Scott Free by John Gilstrap Page B

dismissive motion with his hands. “I don’t even fight it. I think he’s up to three earrings—maybe it’s four. I know there’s two in at least one ear. I figure what the hell? It’s his money and he’s on the honor roll every quarter.” He laughed as he recalled the day Scott broached the hair issue. “It’s a look, he tells me, for his band. He’s lead guitar, and features himself to be the next Kirk Hammett.”
    â€œAh, heavy metal. I get a headache just thinking about it.”
    â€œScott’s actually pretty good,” Brandon said. “And if you can’t listen to the Stones, then Metallica ain’t a bad substitute. Anyway, I made him wait six months on the hair, and when he still wanted it, I said okay.”
    Whitestone seemed genuinely intrigued. “Is it permanent?”
    â€œAs permanent as any dye, I suppose. I mean they had to bleach it down to white before turning it blue. Now, ask me if I’m washing blue-stained pillowcases every week. The answer is yes.”
    The chief shook his head. “And I thought I was daring by wearing a ponytail halfway to my ass.”
    God, wasn’t that the truth? Brandon thought back to the screaming matches he’d had with his own father over the length of his hair. A career Navy aviator and an Academy grad, his father knew only one hairstyle—high-and-tight—and saw the hippie movement as a bunch of Communist sissy-boys. When young and rebellious Brandon had refused to get a haircut, his father had produced a straight razor and threatened to take care of it himself. Only the intervention of his mom saved the boy from a bloodbath, but from that day on, his dad introduced the boy as “my daughter, Brandon.” They never spoke again, his father and he, after that day with the razor. Eight months later, nearly to the day, a surface-to-air missile reduced Lieutenant Commander Curtis O’Toole to so much humidity over the skies of Hanoi.
    Brandon dedicated his life to avoiding the same mistakes with his own son. Sitting there in Barry Whitestone’s office, his brain flashed images of the morning when Scott was maybe three hours old and they made eye contact for the first time; not just the squirmy look-at-all-the-new-stuff gaze that he’d seen earlier, but that real, bonding, I-trust-you-with-my-life stare. It came with a smile, and Brandon realized in that instant that all the times when he thought he’d fallen in love had just been poor imitations of the real thing.
    Under different circumstances, the long silence that filled the chief’s office might have felt uncomfortable, but this one didn’t. Here, two fathers sat together, one of them facing down a nightmare, and the other wondering how he would cope in similar circumstances. Life shouldn’t be as fragile as this, Brandon thought. It shouldn’t be permitted that years of hard work and attention and wonderful times could be wiped out so quickly. Thousands of people logged millions of hours in the sky every year. Why should it be Scott who added a notch to the statistics? Why not a kid who was less deserving of an easy, happy life?
    Brandon felt pressure building behind his eyes as he pondered these things. Sometimes life was so damned unfair that he couldn’t stand it. But he wouldn’t lose control. Not here, and certainly not in front of a stranger. If he gave up hope, then so would everyone else. And there was hope, dammit. Plenty of it.
    When he glanced up at the chief, Whitestone at first looked away, but then tentatively returned his gaze. “He’s alive, you know,” Brandon said, pleased that his voice still sounded strong.
    Whitestone set his jaw, nodded. “And we’ll find him.”

9
    W HAT C ODY J AMIESON LACKED in flying skills he made up for in preparedness. Scott had struck the jackpot on tools. The Cessna had a full complement, including the Holy Grail du