It had been more than 20 years.

When he'd retired after '91—and he supposed "retired" was the right word—Tommy had thought that flying would be the thing he would miss most, the one thing he could not do without. The sensation of it was such an overwhelming, ineffable delight, and so shaky had been his resolve at that time, that he'd made a pact with himself. One day every year, away from prying eyes, he would slip away to fly.

For the first two years, he had repaired himself each April 7 to an out-of-the-way place along the south Jersey shore and, under cover of darkness, had flown to his heart's content.

On the third year, April 7, 1994, he'd rented a movie instead.

As he soared now, mad and nearly weeping with delight, he wondered what had kept him away. Tommy didn't know. Usually, there was never any doubt in his mind regarding his own motives. Here, there was no clarity. None.

Although years out of practice, he found that he could still soar like a jet. A good tailwind at 20,000 feet or so pushed him on. The cold, like the heat, was no impediment—the leather jacket was to protect his clothes not to warm his body—and the thin air at that altitude was something he scarcely noticed. The major highways, which were etched clearly beneath, were a flawless map across the country.

Unlike most who had this Gift, Tommy could fly at unimaginable speeds. He was virtually invulnerable, tougher even than the likes of Sam Babington. Flight is a splendid Gift, but not so much when not paired with heightened physical durability, the absence of which limited reasonable speeds, even with protective gear, to a few hundred miles per hour. Vanishingly few people had both Gifts.

There was a single effective speed-limit on Tommy. Normal clothing tended to shred at high speeds, and even thick leather didn't stand up long to the highest speeds at which he could soar. There was little conventional modesty in Tommy's character, having grown up in a time when nudity bore no special shame, so he gladly would fly naked, and had done so, save for the attention it attracted when landing. Despite that fact, he thought the form-fitting, aerodynamic suits he'd once or twice seen worn by others were comical. A man's gotta have some dignity.

Save for a short restroom break near Tulsa, there was no reason to stop, and he arrived in the airspace near Flagstaff about half an hour before dawn. Coming to a complete stop a few hundred feet above the outskirts of the city, he pulled out his phone and checked an online map. Getting his bearings with the city and country spread before him like a tapestry was easy, and within 10 minutes, Tommy was on the ground near a small gas station-diner down the road a short way from Amy's home.

Linda Cahn, Amy's other half, expected him at 9:00. That left a few hours to kill.

There was a chill in the morning air at that elevation. He moseyed into the warm diner and immediately caught the scent of bacon, sausage, and gravy. Though he was clueless as to how his Gift worked, it clearly burned enormous numbers of calories. He was famished and took his time eating three breakfasts. After an hour or so reading the local newspaper and chatting with the two broadly grinning waitresses, he began making tracks toward Amy's place.

At a few minutes before the hour, he stood in front of a house of which he'd seen several online photos. This was the place. He walked up and knocked on the ornate wooden door.

A few moments of silence were followed by the sound of footsteps. The door opened, and a tall blonde-haired woman in her late thirties looked up at him. She had the outdoorsy look that Amy liked, a kind and lovely face, and a certain grace that usually was born from regular physical activity. She seemed worn and tired.

"I'm Tommy Haas," he offered.

Linda said nothing but stepped onto the porch and put her arms around Tommy's thick upper body and buried her face in his chest. They stood that way for less than a minute before she stepped away. It was obvious that she was holding back tears.

"Come on in," she said in a voice that suggested she'd spent much of her life outdoors. The woman led him to the kitchen and asked if he wanted anything. Amy always favored Earl Gray, so he asked for that. His host put on a kettle and sat across from him.

Before he could say anything, she spoke. "Amy talks about you a lot, you and Sam."

He smiled. He'd noticed there were a few pictures of a younger Sam hanging on the wall near the front door. "We've known each other a long time."

"She said you were gorgeous ... and young," she added with a smile. "You're like her, aren't you?"

"Yeah." He wasn't sure, but he thought she wanted to say something else. He had to speak. "Linda, I am so, so sorry it took this long for me to get here. I didn't find out about Amy until a few days ago." He felt a choking sensation rise up is throat, and a sorrow crept into his voice. "She's a good friend, but I haven't been so good about keeping up."

"Oh, stop," she said gently. "You know how Amy was ... is." She teared up slightly when she caught herself, and her lower lip trembled for a moment. "She's the most social person in the world, but she likes being a solo act. Even I didn't realize she was missing for nearly three weeks."

Linda went on to explain that she worked as a biologist at Fish and Wildlife and sometimes would be off in the woods for weeks on end.

"It's how we work," she concluded. "We're both sort of lone wolves in our own fashion. That's why it took us so long to move in together. We don't speak on the phone every day, sometimes not even every week. But we work."

Linda fetched their tea.

Now that they'd managed to push sentiment aside, Tommy went straight to work, querying Linda on the details of Amy's life. He asked about her business, her computer, phone, credit cards, bank accounts, and many other things. Linda answered what she was able, but indicated she knew little about Amy's occupation, other than that she worked alone. She gave Tommy complete permission to burrow through Amy's home office.

He also asked about her personal life, gently attempting to ascertain the off possibility that Amy might have been with someone else.

"Oh, God, I wish," said Linda, with a dark chuckle. "There've been nights I've gone to bed praying she's run off with some Vegas showgirl. At least then I'd know she was more or less okay."

"What do you think happened?" Tommy finally asked.

"I think someone grabbed her."

"Why do you think that?"

"She talked about it. Not often, but she talked about it." Linda sighed and continued. "She was always a little wary."

"Of whom?"

"I don't know," she said in a voice that was husky and uncertain. "She said she had some friends who'd dropped off the map over the last few years. I didn't know what that meant."

"Was there anyone asking about her before she disappeared? Did you ever feel you were being watched?"

"No. She did do something strange some months back. I didn't think about it until the other day .... She bought a new car."

"For what?"

"For work."

"You mean to travel in?" he said in disbelief.

"Yeah, you know how she loves flying, and taxis, and fancy hotels. Just out of the blue, last August she got herself a new mid-sized SUV, a nice one. I forget the model, but the paperwork's in her office somewhere. She's been using it instead of flying."

"And she was driving when you last saw her?"

Linda nodded.

The car was a big deal, and Tommy placed a special marker on it in his mind. Amy loved to fly, but she hated driving even more than Sam did. They had to find her car.

The two continued talking for several hours. Most of it was material Tommy new already. Some was new. They looked over the various police reports Linda had gotten from the departments that she'd contacted in Missouri and Indiana. None of the local or state police agencies had done much in the way of investigation. That fact was deeply disappointing. Apparently, the concerns of a lesbian lover rated very little interest in the Midwest. Still, he pulled out his phone and got pictures of everything.

Around noon, she went to make lunch, and he adjourned to Amy's office to begin searching. Like everything about Amy, the place was well ordered and meticulous. There was very little actual paper, except for recent documents relating to work and for a few bills. He found the paperwork for the SUV and got the VIN and tag numbers. He also found some boxes and paperwork for a new cell phone and a mini tablet. With the phone, there was a contract from a service provider. It was a new phone number. He jotted down the new number and took photos of everything and went into the kitchen.

Linda had produced soup and sandwiches.

He sat. "Why did Amy switch service providers?"

"For the phone? I don't know. She did it on short notice in late January." Linda thought. "But she still had her old phone with her when she left. It still had the old number."

Again, he tucked that information away for later. "Did she have a laptop with her when she left?"

"No. It died in early February, about that same time. A guy she hired recovered most of the data, but she was spooked. That's why she had the tablet. Apparently, she had some scheme set up with her Internet service provider that she was able to use her desktop and pad to access files from the Cloud." She shrugged. "I watch wolves for a living. I don't know much for computers."

"Can you access her accounts?"

"Hold on." She dashed into the office and came out after a few minutes with some papers. One was a service contract, and there were some instructions from the Internet service provider. Linda jotted down a few usernames and passwords on the top right.

"She usually only used a few different passwords," the woman said. "I hope these get you in."

"Great. Can I photo those?"

"You can have the originals, if you want."

"No, digitizing things is best. For now, I'm just mailing them to Sam. But I'm travelling up to San Francisco tonight to meet with a friend of his. She's a tech professional and wants to help. And she's had friends come up missing, too." Tommy thought for a moment. "Look, if things work out, and we bring her on, can I give her your number? She may have questions that I didn't think to ask. And there might be an important nugget somewhere in Amy's files."

Linda's mood slowly had improved throughout the day. When Tommy finished speaking, her hands went to her mouth and her eyes again watered.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," she said smiling. "It's just ... um ... Amy's other friends have been great. They've all been very supportive. Some even made some calls and wrote some letters, but not much else. Even the police have done, well ... shit. It makes me happy to see someone actually doing something. I haven't known what to do."

Tommy put his hand on her shoulder and looked at her frankly. She seemed tough and practical and deserved candor.

"Linda, I don't know how this is going to end. I hope Amy is still alive and well. But whether she is or not, I will make you a promise. Me and Sam will never stop looking. Ever. If she's alive, we'll find her and bring her back to you. If she's not, we'll find her killers and punish them. So help me God."

"What can I do?" she asked in a hush.

"I'm gonna finish looking through Amy's office. For now, try brainstorming anyplace else she may have stored files, letters, or correspondence. I noticed Amy's SUV is also in your name. If you haven't already, report it stolen. At least the police will be on the lookout for it."

"Sam's in Milwaukee tracking Amy's most recent movements," he continued. "He and I will visit another couple of Amy's destinations in the next few days. While we're doing that, you can sit down and start compiling a list of everyone Amy has been in contact with over the last year. I know that's a huge undertaking, but a thorough list, along with phone numbers and any recollections you have of how these people know Amy, might be useful. Maybe someone knows something they don't realize."

Linda stood up, apparently happy to be distracted. "I'll check the attic and the bedroom," she said, heading toward the stairs.

Tommy returned to the office and logged onto Amy's computer.