The Probability of Murder

by Ada Madison

  “You’ll get him,” I said, mostly to make up for the near insult to the boys and girls of the Henley PD.

  I leaned back, a little dizzy and distressed that two people had violated my home, but satisfied that we’d solved another puzzle.

  “Is Marty in custody? I saw Archie headed into the admin building.”

  “He’s there for questioning. Marty is so clean, it’s hard to imagine he jumped right from gambling to murder, in spite of all his debts. We can’t tie him to fraud yet either, and if we jailed everyone who was in debt, there wouldn’t be enough cells in the state. We’re just waiting to see what shakes out between him and Garrett.”

  It seemed my work might be over. But I knew I wouldn’t rest completely until Daryl was in, out of the wind.

  Virgil drove with his right arm hanging over the back of the seat, in the manner of the cool kids in nineteen fifties movies. All that was missing was a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve. Bruce, a huge fan of films from all eras, would have been able to quote a movie title, car, and actor-driver in a minute. Maybe I’d be challenging him with a quiz in a couple of hours.

  I hoped the perfectly clear and snappy weather would continue all the way to New Hampshire.

  “I’m sure the pumpkin patches are on display all the way up ninety-five,” I said to Virgil. “It should be a beautiful drive.”

  “Who said anything about a drive?” Virgil said.

  I looked at him and then out the window. I hadn’t noticed that we were still in town, having veered off to the west instead of picking up the highway due north. With any other driver in the car, I might have been frantic, certain that I’d been kidnapped. But in the next minute, I saw a very familiar sign.

  HENLEY AIRFIELD, 1 MILE.

  “What’s this about?” I asked.

  “You don’t think MAstar is going to let its star pilot and super-nurses come home by ground transportation?”

  “They’re going to pick them up in the helicopter?”

  “Make that we’re going to pick them up in the helicopter. Well, not me. But you and Ernie will be in the plane. I forget, do they call it a plane?”

  “Uh, no, I don’t think they ever call it a plane. Planes have fixed wings. I’ve heard Bruce refer to his aircraft. Never plane.” As if that mattered. “I’m going to New Hampshire in a MAstar helicopter?” I all but squealed. Too much time with Chelsea and her peers.

  Virgil had a wide grin, clearly pleased with his little surprise.

  Things just went from good to better.

  I held my jacket closed up to my neck as Virgil and I walked, heads down, in what always seemed like a wind tunnel between the Henley Airfield parking lot and the MAstar trailer.

  We passed row after row of small planes, lined up wingtip-to-wingtip on the gravel. Several aviation-related businesses and flying clubs were housed here along with MAstar. The roar in the air was as though all the planes had their engines revved, about to move up and over in formation, though I was sure they all had ignitions turned off, if that’s what they were called.

  The last time I was here, I was with Charlotte and a kid who’d called himself Noah. It would be a while before I’d be able to forget the real purpose of that special tour. How had I not realized why Charlotte was more interested in the outlying private planes than in the MAstar flight nurse’s demonstration of a new unit for transporting critically ill newborns?

  I called up a happier visit, one Christmas Eve when the team hosted a party for kids with disabilities and Santa made an early afternoon appearance. One of his elves (pilot Jonathan) flew the helicopter onto the airfield, then Santa (flight nurse Rocky) jumped out with a bag of toys and a good time was had by all.

  I wanted those days back.

  * * *

  Inside the chain-link fence that defined MAstar’s property, Virgil and I climbed movable orange metal steps to the door of a trailer and entered a strangely homey environment.

  I’d been inside the double-wide many times and was familiar with its home-away-from-home setup. Coffee perking on a Formica counter; someone’s aromatic, spicy lunch heating in the microwave; the large logo mat on the floor of the kitchen, soaking up spills.

  The signage throughout the trailer reminded me of dorm décor. Printed or hand-lettered instructions and warnings appeared everywhere. On the microwave, the printer, the small washer/dryer set in a corner of the kitchen. Walls were covered with maps of the area’s topography; computer screens showed weather maps; whiteboards held schedules; corkboards bled memos.

  I smiled every time I read the sign above the rack that held the crew’s helmets: “Thou Shalt Not Whine!” I assumed this was an especially pertinent warning when a call came in the middle of the night.

  Pilot Ernie Sims, whom I’d met a few times, was waiting for us in the den, a room with flimsy paneled walls and a mishmash of furniture, not unlike the lounge on Hannah Stephens’s dorm floor.

  “Hey, Virgil, Sophie. Always a pleasure,” Ernie said. “Good news, huh? Going to pick up those crazy dudes?”

  A woman who’d been eating a sandwich and watching an action flick clicked the TV off. She stood and brushed crumbs from her slick pants. “I’m Irene. I’ll be your nurse today,” she said to me, with a big smile, gripping me with a strong handshake.

  Irene, newly hired to replace a nurse I’d known, was among the few females in the company. All of the pilots and technicians and most of the flight nurses were ex-military males, guys who apparently hadn’t had enough excitement and emergency situations in combat.

  Tall and lean, Ernie Sims was a perpetual smiler, but of the sincere kind. He and Virgil exchanged small talk that went over my head.

  “How goes the ten sixty-one?” from Ernie.

  Followed by “As good as your HAPI,” from Virgil.

  “Don’t let these guys fool you into thinking they’re really having a conversation. They’re just showing off,” Irene told me. “Ernie asked about Virgil’s miscellaneous public service and Virge meaninglessly answered, ‘Helicopter Approach Path Indicator.’”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I did learn ETOPS from Bruce.”

  And we all laughed at the acronym for “Engines Turn Or People Swim.”

  It seemed strange to be in these quarters without Bruce. I knew exactly where he slept on his night shifts, where his favorite cereal was shelved, which videos in the vast collection were the ones he liked best. I shut my eyes for a minute and pictured him stretched out on the faux leather couch, safely leafing through a movie magazine.

  Both Ernie and Irene were in their flight suits, one-piece black jumpsuits with purple and white stripes running down the legs and arms. Irene had “MAstar FLIGHT NURSE” stenciled on the back of her jacket, under a purple cross that was part of their logo.

  “Back to work,” Ernie declared. “The techs have cleared us. Ready to go, Sophie?”

  I could hardly express how ready I was.

  On the field, ready to board the helicopter, I thanked Virgil for all he’d done to track Bruce’s status and to book me on the flight to New Hampshire.

  Our good-bye was reminiscent of a Casablanca moment, with the aircraft waiting, the roar of the rotors drowning out my farewell words. I blamed Bruce for my growing tendency to make parallels with movies. When I started comparing myself to Ingrid Bergman—she was six inches taller, with about eight inches more hair, and dreamy, not ordinary, brown eyes—it was time to take stock.

  The four long, narrow rotors at the top of the helicopter looked almost too thin to do the job, lifting all of us plus the craft, plus heavy equipment. But I’d been a passenger before, and I knew it was up to the task.

  With Irene’s help, I hoisted myself from the ground onto a step and then up to the interior of the aircraft. I was privileged to buckle myself into one of the gray fabric seats next to Ernie, while Irene slid the door shut and sat in the back.

  “Thank you for flying MAstar,” Ernie announced, as if to the population of a fully booked
commercial airliner.

  And we were off.

  Though it wasn’t my first time in a MAstar helicopter, the other trips were short hops, for pleasure or enlightenment about what was Bruce’s office in a way. I reminded myself that r in MAstar was for rescue.

  I understood why Bruce liked to fly. Soaring above both suburban and city life had its pleasures. Looking down on everything from SUVs to backyard swimming pools to office buildings gave an unmistakable sense of exhilaration and power. The largest, most expensive home on Boston’s Beacon Hill was like a dollhouse; the highest horsepower muscle car, like a child’s toy.

  “Is everyone going to fit in here coming back?” I asked Ernie—or rather, shouted to Ernie over the noise in the cockpit. I knew the usual working crew comprised one pilot and two flight nurses, plus two spaces for patients on gurneys. It seemed one too many for the carrier.

  “I didn’t tell you. Only two more on the return.”

  I swallowed hard and felt a shiver through my body. But it was silly to think Bruce might be the one staying behind. I wouldn’t be on this flight if Bruce weren’t okay to travel home, would I? Wouldn’t Virgil have warned me if this trip was simply to take me on a visit to a New Hampshire hospital?

  In spite of his formidable task of piloting, Ernie noticed my distress.

  “We heard a little while ago. Eduardo is in bad shape.”

  A leap of logic told me that meant Bruce was in good shape. I had no trouble going with that loose reasoning for now. A form of survivor guilt took over and I was on a roller-coaster of emotions from great relief that Bruce was able to go home to concern for Eduardo.

  “Is he going to make it?” I asked, regretting that I had to shout out a question that should be whispered, if spoken at all.

  For some reason, benign I hoped, the engine noise grew louder at that moment, or it might have been increased ringing in my ears. The words I heard were surgery and neck.

  That couldn’t be good.

  “Does Jenna know?”

  The engines went back to their normal thunderous roar, and I understood Ernie to say that another MAstar pilot knew Jenna best, and he was dispatched to talk to her in person.

  “I didn’t want to tell you about Eduardo back there,” he said, cocking his neck toward the trailer far behind and below us. “Cell phones, you know?”

  “Cell phones?” I asked. I spread my palms and shrugged, hoping my body language would make the question more clear.

  “You might have called someone or gotten a call on the ground.”

  “I wouldn’t have told anyone,” I said.

  “Not deliberately, but it’s only natural that you might mention what’s on your mind. Eduardo has this thing about one of us talking to Jenna before anyone else does since she’s a little high-strung.”

  I had no idea there were so many unwritten, personal protocols among the MAstar team. I’d have to ask Bruce what his were. Did he think I was high-strung? If that meant feeling like my whole body had been turned inside out and its pieces needed reassembling, at this moment he’d be correct.

  Poor Jenna. She had every right to be strung however high she wanted. And Todd. I shook my head in sympathy for him. I was his age when we lost my father to cancer. My mother did a heroic job, making sure I knew who Peter Knowles was, what a wonderful math teacher he’d been, how much he loved me. I had new respect for how she’d handled the challenges.

  It was premature to think that Jenna might have to endure the same fate.

  Another awful thought intruded.

  I turned toward Ernie again. “Do you have details on Bruce and Kevin?” That you’re not telling me, I meant.

  “Honest. All we know is what I told Virgil, that both guys are cleared to come home.”

  The ringing in my head dropped to a lower, slightly more comfortable frequency.

  I took a minute to check the flow of the world below me. It wasn’t a famously pretty time of year in New England. Though we were a month from official winter, most of the trees were bare of leaves, their trunks a desolate gray. But the landscape was green, and even ordinary features like reservoirs, ponds, woodland areas, country clubs, and state parks took on added interest when viewed from a couple thousand feet.

  About an hour after takeoff, the landing struts and runners touched ground on a helipad above the parking lot of Mercy Hospital.

  As glorious as it felt to ride above it all, Ernie’s seamless landing and our deplaning felt even better.

  I’d had the whole trip to prepare myself for what Bruce might look like, what shape he’d be in. Would he even be conscious? I mentally chided myself. Of course he’d be conscious. They wouldn’t send an unconscious patient home. He’d be bruised, maybe, but I could handle that. Would we need help, or would I be able to take care of him myself?

  The automatic doors of the hospital slid open in front of us, allowing a couple with a never-before-seen-by-me triple stroller to exit and MAstar workers and me to enter.

  I was about to have the answers to my questions.

  The young doctor who met us in the waiting area—Dias, according to his name tag—must have thought me cruel indeed as I broke into a wide smile at the list of Bruce’s injuries. A broken leg, a minor head wound, and what he called partial-thickness frostbite on some of Bruce’s fingertips.

  Kevin had emerged with a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder.

  Plus, there were assorted bruises and rope burns for both.

  I was nearly giddy. I hoped the doctor understood that, compared to what I’d dreaded and relative to the accident reports that filled Bruce’s magazines, their injuries were like scraped knees on a preteen.

  As was appropriate, Doctor Dias was closemouthed on Eduardo’s condition, other than to tell us he was “stable.”

  “Code for ‘none of your business,’” Irene whispered when he turned to leave.

  When we finally got to see Bruce and Kevin, not even the matching blue wheelchairs could dampen our reunion.

  Choruses of “Hey, buddy” and “Woo hoo” punctuated the greetings.

  I leaned over and held on to Bruce as best I could, given his restraints. We kissed, broke apart, and kissed again. For all the exchanges of “I love you” and “I’m so happy to see you,” we might have been apart for weeks instead of days.

  “I’m going to have to postpone the climb in Nepal,” Bruce said when we finally let go of each other.

  I was the last to laugh.

  “Hey, Sophie, got a hug for me?” Kevin asked. “I’m on my own here.”

  I hardly knew Kevin, the youngest member of the MAstar staff, but I leaned over and hugged him anyway, avoiding the arm that was in a sling.

  “You’ll have to tell me about the case,” Bruce said to me.

  It said a lot that I had to think for a beat about what he meant by “the case.” The murder case that had consumed me as much as the trauma over my missing boyfriend had receded for the last few hours.

  Bruce insisted on a summary as he reluctantly let Irene wheel him down the hallway while Ernie piloted Kevin’s chair a few rotations behind, and I took on crutch-carrying duty. I suspected Bruce’s interest in what had happened since Charlotte’s body was found stemmed in great part from wanting to reconnect with me on a level other than his own current state.

  I gave him a few details of my adventures, then cut to the bottom line—the police had settled on Daryl Farmer as the person with the best scores on means, motive, and opportunity, and his disappearance put him over the top as the most likely killer.

  I could see that it was a struggle for Bruce to keep awake and pay attention. The doctor had warned us that he’d given both climbers medication to ease the discomfort of the helicopter ride home.

  Ernie seemed to have no compunction grilling the sleepy guys. Perhaps he thought it was his right to interrogate as he pushed Kevin’s wheelchair up a slight incline.

  “What happened up there, buddies?” he asked. Something I couldn’t have as
ked in my present mood without sounding like a harpy.

  “There was a team in front of us that was so slow, you’d think they’d never been on a real mountain,” Kevin said. “Like, what did they think? That they could go from climbing artificial holds on a theme park wall to scaling Cannon?”

  Bruce picked up the thread, his speech labored, as if heavy meds were kicking in. “We couldn’t pass them, so we played it slow. We thought we could still beat the storm, but it was on us like”—Bruce’s weak swooping motion didn’t do justice to a raging storm—“and we just did the best we could.”

  “Until the guys who were in over their heads literally cut loose an avalanche onto us,” Kevin said.

  I hoped Kevin and the slow team would never meet again.

  “Rocks and snow. Very nice,” Bruce added.

  “I was belaying, almost out of the way, tucked into a corner with enough of an overhang, so nothing major happened to me,” Kevin said. “Bruce was next to me, but more exposed.”

  I guessed a broken leg, a dislocated shoulder, and rope burns were nothing to write home about.

  “Eduardo was leading and got the full brunt,” Bruce said. “We figure he fell at least a hundred feet. He was over fifty feet above us when the avalanche knocked him down and ripped his axes and crampons from the ice. Then some of his gear zippered and failed as the rope went tight.”

  Kevin picked up the story again as the two men seemed to be reliving a nightmarish moment. “We watched him slide and tumble down the ice. He came to a stop below us. Luckily I was securely anchored and the rope wasn’t cut by any sharp rocks.”

  “He just missed a nasty outcrop of rocks,” Bruce said. “Snow was packed into his mouth and throat, but we got to him in time to clear his airway so he could breathe.”

  “We did what we could, put on every piece of clothing we had, and waited.”

  I let out my own breath.

  “Bad scene for Eduardo,” Kevin said. “But the doctors up there are used to accidents like this, so he’s in good hands.”