 |
| �Smart, though.� Ron lit a cigarette. Miss Parker had quit smoking years ago, but now she was dying for a smoke herself. Good for nerves. �Nice piece of ass like you musta been�he had to be smart.� �Thanks, Ron.� These were the kind of people the Centre should be assassinating, if she still permitted assassinations. Ron wasn�t exactly the best conversationalist. Or the world�s smartest pilot. She took a deep breath of the smoke that was clogging this sardine can imitation of an aircraft. �I don�t think you should be doing that.� �What?� �There�s oxygen in here. You know�there could be an explosion...� He stared at the burning end of his cigarette. �Oh.� He took another drag and glanced out the window. �I think we�re almost there.� �You think?� �Damn odometer�s been dead for a month. But this looks like the place. Yeah, there�s his roof.� Parker glanced out. All she could see was the tops of trees, a long way down. Maybe it was one of those places you had to be looking for. �Listen�unbuckle your seatbelt,� Ron continued. She stared at him. �Trust me.� She didn�t, but she slid her fingers underneath the release and snapped it open. Like a car seatbelt, it withdrew into the wall. �Now reach behind you and pull those straps over your shoulders. Buckle it across the front.� She snapped the plastic buckle together and instinctively pulled down the straps at her sides until they were taut. �What�s this all about?� she said, though she was close to figuring out the answer. She simply didn�t like it. �It�s your parachute.� She stared at him, then peeked out the window at the ground. �You�re kidding.� �It�s the only way to get down there. Unless you take a dogsled. Or, I guess, a Jeep, but Jarod doesn�t have a Jeep and neither do I.� �Well, how the hell does he get to your airport, then!� �I think he walks. It probably takes him three days. That guy�s more fit than I am.� She stared at his beer gut. A lot of people were more fit than Ron Stalwart. �You probably shouldn�t have a problem with this�I busted my kneecap doing this jump once, but Jarod got it on the first try and he said you were better at parachuting than he is. Count ten and then let fly. Tell Jarod I said hi.� �Oh, don�t worry, I will.� She smiled tightly, hoping he understood the threat associated with that promise. He winked. �Have fun, honey.� �Bye, bye, Ron. It�s been an absolute dream.� Now she was dying to jump out of the airplane. At least she wouldn�t have to live with the indignity of him slapping her on the butt as she wrestled open the Cessna�s door and squatted, almost pulled out by the wind, to jump. She had the feeling that if she was twenty years younger, or even ten, he would have. I�m going to kill him, she thought. Then she took a deep breath and stared at the trees, which looked like moss this far away from her. One, she counted. And then she jumped. Ron hit the jerry-rigged�Jarod-rigged�button that closed the door. He stared as his plane drifted away, until her chute snapped open and jolted her back up into the air. He had to admit, that was kind of fun. He lit another smoke, banked his plane, and headed back toward his job. Jarod. He snorted good-naturedly. Crazy as hell, the old bastard. But better with women. The note in the kitchen read, Make yourself at home�J. The drop had been hell, but she had to admit, she�d survived, and the log cabin was beautiful, homey. The floors were all polished, golden wood. The table, which was in the kitchen/dining room, was small, but Jarod lived alone here. Everything was neat and glowing as if this were a model home in Architectural Digest. His worn, black leather jacket hung on a peg next to the door. Lifting the wrought iron latch had triggered the coffee maker, and as soon as she had a steaming cup�she was a raging caffeine addict�she explored his home, first like a person, and then like a cleaner. The living room was cozy, with a thick red throw rug on the floor, a tired, but soft-looking. brown sofa and matching loveseat, a fireplace, a few tables, and enough books to keep someone busy for years. A large oil painting of a group of white wolves, hunched from falling snow in an evergreen forest, decorated the wall over the couch. No TV, but the controls for a MD player were embedded discreetly in the wall, so modern that she�d had trouble figuring out what it was. The yellow Post-it taped there read, Play me! He�d always had a thing for notes. Her fingertips brushed PLAY. It was George Winston�s Plains album, with no funky projections, or altered sounds. It was one of her favorite MD�s at home. She remembered what she�d said when the first three-dee music video DVD�s came out. I want to hear the music. I don�t want the whole damn band in my house. George Winston had always made her want to cry. Or laugh. She loved piano music. His room was around the corner, past a bathroom and at the end of a small hallway. Wrought-iron double bed. A tall and comfortable-looking chair pushed up in the corner, next to the window, which looked out over close trees and a path. She could see a lake flashing in the distance. More books. She scanned some of the titles. Ender�s Game. Chasm. Prisoners of War and Post-traumatic Stress Disorder: A Psychological Analysis, by Dr. J. Rueller. An Overview of Neurosurgery. Practical Applications of the Quantum Sciences. Photography in Surveillance. Criminal and Abnormal Psychology. Some of the titles, she couldn�t even pronounce. All of them looked read, from science-fiction novels to classics to elevated political analysis. One level of his bookshelf was reserved for photographs. There was one of Jarod with his elderly parents and younger sister. They all looked happy. No one hiding, dour, cutting themselves off like in her photographs of her family. A second one of his sister, each of her hands on the shoulder of one child. Jarod had a niece and a nephew. One with the other guy she�d seen at Dream Flights, who must�ve been Kevin. They were grinning, looking for all the world like best buddies out for a good time. In the last one, he was standing with Kara and Nathan, Kara�s son and Parker�s nephew. |
|