by Wesley Lewis
Ashley nodded.
Vegas turned and chased after Larry and Scarlett, who were already climbing into the Land Rover.
“All right,” called Larry from behind the steering wheel, “you kids get out of here while you still can. The next time you’re out this way, we’ll have a proper celebration.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” called Tom as Vegas climbed into the backseat.
The SUV growled to life, made a slow U-turn on the landing strip, and disappeared into the tent city. As the taillights faded from view, a loud rapping drew Crocker’s attention back to the plane, where Tom stood behind the left wing, pounding on the cabin door.
To Crocker’s surprise, the door was made of what looked like thin Plexiglas. The King Air from Arizona had featured a sturdy metal door equipped with built-in stairs that folded down for boarding. He wondered if the skydivers needed a door they could see out of or if this plastic replacement was some sort of quick fix, akin to taping garbage bags over a broken car window.
A man appeared on the other side of the door and tugged at a handle near the floor. The door slid up into the fuselage, and Crocker realized why the heavier door had been replaced: The skydivers needed one they could open in flight.
The pilot crouched and placed his palms on the lower edge of the door frame, which was a good three to four feet above the ground. He dangled his legs from the plane and lowered himself onto the runway. When his feet were firmly planted, he surveyed the welcoming party.
Though he wasn’t very tall, the man had a powerful build. His chest bulged under his tight green T-shirt, and his thick arms spoke of a life of vigorous activity. His well-lined face was clean shaven, and he wore his gray hair cropped short.
Ex-military, thought Crocker.
When he’d finished his inspection, the man turned to Tom and bellowed, “Hollywood, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?”
Jennifer glanced at Crocker. Crocker shrugged.
“It’ll be easier if I wait and fill you in once we’re airborne,” said Tom.
“Fair enough,” said the man. He turned to Ashley. “You must be the source of the problem.”
Ashley flinched. “Why do you say that?”
“Because guys are always getting themselves into trouble over pretty women.” He extended his right hand. “Brent Brewer, drop zone owner and pilot, at your service.”
She shook his hand. “Ashley Thomas, source of the problem, at yours.”
He laughed. “Hollywood, you better hang on to this one.”
Crocker approached and extended his own hand. “Brent, I’m Matt Crocker. I want to thank you for helping us out.”
Brent gripped the hand and said, “Glad to meet you, Matt.” He paused mid-handshake, studied Crocker for a moment, and asked, “Army?”
“Umm . . . marines, actually.”
“Well,” said Brent, releasing Crocker’s hand, “just don’t call me a squid, and we’ll get along all right.”
Jennifer joined them.
The old man’s eyes lit up. “You must be the other source of the problem.”
Jennifer offered her hand. “Jennifer Williams. Pleased to meet you.”
Brent accepted the handshake. “Will you and Matt be joining us for the trip?”
“I’m afraid not. We still have some cleaning up to do here.”
“I never cared much for that part. Preferred to drop my ordnance, return to the boat, and leave the cleaning up to the marines.” He winked at Jennifer.
She chuckled.
“Do you need fuel,” asked Crocker, “or are you ready to take off?”
“All I need are my two passengers.”
“Then perhaps we should get them in the air before we push our luck any further.”
“It’s that serious, is it?”
“It is.”
Brent nodded and turned to Ashley. “Ms. Thomas, I have a stepladder in the plane, but if you’re comfortable letting an old man give you a boost, we can skip the ladder and get you in the air that much quicker.”
Ashley grinned. “A boost will be just fine, Mr. Brewer.”
“That’s Commander Brewer.” Brent made a stirrup with his fingers. “Lieutenant commander. Retired, of course.”
Ashley wrapped her left arm, still holding the stiletto heels, around Brent’s neck and stepped into the stirrup with her right foot. “I’m really not dressed for this.”
“Don’t worry,” said Brent, averting his eyes as he hoisted her up into the plane, “I promise not to look up your dress.”
“Your dress!” exclaimed Jennifer as Ashley’s rear settled inside the doorway.
“What?” Ashley pulled her dangling legs into the plane.
“I almost forgot—I need your dress. And your shoes. And the wig.”
“What does that leave me? I’m not flying all the way to Timbuktu in just my underwear.”
“No,” said Jennifer, digging through the diaper bag, “I have these.” She pulled out a small bundle of clothes and a pair of flip-flops and held them up for Ashley. “Donations from Vegas.”
Ashley accepted the bundle and examined the clothes—a white tank top and a pair of pink terry-cloth shorts that in some circles might have passed for underwear. “This is all I have to wear?”
“You can buy some more clothes once you get there.”
“Just so you know,” said Brent, “the temperature when we land should be somewhere in the mid-forties.”
“Really?” asked Jennifer.
“The mid-forties?” exclaimed Ashley. “I’ll freeze!”
“Relax,” said Tom. “I have something that will keep you warm.”
He dropped to the ground and dug into his suitcase.
“You have something I can wear?” she asked.
“Here.” He held up a red, white, and blue jumpsuit. “If this can keep me warm in the air, it should keep you warm on the ground, at least until we find you something else to wear.”
She took the jumpsuit and stared at it skeptically.
“And here.” He reached back into the suitcase. “Wear these under the sandals.” He pulled out a balled-up pair of white tube socks.
Ashley took the socks. “The fashion statement is complete.”
“It’s a getaway, not a fashion show,” said Crocker, worried that they were wasting time. “Get back in the plane and change. Make it quick. The rest of us will wait out here until you’re done.”
“All right.” She held out Vegas’s stiletto heels to Brent. “Could you hand these to Jennifer?”
He took the shoes. “I’m at your service.”
Ashley disappeared into the plane, carrying the jumpsuit and socks. A second later, she reappeared in the doorway. “Jennifer, could you help me?”
“You need help?” asked Jennifer.
“Just come.” Ashley disappeared back into the plane.
Jennifer glanced first at Matt, then at Brent, as if asking permission.
Brent responded by setting Ashley’s shoes on the ground and making another stirrup with his fingers. Jennifer set the diaper bag on the ground and placed a bare foot in Brent’s hands. He hoisted her with ease, allowing her to drop seat-first inside the door. She used both hands to hold down the hem of the gold dress as she rose to her feet.
“There are no seats in here!” she exclaimed.
Brent offered a patient smile and explained, “Seats just get in the way when you’re wearing thirty pounds of gear.”
Jennifer nodded as if she understood and disappeared into the plane, leaving the men to wait alone.
After a brief silence, Crocker turned to Brent and asked, “What do you think the flight time will be?”
Brent stroked his chin.
“Wheels up to wheels down, about an hour and a half, give or take.”
Crocker performed a couple of quick calculations in his head and turned to Tom. “Accounting for the time difference, that puts you into Cortez around three a.m. The rental car should be parked outside the FBO. My friend said she’ll leave the keys under the bumper.”
“Do you know what type of car?” asked Tom.
“No, but it’s going to be parked in a spot reserved for the U.S. Forest Service, so it should be easy to find.”
“Sounds foolproof.”
“If you follow the directions I gave you, you’ll pass a Walmart and a Denny’s about five miles from the airport. Stop at the Denny’s and get yourselves some breakfast. Then run into the Walmart and grab some clothes and toiletries for Ashley. Get some groceries, too—I haven’t been home in nine months, so there won’t be a thing to eat in the house.”
“Can’t we come back for some of that stuff later? We’re going to be worn out by the time we get there.”
“It’s better if you do it now. The sun won’t be up until almost six, so you want to kill time until at least five, before starting out of town. Any earlier than that, and you’ll be driving the trail in the dark. That’s a dangerous prospect for someone who doesn’t know the road.”
“If you say so.”
“I’m not kidding. If it’s still dark when you turn off the pavement, you park and wait until the sun comes up. That mountain trail is treacherous enough in the daylight.”
“All right, point taken.”
“Once you get to my place, just lay low. Don’t go into town, and don’t let anyone—and I mean anyone—know where you are. If you need to get hold of Jennifer or me, you can reach us through Sheriff Bill Cargill at the Nye County Sheriff’s Office. There’s no cell service at the house, but if you continue up the trail for another hundred yards or so, you’ll reach a high spot where you can get a signal.”
“Sounds like the setting for a horror film,” said Tom.
Brent snorted. “Sounds like paradise.”
“Do you know how to light a hot water heater?” asked Crocker.
“Yeah,” said Tom, “I—”
Jennifer appeared in the door, carrying the red spandex dress and the black wig. Ashley stood beside her, hair a mess, looking a bit like a disheveled comic-book hero in the red, white, and blue jumpsuit.
Both women’s makeup was streaked with tears.
Crocker locked eyes with Jennifer. “Is everything okay?”
“Can I have a hand down?” she asked, her voice barely rising above a whisper.
Brent moved toward the door, but Crocker stepped in front of him and offered his own hand. Jennifer accepted and climbed down without a word.
Tom looked at Ashley. “Are you all right?”
She turned and disappeared into the plane.
Brent, who looked thoroughly perplexed, glanced at Crocker and held open his arms as if to ask, Now what?
“I think you better just go,” said Crocker. “The important thing right now is to get Tom and Ashley away from here.”
Brent nodded and motioned Tom toward the door. “Let’s go, Hollywood. You don’t get a boost.”
Tom hoisted himself into the plane.
From the doorway, he looked back at Crocker and Jennifer and said, “I . . . I guess we’ll see y’all real soon.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and disappeared into the cabin.
Crocker wrapped an arm around Jennifer, who seemed not to notice.
“It sounds like they’re playing me off,” said Brent. “Ms. Williams, Mr. Crocker, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintances, and I wish you the best of luck in cleaning up whatever mess Hollywood and his girl left behind.” He pulled himself up into the plane, turned, and added, “You might want to stand clear so we can take off.”
With that, he closed the Plexiglas door and disappeared.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A gentle squeeze to her hand brought Jennifer back to the present. She glanced to her right and saw Crocker standing beside her. She looked for the plane and saw its lights fading into the night sky. She vaguely remembered watching it make a hairpin turn and accelerate down the dirt strip. Now it was at least a mile away.
“Did you hear me?” asked Crocker.
She shook her head.
“I asked if you’re cold.”
“I don’t know. I guess. A little.” As the words passed her lips, she realized she was actually quite cold. The empty runway, lit only by the moon and the faint glow of lights from the tent city, offered no warmth and no protection from the desert wind.
Crocker released her hand and took off his suit jacket. “Here”—he draped the jacket over her shoulders—“this should help.”
“Thanks.”
Somewhere in the distance, a live band played a cover of a Rolling Stones tune. The music carried over the dry lake bed and mingled with the voices of revelers gathered in small pockets throughout the tent city. Jennifer listened to the chorus of sounds, peripherally aware of Crocker’s fixed gaze.
“Are you going to tell me what happened between you and Ashley?” he asked.
“You should call Larry to come get us. We may not be safe out here.”
After a long silence, Crocker said, “The phone is in the right inside pocket of my jacket.”
She stared at him for a couple of seconds before realizing he meant the jacket she was wearing. She opened it and reached into an empty pocket.
“The right pocket,” he reiterated.
She reached into the other side, pulled out the phone, and handed it to him. Across the lake bed, the Rolling Stones tune came to an end, and the band, apparently beholden to no particular period or genre, launched into a Garth Brooks number.
“We seem to have a minor hiccup,” said Crocker.
“Hiccup?”
“The phone is dead.”
Jennifer processed his words slowly.
“It’s an old phone,” he added. “Using it to listen in on Tom’s conversation must have drained the battery.”
“Does that mean we’re stuck here?”
“Nah, we just need to find someone who’ll let us use their phone.”
She glanced at the rows of tents and RVs. “Fine. Let’s go.” She turned and walked toward the temporary Main Street.
“Hang on,” said Crocker.
She stopped and looked back. “What?”
“I hate to be a . . . What’s the nonracist equivalent of ‘Indian giver’? Anyway, I hate to be one, but I’m going to need my jacket back.”
“Why?”
Crocker held open his arms and waited.
After a long moment, she finally got his point. The pistol and other security items clipped to his belt didn’t exactly invite hospitality.
She slipped off the jacket, tossed it to him, and resumed her walk toward the tent city. Her bare feet moved briskly over the smooth ground. She heard Crocker’s hurried footsteps behind her.
He fell into step on her right. “I wish you’d talk to me.”
She glanced at him but didn’t speak. He carried the diaper bag, which she’d forgotten. They passed silently between rows of unlit tents and motor homes.
“Even if you don’t want to tell me what’s bothering you,” he continued, “I wish you’d say something. You’re kind of scaring me.”
Jennifer searched for something to say, anything to get him off her back. Finally, she looked at him and asked, “What’s a squid?”
“What?”
“Brent told you not to call him a squid.”
“Oh,” said Crocker, sounding a bit relieved that she had a logical reason for asking about cephalopods. “It’s a derogatory
term for someone in the navy.”
“Used by the marines?”
“Primarily. The old joke is that marines call sailors squids because a squid is a lower form of marine life.”
“Funny.”
“I suppose.”
“Why do you get embarrassed whenever someone asks about your military service?”
“What? No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. I thought maybe I imagined it the first time, when I asked about your tattoo, but you did it again when Brent asked if you were in the army. You answered like you were ashamed.”
“I’m not ashamed. I just . . . I don’t feel right claiming military service.”
“Why? Weren’t you in the military?”
“I was. For almost six months.”
Jennifer waited for an explanation.
“When I graduated college, I found that nobody was hiring philosophy majors, so I joined the marines.”
“Philosophy?”
“Yes.” He hesitated as if expecting a follow-up question. “Anyway, I was well on my way to becoming a military policeman when I collapsed during a run and had to be hospitalized. The doctors diagnosed me with adult-onset asthma and sent me home.”
“They kicked you out?”
“Medical discharge. The Cold War was over, Congress was hacking away at the DoD budget, and America had no use for a marine who might collapse on the battlefield.”
“Do you still have asthma?”
“My chest sometimes tightens up when I work out. I keep an inhaler in my gym bag. It’s no big deal.”
“What did you do after you were discharged?”
“I came home and tried to get a job on a civilian police force. But every department I applied to took one look at my military record and disqualified me on medical grounds.”
“So you got into instructing?”
“First, I spent a couple of years driving armored trucks in San Diego. Then I took a job at a private security firm in Salt Lake City. That’s where I met Jeff Flitcraft. Jeff was a former member of the air force pistol team, and he shared my disdain for the antiquated training methods utilized by the military, most police forces, and, of course, the firm we worked for. We started developing our own training methods, and two years later we moved to Pahrump to start First Shot.”