ash. I stumbled along the dock, my legs stiff and barely holding. At the main cabin the door to one side was unlocked and it swung open on crusted hinges.
Inside it was darker, but like in my own shack, I could make out shapes of a table and bunks against one wall. I found a slick blue rain tarp folded on top of an old trunk and carried it back outside to where Gunther lay. He groaned again when I pulled him onto the flattened tarp.
“Bedtime, Fred,” I said, and then twisted two corners together and somehow dragged him up the ramp and into the cabin. Inside I pulled a mattress from one bed to the floor and after deflating the vest and prying him out of it, I rolled the pilot onto the mattress and covered him with every blanket I could reach.
I finally sat on the edge of the bunk, breathing hard and shallow as if only half of my lungs were working. I was caked with mud from the crotch down. A filmy mixture of blood and water covered my arms. My face felt swollen from the insect bites.
Moonlight was pouring through an old-style four-pane window. Gunther’s face was turned up to the ceiling. I didn’t know if he was alive or dead. I stared at the spot on his neck where a pulse would be but I could not move myself to it. I didn’t even feel myself fall back into the bed.
I could feel the helicopter blades, more than hear them, a whumping of air that rattled the wood walls around me. In my half dream I could feel the knock of boots on hardwood floors, the hard steps vibrating into my cracked ribs and curiously tickling the bone.
I could feel the words, sharp and urgent medical terms jumping out of men’s mouths, and then I was rising up out of warm water. Up out of pain. I’d spent enough time in hell. It was time to leave.
CHAPTER 10
W hen I woke up the stiff coolness of the sheets was against my legs and chest so I raised my right hand and it went to the left side of my neck. There were no bandages this time, only the smooth dime-sized scar. I was in a hospital bed but I had not dreamed eighteen months in Florida.
I tried to open my eyes but the lids felt like they were stuck with a dry, cracked paste and when I finally forced them, it felt like sandpaper scraping across my corneas. Billy Manchester was standing at the end of the bed, his arms folded across his chest.
“Good m-morning, Max.”
I blinked a few more times and tried to swallow but couldn’t find any moisture in my cheeks.
“Counselor,” I finally croaked.
“Y-You are alive.”
The reassurance was a light attempt at humor, but I wasn’t sure how close to reality.
“Was there any doubt?”
“I wasn’t here w-when they brought you in. But d-dehydration and exposure are d-dangerous conditions.”
“How long?”
“You w-were in and out of c-consciousness most of yesterday and 1-last night,” Billy said, pouring a glass of water from a bedside pitcher and putting in a straw before telling the story.
When I hadn’t showed up at his tower by late Saturday night and he couldn’t get an answer on the cell phone or at Gunther’s office, Billy had called the sheriff’s office. When he told them of my planned meeting with Gunther, they patched him in with a search-and-rescue unit that was already working reports that Gunther and his plane were missing.
The pilot’s family had been to the hangar. Billy confirmed his ownership of the Jeep parked next to the tarmac. At 11:00 Sunday morning a private pilot radioed his sighting of a downed plane near the Everglades fishing camp. Within an hour a ranger in an airboat was at the camp and was met by an emergency helicopter. A chopper with a pontoon landed in the swamp and airlifted us out.
“Gunther?”
“He’s alive. But he m-might lose his 1-leg.”
I reached for the water glass and sipped at the straw. My arms looked swollen and the thousands of fine lacerations from the sawgrass had been coated with some kind of clear antiseptic cream. Billy had started to pace.
“Your n-name is
Inside it was darker, but like in my own shack, I could make out shapes of a table and bunks against one wall. I found a slick blue rain tarp folded on top of an old trunk and carried it back outside to where Gunther lay. He groaned again when I pulled him onto the flattened tarp.
“Bedtime, Fred,” I said, and then twisted two corners together and somehow dragged him up the ramp and into the cabin. Inside I pulled a mattress from one bed to the floor and after deflating the vest and prying him out of it, I rolled the pilot onto the mattress and covered him with every blanket I could reach.
I finally sat on the edge of the bunk, breathing hard and shallow as if only half of my lungs were working. I was caked with mud from the crotch down. A filmy mixture of blood and water covered my arms. My face felt swollen from the insect bites.
Moonlight was pouring through an old-style four-pane window. Gunther’s face was turned up to the ceiling. I didn’t know if he was alive or dead. I stared at the spot on his neck where a pulse would be but I could not move myself to it. I didn’t even feel myself fall back into the bed.
I could feel the helicopter blades, more than hear them, a whumping of air that rattled the wood walls around me. In my half dream I could feel the knock of boots on hardwood floors, the hard steps vibrating into my cracked ribs and curiously tickling the bone.
I could feel the words, sharp and urgent medical terms jumping out of men’s mouths, and then I was rising up out of warm water. Up out of pain. I’d spent enough time in hell. It was time to leave.
CHAPTER 10
W hen I woke up the stiff coolness of the sheets was against my legs and chest so I raised my right hand and it went to the left side of my neck. There were no bandages this time, only the smooth dime-sized scar. I was in a hospital bed but I had not dreamed eighteen months in Florida.
I tried to open my eyes but the lids felt like they were stuck with a dry, cracked paste and when I finally forced them, it felt like sandpaper scraping across my corneas. Billy Manchester was standing at the end of the bed, his arms folded across his chest.
“Good m-morning, Max.”
I blinked a few more times and tried to swallow but couldn’t find any moisture in my cheeks.
“Counselor,” I finally croaked.
“Y-You are alive.”
The reassurance was a light attempt at humor, but I wasn’t sure how close to reality.
“Was there any doubt?”
“I wasn’t here w-when they brought you in. But d-dehydration and exposure are d-dangerous conditions.”
“How long?”
“You w-were in and out of c-consciousness most of yesterday and 1-last night,” Billy said, pouring a glass of water from a bedside pitcher and putting in a straw before telling the story.
When I hadn’t showed up at his tower by late Saturday night and he couldn’t get an answer on the cell phone or at Gunther’s office, Billy had called the sheriff’s office. When he told them of my planned meeting with Gunther, they patched him in with a search-and-rescue unit that was already working reports that Gunther and his plane were missing.
The pilot’s family had been to the hangar. Billy confirmed his ownership of the Jeep parked next to the tarmac. At 11:00 Sunday morning a private pilot radioed his sighting of a downed plane near the Everglades fishing camp. Within an hour a ranger in an airboat was at the camp and was met by an emergency helicopter. A chopper with a pontoon landed in the swamp and airlifted us out.
“Gunther?”
“He’s alive. But he m-might lose his 1-leg.”
I reached for the water glass and sipped at the straw. My arms looked swollen and the thousands of fine lacerations from the sawgrass had been coated with some kind of clear antiseptic cream. Billy had started to pace.
“Your n-name is
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