Wy said, "He must have primed the prop by hand."

"What?" Liam still couldn't look at her directly. He looked at Gruber instead.

Gruber swallowed again, Adam's apple bobbing in the open throat of his shirt. "I guess she means Bob must have pulled the prop through by hand."

Liam looked again at the prop. At his height it was nearly eye-level. Despite the rays of the early evening sun peering through the break in the clouds, a light rain was falling. The blood on the tips was beginning to run, coalescing into fat red drops that fell with audible plops to the mangled flesh of the man beneath. "Huh?"

"You reach up, grab a blade, and rotate the prop a couple of times," Wy said.

"Oh, you mean like--"

Gruber choked on his wad of gum, and Wy said, "Don't do that!"

She grabbed his half-raised hand. Her touch seared right through the surface of his skin. She let go, a brief flush of color in her cheeks. "Sorry," she said gruffly. "I haven't checked her out since I got back and found Bob. Whatever was wrong with her still is."

"Oh." Liam, feeling suddenly warm, unzipped his jacket and turned his face up to catch a little of the cooling drizzle on his overheated skin. "Why would he do that? What did you call it, "pull the prop through by hand"? I take it that isn't standard procedure." He looked at Gruber because he wasn't sure what his face would show if he looked at Wy.

"No." Gruber looked at the pilot standing silently next to the trooper. Liam waited. "He was an old-timer," she said finally.

"An old-timer? What's that got to do with anything?"

She looked up, and slowly Liam turned to meet her eyes, which were as bleak as her voice. "A lot of the old-time pilots are used to the old round engines, which had a habit of leaking oil into the cylinders. Pilots would pull their props through to make sure no leaky oil had caused a hydraulic lock. If they didn't pull it through, they could blow a jug."

"Blow a what?"

"A jug. A cylinder."

"Oh," he said.

She gave a faint shrug. "I pull the prop through in the wintertime myself, just to see if it's moving freely."

"It's never done this to you," Liam observed, and knew a momentary spear of terror. Goddamn flying anyway, it'd kill you in the air or on the ground, made no difference.

She shook her head. "I always check the magneto twice. Always. Sometimes three times." Her brow creased. "But so does Bob. I don't understand this."

"The magneto?"

"The switch connected to the p-lead. Controls power to the ignition."

Liam thought about it. "So if it's off, the prop shouldn't do this."

"No."

"Show me."

She hesitated. Her hand came out in a futile gesture.

"Don't," he said, understanding.

Her hand dropped, her shoulders slumping.