Protecting the Flame Page 6

  “Why are we flying in a square?” asked Mattie.

  “Keeping us clear of the peaks.” All the irritation had bled from Hunter’s voice along with the blood in his face. He glanced at the altimeter and, while Emma was too far away to see the display, she imagined it was like the movies, the numbers scrolling past, counting down fast. “Twenty-one, Dad,” he reported.

  “Seven a minute,” muttered Will.

  “That’s pretty fast,” Mattie said.

  “Yeah, well,” said Burke, “it’s better’n ten.”

  “Better than ten what?” Rachel asked.

  “Feet,” Mattie said.

  “What, seven measly feet a minute?” Scott choked out a little laugh. “That’s not so bad.”

  “That’s thousand.” Mattie didn’t need to add, You moron. “It’s gravity, Scott.”

  Rachel put a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God.”

  “A minute?” All the feeling, all her blood pooled in Emma’s toes. Seven thousand feet a minute? If the mountains around here were twelve thousand feet high and they’d started out at roughly twenty-seven…

  “Jesus.” Scott’s mouth hung open. “You’re saying we got less than two minutes?”

  No one said, Hey, congrats, Einstein, you can multiply. Instead, Hunter warned, “Seventeen.”

  Oh, God. She leaned and plucked at Will’s sleeve with two fingers. “Can he do it?” she asked.

  “If he has the time.” Will’s voice held only a tremor, which he must have heard himself because he cleared his throat. What he said next was back to steady, even, calm: the doctor keeping his shit together while all about him were losing theirs. “He has to do things in a certain order and at the right time, or it won’t work. Can’t try to get the starter to catch if you don’t have fuel in the tank. That’s what he’s doing now.” He offered her a thin smile. “I guess this is why one of the first things a flight instructor teaches is what to do in a stall.”

  She bet teachers only did that on nice, clear days with not a mountain in sight, too. Pushing both halves of the window curtains out of her way, Emma peered out. Still nothing to see, only clouds, so that was good, right?

  “Fifteen!” Hunter said.

  Will’s fingers brushed her elbow. “You know how to brace? Can you help Mattie?”

  Her chest went tight. Like bracing for an impact in this little thing would save them if they plowed nose-first into a mountain. But she nodded. “Mattie, let’s get you ready. Book in the seat pocket and glasses off. Make sure your buckle’s tight. Feet flat on the floor then bend over your knees.” Face white, Mattie did what she was told without uttering a word. “Good,” Emma said. “Now, lace your hands behind your head.”

  “You guys.” Across the aisle, Will was talking to Scott and Grampa. “Feet flat, but don’t bend over. Keep your head up and press back into your headrest.”

  “Why?” Scott asked.

  “So your head don’t pop off your spine if we hit, that’s why,” Grampa growled.

  Scott’s jaw dropped. “What the hell—” he began as Hunter sang out, “Twelve! Dad!”

  With a great splutter and cough, both props caught.

  Yes! Emma shot a look out of her window. They were still in a whiteout, though the clouds seemed gauzier, more like torn draperies. A shower of orange-red sparks spewed from the engine as the prop churned. C’mon, c’mon. Outside, the view began to tilt as her body sank into her seat, the acceleration and thrust palming her body, and she thought this was what it must be like to be an astronaut on takeoff, thousands of pounds of thrust fighting gravity, pushing, pushing, pushing, breaking free, leaving the Earth behind and shedding the past, too, while, ahead, all of space and stars and the future waited. The fuselage shimmied as the Chieftain’s engines screamed, the plane shuddering and clawing for altitude. We’re going to make it. We’re going to make it. We’re going to make it—

  Beyond her window, the drapery of clouds finally tore and now, through sheets of snow, she saw, to her horror, colors coming on fast on all sides and below and in a blur: dark green and brown and white and gray and black—

  “Dad!” Rearing back in his seat, Hunter threw up his hands. “Watch—”

  THE GOLDEN DAY

  Chapter 1

  Plik…plik…

  “Hello?”

  Plik…

  “Emma, are you there?”

  Ben, that damn faucet…

  “Emma?”

  Plik…

  “Emma?”

  Ben, that damn faucet’s leaking again—

  “Emma, wake up!”

  Her eyes creaked open as if on balky hinges. She winced against a bright, milky light that was wrong somehow, strange, and so she squeezed her lids shut again. I’m tired. Her head throbbed, and her mouth was cottony and tasted like swamp water. She was also freezing, couldn’t get warm. Where the hell was the blanket? Hangover. Too much to…

  Plik.

  Her face was wet. Her cheeks and forehead and chin, her neck—plik, plik—were damp.

  The air was thick with an oddly fruity but astringent stink that reminded her both of road trips with her parents and long nights in bad bars. Beyond the drip of that damn faucet…my God, where was she? Which man had she let herself go to a hotel with this time?

  Plik.

  She heard a strange fwap, fwap, fwap, the noise a sheet might make on a clothesline. This was juxtaposed against a fast, almost snaky hiss like rice on tin, sand over stone. Or rats’ feet over broken glass. She felt the salt ball of a sob swell in her throat. Oh, Ben…

  “Emma, are you awake?”

  No. She was dreaming. She was in bed. Someone had stolen all the blankets, and she was shivering, her head hurt, and her neck killed. Her face ached as if she’d run into a wall. She’d done that once, too, as a kid. Talking to someone else after lunch, she hadn’t watched where she was going and turned around in time to smack cinderblock. There was a shock of pain and then blood, a lot of it, spewing from her broken nose to splatter onto her shoes and the floor and go plik-plik onto her Mary Poppins lunchbox. The lunchbox was new, a gift for her birthday because she was a big girl now, going into the fifth grade at a big-girl school. As the rest of the kids in the lunchroom gawked, a teacher had cupped a hand to her nose and guided her to the nurse who, when she heard what Emma had done, only rolled her eyes: Oh, for goodness’ sake.

  “Don’t pass out again.”

  Again? That meant she’d awakened once before? Her thoughts tumbled over one another, all arms and legs and in a confused jumble like cheerleaders who couldn’t hold that pyramid. Well, why the hell shouldn’t she go back to sleep? She was tired. She must be lying wrong, though, because her neck hurt, and who had turned down the heat? Her fingers and toes were icy. She inhaled, tasting cold, wet air, and thought to call out…to whom? About what? Someone. Anyone. But instead she groaned against a dagger of pain above her heart. A duller burn grabbed her belly and right hip. To her right and somewhere in front came…

  Plik…

  that strange fwapping sound again. Who’d left the window open? The guy she’d let take her to a hotel, probably. That’s why she was so cold. No, wait, what guy? She hasn’t had a drink in weeks. She remembered it distinctly, that moment when she’d tried a whiskey and amaretto concoction…the bartender called the drink The Godfather and said a lot of women liked it, but, after two sips, she pushed it away. The drink hadn’t tasted right. She hadn’t felt right, either. Something was wrong, off, she knew it—

  “Emma, come on, wake up.”

  She finally placed the voice to a name. Mattie. Suddenly, everything clicked, as if she’d been a jigsaw puzzle scattered by an inquisitive cat.

  She opened her eyes.

  The first thing she saw was blood smeared on the back of Rachel’s headrest. Rachel herself was slumped to the right, a thick red runner of blood slicking Rachel’s parka and her limp right hand from which a ruby pearl swelled and bloomed and grew heavy as a ripe grape at the tip
of Rachel’s middle finger before breaking away to plop into a red pool.

  Plik.

  “I think my mom’s hurt pretty bad.” A pause, and then Mattie’s voice came again. “Will isn’t answering either.”

  Will. Her gaze shifted. Will had slumped forward. He was very still. A fine dusting of snow sugared his dark hair. Drifts had gathered on his thighs and in his lap, and more snow was gusting in. White clots were humped on a short span of deck a few feet beyond Will’s seat as if shoveled into the plane. Another swish of wind set the torn curtain over Will’s window to fluttering again, fwap-fwap-fwap.

  Wind. Snow? Yes, had to be. She blinked against icy bits nipping at her eyes, her cheeks. Her breath fogged. But why? Her stupefied gaze slid from Will to the front of the plane—

  Except there was no front of the plane. Instead of Grampa and Scott and the cockpit, there was only more snow and a great white expanse broken, in the near distance, by ranks of tall pines and firs.

  Oh dear God. She straightened, a too-rapid movement that reawakened the ache in her chest and belly. Where was the cockpit? A short distance away? Or was it farther, beyond them somewhere? That had happened to those boys, the ones who’d crashed in the Andes years back; the fuselage had slammed down on one part of the mountain, and the tail had broken off and slid farther downhill.

  They probably hadn’t slammed nose-first into the mountain. If they had, she wouldn’t now be alive to even be thinking this through. She recalled seeing colors coalesce below and around them. That suggested a plateau or the top of a mountain. Maybe they’d clipped trees? Had she heard anything? She couldn’t remember. Christ, it wasn’t important.

  “Will?” she blurted. Her voice kicked up a notch as a swell of mingled panic and hysteria threatened to overwhelm her. “Will? Will? Will, are you awake, are you—”

  “Are you okay?” Mattie asked.

  No. She pressed icy fingers to her lips and pulled in a shuddering, shaky breath, hitching against that white-hot dagger of pain sliding in between her ribs. Uh, oh. She forced herself to blow out slowly. Her breath steamed. You’ve pulled something, maybe broken something. Take it easy. Someone will come looking. Someone will miss you. She thought of her cell, tucked in the right leg of her cargo pants. Maybe she could call for help? No, she should leave the phone alone. It was charged. She had a spare battery bank, too. Save it for a rainy day. It was a line from one of her mom’s favorite films, Primal Fear. Her mother had adored Richard Gere, especially when he oozed sleaze: Guess what? It’s raining.

  Mattie, again. “You’re bleeding.”

  Shit, she was? She raised a trembling hand to her left cheek. Her fingers spidered over skin slick with cooling snow melt and something warmer, stickier congealing along the angle of her jaw. She stared at the crimson streaks smeared on her fingertips.

  “You’ve got a cut over your eye,” Mattie said. “It’s not too bad, but your face is all bruised up, too.”

  “It is?” Gritting her teeth, she gingerly explored a ragged gash above her right eye. The cut wasn’t straight but more of a starburst pattern, like a bullet hitting shatterproof glass. So much for the brace position. She must’ve passed out and then flopped around. That would explain the soreness in her neck and the blood on Rachel’s seatback. “What about you?” Shuddering against another chill, she inched her aching head to the right. God, she was cold. They had to get warm. Start a fire, get something hot into them. “How bad are you hurt?”

  “Not too bad.” Mattie’s face was puffy and purpled with bruises. Her eyes had swollen to slits. A black watch cap Emma hadn’t seen before was pulled down over the girl’s head, and she’d also flipped up her parka’s fur-trimmed hood. “Really cold, but not as bad before. Mom always says if you’re cold, put on a hat, and I had one in my pocket. But my face hurts, and so does my chest and stomach and especially my left hip. I think that’s from the seat belt and shoulder harness, except I can’t get out. The buckle’s jammed.”

  “Hang on, I’ll help you get out.” She’d never been in a car accident, but she remembered photos from driver’s ed: those purple swathes of bruises left by seat belts and shoulder harnesses. Maybe the same thing accounted for her aches, although that stabbing pain in her chest felt like it might be bad. Cracked ribs, maybe. “Does it hurt to breathe?”

  “No. I think we’re all bruised up because of the deceleration. Emma, I’m better but still really cold. My face is getting all numb. We need to get warm.”

  “I know. We will.” But how? Build a fire? She couldn’t do that inside. What should she do first? Thrusting her chilled hands under her armpits, she shivered as more snow billowed in on a balloon of wind. What had they taught in basic about survival? Warmth, first. Right, that was it. They needed to get warm; they needed shelter, which they sort of had; and they would eventually need water that wasn’t snow. But she also had to check on Rachel and Will.

  Then we hunker down, wait for people to find us.

  She’d done stories on rescue operations. People always talked about that “golden day,” that span of about twenty-four hours, give or take, when search-and-rescue teams had the greatest chance of finding survivors. The moment they’d crashed, that clock started ticking. Had Hunter managed to send out a mayday? She didn’t think so. In a way, she didn’t blame him. Until the last second, he’d probably thought his father would get them out of this, and sending a distress call would’ve been the pilot’s decision. The fact neither Hunter nor Burke had radioed sucked, but it wasn’t a deal breaker. People would be looking for them and soon.

  Their biggest problem, really, was the snow. The first rule of rescue was not to need it yourself. No one would risk sending a chopper or plane up in conditions like this.

  How much light was left? She glanced at her watch. A little after one p.m. They’d left Minot at ten, central time. Factor in the time they’d been in the air, that put the crash about an hour ago. Okay, that wasn’t great either. The plane wasn’t late yet. Which means no one knows yet.

  “Mattie,” she asked, “we passed over Glacier, right? The park?”

  “Yes. But I don’t know if we’re still in Montana. We might be north or even south. I don’t remember how many turns Mr. Burke made. It’s only one o’clock, but it gets dark early in winter and there are the clouds. So I don’t think we have a lot of daylight left, Emma.”

  “Okay, hang on, I’ll…” She stopped, suddenly, as more snow billowed in on a balloon of wind and carried something else with it. “Do you smell that?”

  “Yes. I have since I woke up. Is it fuel? It smells kind of funny, like…almost sweet.”

  The girl was right. The smell conjured up images of hot asphalt and the tick of a cooling muffler but also bars and honky-tonks and spilled beer. Could that be residual fuel that had spewed out of the wing tanks? Burke had managed to restart the engine, and that required fuel, but the wing tanks couldn’t possibly have been full. Wait a second. Turning carefully, she peered down the aisle toward the cargo hold.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Burke filled those bladders with extra gas.”

  “Oh.” Mattie tried to crane her head around but couldn’t because of her shoulder harness. “Are they leaking?” When Emma shook her head, Mattie went on, “Could the smell be from the wings? They’re gone now, so that means when they broke off, the tanks tore. Maybe the wings were what got caught up first. I remember lots of tall trees.”

  She did, too, and Mattie was probably right. Which meant they couldn’t chance trying to start a fire until she hauled out those bladders and checked the rest of the plane, especially that belly tank with its odd, clunking, glassy sound. Otherwise, they might go up like a Roman candle. Like sending up a flare. Which was also a line Scotty had used in an old first-season episode. Scotty had thought it worth the gamble, but Spock pointed out how illogical it was because there was no one out there to see the distress signal.

  “Emma?”

  “Yeah.” Her chest yammere
d a complaint as she fumbled with the buckle of her seat belt, but she ignored it. “Coming.”

  “No. Check my mom and Will first,” Mattie said as Emma shrugged out of her shoulder harness. “I’ll be okay. I think you’re going to have to cut me out of this anyway. The buckle’s really jammed up tight. I’m not going anywhere.”

  True, that. Emma slid out of her seat and carefully stood. A swell of dizziness made her head go light, and she had to grab onto her seat back to keep to her feet. Sweat prickled on her neck and face, and she smeared salt pearls from her upper lip with the back of the hand that wasn’t bloody.

  “Emma?”

  “I’m good. I’m fine,” she lied. Reaching under her seat, she tugged her pack free, unzipped a side pocket, and retrieved her wool cap, a scarf, and insulated pop-tops. After winding the scarf around her neck and fumbling on her gloves, she edged around Rachel’s seat, thankful for the few feet of intact deck, and dropped to a squat before the unconscious woman.

  “Well?” asked Mattie.

  “Well…” There was a lot of blood. Judging from the flat, nearly dried blotch on the window, she thought Rachel’s head had first connected with the jagged end of a curtain rod that had broken on impact. A deep, ragged gash on Rachel’s scalp showed where the metal had ripped flesh all the way to muscle. And maybe bone. Emma couldn’t tell because of all the blood matting Rachel’s hair and slicking the left side of her face and neck. More blood fanned in a broad crimson bib on her chest. She slipped a finger onto Rachel’s neck.

  “Is she…” Mattie’s voice quavered then firmed. “Is she still alive?”

  “Yes.” Though Rachel’s pulse was fast. Blood loss? Maybe.

  “What about my little brother? What about Joshua?”

  “Is that the name you’ve picked out?” Her gaze fell first to Rachel’s jeans, which were flecked with snow but otherwise dry. Okay, so that was good, she guessed. How to check on the baby, though?