Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

the horn. She jumped, and the fabric amassed in her arms slipped over and over itself until it rested on the ground in a sloppy heap. When she spotted me, she gathered up the parachute again and hurried to the car, dragging most of the fabric in the dirt. She was near crying.
    “Take this stuff off me. We gotta get out of here.”
    I couldn’t help but laugh.
    “I don’t see what’s so damn funny.”
    I unbuckled her helmet and slid her goggles off her head. I daisy-chained her lines, released her chest strap, and loosened her leg straps. She stepped out of the rig and I placed it in the back seat of my car.
    “You shouldn’t drag a parachute.” I brushed road dust off the nylon. “It could tear.”
    Jeannie was already in the passenger seat.
    “Bite me.” She slammed the door.
    I slid behind the wheel and looked at her. She was sweating.
    “You okay?”
    “Just drive.”
    When we turned onto the highway, Jeannie said, “That was a treat. A guy from the cast of
Deliverance
lives back there.” She gestured behind us with her thumb.
    “Rick mentioned him,” I said. “I came as fast as I could.”
    “He’s a lunatic, Em. Certifiable.” She started to imitate him, stabbing a pointed finger in the air. “‘You and yer planes. Noise all day and all night with you. This private property! This private! Git off my land!’”
    “I am so sorry. Your first skydive and you had a run-in with the local crank.” I hesitated. “You
are
going to jump again though, right?”
    She pulled down the sun visor to check her hair in its mirror.
    “Bet your ass, sister. Right after I get a cigarette.”
    ***
    Jeannie did make another jump. She was on the sunset load, the last load of the day. When the Otter’s wheels left the ground, the beer light went on and the party was officially underway.
    A bare-chested man with a nipple ring set up colossal stereo equipment in one corner of the hangar, and as he manipulated plugs and wires, Linda moved rigs and gear bags from their spots in the middle of the carpeted packing area. I gathered she was clearing a dance floor.
    I pulled a bottle of Shiner out of a cooler and scanned the crowd, wondering if Vince would come. He’d bowed out after our beach walk, claiming errands to run. On my way outside to check the picnic area, Marie waved to get my attention.
    “Give me a hand, hon’?”
    She leaned over a long party table and arranged troughs of brisket and baked beans. I helped her lay out plastic cups and Styrofoam plates as jumpers began to congregate near the food.
    “Big turn-out,” I said. “Any night jumps this weekend?”
    She frowned. “Had an accident a few years back. We don’t do them anymore.” She pinched a sample of the brisket. “Not bad.”
    I grabbed my own sample and stepped outside. Vince was nowhere in sight, but I did spot Craig. He was demonstrating a freestyle technique to a couple of young jumpers. It occurred to me the loft might be unattended. Maybe I could get the flight logs. If I got caught in there again, I’d say I was checking on my repack.
    In the loft, a cameraman was perched on a stool, editing footage. He ran images backward and forward in slow motion and ignored me when I stepped inside and flipped open the reserve closing flap on my rig. I pulled my packing card from its pocket and verified that Billy had been the one to do the repack, not Craig. I checked Billy’s seal, and finding it intact, hoisted the parachute over a shoulder. My back was tender from sleeping on the ground the night before. I groaned.
    “Sounds like someone’s a little out of shape,” the cameramen said, barely suppressing a chuckle.
    “I prefer ‘out of practice.’” On the screen behind him, Big Red’s hulking image came into the frame, and I nodded toward it. “We can’t all be built like an ox. I bet his job keeps him in shape. Me, I sit at a desk.”
    The cameraman followed my gaze over his shoulder to the monitor. He shook his head. “Wrong excuse. Big Red has a desk job too. CPS.”
    I considered the acronym. “Child Protective Services?”
    The cameraman nodded. “Meyer too,” he said. “You know Meyer?”
    I stared at him. “David Meyer?”
    “Sure. They work together.” He shrugged, and swiveled to the equipment again.
    I thought of David Meyer, choosing a career defending children, and of his girlfriend, Trish Dalton, possibly involved in snatching them. Then I hung my gear back on the pegs and prepared for another attempt