a look at Jeffrey. “Don’t worry. Sometimes the instruments freeze up a bit, but I can still manage. This is a piece of cake.”
He hated cake. Hated this plane. Hated potato soup.
Thompson muttered something else under his breath. It sounded like “damn snow squall” and Jeffrey wished he wasn’t so attuned to words. From an early age, his greatest escape was reading novels and listening to music. Being bumped from foster home to foster home, how often had he escaped feeling like the outsider by cracking open a book or slapping on a pair of headphones? With music, the heavier the lyrics, the better.
His love of words had extended to his business life as well. While others analyzed body language, he analyzed the tone of people’s voices, how they used words, and eighty percent of the time, he had a person pegged.
But at this moment, he hated words. Especially ones like “damn snow squall” and “lousy visibility.” Thompson had an attitude three times his body size. And although Jeffrey had had his fair share of threats in his life, he’d never been threatened by a pilot, for God’s sake. That’s how it felt, anyway, with Thompson’s insinuations about a potential crash landing.
Jeffrey shifted in his seat, wondering if his jaw would ever unclench. And wishing to hell he had something to distract him. “Got any music?” he asked tightly.
Thompson nodded and flicked a switch. A throbbing bass filled the cockpit, followed by Bruce Spring-steen’s gravelly voice, wailing about tramps and being born to run. Jeffrey shot Thompson a look. Was this kid crazy, playing a searing rock tune at a time like this? Jeffrey eased out a stream of air. Well, if now’s my time to die, might as well be with The Boss.
“Katimuk area traffic, this is Cessna 4747sierra.” Thompson spoke loudly, clearly into the headset mouthpiece while checking the GPS on the dashboard.
Katimuk? Jeffrey frowned. Must be a town near Arctic Luck.
“Nine miles west of Katimuk over the river. Eastbound for Katimuk landing strip. Visibility limited. Flying at one thousand.”
Katimuk landing strip. Maybe Arctic Luck shared the same landing area. Or maybe weather was forcing them down. God, wish I hadn’t had that last thought. Shoot me now. Jeffrey leaned his head back against the head-rest, grateful for something solid.
The plane plunged.
Jeffrey’s stomach plummeted.
Springsteen wailed about sex.
Danger, death and sex had never been Jeffrey’s calling card, but suddenly he was living it, moment by moment. Maybe he should have done the predictable things in life. Like gotten married, had children. Then he’d have heirs to his New York loft, L.A. condo, cars, stocks, investments. But when the women’s faces whom he dated flashed through his mind, it was a blur of greedy eyes and sculpted cheeks. A montage of arm-candy dates, the kind of feminine assets that enhanced a guy’s business allure at social functions.
Not a one of them the type to bake cookies, raise kids, grow old with.
For a fleeting moment, Jeffrey wondered if he’d made the right choices in life. He’d been so desperate to escape the streets, he’d worked hard to earn good grades, earn a college scholarship, land in a profession where he could make the big bucks.
But at this moment, maybe his last moment, he wondered what the big bucks really bought him. An expensive funeral?
“Katimuk traffic,” continued Thompson, “Cessna 4747sierra is over the town entering a left downwind for landing to the west. Tell Harry to be there.”
Harry? The thought flew from his mind as the plane careened. Jeffrey swore his internal organs swapped places as the aircraft dropped and dipped. In the background, Bruce rasped about some girl wrapping her legs around velvet rims.
Thompson was flicking switches, tugging the stick.
A clunking sound. The nose of the plane pitched up.
“Flaps,” Thompson calmly explained, pulling on the yoke.
Jeffrey swallowed, hard. Flaps. Good.
Thompson reached for the ceiling and pulled something. “Trimming.”
Trimming. Good. Whatever the hell that meant.
A runway appeared through a break in the fog. Jeffrey had never been so damn glad to see a strip of snowflaked dirt in his entire life. Something dark and bulky trotted across it. A moose?
Bruce was crooning about madness in his soul while Jeffrey prayed his last image on earth wouldn’t be a close-up of a moose. Fortunately the beast jogged off the landing strip, disappearing into a white expanse of fog and snow.
The wheels hit solid ground.
Jeffrey released a pent-up breath, debating who ruled the world. Springsteen or Thompson.
And when the plane eased to a smooth stop, the answer was evident. Thompson.
“WE’RE WHERE?” Ten minutes ago, they’d landed. Jeffrey would have kissed the ground, but didn’t want to end up with his lips frozen to it. He’d helped Thompson tie down the plane, then made the fatal mistake of asking where, exactly, they were.
“Katimuk.”
That’s what he thought Thompson had said the first time. Jeffrey chose his battles carefully, and had the common sense to not argue in body-freezing weather, but at the moment he had an issue to chew and didn’t give a damn if his words froze midsentence.
“I need to go to Arctic Luck.” Hell, he needed a lot more than that. A hot drink, for starters. His throat felt like he’d swallowed a block of ice.
“Good for you,” yelled Thompson, marching away from him. “Say hello when you get there.”
Where was Thompson going? Jeffrey jogged a few feet to catch up, tripping and sliding over icy patches. “I demand you take me to Arctic Luck,” he yelled, his words escaping in plumes of vapor. “I paid to go to Arctic Luck.”
Thompson stopped, turned, and fisted his hands on his slim hips. “I, I, I! You big-city types never think of others, only yourselves.”
This conversation was taking a bigger turn than some of those insane plane maneuvers Thompson had made. Thompson, definitely no longer ruled the world. “My jacket is still on the plane. I need to get it.”
“Where on the plane?”
Jeffrey blew out another gust of vapor. “I left it on the convenience luggage rack with my carry-on, to be loaded onto the plane.”
“Convenience?” Thompson paused, then barked a laugh. “What’d you think? That some flight attendant would conveniently transport your stuff onto the plane? I don’t think so.”
“That jacket has my ID, my money—”
“Those fancy shoes of yours are gonna freeze to the ground if we don’t keep walking.” Thompson turned and started marching away.
Jeffrey glanced down, but only briefly. Better to keep walking than staring at his feet which might become
