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Chapter Three
“How’s the pilot?” Vince asked Petrowski through a door in a back room at the DZ the next week.
Chunka-chunka-chunka of a sewing machine whirred behind him. Chance, at its helm mainly to keep Vince company, paused as Petrowski stepped inside.
Vince surveyed this morning’s work lining the cubbyholes on the far wall. Neon parachute harnesses and canopies hung to his left.
Sewn canopies rested on a stainless-steel work desk against the wall behind him.
“Not sure yet.” Petrowski stepped over a parachute stretched across folding mats on the spacious floor.
Something in Vince’s gut said Petrowski was withholding information. His prerogative, he guessed. But every day that pilot remained unfound added sobering percentage to the possibility that he wouldn’t be found alive.
Joel entered. “What’s making you bark this time, Reardon?”
Vince tamped down his acrid mood because he didn’t want to stir the volatile pot and disrespect the authority of the man who was also his friend. “I mean no disrespect, sir, but there was no need not to send our guys to attempt that rescue last week.” Vince swiped up his plastic jug and swigged his water, wishing it was a cold beer instead. Then just as fast, the thought of tasting beer turned uncharacteristically sour. Way weird.
Maybe he had some undetected brain damage from the wreck. No other rational explanation for him not wanting to down a cold one.
Chance abandoned the sewing and knelt to fold the next chute in the lineup.
Vince dropped to his knees to help. “Though I’m sure they’re properly trained, they don’t have as much experience with pilot rescue as we do.”
Petrowski stood to his full height. “Then they needed the practice, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, but—they could practice during training. This was a real mission with an actual human life at stake, sir.” Frustration surged over the fact.
Joel shifted his stance. “Don’t ride Petrowski, Reardon. We requested he send another team as long as it wouldn’t further jeopardize the pilot.”
“Fine.” Vince’s diamond-plate will yielded. He trusted and respected his leaders and their decisions. Period. That still didn’t explain why they’d choose him over bringing a pilot back. That went completely against their creed. And against any good reason Vince could wrap his mind around.
Unless Vince meant more to them.
Nah. Not possible. Right? Not as intentionally difficult and brooding and belligerent as he strove to be.
Vince folded his arms across his chest and grunted. “I think all your sanities just fell off a corporate cliff.”
But the deep care embedded in their eyes said otherwise.
Petrowski leaned in, eyeing Vince’s elbow. “That has to hurt. But I expected you to look worse only a week after your wipeout.” He smirked.
Now that was more like it. Let them give him grief. Give him a hard time. Give him relentless razzing. Anything was better than the pity plastered on their faces upon seeing him ride down the hall strapped helplessly to an annoyingly creaky gurney last week.
“That’s because that dame who hit me blasted things out of proportion.”
“Whoa, grumpy,” a familiar voice said from the doorway.
Refuge’s Sheriff Steele and Officer Stallings walked in with an armload of his things.
“I recovered your stuff.” A metallic clank sounded as Stallings laid the items on an empty stainless-steel table.
Rounds of surprise rumbled through the room from each member of his team.
Obliterating silence followed as his leaders and fellow PJs eyed the objects.
Or what was left of them.
Vince swallowed hard. So did most of his team. If it hadn’t been for the thick leather jacket and helmet he had worn, he would have been far worse off.
Stallings handed Vince his scuffed-up wallet. “There’s a copy of the police report at the station once you feel up to filling your portion out. Although the other driver was cited for infractions, you should know she was distracted by a family emergency.”
Vince blinked. What kind of family emergency? She’d said she was on her way to court. So which time was she lying? Figured. Didn’t all attorneys?
“So, go easy on her,” Stallings was saying. “She’s fully prepared to take responsibility for the accident.”
“She admitted fault?” An attorney?
“Yes. Without hesitation. And she was insured.” Stallings’ gaze veered toward the helmet and the scuffed black jacket that had shredded down to his skin.
Vince’s arms tingled at the thought of how much worse he could have fared.
“You ought to thank the Big Man Upstairs that you’re alive.” Stallings jabbed a pointer finger toward the ceiling a couple times to drive his divine point home, then stepped out.
Silence pervaded for several moments.
Vince peered at the items. Joel walked over and lifted them up one by one. Vince’s other teammates moved close to look. Vince raised his head to see over Brock’s broad back and Chance’s tall shoulders.
“Wow. Dude.”
Who said that, Vince couldn’t be sure. His mind had skidded back to the moment of impact. He forced images away and focused on his rain-and-red-soaked belongings.
The bloodstained leather was mangled into shreds, the inside of the material scraped from asphalt and oil on the arms where he’d skidded.
Joel whistled long and lifted Vince’s helmet.
His very scraped helmet.
“That could have been your skull, Reardon,” Joel said.
What could he say to that? Certainly couldn’t refute it. He’d only recently begun wearing one, ever since Stallings had pulled him over for the third time and told him it was the law.
“Lemme see that.” Vince held out his hand. Joel placed the helmet in it.
Vince turned it over in his hands while his team looked on. His helmet was scraped down the back and the inner foam lining was compressed from absorbing impact.
Joel was right. That could have been his skull had he not been wearing it. In that moment Vince knew he would not be sitting here alive had he not been wearing it. And, not that he’d admit this quite yet, but maybe Someone upstairs did spare his life.
Why?
Why did God think him worth saving when good people died every day?
“Anything else there?” Vince asked, growing uncomfortable with his own thoughts.
No telling what had happened to his gloves. But they’d been a gift from his dad. One of the only things the drunken old codger had ever given him besides a hard life and a hard time. The old man spent all his money on booze.
Chance poked his head in the door and extended a cordless phone. “Petrowski, Central with word on the missing pilot.”
Chance’s solemn tone did not make Vince feel good. Aaron took the call in hushed words. When he peered over his shoulder, shook his head in somber motions and gestured Joel out, Vince cursed and looked around for something to punch just like the truth hitting him in the gut.
The pilot wasn’t coming home. Not alive, anyway.
Vince’s lingering headache expanded into something monstrous. Part of it was probably from worrying about the pilot’s family and how miserable the novice PJ team must feel right now. And his own misery over his jacked-up bike. And his hopelessness over his old man who refused to stop drinking. And his ruined relationship with the sister he still loved so much it hurt. Yet both of them were too stubborn to reach out first.
No use pining for things that couldn’t be fixed.
He thought of the pilot and of his brother.
Or continue to ache and seethe over someone who couldn’t be brought back from wherever souls go when they die.
But knowing that didn’t afford him the ability to let go. And now, some senseless woman had sabotaged a crucial mission and severed the one final connection he still felt he had with his brother.
And he didn’t know if he could ever forgive her.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The familiar voice paused Val at the DZ entrance. She faced the man leaving and realized he wasn’t in uniform. “Officer Stallings.”
“Miss Russo.” He viewed the stuff in her arms. “For Vince?”
Her toe dug into the asphalt. “Ah, yeah.”
“Peace offering?” His head dipped toward the items.
Val plucked at her gift. A stuffed tan bear wearing a camouflage outfit, a tiny parachute and airplane Band-Aids she’d placed on his arms. “I found it at the gift shop near the unmapped military base on the outskirts of Refuge.”
She’d gone there yesterday after leaving the hospital where she’d checked on Elsie, scheduled for another surgery today.
When Val had called the police station last week to ask about Vince, the dispatcher had informed her she’d crashed into one of the town’s infamous PJs. Val wasn’t even from around Refuge, and had heard of them. Didn’t take much sleuthing to figure out she could find Vince at the Refuge Bed and Breakfast on Mustang Lane or at the DZ near Peña’s Landing.
“I went to the B and B and inquired about Vince. A nice woman named Sarah told me I could find Vince here. She offered directions to the DZ facility. So, is he in there?” She eyed the suddenly formidable-looking building.
“Yeah.” He angled toward her. “I hope you’re not planning to go in there with that stuff just yet.”
“Why not?” Val stepped into the DZ lobby.
Stallings trailed, looking ten kinds of tense. Like he might be gearing up to referee a domestic disturbance. “He’s still pretty steamed under the collar. And Vince is a hothead, anyway. That bear’s liable to have its limbs torn off and you’re liable to walk out wearing the stuffing.”
“It’s a chance I’ll take unless you think my presence will compromise his recovery.”
Stallings snorted. “It’s not Vince’s health I’d be worried about. Miss, I’m telling you, he’s not one to mess with when he’s this mad. I suggest you either send it in with someone else or come back at a later date. Ten years from now ought to do it.”
Though vaguely amused, she grew irritated and eyed her watch. She needed to be back at the hospital soon. Elsie would be out of her second surgery anytime now if everything had gone well. Val shoved the bear toward Stallings. “Then would you mind taking it in to him?”
Stallings’ eyes bugged. He backed away from the bear. “Me? Uh, no, ma’am.” He grabbed another officer coming out of a back room. “But Sheriff Steele here will.”
The stubby sheriff paused. Fluorescent bulbs buzzing above reflected light off his shiny bald head as it bobbled up and down to study her and Stallings. “Why do I get the feeling I’ve stumbled into a speed trap?” Steele adjusted his belt which secured a sidearm peeking under his paunch.
She extended the bear toward the sheriff. “I’m in a hurry. And you’re armed. So why don’t you take this in to Mr. Reardon for me?” She smiled her brightest smile and hoped it carried enough charm to convince him to do it.
The sheriff tilted back his hat. “And who might you be, little lady? A love interest?”
Val coughed out a laugh.
Stallings, on his way out, paused and snorted as he left the facility through the lobby, which boasted a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.
“N-no. Certainly not a love interest. I—” Val cleared her throat of the sudden glob of fear.
The sheriff raised snowy brows and bounced on the balls of his feet in an impatient gesture. He made an exaggerated motion of eyeing his watch. “I’m not sure I’ve got the time unless you’ve got more info. I’m friends with the stubborn cuss’s old man. Jest dropped by to check on him. Who are you?”
“I’m the woman who hit him. And destroyed his bike.”
A blank look. Then the sheriff looked her up and down—and laughed. His cheeks and chin jiggled as he laughed some more. Then he clamped a grandfatherly palm on her shoulder. “Tell you what, miss. I promise to take him this little bear if you’ll promise not to be a stranger. Come back and visit Vince when he ain’t so rip-roarin’ mad.”
“Um…err…okay. Why?”
A jovial twinkle lit his aged eyes. “Because once he cools down enough and gets past being so blasted mad that he can’t see straight, I think he’ll see that you’re a mite too perty to stay mad at.” He winked, tipped his hat and reached for the bear. “Any message you want me to give?”
“Just what’s on the card. That I’m very sorry. And fully willing to pay for all the damages. My contact information is included.”
He nodded and headed toward a partially closed room that voices wafted from. She turned, pausing as a group of massive men strode out of the room to stand in the hall near where the sheriff stepped in to talk to Vince. No yelling or things crashing. Maybe Vince was taking the bear, and her apology, okay.
“Can I help you, miss?” One of the daunting men approached. His name tag read “Peña.”
“I’ve been helped. Thanks.”
But the stocky Hispanic man didn’t budge.
Curious glances hurtled her way from the imposing group of muscle-bound men who undoubtedly wondered what she was doing standing there staring at the door of a room she imagined housed Vince. Still no sound coming from inside.
She wished she had assurance Vince would be okay with her coming to his work.
“Excuse me,” she said to the one whose eyes held the deepest shade of compassion and blue. His name tag read “Briggs.” He seemed much less intimidating than the rest.
“Yes?” The man stepped forward.
“I’m wondering if you can tell me how Mr. Reardon is faring.”
The other guys stood in the wide connecting hall opposite the table area and studied her. Then each other. Heavy silence fell. Stark. Foreboding. Like a cell block door slam. The hefty weight of all the eyes bearing down on her settled over her like a judge’s declaration of life without parole.
