Passenger 19

FIFTY-ONE

It was the second Sunday of November, the most spectacular day in an unusually mild autumn. The air was crisp, the lake like glass, and Davis regarded the end of the dock with the pride of a new father written on his face.

“That’s what you brought me to see?” said Jen. “You got a new toy?”

“It’s not a toy, baby. You’re looking at my new line of work.”

“A seaplane? What are you going to do with it? Run drugs to South America or something?”

Davis watched close, saw the smile, and decided it was good that she could joke about her ordeal. Jen had spent four days as a hostage in a remote corner of the globe, yet she’d come out unscathed. At least in the physical sense. He’d been watching closely for the other kind. He had insisted she take the semester off school, and she’d countered by agreeing to move home only if she could sign up for online courses. Another positive sign — moving forward. The deal was struck and it kept Jen busy. It also kept her under his paternal eye. There were moments when he could see her contemplating what had happened, reflecting on the dark days. But only a few.

Because it had been, at least in part, a common experience, he tried to keep things light. They compared notes on the finer points of Colombian jails; like father, like daughter. When more difficult days intruded, Davis went for distraction. They took in a movie or went out to fly. In the intervening months Jen had twice met with Kristin Stewart, who seemed a decent kid, if a bit wayward in the boyfriend department. Indeed, Davis took heart that his own daughter had learned a lesson in the avoidance of greed-smitten, faux-revolutionary young men.

The bottom line — both girls seemed to be recovering. Healing and moving on.

A brisk gust of wind swirled leaves along the shore, and as he guided Jen down the dock he briefed her on the airplane. “It’s a Lake 250 Renegade.”

“Renegade? How fitting is that?”

He maintained a father’s enduring patience. “I’ve got a buddy down in Florida who runs a charter business, fishing trips and sightseeing. He can’t keep up with the demand.”

“What about the NTSB?” she asked. “Are you still going to do investigations?”

“Larry has my number. I was always more of a consultant, anyway. Wait until you see how smooth she flies. There are six seats, although the two in back are a little cramped. Three customers and all the fishing gear they can pack, I’m thinking.”

At the end of the dock Davis began his preflight, checking the fuel level and flight controls. As he went about his chores, Jen said, “Did I mention that I voted last week?”

She’d been showing a temperate interest in politics lately, an affliction that caused Davis to revisit her mental state.

“Did you? That’s great! Your first presidential vote.”

“I’m not a Republican, but I had to vote for Paulson.”

“Well, yeah — I can definitely understand that. Have you talked to Kristin? Who did she vote for?”

“Are you kidding? She and her mom have been volunteering at the Paulson campaign for a month.”

Davis stopped working a docking line long enough to smile at his daughter. “Now that’s just perfect.”

“The whole election seemed so weird,” Jen continued, “the way Stuyvesant fell down that flight of stairs and shattered his jaw at such a critical time in the race.”

“What are the chances?” he replied, untangling a knot. His moment of madness in the hangar had been completely covered up — he hadn’t even told Jen. He didn’t like keeping things from his daughter, but in this case he made an exception.

She said, “The guy is scum, no doubt about it… but I almost felt sorry for him. The way he had to back out of the debate and so many campaign appearances. That one interview he tried to give was comical, mumbling through a jaw that was wired shut — you couldn’t make out a word he said.”

“Heck of a way to campaign.” He was holding the Lake close with a hand on the wing.

“What about you, Dad?” she asked. “Did you vote?”

Jammer Davis took his daughter’s hand as she stepped into the seaplane. He said, “Well, it wasn’t last week… I sort of voted early this year.”

Jen looked at him suspiciously, a hauntingly familiar expression. Then he made the connection — it was same look that had so often visited her mother’s face.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s go fly.”

Davis pushed off the dock at noon that Sunday. His daughter was at his side. It was one of the best days of his life.