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If you haven’t had the time yet to read “Chasing Lights“, don’t worry, this is not part of a sequel so there won’t be any crucial plot points to miss.
I’ve been tinkering with a new book and if you are looking for a little summer escapist reading, the chapter below might be a fun diversion.
Keep chasing lights.
Gunnar
Pre-Check
“Logan is dead.”
A voice without emotion on the phone—a news report from an airport terminal.
Amy could hear a boarding announcement behind Arthur’s voice. In her kitchen, she watched last night’s rain stream from a crack in the corner drainpipe. The drops flashed sunlight. Coffee steamed from a cup in front of her. She squeezed in a bit more sweetener before stirring. Outside, a neighborhood rat searched for scraps on the compost heap one more time.
“I have been told that two or three bear attacks happen in Alaska every summer. Not a likely occurrence, but it does happen.”
The rat found an orange rind uncovered by last night’s rain. Easy to forget it wasn’t cute. But rats trade in disease; they creep in corners. Not today. Clean fur carefully moved into the light, stopped for one more scrap and cared not who might see it.
There was a hole at the bottom of the back fence, large enough for a rat with a piece of romaine.
“Not much of him left.”
The coffee cooled enough for Amy to sip. Logan told her years ago that he planned to see the monsters of the world for himself. He went to Komodo Island for dragons and Tanzania for lions. An Alaskan Grizzly was a final box checked.
“Did they find a camera or phone on him? He always took pictures.”
“Nothing. Just remains.”
“But what about—?”
“We can’t talk now, but I’ll be out your way tomorrow. Lunch at your club?”
“You hate that place.”
“Given where we are, it’s appropriate.”
“Suit yourself. See you at noon.”
The call ended. Rat poked its head back through the fence. Amy finished her coffee and wondered how to get rid of that piece-of-shit compost pile.
Chapter 1
Eyes open.
Air-conditioned condensation fuzzed the back of a slow-moving cab. Exhaust mixed with cardboard tree air-freshener. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. How long can five miles be?
Outside Daryl spotted a woman in a broken Lexus waiting for a valet. She glanced up to notice him noticing. He looked away.
Time trapped in cars. When can we leave?
Eyes close.
Remember airports?
LAX (Los Angeles International Airport), was a provisional place. A control tower made to look like a spaceship turned into a nightclub, a party inside a traffic jam. No one ever said, “let’s build this one for the ages.” Layers built on top of not quite right layers trying to fix what was missing—speed, beauty, or freedom, maybe? Makeup and plastic surgery can’t dispel loneliness. Things don’t turn out the way we think they might.
But it could be worse. Grace can be found in airports sometimes.
The taxi stopped at departures thirty minutes later than planned, but the flight was delayed. Synchronized resistance.
Daryl slouched into a vinyl seat at the Admirals Club and rubbed his face. Outside windows drizzled and giants crawled, careful not to collide. Idling jet engines made clear just how much damage they could do if let loose.
How does the song go? “…it never rains in California…”
23.00 pdt but that meant 02.00 edt. Only three travelers left in the airport lounge. Aggressively quiet, as if normal sounds of life had been abruptly removed. Slow-moving souls leaned back in easy chairs to stroke smart phones while screens on the wall reported hurricanes in the gulf. Departure screens across the room listed columns of ‘delayed’ or ‘cancelled’ tags.
A lonely place to be alone.
Thirty-something, handsome, and still athletic. The long day pulled down his face. A rumpled navy suit. No bouncing of legs. No tension. A quiet holding pattern. Normally, he might have called his wife. A last goodnight before a week away. Daryl’s thumb hovered over his phone out of habit but couldn’t press to connect.
A digital elevator bell sounded almost like the real thing. A polished man in a well-tailored suit stepped out. He carried a darkened tan briefcase usually seen in British films about period aristocrats. Carrying sixty years lightly, he nodded to the front desk attendant. She smiled and said nothing as he passed. At the coffee station he prepared two cups of tea with his own teabags, then placed them on a tray with two sugar cookies.
Daryl barely looked up when the man placed the tray on a low table before sitting across from him. There was a rushed announcement over the intercom for the Heathrow flight when the man started to speak in an almost English dialect, “How are you doing?”
Daryl finally focused on the gentle face in front of him. Dark hair, perfect grooming, he looked like he might be from India. “Who are you?”
He smiled. “My name is Arthur Singh. You could use a cup of tea.” He reached for the tray and handed a teacup to Daryl.
Daryl accepted the cup, but then objected, “I’m sorry, but I don’t do well with caffeine at night.”
Arthur held up his hand. “No caffeine—do not worry. It is a special blend: grapefruit oil, lemon grass, blackberry, and eucalyptus. It helps find a calm focus and it tastes good. Try it.”
Daryl put the cup to his lips. Citrus steamed his glasses before he sipped. He felt better. How is it that an aspirin takes half an hour to relieve pain when some flavored hot water soothes right away?
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Have a cookie.” Daryl lifted a sugar cookie off the plate and took a bite. A soft and sweet saltiness reminded him how far away breakfast had been. Another sip of tea. Arthur waited for Daryl to swallow, then checked an odd-looking rectangular time piece on his right wrist.
“I believe you now work with Hollant Partners, yes?”
“Do I know you?”
“I’m sorry Daryl, of course you don’t. Your work on the Banyan merger was noted in my feed – nice photo of you at the closing table.”
Daryl was too spent to say anything. He finished the cookie.
“This should be a happy time for you. But perhaps that is not the case?”
“My flight to New York is delayed.”
Arthur nodded.
“And my wife is divorcing me.”
“Sorry to hear that. You just found out?”
“I thought she was just working through things. Apparently ‘Things’ was me.”
Arthur quietly asked, “What now?”
“Nothing. My flight is delayed. I’m stuck.”
“I meant with your divorce.”
“Oh – right – yes. Good question.” Daryl sipped some more tea. “This tastes good.”
Arthur smiled, “I am glad you like it.”
A tired woman’s voice over the intercom announced final boarding for a flight to Tokyo. Both men sipped their tea.
“Do you have a lawyer?”
“What? A lawyer? No.”
“You should talk to someone. The longer you wait, the harder it gets. I know an excellent attorney in LA—I presume that is where you live?”
Daryl nodded.
“Good. Doris can call after your meeting tomorrow. You might like her. She talks like a Raymond Chandler character.”
Daryl nodded even though he had never read anything by Chandler. Did he write detective stories?
“When is your meeting in New York tomorrow?”
“13.00 – but I might have to push it if I can’t get out of here soon.”
“No need.” Arthur tapped something on his mobile phone then slipped it back into a breast pocket. “Finish your tea.”
Daryl drank again then wiped sugar off his lips with a small paper napkin.
“It will hurt. That is normal. It is also normal to feel broken, even though you are not, not really. Try not to see those feelings as permanent. The gears are in motion for the next part of your life.”
Daryl nodded absently.
A tall woman dressed in tailored tweed, mid-level heels, and greying hair swept back appeared next to Arthur’s chair. Mr. Singh, so good to see you again. How can I help?”
Arthur rose to greet her. “Ms. Stone, it is a pleasure.” The two smiled as they bumped fists lightly — a gesture Daryl rarely saw since the last pandemic died down. Arthur continued, “This is my friend, Daryl Lance. He needs to be at Hudson Yards in New York by 12.30 edt. What do you think we can do?”
Ms. Stone scrolled through her tablet with manicured nails tapping the screen briskly. Blue light reflected in wire-framed oval glasses. We’ll need the taxi, I believe.”
“Do what needs to be done.”
“It is arranged.” She looked up from the tablet and over her glasses. “Mr. Lance, in five minutes, the airline will announce that your flight was cancelled. Fortunately, I secured you a first-class seat to LGA on another carrier, but we must move quickly. It pulls back from the gate in fifteen minutes.”
Daryl lifted a leather backpack as he stood up. “Thank you, what do I have to—”
“Some minor juggling on our part. It is taken care of.” Arthur escorted them both to the elevator. “Your ticket will transfer with no added charge.”
Arthur handed Daryl a heavy stock business card with a phone number pressed into the paper with watery blue ink. “Daryl, my friend, I need to take my leave here. We shall continue this conversation after your meeting, yes?”
Arthur turned down a hallway while Daryl followed Ms. Stone to the gate, her shoes clicked sharply on the terrazzo tile that echoed in a now sparsely populated terminal.
“Here is your flight, Mr. Lance.” Ms. Stone nodded at the gate agent, who handed Daryl a paper ticket. “Someone will meet you at LGA and escort you to the taxi.”
Daryl walked through the gate and down the jet bridge, balancing one foot in front of the other as if he wasn’t sure where he stood. An attendant guided him to a cubicle at the front of the plane then hung his jacket while Daryl sat down. Another attendant put a deflated yellow life preserver around her neck and pantomimed blowing into a tube.
Light rain outside and small streams of water moved back on the porthole window flashing bright from the runway lights. A concrete wall near the tarmac had crumbled into the grass, part of the original airport built in 1937.
A piece of cardboard wedged into the rubble had lower-case letters in black spray paint barely legible:
‘Change happens.’
The ground dropped from underneath his seat. Streetlights, headlights, and billboard lights traced the city grid below, stretching its tentacles over the mountains and beyond. Alone in the dark, the lights reached for the other pools of light miles and miles apart. Bright vines of connection; not quite alone, nor together.
Daryl pressed a button for the seat to lie flat and slipped sideways into sleep.
There’s more to the book, but it will take a while to finish. Do you think you might want to read it when it’s done?
