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  For Brian and Zadie

  Life is locomotion. If you’re not moving, you’re not living.

  —THE FLASH

  The Flash (New 52, Vol. 1, #1)

  For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return.

  —LEONARDO DA VINCI

  PROLOGUE

  From The Beginning Pilot’s Flight Guide (p. 14):

  ATTITUDE + POWER = PERFORMANCE

  FEBRUARY 2010

  Robert Jackson Kelley stole his last plane on a cloudy night, the moon casting hazy light through the gray-gauze sky. He crouched in the trees, his legs cramped, pausing only to be sure the cops hadn’t beaten him to the hangar. This time he had to move fast. No rummaging for food. No thumbing through the manuals or pacing around the planes, admiring their gleaming wings and sleek bodies like diamond rings in a jeweler’s case. Asking to be smashed and grabbed. All he needed was to pick a plane. Get into the air.

  He had to stay focused.

  He bolted for the building, arms pumping, sharp pain puncturing his ribs—probably bruised or cracked from his prior botched airborne escape. The cold numbed his stiff fingers. The screwdriver he’d pocketed the last time he broke into Tomkins Airstrip thumped against his leg as he ran.

  He was eighteen years old.

  Nowhere to go but up.

  Yellow police tape fluttered across the door he’d jangled, bullied, and finally kicked in three nights before, when he’d stolen his second plane from this very airstrip. The door hadn’t been replaced, the splintered wood still gaping like he’d left it.

  Perhaps they were preserving evidence, but it felt to Robert like they were welcoming him in.

  He stepped over the tape, but he knew he hadn’t crossed the finish line just yet.

  He scrambled for the hangar door and pulled it up, rattling on its track. Cold air rushed by him into the cavernous room, chilling his clammy skin.

  The Cirrus SR22 wasn’t what he’d flown before, but it was close enough. Its Garmin system was just as simple. The plane’s nose was tipped in sea-green paint. And the cockpit was unlocked, a sign that this plane was his as sure as if his name had been printed on its keys. He slid into the pilot’s seat, shut the door behind him.

  Robert had already decided on Canada for his final destination, but he had sudden second thoughts. What about somewhere warmer, where he could surf year-round? This plane could fly him to Puerto Rico. Jamaica. The Bahamas. He didn’t really care, as long as he made it to a new island. Anywhere but Yannatok. He’d torched his bridges in Washington.

  He rapped on the plane’s control panel, drumming a rhythm as fast as his heartbeat. He knew how important it was for him to hurry, but his churning stomach stalled him. His fingers slipped over the screwdriver’s cold tip.

  He thought he’d seen on TV that Puerto Rico had white sands and Bermuda had pink. Maybe he’d see the difference from 10,000 feet. When he got there, he could land this last flight on the beach and leave it behind, waves lapping at the wings.

  Then he changed his mind. He’d stick to his plan. Canada was the way to go. Only fifty miles north. Safer. Landlocked. He’d had enough of islands. He jimmied the screwdriver into the ignition.

  * * *

  Two days before, the world had learned the name of the kid who could not be caught. The sheriff had released his soon-to-be-notorious mug shot, and an ambitious graffiti artist had emblazoned the Yannatok Bridge with tall red letters, spindly stalks stretching skyward: WWRF. Robert’s mother drove past it on her way to the 911 dispatch center; Robert saw it from the vacation home he’d broken into. WWRF. Lots of environmentalists on the West Coast. World Wildlife something something? Some riff on WTF? The sheriff delegated the cleanup to his deputy, and eventually someone from the Parks Department power-washed the letters away, dripping crimson into the bay. None of them figured it out. None of them knew how every time the tagger had paused, the wind blowing red flecks back into his hair, he’d gazed at the sky, looking for a star that moved.

  Where would Robert fly?

  * * *

  Robert Jackson Kelley’s Facebook page—which wasn’t his, and was in fact created and maintained by Scott Adams of Levittown, New Jersey, after the second stolen plane made the news—boasted the mug shot that ran in the Seattle Times, photos of planes Robert had never flown, and 100,961 friends. Goth kids, frat boys, preps, tattooed bikers, the odd soccer mom, from South Africa and Amsterdam and every US state. Kids from Yannatok High whom Robert had sat next to in study hall and never talked to. Scott Adams himself was a high school sophomore and his own Facebook page hadn’t been updated in months, its stale Family Guy memes reaching only forty-eight friends. On the night Robert stole his last plane, he had no idea that his Facebook status was a flippant “See ya, suckers!”

  Robert Jackson Kelley had 100,961 virtual friends. But when he was on the run from the police, crouching in a vacant house or in the woods, plotting his next migration, the only person he had wished he could call was his mom.

  * * *

  This last plane flight, Robert knew as he huddled inside the aircraft like a cave-dwelling bear, might not work out like the others had. He knew the basics of landing from searching the Internet, and the simulators had been preparation enough: slow down, extend flaps, turn downwind, power back, level off. No tower to approve his nonexistent flight plan. Googling Cessna back when his only flights had been the simulated kind had yielded all kinds of useful diagrams, along with shots of six-year-olds at the controls, playing pilot. But in his gut he knew that twice he had not landed but crashed, and another crash could take him out. Or even worse: a crash could crack his spine, sever his legs. Even just breaking them would leave him helpless and bleeding in a field, or crawling through the spruce trees. Or stuck in the wreckage like an animal with a snared limb.

  From the pilot’s seat of this last plane, he smiled despite the pain in his neck, his chest, the rash of seat belt burn. Then Robert tweaked the screwdriver until the engine fired.

  He’d land this one.

  Or die trying.

  ACT I

  PREPARE FOR DEPARTURE

  From The Beginning Pilot’s Flight Guide (p. 13):

  Perhaps the most important influence on a student pilot’s safety is the flying habits of his flight instructor, both during instruction and as observed by students when conducting flight lessons and procedures. Students consider their flight instructor to be a model of skill whose habits they consciously or unconsciously emulate.

  Interview with Mira Wohl, Willamette University cafeteria, October 2, 2010

  From the documentary Flight Risk: The Robert Jackson Kelley Story, 2011

  “No, wait. Here’s what happened.

  “He left a Dum Dum at each crash. Root beer a lot of the time, sometimes sour apple, sometimes cherry.

  “Oh my God, it was hilarious—those co
ps, the sheriff, their guts flopping over their belts, chunks of wrecked plane smoking all over the place, the metal all twisted. Robert Jackson Kelley long gone. And the cops stuck with those Dum Dums and no clue how to find him.”

  YANNATOK ISLAND,

  JUNE 1998

  When Robert was six, he decided sleep was a big, boring waste of time and to do as little of it as possible. He didn’t have a bedtime, though sometimes his mother invented one. Eight o’clock. In five minutes. Next commercial. Deb would tuck him into bed before leaving for the late shift. Robert would wait until her car had clattered away, then he’d slide out the screen door, quiet as a cat burglar. The Kelleys’ trailer hunkered down between two others on a sparsely green lot. The trailer had been Deb’s inheritance, a double-wide streaked mossy green and moldy gray, a metal stub where the hitch used to be. Behind their patchy yard, dense Douglas firs and cedars hid bears and raccoons. They had a rusting mailbox, a bannerless flagpole to tie his dog Hulk’s leash to, and a porch with cinder-block steps. They weren’t going anywhere.

  Hulk knew not to bark as they ran circles around the small lot in the dark. Robert was Spider-Man, web-slinging up the flagpole. He was Batman, the front step his racing Batmobile. He’d aim an imaginary gun at the full moon and dive for cover from enemy fire. He never stuck with one character for very long. He and Hulk skirted the edge of the firs, but stopped short of the thick brambles. He would poke a stick through the branches, fearing and hoping that some creature would latch on.

  He put himself to bed when he decided.

  When Deb worked nights, she’d pull in just as the school bus was shuddering up to the trailer park, and he’d pretend not to see her wave hello and goodbye. A dozen new mosquito bites would be the only evidence of his stolen playtime. On weekends, he’d bound from his bed and back outside, while Deb slept off eight hours at the Lower Coastal Counties Emergency Response Center. Robert would built ramps out of old two-by-fours and send battered Tonka trucks flying into the dirt. He chased Hulk in tight loops between his trailer and his neighbor’s. The Pacific Northwest’s constant fog cooled his skin and dampened his hair. On weekends Deb emerged sometime after ten, phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder, juggling her first coffee and cigarette.

  She never caught him.

  One Sunday morning Robert was throwing Hulk a graying tennis ball when a police cruiser pulled in. Gravel bounced off the flagpole. Robert hastily retrieved the ball and knelt down to scratch behind the dog’s twitching ears. An officer ambled out of the car. Robert inspected the dirt; even though he couldn’t think of his crime, he for some reason felt guilty.

  “Good morning. I’m Officer Holt.” The man bent down and stuck out his hand. Robert tentatively shook it, his scrawny arm flapping like an unhinged gate. Morning light winked off the officer’s badge. “That’s a fine-looking dog you got there. A beagle?”

  “He’s a mutt. I picked him from the pound.”

  Holt patted Hulk’s head. The officer had dark eyes, a clean-shaven face, and closely cut hair. A coffee and pine smell. “I bet he’s part beagle.”

  “He’s real fast. His name’s Hulk,” Robert said. He’d christened Hulk himself, though the dog didn’t weigh more than twenty-five pounds and hightailed away from squirrels.

  “I have a dog, too. Name’s Copper,” Holt offered.

  Robert’s mother ducked her head out the screen door. She coughed and rasped, “Everything all right?”

  “Got a report of a bear back here,” the officer called. He straightened up. “Getting a little brave around the trailers.”

  Deb shrugged. Her hair had been hastily rubber-banded back. She fished a cigarette from her sweatshirt pocket and stepped onto the porch. The door rattled shut. “Haven’t seen anything.” Then she added, as she always did to people in uniform, his teachers, anyone important, “I work for dispatch.”

  “Do you?” Officer Holt said. “Then we’re practically coworkers.” Holt glanced toward the thick spruces, the wall of Douglas firs. “I’m glad he’s not in your trash cans, making a mess. We’re going to try to get him out of here before he does.”

  “How will you catch him?” Robert asked. He hoped they wouldn’t shoot the bear. He imagined Officer Holt emerging from the woods with a net slung over his shoulder, the bear glowering through the diamond-shaped gaps.

  “We’re going to lure him into a trap,” the cop announced. “And then sedate him and drive him into the mountains, where he won’t bother anybody. I’m going to set the trap today.”

  Robert had no idea what sedate meant. He pictured Holt and the bear wrestling, crashing and rolling through the trees.

  Deb shrugged again. “Not bothering me.” She lit her cigarette, cupping the flame with her long fingers. Robert wondered how much older than Officer Holt his mother was. They’d had dinner at Red Lobster to celebrate her birthday last year, but Robert had only eaten the cheesy biscuits, and his mom had gotten a doggie bag for his fish sticks. And any time he asked his mom how old she was, she shushed his question away.

  “They’re happier in the mountains anyway. Here”—Officer Holt gestured at the trailers—“there’s too much trouble to get into.” He retrieved a bulky sack from the backseat and saluted Robert. Robert quickly reimagined the animal’s capture, this time with himself tagging along. Maybe Holt would need him to wriggle into a hollow log or narrow cave.

  “Can I come?” Robert asked. He raised his hand, like he was in school instead of his own backyard.

  Holt didn’t laugh. He seemed to actually consider Robert’s question before replying. “Thanks, but I think this is a one-man job. But you give me a call if you see that bear, young man. And take good care of that dog.”

  Robert nodded and returned the salute. Officer Holt stomped into the woods. Robert lingered in the yard until Deb called him in to take a bath. He scrubbed quickly, then ran back to the yard, hair still wet, but the police car was gone.

  * * *

  The woods spooked Holt.

  Every rustle, every snapping twig sent his head swiveling. His fingers brushed habitually against his gun. Drawing it in his frazzled state would be a mistake; he might end up pointing it at a hunter, a camper, a kid. Not the best way for a rookie officer to make friends.

  He was used to drunks, speeding tickets, noise complaints. The occasional break-in or fight. Tourist season was picking up and so were arrests, and he’d spent the night babysitting the drunk tank. A particularly obnoxious guy had been rounded up, his face tomato red, reeking of beer and sweat.

  “Say good night, Rob,” Sheriff O’Shay had ordered, pushing the drunk into the holding cell and slamming the door. He locked the cell, then warned Holt. “Rob here really likes to talk. Do not encourage him.”

  O’Shay then went back out on patrol. Rob, a bulky guy in a flannel shirt and a Mariners cap, slouched against the wall for a moment with his eyes closed. He groaned, head lolling to the side. Holt wondered if the guy would throw up. He certainly didn’t want to smell the contents of this drunk’s stomach all night.

  “Hey,” Holt said. “You gonna puke? Toilet’s two feet to your right.”

  Rob opened one eye, unleashed a bullfrog belch, and grinned. Then he beat a fist against his chest. “I’m a former marine. Iron stomach.”

  Holt nodded and tried to busy himself with paperwork.

  Rob closed his eyes again, rapped his hands randomly against the floor. He was quiet for a few minutes, and Holt thought he heard faint snores. Then Rob abruptly opened his eyes and belted the chorus of “Bad Moon Rising.”

  “You like CCR?” Holt asked. Rob had slightly botched the lyrics.

  “What do you know about CCR? What do you know about anything?” Rob’s eyes narrowed. Then he pointed, his finger aiming for the opening between the cell bars. “I’m gonna tell you something. I seen a bear tonight, right back there behind the tavern, big enough to eat a horse. Bet he’s got a few hikers in his belly already.”

  “Did you, now.”
Holt kept his voice flat, even, unimpressed.

  Rob rocked forward, his fingertip steady in Holt’s direction. His wolfish grin revealed surprisingly straight white teeth. “About fifteen years ago, when I was still up at the elementary school, bear did eat a man. An officer of the law like yourself, I believe. He tore that poor bastard to shreds. Threw his bones all over the woods. I bet it’s that same bear. And I bet you, Sheriff, are going to have to go out there and tangle with him before he makes a tourist his dinner.”

  “I’m not the sheriff,” Holt replied.

  Rob sang one last time about bad moons, blowing hurricanes, and overflowing rivers before passing out, head on the bare mattress of the cell’s lone bunk.

  Holt laughed, shook his head, and flicked on the station’s television. He tried to distract himself with a baseball game, but when O’Shay finally returned to relieve him at two a.m., he had to force himself to stride slowly to his car instead of breaking into a run.

  And then Kent Yardley from the Parks Department had called, elevating Rob’s ramblings to a prophecy.

  “Just lay the trap,” Kent said, claiming a crippling stomach bug, the result of potluck macaroni salad left too long in the sun. “I’ll owe you. I’ve got some lady up on Dunes Road on my ass, saying she’s afraid a bear’s gonna eat her Pomeranian. Did you see the Tide?”

  Holt squinted against the sun, rays piercing through some cloud cover outside his window. He cleared his throat, tried to shake off the drunk’s tall tales. Of course he’d read the Tide. Copies of the local newspaper were always around the station. “I read it.”

  The article’s title had been “A Bear of a Problem.” Holt bit his tongue and didn’t mention how the reporter had detailed the futility of the Parks Department’s relocation attempts. As a newbie, Holt didn’t want to state what the paper already had: relocation was a bad idea. Relocated animals often struggle to survive in their new homes, and introduce new diseases and parasites to the area. The only truly effective way to alleviate conflicts between man and beast is to eliminate whatever lured the animals out of the woods in the first place. Instead, Holt asked, “What should I do if I see it?”