Circles Collide

Chapter 4: Revelations

Moosehead Lake, Maine

May 16, 1996

Jake and Laura wanted to be alone with each other during the seven days of her tour break and they accomplished that quite literally. They awoke on this morning in the master stateroom of a large houseboat Jake had rented in Greenville, Maine, on the southern tip of Moosehead Lake in the isolated north-central region of the most northeasterly state in the contiguous United States. From Greenville, they had motored the boat twenty miles north, anchoring it in a moderate-sized cove fifty yards offshore of a seven-hundred-foot-tall slab of ancient volcanic rock known as Mount Kineo, which rose from a large peninsula that jutted out into the lake. The peninsula itself was a state park but it was a state park that was only accessible by watercraft or helicopter. There were no roads to drive to it and there was no airport to land at. There were occasional boats that came in to explore the cove during the day, but they tended to keep their distance. There was no cellular phone coverage and the only communication device they had access to was the marine radio in the cockpit of the vessel, which they kept turned off. For all intents and purposes, Jake and Laura were utterly, wondrously, and intimately alone in one of the most isolated places in the continental United States.

They had been here for three days and three nights now and were thoroughly enjoying themselves. The days were pleasant and sunny, and the nights were chilly and quiet, with only the sound of the gentle waves lapping on the boat. The water itself was far too cold to swim in, but Jake had rented them a pair of jet skis and dry suits and they spent a good portion of each afternoon tooling around and exploring. At night, Jake would make dinner for them and they would share a bottle or two of wine and then spend some time in the hot tub up on the upper deck, looking at the stars and talking. It was therapeutic for both of them. They had agreed not to discuss the impending article in the New England Reports in which Laura would be outed for dallying with female groupies. Laura, working through Pauline, had already denied the accusations, calling them ridiculous storytelling. Jake had refused to comment at all, other than to say that the accusations were not even worthy of a response from him. There was nothing that talking about the issue, or even thinking about it, could accomplish at this point, so they didn’t.

“Good morning,” Laura said now as she sat up in the queen-sized bed they shared in the master stateroom. She was naked, as was Jake, and smelled of sex, as did Jake, but the bedding was relatively unruffled since they had done their pre-retirement fucking the night before on the foldout hide-a-bed in the entertainment room. Their goal was to fuck in each of the eleven beds on the vessel before they returned it. So far, they had used six of them, plus the hot tub.

“Good morning,” Jake returned with a stretch and a yawn. He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the side of her jaw. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like a baby,” she said contentedly. “This was a great idea.”

“It was, wasn’t it? I think we should make a habit of doing something like this at least twice a year from here on out. Find some out of the way place and isolate ourselves for a few days there. Get away from everyone and everything and just be.”

“I’ll vote for that,” she said, pushing the covers off of herself and standing up. She stretched a little and then headed for the tiny bathroom attached to the stateroom. “It should be pretty easy to find places like that once we get the new plane, right?”

“Uh ... right,” Jake said, careful to keep any inflection out of his voice. He did not want to talk about the plane right now.

But Laura did. She sat down on the toilet, leaving the door open, and began to pee. “Didn’t you say it’s going to be entering escrow soon?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jake said. “Uhhh ... escrow starts today, as a matter of fact. Jill was supposed to fly down to Bogota yesterday with that property lawyer Paulie set me up with.”

Laura giggled a little. “And to hook up with that Colombian pilot, no doubt.” Jake had told her the story of Jill getting herself laid.

“No doubt,” Jake said, giving a little chuckle in return. “She was very enthusiastic about the trip. Told me it was no problem at all, that whenever I needed her to go to Bogota for something, she was on it.”

“Wow,” Laura said. “That from the woman who grumbles when you ask her to fly down to Los Angeles for a meeting.”

“I guess that pilot knows his way around her cockpit.”

She looked at him in confusion. “How’s that?”

“Cockpit,” Jake explained. “As in, a pit for him to place his cock. It’s kind of a pun, you see.”

She shook her head and gave him a little eyeroll. “I don’t think puns are your thing, sweetie,” she said dryly.

“I thought it was funny.”

“I’m sure you did,” she said, finishing her business and standing up. She wiped and then pushed the flush button on the toilet. It gave a noisy whoosh like an airplane toilet and then silenced. “Anyway, since the plane is going into escrow today, I’m assuming you finally nailed down the final price?”

Fuck! Jake thought miserably. I thought the cockpit joke might steer her away from this. “Uh ... yeah,” he said softly, trying to find a way out of sharing the information and failing. “We did.”

“How much was it?” she asked, turning on the sink to wash her hands.

“Well ... uh ... it was a little more expensive than I thought when I first started looking into this whole thing.”

“How much more?” she asked, soaping up her hands. “You said you could probably get one for around half a million, right?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “That’s what I thought at first. It turns out I underestimated the value to some degree.”

“That’s a bummer,” she said, now rinsing. “How much more? Like eight hundred thousand or so?”

“Uh ... well ... I sent Jill with an authorization to wire nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars into the escrow account.”

“Nine hundred and fifty?” she asked, surprised. “That is quite a bit more than half a million.”

“Yeah,” Jake said miserably.

“But still, I guess it’s not that bad. I mean, you really love the plane, right?”

“I do,” he admitted.

“And it does have a bathroom, like I asked.”

“Yes, it certainly does,” Jake agreed.

“And it’s not like we can’t afford nine hundred and fifty.” She turned off the sink and reached for the towel hanging on the rack.

Jake sighed. “Actually, babe, there is one thing I really think I need to confess right now.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Well ... the fact of the matter is that ... uh ... you know ... that that nine hundred and fifty thousand is really only ... uh ... the down payment.”

Her hands stopped the motion of drying. She slowly turned and looked at her husband. “The down payment?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, fighting to keep his eyes on hers. “It’s uh ... twenty percent of the agreed upon price.”

Her eyes widened and then bored into him. “Nine hundred and fifty thousand is only twenty percent of what the plane costs?” she asked him, a little steel in her tone. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

He nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

“Then the actual price of the plane is ... is...” She could not do the math in her head. “How much is it, Jake?”

“Uh ... four million, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” he said.

“Four million, seven hundred and fifty thousand?” she nearly screamed. “Please tell me you’re kidding, Jake! Please tell me this is a fucking joke!”

“Well, it was originally priced at four million, eight hundred thousand,” he said, “but I won a bet with the owner playing darts and got fifty thousand off.”

This time she did scream. “Darts! You gambled fifty thousand dollars playing darts?!”

“I won,” he said defensively.

She shook her head rapidly. “Forget the darts,” she said. “That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you agreed to pay almost five million dollars for an airplane you told me would cost around half a million and you didn’t talk to me about it! How long have you known it was going to cost that much?”

“Well ... uh ... pretty much since I heard about the plane from Jill in the first place,” he admitted.

“That was months ago!” she said. “Months! And you never mentioned it to me a single time!”

“You were on tour for most of...”

“We talked on the phone all the time, Jake!” she yelled. “At least three times a week! And I did ask you about it multiple times if you’ll recall! And every time I did, you said the price wasn’t decided yet and changed the subject. What the fuck, Jake?”

“I’m sorry, hon,” he told her, “it’s just that ... well ... you know?”

“I do not know,” she said. “You lied to me! You knew the whole time it was going to cost almost five million and you lied when I asked you about it!”

“Uh ... yeah,” he said miserably. “I guess I did.”

“Why, Jake?” she asked. “I know you are the one who makes the money around here. I know that! The only money I make is what KVA pays me for touring and recording and royalties and KVA is owned by you, so even my money originally comes from you, but we are married! Aren’t married people supposed to talk about things like five-million-dollar purchases before they happen?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “They are.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Well ... truthfully, because I thought you might try to talk me out of buying it.”

Her eyes continued to glare into him for a few moments and then softened a bit. “You decided it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission?”

He nodded. “That’s as good a way as any to put it,” he agreed.

She shook her head again, this time seemingly in bewilderment instead of anger. “I probably would have tried to talk you out of it,” she said. “Five million is a lot of money.”

“Four point eight million,” he corrected.

“That’s still a lot of money.”

“True,” he had to agree.

“But if you had just told me that it was something you really wanted, Jake, and if you had just showed me that we could really afford this thing—we can afford this, right?”

“We can,” he said. “The monthly payments will be around twenty-seven thousand. Insurance will be another eight hundred a month. California use tax—which is sales tax essentially—will be three hundred and eighty thousand, but that won’t be due until next year and it’s a one-time deal. And then there’s the one percent per year personal property tax that California will charge. That’ll run around forty-eight grand a year, gradually going down as the plane depreciates in value. A lot of money I will agree, but yes, we can afford it. As of the last quarterly meeting, I ... uh ... I mean we are pulling in more than nine million dollars a quarter in income when you add up the KVA disbursements, instrument endorsements, and Intemperance royalties. And that’s even before the next Brainwash album is factored in.”

Her eyes softened a little more. “That’s good to know,” she said softly. “Anyway, my point is that if you would have impressed upon me that you really wanted the plane and that we really could afford it, I would have said yes. You really didn’t need to go through all of this deception.”

“Well... now you tell me,” he said.

She sighed. “Jesus fucking Christ,” she said. “What am I going to do with you?”

He smiled, sensing the argument was now over and feeling a large weight of stress falling off his shoulders. “I think a good punishment would be to make me watch you have lesbian sex again.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” she agreed. “Only this time, you don’t get to touch me, or even jack off.”

“Well ... I can live with that, I suppose.”

“Until the next day,” she added.

“Okay, now that’s just cruel and unusual.”

She smiled then, and now he really knew the argument was over. And he had learned something fundamental and profound from it. It really was better to ask for forgiveness than permission—just a little more painful in the immediate confession period.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she said.

“All right,” he replied. “I’ll get breakfast going.”

While Laura headed naked to the main bathroom just off the entertainment room, Jake went and relieved his own bladder and had his morning BM. After washing up from these activities, he pulled on a pair of sweatpants and walked into the kitchen, shirtless. He opened the refrigerator and rummaged around for a minute. Their supplies were getting low, but he had what he needed to make them a couple of Denver omelets and some buttered toast. He got the coffee going and then began his construction project. Laura emerged from the bathroom, naked and fresh smelling, and walked back through the kitchen on her way back to the stateroom to get dressed. She returned five minutes later wearing a pair of denim shorts and a plain t-shirt over a bikini top (she still would not wear the bikini by itself anyplace she might be seen by someone other than Jake, but would wear it beneath a shirt).

“Looks good,” she said as Jake put their breakfast plates on the table.

“Naturally,” Jake replied as he poured each of them a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain.

They sat down and dug into their meal.

“Anything on the agenda for today?” Laura asked. “You know ... besides spending five million dollars on a bathroom?”

“Four point seven five,” he corrected. “And we’re starting to get low on supplies. I don’t have anything to make for dinner tonight, we’re all out of eggs, almost out of cheese, and we’re down to one bottle of wine.”

“That will simply not do,” Laura said. “Where can we get these things?”

“That little town where we gas up the jet skis,” he said. “Rockwood. It’s just a two-mile ride and they have that little grocery store there just a block or two up from the docks.”

“Won’t things be hideously expensive there?” she asked. “You know? Like the four dollar a gallon gas?”

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed. “But you gotta do what you gotta do, right?”

“I guess you’re right,” she said. “And besides, if we’re going to spend four point seven five million dollars on a plane, why scoff at thirty dollars for a bottle of ten-dollar chardonnay?”

“How long are you going to keep making backhanded references to the four point seven five-million-dollar plane?” he asked. “Just out of curiosity.”

“Pretty much for the rest of your natural life,” she replied.

“That’s kind of what I thought,” he said with a sigh.

They ate and then, while Laura did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, Jake went and took his own shower. After toweling off, he pulled on a pair of baggy swimming trunks and a t-shirt he had bought in Bar Harbor. He then picked up the backpack he used when traveling—it was currently empty—and threw his wallet into it. Inside of his wallet was more than six hundred dollars in cash he had also picked up in Bar Harbor. Using your ATM card to make purchases had not quite made it to most of the state of Maine outside of Bangor or Portland yet. And it certainly had not made it to Rockwood, Maine.

Their dry suits were hanging on a rack on the lower deck on the aft side of the boat. This was where the two Kawasaki JS750 jet skis were secured. It took them about five minutes to completely gear up for the trip to town. They pulled on the dry suits, put water shoes on their feet, donned their life vests, and then Jake put the backpack on and tightened the straps as much as he could. He then locked up the door that allowed entry into the boat and put the key in a little pocket on the dry suit that was designed just for that purpose.

“You ready?” he asked Laura.

“Let’s do it,” she said with a smile of pleasant anticipation. The jet ski had scared her at first but now she had fallen in love with riding it. And she had gotten quite good at it as well.

The so-called “keys” for the jet skis were actually just plastic pieces that plugged into a slot and allowed the ignition circuit to complete and the engine to run. These keys were attached to lanyards that they secured to their wrists. In the event of a fall—and they had both fallen a lot when they were learning to ride—the lanyard would yank the key out of the slot and kill the engine instantly, thus preventing the watercraft from continuing on its merry way without its rider. You then just had to swim after the machine and remount it.

Jake untied the skis and they climbed aboard, settling in on their knees and then pushing away from the boat. They plugged in their keys and fired up the two-stroke engines, which sent clouds of fragrant exhaust into the air.

“Lead the way!” Laura told him. She had a terrible sense of navigation outside of cities or towns (and it was not that great inside of them either). She could probably find her way out of the cove—since there was only one way to escape and it was plainly visible—but after that, she did not even know which way they should turn to get to town.

“Try to keep up!” Jake returned playfully. He did have a superb sense of direction and navigation, even in unfamiliar places, and always effortlessly led them back to the cove without the use of a map of any kind, or even a compass, no matter where they went out on the large lake. Of course, he was greatly assisted in this impressive feat by the fact that Mount Kineo, where they were anchored, was visible from anywhere in the range of the jet skis.

Jake pulled on the throttle just enough to get moving and steered around in a circle until he was facing the exit to the cove. He then throttled up, putting on some speed. As the jet ski moved faster and became more stable in the water, he slowly stood up until he was standing tall on his own two feet. He glanced over his left shoulder and saw that Laura was keeping station with him, just behind and to the left, where his wake would not catch her. She too had assumed the standing position.

The water was mostly calm as they exited the cove and turned to the right, with no wind-driven waves at all and only a few wakes churned up by the sparse boat traffic that was motoring about here and there. The Yamahas could easily go forty-five miles per hour, maybe even fifty, but Jake did not go balls to the wall. He kept the throttle at around eighty percent or so and they cruised at around thirty-five to forty miles per hour. They cut through the water smoothly, feeling the wind in their faces, occasionally getting splashed a bit when they hit one of the rolling boat wakes. The trip took only five minutes to complete and neither of them fell off. They pulled up to the Rockwood Town Landing boat ramp, maneuvering over to the fuel dock and then shutting down.

They stepped from the jet skis onto the dock—Laura almost falling into the water but catching herself at the last second—and tied up. Jake turned his back to her and told her to get into the backpack and pull out his wallet. She did so.

He peeled off a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to her. “You fuel us up,” he said. “I’ll hike in and grab the groceries.”

“Sounds good,” she said.

The proprietor of the fueling station was heading toward them from the direction of the little snack shack where he had been sitting in a wooden chair out in front of it. He was a grizzled man in his late fifties or early sixties. He was balding, missing a few teeth, and constantly smoked cigarettes, even when he was fueling someone up. He was the same man who had fueled them on their previous trips to the dock and he was a man of few words, speaking no more than was necessary to complete the transaction. Jake did not even know his name, as he had never offered it and he wore no form of name tag or badge.

He walked up to them now, his lit, half-smoked cigarette sticking out of his mouth. He was looking at them intently as they approached, much more intently than he had ever looked at them on previous visits.

“Good morning,” Jake greeted when he reached their position.

“Ayuh, it is,” he agreed, still staring at the two of them, as if he were trying to memorize their features. “Shapin’ up to be a real pisser of a day, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” Jake agreed. “It looks like it.” Pisser, he had learned from his time spent in Maine, was not a bad thing, but a good thing. As in, ‘that was a real pisser of a blowjob you gave me last night, hon’.

“We’d like to fill both tanks up,” Laura told him.

“No problem,” he said. “That’s what I do here.”

“Is it okay if we keep the skis tied up to the dock here long enough for me to walk up to the store and pick up a few things?” Jake asked him.

“Ayuh,” he said. “I’m not exactly drove right up at the moment. No problem at all as long as you book it.”

“Book it?” Jake asked.

“Do it fast,” he clarified.

“Oh ... right. I’ll certainly book it as much as I can.”

“Fair enough,” he said. He still had not taken his eyes off of them, and he made no move to get to work putting fuel in their tanks.

“Uh ... is everything okay?” Jake asked.

“Ayuh,” he said. “Everything is just fine with me. Was just lookin’ to see if you two really are who I think you are.”

Ahhh, so that’s what this is about, Jake thought. We’ve been recognized. “Who is it that you think we are?” he asked.

“I don’t just think, I know,” the proprietor said. “Now that I’ve had a chance to get a good look at you both.” He turned to Jake. “You’re that rock and roll musician that they say is up to devil worshiping and sniffing dope out of butt-cracks.” He then turned to Laura. “And you’re the woman who travels around with that Mexican singer they play on the radio sometimes. You just had a show down Bangor way, didn’t you?”

“We did,” she said. “But Celia Valdez is Venezuelan, not Mexican.”

The proprietor shrugged, as if to say, what’s the difference? “They say you two are married.”

“They’re not making that up,” Laura said, showing him her wedding ring, which she had felt more comfortable wearing on the jet ski than leaving unattended on the houseboat.

“Girl, that’s a wicked rock you have there,” he said. He looked back at Jake. “You’re quite the rig, aintcha?”

“The rig?” Jake asked.

“Flashy, flamboyant,” the proprietor clarified. “Someone who would buy a diamond ring for his wife that probably costs more than I earn in ten years runnin’ this place.”

Jake wanted to be insulted, but he could not quite rise to it. The man was not trying to get under his skin, he was just stating what he believed to be a fact in a no-nonsense way. “I see,” he said simply. “Rig. A good word for it. Short and to the point.”

“Ayuh,” he said. “We like to speak plainly up here in the willy-wags.”

“A good custom,” Jake said with a nod. “So ... anyway, I’ll just...”

But the proprietor was no longer listening to Jake. He had turned back to Laura. “When I saw your picture in that tabloid rag up to the store this morning, I thought you looked familiar,” he said.

“Tabloid rag?” Laura asked.

“The New England whatchamacallit,” he clarified. “You and that Mexican singer are both on the front page of it.”

Jake and Laura looked at each other incredulously. They had known that the issue was hitting the newsstands today, of course, but they had not dreamed that anyone in this part of the state would have access to it. “You sell the New England Report here? At that grocery store?”

“I don’t sell nothin’ at that grocery store,” he said, “but Maudie does. She’s been runnin’ the place since 1978. That’s when that old timer Tim Jenkins finally up and sold it.”

“And there is a demand for that rag here?” Laura asked. “In this little town?”

“Ayuh,” he said, nodding. “Not by the townspeople, of course, but we get lots of flatlanders from down Boston way up here in the spring and summer. And it seems like they like to keep up on all the gossip from home.”

Jake looked at his wife and sighed. “Well,” he said to her, “it looks like our little break from reality is now over.”

“It looks like it,” she agreed with a sigh of her own.

“I hear that rag is claiming you and the Mexican woman like to lie down with your own kind,” the proprietor said. “That’s a pretty wicked accusation.”

Jake blinked. “I’m sorry, is wicked a good thing or a bad thing?”

“It could mean either,” he said, “but in this case, it’s a bad thing, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Jake said.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” the proprietor qualified. “I’ll still sell you gas and Maudie will still sell you groceries. Even if you do like to play for both teams, your money is just as good as any flatlander’s.”

“That’s good to know,” Laura said. She turned back to Jake. “Maybe you oughtta pick up a copy of that rag while you’re there.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I’d better.”

Back in Bangor, Celia Valdez and Suzie Granderson were in Celia’s suite at the Sheraton hotel near the airport. It was just past 11:00 AM and they were still in bed, naked and cuddled against each other, Celia resting her head on Suzie’s chest while Suzie’s arms were locked around her. They had been up late last night, first drinking two bottles of white wine (the King Air was currently at Bangor Airport undergoing a B-level check, therefore Suzie’s moratorium on drinking alcohol was temporarily on hold) and then engaging in a lengthy, two-hour long session of lesbian lovemaking that had finally wrapped up around 3:00 AM. Now, both of them were awake, but too comfortable to get out of bed just yet. Both had headaches and sour stomachs but were quite satiated sexually.

They no longer bothered trying to hide their relationship from the other members of the band. In truth, it had been an exercise in futility to even try, as was evidenced by the ‘anonymous source close to the band’ who had spilled the beans to the New England Reports journalist who had called asking for commentary on the allegation. They still had no idea who that anonymous source was, but he or she had provided enough details of the day-to-day operations and engagement of the band members—particularly Suzie, Celia, and Laura—that they knew they had a mole among them. Was it a member of the road crew? One of the techies? One of the bus drivers? One of the limo drivers? One of the band members? Of all the possibilities, that was the one that bothered Celia the most. The seven of them were very close to each other, had been living and sleeping and traveling and playing music together for months. The thought that one of them might have betrayed her was too much to handle.

“The issue should be at the news stands and supermarket checkouts now,” Suzie said softly, bringing her hand up to play with Celia’s silky hair.

“That’s true,” Celia said with a sigh, snuggling a little tighter into her lover. “From this point on, the media circus will begin. You’ve never been through anything like this before, have you?”

“No,” Suzie said. “I mean, I saw what happened when you and Greg were divorcing and the whole Mindy Snow pregnancy thing hit the public, but I’ve never been personally involved in anything like this.”

“Maybe you won’t be,” Celia suggested. “Paulie said that when the reporter called her, all she knew was that your name was Suzie and that you were a pilot who flew us around. She did not provide them with your last name, the name of your company, or even confirm that there was a female pilot on our plane. This is a sleazy gossip rag. There’s a good chance they were not able to identify you.”

“Really?” Suzie asked.

Celia shrugged. “It’s certainly possible,” she said. “No reporter ever called you to ask for your version of the story, did they?”

“No.”

“You’d think that if they knew who you were, they would have done that, right?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It that how it usually works?”

“Well ... with legitimate journalism it is,” she said. “I don’t know if this New England rag follows the standards of journalistic ethics, but even if they don’t, their story would be juicier if they were able to get a quote from you, or a picture, or anything at all. The fact that they did not even try is suggestive.”

“Maybe,” Suzie said, leaning down and kissing the top of Celia’s head. She hesitated for a few seconds, continuing to stroke Celia’s hair, and then said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” Celia said. “You know that.”

“Did you ever think ... uh ... even for a minute ... that maybe the best course of action would have been to ... just ... you know ... admit that we are together?”

The question caught Celia off guard. She raised her head up and looked into Suzie’s eyes. “Admit we are together? You’re not serious, are you?”

“Well ... we are together,” Suzie said. “We’ve been living and sleeping together as a couple for the past month now. How long do we need to keep this in the closet?”

Madres de Dios, Celia thought desperately. How do I answer this one? “Suzie ... uh ... I am not a lesbian.”

“Oh really?” Suzie said, bitterness in her tone. “You’re not a lesbian? I seem to recall you sticking that pretty face of yours between my legs last night and licking my slit until I came all over it.”

“Well ... yes, but...”

“And was I hallucinating the part where you climbed up on top of me naked and rubbed your clit against mine while tongue kissing me?”

“You were not hallucinating,” Celia said with a sigh. “I did those things and I enjoyed them immensely. And I will undoubtedly do them again tonight as long as you’re not too pissed off to let me, but none of that makes me a lesbian. Bisexual, yes. I will freely admit that. I enjoy having sex with you. I enjoy being close to you. But I can never be with you in the way that you are suggesting.”

“So, I’m just someone for you to fuck?” she asked angrily. “Is that all I am to you?”

“You know better than that, Suzie,” she said sternly. “If you don’t, you’re not the person I thought you were.”

Suzie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Slowly, she let it out and opened her eyes again. “Okay,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Celia told her. “And I’m sorry if I misled you into thinking that what we have here and now is more than what it is. I needed somebody to be intimate with and you were there. I love you, Fly Girl, and I always will, and I will always be grateful to you for being here for me when I needed you most, but ... I’m primarily heterosexual. I cannot change that any more than you can change the fact that you’re a lesbian. A long-term, committed relationship between the two of us simply cannot work. Please tell me that you understand that.”

Suzie was now fighting not to cry, but she nodded her head. “Yes,” she said softly. “I understand that.”

“Again, I’m sorry,” Celia said. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know,” she said.

Celia put her head back down on Suzie’s chest. Suzie’s arms went back around her, caressing the naked skin of her back.

“How long do we have then?” Suzie asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You just told me that what we have can’t last. How long do we have?”

“There is no expiration date on this thing,” Celia told her. “We have as long as we have. And when this phase is over, that doesn’t mean it’s over for good. There will be other tours. There will be visits when we’re not on tour. Who knows what will happen then? There are too many variables to factor in to come up with an answer to a question like that. Maybe I’ll meet the next man of my dreams tomorrow and it ends then. Maybe I never meet the next man of my dreams and you and I carry on a torrid affair with each other for the rest of our lives. We just don’t know what the future will bring, so we might as well live in the now.”

Suzie thought that over for a few moments and then nodded. “You’re a very wise woman, Band Geek,” she told her.

“You have to be wise to write songs,” she said. “It’s a requirement.”

“Will you write a song about me?” Suzie asked. “About us? About our time together?”

“Yes,” Celia said without hesitation. “I most certainly will.”

The phone on the nightstand began to ring. Both women looked at it, knowing who was likely to be on the other end. Celia sighed and rose up from the snuggle. She rolled over and picked up the handset. She put it to her ear.

“Marie Vasquez’s room,” she said softly, giving her hotel name.

“Hey, C,” came Pauline’s voice. “It’s me.”

“The New England Report has been released?” she asked.

“It has, and it’s causing quite the sensation. I just got off the phone with Darlene back in LA. She says the office phone is ringing off the hook with reporters trying to get information out of me about the tale. The proverbial shit has officially hit the proverbial fan.”

“Wonderful,” Celia said. “You’ve seen the article?”

“Got a copy of it about an hour ago,” she confirmed. “I think you need to see it. Suzie too.”

“I suppose we’ll have to,” she said. “How bad is it?”

“It’s much more detailed than I was expecting,” Pauline said. “We most definitely have a mole in your inner circle.”

“That’s what we figured from the start.”

“True, but now that we have the article to refer to, it seems our mole is not that bright. He gave himself away.”

“He did? What do you mean? Who is it?”

“I’ll fill you in after you read the article. You’ll probably come to the same conclusion without me telling you. Can I come up?”

“Uh...” she looked over at Suzie and then down at herself. They were both naked and smelled strongly of female sexual musk. Sure, everyone knew they were doing it with each other, but that did not mean they needed to have evidence thrown in their face, or up their nose. “I think maybe you’d better give us about thirty minutes or so.”

“I understand,” Pauline said. “Thirty minutes.”

SAPPHIC LOVEFEST ON THE CELIA VALDEZ TOUR?? screamed the headline of the New England Reports tabloid. Below the headline were three pictures. The first was a publicity shot of Celia up on stage, her microphone in hand. The next was another publicity shot, this one of Laura Kingsley in her green dress playing her saxophone up on stage. The other was an official looking photograph of Suzie—not the most flattering likeness of her—and she was identified by her full name and her profession in the caption.

“That’s my driver’s license picture!” she yelled, outraged. “God, I hate that fucking picture!”

The story, the smaller print promised, started on page 4. Celia, now dressed in her jeans and a peasant blouse, set the tabloid down on the suite’s dining table. She then planted her butt in the dining chair and flipped to page 4.

There were a few more pictures on page 4 and page 5. One was of Celia and Greg at last year’s Grammy Awards. One was a shot of Mindy Snow with her swelling belly. Mindy had pretty much been in seclusion since the Condom-gate episode and the disclosures by Smooth Operator of her slutty ways, but a member of the pap had managed to snap a shot of her on her property about three weeks before. Another shot featured Jake and Laura at their wedding reception, though it was not one of the official wedding pictures taken by the People magazine photographers, but an unauthorized shot that had been taken by Paul Peterson from out on the beach four hundred yards away. Each shot had a brief caption beneath, explaining the subjects’ role in the lesbian love scandal.

Celia shook her head in disgust at the innuendo contained in the captions and then began to read the main story. As Pauline had said, the story was very detailed and contained information that only someone who was a part of their immediate circle would know. The supplier of these details was identified as promised: “An anonymous source close to the band”. This source reported that Celia had gone into a funk after filing for divorce and the breaking of the Mindy Snow pregnancy by Greg Oldfellow story. She remained in that funk for quite some time but pulled out of it quickly once the copilot of their plane began spending the night in her hotel room with her. She stopped as she read this part.

“Copilot?” she asked Pauline. “What the hell are they talking about? Are they suggesting I’ve slept with Njord too?”

“Ewww,” Suzie said, disgusted. “Njord? That’s just gross!”

“They are not suggesting that,” Pauline said.

“But...”

“Just read on,” Pauline told her.

She read on. In the next paragraph, the copilot of which they spoke was identified as Susan Granderson of Peterson Aviation Services. Thirty-four years old. Formerly a captain in the United States Air Force with service in the Persian Gulf War. Discharged after the war under allegedly questionable circumstances. It was strongly implied, though not directly stated, that her discharge had been because she was a lesbian. They knew a lot about her, including how many flight hours she had accumulated and in what kind of aircraft, information obviously pulled from public records. But they did not know that she was the pilot-in-command of her current assignment and not the copilot.

“Why are they saying Suzie is the copilot?” Celia asked.

“Copilot?” Suzie barked, outraged. “They’re saying I’m fucking subordinate to Njord?”

“That’s what they’re saying,” Celia confirmed. She turned to Pauline. “Is it sexism? Are they assuming that just because she is a woman that she has to be the copilot?”

“No,” Pauline said. “I don’t believe that to be the case at all.”

“What do you mean?” Suzie asked.

“Who do we know,” asked Pauline, “who has reason to dislike most of the bandmembers in Celia’s band, with a particular personal dislike of Laura and Celia, and who has reason to be antagonistic toward you, Suzie?”

“Njord!” she said. “That motherfucker! Are you saying he is the mole?”

“I believe he is,” Pauline said. “First of all, you have described Njord to me as a pathological liar who likes to run his mouth.”

“That’s right,” Suzie said.

“After I read the article for the first time, I became suspicious of Njord immediately. And so, I called Coop to come have a little chat with me. I remember Laura telling me that Coop was the only one who could stand to be around Njord.”

“That’s right,” Celia said. “They like to sit in the bar at night and try to pick up women.”

“Yes, that’s what Coop told me as well,” Pauline said. “He also told me that Njord is in the habit of introducing himself to his prospects as ‘Celia Valdez’s personal pilot’. And he has also heard the man dissing on Suzie and calling her ‘my lesbo copilot’.”

“Fuck me,” Suzie said, shaking her head in anger. “He is the mole. I’ll kill his ass!”

“That’s what Coop said when we put it all together,” Pauline said. “He was quite outraged, pissed even. I don’t think the two of them will be drinking together anymore after this.”

“I don’t want him flying me around anymore,” Celia said. “I don’t ever want to see his face again, as a matter of fact! Can you believe this shit? He actually told a reporter private things about what happens on the road! Who does something like that?”

“Apparently Njord does,” Suzie said. “And I will see to it that he never sets foot in that aircraft again. I will call up the home office and tell them what he did.” She looked at Celia. “It would be very helpful to our cause if you were to call them up too and express how fucking pissed off you are that a member of your aircrew blabbed his big mouth to the entertainment media about your personal life.”

“What about you?” Celia asked. “Won’t you get in trouble for sleeping with me?”

“Sleeping with you?” Suzie said with a smile. “I’m not sleeping with you. Never have. That was all speculative lies made up by our mole. Remember? You denied everything. I certainly will do the same when HR asks me about it. Yes, you and I like to hang out together on occasion after you get back from your shows, but I have no idea where he came up with the idea that we were getting naked and stinky together.”

Celia smiled back at her. “Of course,” she said. “I didn’t think of that. Should I make my phone call first?”

Suzie shook her head. “I should make mine first and prep them for what is coming. And when you make your call, I would suggest you make it very clear to them that legal action against the company will occur if this situation is not made right and made right immediately.”

“Understood,” Celia said.

“We should probably get Jake and Laura in on this outrage too,” Pauline suggested. “As soon as they reappear in the world anyway.”

“Oh yeah,” Celia said. “I haven’t even gotten to the part about Laura yet.”

“Then read on, Macduff,” Pauline said. “Read on.”

She read on. The writer—her byline identified her as Jessica Barstow—rehashed the Jake and Laura story, explaining that they had met back during the recording of Celia’s debut solo album in 1991 and had gotten married in 1994. She made sure to mention the allegations of domestic violence and drug use made against Jake, including the infamous cocaine from the butt-crack incident, and then she rehashed the allegations that Laura had been a terrible teacher who had been asked to resign when she started dating Jake. She put in a few quotes from Laura’s mother from the American Watcher stories when Mrs. Best speculated about how Jake must be abusing her since she was isolating herself from her devoted Mormon family.

From there, she got into the meat of things. Citing the same ‘anonymous source close to the band’ she described how Laura enjoyed the company of young female groupies (“the sluttier the better” the source was quoted as saying) and would often have one accompany her back to the hotel after the show. She did this openly and all of the other band members and the road crew knew about it. She even suggested that Jake knew about this habit as well. “I don’t see how he could not know,” the source allegedly said. “Jake and Celia are pretty tight with each other. And the saying that what happens on the road stays on the road wouldn’t apply in this situation.”

She then wrapped it up by writing that Pauline Kingsley, spokeswoman and manager of Laura Kingsley as well as Celia herself, stated that Laura, like Celia, emphatically denies the allegations and is outraged that such a thing was even being suggested. After this, Jessica Barstow invited any readers who might have knowledge or stories that could corroborate the allegations against Celia, or Suzie, or Laura, please give her a call at her office or send her an email. Her office number and her email address were printed below her byline.

“Madres de Dios,” Celia said when she was finished reading. “Njord and his big fucking mouth.”

“Let me read that thing,” Suzie said. “I’ll need to have my ammo ready for when I make my call.”

Celia slid the tabloid across the table to her.

“I’m a little worried about that last line in the story,” Pauline said. “The one about how people should call or email her if they can corroborate. As it stands now, it’s our word against Njord’s. We have put up a wall of denial and we are reasonably secure behind it. But if a member of the road crew or the security staff or one of the many hotel workers who must have witnessed you two staying in your room together every night, or ordering dinner for two from room service, decides to talk ... that wall starts to crumble.”

“I don’t think any of the road crew or the security staff would blab,” Celia said. “We’ve worked closely with them for two tours now and they’re a great crew. They’re very supportive of me and of everyone else in the band.”

“Are you sure about that?” Pauline asked. “Are you certain that there isn’t some low-level flunky getting paid minimum wage to endure endless bus rides and then haul your trusses and heft your amps day after day who might be resentful that you and the band get to sleep until ten every morning in fucking hotel suites and then just fly to the next date?”

“I am certain,” Celia said confidently. “Although it might be helpful to describe the phenomenon of the troll to them and warn them against falling into that trap.”

Pauline nodded. “I’ll take you at your word for that,” she said. “Mostly because it’s all I can do. What about the hotel employees?”

“Again, they have nothing but speculation to go on,” Celia said. “None of them have ever seen us in an intimate moment with each other. And, while they might have seen some of Teach’s groupies coming and going, I don’t think they would talk to the press about it. Hotel privacy is a big thing these days and it was actually Jake and Helen and Greg that were instrumental in making that happen. Remember? After the manager at that hotel in Omaha outed Jake and Helen, he got fired and blackballed and the entire chain got boycotted by musicians and the SAG forever. And even if someone did talk, it would also be mere speculation, easily denied. Laura just likes to hang out with fans. Every once in a while, she invites one back to the hotel for a drink or two because she’s lonely out on the road. There is no sexual activity involved.”

“Good points,” Pauline said. “But what if one of Laura’s groupies decides to talk? What then?”

“The same deal,” Celia said. “Deny, deny, deny. It’s some puta’s word against Laura’s. And the puta would have a hard time establishing that she even came back to Laura’s room with her, let alone what happened in there. It’s not like records are kept about this sort of thing.”

Pauline thought this over for a moment and then nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I guess that makes sense as well.”

“His fucking copilot!” Suzie suddenly shouted out, apparently having reached that part of the article. “I swear to God, that motherfucker is going down.”

She did not know how accurate that statement really was, or that she should be using the past tense instead of the future tense. But she was about to find out.

At the moment, the phone began to ring.

“Madres de Dios, what now?” Celia asked as she stood up. She walked over to the extension that sat on the bar and picked it up. “Marie Vasquez’s room.”

“Uh ... Ms. Valdez?” said an unfamiliar voice.

“This is Marie Vasquez’s room,” Celia said, emphasizing the name. “To whom am I speaking?”

“My name is Brian Comp, Ms. uh ... Vasquez. I’m the day manager here at the hotel.”

“Oh ... I see,” she said. “I guess you can call me Ms. Valdez then. What can I do for you?”

“Well ... there’s sort of a situation here that I think you need to be aware of.”

“What kind of situation?” she asked. “Are there reporters and paparazzi outside?”

“Yes, there are,” he confirmed, “but that is not why I called. You see ... well ... an emergency medical response was initiated to Room 403. The occupant of that room is one of your pilots. The fire department and the ambulance came and took him to the hospital.”

“Njord?” she asked. “What kind of emergency did he have?”

“It seems that he was assaulted and beaten quite badly. His face was kind of a mess when they wheeled him by my desk.”

“Assaulted?” she asked incredulously. “By whom?”

“I don’t know that facts of the matter, Ms. Valdez, but ... well ... the police are here too. And they are talking right now to Mr. Cooper in the lobby. And Mr. Cooper is currently in handcuffs and is bleeding from both of his hands.”

Celia looked up at the ceiling. “Madres de Dios,” she said, shaking her head.

Njord and Coop were both taken to the Eastern Maine Medical Center emergency room. Njord arrived there by ambulance. Coop arrived there by police car, in custody for assault with great bodily harm, a class C felony in the state of Maine. Njord suffered a broken jaw, two broken teeth, a split lip, two black eyes, and a concussion. Coop suffered a fracture to the fifth metacarpal of his right hand—commonly known as a boxer’s fracture—and lacerations to the knuckles of both hands caused by impacting Njord’s teeth. Two of the lacerations required suturing to close. He also had to be placed on prophylactic antibiotics and get a tetanus shot. Njord was kept overnight for observation. Coop was there for two hours and then was taken to the Penobscot County jail for booking. He was not there long enough to even change into jail clothes or eat real jail food. Pauline posted bail for him by writing a check for the full amount.

“Why, Coop?” Pauline asked him once they made it through the gauntlet of reporters, photographers, and just plain curious who had staked out the entrances to the Sheraton of Bangor in response to the New England Report article. “Why did you beat his ass like that?”

“He fuckin’ deserved it,” Coop said simply. “The motherfucker blabbed his fuckin’ mouth to some reporter and spread Celia’s and Teach’s dirty laundry all over the place. I’m glad I did it. I’d do the same thing again.”

“What did you do?” she asked as they rode the elevator up. “Did you just knock on his door and start beating on him?”

“Naw, I gave him a chance to explain himself first.”

“What did he say?” she asked.

“He kept saying he didn’t do it, that he had no idea what I was talking about. So I asked him why the bitch who wrote the article thought Suzie was the copilot. He said he didn’t know why she would think that. Then I reminded him that I heard him introduce himself as Celia Valdez’s personal pilot a hundred times, and that I have even heard him call Suzie his lesbo copilot, and then mentioned that that exact phrase had been quoted in the story. He still said he didn’t know what I was talking about, but I could tell he was lying about it.”

“How could you tell?”

He shrugged. “I just knew. Can’t you tell when someone is lying to you?”

“Yeah,” she said. “A lot of the time I can. When you deal with record company suits and their lawyers, you get kind of good at lie detection.”

“Exactly,” he said. “I just knew he was lying. And I told him that.”

“And then what happened?”

“He told me one more time he didn’t have anything to do with that story. By that time, I was done listening to him. I started punching.” He shook his head in disgust. “That fuckin’ pussy seriously does not know how to fight. He never even managed to hit me once. He was only able to block like two of my punches.”

Pauline was not quite sure what to say to that, so she said nothing. The elevator reached the top floor, where their suites were. The doors slid open and they stepped out.

“How much trouble am I in for this shit, Pauline?” Coop asked her. “One of them cops that arrested me told me they’re charging me with a felony, that I could get ten years for this shit. Am I going to end up in that fucked up prison that Stephen King is always writing about?”

“That’s not going to happen, Coop,” she assured him.

“It’s not?”

“It’s not. First of all, that prison is fictional.”

“Fictional? What does that mean?”

“It means it is fiction,” Pauline explained. “As in, it does not really exist.”

“No shit?” Coop asked. He seemed a little disillusioned by this revelation.

“No shit,” she confirmed. “And, second of all, I’ve already talked to Aristocrat. They have hired the best criminal defense lawyer in Maine—who happens to practice right here in Bangor—and he’s going to meet with you in your suite tomorrow. He’ll get this reduced down to a simple assault charge and get you clearance to leave the state and the country so you can finish the tour.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she said. “Justice for money. It’s the American way, right?”

“Yeah,” Coop said, “that is the way the fuckin’ world works.”

And, of course, Pauline was right. After conferring with Arthur Bradford III, attorney at law, who charged Aristocrat Records eleven hundred dollars an hour, with a minimum of twelve hours of billing, plus court appearance fees in the amount of another six thousand, the Penobscot County DA himself decided to reduce the charge to a simple misdemeanor assault on the grounds that an ordinary old broken jaw, broken teeth, and concussion did not rise to the level of “great bodily harm” that was required to prove a class C felony. The next day, at the preliminary hearing, the Honorable Jefferey T. Smith agreed (over the stern objection of the deputy DA assigned to prosecute) to release Mr. Cooper on his own recognizance and allow him to leave the jurisdiction and even the country to finish out his contractually obligated touring duties. Mr. Cooper would return to Bangor on June 25, 1996, during the hiatus between the end of the North American tour and the beginning of the European tour, to face trial in the matter. Arthur Bradford III let Coop know that there was a better than even chance that the DA would decide to simply drop the charges before then.

By this point, Jake and Laura had returned to Bangor and been briefed in on the situation. Jake’s concerns with the matter were more practical.

“Can you still play the drums, Coop?” he asked. “With your hand all fucked up like that?”

It was a legitimate concern. They were supposed to appear in Quebec City in less than forty-eight hours. The trucks and buses with the roadies and equipment were already on their way.

“I can play,” he assured Jake. “I got this wrist brace thing they gave me at the hospital, and I’ll keep the fingers buddy taped together.”

“What about the stitches?”

“I’ll wrap ‘em up real tight,” he said. “I’ll get by. The fuckin’ show must go on.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Jake told him. He looked at the drummer meaningfully. “Was it worth it?”

“Fuck yeah, it was worth it,” Coop replied. “What that asshole did was not cool. It ain’t the way the world is supposed to work. What happens on the road stays on the road. Everybody knows that. It’s fuckin’ sacred, man! That motherfucker violated that shit. That cannot go unanswered, especially not when he’s spreading shit about Celia and Teach and Suzie.”

Jake smiled and patted him on the back. “You really do say some profound shit sometimes, Coop.”

“Do I?” he asked.

Suzie called the home office and told them everything about Njord. She told them about the insubordination, the lack of crew cohesion, the misogynistic remarks he had made, and about how they had good information that he had spread vicious rumors about their passengers to the media—rumors that weren’t even true, not that that really made any difference. She told them that her passengers were demanding that he be removed from the assignment immediately—not that he would be cleared for resuming normal duties for at least a month thanks to Coop.

Pauline called the home office as well. She told them that she and her clients were absolutely outraged by the slanderous lies Suzie’s copilot had spread to the entertainment media for whatever twisted reason he had. She also told them that her clients had reported to her a string of sexual harassment and misogynistic statements they had heard Njord make in the course of his tenure with them. She cited her evidence that Njord was the culprit—highly circumstantial though it was—ticking off point by point, naming names, and repeating quotes. She told them that KVA Records would never agree to a contract with them again and would likely file lawsuits against them if this situation was not made right immediately.

Jake and Laura even got in on this action. Laura called first, telling them how her reputation was now in question because of the lies that Njord had spread. She told of how Njord had come onto her back in the beginning of his assignment and how, after she had shot him down, he had continued to come onto her until she had been forced to become firm with him. From that point on, he had seemed to have some sort of vendetta against her.

Jake simply echoed Pauline’s statement, though in more straightforward terms. One of their pilots had slandered his wife to the entertainment media. This was a gross violation of the trust they were supposed to enjoy in their air transport contractor. If this was not made right, not only would KVA never do business with Peterson Aviation again, not only would lawsuits be filed, but KVA would go out of their way to spread the information far and wide that Peterson Aviation could not be trusted to remain discrete, making sure that all potential future clients heard about it.

And so, Njord was summarily fired from his job at Peterson Aviation. They did not bother investigating the matter. Though he vehemently insisted (through his wired-shut jaw) to Jack Benton, the CEO of the company, when Jack called to sever the relationship, that he had not spoken to any reporters, that he had nothing to do with the leak, Jack did not listen. Peterson Aviation was not a union shop. Though Njord had a contract with the company, that contract specifically stated that it was subject to cancellation by either party for any or no reason and Benton was therefore invoking that clause on the grounds that he had strong reason to believe that Njord had violated the company policies related to sexual harassment, subordination to the chain of command, and, most significant, keeping his fucking mouth shut about the personal lives of the wealthy passengers they transported from place to place in their aircraft. Njord was free to file a complaint with the California Department of Fair Labor and Housing if he thought this was an unlawful termination, but he was advised quite sternly that Peterson’s lawyers would fight such a complaint with everything they had, would not settle under any circumstance, and would make sure that all of the claims made against Njord by Suzie, Laura and Celia would be aired and made public record for any potential future employers to peruse.

Njord, in a rare display of wisdom, decided to just accept the termination. He booked a flight back to Los Angeles at his own expense and tried to come up with a plausible story to tell his wife about how he had ended up unemployed with a broken jaw.

Peterson Aviation, meanwhile, dispatched a new hire copilot who had just cleared his training period on the King Air to Bangor to take over Njord’s duties. His name was Scott Fator. He was twenty-six years old and this was his first assignment after receiving his ATP-r certification after working for a small cargo carrier company for the past three years. He was completely awed by the fact that he would be flying Celia Valdez and her band around Canada as his first gig.

“Do you know why you were given this assignment?” Suzie asked him within five minutes of meeting him for the first time at Bangor International.

“They said it was because your previous copilot was released from his contract and I was the only one that they had available to fill in on short notice,” was his reply.

“That’s true,” Suzie agreed, “but not the whole story. He was not released from his contract. He was fired. And do you know why he was fired?”

“Why?” Scott asked nervously.

“Partly because he was an asshole,” she said, “but mostly because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He talked to a reporter and gave her details about our very famous passengers.”

Scott’s eyes widened. “You mean ... all that about how Celia and you ... about Jake Kingsley’s wife and those women... he is the one who talked?”

“He is the one who talked,” she confirmed. “And because he did that, our passengers and me are now in the midst of a whole lot of unwanted attention. My question to you, my new copilot, is what can you learn from Njord’s mistake?”

“Uh ... not to talk to reporters about what happens on the mission?” he asked hesitantly.

“Wrong,” she said. “Not to talk to anyone about what happens on the mission. That means no one, ever—even long after you are done with this mission. You don’t talk to your future PICs or copilots about what happens on the mission. You don’t talk to your wife or your girlfriend or your gay lover about what happens on the mission. You don’t talk to your fucking priest or your fucking rabbi or your fucking bishop or your fucking imam about what happens on the mission. After you die, when you finally get to meet whatever god you worship and believe in, if you want to discuss it then, that’s cool. But until that moment, your mouth stays shut. Are you following me?”

“Yes, absolutely,” he said. “What happens on the mission stays on the mission. Everyone knows that.”

“Apparently everyone does not,” Suzie said. “Now, let’s get this aircraft out of this hangar and preflighted. Our passengers will be here for the ride to Quebec in less than two hours. And this is an international hop, so we’ll have to deal with customs and all that shit.”

“Right,” Scott said. “Let’s do it.”

They did it. And two hours and thirty-eight minutes later, they were lifting off from Bangor International for the one hour and ten-minute flight across the United States border.