Finnigan wiped one hand on the leg of his faded jeans, then held it out for me to shake as he introduced himself, thick gray hair blowing in the ocean breeze. “Lex Walker?”
“Yes. Thanks for making yourself available.”
“My pleasure. Where’s the dog?”
“Change of plans. It’s just me.” Even though Orthus was theentirereason I’d rented a private plane.
Finnigan shrugged, then he showed me to the plane, where the door already stood open. He didn’t offer to take my bag, nor did he help me onto the aircraft. He assumed I could handle myself. Which I could, once I figured out how best to climb up into the cabin by stepping up onto the pontoon, beneath the left wing.
Finnigan climbed in after me and pulled the door shut as I was stowing my stuff beneath the first of six seats. Walking hunched over in deference to the low ceiling, he stepped into the cockpit and settled into the pilot’s seat, where he flipped some switches, then pushed a single button to crank the engine, which sent the propeller spinning.
“Buckle up and cross your fingers,” he said, twisting to look at me over his shoulder. I scowled, gripping the arms of my chair, and he laughed, a gregarious, gut-deep sound. “Just kidding. We’ll be there in about two hours.”
The plane moved forward slowly, pulled across the surface of the water by the single nose-mounted propeller. Finnigan rotated us so that we faced the length of the lake, and he quickly picked up speed. A minute or so later, he pulled back on the yolk, and we rose into the air, much more smoothly than I’d anticipated.
With that, we were off, my eyes glued to the window on my right. I’d been on hundreds of flights since air travel became popular in the early sixties, but flying on a tiny personal plane was an entirely different experience than a crowded commercial jet. It was exhilarating, as if the anxious breath I held were somehow contributing to our staying airborne. Which was ridiculous, of course, yet I couldn’t quite talk myself into breathing normally.
Even so, the flight was a rush, and Ilovedit. I loved the conviction deep in my heart that I was only alive thanks to the pilot’s skill and a slight breeze. The exhilaration felt like being on a rollercoaster, where my body remained convinced that Icoulddie, even though my head knew I probably wouldn’t.
Two hours and ten minutes later, I was staring out the windshield at a brilliant New England sunset, still smiling, when Finnigan twisted to glance at me over his shoulder, saying something I couldn’t quite hear over the rumble of the engine. When I shook my head, he pointed out the windshield, where trees spread out below us as far as I could see. He’d found the crash site.
He waved me forward, indicating the co-pilot’s chair, and in two seconds, I’d unbuckled and resettled myself into the seat on his right, just behind the broad windshield.
A couple of miles ahead and far below, a fresh scar marred the forest, a swath gouged through a sizable chunk of Maine’s ubiquitous woodlands, ending in a pile of twisted metal amidst splintered and mangled trees. From the air, it looked like a toy plane ground beneath a child’s heel, but the reality was much more disturbing. That misshapen mass of steel was what remained of Troy Devich’s personal C130. It had gone down nearly 1,200 miles from Memphis, its intended destination—reportedly without its co-pilot and cargo.
That last bit was hard for me to believe. Surely the co-pilot and the box were somewhere among or near the wreckage, simply overlooked somehow by the surviving crew and Devich’s rescue team. And if they were there, I would find them.
I could find anything.
FOURTEEN
“I’m gonna set us down over there,” Finnigan yelled, pointing through the windshield at a narrow, winding lake to the southwest. “Will that get you close enough?”
“That’ll be great.” Though as I watched the ground fly by beneath us, I realized that from the air, I had no way of truly judging the distance between that lake and the crash site. But there were no better landing options, and a hike through the woods, even if it wound up being several miles long, shouldn’t be much of a problem. Right?
A couple of minutes later, Finnigan began his descent onto the north end of the eerie, twisty-looking body of water, right in the middle of a lake-length reflection of the brilliantly setting sun. Our smooth touchdown was a testament to his skill as a pilot, and out of gratitude, I refrained from “bruising” the arms of his co-pilot’s chair.
As the plane decelerated, it skidded along the surface of the water all the way up to the north shore of the lake. Trees rushed by the window, already dark with shadows from the setting sun, which painted beautiful pink and purple stripes across the sky. The pontoons coasted onto the gently sloping bank, and Finnigan pulled back on a long knob on the control panel. The engine died and the propeller slowed to a stop as I unbuckled, then walked hunched over into the passenger compartment to gather my luggage.
As the propeller stilled, Finnigan pulled up on the lever to open the door and stepped onto the pontoon, then down into five inches of water. He stood with his rubber boots mired in mud, reaching up to take my duffle from me as I stepped out of the plane. I was about to protest that I could handle it myself when he leaned forward to set the bag on the beach, and I realized he was just trying to help me keep it dry. For which I was grateful. I didnotrelish the thought of having only wet clothes to change into after my hike. I let him take both my backpack and travel bag too.
“You sure you want me to leave you here?” He glanced around at the dense forest and complete lack of civilization. “How’re you going to get home?”
“I’m not going home.” Smiling grimly, I jumped down from the pontoon, splashing in the frigid, shallow water like a child in a puddle. I couldn’t resist, even in the cold. “I’ll be fine. I’m an experienced hiker…” If you count a working vacation in Oregon several years ago. “…and anything big enough to be a pain in the ass is already hibernating.”
In case I was wrong about that last part, I had my Ruger under my coat, the spare gun in my duffle, and the dagger tucked into my boot. With any luck,I’dbe the scariest thing stomping through the woods.
Finnigan frowned like he didn’t believe me. “You’re not dressed for the cold,” he insisted, glancing from my bare neck to my now-soaked hiking boots. “With the sun going down, the temperature will drop fast, and that thin leather coat won’t cut it.”
Maybe not, but the ankle-length leather duster was damn flattering on a woman of my build. Besides, after stomping through snow on Oak Island, Maine felt down-right tropical.
“The exercise will keep me warm.” Digging in my coat pocket, I pulled out the cash I’d taken from an ATM in the sporting goods store in Digby. “Thanks for the ride,” I said, counting out hundred-dollar bills. “I may be a repeat customer, if that’s okay with you.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Finnigan’s eyes brightened as his hand closed over the money. “Any time.”
The pilot climbed back into his plane as I stepped onto the shore, repositioning my backpack over my right shoulder to keep my left hand free, just in case. Long term habit. I probably wouldn’t need to shoot anything in the woods, but it paid to be cautious.
Standing in the waist-high brown grass at the edge of the water, I watched Finnigan taxi out onto the lake. His plane picked up speed, then rose into the air, and he waved at me through the windshield. I waved back as the Cessna flew toward the sunset.
