them have been customers since before I bought the business.”
    â€œAny new airplane owners in the past few weeks?”
    â€œTwo of them,” Don replied, “a Bonanza and a Cessna 140.”
    â€œWho owns them?”
    â€œThe Bonanza is owned by one of the casinos, or, I guess, by one of the people there. His name is Brent; he’s one of the top people in the company, I think.”
    â€œCan you describe him?”
    â€œAbout thirty-five years old, five-ten, well over two hundred pounds, dark hair.”
    â€œAnd who’s the owner of the 140?”
    â€œHe’s fairly new on the island, older fellow, a retiree from England. His name is…let me think a second…Robertson.”
    â€œDescription?”
    â€œClose to six feet, slim, thick salt-and-pepper hair, early seventies, I’d say. Nice fellow.”
    â€œWhere is the airplane?”
    â€œI’ve got four T-hangars,” Don replied. “It’s in one of them.”
    â€œCould I have a look at it?”
    â€œSure. Follow me.” Don led the way outside and down a row of hangars, stopping at one of them and entering the combination for its padlock. He hauled the door upward to reveal the airplane.
    Stone walked slowly around the aircraft, then opened the pilot’s door and climbed in, looking at the instrument panel. Stone was impressed. The Cessna 140 was the predecessor of the 172, the world’s most popular airplane, and it qualified as an antique. This one was in beautiful condition and seemed to be entirely original; all the equipment—radios and flight instruments—was period stuff.
    â€œThis is really something. Do you know where he got the airplane?”
    â€œHe said he had owned it for more than forty years, since it was new. When he bought his house here, he had the wings taken off, then shipped the whole thing in a container to St. Martin, where they put the wings back on. Then he flew it over here.”
    â€œWell, thanks, Don. It was a treat just to look at this machine.” Stone made a note of the