Regardless of the subject, Plane Talk is almost always stimulating.
Today’s subject, life after death, is a repeat … times ten or twenty, but what else are you going to do at flight level four one zero in a flying aluminum tube when the pilot and copilot have banned you from the cockpit?
I push myself back into the exceedingly comfortable overstuffed executive seat, which is slightly reclined, and resist the urge to close my eyes. “I remember my grandfather’s passing the best; Grandpa Samuelsen,” I begin. “It was a couple weeks after my tenth birthday, almost two years after … well, after my experience in the woods. Two years after I started seeing the shine.”
Jimmy knows not to push on this point.
“We were at the nursing home for a visit; I think we visited almost every day. Jens and I were playing with our Hot Wheels—Mom always brought along a bucketful to keep us busy—and I just remember a sudden commotion around Grandpa’s bed. The last couple visits he’d mostly slept, and the last time I heard him speak was probably the week before, so all this sudden noise and activity had my full attention.
“Nurses started coming into the room and alarms were going off and as I watched I saw Grandpa Samuelsen’s shine lift up out of his body and drift toward the ceiling, like a slightly inflated helium balloon floating slowly up. The colors and texture suddenly seemed more vibrant, and it pulsed with more energy than I’d ever seen. It was like the old shine—the body shine—had been coated in some hard grimy shell, which was now peeled away. I don’t know if that makes any sense.”
Jimmy nods but doesn’t say anything.
“At the time, I didn’t know what was happening. His body still had the essence and texture I was used to, but it looked shabby by comparison … and somehow flat and empty without that energy pulsing from it.
“When I looked back at the ceiling, there were other shines, maybe a dozen, though it was hard to tell because they were moving about, weaving in, around, and through my grandpa’s shine, each just as vivid and distinct and full of energy. And the more excited they got, the brighter they glowed, until I couldn’t even look at them.
“Then they were gone; just that fast. And … there was something else.…” My voice trails off and I suddenly wish I could take back the last words.
“What?” Jimmy’s leaning forward in his chair, perching rather than sitting.
“It’s something I never told you before,” I say hesitantly. “I wasn’t … I wasn’t sure if you’d believe me.” My shoulders shrug involuntarily.
Jimmy smiles, then chuckles. “I solve murders following invisible clues that only my forest-hating, slightly neurotic, anal-retentive best friend can see. What’s to disbelieve?”
He has a point.
“Come on, spit it out,” Jimmy coaxes.
Turning my eyes to the window at my left, I watch the wing shudder and float as we skim through the atmosphere at more than five hundred miles an hour. The sky is robin-egg blue in every direction and the clouds make a cotton-ball floor beneath us, so fluffy and soft-looking you just want to stretch your arms out and fall backward into them.
It’s what I like best about flying: the view.
“It wasn’t just Grandpa Samuelsen’s shine that I recognized near the ceiling,” I say to the clouds below. “There was another.” Turning, I meet Jimmy’s eyes. “It was my Grandma Samuelsen.” His eyes go wide and I nod. “She died the year before.”
Jimmy lets out a long low whistle.
CHAPTER TWELVE
June 26, 5:40 P.M.
It’s been a long day.
Long and filled with many miles both in the air and on the ground. Now the day is almost done, and we are far from where it started; far from that nondescript hangar in Bellingham, Washington.
Reflecting back, it seems like days have passed, but I know that it was this very dawn that found us descending into Redding. So much has happened since. On arrival, a four-seat Cessna 172N was standing by, and Les flew us some ninety miles to Susanville, California, leaving Marty with some free time on his hands. We had to rent the Cessna because the airport in Susanville was too small for Betsy, as were some of the other airports we passed through as the day progressed.
After promising to bring back copious amounts of Dungeness crab, Marty rented a separate Cessna and headed to San Francisco for the day … to spend some of that per diem.
Throughout the day my thoughts kept drifting back to him, imagining him at Fisherman’s Wharf, Alcatraz Island, Pier 39, Chinatown, maybe even riding a cable car. I envied him.
Our path proved much darker.
The first stop of the day, Susanville, is—was—the home of Tawnee Rich, who went missing thirty-five months ago and has yet to be found. Police impound still held her 1999 Mazda 626 in covered storage and it took but a second to find Sad Face’s shine on the driver’s door, all over the driver’s seat, the steering wheel, and the trunk. More importantly, the sad-face pattern is scrawled on the top of her trunk lid. Invisible to all but me, it glowed large and bright in unmistakable amaranth.
I surreptitiously indicated the area of the trunk to Jimmy while the evidence technician was distracted; he knew exactly what I was suggesting. We’d done this dance before.
“Do you mind if I dust the trunk lid?” Jimmy had asked, turning to the tech.
“The case detective has already gone through the vehicle inside and out,” the tech answered stiffly. “There was nothing usable.”
“I’m sure they did,” Jimmy had replied, “but I’m not looking for fingerprints.”
This seemed to spark the tech’s interest and he nodded his approval.