Snowbound - Blake Crouch [91]
Soon the Wolverine Hills had diminished into forested ripples of earth. She turned away from the window, from this wilderness she would not see again, swallowing to release the pressure in her ears.
. . .
Cook Inlet opened into the Gulf of Alaska, a universe of glittering dark blue water that stretched to the horizon. Devlin watched the paths of ships and oil tankers moving south toward the Pacific and continental America.
The De Havilland banked and descended. They were over land again, and looking out her window, Devlin could see the skyline of Anchorage and, just beyond, the shining, glaciated sprawl of the Chugach Range.
SEVENTY-FOUR
They touched down at Lake Hood Seaplane Base just shy of 1:00 P.M., after taxiing for several minutes over the choppy water. Two seats ahead, a woman began to sob uncontrollably, so loudly that everyone could hear, even over the drone of the props.
A second woman started to cry, then a third. They were all on Devlin’s side of the plane, and when she peeked over the seat in front of her, she saw them staring out the windows.
She looked, too, the glass streaked with windblown lake water. They were approaching a series of docks, and right away, she picked out their destination. A dozen ambulances had backed up to the one on the end, the rear doors thrown open, paramedics standing by with stretchers. Devlin spotted a procession of police cruisers behind the ambulances, lights flashing, waiting to escort the women to Providence Alaska Medical Center. Two fire engines idled beyond the cruisers—they would lead the motorcade. A nearby parking lot was filling fast with cars, vans, three news trucks—giant satellites perched on their roofs, transmitting the scene across the world.
A crowd had formed along the shore. People were taking pictures, shooting videos. Firemen and police officers stood guard behind a barrier of yellow crime-scene tape.
The woman sitting two rows back suddenly shouted, “Oh God, there’s Jimmy! It’s Jimmy! He’s a teenager!”
Devlin noticed that a handful of people had been allowed past the police barrier. They were gathered at the end of the dock—husbands, sisters, brothers, children, parents—and Devlin could see that every one of them stood crying, hands cupped to mouths, some outright weeping and prostrate, others signing “I love you” toward the seaplane.
The engines quit.
Devlin looked at her mother, her father, saw tears running down their faces, too. There was no stopping it, the emotion so sharp, so intense, it seemed to suck the oxygen out of the cabin. The women on the other side of the plane were unbuckling their seat belts, leaning across to look out the windows that faced the dock, searching for their loved ones amid the throng.
The pontoons bumped into the wooden pylons. The base crew went to work tethering the plane, tying down the props.
The families of the women pressed up to the end of the dock, and Devlin watched a man kneel down and reach out over the water, his hand just able to touch the window that framed his wife’s face.
His voice was muffled, but Devlin heard him say, “Oh God, Melinda! Oh God!”
“Jeff!”
A police officer walked over and patted the man’s shoulders, said, “Sir, I know it’s emotional, but we have some women on the plane who need immediate medical attention.”
“I’m right here, Melinda!” he yelled. “Right here!”
The officer led him and the others a little ways back from the plane.
The pilot opened the De Havilland’s door. Light streamed in. Devlin felt the frigid air, thought she smelled the ocean. A paramedic ducked into the plane—a young man with a goatee and stylish sideburns—his face darkening at the sight of the