Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

over me. I set my food down and closed my eyes.
    Jeannie’s hand closed over mine. I thought about what Richard said at breakfast and tried to assimilate it with what I remembered of that couple. Their disappearance, at the same time as my own, was beginning to seem too timely to be an unfortunate coincidence.
    “Hang in there,” Jeannie whispered, and scooted closer. She wrapped an arm around my shoulder. Tears squeezed past my lashes and dropped to my chin.
    I leaned into her. “All I can think about anymore is how much I miss my little girl.”
    Someone shuffled up and stopped in front of us. I wiped my cheeks without looking up from the floor.
    Jeannie sighed audibly. “What do you want?”
    When there was no answer, I raised my head and was eye-level with hairy legs and a knee brace. Scud was looking down at us. His expression had none of the dalliance or humor I’d come to expect. Instead, he looked at me with what I interpreted as genuine concern.
    “Didn’t mean to butt in,” he said quietly. “I’ll catch up with you two later.” He paused before leaving and added, “Emily, I’m real sorry about Annette.”
    He turned, and seemed to gauge who to drop in on next.
    When he was gone, Jeannie said, “That was decent of him.”
    But as I watched him cross the room, I grew paranoid. I dropped my head into my hands.
    “What is it?”
    I stood, flustered. Napkins began to slide across the floor.
    “I never told Scud her name.”
    “What?” Jeannie scrambled to her feet. She stomped napkins and gathered them into wads.
    I left without her and stalked outside toward the dirt road. I needed to walk and think.
    Soon, she caught up. “What’d you say?”
    “Last night, Scud asked if I had kids. I told him about Annette, but I didn’t say her name.” I stopped walking and faced her. “Only Vince knows her name. So either Vince is a loudmouth or Scud’s an eavesdropper.”
    Jeannie looked confused. She placed her hands on the outside of my shoulders and made sure she had my attention. “Honey, calm down. Don’t work yourself up.”
    I studied her. “You don’t believe me.”
    I shook her off and started walking again.
    She didn’t follow. Instead, she called from behind, “you have a lot on your mind. Maybe you told him and forgot.”
    The Otter’s engines hummed overhead to my right. I turned to watch its approach, squinting at sun reflecting off its silver skin. Vince was inside at its controls. Had I overestimated him?
    Jeannie was beside me again. “Let’s talk about something else, okay?”
    I looked from the plane to the horizon.
    “Okay?” she asked again, and gave my ponytail a playful tug.
    I groaned and began to walk.
    “Let’s think about Trish some more,” she said. “Go over what else you know.”
    The gravel and dirt crunching under our shoes was louder than the airplane noise now. I didn’t feel like talking. But Jeannie never required conversations to be two-sided.
    She answered her own question. “Trish flies for the company Casey’s dad worked for. She was fired from another job for using planes without permission.”
    I kicked a stone.
    Jeannie continued, “Flight logs are missing…She’s probably up to her old tricks, sneaking around with Rick’s planes too. Shuttling stolen kids, I bet.”
    When I didn’t respond, she said, “Well?”
    “So she’s using the planes,” I snapped. “So what? Where’s she taking them? When’s she doing it?
How
is she doing it?”
    My struggle to pull it together felt like I was failing the Sheltons, the Lyonses, and—worst—maybe even my own husband and daughter.
    Her expression morphed to indignation and she stopped. She planted one hand on a hip, and used the other to wave an admonishing finger at me.
    “Look. I came down here to make sure you were okay. I helped you with Craig. Then I stood up to Richard. And even Farmer Freak over there,” she gestured toward Cromwell’s place, “didn’t give me as much attitude as you.”
    I looked past her to Cromwell’s farm. Another half-formulated thought swirled in my overloaded brain. When it culminated, the “click” I imagined might well have been audible.
    “She’s doing it at night.”
    Jeannie’s scowl didn’t soften, but she tilted her head. She wanted to hear me out.
    I pointed over her shoulder toward Cromwell’s land. “Your guy from
Deliverance
was complaining about plane noise, carrying on about how he couldn’t get any peace, day or night.