Page 22 of Identity Unknown
“The more she gets, the more she needs.”
“That tends to be what happens with addictions.”
“She’s playing with fire when she engages with strangers.” Lucy’s getting impatient as we wait for the tower to call back, the rotor blades thudding. “Recently, she’s started commenting on what a dangerous world it is for visible people like her. All that does is give wack jobs ideas. As you can imagine, none of this is sitting well with Marino.”
“It doesn’t set well with me either now that I’m hearing the details.”
I don’t follow my sister on Facebook, TikTok, the former Twitter platform now called X or anything else. For the most part I have no idea what she posts.
“This is ridiculous.” Lucy stares at the air traffic control tower rising above the airport like an Olympic torch. “You know how much fuel we’re wasting sitting here going nowhere? Six minutes and counting. We’ve just burned through twelve gallons, about a hundred taxpayer dollars.”
“They know you’re law enforcement,” I reply. “Seems like they could be more accommodating.”
“Depends on who you get.” Lucy’s trigger finger squeezes the radio switch on the cyclic, what most refer to as the stick. “Helicopter Niner-Zulu is on the ramp standing by,” she reminds air traffic control.
“Niner-Zulu, what is your request?” After a long pause.
“I’d like to depart from our current position on a one-eighty heading.”
“Niner-Zulu. Squawk one-six-three.”
“Squawking one-six-three,” Lucy answers as I enter the numbers into the transponder, identifying us on radar.
“Ident.”
“Identing,” Lucy says, and I press the ident button for her.
“Permission granted to depart from current position on a niner-zero heading. Stay clear of the runways at all times.”
CHAPTER 9
Lucy rolls opens the throttles, the blades spinning faster and louder. She eases up the collective, pulling in power, her feet on the pedals, her fingers steadying the cyclic. I feel the helicopter getting light on its skids. Then we’re off the ground, lifting over parking lots, climbing above traffic along the George Washington Memorial Parkway.
We curve along the shoreline, crossing a wide rocky stream called the Four Mile Run that empties into the Potomac, the high sun flaring off bright ruffled water. Heading south at an altitude of one hundred feet, we’re well out of the way of planes landing and taking off.
“Traffic! Traffic…!”
The Traffic Collision Avoidance System (TCAS) is going off constantly. It blares in our headsets as Lucy follows the Potomac River unnervingly close beneath us, the surface of the water fanning out in our rotor wash. I can see a lost yellow boat cushion, a plastic bottle bobbing, the variegated blue shades reflecting the dense green trees along the shore.
“Traffic! Traffic…!”
The disembodied warnings continue, and fortunatelyMarino is oblivious. He can’t hear or see us because of the partition between the cockpit and cabin. I imagine him in his silvery fireproof seat, his eyes squeezed shut and fists clenched, maybe chewing on another motion sickness tablet.
“Traffic! Traffic…!”
He’ll have an airsickness bag in hand, taking deep breaths, trying not to panic, and it’s a terrible way to feel. I’m sorry I’m not there to distract him with reassurances and jokes. I can’t talk him off his emotional ledge the way I did Fabian this morning.
“Traffic! Traffic…!”
The targets flash red in the glass cockpit, showing where other aircraft are in relation to us. The farther we get from the airport, the quieter the alerts. We wind around the Washington Sailing Marina, then Daingerfield Island. Dozens of boats are on the river, their sails white blades against blue like a painting. Water taxis churn past each other, their passengers looking up at the Doomsday Bird, pointing and taking pictures.
As we near the historic district of Alexandria, I can see the George Washington Masonic National Memorial shining white above the horizon like a majestic tabernacle. No matter where I am in Old Town, the colossal granite museum is visible, and I often use it to navigate. But I don’t understand why we’re headed in this direction.
“Where are we going? You taking a detour?” I ask Lucy.
“Checking on something.” Her attention is out the windshield, her hands facile on the controls. “And I’m making our presence known.”
“For whose benefit?”