Soaring Free
AN: I've never been to Falls Church, so although the restaurant really exists, I've no clue as to its interior décor. If I've gotten it completely wrong, chalk it up to artistic license and move on. 1030 Local They pulled up in front of the small airfield and Mac cut off the engine. She looked over at Harm. "Are you sure this is it?" she asked. Harm nodded and pointed to the faded sign hanging at a jaunty angle from a nearby building. "Ashburn Aviation – Where America Takes Flight." Mac snorted. "If I knew a plane I was riding in came from here, I'd take flight, all right." Harm looked over at her with a grin. "Now, Mac. Let's not make any snap judgments." She shook her head and climbed out of the car, glancing around while she waited for Harm to join her. Timeworn buildings badly in need of fresh paint were scattered about the property, their leaning walls vaguely reminiscent of drunken sailors on shore leave. Grass and weeds battled for territory along the cracked walkways and fence lines. Apparently, the weeds were winning. By contrast, the single runway appeared to be in perfect condition, unblemished and clearly marked, its edges defined by a closely spaced string of lights. They walked toward the main building together, their eyes on a small plane that was taxiing into position for takeoff. Harm pulled open the heavy front door, its glass smudged by years of dirt and grime, the faded AAS logo barely visible. Inside was a single small desk littered with soda cans, empty fast food containers, assorted pens and pencils, and an untidy pile of paperwork. Behind the desk, the cavernous building sheltered a variety of small aircraft in various states of completion - jigsaw puzzles with missing pieces. Near the front of the desk, half buried under an empty chip bag, was a rusty silver bell. Harm shrugged and gave the bell a tap. Bright metallic sound echoed hollowly against the walls and ceiling, fighting for life in the vast expanse of space. Somewhere, metal crashed against concrete, and a voice swore bitterly. The diatribe interrupted itself briefly, drowned out by another crash, and then started again, getting louder as it approached them. "Damned thing." The voice arrived somewhat ahead of its crotchety owner, who was making no effort to disguise his irritation as he moved through the building. "Been trying to get that blasted piece on for three days now, but it's more stubborn than my ex-wife's mother in law." Mac glanced over at Harm with a grin as he raised an amused eyebrow. Just then, a small figure came around the back side of a nearly completed plane, approaching them rapidly, but with an oddly lopsided gait. The man eyed his visitors and pulled a rag out of his hip pocket. He wiped his hands, either unaware or unconcerned that the rag merely rearranged the grease patterns slightly, its fibers already too dirty to absorb any more grime. "Can I help you folks?" He asked as he approached. He peered at their uniforms and let out a low whistle. "A Navy commander and a Marine lieutenant colonel. What did I do to deserve such attention?" Harm smiled. "I'm Commander Harmon Rabb from the Judge Advocate General's office, and this is my partner, Colonel Sarah MacKenzie. We're looking for Jack Stone." The little man cocked his head to one side and expertly directed a stream of tobacco juice into a discarded soda can. "That'd be me," he said. "You two looking to buy a plane?" His gray eyes, bright and curious, looked Harm over. "You're a little tall for most of the girls I build, but I'm pretty sure we can come up with something." He shifted his eyes to Mac, scanning her appreciatively from head to toe. Far from being offended, Mac suppressed a smile. "And I'm certain I can build just the plane for you, Ma'am. Cool, sleek, and sophisticated. Yep. Not a problem at all. If you'll just have a seat for a second –" Here he stopped talking long enough to point out a pair of chairs that didn't look like they could support the weight of a cat, much less a six foot human. "I'll just poke around here..." His voice disappeared, along with his head, into the bowels of a huge filing cabinet. Harm and Mac exchanged amused shrugs. "Got it!" The triumphant shout was punctuated by the slamming of the file cabinet drawer, and Jack turned around, proudly displaying a rather bedraggled looking binder. "I think I've got just the thing." He busied himself shoving aside the flotsam and jetsam that decorated the desktop, mumbling absently to himself as he worked. "Actually," Harm said, hating to distract the man from his mission, but not wanting to waste his time, either. "We aren't here to buy a plane." "Oh?" Jack looked up, and some of the sparkle left his eyes. He slumped into a nearby chair, fumbling a bit as it teetered wildly and then righted itself. "If you aren't here to buy, then what do you want? I don't know too many JAG lawyers who double as door to door salesmen." He picked up a soda can and tipped it into his mouth, and Mac found herself hoping fervently it wasn't the same one he'd just spit his tobacco juice into. Jack caught her watching him and winked at her, and Mac stifled the urge to roll her eyes. "Actually," she said. "We're here about Captain Terence Clark." Jack set down his soda can. "Who?" "Terence Clark. He and his wife Paige bought a plane from you a couple of years ago." Jack, forehead furrowed in thought, took another gulp of soda. All at once, his confusion cleared. "Oh!" he said, and put the can down again with a metallic thump. "You mean Terry! Fine man, he is. The wife, too. Lovely couple. Their little girl is adorable. I think I have a picture here someplace." He began fumbling around in one of the desk drawers. "Mr. Stone -" He interrupted her, head still bent over the open desk drawer. "It's Jack. Nobody calls me Mr. Stone." "Okay, Jack." Mac looked over at Harm and then plunged ahead. "Has the NTSB contacted you?" Jack's head snapped up, his eyes meeting hers with sudden intensity. "The NTSB?" He asked warily. "Yes." "No…" He stretched the word out, as though stalling for time. "Should they have?" "Sir," Mac started, and then stopped when Jack glared at her. "Jack, I mean. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this…" She trailed off, putting off the inevitable. She had Jack's undivided attention now, his sharp eyes focused on hers from deep within his lined face. She cleared her throat and went on in a rush. "Captain Clark died in a plane crash two days ago." She paused. Jack's face had taken on a look of stunned disbelief, and she wished she didn't have to tell him the rest. "Jack, I'm sorry, but he was flying the plane you built for him when he went down." Jack stared at her in stunned silence as her words echoed through the cavernous building. Several long moments passed before he abruptly stood up, rested his hands on the battle scarred wooden surface, and leaned forward. The ancient piece of furniture wobbled slightly and then righted itself. One battered soda can gave up its tenuous hold on stability and toppled over the edge. It teetered for a brief moment on the edge of a brimming trashcan and then fell again, landing with a dull metallic clang on the concrete floor. Jack stared at it until it rolled to a stop against the ancient filing cabinet. Then he turned slowly back to Harm and Mac. "And you think it's my fault?" His voice, tense with defensive anger, was all the more lethal for its soft delivery. "You think I screwed up when I built that plane?" "That isn't it at all," Mac said, concerned by the odd color overtaking the older man's face. "It's standard procedure to interview the manufacturer in aviation accidents, Mr. Stone. You must know that." He stared at her for a few more seconds before heaving a sigh and sitting down again. Mac tensed, prepared to spring into action should the ancient chair finally give way and dump him unceremoniously onto the floor. There was a brief flurry of activity during which man and chair battled for supremacy. Then the chair steadied itself, and everybody relaxed with a collective sigh of relief. Jack chuckled unexpectedly, and Harm and Mac exchanged a startled glance. "You know," Jack said, "I should probably get myself a new chair, but I never get tired of seeing people react to this one. Some of them are downright disappointed when I don't wind up flat on my ass." Jack pulled out a bit of pencil and a tattered notepad. "Okay then. Suppose you tell me what it is you need." They spent a few minutes talking about the Long EZ, and Jack brought out the manuals and plans for the kit-built plane. While he and Harm talked about technical details and specifications, Mac wandered around the building. As she walked, Mac realized that, though the outbuildings and walkways had been allowed to fall into a state of disrepair, in here things were nearly surgically clean. The brightly lit room beyond the cluttered office space appeared to be highly organized, even to her untrained eye. The planes themselves were evenly spaced, with plenty of open work area in between. Tools and equipment were carefully stored in rolling bins or on pegboards hung on rollaway partitions. The floor, which she would've expected to find covered with a thick layer of dust and grease, had obviously been swept fairly recently. Although she didn't recognize most of the tools she saw, all of the equipment in use appeared to be clean and well maintained, if not brand new. Mechanics worked quietly around the planes, their movements efficient and professional. Her cell phone rang as she was rounding the nose of a bright green plane that made her think of dragonflies. She looked at the caller ID on her phone, glancing over at the office area as she did so. Harm and Jack were still deep in conversation, and she smiled as she took the call. She doubted Harm was even aware of where she was right now, and she suspected it'd be a while before she'd be able to drag him away. "Colonel MacKenzie," she said, directing her attention back to her call. "Noodle!" Mac grinned and shook her head. "Thor!" She laughed. "How are you?" "Swamped, as usual. You?" "The same. We're at Ashburn Aviation talking with Jack Stone right now." "He was the builder, right?" "Yes. And friends with the captain and his family, from what I understand." On the other end of the line, Gunnar sighed. "That's the one thing about this job that I hate, Mac. I don't think I'll ever get used to breaking the news to loved ones." "Speaking of which, I'm surprised Mr. Stone hasn't heard from you yet." "Haven't had a chance. We've only barely gotten the plane warehoused. The techs are still going over the pieces." "Find anything?" she asked. "Not yet. You?" "Nothing jumps out at us, but we're just getting started." "Same here. We're expecting the preliminary autopsy results tomorrow, and we still need to meet with the people over there at Ashburn. You're there now, right?" "Yes." "Any leads?" "Not really. The place is a little run down on the outside. The buildings need some repair work, and I think they need to hire somebody to mow the grass." He laughed. "Since when have you cared about grass, Mac?" "Hey! I like grass just fine." "That isn't how I remember it." He was still chuckling, and Mac smiled. When they'd been in college, Mac used to complain about the intricate landscaping on the grounds. She'd been convinced her tuition dollars were being spent on flowers and shrubs instead of lab equipment and professors. "Besides," she said. "We aren't talking pansies and marigolds here. I'm thinking this guy should invest in a herd of goats." "That would certainly make take-offs and landings more interesting. Can you imagine being placed in a holding pattern while Little Bo Peep clears the runway?" Mac laughed and shook her head at the absurdity. "Little Bo Peep herded sheep, not goats." Out of the corner of her eye she saw Harm glance over at her. He looked like he was finishing up. "Gunnar?" she said. "Listen, I need to go. Was there something you needed?" "I just wanted to confirm our date for tonight. We're meeting at the restaurant, right?" "Right. At 1930." "I'm looking forward to it." Mac heard the smile in his voice. "Me too," she said. "I'll see you there." She disconnected the line and put the phone away, moving toward Harm as she did. The men stood to meet her, Harm with a folder full of papers in his hand. "All done?" she asked. "All set." Harm turned and offered his hand to Jack Stone. "Thank you for your time, Jack." "Not a problem. I'm just sorry to hear it happened. Such a terrible thing for that family to have to go through. Let me know if there's anything else you need." Jack shook their hands, and then turned to go back to his work. Harm turned to Mac, one eyebrow raised. "What was that all about?" he asked. "What was what all about?" Mac was puzzled. "Who was that on the phone?" "Oh," Her expression cleared. "That was Gunnar. He just wanted to confirm our plans for tonight." "Did he have any news about their investigation?" "Not yet. He said they had the parts warehoused and that the techs were going over them." She paused, thinking. "Oh, and he said they'll probably have the autopsy results tomorrow." "Good." Harm held the door for Mac as they went out, then continued the conversation as it swished shut quietly behind them. "Maybe it's time to set up a meeting with them? Compare notes?" "Good idea," said Mac. "I'll see what I can arrange tonight." 1925 Local A flood of sound rushed through the restaurant doors, escaping into the quiet evening like water washing over a dam. Inside, the warmly lit room was crowded with casually dressed people. The walls, paneled in rustic pine, were decorated with horse tack and cowboy gear, and country music blared from a hidden sound system. Above the bar, a baseball game was in full swing on a flat paneled television, hung high and angled for the best viewing by the most people. Patrons nursed tall mugs of beer and debated the merits of their favorite teams. "Table for one, Ma'am?" The young woman, dressed in red plaid shirt and faded blue jeans, spoke to her from behind a simple wooden podium. She held a menu in one hand, and a polite smile on her face. "Actually, I'm meeting someone," Mac answered. "Tall blue-eyed blonde man with a voice that could charm the skin off a rattlesnake. Seen him?" Her last comment triggered a spark of recognition, followed by a twinkle of humor. "You wouldn't be Noodle, would you?" Mac rolled her eyes. He'd pay for that one. She'd see to it. She nodded and smiled. "This way, Ma'am." Mac sighed as she followed the waitress. First Noodle, and now Ma'am. It was shaping up to be an interesting evening. Gunnar stood when he saw her approaching. Their table, a small one set back in a relatively quiet corner of the boisterous establishment, already held two tall glasses of ice water and a matched pair of paper menus. He hugged Mac and then pulled her chair out for her. Neither saw the hostess smile wistfully as she returned to her post. They were quiet while they looked over their menus, but after they'd placed their orders and watched the waiter depart, Gunnar leaned forward. "How are you, Mac?" He asked. She smiled across the table at him. "I'm good, Gunnar." Her soft voice carried absolute conviction, and Gunnar returned her smile. "What about you?" she asked. "How are you?" His smile faded slightly. "I'm okay." "Just okay?" Concern edged Mac's voice. She thought about their shared history. He'd been her lifeline for four years, a pillar of strength that she'd leaned on often as she'd struggled to fight her way free of the sucking whirlpool that her life had been before. Somehow, in the years following college, they'd drifted apart. It hadn't been deliberate, just a gradual lengthening of time between conversations and letters until it had gotten to the point where she hadn't even been sure where he was anymore. Now she found herself wondering if he'd needed her, but not let her know. "It's a long story." There was a tone of finality to his words, and Mac fell quiet, waiting until after their waiter had finished serving a basket of rolls before picking up the conversation. "How long have you been with the NTSB?" she asked, changing the topic. "Five years now." "I thought you were in air traffic control?" "I was for about four years." He shrugged. "The stress got to me after a while. I was always half convinced that I was going to miss a call, and a plane full of people would go down on my watch." He chose a roll from the basket and buttered it before going on. "When I heard the NTSB was looking for investigators, I applied. It seemed like the best of both worlds. I could be around planes, but without the constant grinding stress." Mac smiled at him. "You always did like jigsaw puzzles," she said. "I imagine the challenge intrigues you." "It's fascinating, Mac. You have no idea…" He trailed off guiltily. "Enough about me. Tell me about you." It was Mac's turn to shrug. "There isn't much to tell, really. College, Marines, Law School, JAG. That pretty well sums it up." "Married?" Mac's eyes drifted to her ring. "Not yet," she said. "You?" "Not anymore." "Oh?" Mac wondered about any woman who would let a man like Gunnar get away from her. "What happened?" Sadness welled in his eyes. "Myra and I met while I was working air traffic control," he said. "In some ways, she was like you. She had the same strength and will to succeed, the same self-reliance. She was funny, and smart, and the best poker player I'd ever had the misfortune to play against." He smiled at the memory. "We had a small plane, a Cessna - beautiful little thing, bright red and full of personality. Myra called her Spirit." He trailed off, and Mac reached across the table to place her hand on top of his in a silent offer of comfort and support. Gunnar stared into the space above her head. "Myra took Spirit up one day while I was at work." He swallowed hard, and Mac waited quietly for him to go on. "There was engine trouble." He brought his gaze down to meet hers, his tortured blue eyes meeting her sympathetic brown ones. "Spirit crashed in Superior National Forest. Myra didn't make it." "Gunnar, I'm so sorry." He turned his hand over beneath hers and squeezed. "It happened a long time ago, but I think I'll always miss her." There wasn't anything Mac could say to that, and she didn't try. Instead, she waited quietly while he took a sip of water. He swallowed, shook his head slightly as though to clear it, and smiled weakly at her. "In a strange way, Myra's how I got where I am today. After she died, I got a little obsessed. I had to know exactly what had happened. For months, when I wasn't working I was doing research. I hounded everybody involved in the investigation and spent hours poring over manuals and engineering blueprints. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep…" A server arrived with their salads, and Gunnar waited until after he'd left to continue. "It took a close call at work for me to realize that I needed a career change before something terrible happened, and within a week, I'd turned in my resignation and applied to the NTSB." He poured dressing over his salad. "Apparently, they thought my knowledge about single-engine aircraft might prove useful." He smiled at her and speared a tomato. "So here I am." "Wow," Mac said. "I'm so sorry. Sorry it happened, and sorry I wasn't there to help you through it. You should've called. You know I would've come." He smiled. "I know you would've, but you'd moved on with your life. You were making something of yourself. You'd fought so hard, and I knew you were finally starting to feel a sense of control about things. I didn't want to drag you back down with my problems." "Gunnar." Her voice was reproachful. "It's what friends are for." He shook his head at her. "I had my family to help me get through it. You had nobody to help you stay on your feet." "Not true," she retorted. "I had Uncle Matt." He laughed at the stubborn jut of her chin. "You're right. I forgot about that. He's a good man, too." He seized the opportunity to change the subject. "What's he up to these days?” Mac grinned. "You wouldn’t believe me if I told you." "Oh?" He quirked a curious eyebrow at her. "Do tell." She told him about Uncle Matt's escapade with the Declaration of Independence. By the time their dinner arrived a few minutes later, Gunnar was chuckling. "Did he really expect that to work?" She shrugged. "I don't know, but you have to admit, it was a gutsy move." "Gutsy?" Gunnar shook his head, as he dipped a fork into his baked potato. "Or crazy." Mac smiled. "Little bit of both, I guess. But I'm proud of him. He stood up for what he believed in, and now he's paying the price without a word of complaint." "How much longer will he be in?" Gunnar asked. "He has another five years." Gunnar released a low whistle. "Fifteen years, huh?" Mac nodded as she set to work on her steak. "I miss him." "I'm sure you do. You and he were always close." "He saved me." Their server arrived to top off their water glasses, and Mac nodded her thanks before looking back at Gunnar, her eyes serious. "You both did." Gunnar shrugged off the comment and changed the subject again. "Tell me about JAG. Is lawyering as boring as I've always suspected?" Mac laughed. "Not exactly." She went on to tell him about some of the more unusual cases she'd worked on over the years, and the rest of their meal passed companionably as they took turns filling in the blank spaces created by distance and time. After dinner, Gunnar walked Mac out to her car. He took the keys from her and opened her door in a gentlemanly gesture born of an old fashioned childhood. He dropped the keys in Mac's outstretched palm and smiled at her. "I've missed talking with you, Mac. Now that we're both in the area, we should do this more often." "I'd like that," she answered. She turned to get into the car, but stopped suddenly and turned back to him. "I almost forgot." "What?" "The Clark case. Can we meet tomorrow? Harm and I thought it'd be a good idea to compare notes." He nodded. "Sounds good. We should be getting the preliminary autopsy results in the morning. Want to meet for lunch?" Mac shook her head. "I'd rather not. I have a feeling this case might ruin my appetite. How about if we meet you at your office right after that? Say 1330?" Gunnar considered that for a moment, and then nodded. "That should be fine. Do you have the address?" "It's on your card." "Of course. I'd forgotten." There was a hint of embarrassment in his crooked half smile. Mac settled herself in the car. "See you tomorrow, then?" "I'll be looking forward to it." Mac closed the door and fastened her seatbelt. Then she turned on the radio and started the engine, offering a slight wave to Gunnar as she backed out of the parking spot. As she eased her car into traffic, she glanced into the rearview mirror, vaguely surprised to see that Gunnar still stood where she'd left him. His tall form, outlined by the golden glow of a streetlight, reminded her of an oak tree in the middle of a corn field - tall and strong, and yet somehow impossibly lonely. ***** End Part Three *****
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