She Came Up Out Of Sleep The Way A Powerful swimmer rises out of deep water . . . slowly, languidly, sensing the fight over darkness, reaching for the surface with no anxiety . . . aware of the sensation of smoothness along the strong length of her body . . . anticipating the contrast of air on her eyes . . . but not yet willing to abandon the pleasant, silent suspension. Floating just below the surface, she resisted the impulse to analyze, clutching at wisps of feeling and her dream, unwilling to release it or the precious person in it who was no longer a part of her waking life. She did not dream of him often.
As soon as she recognized her own reluctance, she knew she was awake and was immediately aware of the dream fading as fog evaporates in sunlight.
The telephone rang.
She threw back the covers, sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, opened her eyes, and picked up the receiver.
"Yes?"
"Rochelle?"
"Ed."
"Chelle . . . the plane . . . they found the plane."
One image from the dream came back strongly and she recalled for the first time in days just what his eyes looked like when he smiled. Abruptly, she closed her own, clinging to the image, refusing to breathe, knowing that the next breath she drew would fill her chest and face with the familiar agony. It came anyway -- the loss -- like a wave.
"Chelle?"
"U-uh." Then she could speak. "Where?"
"The plateau the other side of Susitna."
"I looked there."
"Yeah . . . well, you missed it . . . in some small lake. It was mostly underwater. Couple of hunters stumbled over it."
"And . . . ?" She could not force her lips to form the shape of his name.
"No sign of Norm. Just the plane."
"How soon can you be at Lake Hood?"
"What? ?"
"Meet me at the plane in an hour."
"Aw . . . Chelly, " he entreated her with her childhood name. "Let them --"
Sharply, "No. I want to see."
"There's nothing of --"
"There's the plane . . . whatever was left."
"It's been over six months . . . all winter."
"Six months and thirteen days -- a hundred and ninety-five. I'm going. Come if you like."
"All right. All right. But wait till this afternoon. Okay? Let me get the exact location. Do it right."
"One o'clock."
"Yeah. Okay. I'll meet you there, but --"
"Thank you."
At five minutes to one he was waiting when she pulled into the parking space beside the small storage shed near her plane. Sitting on his heels by the edge of Lake Hood, a leather jacket beside him on the thin, new grass, he watched through a pair of expensive reflective sunglasses as she closed and locked the car door and walked toward him carrying a blue flight bag. Rising, he flipped away a half-smoked cigarette and took off the glasses . . . a tall man with a handsome, narrow face that lacked signs of humor, and watchful eyes that mirrored the water colors of the lake. Her Cessna 206 rocked slightly on its floats as he rested a hand on its tail.
A casual observer might not have immediately noted the faint family resemblance in the color of their eyes and shape of the wide brows, for in most other ways they were dissimilar. Six inches shorter, her otherwise slim frame was just a touch generous through breasts, hips, and thighs. Thick cinnamon hair, cut for convenience and combed back, was lightly threaded with gray, giving it a frosted appearance, in contrast to her younger brother's dark brown waves.
She came to a halt, looking up at him. "Thanks, Ed."
He frowned. "They don't want you flying out there, Chelle. "
"They? Who exactly are they! I'm going, Ed. They have no right to deny me permission in open airspace. What have they done all winter?"
"Easy. They are the state troopers...
