Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

ladder.
    “When are you leaving?”
    I made it to the floor and glanced at my watch. “About ninety minutes.”
    I hurled the fallen attic artifacts back upstairs and returned the ladder to its loft.
    “What’s he want you to do in Texas?”
    “That’s the weirdest part. He wants me to skydive.”
    “Why?”
    I dragged the bag-on-wheels to my bedroom and flung it onto the unmade bed.
    “To check out a drop zone near Houston.” I rummaged through dresser drawers. “It has to do with his case and he needs somebody who can fit in. He was about to explain it all when Bowman walked by and asked me for ‘a word’. There was only time for Richard to pass me a plane ticket and promise more details on the flight. Now you know as much as I do.”
    She was quiet.
    “At least it’s warm there,” she finally said. “You might see some sexy cowboys. Maybe you’ll meet the Marlboro Man and he’ll whisk you away to Me-he-co.”
    “Me-he-co?” I opened my top drawer, distressed to find only two pair of clean underwear. “You sound like Speedy Gonzales on Prozac.”
    “You’re funny now. Spend a couple days with Richard and you’ll be the one on Prozac. I don’t think this trip’s a good idea.”
    In my master bath, I unplugged my hairdryer and grabbed a cosmetics pouch from under the sink.
    “I don’t have time to get into this now. I’ll call you from the road.”
    “Don’t let him call the shots,” she said, and hung up.
    The last items I shoved into my suitcase were an assortment of skydiving tees and a couple pairs of shorts. Then I opened my closet, where my skydiving gear was hibernating for the winter.
    Plenty of my friends jump after there’s snow. But they’re fools. When ground temperatures reach the fifties, at altitude it’s in the thirties. That’s cold enough for me to hang it up for the year. My last season ended in October, so there was dust to brush off my gear bag.
    I hoisted the forty-pound sack onto my shoulder and dumped it next to the suitcase on my bed. I unzipped the compartments and checked that all the miscellaneous must-haves were inside—goggles, gloves, tube stows, rubber bands, and pull-up cords. My jumpsuit and helmet were there too, under my logbook. I pulled the logbook out and flipped to the last entry:
    Jump No.: 686
    Date: Oct. 9
    Place: Northern Ohio Skydivers
    Aircraft: Super Otter
    Equipment: Sabre 120
    Altitude: 14,000 ft.
    Delay/Total Time: 65 sec. / 11 h, 3min, 7sec
    Maneuver: 4-way with Mike, Walt, and Jerome
    Description: Launched the exit. Went to crap.
    Built 1st and 2nd points.
    Turned for the 3rd point, a bipole, but
    never got it. Breakoff at 3000 ft.
    Pop up landing over the peas.
    I snapped the book shut and tossed it back into the bag. It reminded me of another log, my old journal. I hadn’t looked at it since my last entry, which now seemed so long ago and yet so relevant. It was buried under old cards and photos in the bottom drawer of my desk. I pulled it out and ran my fingers over the ratty cover and twisted binding, tempted to open it, but short on time. I tucked it under my arm and returned to the bedroom, where I dropped it into my gear bag with the rest.
    The parachute system itself, or rig, was safely cocooned inside the gear bag too, dominating most of the space.
    “Good to see you, old friend,” I muttered. I pulled the gear bag’s zipper shut, slipped my arms through its backpack straps, and heaved it onto my back. Then I rolled my bag-on-wheels across the living room, wondering what I’d forgotten to pack.
    ***
    When I found my gate at Cleveland Hopkins, Richard was waiting in the chairs. The terminal smelled like hot dogs and popcorn. Two little girls in matching dresses wove under and around velvet ropes that cordoned the boarding area. I did a quick side step to avoid bumping into one of them, then felt a pang watching them play.
    Richard leafed through a thick file on his lap and scribbled notes on a legal pad.
    I took the seat beside him. “Heavy reading.”
    He looked up from his file and seemed surprised to see me. His eyes were slightly bloodshot. That was either new or had escaped my notice earlier at the office.
    “I don’t have much to go on, but I’ll show you what I have on the plane.”
    He paused and added, “I want to thank you—”
    An airline rep on the loudspeaker announced the first round of boarding. I used her distraction to pretend not to hear his thanks. I wasn’t in the mood to let bygones be