Killer Cargo. Dana Mentink

rabbit turned its gaze on her and hunkered into a tight ball. Its fuzzy sides trembled, the pink dot of a nose quivering. Did those eyes really have a sheen of desperation in them or was it another set of eyes she remembered? With a shudder, she got up and looked again at the contents of the cargo area, noting with displeasure that her plane was beginning to smell like a bowl of chicken-flavored Alpo.

      She checked the packing list again. She was at the right location, as far as she could tell.

      The earlier jobs for Martin Shell ended with no problems, though none had terminated at this particular airstrip. Shell had even taken her to dinner a few times when he was in L.A. He was a sweet old guy, round and ruddy-cheeked. With his shock of white hair and booming voice she could easily picture him in lederhosen on the top of a mountain, blowing into a giant horn. Martin would come through. She was sure of it.

      She opened her cell phone again and dialed his number. After five rings the answering machine picked up with Shell’s booming baritone. “Hello, Mr. Shell. It’s Maria. I’m sitting at the airstrip in Oregon waiting for your guys to pick up the shipment.” She checked her watch. “I’m on time but so far, nobody’s here. It’s the right delivery point so maybe there’s been a delay on your end? Someone tried to call me but we had a bad connection. Please call my cell and let me know if the plan has changed, okay? Thanks.”

      Two minutes later her phone shrilled. She started and it clattered to the floor. “Hello?” she managed to say on the third ring.

      “Maria, dear. Marty Shell here.”

      Relief coursed through her. “Hi, Mr. Shell.”

      “Sorry I missed your call. I was smoking the hive.”

      She could picture the huge guy in his white bee suit, like some enormous cheerful snowman. “How is the honey today?”

      “Oh, perfect. I wish you could see it, liquid amber and perfect on the tongue. I know Mrs. Shell will relish it on her toast in the morning.”

      “Is she feeling all right?”

      He exhaled into the phone. “Ah, well. Good days and bad, you know.”

      Maria had only seen pictures of the tiny Asian woman who suffered with debilitating bouts of lupus. “I really enjoyed the honey you sent for my birthday,” Maria said. “It was amazing.”

      “You need to come to my place in Palm Springs, Maria. When you see those combs emerge from the wax, you won’t believe it.” He paused. “My stars. I’ve got another phone call coming in. I’m sorry my people are late meeting you. I’m not sure how to correct them of this terrible habit other than hanging them by their thumbs.” He chuckled. “Stay put, dear. They’ll be along shortly.”

      She disconnected with a happy sigh. All was as it should be. Shell’s people would be along in a jiffy. As usual, it was merely a case of her overactive imagination. The bunny hopped around in his cage, sniffing for food. She decided to try to locate some rabbit pellets from the stacks of supplies. Poking around the bags and boxes, she wondered how they made dog treats in the shape of tiny T-bone steaks. She pictured an assembly line of elves with cookie cutters stamping out thousands of the things. A cardboard box caught her attention. It was securely wedged in the space between the Savory Snacks and the Kibble Krunchies. She reached over the rear seat, pulled it out and set it on her lap.

      It was the size of an ordinary shoebox, wrapped in brown paper with no label or writing of any kind. She sniffed it. No telltale scent of kibble or alfalfa. She shook it. No movement from inside. It was probably some flea medicine or something. Or some of those squeaky toys for dogs they had just forgotten to label.

      The only sound in the plane was the quiet drumming of rain on the roof and the grinding of the rabbit’s teeth chewing on the bars. She looked at him. “You know, we really should come up with a name for you. Oh, sure, you’re destined to be swallowed whole, but everything deserves to be named, doesn’t it?” She opened the top of his cage and scratched between the silky ears. He flattened against the floor in bliss. “Peter? Fluffy? Nah. Let’s just go with Hank. How does that grab you?”

      Hank spread out even more and flopped over onto his side.

      “Hank it is. I wonder why they didn’t label this box? Weird.” She should put it back and walk away but some instinct wouldn’t let her. It wouldn’t hurt anything to take a quick peek. Besides, there might be rabbit munchies inside. “I can always wrap the box back up, when it turns out to be flea medicine or rubber hot dogs, can’t I?”

      Maria eased open the tape. She ignored the guilty pang and pulled the box out of the paper. Mr. Shell would understand. He wouldn’t want a rabbit to go hungry, either. The cardboard box top came off easily and she stared inside.

      Ice-cold terror hopscotched through her chest and constricted her throat. She blinked hard.

      When she opened her eyes, the stuff was still there.

      It was not possible. Not from a man who made honey and tended his sick wife. There had to be some mistake. They’d both been double-crossed.

      “Hank,” she said, nausea washing over her in cold waves, “I’ve got a bad feeling we’re both gonna be snake food.” A distant rumble of thunder made her stomach jump.

      Wrap up the box and leave it. Pretend like you never noticed the thing.

      No. Then she would be an accomplice to the crime.

      Call the cops.

      She ripped her phone open, horrified to see the battery light indicate it was all but depleted. There was no choice but to call when she was safely away from this isolated spot. She shoved the box back where she’d found it, bolted to her feet and jumped into the cockpit. The blood rang in her ears. Her fingers instinctively scrambled over the controls, prepping the engines for takeoff, praying the storm would disappear as quickly as it had arrived.

      Then she remembered an important detail. She needed fuel if she was going to fly out of this no-man’s-land. A quick calculation reminded her she had only two hundred dollars in her wallet. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Through the drops of moisture on the windshield she saw a man in the window of the distant shed on the end of the tarmac. She was going to have to try to convince the guy to come into the storm to sell her a couple hundred bucks worth of fuel, pronto.

      Maria slammed into action. She grabbed a backpack, tossed in her wallet and pulled on a baseball cap. “I’ll be right back,” she told Hank as she popped open the hatch. He pressed his pink nose against the bars.

      Simultaneously, through the pounding rain, she heard a sound that made her breath freeze: the distant rumble of a car. She could barely see the outline of a black sedan and the two male figures in the front seat.

      Her stomach turned upside down. There was no way she could fuel up and get in the air before the car reached them. She was going to have to improvise. One step out of the plane and she could hear Hank thumping around in his cage. He was as alone and friendless as she was. A crazy thought formed in her mind.

      It was ridiculous. The unwieldy cage would only slow her down. They would catch her and kill her, and kill the rabbit, too. She continued down to the asphalt.

      But Hank was helpless and alone. She knew what that felt like. Too well.

      After a moment of paralyzed indecision, she raced back up and grabbed Hank’s cage. It was all she could do to hold on to it and jog along the slippery ground. Thanks to the mountainous roadway, the car was still making its way down the winding path toward the airstrip when she burst through the doorway of the shed.

      The young guy standing on a chair playing the air guitar didn’t look up. The sound of hard rock emanated from his ear piece and a red licorice rope dangled from his lips. He stomped his feet on the cracked vinyl of the chair seat.

      “Hey,” Maria said. “I need some help.”

      The kid continued to play, flipping his long hair out of his face with zeal. He switched from air guitar to drum solo.