Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

repeat the question, because my attention was elsewhere. Behind her, Craig and the pilot from my Spy Cam were filling up the Cessna at the fuel station beyond the runway. They talked with their backs to us, but I’d seen enough to recognize the woman. Jeannie followed my gaze.
    “That woman’s a pilot here,” I said. “The missing kid’s mom recognized her from her ex-husband’s company. The guy’s staff here too. I pissed him off last night when he caught me snooping.”
    She looked from them to me, eyebrows raised, and flung her cigarette into the damp grass where she smashed it under the toe of her boot.
    I described my mucked up search and how Craig had caught me. “He gives me the creeps. Those two together spell trouble.”
    Craig turned from the pump station to walk back to the hangar and Jeannie and I looked away. Jumpers headed toward the runway and I spotted Donna with my beautiful Mirage strapped to her back.
    “There goes my baby,” I said.
    Jeannie gave a questioning look.
    “My gear. The girl over there with the spiky hair is borrowing my gear.”
    Jeannie studied the brightly colored jumpsuits and rigs.
    “Tell me the truth, Em. Could I do that?”
    I laughed. “Probably, sweetie. But it would mess up your hair.”
    She flipped me off with an expertly manicured middle finger and sashayed to the office without a look back, off to do God knows what.
    ***
    Foot traffic was picking up and I recognized several jumpers, but I didn’t spot Vince. I’d changed into decent clothes and applied rudimentary make-up in case there was a sighting.
    I chatted with a small group of jumpers in the landing area. Someone nearby called out, “Jump run!”
    The Cessna was passing ten thousand feet overhead and looked like an aluminum fly ball in low orbit. I held a hand over my eyes to block the sun and craned my neck. This was Donna’s load.
    When a dark speck peeled off from the silver speck, it meant jumpers were away. We couldn’t make them out as individuals until about thirty seconds later, when they tracked away from their formation to open. Soon after, like Technicolor popcorn kernels, canopies snapped open, making sounds like miniature thunderclaps.
    A voice in the crowd called, “Cutaway!”
    Sure enough, someone had chopped. Jettisoned from its harness-container, a discarded main tumbled over itself, looking more like a sheet in the spin cycle than a parachute. It wasn’t until I saw a solid yellow reserve inflate that I realized the cutaway parachute was mine.
    Around me, skydivers and spectators excitedly pointed to the sky and speculated, but the sight of a fully inflated reserve, obviously piloted by a conscious jumper, greatly diminished the original wave of alarm. Still, I was uneasy. I didn’t like the coincidence of a malfunction on the morning following my first real lead.
    Rick emerged from the office with his keys and headed for his pick-up truck. Donna would need a lift back to the airport. She was following the cutaway main canopy instead of steering toward the landing field. She knew that if she lost sight of my expensive equipment, it might be gone for good. I jogged to catch up with Rick, explained it was my gear, and asked to tag along. We climbed into the cab and he drove the length of his bumpy, muddy landing field until we came to a barbed-wire fence bordering a neighboring farm. An A-shaped stepladder straddled the wires, telling me more than one skydiver had landed there before. Donna was already on the ground when we got to her. She was unhurt, gathering up gear.
    I used the ladder to cross the fence and sank into soft earth when I stepped down. Rick followed me. “What happened?” he asked Donna. “You okay?”
    She frowned. “Line twists. Lots of them. More than I could kick out of, so I had to chop.”
    I wasn’t sure what type of malfunction I’d been expecting her to report, but it definitely wasn’t line twists.
    “I’m sorry I cut away your main, Emily.” She looked distraught. “I tried hard to fix it but it was taking too long and I started to get low and—”
    I hugged her. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
    Rick waited for her to finish daisy chaining the lines and helped her out of the rig. A few yards past her, I gathered up the cutaway main. The three of us climbed the ladder back to Rick’s side of the fence, and Rick placed the rig and main in his truck bed before turning to her.
    “Was that your first mal?”
    She hesitated. Skydivers