As they exited the highway heading for the hangar, Suter said, "Let's take the rest of the weekend off, recharge our batteries. Maybe you'll have a fresh perspective on Monday."

He closed his eyes, rubbed his neck, licked the perspiration from his upper lip several times. "I'm feeling a little under the weather anyway. Why don't you drop me off? I'll call Pirelli and tell him that we'll see him Monday."

Bohannon glanced over to the pa.s.senger seat and blanched, shocked at how quickly Suter had deteriorated. The FBI agent sat hunched over with his arms wrapped around his midsection. His collar was soaked, his hair matted to his skull.

He noticed Bohannon looking at him. "What? You never seen a sick man before?"

Bohannon stared ahead. "Hold on, we're just a few minutes from the hotel."

CHAPTER 11.

ABBY LAUGHED AS Mara leaned over the white plastic picnic table, hoping the Sloppy Joe dripping down her cheek would land on her paper plate instead of her T-shirt or shorts. Bruce extended a lanky arm across the table, handing her a paper napkin. She waved him away and retrieved one from her lap. He leaned back and used it to mop his brow, pushing back his damp sandy-colored hair.

He had ridden from his grandfather's gadget repair shop to meet them at a cl.u.s.ter of food carts situated on an old asphalt lot, located just off the Springwater Trail in southeast Portland. They sat at a white resin picnic table under a green umbrella in front of a bright orange van. Dozens of cyclists and hikers, many with dogs, milled around the twenty or so colorful hand-painted food carts that hawked everything from Thai food to chicken and waffles.

"I've driven by this place a dozen times. I had no idea it was such a mecca for bicyclists. It feels like a little circus," Abby said, looking at the beer garden, a large white tent across from the carts.

"I don't think this place would be here without the trail and the riders," Bruce said. "But I think it is starting to grow popular with locals who don't use the trail as well."

"It's a great place to meet and get fueled up for the ride. Where are you going to take us?" Mara asked.

"I would suggest we run up to Powell b.u.t.te, off-road it for a bit on the trails there. Then we can double back and connect up with the I-205 trail and head down toward Oregon City. That should be a good ride and show you how to get around a little between here and down south."

"Would that be a typical ride for you?" Abby said.

"I pretty much go everywhere by bike, so there isn't a typical ride for me. For people who don't ride all the time, this will be a good ride without overdoing it," he said.

"My mom got to you, didn't she?" Mara asked. "I wondered where she went while we were unloading our bikes."

"Yeah, she asked me to take it easy and to keep an eye on you. Don't worry, I haven't changed the plan at all. You guys will get plenty of riding done today. You'll be tired when you get home."

"Like I need a babysitter. You are what? Three years older than me?"

"Mellow out," Abby said. "Your mom's not being completely unreasonable. I mean, you were in a plane crash and just got out of the hospital. You can still see the b.u.mp on your head. Most mothers would have slashed your tires and told you to stay home."

"She got to you too."

Abby rolled her eyes and looked at Bruce. "Do you like younger women?"

"Ah, maybe we should hit the trail," he said, blushing. He stood up, gathered their paper plates and took them to a trash bin next to the orange van. "I'm going to run to the restroom. I'll meet you girls over by the bikes."

"Why do you always do that?" Mara asked.

"What?"

"Say something to rattle people just to change the subject."

"Works, doesn't it?" She watched Bruce as he walked away. "He has nice legs. Those bike shorts really show them off."

"You're not looking at his legs."

A couple hours later, they sat on a log nestled against a wall of ferns and brush just off the trail in Powell b.u.t.te Nature Park. Leaves rustled in the breeze, and light dappled the ground around them, moving to the sway of the branches.

"I didn't sign up for mountain biking. I thought we were going to do a little pedaling around the city. You know, urban cycling. Look at us. We're in the middle of the woods climbing a mountain. There's not a Starbucks in sight. I can hardly breathe," Abby said.

"Technically, it's an extinct volcano," Bruce said. "It's a fairly short trail and not that challenging of an incline. Besides, the fun part is coming soon."

"Fun part? This wasn't the fun part?"

"Going down is much more fun than climbing. Just make sure you keep control of your bike. You don't want to get going too fast and slam into a tree."

"Great. I'm going to die with bark between my teeth," Abby said and turned to Mara. "How you doing? You're not having a brain hemorrhage or anything, are you?"

"No. This is perfect," Mara said looking up at the forest surrounding them. "After airports and hospitals and doting mothers, I'd take this anytime. This is exactly what I needed to unwind."

"So you never talked about what it was like, you know, on the plane," Abby said.

"I have to admit it was the most surreal experience of my life."

"Were you scared?"

"To be honest, it all happened so fast there wasn't time to be afraid. I think I was more disoriented than anything. There were these strange flashing lights, and I thought I saw-"

"Saw what?" Abby asked.

"Nothing. Just a plane full of people freaked out and screaming. Completely normal considering we were plunging to our deaths."

"It's hard to believe no one was killed in the crash. I saw them pull the plane out of the river on the news, and it was a wreck," Bruce said. "Makes you wonder what could have caused it."

"Yeah, it makes you wonder," Mara said.

"We probably should get going. If I don't get you guys home before dark, your mother will skin me alive," Bruce said.

Mara followed Bruce and Abby as they took a right off the Interstate 205 bike path onto Eighty-Second Street heading into Gladstone, the exit just before Oregon City. At various junctures along the way south, they had been required to veer away from the highway, follow roundabouts or use surface streets, so Mara didn't think much of it as they made the course correction. She had pretty much zoned out after several miles of pavement and concrete, and blindly followed Bruce's lead.

They gained speed on the inclined road, sped past several blocks of gas stations and office buildings, and swung to the left when they came to the yellow and orange Department of Motor Vehicles building. The road ended at a set of pylons sticking out of the pavement in front of a tall knot of chain-link fencing.

Without slowing down, Bruce maneuvered between the pylons and continued on a path through the fencing under a large orange warning sign suspended from iron scaffolding above. It read Danger: Jumping from Structure Prohibited.

Mara had her head turned to the right, concentrating on not crashing into the pylons. Once she cleared them, she saw a flash of silver fencing, then a rusty beam reaching up above her.

Then she saw the Clackamas River.

Mara froze, but her bicycle hurdled forward, banked into the security fencing that blocked the sides of the bridge. As she spun, she saw a flash of neon blue and red, a kayak on the water. She heard paddles splashing in the current. Children laughed along the far banks. More splashing. She could see through the walkway into the river, water flowing below her. Whitecaps licking up at her. Then just spinning and darkness.

Mara could still hear water rushing by when she awoke with a start. "I can't, I can't-"

"Shush, you're alright now. Calm down," Abby said, sitting on the park bench next to her.

"I can't cross the bridge."

"You don't have to."

"We can go a different way home."

"We don't have to do that either."

"Why?"

"I had Bruce carry you across while you were out."

CHAPTER 12.

MARA PARALLEL PARKED her Subaru Outback in front of the Mason Fix-It Shop on Woodstock Boulevard in southeast Portland. She normally hated Monday mornings, hustling to the shop on time, but today she looked forward to getting back into a routine. She stepped out of the car and smiled up at the simulated wood-grain sign with fake burned-in letters, thinking as she always did that the Gadget Repair and Bicycle Maintenance subt.i.tle was not big enough.

Not that it mattered. The sign only competed for attention with a barber pole next door and the white backlit plastic letters spelling out Tattoos another door down. The other half of the block featured only Mr. Ping's anonymous Ceramics in what looked like old 1970s lettering from Broadway. It all looked frozen in time, as if the world had kept going forward everywhere except here at this brown strip of shops with the display window of antique radios, grandfather clocks and a neon Texaco star at its center. Across the street, the modern bank branch, coffee shop and sub sandwich franchise-with their prefab, premolded plastic-and-gla.s.s exteriors-emphasized the point.

A clatter in front of the ceramics store drew her attention from the ancient lock she always struggled with when opening the fix-it shop. She looked up the walk and saw Mr. Ping's ample backside, standing next to a ladder, his head turned upward. Mara stepped back from the building to get a better view and saw the Going Out of Business banner hanging askew across the front of the building.

"Pull it a little tighter on that side to even it up," Ping directed from the sidewalk. He faced away from Mara and did not acknowledge her. Since all she could see was the bald spot on the top of his head, she wasn't sure if he intentionally ignored her or simply did not see her arrive. He was generally antagonistic toward Mara and her employer; they rarely spoke. She wanted to ask about the sign but decided against it. She turned again to the uncooperative lock.

"h.e.l.lo, Mara! Good to see you are up and about." Ping smiled and walked over to her. "I heard you were in the hospital. Are you all right?"

"Yes, thank you," she said, unsure of what to make of his uncharacteristic neighborliness. "I see you made it through the experience intact. Were you hurt?"

"Not in the least. Doing great, great." He smiled. His positivity was off-putting. He held up a finger to get her attention as she opened the shop's front door. "We were wondering if you would have a few minutes to talk this afternoon after you close up."

"We?"

Ping pointed up the ladder. There stood Sam, the transparent red-headed kid from the doomed flight, solid as the sidewalk they stood on. He waved and said, "Like we need to make an appointment. Huh, Mar?"

Mara froze, gaped upward.

"Mara? Are you okay?" Ping touched her elbow.

"Huh? Yeah, we can talk. I'm closing up around four. Why don't you stop by?" She shook the doork.n.o.b, and then remembered she had already opened the door. Closing it behind her, she leaned against it and took a deep breath. Something felt wrong, not just the oddly friendly Ping, nor the kid from the plane on the ladder. Something felt out of whack, like an old engine getting ready to throw a rod.

Outside Sam stepped off the ladder. Ping walked over to help him fold it up and carry it into the former ceramics store.

"Looks a little unhinged," Sam said. "She didn't seem to think it was odd that I was here working with you."

"She's probably just distracted, trying to understand what happened on the airplane. Don't forget, while you and I have some context, she's completely in the dark."

"She won't help us." Sam stopped just inside the shop and turned to lock eyes with Ping. "We probably shouldn't be asking. How do we know we can trust her? What if she turns on us?"

"I know this is confusing, but you need to keep a couple things in mind. First, we don't know if she can help. And second, you need to stop a.s.suming you know her. It's very likely she's different than you expect."

"She would have to be way different for me to be comfortable."

"Try to be open-minded, open to new things. Look at us, not exactly what we expected when we met two days ago, right? She may not be either." Ping smiled. "Let's adjust to new circ.u.mstances and make the best of it."

"Just because you're opening a bakery doesn't mean everything is going to be cupcakes and sunshine around here. The crash was only the beginning."

Mara looked around the little shop of shelves and she began to relax, slowly pushing the past week into an unattended part of her mind. Old lamps, reel-to-reel tape recorders, typewriters, a.s.sorted kitchen appliances and other gadgets filled the shelves and covered every wall of the store. Antique alarm clocks sporting huge ringers, pocket watches, locket watches, just plain wrist.w.a.tches and electronics such as calculators the size of bricks were neatly displayed in a lighted gla.s.s counter to the left of the door.

At the end of the display case, a wooden counter, Mara's work s.p.a.ce, featured an antique bronze cash register and an old black rotary-dial telephone off to one side. Hanging above was a rectangular green-and-yellow stained-gla.s.s light fixture suspended on gold chains emblazoned with the word Billiards in baroque script. Behind the counter, a collection of lit neon signs advertised c.o.ke, Harley-Davidson, Pabst Blue Ribbon and Kool cigarettes among cuckoo clocks and wall-mounted telephones.

She felt tension flow out of her.

She flipped the Open sign on the front door to face outward, reached to the right, flipped on the overhead lights and headed into the back of the shop to the small office next to the bicycle workshop where Bruce worked. He called it the garage. Clients with bicycles brought them to a small dock and bay door at the back of the building. The roomy work area featured a long workbench, a.s.sorted tools hanging on a wall, and some freestanding shelves that held parts and inventory.

"Hey, Mara," Bruce said, bending over a frame, tightening brakes. "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing fine," she said. Her cheeks reddened. "Thanks again for your help Sat.u.r.day. I feel like a total idiot putting you through that. I probably should have warned you about my..." She looked away.

"It's no big deal. It all worked out, right? Other than the bridge, did you guys have a good time on the ride?"

"Yes, it was great. I especially enjoyed Powell b.u.t.te. That was a lot of fun."

"We should go again. We probably will have to wait until late spring though. It's going to be muddy up there for the next few months."

"I'm game. We may have to convince Abby, but I think she enjoyed it more than she let on. That's sort of how she is." Mara turned to go into the office.

"There's an eight-track tape player under the register a guy wants to you look at. Says downloaded Zeppelin sucks."