Page 32 of Making His Bones

Gray

“This Google map image isn’t clear enough,” said Tobiah, pointing to his computer screen with a pen. These guys need to get their act together. They need better resolution.”

“I see what you’re doing,” said Knoxie. “You just want to fly a gyrocopter.”

“Do not!” Tobiah pouted. He swiftly admitted, “Though it would be pretty cool. My eyes are ten thousand times sharper than these satellite cameras. See this blob at the entrance to this pocket canyon? I’ll bet you that’s a giant still, but we can’t be sure. If I flew there in person, I could be sure.”

“You could also be dead,” I said, supporting Knoxie.

We were in the back of The Missing Ink, crowded by a couple of spare hydraulic chairs, portable arm rests, and boxes of trays, aprons, and bottles of ink. We’d narrowed the possible locations for Pitchfork’s stills to two properties, one five miles from Seeker proper, the other about fifteen. They were both in mountainous, craggy areas accessible only by dirt road. At the property we were especially interested in, Tobiah and Galileo had driven up there acting like clueless realtors, only to be stopped by an armed thug with similar tattoos to the one who had assaulted Elektra.

“This area isn’t important to Google, so they’re only covering it with their nadir-pointing high-altitude aircraft cameras,” Tobiah said musingly.

“Nice try,” said Knoxie. “You just want to BASE jump.”

I perked up at that. “We did that in an episode of Untamed and Unchained. Our liability insurance went sky-high when one guy crashed through the roof of a Bass Pro Shop.”

Galileo guffawed. “Did he land in the BASE jumping department?”

I laughed, too. “Great advertisement for the store.”

Tobiah’s feathers were ruffled. “I’m serious as a midget in a nudist colony. There are some awesome spires around this slot canyon.”

Galileo asked, “Have you done it before? Guys used to BASE jump near my herd on the rez. They would soar so awesomely like birds of prey, just silhouettes against the still blue sky. Then they would plummet precipitously, making one’s heart jump into one’s throat.” He closed his eyes as though envisioning it. “’My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still. My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will.’”

“Well.” Tobiah chuckled stiffly. “I doubt the people died.”

Galileo’s round, sincere eyes popped open. “Oh, yes, they did. Deader than the guy in the Bass Pro roof. One fellow’s chute didn’t open. He fell on top of one of my sheep. Bam. Poor Betsy.”

“Betsy?” I asked. “You named your sheep?”

Tobiah asked, “How could you tell them apart?”

Galileo nodded vigorously. “Oh, you can. They all have distinct personalities. Some are soft-hearted and elegant. Some are meek but hard-working. Poor Betsy incorporated the best of sheepdom.”

I suggested, “Curious and social?”

“All right,” said Knoxie, “let’s not get too into detail about his love for sheep. Gray, you said you BASE jumped. But that’s done within a second, and you might not have time to make out the cookers, much less get a shot with your camera.”

“What about wingsuit flying?” I suggested.

“What?” asked Knoxie.

I said, “Yeah. Wingsuits. We never did it on the show—it’s just a hobby of mine.”

“Why didn’t you fucking say so?” squeaked Tobiah. “That’s perfect! Slow enough to get a read on the joint, and much quieter than jet engines strapped to your feet.”

Knoxie and I both gave Tobiah some serious side-eye, although Galileo just beamed beatifically, as usual. I cleared my throat. “Okay, then. It’s decided. Let me go text my old roommate to FedEx me my wingsuit.”

I stepped out back by the trash cans to text Brett. He’d been a great old guy, a surfer, bodybuilder, wannabe actor. I got more acting jobs than he did, and I think he sort of looked up to me for it. He was past his sell-by date, the date at which you should’ve launched a decent, meaty career, but he kept trying. He was a good guy.

Gray: Dude, I have a sudden urgent need for my wingsuit. Can you box it up and FedEx it to me?

I was surprised when the answer came immediately.

Brett: Dood! Archie keeps looking for you. Haven’t you answered his texts?

Archie was my agent. No, I hadn’t answered his texts. Why bother, when I was hellaway out here and couldn’t do anything about anything anyway? I fucking told him where I was and why. Like all good agents, he was my friend in addition, but the bottom line was, I could do nothing about my current circumstances. Or, rather, I wasn’t about to change them.