Many thanks to those who are reading and those who took the time to review. But a warning to all:
this is not going to be one of my novelas. This is a short one.
Brian watched as Steve inhaled sharply, whatever colour left in his hungover face rapidly draining away. He turned slightly, softly calling, "Paul," over his shoulder.
Turning almost somnambulantly away from the dairy fridge, Paul Davison looked over. "What?" he asked, starting to cross to his friends at the counter.
Steve seemed to shake himself back to the present and quickly looked up at the elderly clerk. "Do you have a phone I can use?"
"'Fraid not, son. The payphone out front is busted and I don't need one in here. The nearest phone'd be in Kings Beach, I think."
Brian had pointed out the newspaper article to Paul as Steve listened to the old man. Paul's eyes widened as he read the short report and he glanced quickly from Brian to Steve, who turned to him urgently. "We have to get back to the campsite. I have to get out of here. I gotta get to San Diego."
Paul held up his hands. "Steve, wait for a second, let's think this through. I know you want to get there, but we have to keep our heads right now, okay?" He glanced down at the paper once more. "This paper is dated yesterday, so this must have happened when? Two days ago? Sunday?"
"Paul –"
"Now wait a minute," the lawyer said calmly, keeping a steadying hand on Steve's arm, "I'm sure the weather's cleared by now and they've made it to the cra-… to the site. And I'm sure the guys back in San Francisco know all about it by now. So what we have to do is get you to a phone so you can call them and find out exactly what's going on, alright?"
Breathing heavily, trying to slow his pounding heart, Steve was staring into his friend's eyes, as if pleading for reassurance. "You're right, you're right."
"Okay." Paul nodded at Scott and Brian and they turned away to finish their transactions with the clerk. He took a step closer to his distraught friend. "Look, Steve, you can't believe everything you read, right? Think about it, if they hadn't found the site yet, how can they say for sure that everyone on the plane is 'presumed dead'. Right?"
Eyes suddenly unfocusing, Steve nodded slightly, almost distractedly. Then his nod became more pronounced and he looked up, meeting Paul's eyes once more. "Yeah, yeah, you're right. Okay, ah, let's get out of here and get to a phone, okay?"
Smiling slightly, Paul squeezed his arm, thankful that Steve seemed to be thinking straight again. Exiting the small store with their supplies, they headed quickly to the canoes tied to the small dock. Paul got into the canoe behind Steve and they pushed away from the shore quickly, plunging their paddles deeply, almost furiously, into the water.
After a couple of minutes of frenzied paddling, and breathing heavily, Steve sat back and let the tip of his paddle skim the top of the water, allowing their momentum to carry them along. Paul, sitting in the stern, watched the back of his friend's head, keenly aware of the battle for emotional control that was raging within. And, despite the seriousness of the situation, a slightly ironic smile that he was glad Steve couldn't see briefly curled his lips. 'Yeah, right, he doesn't care,' Paul thought to himself.
# # # # #
A little over two hours later the canoes were run ashore on the sand at Kings Beach. Steve jumped from the bow and started to sprint up the dune. It was still a bit of a hike to get to the road, then they had to find a lift into the small town and, hopefully, a working telephone.
Scott, brought up to speed by Brian during the trip back, helped Paul drag his canoe further up the beach then reached in to retrieve the plastic bags of supplies. "He's really worried, isn't he?"
"Well, it is his partner," Paul said with a sad sigh.
"Yeah," Scott said equally quietly. "Well, let's just hope it's good news."
The three friends jogged through the sand to catch up with the young cop, who was getting close to the road, his eyes scanning back and forth in search of an approaching vehicle, with no success. As the other three reached him, Steve turned in the direction of the town. "Let's start walking," he said, the driving intensity back in his voice.
With a quick affirming nod to each other, they fell into step behind him. Scott jogged a couple of steps to catch up to Steve. "Hey," he began tentatively, "I'm sorry, man, I hope he, ah, your partner, I hope he's okay."
Staring straight ahead, Steve nodded curtly. "Yeah, thanks. I hope so too."
Knowing he wasn't going to get anything more from Steve, whose thoughts were obviously far away, Scott dropped back. He glanced at the other two, all three sharing concerned looks.
The sound of an engine could be heard behind them, and they all turned to see a beat-up old pickup truck approaching. Brian and Scott stuck their thumbs out but Steve stepped into the middle of the road and began waving his arms.
"Steve…" Paul said warningly, "careful."
Luckily the truck came to a stop and Steve approached the window. "Hi," he said with a friendly smile, "thanks for stopping. Look, ah, we need to get into Kings Beach to a phone – I have a family emergency."
The grizzled old man in the battered straw hat behind the wheel glanced from Steve to the others. He didn't move for several seconds as Steve continued to stare at him, then he nodded and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Get in the back," he said gruffly.
His grateful grin not reaching his troubled eyes, Steve nodded. "Thank you." He and the others vaulted into the bed and Paul pounded the side panel to let the driver know they were ready. As the truck pulled off and headed down the road, Steve looked at Paul, who nodded encouragingly and patted his forearm.
With another quick smile and a shake of his head, Steve looked down. That was something else about Mike that he was finding hard to get used to – the older man's almost obsessive need, it seemed, to touch. Whereas he came from a family that, though close, was not demonstrative and at times avoided any unnecessary touching, his partner showed no hesitancy whatsoever in using physical contact to express how he felt or to emphasize a point. It took some getting used to and Steve felt he wasn't really there yet.
Paul studied his worried friend. He was well aware of Steve's strong streak of loyalty and his unparalleled sense of ethics and decency, and he knew the cop was now wrestling with conflicting emotions. How ironic would it be if now, suddenly, the entire question of his staying in homicide or requesting a transfer would be taken from his hands, rendered moot by a tragic act of fate that no-one could have foreseen.
Paul had never met Mike Stone but somehow he knew, from what Steve had told him in the past six months, that the senior detective was not only a more than worthy partner for his talented and compassionate young friend, but that he could turn out to be the mentor and guiding force that Steve Keller needed in his life. Which was why he was surprised when Steve had told him, last night on the beach, of his doubts and insecurities.
But then again, Steve had always pulled away from the people who could help him the most, preferring to 'go it alone' than to be indebted to anyone. Paul had seriously thought, and hoped, that this time would be different.
The pick-up truck turned into the pot-holed dirt parking lot and stopped in front of the green and yellow painted general store. The phone booth was near the road and Steve called out his thanks to the driver as he leapt over the side of the truck and sprinted towards the booth.
The other three got out of the truck more sedately, Paul thanking the driver profusely while Brian and Scott retrieved their grocery bags. They had just started towards the phone booth when Steve, receiver in hand, leaned out of the booth and yelled, "Change! I'm gonna need change!"
"I got it," Paul said, reaching into his pants pocket for some bills as he turned and headed back towards the store. Brian and Scott continued to the booth, both rooting in their pockets for coins.
"How much does it take?"
"I need another fifty cents," Steve said, hand out, "but that'll only get me a couple of minutes." He took two quarters from Brian's palm and stuck them in the coin slot, waited for the connection to complete then began to dial the ten-digit number.
They watched his face as he waited; it was obvious that all he was hearing was a ringing phone. Frustrated, he slammed the receiver down, then waited impatiently for the coins to discharge before retrieving them and feeding them into the slot once more. "There's no answer at his house. I'm trying the office. Someone has to be there," he explained, more to himself, they thought, trying to disguise his trembling hands as he thumbed the coins into the narrow slot.
Once more he punched in a ten-digit number, and once more he waited. He glanced at his watch. "There's gotta be someone there," he growled, shifting his weight, glancing up as Paul joined them, holding out a fistful of coins. "Come on, come on," Steve muttered under his breath. He slammed the handset onto the cradle, then laid his forehead against the back of his hand. "No one's answering, I don't understand."
They heard the coins discharging once again and he slid them from the holder. "There's one more number I can try," he said softly, beginning to slide the coins into the slot once again.
They watched as he dialed and waited, his head coming up quickly and his eyes snapping wide open. "Yes, this is Inspector Keller. Could you connect me with Homicide please, Sergeant Haseejian?" He paused. "Thank you." He looked at the others, a small smile finally playing across his lips.
Suddenly he froze. "Hello?! Hello?!" he shouted into the handset, took it away from his ear momentarily to look at it, then barked into it once more. "Hello?! What the hell?!"
Paul glanced at the other two. "What happened -?"
"Sorry about that, fellas!" yelled a gravelly voice from behind them and they turned to see the store owner standing at the open front door. "The power just went out. Happens sometimes. It shouldn't be too long."
"Damn it!" Steve screamed into the phone in futility, then slammed the handset back down on the cradle.
"Don't break it, Steve," Scott cautioned carefully and Paul shot him a warning look.
Paul turned to Steve. "Look, ah, while we're waiting for the power to come back on, why don't we have something to eat. I don't know about you guys, but I need something in my belly."
The others nodded, Steve reluctantly, and they headed slowly towards the store. Paul fell into step beside the young cop who, until now, hadn't noticed the newspaper in his friend's hand.
"I want to show you something," Paul said quietly, opening the paper to the second page and folding it back. He pointed to an small article on the bottom half of the third page.
"Rescuers reach downed Cessna" it read. Steve stared at the headline, swallowing heavily, then reached out to take the paper from Paul's hand.
"Search and Rescue finally reached the downed Cessna 172 that crashed in the desert just north of San Diego on Sunday morning. The small aircraft, flying out of San Francisco and carrying four current and former SFPD officers, was reported missing shortly after 10 am.
Reports from the scene confirm that there was one fatality and that the other three occupants were found alive but critically injured. All three survivors were airlifted to hospitals in the San Diego area. Names of the victims are being withheld pending notification of next of kin."