Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

truth, I couldn’t show my face there again until the weekend without drawing suspicion from the others.
    The phone call I’d overheard Thursday suggested Craig would be up to something, somewhere, in less than two hours. I suspected he and Trish might have a secret flight planned before the Otter’s return. With its larger cargo capacity, I reasoned, Trish might find it more desirable than the tiny Cessna. She and Craig could shuttle even more stolen kids.
    But how many children could they possibly have at any given time? I looked at the clock again. There was time to find out.
    I phoned Richard but got no answer. So I pilfered through my dirty laundry—all my clothes were dirty now. I pulled my only pair of jeans and my warmest sweatshirt from the pile and vowed to find a Laundromat tomorrow. When I stepped into my jeans, the cuffs were still folded from my walk on the beach with Vince. A mental picture of him lobbing the ball for Cindy came to mind, and I shook it off.
    As I pulled on my socks and shoes, I felt a little relieved Richard hadn’t answered. I was having doubts about including him. He was an ex-cop. I knew he’d involve the police. And I was holding out hope for Vince. I wanted to understand his place in all this before I potentially got him arrested. More importantly, a bust gone wrong would be the last I’d see of Trish and Craig. If they disappeared, so would any chance of ever finding out if my little girl might have survived.
    ***
    At the dirt road leading to the airport, I switched off my headlights. Twice, I veered into grass because it was nearly impossible to see. After passing two small metal shacks, I eased behind a larger one. When I was sure my car couldn’t be seen from the road, I put it in park and killed the ignition. The silence that enveloped my car was so unnerving I locked my doors.
    I peered through my windows. The metal surface of a neglected shack was straight ahead. It was faded and partially rusted, but I knew that from memory only; it was too dark to see those details now. I checked my rearview mirror and the driver and passenger windows and found the same thing everywhere: black.
    My GPS watch was strapped to my wrist, my cell phone was set to vibrate, and this time I’d remembered a flashlight. A car passed on the highway and faded into silence. The crickets were calling again, probably warning me to go home.
    I stepped from the car and carefully shut my door before leaning on the car to call the motel. Jeannie wasn’t back in her room yet. Or, more likely, she was back in her room, but not alone. The voicemail system prompted for a message.
    “I’m at the drop zone,” I whispered. “Thought I should mention it incase the bogey man gets me. Which one did you end up with?”
    Then, regretting that I’d come alone, I tried Richard again. Still no answer.
    Something howled. I vaguely recalled that coyotes live in Texas and snapped my phone closed.
    The moon formed a thin silver crescent, the shape of a fingernail clipping and just as useless. If there were clouds, I couldn’t see them. The road was a straight shot to the hangar, but I was too afraid to risk being seen. So, I pulled my jacket zipper to my chin and turned toward a field I knew was behind me but couldn’t see to save my life.
    The flashlight might give me away, so I decided to make my way in the dark using my GPS. Grass was waist high and wet with dew. It brushed my jeans and jacket and made them damp. By my estimation, which was really only a hopeful guess, the hangar was a quarter mile ahead. I changed screens on my watch. It was ten after one.
    The crunch of tires on gravel sent me to my hands and knees as headlights swept over the field. Through the grass, I watched a vehicle cruise up the dusty road beyond the out buildings faster than any I’d seen all week. Its brake lights flared when it got to the drop zone hangar. I’d gotten my bearings, but I wasn’t alone. Nor was I sure what to do.
    I waited for the car’s lights to turn off before I stood. Mud and vegetation had caked to my palms, and my jeans felt cold on my knees. I continued toward the end of the field.
    The overgrowth I’d planned to use for cover ended several hundred feet short of the hangar. Ahead to my left, I could make out its looming shape.
    Lights turned on throughout the packing area and office and small strips of illumination escaped from the building’s crevices. The giant metal door on the other side rumbled