by Rachel Brady
The song was over fast; the old ones always are. I kneeled to put the Martin back in its case, and when I stood again I was face to face with the sexy cowboy.
His eyes, still in the shadow of his hat, were cast to the floor. You don’t find too many shy people at drop zones.
He spoke with a light accent, softly enough not to be overheard. “Damn, girl,” he said. “You made your first million yet?”
I laughed. “Hardly, but thanks.” I offered my hand. “I’m Emily.”
When he took my hand, the contact was electric. I mean, it was literally electric—we both got shocked. I looked at the carpet beneath us and felt my smile get bigger. When I raised my eyes again, I got my first look at his smile and it was beautiful.
“You have an amazing voice, Emily, and a good way with a guitar too. Name’s Vince.”
I glanced at his guitar case. “Caught with my hand in the cookie jar.”
“My guitar never sounded so good. Was beginning to think something was wrong with it.”
I forced my eyes away from his chest, finding irony that such efforts usually go the other way around.
He started to speak again, but Rick brought someone over. It was Billy, the rigger, and I brightened at the prospect of being in the air again soon. I excused myself from Vince, and followed Billy to the office. When we passed through the door, I tried to sneak a final look over my shoulder, but I got caught. Vince tipped his cowboy hat at me and grinned, and then the door snapped closed between us, leaving his image sharply focused in my mind.
Chapter Six
Billy was in no hurry. I followed him into the rigger’s loft, a glorified walk-in closet that opened off the drop zone office. When I handed him my rig, he put it beside five others and sat down to enjoy a pinch of Skoal. “Sometime this afternoon,” is all he would promise. Even his voice was a slow drawl. His easy smile told me any attempt to hurry him would only make him take longer.
I felt stymied about what to do next. Without gear, I’d have to go back to the hotel or invent a reason to keep hanging around the drop zone. Going back to the hotel wouldn’t help find Casey, but making up an excuse to stay seemed dangerous, considering my ineptitude at lying.
A third option was to rent student gear. It wouldn’t be pretty—student rigs are like your dad’s station wagon—but at least it would keep me at the drop zone for the rest of the day. I paid Rick his thirty-dollar per jump rental fee and he handed me a 170 square-foot Manta in return. I’d be falling from the sky under enough fabric to cover the old Astrodome. I heaved the giant rig over my shoulder and toted it out of the office like a pack mule.
I couldn’t find Marie, but managed to line up a jump with her friends. Their names were Linda and Beth. Linda seemed too young and exuberant to be mixed up with anything dark and sinister like kidnapping. Her attentive eyes and infectious laugh gave the impression she was a people-pleaser. She smoothed a wayward ringlet into her ponytail and told us she’d find our fourth. The Cessna wouldn’t go anywhere without a full load of four. Otherwise, Rick and Marie wouldn’t make money.
While we waited, Beth lit a cigarette, then tossed her lighter onto the picnic table where it landed next to an open issue of Blue Skies Magazine. The magazine’s pages lifted in the slight breeze, and I was about to pick it up and read the latest news when Linda returned with Scud shuffling behind her.
“Sweetheart!” I said.
Beth took a drag off her Newport and turned her head to exhale.
Scud’s legs were still in his jumpsuit, which was now only partially zipped. He’d taken his arms out of the suit and tied its sleeves around his waist like a jacket. He wore a faded No Fear shirt underneath.
“Wouldn’t miss this,” he said, ogling the three of us in turn.
“We’re on a twenty minute call,” Linda said. “Let’s dirt dive.”
We practiced the dive on the ground, rehearsing maneuvers we’d try in the air. Each time I took someone’s arm or leg gripper, I had the uneasy feeling I might be hanging on to somebody involved with the abduction. And each time one of them joked or smiled, I switched to feeling like a nitwit for suspecting decent people. How did the pros tell good guys from bad?
I spotted two men I didn’t recognize near the Coke machine. They watched us line up at the Cessna. One was a heavyset red-haired man who wore a Harley-Davidson bandana and held a camera helmet under an arm. The other popped the lid on a can of Mountain Dew. His face was wide at the top and narrow near his chin, and his too-thin mustache reminded me of rodent whiskers. Both were in their late twenties.
I smiled at them. The cameraman nodded back. Rat Man didn’t acknowledge me.
I climbed into the plane and Scud followed close behind. He gave two hard slaps on the back of my container and said, “That’s gonna weigh the whole plane down.”
“Shut up.”
“I love it,” he said. “She already sounds like a wife.”
***
We got eight points, or made eight separate formations, on that dive before breaking off at twenty-five hundred feet. Considering Scud was on the dive and none of us women had weight vests, I thought we did a decent job matching fall rates. At break-off, Scud held onto my wrist a beat longer than he should have. He snuck a kiss pass. Before turning and flying away to open his parachute, he kissed me. If the girls noticed, I thought we might get flack for it on the ground. Then I realized any girl who jumped with that clown got kissed.
My ride under the Manta was pathetic. A lightweight jumper like me was nothing under its huge surface area. I buried my right toggle, pulling it fully down to my hip, even wrapping some steering line around my hand to get more pull—a maneuver that would have put me into an aggressive spiral under my Sabre—but the Manta only responded with a slow, flat turn to the right. I gazed toward the Gulf of Mexico only a few miles away, and remembered my student jumps under a Manta. Huge parachutes didn’t bother me then. I was too excited about skydiving to notice how slow they were.
Back then, I was in college. My boyfriend broke up with me because I spent more weekends at the DZ than I spent with him. I figured it was better in the end; any man who understood me would take the whole package, parachute and all. The summer I graduated, Jack signed for the whole package.
When Annette came along, I quit. It was bad enough missing time with her while I was working. I wouldn’t miss our weekends too. That was five years ago. Last year, I finally started jumping again. Missing my husband and daughter, I’d returned to my surrogate family at the drop zone.
A gust pushed me forward and snapped me back to what I was doing—setting up to land. The Manta was docile when I turned into the wind. Once there, I got almost no forward penetration. Slowly, I sank toward the grassy landing field. I missed the higher speed, swooping landings I got with my own gear. When I touched down, I scooped what seemed like acres of canopy nylon into a bundle and made my way toward the hangar.
The cameraman I’d seen earlier loafed at the picnic table with his buddy, smoking. They held their cigarettes away from my gear when I got closer.
“Rick says you’re another space geek,” the cameraman said.
I smiled. “Small world.” I gave my name and new-in-town story, none of which seemed news to him.
“I’m Hank, but around here they call me Big Red. You a contractor or civil servant?”
It certainly hadn’t taken long for the NASA lie to bite me in the ass.
If I answered contractor I feared he would ask which one, so I told him I was a civil servant and tried not to sound edgy.
“On-site, then. Which building?”
I’d clicked past a map of the center on-line, with its myriad of buildings and roads, but I hadn’t thought to study it.
“I was only there once, for my interview. Can’t even remember the building.” I gave him a puzzled look, not entirely fabricated, and tried to remember the pictures I’d seen. “It was kind of impersonal and bland…with hardly any windows.”
Big Red laughed. “That’s half the buildings at the center. The place is huge.”
I imagined so.
Big Red’s rat-like friend watched our exchange, expressionless. I wondered if a personality waited, dormant, beneath his flesh-like exoskeleton.
“Well, my last name’s Powell. Hank Powell. When you get settled, look me up on the Global and maybe we can meet for lunch. I’m in Building Fifteen.”
I promised I would, and continued into the hangar, wondering what a Global was.
***
Later, I made two more jumps with the same group. When Beth went home, I jumped a three-way with Scud and Linda. We paid for Big Red’s slot so he’d videotape it. Afterward, Scud left, and we didn’t have enough people to make a load. Big Red dubbed copies of our dive onto DVDs for Linda and me. It had our dirt dive on it too. I figured Karen Lyons could at least get a look at Linda and Scud.
On the monotonous drive back to Houston, I tried Jeannie from my cell phone, but only got her answering machine. No such luck when I tried Richard.
He picked up on the first ring. “Got anything?”
“I didn’t meet anybody with Kidnapper or Pedophile written on his forehead, no.”
I ran through the names of everyone I’d met and waited while Richard scribbled his notes.
“Where are you now?” he asked.
“I just passed Lake Jackson.” I glanced in the rearview mirror at the single car way behind me. No one was in front. “This feels like Siberia.”
“Sorry for the long drive.”
“I have an idea about that, actually. They’re having a boogie this weekend, like a festival for skydivers. The place’ll be packed. I’m going to get a tent and camp at the DZ like everybody else.”
It’s not uncommon. Camping’s free and saves a long morning drive. Jumpers can drink all they want when the beer light goes on because nobody has to drive home.
“It’ll be a great excuse to plant myself here.”
He mumbled that it would be okay.
I hadn’t been asking for permission, but I let it go.
“Where can I find a sporting goods store? I need a sleeping bag and a tent.” I hesitated. “At your expense, of course.”
He told me the exit to use and I thought putting seventy miles between Richard and me for the rest of the trip was a fine idea.
“What about you?” I knew from our breakfast meeting he’d planned to talk to Karen Lyons’ neighbors.
“Only a small lead,” he said. “An old-timer two doors down says the street’s been quiet since Eric left. Apparently, Eric drives a diesel pick-up. Truck used to wake the guy when Eric left for work every morning. Neighbor says he hasn’t heard the truck for a week. That’s consistent with the last time Eric visited Casey. This fellow didn’t wake up Saturday night. I don’t think Eric was anywhere near the place.”
“If it was Eric, surely he’d use a different car.”
“Of course.” Richard paused. “I said it was a small thing.”
I remembered Richard wanted pictures so I mentioned the video Big Red had made. I said I’d leave it at the desk at the hotel. That brilliant plan of avoidance was the best idea I’d had all day.
“I’ll pick up a disposable camera tonight when I’m out getting supplies,” I added. “Tomorrow I’ll set up camp. I’ll call with any news.”
After we hung up, I imagined Karen hunched over a cup of cold coffee at her kitchen table, willing the phone to ring. And I wondered if the person who stole her son did it for money or revenge, or maybe to explore a sick, twisted fantasy. I worried Casey might already be dead. Then I shuddered, realizing we might never know.
***
I fell asleep that night with a People magazine draped over my chest, and I never knew it until the bedside phone in my hotel room clanged the following morning and scared me out of my wits. I scrambled upright under my covers and the phone rang again before I remembered where I was. It rang a third time before I found it in the pitch-black room.
“Hello?” I groaned, squinting at the digital clock.
It was Richard.
“Guess whose body turned up in the San Jacinto River.”
I leaned closer to the clock. 6:20 a.m.
Then Richard’s words registered. And they resonated in my skull so violently I thought the room was shaking.
Chapter Seven
“You there?” Richard asked.
“They found Casey,” I said, thinking immediately of his mother.
“No,” he said flatly. “Eric.”
I collapsed back onto my pillow. At least it wasn’t Casey. Then I felt horrible for preferring any one person’s murder over another’s.
“A fisherman found him an hour ago. Eric’s father phoned me.”
I imagined that call. “How awful for his parents.”
“And awful for his ex,” Richard added. “She was sure Eric took Casey. At least she could believe her baby was being cared for. If Eric’s dead, who has their son? Is he even alive? She’s terrified.”
I pushed myself out of bed and stumbled toward the coffee pot, flipping light switches and stretching the phone cord as I went. At the sink, I filled the pot with tap water. “How’d it…happen?”
“Shot twice in the chest. Police are shifting gears now, treating this as a stranger abduction. Mr. and Mrs. Lyons told Karen what we’re doing. I’ll share your video and list of names with her today.”
“What can I do?”
He exhaled. “Put this news in a separate place in your mind. Show up smiling at the drop zone today. See what you can learn.”
It seemed impossible.
“Good luck,” I said, and we hung up.
I dropped the handset into its cradle and stood by the bed. Something else was wrong. The room wasn’t quiet.
Soft, rhythmic taps at my window meant it was raining.
I walked to the window and separated the drapes. Droplets stuck to the other side of the glass. I focused past them, on the wide Texas sky. It was gray in all directions. Below me, shrubs in the hotel’s landscaping leaned in the wind.
I hoped conditions were better near the Gulf. When the DZ opened in a few hours, I’d call and ask. Bad weather meant no skydiving. No looking for clues.
Since it was too wet and windy to run Tuesday’s route, I used a treadmill in the hotel’s fitness room and thought about what to do. By mile two, I decided to visit Gulf Coast Skydiving, no matter the weather. Staying at the hotel would do nothing for Casey. It might improve my standing with Bowman, if I could concentrate long enough to get some work finished, but impressing Bowman wasn’t high on my list.
During mile three, I changed my mind. Showing up at a drop zone in the rain would be suspicious. How would I explain it?
By the time mile four rolled around, I had a side stitch, but no plan. I toweled off and stalked to my room.
It was only seven thirty, and I didn’t expect anyone to show up at the drop zone until ten or eleven. That left hours.
I showered and dressed and called Jeannie at work.
“Got your message yesterday,” she said. “Gimme the scoop.”
I heard a second call ringing on her phone.
“Wanna get that?”
“I’m already taking a call,” she said. “The scoop?”
“I made a few jumps at that drop zone yesterday. Met some good looking men.”
“Yummy!” I could hear the smile in her voice.
“Everyone was nice, though. No one seemed creepy or weird.”
“The M&M jar on your desk is empty,” she said.
“Thank you so much for your rapt attention. There’s back-up candy, but just for that, I’m not telling where.”
I imagined her pouty mouth. Lip liner, ColorStay gloss, and all. “What am I missing at work?”
“Oh. Bad news.” She lowered her voice. “Bowman’s panties are in a bunch. When are you coming back?”
“I was thinking Monday. Why? What’d he say?”
&
nbsp; “He didn’t mention you by name, but in our staff meeting he reviewed leave policies from the handbook. He talked about ‘proper channels’ and ‘misuse,’ particularly of discretionary leave.”
“That would be me.”
“Well, you can’t tell him the truth.”
I didn’t answer.
“Don’t worry. We’ll think of something.”
“Why can’t I tell the truth?” I sighed. “Maybe I can patch this up if I call and explain why Richard asked me—”
“Em. Come on. You didn’t tell him Monday. You won’t tell him today. If he finds out this is about another kid, he’ll push you back into counseling.”
She was right, and I didn’t like it. Bowman would hang my past over my head. After my family died, I’d swallowed a bottle of pills. Some mistakes follow us because we can’t forgive ourselves. Others linger because jerks like Bowman won’t let us forget.
“Emily? You’ve thought of that, right?”
In fact, I hadn’t.
“Of course I have.”
“Now you’re pissy.”
“I’ve worked at BioTek for seven years. Four patents, and how many publications? I had one bad year. A long time ago, I might add…and he still treats me like a time bomb. I should quit.”
“Please don’t do that. I couldn’t hack it without you.” She paused. “Say, did I mention your M&M bowl’s empty?”
Her levity cheered me a little. She’d earned some chocolate.
“Top left drawer.”
“You’re awesome.”
“I try.”
“How’s Cole, anyway? Is it weird?”
“Weird for me. Who knows what goes through his mind? Haven’t seen him since yesterday morning when he gave me a map and a car and basically said ‘see ya.’”
“I don’t think it’s good for you to be around him. But, I admire your trying to find that kid.” She changed to an authoritative tone. “Purchasing said it’ll be here Friday.”
“Gotcha,” I laughed. “I’ll call you at home later.”
Busted again.
Chapter Eight
No matter how much time passed, some people would always see me as the unstable, depressed woman I was after my family died. Sometimes, even years later, the ghost of that woman still rattled chains in my heart. It seemed Bowman heard them too.
