Page 13 of Heartbreak Bay

6

SAM

My eight-thirty client is a rich older man who doesn’t mind paying my rates and—luckily—takes his responsibility as an aspiring pilot seriously. He comes early, and he comes prepared, and the hour and a half I’ve allotted for him goes by fast. Ten in the morning, a beautiful, clear day. When I taxi the Cessna back to the hangar, we finish up and shake hands, and he’s on his way with a spring in his step.

My mood has improved too. Flying is an irresistible joy for me, a kind of therapy that brings me real peace. Doesn’t last once I’m on the ground, but it does help.

I’m doing a check on paperwork before quitting—I don’t have any more clients scheduled—and it catches me by surprise when someone says from behind me, “Hi. Are you Sam Cade? The flight instructor?”

I turn. “Yeah,” I say. “What’s this about?” I’m a little sharp because I don’t like strangers walking up on me. Then I revise it a little—he doesn’t exactly look shifty. He’s casually but expensively dressed in khaki pants and a polo shirt, a bomber jacket he probably thinks makes him look aeronautical, along with theTop Gun–style Ray-Ban Aviators. White, young, maybe thirty. Short-cropped dark hair that barely shows under a Florida Gators ball cap.

“I was wondering if you had any openings for me,” he says. “To learn how to fly, I mean. I’m Tyler Pharos.”

“Sorry, but this isn’t a good time,” I tell him. “But we can set an appointment to go up and do a discovery flight with me as pilot, and I can explain the process. We’d also need to get you enrolled in ground training. It isn’t particularly cheap, and it takes about six weeks to complete it for most people, in addition to the flight instruction.” I reel it off fast because I know it by heart; I do get a lot of callers who think learning to fly is easy and fast. Walk-ins are kind of rare at this airport, but I’m not really surprised by it either.

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry. I guess I should have called before I came.” He’s got a medium kind of voice, with a regional American accent I can’t immediately identify. He offers his hand, and we shake. We’re just about of a height, but I can’t read his eyes behind the sunglasses.

“Interesting name, Pharos,” I say. “Where’s it from? Greece?”

He doesn’t seem bothered by the guess. “Huh. Most people don’t know that it comes from there.”

I shrug. “I’ve done a lot of traveling.” That’s one way to talk about being in the military, anyway. See the world, kill people. “I can give you the paperwork to fill out for ground school, if you’re interested—how’s that?”

“Would you be the one to teach it, too?”

“I can, sure. Usually best if the same instructor does the ground school and flight training, because then we can be sure it’s all consistent.”

“I think that would be okay,” he says. We walk over to the small office I share with a few other people, and I get out the paperwork and price sheets. He goes through them slowly and intently. I’m feeling less bothered, but not a wholelotless, which is odd. I’m usually better with people, but I can’t seem to get a feel for this guy. He’s a blank slate, emotionally. Neutral.

I’m not disposed to doubting him, but one thing about teaching lessons: you have to evaluate people from the jump. I don’t care whetherhe’s rich or poor, as long as he can pay for the lesson, but it goes beyond that ... I need to see his temperament, his level of tension or relaxation. In the back of my mind, too, is the ever-present urgency of finding outwhythey want to fly. I don’t want to train a suicidal person or, worse still, a terrorist.

He doesn’t hit either of those alerts yet, but I’m picking upsomething.

“Sorry, Mr.Pharos, but that’s all the time I have right now,” I finally tell him. “I have another place to be. You can fill out the paperwork and send it back to me, if you decide to proceed.”

“Okay,” he says. “I understand.” We shake hands again, but he doesn’t go. He just stands there, looking at me. I can’t read his expression.

Then he says, “I know who you are.”

Oh man. I brace myself and try to keep my voice light when I say, “A licensed pilot? You’d better hope so if you want me to teach you to fly.”

“You live with the serial killer’s wife.”

I was going to blow it off, minimize where he was going, but suddenly I feel my hackles go up, sharp as nails. “Gwen Proctor is my partner, yes. Nothis wife.”

“Ex-wife, I meant,” he says. “Sorry.” I want to snap off something else, but I don’t. I just wait. I still don’t get any particular emotion from him, even now, when most people would showsomething... discomfort, at least. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I can see that,” I say, and miracle of miracles, my voice sounds pretty even. “So yeah. That’s me. And I’d rather leave my personal life out of this, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” he says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay,” I say. I’ve not had anyone recognize me before out of the immediate context of being with Gwen or the kids, and it stings unpleasantly; I’m starting to understand, in a very minor way, how Gwen feels all the time. “Sorry. I really do need to go. And I think youshould find another flight instructor. Nothing personal, I just ... like to keep it separate.”

For the first time, I see a little flicker of something like feeling in him. “I understand. It’s just ...” He shakes his head and turns away. “Never mind. I’m sorry I bothered you. I just thought you might be able to help.”

I know I shouldn’t do it, but there’s something about the subdued tone that gets to me. I say, “Help with what?”

“I—” He takes in a breath and lets it trickle out slowly before he manages the rest. “My sister was murdered too.”

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