Chapter 2 #2
“Suit yourself.”
She screamed—who cared about the damage to her voice—as Thornwood grabbed a long hunting knife from his duffel.
“Stop!” She nearly lunged at him.
He shoved the knife right through the seat into Mack’s back.
Mack shouted, a cry of pain, and—
No, no—
The plane dipped in the air.
“What are you doing!” she shouted at Thornwood. “We’re going to crash!”
“Land the plane!” Thornwood pointed his gun again at Wilder. “Or your passengers die.”
She bit back another scream as the plane banked, hard. Mack seemed to be fighting for control, the plane spiraling.
Wilder clawed at the yoke. “Mack, give me the controls!”
Mack moaned, a rumble deep inside. “I can . . . I’ll get us . . .”
Ah, blood dribbled from his mouth as he glanced at Wilder.
They were going to die. Oh, no—no, no—
God, please, if you get me out of this—aw, she was too far gone for foxhole prayers.
Still. Please.
Mack aimed for the frozen riverbank, the plane wobbling as he gripped the steering wheel with both hands. His entire body shook.
“Give me control!” Wilder, shouting into the headset.
“Shut up and land!” Thornwood said.
And right then, Mack glanced back at her, his face twisted, and mouthed something.
What—wait—Hold on?
The ground rushed up at them, coming fast—too fast, right? She gripped the arms of her seat tighter, braced her legs. Sucked in a breath—
They touched down. Bounced hard, and the plane tipped.
She couldn’t stop screaming.
Metal ripped, the sound of the wings shearing off tore through her ears as they hit earth again, jerking hard, then rolling—
Her backpack hit the ceiling, slammed into her body, taking out her wind—
Shouts, more crashing, the world upending. Her screams shredded her lungs as the plane ripped apart around her and plunged her into darkness.
“We need to get going so we can beat the storm.”
At Moose’s statement, Dawson looked up from where he poured coffee into his thermos.
Moose came out of his office carrying a duffel bag, set it on the table in the middle of the room.
A massive map of Alaska spanned the far wall, and The Weather Channel played on the flat-screen, muted, with captions across the bottom.
“I saw it. Coming down from the north. Looks like a doozy.” Dawson capped his thermos. “Think we’ll make it back tonight?”
“If not, my folks will put us up. You packed extra gear, right?”
He gestured to his own duffel bag on the floor by the door, along with another one for Caspian. The dog seemed to know that he’d put food and treats into the bag because he lay near it, occasionally sniffing at it.
“When is your mom getting in?” Moose asked.
“I’m not sure.”
Moose wore a red-checkered plaid shirt and a baseball cap over his dark hair, and it seemed he hadn’t shaved for a couple days.
“Late-night rescue?” Dawson asked. Not that Moose looked any different than Dawson, with his own unshaven mug. But Dawson had no excuse.
Just hadn’t . . . wanted to. Even now, the idea of traveling north to see his parents . . . aw, too many questions.
Too much disappointment.
But he was all they had now, so . . .
“We got back about ten,” Moose said. “But I got the paperwork from the callout done before I went home. Tillie was already asleep. And this morning, she let me sleep in while she took Hazel to school.” He ran his hand along his chin. “Overslept.”
“How’s her pregnancy?”
Moose walked over to the coffeepot. “We heard the baby’s heartbeat a couple days ago.
Hazel was there too—she got pretty excited, although I’m not sure a nine-year-old understands the whole picture, despite her mother’s explanation.
She keeps asking how the baby got in there.
” He finger-quoted the last three words.
Dawson laughed. “That’s a fun conversation.”
“I’m letting Tillie handle it.” He filled his coffee and turned, a hip against the counter. “Meanwhile, I’m trying to keep Fluffy from figuring out how to get out of his kennel. The pup is smart. I found him in the bathroom battling the toilet paper while Tillie was at the gym.”
“Fluffy?” He grinned but glanced at Caspian, who lifted his head at the mention of the Siberian husky pup.
Moose laughed too. “Don’t know why he can’t be like you, Casp. Good dog.”
Caspian’s tail thumped.
“Please. He woke me up in the middle of the night again. I was in a sound sleep and—and suddenly, there’s Caspian, licking my face, waking me up.” Dawson walked over to the table, where he’d set his backpack. “I haven’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since I got home from the hospital.”
Caspian sat up, his whip tail banging the floor.
“Ever think about asking Jericho Bowie to train him for SAR work?”
“Who, Caspian?” Dawson lifted the pack and settled it on his shoulder. “He’s sweet, but he’s not that smart.” He patted his leg, and Casp came over, sat, looked up at him.
“I’m meeting Jericho in Copper Mountain to talk about him joining Air One with Orlando. Having a SAR dog would help our searches. Why don’t you let him evaluate Casp?”
“Maybe.”
“You could offer SAR services for the sheriff’s department—”
Dawson held up a hand. “Let’s just take a step back. I’m not even sure I want to get back into law enforcement, even for Deke.”
Moose’s mouth made a grim line even as he nodded. “Give yourself time.”
Yeah, he doubted that time might shake him free of a fail that cost so much. But Dawson forced a smile and headed for the door, trying not to limp.
Not enough. “How’s the knee?” Moose followed him outside. Caspian headed out in front of them, sniffing the area, then circled back and walked beside Dawson. At least the dog could heel.
“No cane, and I’m at 125 degrees on the bend, so, I’m practically healed. Back to normal.” He didn’t mention the NSAID meds he’d tucked into his jacket. Or the fact that most days, he still had to ice his leg to keep down the swelling.
Moose said nothing on their walk out to the hangar. The wind swept snow across the tarmac, crisp from the north.
He gave Dawson a glance askance.
“Okay, what?”
“Just . . . God uses circumstances to wake us up, get at things inside.”
Dawson stopped. “What things?”
Moose also stopped, turned. “A five-year-old girl died in your arms. And I’m not immune to the fact that we’re coming up on the anniversary of Caroline’s death. Plus, with your mom coming back—I don’t know. Maybe there’s stuff—”
“You’ve been married too long. Tillie’s got you thinking about feelings.” Dawson shook his head and brushed past him. “I’m fine. Things happen. Let’s go before we get iced over.”
Moose said nothing and followed him to his Cessna, parked in the Quonset hut next to his Bell 429 rescue chopper and a fleet of other rescue machinery—Polaris ATVs, a couple snow machines, and a four-wheel drive command truck. It still bore the snow and ice from last night’s callout.
“Help me push it out.” Moose opened up the cargo hatch of the Cessna and stowed his pack and duffel, then grabbed Dawson’s and stowed that too.
Dawson didn’t know how much of a help he was, really. Moose was a big guy and pushed the plane out easily with the tow bar attached to the nose wheel. Maybe he was just trying to help Dawson feel useful.
He returned the tow bar while Moose did the walk-around, and by the time he’d huffed his way onto the wing and into the cockpit, Moose had already started the preflight check.
Caspian jumped in and sat on the seat behind him, head on his paws, big brown eyes watching. But as Moose fired up the prop, the dog began to whine and then slid off the seat and over to Dawson, nudging his snout into Dawson’s lap.
Yeah, he wasn’t super fond of flying either.
“Hey, buddy. It’s all good.” He patted his head, and Caspian stopped whining, but Dawson kept his hand on him.
He donned his headset, listening to Moose talk to the tower as he pulled out to the runway. With winds out of the northwest, weather clogging the air, Moose confirmed his northeasterly route to Copper Mountain.
Right over the Copper River. Memories.
“Maybe there’s stuff.”
Nope. He couldn’t live in the past—he’d decided that long ago.
Unfortunately, he didn’t know how to live with the future either.
“Ready?” Moose looked over at him.
Dawson glanced at Caspian, still leaning on him. “I’m going to sit back there, hang out with Casp.”
“Sounds good.”
Dawson switched seats, and of course the dog climbed up, put both paws on him, putting pressure on his good leg. But as he strapped in and looked out the window, his hand on the animal, his heart stopped pounding.
See, he was fine. “I’m ready for some of your mom’s cinnamon rolls, so let’s go.”
Moose pushed the throttle, and the bird shook as it took off.
Airborne. Once he got off the ground, he could like it. The sense of leaving the weight of gravity behind, being pulled into the sky, the beauty of seeing all things from a new perspective.
They soared over Anchorage, with its grimy snow-banked roads and the clogged and muddy Knik Arm.
From here, he might be able to make out Moose’s home, located on the banks of the Knik River, and for sure he spotted his townhome in a cluster of other homes.
Sort of a default place, because he’d been deep into work when Caroline died.
She’d been the one to pick it out, and with the purchase still pending, he just . . . let it roll.
Maybe it was prolonging the pain of losing a woman he thought he was going to marry, but really, he liked the place.
A three-bedroom side-by-side with vaulted ceilings and an updated kitchen, a couple car spaces, which allowed him to store his 1999 Corvette—a silly car for Anchorage, really—and a view of Campbell Lake.
Probably, someday, he should get matching furniture, but his stuff was comfortable, and just because a guy shopped off Craigslist didn’t mean it was a dump. He did have an 85″ flat-screen and a dope sound system. And a Masterbuilt grill smoker on his small deck.