Excerpt of The Fly Guy by Laura Bradford 2

Chapter One

Sarah waited, crouched in the underbrush. Dusk settled. Mosquitoes buzzed softly, occasionally reconnoitering her ears or tickling her skin, but none lighted. Good. The new repellant was everything the manufacturer claimed it was.

She touched the trim ring of the brand-new, certified- waterproof-down-to-200-feet-plus watch strapped to her wrist by its patented camouflaged Neoprene band. The softly illuminated dial informed her that the barometric pressure was rising; it was 2 A.M. in London, her wrist was thirteen feet above sea level, and the rest of her had been scrunched up in the prickly bushes for almost an hour. The wait was always worth it, but in the last few years she�d been having arguments with her knees about that.

A soft breeze off the ocean brushed her face. The wind was a friend this evening, carrying away the scent of her and her new toys.

Her hiking boots were a few days shy of broken in. She flexed her complaining toes. Okay, what a little wussie. And nobody needs that kind of gear just to hang out in their local neighborhood nature preserve, right? Correct, technically speaking, but Sarah was a writer.

Fiction, maybe? Very cool. Good money, lots of recognition in fiction. Maybe deep thought-provoking tomes? Groovy-- the gal�s a real egghead. But ...no.

Surprise. She writes... she writes . . . Cripes, why was this so hard for her to admit? She writes outdoor equipment reviews for a hiking magazine.

So there.

Nothing wrong with it. Couple pages and one deadline a month. Opportunities to use kick-ass cutting-edge equipment on day hikes and backpacking overnighters in various New England locales--all reachable by car. That was key.

To her never-ending amazement, people--women, mostly-- apparently paid attention to what she said. Or, rather, wrote. Most men never seem to listen to anything, so good luck there.

Her tassel-toed, loafer-loving editor was always telling her, his inflections so Bostonian as to be almost a caricature, "Numbers don�t lie, Sarah. The market share of products you endorse significantly increases in the months immediately following your column. You are a cash cow."

Hooray for the numbers, but being likened to a barnyard animal, however, wasn�t exactly tonic to a gal creeping up on the median of her third decade. As if on cue, her right leg cramped beneath her. She shifted position on the sandy soil and one of her knees popped, sounding like a firecracker in the stillness. Her body�s list of complaints had lengthened of late, she was noticing, but she supposed that was to be expected late in the warranty.

So this lurking about in the woods--much as she loved it in its own right--was all part of the job. Someday, though, Sarah wanted to be what she thought of as a "real writer." A storyteller. Documenting people�s lives. Doing important stuff. Deep stuff. The idea scared the crap out of her, but it dogged her every byline.

An early cricket chirped. The bushes rustled softly, maybe fifty yards away. Sarah imagined the house lights dimming. Another rustle, from somewhere across the clearing just in front of her. She eased out a pair of folding binoculars, the barrels protesting from newness as she gently persuaded them apart. She peered through the lenses experimentally.

Nice optics. Great field of view. Even in the low light, it was easy to pick out details of the scrubby, dwarfed woods around her.

There, on the far side of the clearing. Flashes of white, waist high, in among the gauzy, green shimmering of a scruffy silver birch. She held her breath. Showtime . . .

A delicate, dappled face emerged from the leafy cover, topped by ridiculous, endearing ears. She stifled a giggle at the stuff of Bambi: a beautiful doe. A doe, a deer, a female deer...

The doe�s slim body followed, sidling into the clearing barely twenty yards from Sarah�s position. The animal stood stock-still, poised for flight, delicately sampling the air.

Evenin�, Mom. You�re looking lovely tonight....

The doe must have given some secret mother deer signal to her offspring, because all three babies abruptly tumbled out of the brush. The cutest things they were, too, once they�d regained their footing. Each one nuzzled Mom in turn, then started moseying around the clearing like they hadn�t a care in the world.

Which they wouldn�t, as long as Sarah was alive. No one was encroaching on their territory. Poor things.

Developers on the island wanted to get rid of them completely. Have a wholesale shoot off. Damn nuisance, all these damn deer. Shorn plantings, threats of Lyme disease.

Bothered the new home owners, they did. Sarah could recite verbatim the litany of arguments.

But worst than the frigging developers was frigging Crossly Field.

The name alone made Sarah want to spit like an old Italian woman. The tiny local airfield had reopened six months ago after having been shut down since before her sister, Beth, and Sarah were twinkles in their mommy�s eye. Little planes now buzzed in and out of the airfield all day long, taking tourists on sightseeing trips along the shoreline.

Sarah did not like airplanes.

Lucky for the deer and her that the flight path for the one operating runway ran parallel to, and a good distance away from, the preserve and not directly over it.

Miserly Noah Crossly owned the chunk of Pear Island, named for its shape, that Crossly Field and the preserve were set on. Just after World War I, Noah�s father--the family was obscenely wealthy--had made a deal with the town of Tidal: let us have our pet airstrip and you people can use the rest of the land for a wildlife refuge. For more than eighty years the agreement had held.

The barnstorming exploits of the Crossly family during the twenties and thirties were legend in Tidal. After WW II, Noah Crossly, a decorated hero of the Pacific air war, returned home to Tidal with plans to continue operating the airport, but a series of tragic events soured him on flying.

Mother deer finally abandoned her reconnaissance and lowered her head to nibble. The kids rooted out tender tufts of grass.

This place, these creatures...really, the preserve was heaven on earth. Concerned townspeople--and Sarah, not that it was all about her--had busted their volunteered humps over the last several years to install wildlife observation blinds, trail signs, even some boardwalks to provide handicapped access. School groups, the Council on Aging, and families used the preserve through three seasons. Nature nuts like Sarah were in and out all year long.

Now the airport wanted to build a second runway. With all its access roads and landing lights, it would bisect the preserve into two almost completely separate pieces. Larger planes--there was even talk of small jets--would take off directly over the preserve. The deer would be screwed. All in the name of serving the new, big deal condo owners who seemed to think that lifetime residents of Tidal didn�t deserve a say in the future of Pear Island. But economic investment alone did not for an opinion make.

Suddenly, the doe tensed. Her ears swiveled and locked onto some foreign noise way beyond Sarah�s hearing. Sarah crossed her fingers and willed her to stay. Wrapped contentedly in the innocence of youth, the kids grazed on. Long moments passed. Finally mother relaxed.

The family wandered to within twenty feet of Sarah�s hideout. Close enough for her to pick up on the delicate eyelashes ringing Mom�s striking dark eyes.

Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful...

Sarah was hanging her hopes on the fact that soon, any day now maybe, Bambi and friends might have a secure neighborhood, no strings attached. Tidal was due to inherit the preserve from Noah Crossly. A letter of agreement drafted in the twenties conveyed title of the land to the town upon the demise of the last heir of the Crossly line. Noah, now eighty-four, was in his final days. The entire parcel could be held in public trust forever. No second runway-- ever.

Swamp peepers peeped.

Bullfrogs belched.

Sarah barely breathed.

Amazing...

Suddenly, Mother�s ears twitched violently, and her head shot up. The kids, startled, bolted for the bushes. Mother let loose a stream of urine and bounded after them.

A fitting parting comment. Sarah rose inelegantly to her feet, because she too had heard the noise. An incessant buzz, growing louder by the moment.

Her body reacted instinctively.

Nausea swept over her. A curse stuck in her throat as it tightened. She shook her fist impotently at the purple sky.

The buzz swelled to a roar. Skimming the tops of the trees around the clearing, a small plane swept overhead, its wings and underbelly ablaze in orange and red, reflecting the last lingering rays of sunset. Unwanted memories swarmed.

Sarah tried to scream, but no sound came. Petroleum fumes filled the air. The raging heat of an African sun beat down upon her, driving her to her knees. Memories exploded in her mind. Scenes--horrible, jumbled--flashed through her consciousness like old-movie stills, curled at the edges, and burst into flame.

Her new, expensive, state-of-the-art binoculars slipped from her hand and hit the sand with a soft thud. That was the last sound she heard before she nose-dived onto a blanket of pine needles. Fucking airplanes...

In her last coherent moment, it struck her that the runway the plane appeared to be headed for hadn�t yet been built.

Crickets chirped. The earth revolved. Twilight settled while Sarah dreamed.

But not a nice dream at all.

A deadly stillness settles over the scattered wreckage of the small plane....

That was Spot�s voice. A bit like Lon Chaney�s, with overtones of Boris Karloff during the really scary segments.

Spot was an imaginary dog who lived in Sarah�s head. No, he wasn�t a real dog and, no, he didn�t tell her to do evil things. Instead, he kept her from doing things. Normal things. Everyday things. Like taking a full breath or remaining conscious and upright around anything to do with airplanes.

And there...in the front seat, the pilot . . . Spot whispered into the stillness of Sarah�s mind.

The native pilot, his eyes wide open and starkly white against his dark skin, stares unblinkingly into the far distance of the African Savannah....

Spot was really in fine voice today.

A seeping wetness spreads across his torn shirt. . . .

The dog simply had no respect.

Could dogs have hunchbacks? Sarah always pictured Spot with one.

Was the stain just ...sweat? Or something... else?

In her mind, his steely, horrid, doglike-but-sharper, more like a devil�s talons/toenails clicked on the ground somewhere close by. He snarled, jaws dripping, razor-sharp teeth clacking. He was sniffing her out, probing her vulnerabilities, exploiting her unconsciousness.

Over the years, in an attempt to contain her imaginary canine companion, she�d built the psychological equivalent of The Great Wall of China in her mind. She�d chinked zillions of bricks into place between the pooch and her. It was tough work, slinging all those tons of mental mortar. And try as she might to seal up every tiny gap and cavity, there was always a weak spot somewhere and the damn dog eventually sniffed it out.

He gnawed on her entrails for fun, the bastard. Fortunately for her, they always regenerated in time for lunch. But still, it was damn inconvenient. How do you bring a date home for dinner when the damn dog wanted her for his?

Suddenly, the insane, bloodthirsty, idiot animal burst through the brickwork of his playpen. Spot consumed her.