Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

a stapler and a canister of Pringles.
    A TV and VCR monopolized a tabletop beside the far wall, next to a computer and a stack of blank DVDs. The loft was doubling as an editing room. Archived DVDs and VHS tapes filled a row of overhead shelves. I fingered the tapes one at a time, turning my head sideways to try to read their labels, but it was too dark.
    I stepped toward the computer.
    “Looking for something?” Someone spoke from the shadows behind me.
    My pulse quickened again. How could anyone have come in so noiselessly?
    I faced the doorway, but couldn’t tell who was there. He leaned on the doorframe, one foot crossed over the other, and his shadow spanned the loft like a long, bony hand.
    “I was in for a bathroom stop,” I said. “And I was…curious, I guess.”
    The man stepped back into the dim office, still looking at me. The subtle change in lighting revealed the rat face of Craig Clement.
    “The loft is for employees only.”
    “Got it,” I said. “Sorry.”
    I offered an awkward wave and left, brushing past him because he wouldn’t move out of my way. I treaded around the sleepers in the hangar and made my way through dewy grass back to my tent, fervently wishing it were all steel with a door to lock. The best I could do was zip myself inside.
    I sat on my sleeping bag and second-guessed myself. Why had I agreed to come to Texas in the first place? Four days had passed, we had a sketchy lead at best, and now things were getting freaky.

Chapter Fourteen
    When my watch beeped at five, my head was thick with the kind of fatigue I remembered from college all-nighters. There was no way I was going on the first load, even though it meant passing up my free balloon jump. I stumbled to the hangar, drank coffee, and ate eggs and sausage links while making excuses. A young skydiver named Donna, who’d recently gotten her A license, was trying to talk Rick into a cheaper gear rental. I remembered my early jumps, when enthusiasm for the sport outweighed my budget. I told Donna I’d be glad to share my rig. She said I “rocked.”
    The morning was chilly, so I stayed in the sweatshirt and sweatpants I’d slept in and found an empty lawn chair facing the landing field. I watched the balloon jumpers and Cessna loads and looked for the pilot from my picture, but didn’t find her. Someone was filling in, and it wasn’t Vince. That was lucky, considering how rough I looked.
    Later that morning, I’d just warmed up another cup of coffee when a curvaceous middle-aged blond in leather pants and a tight sweater gingerly crossed the soggy parking lot in unsteady high-heeled boots. She draped an arm casually around Rick as he led her toward the hangar, apparently welcoming her in the same benign, flirtatious way he’d greeted me. Even from a distance, I could see the familiar lacquered red fingernails and overdone lip-gloss. Jeannie!
    Right then, Scud sidled up and patted my behind. I was mortified he might have felt the same little jiggle I did. He followed my gaze to the parking lot and locked onto Jeannie.
    “Mm, mm,” was all he said.
    I wanted to leap into her arms and hug her. But instead I turned for the office before she spotted me. Explaining how we knew each other could be tricky. It’d be better to find her later, on my own.
    ***
    Rick and Jeannie weren’t in the parking lot or the packing area. I wandered out back to the landing field, but they weren’t there either. When I passed the training room adjoining the hangar, the morning’s ground school class was inside. Students were lined up beside a wooden Cessna mock-up, practicing exits and PLFs—parachute landing falls.
    Finally, I found them standing off to the side, watching. It looked like Rick was explaining the drills to Jeannie. When he left, I sneaked up behind her and leaned toward her ear.
    “Gonna give it a go?”
    She turned, startled. “Jeez, Emily. You scared the crap out of me!”
    My sweatshirt protected me from the slap she levied on my shoulder.
    “You didn’t tell me you were coming,” I said. “I’d have baked a cake.”
    She smiled. “You look like shit. Where’s your make-up?”
    I ignored her.
    She pulled a pack of Salem Lights from her handbag.
    “Can’t smoke in here.” I led her outside.
    She promptly lit up.
    “What are you doing here?”
    “Checking on you.” She took a drag on her cigarette and exhaled, careful to blow the smoke away from me. “So what’s the skinny?”
    Jeannie had to