Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

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,