“I always thought that looked like a giant alien thumbtack stuck into the side of the hill. It’s been years since I rode the elevator. Remember when we used to ride it up and down? Drove the operator nuts ’cause he knew we’d just turn around and go back to the top. I bet they don’t have elevator operators anymore.”
“Yes they do. They sit in the elevator, pressing the buttons and counting how many people go up and down,” Abby said. “They’ve remodeled the deck at the top too.”
The light turned green, and they continued on Main for two blocks and took a left on Fifth Street directly in front of the paper mill. The road curved to the right as they passed through a short dark tunnel beneath the railroad tracks. They emerged from the dark in seconds on the road to Canby. The street began to climb the side of the bluff, and, as the brush thinned out to the right, Mara caught glimpses of the river that coursed alongside them. She snapped her head forward to concentrate on the road.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“We could pull over here at the falls, and I can drive if you want.”
“No, I’ve had my quota of river gazing for the week.”
Without slowing, they whipped past the large brown sign titled Oregon History that marked the tourist-viewing area overlooking Willamette Falls. Abby stared toward the river and the old industrial buildings clustered on the far side of the river. Mara kept her eyes on the line in the middle of the road.
“You never answered me about biking tomorrow,” Abby said.
“I’ll call Bruce to let him know we’re still on.”
“Think your mom will let you?”
“I’ll chuck a couple crystals in my fanny pack. It’ll all be good.”
CHAPTER 8
BOHANNON GRIPPED THE steering wheel tight enough to keep his hands from shaking as he turned off the highway into a knot of intersections and poorly placed median strips near Foster Road. He had had to swerve twice to avoid oncoming traffic, getting so rattled at one point that he wasn’t sure if he was in the wrong lane or the cars in front of him were.
Suter didn’t seem to notice and spent the ride rubbing his fingers over his pockmarked cheeks and his thick black eyebrows, as if his skin itched but he didn’t want to use his nails to scratch. He had been silent since they had left Gresham.
At a red light in front of a payday loan store, Bohannon turned to him. “So what the hell was that all about?”
“You mean the housewife scaling and jumping off a three-story apartment building?” Suter asked.
“We’ll get to that in a minute. I mean the gun. She wasn’t threatening anyone.”
“You didn’t find that conduct threatening?”
“Not directly, no. Not enough to justify shooting someone.”
“I didn’t shoot anyone. I was acting with an abundance of caution.”
“You and I have a different idea of caution.” Bohannon’s phone buzzed, and he hit the hands-free button.
“They found my wife at the convenience store down the road,” said Mark Bartkowski.
“How is she?” Bohannon asked.
“She’s fine. She was eating a box of snack cakes and downing a big cola, pleasant as can be. Not a scratch on her. I didn’t tell the cops what happened, just that she was acting crazy. She agreed to go to the hospital for observation as long as I agreed to bring food.”
“That’s great. Good luck, Mr. Bartkowski.”
Bohannon hit the Disconnect button and glanced over to Suter in the passenger seat. “So what was going on with her anyway?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Suter said.
“You have no idea, or you have no idea you’re willing to share?”
“Look, there are some details about the crash that need to be kept quiet for the time being. Pirelli told me that he explained it to you. As far as what went on back there, I’m as perplexed as you. Let’s hope we can get through the interview with Mrs. Gonzales without any acrobatics.”
*
Marisol Gonzales’s pink two-bedroom house was in the middle of a clean lower-middle-class block in Portland’s Brentwood-Darlington neighborhood. She and her husband sat on a small sofa in their living room when the investigators walked up to the front door. The door itself was open, but a screen door covered the entrance. When the two investigators knocked, the fiftysomething olive-skinned woman with a thick braid over her left shoulder stood up and shuffled to the door.
“You must be the crash investigators,” she said, pushing open the door. “I’m Marisol, and this is my husband, Miquel.” She pointed to the wiry, dark-skinned man on the worn flower-print couch. He nodded once and looked down at his hands.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Special Agent Ethan Suter, and this is Detective Daniel Bohannon. We are working on the investigation of Flight 559, trying to figure out what caused the accident. Would you mind answering a few questions for us?”
She nodded and pointed to a pair of tattered gray high-backed armchairs across from the couch. “Of course.”
“Mrs. Gonzales, as your flight was boarding and taking off, did you notice anything unusual? Was anyone acting strangely or out of place?” Suter asked.
“Not when we were boarding. That was normal,” she said. “After the flight took off, there were strange lights inside the plane.”
“You mean in the panels above your head?”
“No, there was a blue light. It flashed off and on, like a strobe. It was very strange. It started after takeoff.”
“Where did this light come from?”
“I’m not sure. It was hard to tell. There was a commotion in the aisle behind me, but, after people got scared, it was hard to tell anything. There was a lot of crying and yelling, people moving around. It was difficult to see what was happening,” she said. She turned to look at her husband and said, “If you are so bored, why don’t you go out back and sweep off the porch?”
Miquel opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted.
“No, it is not woman’s work.”
He tried again.
“I will not stop.”
“You need to stop arguing with me when I haven’t said anything,” he said and walked out of the room.
“He hates it that I know his mind,” she said to the investigators.
“You know his mind?” Suter asked.
“I know his thoughts,” she said. “We are bonded.”
Suter looked to the detective to see if he understood the woman.
Bohannon shrugged.
“Anyway, back to the flight. You saw this flashing light, and there was a commotion. Were they related? Did they come from the same part of the plane?”
“It was impossible to tell. There was so much noise, and we were scared to death.”
“I understand. Was there anything about this light that made you think it might have caused the accident?”
“I don’t know. Once the plane started falling, I couldn’t think straight. We were going down so fast that I could not breathe. I think, at one point, I fainted. I could not take a breath, we were going down so rapidly.”
Bohannon’s phone rang. He excused himself and walked out the front door. Once outside he stepped down off the small porch onto the pebble sidewalk that ran to the street. He took several steps away from the house and tapped an icon on his phone.
“Please tell me that you have something better for me to do,” he said, noticing his lieutenant’s name on the screen.
“You’re a little green to be having an attitude already.” There was no humor in his voice.
“Sorry. This isn’t what I envisioned my first day would be like.”
“You mean you didn’t envision this is what your first month would be like. They’ve requested you for four weeks. They’re even reimbursing the city for your time, so we’re leasing you out.”
“But—”
“No buts. You’re working with the Feds. That’s got to have some educational value
to a new detective,” he said. “There’ll still be plenty of crimes for you to bust when you get back. Email me a weekly report so I know you’re not slacking off.” He hung up.
Bohannon stared back at the little house flanked by rhododendrons and a patchy lawn, in no hurry to go back inside. An eighteen-inch faded blue-and-white Virgin Mary statue stood near the right corner of the house, next to a worn dirt path leading to the back of the house. Brush hanging over the neighbor’s fence obscured the view.
Someone hissed at him from the foliage.
He leaned over to get a better look down the path.
A hand reached out and pulled away a branch. Miquel held a finger to his lips and beckoned the detective to follow.
*
“What can I do for you?” Bohannon asked after he had followed Miquel to the backyard.
“There is something strange going on with her.” Miquel nodded his head sideways toward the house.
“You mean your wife?”
“Yes. But that woman is not my wife. She looks like my wife, but she certainly doesn’t act like her.”
“What do you mean?”
Miquel looked over his shoulder at the house. “My wife is very quiet, not opinionated or outspoken. This one talks all the time, for both of us. She says what she thinks, and she says what I think, even before I can.”
“You mean she tries to tell you what to think. There are some wives who do that, right?”
“No. I know it’s crazy, but she knows. When I wake up in the morning, she knows what I dreamed. When I have a new idea or have read something interesting, she tells me before I tell her.”
“Mr. Gonzales—”
“I am not lying. She knows what I’m thinking.”
“Okay,” Bohannon said, trying to keep doubt out of his voice.
“I can prove it to you,” Miguel said. “She’s going to get mad at me for doing this, but it’s the only way to show you. Take out your driver’s license.”
“What?”
“Let me see your driver’s license.”
Bohannon shook his head but still reached for his wallet. “Okay, but I’m not sure what this has to do with anything.” He pulled out the card and held it up to Miquel.
Miquel stared at it and said, “Two, four, eight, two, nine, nine, seven.” He closed his eyes and repeated it. “Okay, let’s go inside.”
Bohannon followed him into the back door. In the living room, Suter nodded as Marisol praised the rescuers who had pulled her out of the river. She stopped when they sat down.
“Why would Miquel care what your driver’s license number is?” she said to Bohannon.
Suter raised an eyebrow.
“Do you know the number?” Bohannon asked.
“Two, four, eight, two, nine, nine, seven. Why?”
Bohannon looked at Suter. “Did she leave or use her cell phone or anything in the last five minutes or so?”
“No.” Suter narrowed his eyes.
“Mrs. Gonzales, do you think you can read your husband’s mind?”
“Of course, he’s my husband.”
“Can you read my mind?”
“Of course not. I’m bonded to Miquel, not you.”
“Okay, thank you.” Bohannon nodded to Suter. “Sorry to interrupt. I’ve got to return a call.”
“We’re almost done here,” Suter said. “I’ll meet you out front.” He looked like he wanted to get out of there.
Miquel had returned to the backyard and walked around to the front this time to talk to Bohannon. “See? See what she does? That is not my wife.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Gonzales. Maybe you should take your wife in for an examination or counseling. You don’t really think she can read your mind, do you?”
“This has been going on for five days. I haven’t had a private thought since she got back.”
“Even if it’s true, there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s not against the law to read your husband’s mind.”
“What if someone took my wife? That’s against the law. She is not my wife,” Miquel said, jabbing a finger in the direction of the house. “If someone took my wife, that is a crime, right?”
“Mr. Gonzales, get some counseling for your wife. She has been through a lot. Maybe go with her. Surviving a plane crash is a terrifying, life-altering event.”
*
Five minutes later Suter stepped out the front door and thanked Mrs. Gonzales. She leaned out to wave good-bye to Bohannon. Her dejected husband had already made his way to the backyard.
Bohannon pointed his key fob at his car and unlocked it.
“Let’s call it a day. Can you drop me off at my hotel? We’ll regroup tomorrow morning out at the hangar. Pirelli texted me a while ago and says you’ve been approved to work with us for the duration. He wants to read you into some more details about the case.”
“Details? What kind of details?”
CHAPTER 9
DESPITE HER MOTHER’S protestations to rest after Abby had dropped her off, Mara worked on the rototiller Diana used to turn soil in her organic vegetable-and-herb garden. Sitting cross-legged on the covered back porch, Mara had splayed parts of the device in a fan pattern on the floor in front of her, inspecting and working on each in turn. Only the handlebars, frame and tines were recognizable to Diana as she stepped out onto the porch.
“Remember the first time I took this apart?” Mara asked, waving a piece of carburetor.
“Yes, you were eight. Grandpa had dropped it off the day before, and you were obsessed with it.”
“You had a major meltdown when you caught me.”
“What do you expect? Normal eight-year-old girls play with dolls and stuffed animals. They don’t take tillers apart. You were covered with grease, and there were parts all over the place. I had to till manually that year.”
“Only because you wouldn’t let me put it back together.”
“Who knew you were such a grease monkey? You eventually got it fixed.”
“I had to break into the shed to do it. For years you thought Grandpa had reassembled it,” Mara said. “Come out to give me a hand?”
“No, I’ve got some lentil soup and that bread you like on the table. Come on in and eat. You can work on that later. I won’t be tilling for weeks yet.”
*
Mara walked into the kitchen drying her hands with a towel, which she threw over the back of her chair before sitting at the round dinette table set off in a small alcove. Diana ladled soup into her bowl, passed the breadbasket and sat down. She reached across the table and grasped Mara’s chin with two fingers and tilted her head trying to get a look at the injury near her temple.
“It looks like that is healing quickly. How are you feeling?”
Mara pulled her chin away. “I feel fine. It doesn’t hurt anymore, and I’ve been clearheaded since I woke up.”
“Still you should take it easy, just in case.”
“I’ve been taking it easy in the hospital for nearly a week. I’m ready to start moving around a bit. To tell you the truth, I’m feeling kind of antsy. Abby and I are going biking with Bruce tomorrow. He’s going to give us a tour of some of the trails we’ve not been on.”
“Mara, you just got out of the hospital. I don’t think it’s a good idea—”
“We’re going to take it easy. Almost all of it is flat paved bike paths. I’ll be wearing a helmet, and we won’t even be on the roads most of the time. Bruce knows what he’s doing. You remember Bruce, the bicycle mechanic at the shop, Mr. Mason’s grandson? I promise to be careful.”
“I just wish you would slow down long enough to absorb what has happened to you.”
“I can absorb just fine while I’m pedaling.”
“Well, make sure you charge up your phone and take it with you, just in case.”
“Deal.” She scooped up some lentils, stopped lifting her spoon halfway to her mouth. “Oh, I was thinking about that medallion or whatever it is we found in my pocket.
Do you know anyone who can give me some pointers on how to repair it? I figured since it has crystals, you might know a New Age jeweler or metallurgist or something.”
“That’s not like you, to want to engage with my friends.”
“I don’t want to engage. It’s more like a contract job.” She slurped loudly. “Just business. No hinky hoodoo let-me-feel-your-chakra stuff.”
“You sound like your father, and I’m not only talking about the slurping. Just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean you should belittle it. You expect me to ask someone to help you while you make fun of them behind their back?”
“Sorry. I’ll be good.”
“Thank you. I really wish you would be a little more open-minded. Everything in Heaven and Earth isn’t built with gears and powered by batteries.”
“Mom, I said I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you wound up. You got someone in mind?”
“I think so, but you need to be respectful.”
“Mom, I got it. I’ll keep the ridicule to a minimum.”
“You’ll keep the ridicule to yourself or no deal,” Diana said. “And don’t leave that bath towel in my kitchen when you get up.”
*
Diana heard Ned Pastor’s truck pull up out front, and she turned on the porch light for him. She then turned to Mara and gave her a stern “be good” look.
“As long as he doesn’t try to read the bumps on my head, I’ll be cool.”
Ned was a tall lanky man who could have been anywhere between sixty-five and eighty years old. Wiping rain from his flannel shirt, he stepped into the living room with the stride and presence of a much younger man.
“I hear you have something you want me to see.” He looked at the old DVD carrying case in which Mara had placed the medallion. She opened it and handed the copper piece to him.
Ned accepted it, rotating it in his palm, feeling the texture of the etching with the pad of his thumb and finally flipping it over to look at the back. He was intense in his examination. After a few minutes, he said, “This is a unique piece. It radiates…something. Where did you get it?”
“We found it in my pocket when I was taken to the hospital after the crash,” Mara said.
Broken Realms (The Chronicles of Mara Lantern, Book 1) Page 5