chances.”
“It’s not only your chances you’d be taking. Ms. Whitbeck’s gonna take you. There are old pilots, and bold pilots, but not both. She’s got enough mileage on her that you’ll be safe. She’s not one of us, but she’s good people and I trust her. It’s not up to you, unless you can Change into a wolverine and run all the way there.”
I had been about to snap at him when I glanced over my shoulder.
“Hal, uh, I think my ride may be here.”
“All right, Zoe. Good luck.”
I sighed. “Thanks. You, too.”
I turned off my phone, took a breath, and focused on my ride.
If her plane was anything like her car, I was in a whole new world of trouble.
The station wagon was at least twenty years old. The windshield was cracked in three places. A bungee cord was holding one of the back doors closed, because there was no handle. The number of scrapes, dents, and broken trim on the outside suggested it had been driven blindfolded and drunk.
The passenger-side window was rolled down—check that. It was missing entirely.
“I’m Luanne Whitbeck.” She had the same drawl and aviator sunglasses every other pilot I’d met today had, with what sounded a little like a Northeast accent, but definitely not Massachusetts. “You Zoe Miller?”
Seeing her car, I thought about denying it, but I’d come this far . . . “Yeah.” At least her name checked out.
“Get on in. We have a very small window for getting out of here, and I understand time is of the essence.”
I nodded and got in. The inside was no better than the outside. The upholstery was cracked in places, missing entirely in others. Duct tape abounded. I could see glimpses of tarmac through the floorboards on my side and made sure to keep my feet along the edges that seemed intact. The odometer said “65,094” on it, and I was pretty sure next time it turned over would be its third, not first time.
The pilot was dark haired, tall, and slender; better, she radiated confidence of age and experience. A little weather-beaten around the eyes, she gave me the impression she could handle whatever aviation and Alaska could throw at her. She shook my hand, and we were off before I could shut the door.
It took three more slams for the door to shut. I looked over at Luanne, wondering if she would chastise me for being too rough on her car.
“There you go,” she said, nodding. “You show that door who’s boss.”
I nodded, my heart sinking.
“Now, we’re going to take a left turn up here. The door’s going to open again. Just slam it again.” She caught me looking around. “No, there isn’t a seat belt, sorry. But I know you’ll do the right thing.”
The right thing was apparently jamming my heels under the seat and clutching the ragged upholstery with one hand while I reached out to slam the door again with the other.
“There you go. Won’t happen again.”
“The fourth time’s the charm?”
“No more turns until the other side of the airport.”
It took five minutes and we were there. A fleet of small planes of various colors and shapes greeted me. I looked for the worst one, convinced it would be my ride.
“We’re over there, on the end.”
I saw three sleek little planes, all in what looked like perfect shape. Any of them looked up to the job.
I may have exhaled my relief. All Luanne’s money went into her fleet, not her ground transportation. I could live with that. “Have you always been a pilot?”
“Past fifteen years. I was a geologist for ages. But now I like seeing the earth from the air. A new perspective.”
“Oh. I’m an archaeologist.” I thought about “used to be,” and decided, no, fuck that. No matter what happened, I was still me. Falling off my feet with fatigue, I handed her my bag to stow, and climbed into the cabin. I found the safety belts—yay, safety belts!—and strapped in. After being on small planes for the past day, I knew the “in the event of an emergency in Alaska guns and
“It’s not only your chances you’d be taking. Ms. Whitbeck’s gonna take you. There are old pilots, and bold pilots, but not both. She’s got enough mileage on her that you’ll be safe. She’s not one of us, but she’s good people and I trust her. It’s not up to you, unless you can Change into a wolverine and run all the way there.”
I had been about to snap at him when I glanced over my shoulder.
“Hal, uh, I think my ride may be here.”
“All right, Zoe. Good luck.”
I sighed. “Thanks. You, too.”
I turned off my phone, took a breath, and focused on my ride.
If her plane was anything like her car, I was in a whole new world of trouble.
The station wagon was at least twenty years old. The windshield was cracked in three places. A bungee cord was holding one of the back doors closed, because there was no handle. The number of scrapes, dents, and broken trim on the outside suggested it had been driven blindfolded and drunk.
The passenger-side window was rolled down—check that. It was missing entirely.
“I’m Luanne Whitbeck.” She had the same drawl and aviator sunglasses every other pilot I’d met today had, with what sounded a little like a Northeast accent, but definitely not Massachusetts. “You Zoe Miller?”
Seeing her car, I thought about denying it, but I’d come this far . . . “Yeah.” At least her name checked out.
“Get on in. We have a very small window for getting out of here, and I understand time is of the essence.”
I nodded and got in. The inside was no better than the outside. The upholstery was cracked in places, missing entirely in others. Duct tape abounded. I could see glimpses of tarmac through the floorboards on my side and made sure to keep my feet along the edges that seemed intact. The odometer said “65,094” on it, and I was pretty sure next time it turned over would be its third, not first time.
The pilot was dark haired, tall, and slender; better, she radiated confidence of age and experience. A little weather-beaten around the eyes, she gave me the impression she could handle whatever aviation and Alaska could throw at her. She shook my hand, and we were off before I could shut the door.
It took three more slams for the door to shut. I looked over at Luanne, wondering if she would chastise me for being too rough on her car.
“There you go,” she said, nodding. “You show that door who’s boss.”
I nodded, my heart sinking.
“Now, we’re going to take a left turn up here. The door’s going to open again. Just slam it again.” She caught me looking around. “No, there isn’t a seat belt, sorry. But I know you’ll do the right thing.”
The right thing was apparently jamming my heels under the seat and clutching the ragged upholstery with one hand while I reached out to slam the door again with the other.
“There you go. Won’t happen again.”
“The fourth time’s the charm?”
“No more turns until the other side of the airport.”
It took five minutes and we were there. A fleet of small planes of various colors and shapes greeted me. I looked for the worst one, convinced it would be my ride.
“We’re over there, on the end.”
I saw three sleek little planes, all in what looked like perfect shape. Any of them looked up to the job.
I may have exhaled my relief. All Luanne’s money went into her fleet, not her ground transportation. I could live with that. “Have you always been a pilot?”
“Past fifteen years. I was a geologist for ages. But now I like seeing the earth from the air. A new perspective.”
“Oh. I’m an archaeologist.” I thought about “used to be,” and decided, no, fuck that. No matter what happened, I was still me. Falling off my feet with fatigue, I handed her my bag to stow, and climbed into the cabin. I found the safety belts—yay, safety belts!—and strapped in. After being on small planes for the past day, I knew the “in the event of an emergency in Alaska guns and
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