Mark Young - Off the grid

Both dogs stood with their paws planted in the water, listening to something Gerrit could not hear. There was an inquisitive look in Bones’s eyes as he turned and stared at Gerrit for a moment. Then the dog turned and dashed upstream against the ice-cold current, Sam running to keep up.

Lewiston-Nez Perce County Airport, Idaho

A Cessna Citation XLS taxied off the runway toward their waiting cars at the edge of the tarmac. Frank leaned against the driver’s door, arms crossed, watching the pearl-white business jet draw near. “Holy cow, Joe. You guys know how to travel.”

His uncle extended a hand to Frank.

“Thanks again. Tell Jessie and Travis to stop fooling around and get hitched. You need to have some grandchildren running around before you get too much older.”

Frank grinned, eyed Gerrit and Alena gathering their things. “You know how it is, Joe. Can’t tell these kids anything nowadays.”

Gerrit walked over and shook the man’s hand. “Thank Travis again for taking care of Bones. I don’t know where I’m going to end up. I hope to come get the dog when I’m settled somewhere.”

Frank nodded as they watched the plane draw near. They both knew that time might never come.

The jet’s engines powered down, and a door cracked open to allow passengers to enter. Joe followed Gerrit and Alena up the stairway, waving back at Frank before he disappeared inside. “Okay, let’s get this thing off the ground.”

Gerrit waited for Joe to get into the cabin. “Very ritzy! Who owns this plane?”

“Don’t ask and I won’t have to tell you no lies. Let’s just say I have friends in high places.”

Joe walked forward to the cockpit as Gerrit found a seat near a starboard window and settled in. As he eased back to get comfortable, a giant of a man squeezed from the cockpit and lumbered into the passenger quarters toward him. A teardrop tattoo under the man’s left eye and a neck embroidered with prison tattoos of black and blue ink made Gerrit wonder if he’d stumbled onto a Con Air movie set. The man’s biceps bulged from a short-sleeved T-shirt, and when he stooped to whisper something to Alena, his neck muscles rippled as if they wanted to climb out of his skin.

Alena kissed his cheek, then turned to Gerrit. “Let me introduce our pilot, Hank ‘Redneck’ Schneider.” She turned toward the giant. “And Redneck, you already met Gerrit at his house the other night.”

Redneck gave him a studied nod. “How’s the ol’ noggin, copper? Knock any sense into you yet?”

“You’re the guy who dumped-”

“The dead guy on your bed. That’s me, jarhead.”

Gerrit heard a flush and glanced up to see a lavatory door open. Redneck muttered, “Here’s my gutless copilot, Willy Williams. Wesley Snipes he ain’t.” A young man about the size of one of Redneck’s thighs emerged, his ebony skin looking ashen.

“Lost your lunch again I see.” The white giant smirked. “Get belted up, Willy, we’re about to take off. Joe will help me this time.”

Willy sank into the nearest chair and nodded a greeting to Gerrit. “Can you believe Joe would trust this plane to the likes of him?” Willy and Redneck exchanged glances as Alena leaned forward.

“Okay, boys. Play nice. We have company.”

Redneck was about to respond when Joe yelled back, “Come on back here. Let’s get this thing fired up.” Redneck turned and squeezed back inside the cockpit. Gerrit wondered how the man fit in that small space. A moment later, the engines came to life.

Willy smiled. “Don’t let that giant pea brain get to you, Mr. G. It’s just his way. You ought to see him when he gets down and dirty.”

“Mr. G?” Gerrit frowned.

“Oh, that’s how I’m going to keep you and Joe apart. You know, Mr. G for Gerrit O’Rourke and Mr. J for…well, you can figure it out, right?” Willy looked out the window and saw they were taxiing to the runway. “Oh, boy, here we go again. I’m glad Mr. J has the controls again. Redneck thought he would play a trick on me on our way down here. Rolled the plane over a couple times because he knows I hate flying. I felt like capping his-Sorry, Alena. I try to talk polite when you’re around.” Willy appeared nervous. “I can’t wait to get my feet back on the ground.”

Alena stifled a laugh. “You know, Willy, air travel is safer than car travel. And Mr. J will have us back to the city in no time. Why don’t you try to take a nap?”

“Take a nap with Redneck at the controls? You gotta be kidding.” He reached over and grabbed a laptop from the seat next to him.

“Got to wait until we are in the air, Willy.” Alena smiled again. “Mr. J is at the controls now. He’ll keep our gentle giant from any more tricks. Trust me.”

Willy raised one eyebrow. “I do trust you, Alena. I just hope Mr. J can control that jerk.” He plugged in an iPod, inserted the earplugs, and leaned back, closing his eyes.

She turned to Gerrit. “As you can see, we are one big family. Well, what do you think of the team?”

“The team?” Gerrit leaned closer. “These are the guys you depend on?”

Her eyes softened. “With my life. Do not let looks deceive you. They would die for each other at a moment’s notice-you just cannot tell it by the way they interact.”

“So are you…kind of like their mother?”

She looked at Willy, his head back, eyes closed, keeping time to whatever beat he was listening to. “More like their older sister.”

“And Joe?”

“He’s the glue that keeps us together.”

The aircraft cleared the runway and banked toward the rising sun. “You know, statistically you’re wrong about air travel.”

She looked at him. “What do you mean?”

He glanced out the window and saw where the Clearwater and Snake rivers joined together far below, the Snake creating a blue-green line between the cities of Lewiston and Clarkston.

“Airline companies always spout that traveling by air is three times safer than railroads and five times safer than cars, but their statistics are highly skewed. Did you know that 70 percent of the crashes take place on takeoff and landing, which is only 4 percent of the average trip?”

“That still sounds like it might be safer to travel by car,” she said. “Would it not?”

He looked at her, shaking his head. “A more realistic figure is to compare fatalities in these accidents by the number of journeys made. If you factor deaths per 100 million passenger trips, it’s a much different picture-2.7 death by railroad, 4.5 by vehicles, and 55.0 by aircraft.”

“Really?” She squinted at him. “Are you making this up?”

“Nope. By my stats, you’re twelve times more likely to crash in the air compared to riding in a car; twenty times more likely to die on a plane than taking a train. Makes you think twice, doesn’t it?”

“Well, don’t tell Willy any of this,” she said, studying him. “He’ll never fly again.”

“Speaking of your siblings, tell me about Redneck and Willy. I just can’t see those two working together.”

“They fight like brothers, and no one ever wins.” She leaned back on the headrest and turned her face toward him. “I came across Willy in San Francisco, a place called Hunters Point.”

“I’m familiar with the city. A lot of gang activity when I saw it last.”

“Those living in the Point have always been promised a lot by the politicians over the years, but the promises always turn up empty. Willy was born and raised on those streets, never knowing his father and his mother barely keeping the family together. He was a smart kid, though, and attracted the attention of gang leaders. He was wearing colors and banging when I first saw him.”