Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

apartment on Clear Lake. “I found a cute little place in Kemah, not too far from some great seafood restaurants.”
    “Excellent!” Rick said. “We have several space nuts here. I’ll introduce you.”
    He tapped a stack of flyers on the counter and explained that a boogie—jumper lingo for a major skydiving event—was planned for the weekend. He was bringing in a couple hot air balloons and a Twin Otter from Tulsa for some special jumps.
    In addition to regular weekenders, boogies often attract other regional jumpers. If a skydiver in southeast Texas was responsible for Casey’s kidnapping, I thought there was a good chance he’d be at the boogie.
    “Let me introduce you to the gang,” Rick said, “Then we’ll take care of your rig and waiver.”
    He held open the office door and followed me outside into the expansive hangar, where I met a love-struck young couple lounging on carpet remnants covering the cement floor. They could hardly look away from each other long enough to meet me.
    Rick leaned close to me and whispered, “Hot pants,” as we walked outside.
    I laughed, and it felt good. Good to laugh, and good to be at a drop zone, where a person can walk into a crowd of total strangers and almost any of them will make room for a newcomer on their dive.
    Outside, in alarmingly quick succession, I met three women and four men. I realized immediately my problem linking names and faces would be a severe handicap in my new role as Richard’s operative.
    Two names stuck.
    The first was Marie, Rick’s wife. She dog-eared a page in a paperback when Rick brought me over. Petite and athletic, she was in her forties like Rick and had a gorgeous tan. She smiled from her perch on a picnic bench and extended a hand toward me.
    In the first Texas accent I’d heard on the trip, she said, “Welcome. We need more girls around here.”
    Another woman nodded in agreement but was unable to speak because her mouth was full of Fritos. She gave an embarrassed chew-smile and held out her bag to offer some chips, which I accepted. The third woman tossed a cigarette to the ground and smashed it under the toe of her Nike. Marie’s friends were younger than she, but all had bronzed skin, a definite perk to life in the south as far as I was concerned.
    Standing next to them were four men, still in jumpsuits.
    “I saw you guys when I was coming up the road,” I said.
    Rick told me their names, but as soon as the final handshake was complete, the entire list was wiped from memory, save one.
    “Scud” had a face that should be in magazines. He used his grip on my hand to pull me into a swift hug, as if he’d known me all his life. I’d met the resident flirt, and couldn’t help but ask about his name.
    “It’s because of the way he flies that damn Batwing,” Marie snickered, referring to his high performance parachute, which handled like a sports car in the automotive world. She said “flies” like “flas.” “Crazy fool whizzes through here like a missile.”
    “Don’t believe a word of it, sweetheart.” Scud lifted my hand and kissed it. Marie rolled her eyes.
    The skydivers carried their gear into the hangar. I followed Marie’s gaze and watched Scud trudge away with a slight limp.
    “When you gonna fix that knee, tough guy?” she called.
    “No sense doing it before the boogie, woman.”
    She shook her head and opened her book again. “Man’s got the sense of a tin can.”
    I dropped some quarters into a vending machine beside the door and popped open an A&W, eavesdropping while the jumpers went over their dive. They spaced themselves throughout the hangar, laid out their lines across mismatched swatches of old carpeting, and started packing.
    I noticed a guitar case in the corner and asked the closest jumper if it were his.
    “Nope, that’s Vince’s. You play?”
    I swallowed a sip of root beer. “A little.”
    “Well, he sure can’t,” he said, and the others laughed. “Help yourself. He’s a good guy. No worries.”
    I set down my can and unfastened the case’s latches. I was surprised to find a Martin inside.
    “For somebody who can’t play, he sure has a Cadillac in here.”
    “Whatcha gonna play, sweetheart?” Scud called from across the room, where he was folding the Batwing’s cells.
    His flirting was relentless, but it went a long way toward breaking the ice and I needed the help. He was also nice to look at, so all the better. I decided I could keep up with him, even