Isolated (Evan Arden 4)

“Thanks for all the help.” I reach out and shake Eddie-boy’s hand. He gives me a smile and a nod.

“Anytime, LT,” he says. “You know that.”

“Yeah, I do.” I return his smile. “I think you are currently the only person I can really count on.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m the only one who knows you’re alive!” He laughs.

“Let’s keep it that way.”

“You got it, LT.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Yes, sir!” He straightens up and gives me a salute. “Whatever you say, Lieutenant Arden, sir!”

I roll my eyes and shake my head.

“Take care of yourself, Eddie-boy.”

“You too, LT.”

I turn and walk up the beach toward the nearest road as Eddie-boy climbs back into the small boat and starts up the motor. I don’t watch him leave but focus instead on the small map he’d given me. The airport is just a little over a mile away to the south.

I walk past Fort Churchill along the way and wonder if it has anything to do with Eddie-boy choosing this location as a drop site for me. If memory serves me correctly, it had been used as a communications test site back in the day. The place is deserted now, no longer able to maintain funding for research projects or satellite launches over the arctic. The runway for the airport is just on the other side of the fort.

I have very little luck at the airport departure gates. For this area, Churchill Airport is pretty big, but they don’t have a lot of flights going to smaller towns. I could get myself to Winnipeg pretty easily, but I’d have to get another plane to Thompson or drive a lot longer. The more stops I have, the more of a footprint I leave. I don’t want to risk it. If I can find a flight immediately, I would get back in time for supper, but that doesn’t seem too likely.

As I meander around, I notice a service counter for small charter planes. The worn posters in the area boast of fabulous glacial views, polar bear sightings, and trips over the Wapusk National Park.

Worth a look.

There is only one guy in the area. He’s leaning against a doorway and thumbing through a magazine with a pair of snowmobiles on the cover. I can’t see the title, but the copy is crumpled and looks like it’s probably last year’s issue. The guy is in his early forties and sports a full beard. His clothes are scruffy, and he looks bored.

I approach and stand at the counter, watching him. He’s staring intently at the page, but his eyes don’t move, so I know he’s not actually reading an article. He’s definitely deep in thought about something because it takes a few minutes for him to notice me.

“Oh, hey,” the bearded man says, “you need some help?”

“I need a flight,” I tell him.

“Well, I do have a plane,” he replies with a laugh. “What are you wanting to see?”

“Can you get me to Thompson?”

He scratches at his chin and eyeballs me.

“I don’t actually fly to Thompson,” he finally says. “I mostly just do the tourist thing around here, ya know? The main terminal has flights to other cities.”

“Yeah, but not until tomorrow.”

“In a hurry?”

“A bit.”

I watch as he licks his lips, glances out the window, and then looks down at his gloved hands. He rubs at the hole in one of the fingers. The overalls he’s wearing have seen better days, and his boots are worn nearly all the way through the leather at the toes.

“Tourism is a little slow this time of year,” I remark.

“Yeah, it is,” he says.