Hard Fall

by Ridley Pearson

  Five minutes stretch into ten, ten into twenty. She drinks another beer. She hands him one and he doesn’t refuse. It’s easier than any conversation he’s ever had. Thoughts swirl around in tangles. Knots. He tells her about Duncan, but leaves out the paralysis. He tells her that he’s divorced, and finally explains his relationship with Carrie, that the three of them are in a cottage just down the beach, though as he hears himself tell it, he doesn’t quite know the author. Lynn Greene doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by any of it. The humor remains, the closeness. She doesn’t pull back and start building walls. She doesn’t threaten, though she certainly flirts, which after a while strikes him as part of her personality. She’s the hot-blooded variety, and she’s comfortable with that. The closest she gets to a come-on is “We all need distractions,” but it’s said in a way that confuses him and leaves the interpretation up to him, and he decides to let it go.

  Two hours pass. It’s her beer going flat that tells him how long it has been. He excuses himself. “I’m not running this time,” he says. He’s trying to tell her something, but he’s not sure why. She’s amused.

  “I enjoyed it,” she tells him. To him, her comments sounds as if they’ve made love. And he realizes they have been making love for two hours. Making love with their clothes on.

  When they’re out on the porch and he says good-bye for the second time, it’s Lynn Greene who spots Carrie first. Carrie is standing down by the receding water of low tide, looking up at them. Misunderstanding. Assuming. Burning. Carrie turns abruptly and in stiff-legged strides splashes her way first at a fast walk, then at a run, back down the rose-colored beach.

  Daggett wants to say something, to apologize, but he’s not sure whom to apologize to, or what to apologize for. He’s back on the beach, in no particular hurry, well aware that Lynn Greene is not just a passing acquaintance, and that Carrie is not far off in her assumptions.

  Standing there in a parking lot filled with the haze of petroleum smoke and the chaos of the firefighters, Lynn Greene smiled at Daggett privately, her eyes sparkling. “Cam Daggett!” she shouted, as only long-lost friends shout. Huff rocked his head in disbelief. Daggett felt his face warm and his stomach turn. She came toward him excitedly, in long strides. He wasn’t sure how to receive her. He wanted to swallow her in his arms—but not in front of Huff.

  A sudden and thunderous explosion caused a hundred people to dive to the ground simultaneously. Daggett and Lynn Greene ended up close to each other. Only a few feet apart, it was not the explosion that stunned Daggett, it was how beautiful she looked, even in fear. Even these many months later.

  “It always was fireworks with you, Michigan,” she said from the corner of her mouth. “How the hell you been?”

  She didn’t give him time to answer. The explosion threw a piece of the plane’s wing onto the horse stables, and as its flaming fuel drained onto the roof, a sheet of fire wrapped itself around the building. The scream of the trapped horses pierced the fading rumble of the explosion. Firemen fled in a hasty retreat coming straight at Daggett and Lynn, who were already back on their feet.

  Lynn stopped one of them with a blunt straight-arm. “What about the horses?” she asked, incredulous.

  “You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” the fireman replied, a quick glance to Daggett for support. “Dog food, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Bullshit,” said Lynn Greene.

  She took off at a full sprint toward the stables. Without fully understanding his own actions, Daggett found himself only a few steps behind her. “Lynn!” he called out. But she ran on, pretending not to hear.

  The inside of the stables, thick with the black, oily smoke, was filled with the deafening panic of the horses as they cried and kicked for freedom. Lynn turned to Daggett—she knew he was there—and hollered over the cacophony, “You take that side!” She sprang a stall door open and was nearly stampeded by the fleeing horse. Daggett body-blocked her off her feet as the horse hooves fell within inches of them.

  “Lynn!” he shouted in protest. The roof burned, a ceiling of orange flame. A large section of wall collapsed. Several horses escaped through the resulting hole. She pushed him off.

  “You take that side,” she repeated, coming to her feet and continuing down the line of stalls. One by one they liberated the Thoroughbreds, who raced out of the building with white eyes and frantic hooves.

  He glanced overhead to see a full third of the burning roof about to fall in. Again he shouted to get her attention. He pointed. She looked to the roof but then shook her head in defiance. She freed two more horses. Daggett realized the quickest way—the only way—to get her out of here was to save every last horse.

  Water began to rain down on them—the firemen had turned their hoses on this building. Two men in oxygen masks and orange rubber suits, with black boots and thick gloves, appeared out of the billowing smoke. One of them shouted angrily, his voice muffled by the mask: “Get the fuck out of here!”

  The piece of the roof caved in, but it was at the other end and it fell into empty stalls. Lynn and Daggett ignored the fireman. They opened the two remaining stall doors simultaneously and the escaping horses knocked the fireman off his feet. With his heavy protective clothing and oxygen tank, he came clumsily to his knees. Lynn offered him her hand but he waved her off furiously.

  Daggett and Lynn ran from the smoke into the welcome air, followed only seconds later by both firemen. They turned in time to see the stables fully aflame. Loose horses, their eyes bright with fear, chaotically sprinted for freedom, scattering people in their way.

  The remaining section of roof gave way, and seconds later, the walls folded in. The building lay almost flat. Flames leapt fifty feet into the air chasing a billowing spiral of thick smoke.

  “You could have been killed!” he said angrily. It was at that moment he realized the depth of his feelings for her.

  “No,” she said confidently, shaking her head, eyes tracking the flames. Her face glowed in the orange light. “It isn’t my time.”

  “Your time?” he asked, now more furious than ever. Next thing she’d be reciting horoscopes.

  She looked over at him, taking her eyes off the fire. “You know these things, Michigan.” Then she took his hands into hers and squeezed. He forgot all about the fire. “Sometimes you just know.”

  7

  * * *

  Perched on the thin lip of the hotel bathtub, Daggett’s feet hung down into the steaming hot bath water. Every so often his feet protested like this, stiffening like boards. A good long soak was the only solution.

  “It’s not right,” he said in a voice that resonated loudly in the small, tiled bathroom. He had a thing about rightness. “We need to keep going on this.”

  A moment later, over the drone of a television commercial for a bamboo steamer on the ubiquitous CNN, Lynn Greene declared encouragingly, “It’s dark. We’ll start up again at first light.”

  “It has nothing to do with darkness—it has to do with the report of chemicals being on board the plane. Did you see those people in those spacesuits? Jesus, what a sight! That’s what cleared everyone out of there. You see how the TV crews ate that up?”

  “And for good reason. What if the site is contaminated?”

  “All the more reason to suspect sabotage, if you ask me. Chemicals? That’s Der Grund’s calling card. Not that I can prove it.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. The point is—”

  She interrupted him. “The point is that we got very lucky. The fire neutralized the chemicals. That’s the report I got. Without those wellheads burning as they did, we would have had a real disaster on our hands.”

  “From my end, that’s all the more reason to keep up the investigation. Waiting around for guys in space suits to analyze spoor samples—”

  “You’re disgusting! One night is not going to hurt anything. We’ll get a fresh start tomorrow. If there’s something there we’ll find it.” She handed him one of the
vodka-and-Rose’s she had mixed using the supplies from the mini-bar.

  “I need proof of criminal intent. I need some good, solid linkage in order to keep my investigation alive.” He took a deep swallow and balanced the glass on the edge of the tub. Lynn supported the doorjamb with a shoulder. “I’ve spent nearly two years on this case. I don’t come up with something and I’m history. They want my report on this other thing—this bombing out at National. Can you believe that? They would pull me from a case like this to have me write a goddamned report on a dead man?” He looked to her for sympathy, but found none.

  “We don’t call it ‘criminal intent,’” she said, correcting him. “We call it suspicious causes. But so far there’s nothing like that. Nothing at all.” She added, “Besides, maybe a new assignment would do you some good. You don’t look so good.”

  He pretended to ignore her last comment. “The NTSB press guy is already talking it up like it was an accident. CNN, all the papers—everyone is calling it an accident, for God’s sake. The NTSB is selling a line of bullshit. That news conference was way off.”

  “It was accurate. We all pride ourselves on accuracy, don’t we? It’s the NTSB’s show. It remains their investigation until evidence allows you guys to take over. Listen, if it were up to me, I’d give you anything you want. But you know that—and you don’t seem to want.” She took a sip of her drink. She wasn’t talking investigation. He hid himself in his drink. “And the fact is we’ve seen nothing on site to indicate suspicious causes. We have the air traffic controller reporting that one of the flight crew called out a cockpit fire. The plane went down within seconds. Not one eyewitness has described anything like an explosion. Nothing in the wreckage yet to indicate explosives. The NTSB doesn’t have a lot of choice here.”

  “A Duhning 959–600 at LAX—maybe loaded with chemicals? I have a dead body coming out of a 959 simulator set to an LAX runway. I’ve got a known terrorist building altimeter detonators in his Los Angeles hotel room. Los Angeles, LAX … get it? You’re going to tell me it’s coincidence?” He continued before she could interrupt. She had a penchant for interrupting, for getting her own way. “Don’t go soft on me, damn it all. Someone has to maintain their objectivity.”

  “Objectivity? Is that what you’re preaching?”

  “Am I preaching?” he asked, reaching for the drink and draining a fair amount of it.

  “Yes, you are.”

  He looked at her distorted image through the irregularity of the glass. She stretched as he spun it. “You’re the air accident investigator,” he said. “The explosives expert. You’re leading the FAA’s investigation on this thing.”

  “Damn right,” she agreed, tilting her drink up in a way that stretched her long neck. “And don’t get so personal. You’re not making this any easier.”

  “It is personal. You should be helping me on this.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  He watched her in profile as her throat tightened as she swallowed, and he found it provocative. It had probably been a bad idea to invite her up here.

  “These go down too easy,” she said, studying the small glass, “but why don’t I make us another?”

  He finished his and handed it to her.

  “How are they doing?” she asked, nodding toward his feet.

  “I’ll tell you after the second drink.”

  She left him alone to his thoughts. Like his voice, they tended to bounce around in the small room. As she seemed to be taking too long, he called to her, “It has got to be the work of the same guy. There are far too many overlaps. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “No,” she said, joining him again. “Not to Lynn Greene the investigator. I shouldn’t even be aware of that side of your investigation. I’m paid for my objectivity—something I lost the minute I saw you on site.” She sat on the closed toilet. They were close to each other. She lifted her glass; the rims chimed. “Here’s to working together,” she said. “At last.”

  “I need your support on this.”

  “Even though I’d rather be playing, than working.”

  “Please help me.”

  “One step at a time. There’s a system in place here. Give it a chance to work.”

  “I can’t. What if Bernard made more than one trigger?”

  “Who’s Bernard?”

  He didn’t answer. He tried the drink. It was stronger and he wondered: by design? She was right, they did go down easy. His feet looked bigger because of the magnifying powers of the water. Big, pale, wrinkled feet with crooked toes. Very romantic.

  She said, “I’m supposed to be objective. Don’t worry: no one is going to whitewash this. I won’t allow that. What would be the point? Between the lot of us, we’ll be looking at every conceivable explanation for that crash. Believe it.”

  “I can’t wait six months,” he said. “These things always take six months.”

  “I understand that.” She adjusted herself and it brought her closer to him. She ran her fingers through his hair and he felt it down to his toes. “I’ll do what I can. Promise.” She was at his back where he couldn’t see her and he found it disarming.

  “Lynn,” he said so deliberately, it was like a referee blowing a whistle. He heard her ice rattle, and then the gentle pump of her swallowing.

  “Okay,” she said without any hurt in her voice. “But unless you fill that thing with ice water and dunk me in it, I had better be going. I have other ideas about how this night should be spent.” She kissed him on his neck below his ear. It ran a few thousand volts down his left side. His body hair stood at attention.

  “How’s Duncan doing?” she asked. That cooled him down. When he failed to answer she added, “That phone call you just made sounded more like a business call than a man calling his son.”

  “Sometimes that’s how it is between us.”

  “It shouldn’t be.”

  “I know that.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Yes.”

  “At me?”

  “No. At myself. The truth hurts.”

  “He has a sitter?” she inquired. “Or is it her?”

  “A sitter tonight. Old enough to be his grandmother. She’s become sort of part of the family.”

  “The sitter or Carrie?” Lynn asked. “Strike that from the record,” she added. “I’m not a very good loser.”

  “Who says you’ve lost?” he asked as she handed him her empty drink. At the moment he knew everything there was to know about emptiness.

  “You’re with her, aren’t you? I had hoped my dazzling personality and bathing suit silhouette might change that arrangement. Some things you learn to accept. Some things you don’t,” she warned.

  More tempted than ever to stop her, he ran an arm out and she dragged her fingers along it until their hands swept over one another and the very tips of their fingers kissed.

  She found her purse, stopped in the narrow passageway to look in on him. She smiled at him long enough to convey a message. She wanted to stay; she wanted him to ask her. He smiled back. She nodded and shrugged. The door closed behind her, and a second later Daggett was standing where she had been standing, his wet feet on the carpet, hand gripping the doorknob. But he didn’t turn it.

  The next morning the phone rang him awake in the middle of a room service breakfast. His morning run had been hampered by his vodka of the night before.

  The voice of Phil Huff said, “We’re in the clear here, so I’m going to keep it brief. There’s something going down that you’ll want to be part of. I’ll pick you up outside the lobby in about ten, twelve minutes.” He paused. “Any problems with that?”

  “I’ll be there,” Daggett said.

  Huff wore the same poplin suit, his shoulders square with arrogance. Daggett caught himself staring at the scars on the man’s nose, wondering if women were attracted to scars. Huff had plenty of both. He drove the same mud-brown Chrysler Daggett had
seen him in at the crash site. The front seat had a ratty slipcover, and Huff’s heel had worn a hole in the floor mat in front of the accelerator pedal. The radio was crusted with dust and spilled coffee. The vinyl of the sun visor was split open from the years, like a piece of fruit left too long on the windowsill. Huff steered them into traffic, slipped the police light onto the dash, turned it on, and, as traffic parted slowly, said, “Our boys got a call from the LAPD substation out here at the airport, telling us about a call one of their downtown squads got. A mechanic for AmAirXpress claims he was jumped and drugged yesterday by a man and woman at his home. Says his airport ID and overalls were stolen. They rolled a detective on it a minute ago. We hurry, we may catch most of the show.”

  Daggett considered all of this briefly. “If it holds, this could give us authority over the crash investigation,” he said anxiously.

  “Something better than that,” Huff said, teasing Daggett with the long pause that followed. “You’re gonna fuckin’ love this.”

  Daggett wouldn’t beg. He waited him out.

  “The chemicals on board this airplane?” he stated as a question, forcing Daggett to reply, “Yeah?” “Made by a company called ChemTronics with refineries—or whatever the fuck you call them—in twenty-some states.” Huff left another long pause, pretending to be busy with the car, though the car seemed to be driving itself on a road completely straight. “ChemTronics, come to find out, is a defense contractor—wink, wink; nudge, nudge—and is in bed with none other than EisherWorks Chemicals.”

  Daggett’s pulse doubled and he tried not to give Huff the pleasure of seeing or hearing his enthusiasm, which required a substantial effort. “In bed?” he asked.

  “EisherWorks owns controlling interest in ChemTronics. It amounts to an American subsidiary.”