by Dana Haynes
Ray shrugged. “Combo of the concussion and they have you on some pretty strong painkillers. Sorry, man.”
After a few beats, Tommy coughed. “Could I, ah, get a few minutes to, you know…”
Kiki eased up off the bed. “Sure.” She turned to Ray. “What’s your plan?”
“I haven’t been to the site yet. I’m heading out there. I want to see the crash you two walked away from.”
20
THE POLESTAR CHARTER FLIGHT from Dulles to Helena arrived before noon. The corporate Lear held family members of six of the dead, hailing from throughout Virginia, Maryland, and the District of Columbia.
The airline did everything possible to make the dreaded flight as pain-free as possible for mourners. All family members had been picked up at their homes. Their luggage was fast-tracked onto the corporate jet, bypassing TSA security regulations, and nobody had to pass through an invasive scanner or a pat-down procedure. It was agreed that the families had suffered enough.
Other chartered flights from other parts of the country were vectoring to Helena, too.
A charter bus took the family members to the surprisingly ritzy Belvedere Hotel, not far from the capitol building. The hotel manager, assistant manager, and three reservation staffers waited to show the guests immediately to their rooms; there was no need to wait for check-in.
Once safely in her room, Renee lifted her suitcase onto the folding stand near the spacious closet. She got out her hanging clothes and hung them, fluffing out the creases. She slid the Colt Pocket Model .25 out of her folded jeans and held it in both hands. It had seemed uncomfortable, even alien, a few days ago. Now the small V-shaped gun seemed perfectly molded to her hand. She kissed the short barrel. She gripped it tightly in her left hand and conducted the remainder of her unpacking more or less one-handed.
* * *
Mayor Art Tibbits of Twin Pines called a meeting for 1:00 P.M. that Saturday. The so-called Twin Pines City Council had five elected council seats but only two were filled because nobody had bothered to run for the other three. The core leadership of the town had dwindled down to Tibbits, Police Chief Paul McKinney, school superintendent Chip Ogilvy, and Joan Tibbits, Art’s wife and current chair of the chamber of commerce. They met in Tina’s, one of only two coffee shops left standing in the downtown core.
And for once, the place was bustling and the town leaders had to wait for service.
“Oh my god,” Joan said, pointing to a table to her left. “He’s a reporter for NBC! I’ve watched him for years!”
Chip Ogilvy listened to the ring of the old-fashioned iron cash register. “Got to admit, Art. Getting the media to stage up here was smart. Tina’s gonna see more profit today than she did in all of July.”
Chief McKinney nodded. “Agreeing to store the bodies means the mourners are on their way here, too. I told Olaf and he’s going to open up his restaurant again.”
Chip said, “Didn’t the bank already foreclose on Olaf?”
The mayor tried not to look smug. “I had a talk with Roger over at the bank. He’s giving Olaf this weekend, see how he does with the influx of folks. Plus, I talked to the state. If the forest fire picks up, they’re sending a crew. That’s another two or three dozen men.”
He turned to his wife. “Artie’s hotel is booked up. We need to tell folks to open their homes as bed-and-breakfasts, just for the week or so. We play our cards right, and we’re going to get through the third quarter of this year, maybe see some profits before the holidays.”
Nobody at the table said it, but they all knew that Art Tibbits’s quick thinking had infused some hard cash into a town desperately hard up. But that didn’t change the simple dynamic that Twin Pines was dying.
* * *
Three large travel coaches arrived in the tiny timber town around two in the afternoon. A senior member of Polestar’s Public Affairs Office stood at the front of each bus as they pulled into town.
The PR guy in the lead bus said, “Folks? This is the town of Twin Pines. Your loved ones are being … ah, stored here. We’re just a few blocks away.” His cohorts were saying the same thing in the second and third buses. “Now, there’s no good way to say this. Some of the bodies sustained extreme injuries. We’re going to have family members go in five at a time, and we’ll use a lottery to see who goes first. Another thing: this isn’t a hospital or a morgue, because there’s nowhere in this region of Montana large enough. Last night, the NTSB team on site, along with local law enforcements, found a building here in Twin Pines that is temperature-controlled.”
He turned to the driver. “Do you see the address?”
“Yeah, right here.”
People on the bus started mumbling. Some started crying again. Someone said, “Wait, what…?”
The PR guy leaned down, his head at the same height as the seated passengers’. Then he realized for the first time that the temperature-controlled building bore a sign: STAN’S MEAT MARKET! FRESH MEAT DAILY!
To his left, Renee let loose a quick, small, teary-eyed laugh, then covered her mouth with a bunched-up ball of Kleenex. He knelt and squeezed her hand.
“Mrs. Malatesta? I’m so … we’re so sorry about this.”
Renee offered up a brittle smile and a nod, her vision blurring, losing it but trying not to, feeling her composure dwindling, willing herself to bail out a boat that was filling with salt water.
* * *
In the center of Twin Pines, Mayor Art Tibbits hustled down the sidewalk, grinning. He hadn’t seen downtown this busy in ages. A shopkeeper gave him a little mock salute. “Mr. Mayor. Lookin’ good!”
Tibbits saluted him back.
Calendar, who had been walking in the opposite direction, stopped abruptly and knelt, pretending to tie his boot. It had taken him an hour to return from Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. He considered the situation, then stood and reversed course.
The mayor headed back over to Tina’s Diner and realized he’d have to sit at the counter because every table was still occupied. He recognized reporters as well as a handful of people with NTSB ball caps. Tibbits sat and, unbidden, the waitress brought him decaf coffee and a little bowl of creamer packets.
Calendar took the next red-topped stool at a faded Formica counter. “Morning.” He nodded.
“Morning.” The mayor added a milklike substance to his coffee. “Journalist?”
“Yes, sir,” Calendar said. The counter was adorned with napkin dispensers, glass salt-and-pepper shakers, and a sort of standing fork into which three laminated menus stood up like a bouquet. The girl behind the counter smiled at him and he ordered coffee, black.
“Nice town you have here.”
Tibbits beamed. “Art Tibbits. Mayor.”
“You don’t say.” They shook hands.
“Anything we can do for the Fifth Estate, you just ask. We’re the friendliest town in Big Sky Country!”
Calendar was pretty sure it was the Fourth Estate but he didn’t correct the mayor. He also smelled bourbon on the man’s breath. He tamped down his annoyance at such weak leadership. “So do you know where they’re storing the bodies from the plane crash?”
“Sure do. Temperature-controlled warehouse down on Third. Used to be Stan’s Meat Market but it folded. We had hopes a co-op would buy the site, setting it up as a meat market again, but…” He shrugged.
“That was fast thinking. Being temperature-controlled and all.”
Tibbits’s boozy smile blossomed. “That was my idea.”
“And a fine one,” Calendar said as his coffee arrived.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Delevan Wildman and his chief aide, Nathan Kowalski, watched the video of the All-Thing, the first-day meeting of all of the organizations that would be involved in the investigation. In his long career at the NTSB, Wildman insisted on watching a video of each All-Thing, a legal pad on his knee, eyes peeled like a defense coach breaking down game film of an opposing team.
He had never seen one quite like the
spectacle from Helena.
Kowalski waited until his boss hit Pause, then said, “Wow. That was … um…”
The older man drawled, “You’re looking for a hyphenate, son. Starts with cluster-.”
“Yes, sir. That was the phrase.”
VARENNA, ITALY
“He what?”
Susan shrugged and studied the latest e-mail again. “Del wants me to watch the video of the All-Thing. Love, I’m sorry, these things can run up to three hours. This isn’t turning into the vacation we—”
Kirk Tanaka set down the International Herald-Tribune and bussed her on the forehead. “Del wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Don’t worry about it.”
Susan went to the NTSB public Web site and cued up the All-Thing.
It didn’t take three hours. The players began streaming out of the auditorium, some shouting in anger, in a little under thirty minutes.
They watched it together, Susan sitting on the bed in their hotel room, Kirk standing by her side, an arm slung around her shoulder. “Wow,” he said.
“Pilot error.”
“She’s quoted as saying, ‘absolutely.’”
Susan sat, eyes wide.
“Give me that.” Her husband took the iPad from her.
“What are you doing?”
“Responding to Del Wildman. Get packed. You’re heading home.”
CRASH SITE
Jack Goodspeed said, “You smell smoke?”
Reuben Chaykin deadpanned back, “We’re standing in a forest fire: yeah.”
“I’m serious, man. I think the wind’s changed.”
Jack jogged over to the nearest of the sheriff’s deputies. “Hey. Excuse me. I’m smelling more smoke. I think the wind’s changed.”
The deputy looked up into the green canopy. He sniffed. “Well, dammit.”
The wind had changed.
Jack and Reuben were on the scene, hoping to dredge loose the last bits of the powerplant and avionics out of the cockpit before the fire changed its mind. They would need this equipment if they were going to prove the theory of the Leveque gremlin. And now the fire had, indeed, changed course.
Jack toggled the comm unit on his belt.
“Kim.”
“Peter, it’s Jack. The wind’s changed. The fire is coming back.”
“Okay. You and Reuben get clear while it’s safe.” Peter disconnected.
BIG SKY COMMUNITY HOSPITAL
Tommy and Kiki were introduced to the chief of surgeons, a Dr. Carol Leitner. Tommy—the last vestiges of vertigo still making him dizzy—came in a wheelchair. Kiki took the chair next to him.
“Thank you for seeing me. I’m compiling histories of our patients and I need to know who you either rescued or treated.”
Dr. Leitner sat on the edge of her stunningly cluttered desk and turned her PC monitor so that all three of them could see the screen. “You know, when you get that middle-of-the-night call that an airliner is down, you think: I’m getting a hundred ER patients, or else I’m getting none and it’s the morgue’s night of woe. Getting just eight patients was a weird relief. Okay, these first two are you. This is Annie Boynton, fifteen.”
Tommy said, “Right-arm bleeder. Brachial vein. I applied a pressure bandage. She gonna lose that arm?”
Dr. Leitner smiled. “First answer is: HIPAA rules say I cannot discuss the patients. Second answer: No. You made sure of that.”
Kiki smiled at Tommy and rubbed his shoulder.
Dr. Leitner reached behind her, hit the Space bar.
“Orysya Bronova. On vacation from Minsk.”
Tommy and Kiki exchanged glances. Both shrugged.
“Okay. Ibrahim al-Mahmood.”
Kiki nodded. “Another passenger and I carried him out of the Claremont. No obvious injuries. But he was unconscious.”
“He’s lucky. Sprained wrist, swear to God. Okay, Charles Hamner, crushed knee.”
Both shrugged again.
“Anita Fremont—”
Tommy said, “Broken fibula, bone showing. Wasn’t a hell of a lot I could do for her.”
Dr. Leitner hit Tab. “Gene Cartman?”
“Gut wound. Intestines showing.”
Kiki going, “Ewwww!”
“Yeah, that lacked prettiness, hon. I created a pressure bandage with a pillow and my belt. Shit! That belt was a gift from you. I’m sorry.”
Dr. Leitner laughed. “You managed to do all that, the two of you, with a concussion, a broken rib, and significant blood loss from a leg wound. That’s amazing.”
Tommy said, “It was mostly me,” so Kiki elbowed him.
“Do I have your permission to tell the Helena Independent about your heroics?”
They said “no” in tandem and damn near in key.
“It’s a good story.…”
Kiki said, “There will be no end of good stories. Thanks, though.”
The doctor turned her terminal back around. “Well, thank you for—”
Kiki said, “We’re at least one short.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s one more survivor. Tall man, silver hair? He helped me carry Mr. al-Mahmood.”
Dr. Leitner frowned. “Hmm. We didn’t get him. And we’re the only certified trauma hospital in the region. Are you sure?”
“Dark sweater, jeans, good hiking boots…”
Tommy said, “Silver hair cut short. Yeah, I saw him. Guy was picking up debris.”
Dr. Leitner picked up her telephone receiver and dialed a number from memory. “J. J.? Can you tell the sheriff we might have another survivor from Thursday’s plane crash?” She described the man. She hung up and turned back to the crashers. “He could have tried walking out. Could have had a delayed reaction to a concussion. If he’s out there, they’ll find him.”
CRASH SITE
Mac Pritchert of the Montana Department of Forestry toured the crash site in a Sikorsky S-76. He could see the downed, wingless aircraft and people in blue windbreakers and baseball caps milling about. He could see the trail of destruction stretching a mile back, plus the fire hot spots where both engines and their fuel served as accelerants. He viewed the fire itself, then called the state meteorologist’s office to get a forecast.
He tapped the pilot’s shoulder to get his attention, then thrust his thumb back toward the town of Twin Pines.
* * *
The pilot put the Sikorsky down, light as a platonic kiss. Peter Kim, Jack Goodspeed, and Teresa Santiago marched down the slight decline to meet it. Chief of Police Paul McKinney joined them as Mac Pritchert, a massive bear of a man, hoisted himself down from the helo. His belt was adorned with a cell phone, bowie knife, flashlight, and a massive ring of keys. He wore a walrus mustache.
“Investigator in Charge?” he asked over the whoosh of the rotors.
“That’s me. Peter Kim.” They shook hands.
“Mr. Kim, this here is a state-owned forest, and I’ve been named the fire chief for this thing. That makes me the landlord. The governor was pretty damn clear: I am not to let you guys risk your lives. If I say the fire’s coming, your people vamoose. Are we good?”
“If we think you’re wrong, we’ll try to change your mind.”
Pritchert studied him, then nodded. “Fair enough. I’ve spoken to the state meteorologist. It’s our opinion that the wind’s gonna die down here real soon. Our prediction: you have this afternoon and tonight and Sunday until maybe noon. Then the winds’ll whip up from the east.”
Jack grinned. “That’ll give us more than enough time. We can get the remainder of the avionics and what’s left of the shredded powerplant out tonight, come back tomorrow with flatbeds, carve up the fuselage, haul it out of here.”
Peter offered his hand again. “Mr. Pritchert.”
“Good luck, fellas. And, ma’am.”
Teresa winked at him. “Fella works fine, Chief.” And Mac Pritchert blushed.
TWIN PINES
Calendar crawled through the alley behind Stan’s Meat
Market in his stolen SUV. He saw a loading dock with a rolling metal door. It was going on 6:00 P.M. There were no windows in the back. The opposite side of the alley was a cinderblock self-storage facility with no windows.
“Place practically begs you to break in,” he muttered.
Pulling out onto the street, he was surprised to see three massive touring coaches. Five sobbing civilians were being led out of the meat market and five more were about to enter.
* * *
The bodies were laid out on the floor of the former meatpacking company. On their backs, bedsheets covered their heads and torsos. The loved ones were escorted in, under the watchful eye of two of Chief Paul McKinny’s deputies. This was, technically, part of a potential crime scene until the cause of the crash was confirmed.
Sheets were pulled back. Family members fell to their knees or hugged themselves tightly, sobbing. The HR people from Polestar Airlines stood back, crying a little, too; how could you not?
Renee Malatesta didn’t need to identify the bodies of Christian Dean and Vejay Mehta. Their families had arrived, too. One of the last sheets to be removed revealed the body of Andrew. His throat had been crushed. His eyes were closed, thank God. A line of blood ran from his nose to his upper lip, then down his cheek to his neck. Renee asked about a bathroom. She was shown the way. She yanked out a square of paper towel, wetted it, returned, knelt, and wiped the blood off Andrew’s face and neck. She kissed his cold lips. She pulled the sheet back up, covering him.
She knelt for the longest time. Other mourners—some she knew, others were perfect strangers—walked by, touched her shoulder or knelt by her side, hugged her. She was insensate. She might have been a pillar of salt.
* * *
Later, outside, Renee hugged her suede jacket tightly to her body. It was pleasant, about seventy degrees, but she couldn’t stop shivering. She found a private place across the street from the meat shop—It had to be a fucking meat shop?—and lit a cigarette. She smoked only a few cigarettes a month and only when she was stressed. This seemed like the right time.
“Renee?”
She turned. “Amy?”
Renee had known Amy Dreyfus since Stanford. She’d been Andrew’s roommate and best friend. She’d introduced Renee and Andrew. They’d maintained contact over the years, partly because of Amy’s high-tech beat at the Post. But now was totally the wrong time for an interview. She started to protest when the journalist came to her in a rush. Renee’s fevered brain thought about defending herself but the woman crushed her in a hug, Renee’s freshly lit cigarette falling to the pavement. Amy hugged her, crying silently. After the longest time, Renee returned the hug.