Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

There would be soggy landings, but nobody cared.
    The place was absolutely packed. Skydivers from greater Houston and western Louisiana had swarmed the drop zone, getting ready for the big weekend. Finally, I’d get a chance to meet Rick’s client base. I’d brought the disposable camera. At the end of the day, there’d be pictures to show Karen Lyons.
    “Why work hard on the ground for something that’s free in the air?” Scud’s lines were flung over his shoulder as he sorted the cells of his Batwing. He’d sneaked another kiss pass, this time with Linda.
    “Consider yourself lucky,” Marie told Linda, with a little pout. “When you’ve been married twenty years, any kiss’ll do.”
    We were in the hangar, packing after our second jump. Scud laid down his gear and wrapped Marie in a conciliatory hug; he even managed to cop a feel on her ass.
    “I’m so hungry!” I said. I caught myself separating my canopy cells a bit violently.
    Scud looked up. “Easy, baby. Plenty of Scud to go around.”
    Marie laughed.
    Craig Clement passed us without comment and went out the back door toward the landing field. He took a quick look around and peeled to the left, toward an overflow parking area beyond the side of the building. I said I was going to watch the last load fly down, and followed Craig outside.
    He disappeared behind the far side of the hangar. I peeked around its corner and watched him go to a mud-splattered pick-up with a beautiful Yellow Lab tied up in back. The day before, when I’d come in the rain, there’d been no trucks in the lot, so I doubted it was his.
    He pulled a small pouch from his pocket and unfolded it. It was a napkin. For a moment, he stood by the dog and let it eat whatever was inside. I felt stupid tailing a guy feeding a dog. But when the morsels were gone, Craig stepped toward the cab and glanced around the lot. I ducked behind the enormous aluminum wall and waited out of sight.
    When I checked again, he was in the passenger seat, one leg dangling out the door, rifling through the glove box. He pulled out some papers and leafed through them, then reached in his pocket and produced a phone.
    Marie’s voice came over the loud speaker. Load four was on a ten-minute call and she asked Craig to come to the office. I backtracked toward the crowd and heard the faint thud of a truck door slam behind me.
    My packing spot was gone. The floor was covered wall-to-wall with gear in various stages of assembly and my rig had been moved to the sidelines. I didn’t mind being bumped; it was time for lunch anyway. I knelt by my gear bag and fished for my car keys. And, suddenly, I had the uneasy feeling I was being watched.
    I turned, and Vince was standing in the open hangar door.
    He still looked good in jeans and a cowboy hat, but this time it wasn’t the man that grabbed my attention. It was the Burger King sacks he was holding. He shook them subtly, like a child using treats to entice a cat. When he raised his eyebrows at me, the question was obvious.
Interested?
    “I’ll give you fifty bucks for whatever’s in those sacks,” I said.
    He smiled.
    “Ain’t for sale,” he said with his slight drawl, “But I might share.” He wandered out the front of the hangar toward the soggy grass lot.
    He never looked back. Where was he taking that food?
    I followed him, still in my jumpsuit, and tried to unzip it and pull my arms out while hurrying after him.
    “Glad to hear it,” I shouted to his back, struggling out of a sleeve. “The sides of my stomach are stuck together.”
    “Said I
might
share,” he called back over his shoulder, and then he disappeared behind the corner of the hangar into the overflow parking area Craig was in moments earlier.
    I tried to step out of my jumpsuit while keeping pace with Vince and his fast food, but I tripped and stumbled into the side of the hangar. My shoulder whacked its giant metal panel and made a thunderous
bong
. Thank God he was out of view.
    I freed myself from the suit and rounded the corner.
    Vince was opening the tailgate to the same truck Craig had searched.
    He jumped into the back and sat on the bed’s plastic liner. His guitar waited there in an open case, next to the Yellow Lab. The dog had been lounging on a mound of old towels but now feverishly eyed the same sacks that drew me.
    “I can’t believe you left your Martin in the sun. And next to four dirty paws…Aren’t you afraid—”
    “Cindy loves music as much as I