by Kim Pritekel
“Will, have you been watching the television at all?”
“No. I’m just leaving the office. What’s wrong?” He was beginning to feel the first trickle of worry, and couldn’t help but look up into the sky. Just about every New Yorker did that at the first sign of trouble these days. Expecting to see the worst, he was surprised to see a bright, sunny day above the steel monsters around him.
“It’s Dean. Will, I think his plane is missing.”
“What?!” The architect sat up like a shot, the cabby glancing at him through the rearview mirror as he merged into traffic. Will quickly prattled off the address to him, then returned to his call. “What do you mean his flight is missing? What’s the flight number?”
“Flight 1049.”
Will felt his blood go cold.
* * *
Matt Frazier looked up when he heard someone approaching his desk. “Did you find her?” The hope was evident in his voice. As his friend, and fellow homicide detective nodded, Matt sighed, sitting back in his chair. He loosened his tie as he waited for the details.
“She hopped a plane, headed to Milan, Italy.”
“Italy?” Matt was stunned, reading his partner’s eyes, seeing nothing but genuine sorrow. “Shit.”
“What happened, Matt?” Burt Langley watched the younger man closely, knowing there was something he wasn’t being told.
Matt sighed, running a hand through dark hair, making it stand on end. It was time to come clean. It might help to ease his conscience. “I got caught.”
Burt studied Matt, sausage fingers rubbing a rounded chin. “Doing what?”
Hazel eyes flicked to meet piercing blue. “With Diana.” Matt’s eyes dropped, unable to meet those of the man he always respected, and wanted respect from.
“Got caught with your fingers in the honey pot, huh kid?” Burt chuckled.
“This isn’t funny, Burt! My wife left the country.”
“Yeah, she did. Might want to think about that.” Burt groaned softly as he pushed up on his meaty thighs. He tossed a pinwheel mint to Matt’s desk. “Have a mint, kid. Be happy.”
Matt glared after the older man, nearly drowning in his own self pity. “Shit.”
The detective pushed away from his desk, switching off the computer and shrugging into his jacket. Gathering his keys in his hand, he grabbed the mint as an afterthought.
The house was quiet and dark, as it had been for the past four days. Rachel’s absence was felt acutely, and the cop realized just how baldy he’d fucked up. He unbuckled his arm holster, securing his weapon before stripping off his jacket and shirt, flinging the unknotted tie into a corner, where it landed with the tie he’d been wearing the night before.
Matt flipped through the mail that had fallen to the floor from the mail slot next to the door. Nothing interesting, nothing from Rachel. Why had she gone to Italy? As far as he knew, she knew no one there, had no reason to go there. Tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair he’d flopped into, Matt glanced at the DVD player’s green clock numbers. It was seven-fifteen in Oregon, that meant it was after ten in New York. He couldn’t help but wonder if Rachel’s editor, and best friend, Reenie would know anything.
“Hello?” said the smoky female voice on the other end of the line.
“Reenie, this is Matt. Have you heard from Rachel?” The detective wasn’t sure if he should put his cards on the table or not, whether he should tell the editor he knew exactly where his wife had ran to.
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
With nothing forthcoming, and from the cold tone in Reenie’s voice, Matt knew the Ace he thought he had up his sleeve was in fact his house of cards falling all around him. He would find no allies here. Deciding to play it straight, Matt sighed. “I fucked up, Reenie. Okay? I messed things up. I need to talk to Rachel.”
Reenie fought against saying everything that was on her mind about just how badly Matthew had messed up. It wasn’t her place, and it wasn’t her place to give up all of Rachel’s secrets. “You can’t talk to her right now, Matt. She’s not available.”
“I know she’s on her way to Italy. What time did she leave? What flight?” Matt sat forward in his chair, ready to pop up and write down any information Reenie would give her.
“It shouldn’t surprised me that a cop could find out where his wife is at all times, but for some reason it does. Look, Matt, give her some time away from you. She’s hurt right now, and needs to go off on her own and lick her wounds.”
“In Italy?” Matt was incredulous. “Who the hell does she know in Italy, for Christ’s sake?” he ran a hand through his hair, feeling his anger building, but knew he’d have to keep it down.
“She went to start research on her newest novel, Matt. She was planning this trip anyway, just took it sooner than later.” The editor plucked the reading glasses from her face, rubbing her eyes with one hand as she held the cell phone with the other. She’d never been a fan of Matt Wingo, not since she’d met him two years ago.
“Please give me her information and itinerary, Reenie. I’m her husband and have a right to know.” Matt sounded tired and resigned.
“And Rachel has the right to do her own thing and she deserves her privacy. I think you walked all over your rights the moment you fucked another woman in Rachel’s bed.”
Matt grimaced, knowing the editor was right, but wasn’t about to let this woman tell him what his rights were or weren’t in his own marriage! “Who the hell do you think you are, Reenie? Give me my wife’s information!”
“No. If Rachel didn’t give it to you herself, then she obviously doesn’t want you to have it.”
“Bitch!” Matt slammed down the phone, the handset ringing in the quiet room. “Fuck!” The couple’s cat ran into the spare bedroom at the crash that followed.
* * *
“I do not understand. My granddaughter and great granddaughter are to be on this flight, no?” Paolo Vinzetti tapped the piece of paper he’d presented the ticket clerk with Milan Malpensa Airport. “Where is the flight?”
“As I’ve said, sir, I can give you more information once we have it,” the clerk said, just about as tired of the old man as she could get. The situation was stressful enough without this old geezer down her throat. Without ceremony, she turned her back on the old man, disappearing around a corner.
Paolo, shoulders slumped, walked slowly over to join his wife, Lizbeth, who waited patiently for him, shaking his head. “Nothing.” About to sit, the old man with the full mustache, turned to see a young man with short, well-styled dark hair hurrying over to him. The man was dressed in a suit with the airline logo on the lapel.
“Signore, wait, please.”
Paolo looked at the man, Lizbeth joining him at his side.
“I am Franco Lilitaly, and work for US Airlines here in Milano. Can we talk?”
Paolo nodded, just glad to be getting some information on the whereabouts of his Gloria and Mia. They were led to a room with a big conference table surrounded by chairs. Lizbeth felt her heart beginning to flutter. What was all this about?
The door was securely closed before Franco Lilitaly spoke again. Sitting opposite the elderly couple, he swallowed, fingers fidgeting as they laced together. He knew he couldn’t put it off anymore.
“We have gotten some very bad news. The flight your loved ones were on was lost.”
Paolo’s thick brows drew. “Lost?” He couldn’t understand. The man nodded.
“Yes. Lost at sea. They are searching now, however, it is most likely not a rescue search.” He stared into both sets of eyes that stared openly at him. His heart broke as he saw the woman crumble, grabbing onto her husband’s arm. “I am so, so very sorry.”
* * *
A lone figure sat out on her front porch, staring up into the night sky. As she watched the stars twinkle down at her, she had to wonder if one of those was her mother’s smile.
* * *
Something tickling. Itching. Stop!
; Blue eyes opened, seeing a very up close and personal view of something pink and ugly. Gasping, Denny flew to her knees, the small crowd of crabs scattering and burying themselves in the sand.
“Oh, fuck,” she moaned, hands coming to her head, which was pounding like a twenty piece marching band. Even her neck got into the action, veins vibrating with the pain. Taking several deep breaths, the brunette blinked open her eyes again. Sand. All around her, sand. Behind her the pound of the surf added to the fury in her head.
“Where the hell am I?” she whispered, getting to very shaky legs. She was drenched, her clothing sticking to her like a second skin, made even stickier by the salt water of… what body of water is this, anyway? She did her best to tug her long hair out of her face, jumping with a small scream as another of those damn crabs fell to the sand at her feet, almost instantaneously disappearing into a hiding hole. “Little bastards.”
Looking out to sea, Denny saw nothing but water, as far as the eye could see. That is, other than the piece of something bobbing in a shallow pool. She wondered if that was what she had sailed in on. She remembered swimming, trying to pull herself out of the sinking plane, grabbing onto anything that would hold her weight. Finally, out in the bright, sunny day, she’d found… what had it been? Studying, having to squint as she’d lost her contacts in the ocean, the white piece of something over in the shallow pool, she realized was part of the wall or floor of the airplane.
Airplane.
“Jesus.”
Squinting further, Denny shielded her eyes, staring out into sea. Where did the wreck go? It was almost as if the brunette had been dumped onto the sand from the skies above. She smirked, realizing that was basically exactly what had happened. Turning, she decided to try and figure out where the hell she was. She needed to find some civilization, and just prayed it was friendly.
* * *
“Kick, kick, kick, kick…” Dean had been repeating the mantra for what seemed like hours. Something in his head told him that if he followed the waves, he’d end up drifting to land. Maybe he’d heard that on one of Will’s Discovery Channel shows or something. Either way, he was following it, though was tiring quickly. It was hot, and he was beyond thirsty. The irony wasn’t lost on him that he was surrounded by endless gallons of water, and yet it was for nothing better than taking a piss in.
Dean had paddled back toward the wreckage, snagging himself a choice piece of floating debris. The guy who had been buckled to it was dead, anyway. He held on for dear life to the seat cushions, lying across them on his stomach, only his feet in the water, which he lifted from time to time when too many images of sharks popped into mind. Damn Will for watching that damn Shark Week on Discovery.
The attorney tried to focus on the mental image of his partner, thinking of the thick hair on his chest that Dean always loved to run his fingers through. He thought of his partner’s smile and wit. Dean couldn’t help but smile at that. The night they had met had been amazing, and totally unexpected.
Dean had been a second year law student, and was invited to a kegger, which ordinarily he wouldn’t have been caught dead at, but a gorgeous little piece of frat boy tail had changed his mind. He’d spent all night following Ken around, when he’d seen the tall, dark drink of water standing in a corner, charming Maria Kasdan. Will’s piercing eyes had caught Dean’s own over the girl’s head, and had scarcely been able to let go.
That night they had spent anointing every surface in Will’s tiny apartment with man juice, into the wee hours of the morning. Dean had class two hours after he’d finally had his last orgasm, nearly having anther in Ethics as he thought of his lover the previous night. Dean had no intentions of getting with Will again, already enjoying the chase and kill. Intentions are good and all, until he ran into the young architect at a deli a week later. They’d spent the entire rest of the day talking, and the night having more mind-blowing sex. Thirteen years later, Will was the one bright spot in Dean’s life. He loved him completely.
This last train of thought stabbed Dean in the heart, realization dawning that he’d likely never see his lover again. His feet faltered in their paddling as he broke down, face crumbling as it was buried in his forearm. I can’t die out here all alone.
* * *
Rachel didn’t want to seem like a bitch, but she was getting tired of hearing the girl cry. Yes, she understood she’d lost her mother, but they’d all lost something, if not just a beloved person.
“Mia,” she finally said, her head pounding from the dehydration. “you’re going to make yourself sick, crying out all of your moisture.” The blonde cracked open an eye to see the teenager sniffling and looking back at her. Rachel tried to give her an understanding smile. She hoped she was successful.
Rachel closed her eye again, her head resting against the padded sides of the raft/slide. She couldn’t help but find the irony in the fact that she’d lost far more on dry land than she had in the middle of the ocean somewhere. She didn’t even have any idea which ocean, though the mental map before her eyes pointed to the Caribbean. The sun beat own on them, her skin already burning. She wasn’t sure how long they’d been adrift, her watch having stilled at exactly 2:30. She considered tossing the ruined timepiece into the ocean, but decided against it. Maybe she’d be able to get it fixed when she returned to Oregon.
Dr. Pam Sloan was grateful the blonde had said something about Mia’s crying. The girl lay in her arms, the older woman thinking of her own daughter back home, little more than ten years older than Mia. What was Tracy doing right now? Was she tending to the horses? Sitting on her front porch, as she did every night? Was Tracy star-gazing? Daydreaming?
Pam’s smile was bitter-sweet, and she felt her own tears stinging behind closed lids, which she didn’t let fall. She had to survive this and return to Tracy and Pam’s grandson, Luke. She was so damn proud of him, only six and already able to ride, just like his mother. Tracy had mounted a horse before a set of stairs on her own two legs. She glanced at their silent companion, all curled up at the other end of their raft. A young woman, in her twenties, no doubt. Her short blonde hair was dry now, tough the salt water had acted as good mousse, the strands plastered to the woman’s head. The vet couldn’t help but wonder if the woman had a mother out there somewhere, wondering where her daughter is. Maybe she even had children of her own.
“Do you think they know we’re gone yet?” Dr. Sloan asked, her voice soft. Green eyes met her gaze.
“I thought about that, too.” Rachel shook her head. “I don’t know. I imagine they do. Looking up into the sky, it’s got to be late afternoon.” All three looked into the heavens. The sun was clearly on the other side of the sky from where it had been when everything had begun.
“I’m so thirsty,” Mia said, her voice a mere murmur. The older women looked at her, both feeling their own throats parched.
* * *
The metal had become hot, Michael splashing water over the smooth surface of the wing part to try and cool it down. The mechanic sprinkled water over his forehead again, wincing as the burnt skin stung with the salt.
Sighing heavily, he patted his wife’s leg. “Hot day, honey. Too hot.” He glanced at her; she hadn’t moved in… he couldn’t remember how long. She lay on her side, back to him. “Mel?” Carefully moving over to her, the wing bobbing, making him uneasy. “Honey?” He laid a hand on her shoulder, gently tugging her onto her back. Melissa’s head fell to the side, eyes heavily hooded, sightless. Michael gasped, noting the dried blood smeared on her head. “Baby?” He brought up a hand, holding it in front of her nose and mouth. Nothing. “Melissa?”
Michael felt the panic he’d been trying to subdue hit full force. He touched Melissa’s face- cold.
“Oh, god! No, no, baby, no.” He gathered the woman up into his arms, noting she was becoming stiff. He’d never cried in his life, the sting and wetness feeling foreign and strange, but unstoppable. “Oh, Mel,” he cried, rocking her against his chest. His thoughts roamed to thei
r kids, staying with Melissa’s parents until they returned. Oh, guys. I’m so sorry.
* * *
Blue eyes squinted shut as Denny spit out the bit of water she’d taken in. Salt water. Damnit! Getting to her feet, she looked around the small crops of trees and tropical flowers, just beyond the beach. There was a natural pond no more than fifteen yards in from the ocean. Denny had hoped that maybe it was fresh rain water. No such luck.
Getting to her feet, the brunette glanced at the shoreline to get one last measure of her bearings, then headed into the foliage, which was thick and quite prickly. Within five feet, Denny knew she’d be lost within five minutes. Looking around dumbly, knowing damn well there was nothing useful anywhere in sight, the brunette fingered the edge of her tee shirt, which had almost dried, but was stiff from the salt water. Chewing on her lip, she glanced back onto the beach, looking for anything, any source of water that she may have missed before. Looking back over her shoulder into the deep, green shadows of the dense jungle, she knew she had no choice. Dehydration was already upon her, her throat dry and scratchy, the skin of her face and arms burned badly from the exposure to the sun. She needed to find water and some sort of shelter, and quick.
She grunted as she tried to tear the hem of the shirt, hunger and dehydration making her feel sluggish and weak. She never ate before flying, and now it was biting her in the ass. Finally the cotton ripped. Denny carefully tied the first strip around a branch closest to the beach, then with a sigh of resignation, headed deeper into the jungle. She hated tight spaces, so was doing everything she could to keep her mind on the problem at hand- staying alive.
* * *