Voodoo Ridge (22 page)

R
ARELY DO
I sleep more than two or three hours at a stretch without waking up in physical or emotional discomfort—the legacy of having played too many contact sports, and of having killed too many people. Sometimes I can nod off again before dawn, but not always; I’m lucky on some nights if two or three hours is all I get. When I got back from Lake Tahoe that afternoon, perhaps ironically, I slept twelve hours straight. Kiddiot was crouched on my chest when I woke up, purring and licking my chin. That was a first, too.

Scientists say pets have a sixth sense when it comes to human behavior. They can detect nuances in mood that even people closest to us typically can’t. I had always assumed that Kiddiot was born without any sense. And so, when he seemed intuitively to fathom my depression and sought to comfort me, if that is in fact what he was doing, I was somewhat stunned.

“I take back every insensitive thing I ever said about you.”

When I reached up to stroke his ears, he dug his claws into my ribs and spring-boarded out his rubber cat door like his tail was on fire.

The author Robert Heinlein once said, “How we behave toward cats here below determines our status in heaven.” As I watched Kiddiot go, the door flapping in his wake, I allowed myself a small smile, but only for a moment; Savannah, after all, was still gone.

A new prospective student named Stefan Weber had left a message on my answering machine in Larry’s hangar while I was up north, saying he was interested in flying lessons. We’d made arrangements to meet at 0930 for his one-hour, fifty-dollar introductory flight. My watch showed 0820.

I yawned and stretched, did a few half-hearted push-ups, climbed into the shower and stood under it for a long time, hoping the hot water would steam away my sense of loss. It didn’t. I toweled off, dressed, got in my old Tacoma, and drove to the airport.

It was something. And anything was better than dwelling on what had happened to Savannah.

“S
WEET JESUS
,” Larry said. He was peering at me through his thick lenses with his jaws parted, revealing teeth that had never been to the orthodontist. “She was
kidnapped?”

I nodded.

“Do they know who did it?”

“No.”

We were standing outside his hangar, beside the
Ruptured Duck
, waiting for my new flight student to show up.

“I’m really sorry, Logan. I had no idea. It must be hard. I know if something like that ever happened to my wife, much as we’d both like to hire a hit man sometimes to have each other whacked, I’d feel like crap, too.” His voice cracked and he swabbed a sausage finger behind the right lens of his glasses. I’d never seen Larry display emotion of any kind beyond anger.

We were both silent.

“Well, at least you got a student,” he said after awhile, “something to keep your mind busy, right? Been awhile since you had one of those.”

“True.”

He shook his head again and said to himself, “Goddamn,” staring at his steel-toed work boots, filthy with oil stains. The front of his gray, grease-streaked T-shirt bore the words, “I hate being bipolar. It’s awesome!”

“Don’t worry about me, Larry. I’ll be all right.”

He offered to buy me a beer after work. I reminded him I didn’t drink.

“OK, a burrito, then.”

“Actually, I’m having dinner tonight with Mrs. Schmulowitz.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Larry said. “You and the old lady watch football Monday nights.”

“Take a rain check, though?”

“Fair enough.” He paused, struggling to come up with something appropriately profound to say. “Well anyway, the sun also rises, or something like that, right?”

“Let’s not make assumptions before all the facts are in.”

Larry grunted like he was more or less amused and then, in that awkward, halting manner by which heterosexual men typically express affection for each other for fear that anyone might accuse them of being gay, reached out and gripped my left shoulder as if he were squeezing a cantaloupe at the grocery store.

I realized after he walked away that he’d left a greasy, perfectly defined paw print on my last clean polo shirt.

“I
’
M PRONE
to motion sickness,” my would-be student, Stefan Weber, said as we flew lazy eights 2,000 feet above the ocean.

I forced myself to break off thinking obsessively about Savannah and looked over at him sitting in the left seat, eyes wide with fear, clutching the control yoke in a two-handed death grip.

“Say again?” I said.

“I said, I’m prone to motion sickness.”

Stefan’s pallid face, squished between the earphones of the communications headset he was wearing, resembled a loaf of white bread trapped in a vice. He was twenty-five, a balding CPA who’d admitted within the first five minutes of our meeting that he’d never been on a real date, and that the only reason why he was tentatively considering taking flying lessons was because he’d never done one crazy thing in his life, except for the time he’d spray painted “Accountants do it between the spreadsheets” on the wall of his college dorm.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“It’s OK, Stefan, you’re doing fine,” I said, taking the controls. “I have the airplane.”

I leveled the wings and told him to take nice, deep breaths, keeping his eyes on the horizon.

“There’s a vent control right there on your left. Why don’t you open it up and get some nice cold air going on your face, OK?”

He opened up the vent.

“A little more air, Stefan. There ya go. Just relax now. See? Nothing to worry about.”

I reached into the storage pocket of my seat back and pulled out a paper airsick bag. When I looked over at him again, my student was the color of the Chicago River on St. Patrick’s Day.

“Here, buddy, take this.”

Stefan reached for the bag—a half second too late. He opened his mouth and yodeled a torrent of half-digested nastiness that somehow missed me while splattering him and much of the instrument panel. For a small man, he hurled a prodigious amount of vomit.

“I’m really sorry,” Stefan said, wiping his mouth, embarrassed. “I probably should’ve said something earlier.”

“No worries. Happens to the best of us. We probably should head back.”

He nodded glumly.

We were on approach to the airport, on base leg, when the
Duck’s
over-voltage red warning light suddenly came on. I knew from prior experience that when the light illuminated, there was a problem with the electrical system—a sensor or maybe the master switch. Larry would have to do some trouble-shooting, and that would take time. It would also take money I didn’t have. Fortunately, Stefan didn’t notice the light. He didn’t seem to notice anything except the noteworthy amount of rejected breakfast in his lap.

After we landed, he offered to help clean up the
Duck
. I told him I appreciated the gesture, but that it really wasn’t necessary. He wrote me a fifty dollar check and said he’d give thought to the notion of additional lessons. I knew he wouldn’t be back. Nobody in the history of general aviation has ever wolfed their cookies on an introductory flight and come back for more.

The sky was virtually cloudless, the breeze nary a whisper. Another perfect, room-temperature day in paradise. Larry loaned me a pair of rubber gloves, rags, and a spray bottle of cleaner, and said he’d take a look at the electrical system after I de-vomited the
Duck
. He didn’t ask how the lesson had gone. He could see and smell the result.

It took me more than an hour to wipe down the inside of the plane. In a weird way, I didn’t mind; it kept my thoughts from Savannah, if only for a while. I was tempted to give Streeter up in Lake Tahoe a call after I finished, but I knew he would’ve called me if there were any worthwhile developments in his investigation.

I watched a gray Cobra gunship come thundering in to settle gingerly down on the tarmac near the Hippo Grill on the field’s east side, followed seconds later by another Cobra. The two attack helicopters were up from the Marine Corps’ Camp Pendleton, north of San Diego. They flew into Rancho Bonita frequently, ostensibly on training missions that not coincidentally also afforded ample opportunity to flirt with the Hippo’s many comely waitresses.

“Thought you could use a cold drink,” Larry said, walking up from behind me with a Coke in his hand.

I thanked him, opened the can, and sipped. We stood and watched the four marine crewmen in their tailored flight suits and cool-guy sunglasses stroll toward the Hippo.

“Those guys get all the chicks,” Larry said, stroking his Grizzly Adams beard. “Tell ya what. If I dropped a hundred pounds, got Lasik on my eyes and a full Brazilian, I’d give those leathernecks a run for their money.”

“I’m sure you would, Larry.”

He looked over at me, his brow furrowed.

“No witty retort, Logan? No, ‘The day you get girls is the day congress gets anything done?’ ”

“Not today, Larry.”

He nodded like he understood. “I gotta run out for a while. The wife wants me to go carpet shopping. You lemme know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

I lingered for a few minutes, buffing dead bugs off the leading edges of the
Duck’s
wings, then gathered up the cleaning supplies, dropped the rags in a covered trash can in Larry’s hangar and walked back to my cramped, depressing, windowless office. The pile of paperwork atop my government surplus desk demanded to be culled and filed, but I couldn’t muster the energy.

I sat down, put my feet up, and stared into space for the better part of an hour. I guess you could call it meditating, though it was really more like trying to put my brain in neutral and not think about anything. After that, I drove home and told my landlady about what had happened. About the wrecked Twin Beech and the dead pilot at the controls. About the young man lying dead beside the wreckage. But mostly about Savannah.

Mrs. Schmulowitz listened with her right hand clasped over her mouth, and wept.

T
HE
G
IANTS
were playing the Bears that night. Mrs. Schmulowitz served her usual excellent brisket with green beans in cream sauce, which we ate off metal TV trays, while she offered her usual play-by-play commentary on the game, broadcast on her ancient Magnavox console.

“God forbid this guy should actually hold on to the ball,” she complained after the Giant’s tight end muffed an easy pass. “That
schmegegge
couldn’t catch the common
cold
if his life depended on it.”

She was garbed in a blue New York Giants hoodie that was about five sizes too big, an oversized Giants baseball cap, a pair of blue Giants sweatpants, and fuzzy pink bedroom slippers that looked like bunnies.

“It’s just a game, Mrs. Schmulowitz.”

“A game? A
game
?” Sitting beside her on her blue mohair sofa, she looked over at me like it was the craziest thing she’d ever heard. “Football’s not a game, bubby. Football is
life
.”

I didn’t argue her point. Mrs. Schmulowitz came from gridiron nobility—her late uncle was NFL Hall of Fame quarter-back Sid Luckman. She certainly knew more about football than any old lady I ever met.