“How long will that be?”

“Not long. It’s only about thirty miles away. I’ll have us there in a jiffy.”

I sit back in my seat and stare at the metal wall. She’s got a point, after all. Call me stupid, but I never considered that an airplane would be so damned noisy inside. I guess I just imagined the silence of death. But believe me, those propellers don’t just whirl around quietly. The pistons of those engines don’t thrust without friction. The noise goes on and on, and for the first time I wonder how she and Mallory didn’t go crazy, listening to that racket for twelve or eighteen hours without pause.

Twenty minutes later, the engines change pitch, and gravity pulls us downward. I still haven’t looked out the window, and I don’t intend to. What’s there to see, anyhow? Down we plummet, down down down while my stomach drops in pursuit, my head gets all dizzy, the black spots appear before my eyes. Lindquist, perhaps sensing my decline, glances back over her shoulder and points at my seat. I look underneath and find a paper bag. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to breathe into it or vomit, but my stomach decides for me. Luckily there’s not much, just coffee and Scotch. What a waste.

Because I’m not looking out the window, the landing surprises me. We’re rattling along, and then bump, and then another bump, and then the continual bumping of wheels on turf.

“Here we are!” Lindquist says cheerfully. She brings the airplane to a stop and I sit there awkwardly with my bag in my hands. The bottle fell out of my lap some time ago and rolled down the aisle to the tail. I unbuckle my straps and stagger after it. Bottle in one hand, bag in the other, I ask Lindquist where I can dispose of my little problem.

“You’ll just have to hold on to it until we get back,” she says. “There’s nothing else here except us.”

Naturally I think she’s kidding, but when she opens the door and the fresh air rushes inside, I see nothing but green grass and jungle, and the ocean off to the right.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Lindquist says. “I come here when I want to be alone. That’s the best thing about flying. It gives you the freedom to leave the rest of the world behind you. Hop down, now. I’ve packed a picnic for us.”

My legs are wobbly and something seems to be wrong with the way my head is attached to the rest of me, but I hold myself upright and follow Lindquist along the grass and scrub, through some trees, until we emerge on a cliff above a flawless white beach. A large wave thunders onto the rocks below. Lindquist sets down the picnic basket and puts her hands on her hips. She’s wearing her usual uniform of tan slacks and white shirt; she’s taken off the navy jacket and the gloves and put a straw hat on her head—to save what’s left of her skin, she says, as if she weren’t just the kind of irritating woman who can carry off a wrinkle or two and only look more alluring.