The Color of a Promise (The Color of Heaven Series Book 11)

by Julianne MacLean

  “So far, we don’t know exactly what happened here, but based on reports from eyewitnesses, myself included, it appears that there was an explosion, which occurred while the plane was still in the air. We do not yet know if there was some sort of explosive device on board, or if it was caused by a mechanical issue. We hope we will have those answers soon, when the investigators arrive. But the first priority is, of course, the continuing search for survivors.”

  I shook my head at him, wishing he wouldn’t start suggesting that there might have been a bomb on board, when we had no idea—at least not yet—what happened, or why. The last thing we needed was the media fanning flames of panic and suspicion before we even got there.

  As far as survivors were concerned…

  Based on what I had seen so far, I knew there was very little possibility that anyone could have survived that crash. Although, I never stopped praying for miracles.

  Just then, the phone rang at my desk. It was Gary. “We have a government plane waiting for us on the tarmac,” he said. “Grab your bag and tell the others. It’s time to go.”

  “I’m on it.”

  With all the chaos in the office, I realized I hadn’t yet called Malcolm to let him know I was leaving town. I felt guilty for a moment, for not thinking of him right away, but then I brushed that off because he rarely called me either, when things got crazy for him at work.

  Sometimes I wished it were different between us, but this was the way it was.

  At any rate, I was relieved when I called his number and it went straight to voicemail, because I didn’t have time to chat.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The flight from Washington to Portland would last about ninety minutes, and Gary insisted that all members of the team try and get some sleep. He was a stickler about that and believed none of us would be any good to the investigation if we couldn’t think properly because of sleep deprivation.

  Knowing that I would have to hit the ground running, I tried to close my eyes after takeoff, but couldn’t—because despite the fact that I had conquered my fear of flying and had logged nearly 2000 hours as a pilot myself, my heart still raced whenever I felt an aircraft pick up speed on the runway and lift off the ground.

  So instead of relaxing and falling asleep, I found myself discreetly opening my laptop and slipping my headphones on to watch Jack Peterson reporting from the crash site.

  It was odd, how he always reminded me of Kyle, my first real boyfriend in college. Jack had the same dark hair and similar facial features, the same muscular build and physical charisma. He even sounded the same when he spoke.

  But that’s where the resemblance ended, because Jack Peterson was an extraordinarily intelligent man with class and sensitivity. There was something mature and worldly about him. He was the polar opposite of Kyle in every other way.

  Beauty is only skin deep. It’s the soul that matters.

  Sometimes I wondered whatever became of Kyle after graduation. Maybe he eventually grew up and stopped tipping over mail boxes. It was just college after all—a time for us to spread our wings, experiment a little, and figure out who we truly were.

  That’s what I had done. I came out of my shell and figured it out.

  Maybe one of these days, I would look Kyle up on Facebook, just out of curiosity.

  But not today. There were other more pressing matters on my mind.

  I watched Jack Peterson for the duration of the flight, and just before landing, I felt a sick knot in my belly as he spoke about a teddy bear he found in the wreckage, not far from the burned body of a young child.

  At that point, Jack paused, swallowed hard, and turned his face away from the camera. He bowed his head and exhaled sharply, cleared his throat and then collected himself, faced the camera again, and continued.

  Something in me broke apart in that moment, and I swallowed over a jagged lump of sorrow that rose in my throat.

  The female anchor at the news desk at the CNN station was sympathetic. They took him off the live feed and switched to another reporter at the Portland Head Light Museum, where a number of news vans were set up to report on the search over the water. Helicopters circled overhead, shining lights on the black ocean. Local fishermen and yachtsmen had also volunteered to aid in the search.

  I felt for Jack Peterson, because I knew exactly what it was like to work on a crash site where you had to force yourself to detach emotionally from the stressful, disturbing reality of what you were seeing—because you had a job to do. An important job.

  But every once in a while, something hit home, and it would crush you.

  I was fully aware that Jack Peterson was a man who had witnessed his own share of trauma and disaster. We’d all watched him recover from that near-fatal bombing in Afghanistan. Ever since that day, he’d become one of America’s favorite sons and a prominent host at CNN.

  In that regard, his fame didn’t surprise me at all. Not only was he handsome, intelligent and charismatic, but there was something accessible about him. I think everyone in the country felt a connection to him. I certainly did.

  Sometimes, when he spoke directly into the camera—which he always did as host of the news show—I felt as if he were speaking directly to me, and that he was a cherished friend I’d known forever. I’d seen him in the hospital, after all. We’d all seen him.

  We’d all been there when he recovered from multiple surgeries and took his first steps. We saw his burn scars and felt his pain.

  It was strange to imagine that I might meet him in person in a few short hours.

  If I did, I would thank him for capturing the footage of the crash, which would be a crucial element to help us piece together what had happened, exactly.

  So there it was… He was a hero again, because with the help of that footage, we would have concrete evidence to help us form stronger conclusions and make recommendations to the FAA—to prevent this from happening again.

  That was what mattered most to me. It was why I was so passionate about this job.

  A short while later, our jet touched down in Portland. We all quickly gathered up our things and prepared to travel to the crash site.

  o0o

  “Hey Reynolds! The tin-kickers are here!” one of the FBI guys said as we got out of our rental cars. We all wore navy jackets with NTSB emblazoned on the backs, so we were easily identifiable.

  I gave Gary a look because I knew he hated that term, but I didn’t mind it. That’s what we did—we used our boots to flip over pieces of wreckage to search for what clues lay beneath.

  While Gary consulted with the FBI guys—they were the lead agency because of the potential criminal element—I strolled across the parking lot to see what I could.

  The sun was just coming up and the morning sky was overcast. A thick fog had rolled in off the water, which seemed to accentuate the heavy smell of aviation fuel in the air. The parking lot was full of cop cars, fire trucks, and ambulances, all with lights flashing. As I made my way past them, I worked hard to control the pace of my breathing, to prepare myself for what I was about to behold.

  I circled around the back of a fire truck and the main crash site, shrouded in pale gray fog, came into view.

  Stopping on the pavement, I took a deep breath, then another and another to keep my stress symptoms at bay, while I observed the vast area of devastation and wreckage. The enormous front half of the jet was relatively intact, but the interior was completely burned out. The hull was slashed open by the trees, which were now flattened beneath it. Behind the fuselage, the crash path had created an elongated crater in the earth.

  The back half and tail had broken off and fallen in some other location. There was no sign of the wings anywhere.

  Thousands of pieces of fragmented metal, battered luggage, and scorched airline seats were strewn across the smoldering field, or hanging from branches in trees on either side of the crash path.

  There were also bodies. A number of them. Seeing them caused that familiar pain
in my chest, and breathed deeply again. I let it out slowly.

  Breathe, Meg. Just breathe.

  It always struck me as disrespectful, not to remove the bodies sooner, but I understood that because it was a criminal investigation, all the passengers were considered potential murder victims, and they were part of the crime scene. They simply could not be removed until investigators had a chance to document every last detail. This was why the press was restricted from the immediate area for now, and no one was allowed past the barricades to film or take pictures—outside of the proper authorities.

  As I stood on the edge of the parking lot, striving to maintain my composure, my body went numb and still—as if all my internal organs had stopped functioning to allow for a moment of silence. Every part of me needed to mourn for these poor lost souls, and I prayed they were long gone from this dreadful place.

  It was always like this for me. Whenever I stepped onto a crash site, I needed to wrestle my anxiety under control. Then I would take a moment to comprehend the enormity of what I was seeing. I had to do all of that before I could wake up the part of my brain that had to be inquisitive and academic.

  First, I had to seek calm. Only then, could I get to work.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was a long day at the main crash site as I examined what remained of the fuselage and cockpit, and searched through as much wreckage as I could, turning things over, taking pictures of everything, from every possible angle. Other members of my team were on the beach where the engine had landed, and still others had gone out on the water where they were working with the Coast Guard to search for the rest of the wreckage, including the tail. That’s where they hoped to find the black box.

  No one had found the wings yet, which was where the fuel tanks had been located—an important element of the investigation, given that there had been an explosion in the air.

  And that’s what made it challenging on this first day. The plane had broken apart at 30,000 feet while traveling over 500 miles per hour, and so the crash area was spread across many miles, including the ocean.

  A short while ago, a rescue worker informed me that a man had called in to report an airline seat hanging from a tree in his backyard, sixty miles away.

  Clearly, we were going to be in Maine for a while.

  o0o

  By mid-afternoon, Gary brought Carol—another NTSB colleague of ours, in charge of public affairs—across the debris-strewn crash site to find me. I was standing in front of the nose at that point, inspecting the exterior.

  “Hey, Meg,” Gary said. “We have a chopper lined up to do another sweep, and I thought you’d like to go, to see what everything looks like from the sky.”

  “That would be great,” I said.

  “Can you come right now?” he asked. “The chopper’s on its way to the parking lot at Crescent Beach, and we have a car waiting to take you there.”

  “No problem.” I packed up my gear bag and followed them off the crash site. We got into a black SUV with Gary and me riding in the back seat, and Carol sitting in front.

  After we pulled out of the barricaded lot, we drove past about thirty TV news vans with satellite dishes on their rooftops. There were cameras and news crews everywhere, from local and national stations. I found myself searching the logos for CNN.

  “It’s quite the spectacle, isn’t it?” Carol said, turning in her seat to look back at me as I peered out the window.

  “It certainly is.”

  “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” Carol said, hesitantly.

  I pulled my gaze from the window to pay closer attention to her, because it was her job to deal with the media, and I wasn’t quite sure why she was even here in this vehicle with me, when there were press conferences to attend and multiple debriefings taking place in Cape Elizabeth and in the city of Portland.

  “Try not to get nervous,” she said, “but we’re going to send you up in the helicopter with Jack Peterson from CNN.”

  My head drew back with shock. “What? Why me?”

  Gary broke in. “Because you’re the most knowledgeable structures specialist we have, and you’re charming and well spoken.”

  I scoffed. “But I’m not a spokesperson,” I reminded them. “And I’ve never been on TV before.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s not going to film you,” Carol said. “He’ll be filming the crash site from the air. But he’s been incredibly helpful to us today, and we want to make sure he’s getting the correct information because there’s a lot of speculation out there right now, and everyone’s following his lead.”

  “But I don’t know what the correct information is yet,” I told her. “That’s the most important part of my job—not to form any conclusions until we have all the evidence. You know what I mean? And we’ve only just started to gather information.”

  She pointed her finger at me. “Yes. That is exactly what we want you to convey—that we need time to do this investigation properly, and we need the public to be patient, which isn’t always easy.”

  “Especially for the victims’ families,” I added, quietly.

  “That’s right,” she replied, nodding her head. “And you’re always incredibly respectful of that, Meg. That’s why we value you so much. It’s why you’ve risen so quickly to become a senior specialist. You’re brilliant, you’re intuitive, and you’re always tremendously sensitive.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, lowering my gaze, because I wasn’t in this for the compliments, or to rise in the NTSB hierarchy. I just wanted to do a good job, prevent more accidents from happening, and provide some closure to the families—if that was even possible.

  Just the thought of the victims’ families in that moment, and what they must be going through, weighed heavily on my mind. I looked out the window again at the passing landscape and let out a sigh, struggling to regroup emotionally.

  Heaven help me. This was only the first day.

  I pondered the fact that I had once thought this job would get easier over time, that I would somehow become immune to the emotional side of it, but that wasn’t the case at all. My anxiety only seemed to be getting worse with every crash.

  Of course, I didn’t tell Gary that.

  “Is there anything I shouldn’t say?” I asked Carol. “Or anything in particular you want me to communicate?”

  “Just that we’re doing everything we can to find answers and to provide the FBI with whatever information and expertise they need from us.”

  Our driver turned left at the sign for Crescent Beach. As we drove down the lane and approached the main parking lot, my heart began to race, but not in the usual way. This was something different. It wasn’t dread or distress. It was plain old-fashioned nervousness, because I was about to meet someone very famous.

  I saw the news helicopter waiting. It was surrounded by more news trucks and a few cop cars with flashing lights. We had to stop at a barricade to speak to an armed military guard who waved us through.

  A few seconds later, we pulled to a halt. Gary and Carol got out, and I quickly gathered up my things to follow.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It wasn’t like me to get flustered at a time like this, because I’d met more than my share of reporters since I started at the Safety Board. Big or small, plane crashes always attracted a news crew. But this wasn’t just any reporter I was about to meet. It was the very famous Jack Peterson.

  With butterflies swarming in my belly, I hurried to catch up with Gary and Carol, who were walking briskly toward the CNN truck. I found myself deliberating over ridiculous things like…should I get rid of the ponytail?

  No, I should keep it for the helicopter ride, because I’d be wearing a headset.

  Should I mention that I had watched and followed his recovery on television and admired his courage and fortitude?

  No, Meg. People probably said that to him all the time. No doubt, he was sick of hearing it.

  Don’t be a fan girl. You’re just here
to do your job.

  The passenger side door of the news truck opened, and I felt a strange rush of anticipation as Mr. Peterson got out.

  Dressed in loose-fitting jeans and a light blue shirt under a navy crew-neck sweater, he wasn’t as tall as I’d imagined. But that didn’t make him any less striking. He was very fit and muscular—and better looking than any man had a right to be.

  Still feeling nervous, I watched intently as Mr. Peterson moved to greet Carol, who he’d obviously met before. He also shook Gary’s hand. Then they all turned to look at me as I approached with my heavy gear bag slung over my shoulder.

  Carol gestured toward me. “Jack, this is Meg Andrews, our senior structures specialist. This lady is the best. She really knows her stuff. Meg, this is Jack Peterson.”

  As soon as we made eye contact, the butterflies in my belly quadrupled. Up close and in person, he was even more handsome than he was on television—if that were even possible. The blueness of his eyes practically knocked the wind out of me.

  I did notice, however, that he looked extremely tired and was in need of a shave. I also noticed a few small scars on his face that didn’t show up on the TV screen. Hidden under makeup, no doubt.

  Fighting to push the butterflies down, I reached out to shake his hand.

  “Hi, Meg,” he said. “Thanks so much for coming up with me today. I know how busy you must be. I really appreciate it.”

  “It’s no problem,” I replied. “It’s an honor. Really.”

  Oh God. Was that too much?

  He gestured toward the helicopter. The pilot was already in his seat and the door was wide open, waiting for us.

  “Ready to go?” Jack asked.

  “Yes.” I gave Gary a quick look of disbelief as I passed him and followed the superstar newsman to the chopper.

  o0o

  “At least the rain has held off,” Jack said as we buckled in.