Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

the sight of him turning off sports, jumping up from the couch, and chasing me around the kitchen table.
    I pushed him off at first. I mean, really—the nerve. But, let’s be reasonable. What he had in mind was more fun than housework. I made it twice around the table before I slipped and he caught me. He spun me around and started kissing my neck. I accused him of trying to get out of trouble. He said he was trying to get into trouble. Then there was more kissing, less of the socks, less of the shirts, way more laundry on my floor…And to summarize: Welcome home to ME!
    I give it a 9.5. Technical merit was certainly there but I think he might have been trying to wrap it up in time to watch an interview with the Indians’ coach.
    Now he’s sleeping, but I’m wired. I checked voicemail and e-mail.
    Detective Cole sent a photo line-up to the local FBI office. I’m supposed to go tomorrow morning. That’s intimidating. He explained that because Mattie was kidnapped and taken across state lines, the FBI is investigating. The truck we saw on the surveillance tape was registered to a body shop, but no employees resembled my computer sketches. Detective Cole said after they put some “heat on”—his words—during questioning, one employee admitted loaning the truck to his cousin. They later discovered the cousin did resemble my sketch. Thus, the photo line-up.
    I won the eBay auction for the baby jogger. It shipped yesterday and should arrive by the weekend. I browsed for guitars, but held back. Must. Wean. Self. Off. eBay.
    ***
    Baskets of overflowing laundry on the couch and a dirty plastic lunch box on the kitchen counter would be a welcome sight now. Even Jack on our couch, wielding his remote, would be a blessing. I’d die a happy woman to have him chase me around the table one more time, the way he did that night.
    And sweet Annette. What I wouldn’t give to trip over her toys or wipe peanut butter off my silk blouses again.
    When I think about these things too long, I get into a funk. But Dr. Raleigh used to say it was healthy to remember, that I needed to let myself do that. So I do, several times a day—I can’t help it—but not for too long. For example, the stinging in my eyes at the breakfast table meant it was time to close my journal and think about something different for a while.
    Marie answered the phone when I called the drop zone later that morning. Skies down south were overcast, but she thought the clouds might burn off by afternoon. What I saw from my hotel window made me skeptical anything would burn off that day, but I decided to make the trip anyway. In the best case, I could spend the afternoon jumping and looking for clues. In the worst, maybe I’d get more names for the list Richard was taking to Karen.

Chapter Nine
    On the coast, the sky was a charcoal dome. Rain assaulted the roof and windshield of my borrowed car to the point the wipers had trouble keeping up. The dirt drive leading through the tiny airport had deteriorated to mud. Clumps of it thudded against the undercarriage of the car.
    I thought back to the Sheltons. Mattie’s kidnapper walked free, thanks to a botched trial. When I’d finally put the pieces together, I accused Richard of being part of that mess. Though he’d never admitted it, he’d never denied it either.
    The hangar’s sliding door was open enough for a person to squeeze through. I parked next to two other cars, as close to the building as I could, and dashed for shelter.
    Inside, the little Cessna seemed enormous. I wiped my wet forehead on a damp sleeve and pulled open the office door. Marie peeked from behind a computer monitor to greet me. Her smile was strained. An open and partially disassembled computer case was on the table beside her. I was surprised to find Big Red’s friend in the office too, kneeling over an open tandem rig on the floor.
    Rick popped up from behind the counter and grinned when he saw me.
    “This is Craig Clement,” he said. “Newest hire, meet newest regular.” He winked at me when he said that last part.
    Craig nodded wordlessly and returned his attention to the parachute cells spread before him. He not only had the face of a rat, but was so quiet and unobtrusive, I could imagine him sneaking around like one in the dark.
    “Son of a gun,” Marie muttered. She smacked her mouse on the desk. “I hate this machine.”
    She eyed the disassembled computer suspiciously, like a creature might crawl out.
    “What