“There’s nothing the doctors can do for him. They don’t know what’s wrong. He has trouble breathing, and they say his blood work is unintelligible. Two specialists from back East came out, and they said it looked like he was suffering from a systemic deficiency of some kind, but they can’t seem to isolate it.” She looked at her hands while she spoke. “One of them said it looked like he is slowly suffocating from the lack of some element. He probably has only a couple days left. He didn’t want to spend them in the hospital, so I brought him home. He’s in our bedroom resting.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You know, since the crash, he’s not been the same. Apart from the illness, I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve been sweethearts since middle school, almost sixty years now. I know him as well as I know myself. He has always been a mix of kindness and bluntness. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body and would never purposely hurt anyone, but he always spoke his mind plainly. Since he got back from the crash, he pretty much keeps everything to himself. He’s still the kind man I fell in love with all those years ago, but the bluntness is gone. He keeps everything inside now. It’s not like he’s a different person, just a slightly different version of himself. You know what I mean?”
“I think I do, Mrs. Sandoval.”
Ping and Carol Sandoval locked eyes for several minutes, communicating something unspoken. She seemed to be trying to assess what to say next, looked for permission to go further.
“I love that man more than anything in the world.” Her voice cracked as she spoke, tears pooled in her eyes. “But I think he doesn’t belong here with me anymore. I think he belongs somewhere else.”
“Where do you think he belongs, Mrs. Sandoval?” Ping asked.
“I don’t know, but he says he belongs someplace where…”
“Where what?”
“Where the sky is green.” She looked away embarrassed, paused for a minute or so and said, “The day he came home from the crash, he had the most amazed look on his face. He looked up to the sky and asked me what happened. ‘Why is it blue?’ When I asked him what color he thought it should be, he looked at me and said, ‘Green, of course.’ I thought he was suffering some kind of post-traumatic stress from the crash. It just sounded so crazy, but he was so sincere. Then he started to get sick. He couldn’t breathe well, and it just got worse.
“After a few days he started to talk about being from a different dimension, a place sort of like this, but slightly different. He said he was married to me there and that he loved me very much. I asked him if he wanted to go back, and he said he would never do anything to hurt me. Isn’t that sweet?
“Another time I asked him if he thought the blue atmosphere was killing him and he said he thought there was something missing from it that he needed, like what the doctors said. That was a couple days ago. Since then he has been drifting in and out of consciousness, delirious. When he wakes up, he keeps asking for someone. I think it might be a priest or something like that. I think he knows he’s going to die soon and wants someone to comfort him.”
“Who is he asking for?”
“I’m not sure I’m hearing it correctly, but it sounds like he wants me to get someone called a progenitor.”
Ping and Sam looked at Mara. Mrs. Sandoval noticed.
“What? Does that word mean something to you?” She looked at Mara.
“I, I…” Mara stammered, turned red and looked to Ping for help.
“Mrs. Sandoval, would you give us a few minutes to talk privately? I know it’s rude to ask in your own home.”
“Not at all. I need to check on my husband. I will be back in a few minutes.” She stood up and forced a nervous smile as she left the room.
Mara turned on Ping. “This is a setup of some kind. Her husband just happens to ask for a progenitor, and you just happen to deliver one to her?” She poked a finger at her own chest.
Ping smiled. “At least you admit you are a progenitor.”
“I’m admitting nothing. What is going on here?”
“Nobody is plotting against you or setting you up. You knew Mr. Sandoval was on the flight and he was from another realm before you got here. You knew he was sick. Sam and I convinced you that we were from a different realm. Why should it be so shocking that a woman, who has been married for fifty years, could be convinced that her husband’s counterpart has crossed over?”
“So what should we do now?
“A man is dying, and you have the ability to send him to a place that will likely save his life. What do you think you should do?”
“Ping, just because I can activate the Chronicle doesn’t mean I can send him back to his realm. I’ve never done it before. Why don’t you just go in there and poke him with a toothbrush and push him back to where he belongs?”
“We cannot purposely ignite an explosion that may or may not send him where he needs to go. Remember, it is just a theory, an assumption that people are always pushed back to their own realms. We’ve never been on the other side of the transaction to confirm that people actually arrive safely. Besides, in his weakened state, it might kill him, not to mention one of us. We had no other option with the Gambles. Here and now, it would be foolhardy to do that when you could simply send him home with the Chronicle.”
“Well, I didn’t bring it.”
Ping reached into his pocket and handed it to her.
“And you didn’t plan any of this?”
“I simply prepared for contingencies. That’s all.”
“So do you think Mrs. Sandoval actually believes her husband is from another realm?”
“Yes, Mara. I do believe it,” Mrs. Sandoval stepped into the living room. “Are you one of these progenitors?”
“She’s probably not willing to admit it at this point, but she is,” Ping said.
Mara glared at him.
“May I ask you a question?” Mrs. Sandoval locked eyes with Mara.
“Go ahead.”
“Can you send Matt back to where he’s supposed to be?”
Mara looked down at the Chronicle in her hands. “Mrs. Sandoval, you need to understand a few things. I’ve never actually done this. I can’t guarantee anything. Also, if this works, this version of your husband will go back to his realm, but there is nothing I can do to bring back the original, the husband you know.”
“I understand. All I want is for you to get him home where he can breathe again. Can you do that?”
Mara’s throat caught for a few seconds, but she cleared it and said, “I will try.”
“Matt’s awake. Come on, and I’ll introduce you.”
As they moved to follow her down the hall to the master bedroom, Ping pulled Sam aside. “I think it might be a good idea for you to wait here. We don’t want to attract your mother’s attention while the Chronicle is active.”
“Good idea,” he said, sitting back down on the couch.
*
Matt Sandoval looked much older than a man in his sixties. Gray and sallow, propped up on several pillows, he wheezed and labored to shift around on the bed. He appeared to be alert and coherent. His wife sat on the edge of the bed next to him.
“Honey, this is Mara and Mr. Ping,” she said. “Mara is a progenitor.”
Mara blushed. Mr. Sandoval’s eyes widened. He lifted a shaky hand and pointed. “You can send me home?”
“Is that what you want, to go home?” Mara asked.
His eyes watered and looked up at his wife. “Green skies.”
“Soon, honey. You’ll have green skies as far as you can see.” Tears rolled down her cheek.
He looked concerned and touched her cheek. “Okay?”
“Yes, sweetheart. It is okay for you to go. I want you to live and breathe again.”
The sick man tried to heave himself off the bed to reach his wife. She placed a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back. She leaned down and kissed him softly. “I will always love you.” She locked eyes with h
er husband but said to Mara, “Go ahead.”
Mara lifted the Chronicle and envisioned the glowing ball of blue light. As it began to spin and glow and morph into the ball of swirling mercury, Mrs. Sandoval’s gaze remained fixed on her husband.
Once the ball floated above Mara’s hand, she said, “Show me creation.”
The translucent bubble filled the room. The lines and nodes wound around them. After a minute, a node appeared just above Mr. Sandoval’s laboring chest. Mara leaned into the web of lines and tapped the node. It burst into a brilliant point of light that quickly collapsed into a black tear in the bubble. Air whipped into the opening and pulled on Mr. Sandoval’s pajama top. A breeze swept through the room. The old man gazed into the blackness and smiled. His body began to glow, radiating a bright shade of green. The gap grew closer to him, its draw more insistent. His wife held on to the bedpost, resisting the pull of the opening as tears flew off her cheeks into the void. Mr. Sandoval dissolved into a radiant mist that streamed into the blackness. When the last luminescent particle disappeared, the gash closed, and the node reappeared in a brilliant flash. Mr. Sandoval was gone.
“Enough,” Mara said.
The Chronicle winked out and dropped into her hand.
Mrs. Sandoval wiped the hair from her face. “You are a remarkable young lady. Thank you for saving my husband.”
CHAPTER 41
BANDS OF SHADOWS cast by the scaffoldlike North Steel Bridge swept across the windshield as Bohannon and Suter crossed the Willamette River heading northeast, returning from an unsuccessful attempt to interview a passenger in Portland’s trendy Pearl District. Suter craned his neck up at the two towers looming over the bridge.
“The middle of this bridge, the part between the towers, is designed to be raised to allow tall vessels on the river to pass through,” Bohannon said. “It’s also a double-decker. Cars and the MAX light rail cross on this level, and Amtrak, bicycles and pedestrians use the lower deck.”
Suter didn’t respond to the chitchat.
Bohannon switched tactics. “Do we have a copy of the passenger list with their seat assignments?”
“I’m sure Pirelli has one. Why do we need it?” Suter continued to look out the passenger window.
“We are wasting our time talking to anyone who sat in the front two-thirds of the plane. Whatever brought it down happened in the back. We should talk to those people first, then if necessary talk to the others later.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Suter said. “Let’s stop by the hangar and get the list, then we can prioritize. Although I think we both know the passengers we should be talking to are Mara Lantern and that Chinese guy. That’s where this thing is going to get resolved.”
“Yeah, but it would be nice to have another passenger who saw them do something on the plane. Until we get that, we can’t prove anything.”
“Oh, it’s no assumption they broke into the hangar, and it’s no assumption that the only body we don’t have is Mara Lantern’s. They are our suspects all right.”
“But what exactly are they suspected of doing?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
*
The black Caprice spun its wheels when Bohannon put it in Reverse to pull back out of the gravel parking lot next to the hangar. Two semitrucks with black cabs and yellow trailers idled next to each other in the lot, blocking all the parking spaces. The detective maneuvered the car onto the shoulder of the street and cut the engine. He reached into the backseat for his suit coat and stepped out of the car. Several more large trucks could be heard rumbling and maneuvering around the corner on the broad side of the building.
Bohannon slipped on his suit jacket and looked across the top of the car at Suter. “What’s going on? Looks like they are packing up and leaving.”
“Don’t know. There’s Pirelli. Let’s ask him,” Suter said.
The investigators walked across a grass island that divided the parking lot from the street, crossed behind the large trucks and stepped up onto the small stoop on which the NTSB chief stood. Suter stomped his feet to get the grass and dust off his shiny black Rockport shoes.
“What we got going on, George?” Suter asked.
“Just moving out some equipment we don’t need. Lots of logistics but not a big deal,” he said. He opened the door for them.
Inside the reconstructed airplane sat where it had been since its recovery. Daylight from open bay doors on the far side of the hangar backlit the wreck. Forklifts and men moved busily behind it.
Bohannon bent sideways to get a view of what was going on. “Hey, what happened to the morgue? Where are the bodies?” He looked at Pirelli.
“What are you talking about?” Pirelli asked, deadpan.
“The morgue, the plastic tents, with a hundred-some-odd dead passengers in them. Where are the bodies?” Bohannon looked at Suter.
“You must be mistaken,” Pirelli said. He turned and walked away.
Suter shrugged and pointed to the small conference room.
Bohannon took off his jacket and folded it over his arm before squeezing into a seat on the far side of the tiny room. He slid the jacket into his lap, then placed his palms down on the round table as if he expected an earthquake to begin at any moment. “So what’s going on? Why would they move the bodies?” he asked Suter.
“I have no idea. They didn’t consult me. After the break-in last week, they might have decided to move them to a more secure facility.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
He shut the door and sat down. “Probably not. If I had to guess, I would say the bodies were carted off and cremated. I bet the rest of the equipment went back to where it came from, an army depot in Utah. To be honest, I don’t care. We don’t need the bodies to continue the investigation.”
“The investigation? You call this an investigation? It’s more like a cover-up.”
“That’s enough. Calm down.” The sweating and twitching started up.
Bohannon grimaced when sweat dripping from Suter’s chin spattered the table.
“You were warned not everything would be shared with you. You also signed that security agreement. Dead bodies and plastics tents aren’t the only things these people can make disappear. Keep it up, and you’ll be sitting in a federal prison cell somewhere without so much as a good-bye phone call to your mother.”
“What is the point of an investigation if the evidence can be trucked off and destroyed? What happens if we actually catch the people responsible for this? We’ll never be able to convict someone without evidence.”
“We are not conducting a criminal investigation. We are simply trying to find out what caused that airplane to fall out of the sky. Once we do that, let the powers that be figure out what to do.” He rubbed his neck, twitched a little less. “I would strongly recommend you don’t bring up the morgue again, unless Pirelli brings it up first.”
Bohannon’s phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. He pulled it out to see Lt. Mike Simmons’s name displayed on its screen.
“Lieutenant.”
“Hey, Bo. We are getting reports that passengers from your flight are disappearing.”
“What do you mean? Taking off without telling someone? Kidnapped? What?”
“We’re not sure. Might be a little of everything. Might be a lot of nothing. We even got one missing person’s report where a man said his wife was sitting at her vanity in their bedroom, and she exploded.”
“She exploded what?”
“He says she exploded, like a firecracker. There are definite signs of some kind of blast in their bedroom, but there are no remains of the wife.”
“What’s this got to do with Flight 559?”
“She was a passenger on the flight. Like I said, we’ve got a handful of reports that some of the passengers are missing. You guys working on anything that might explain that? I know it’s a long shot, but it is kinda strange that they all were on that flight.”
“Jus
t a sec. Let me talk to my partner.”
Bohannon hit the Hold button and conveyed what his lieutenant had said.
“Tell him that we’ll take them,” Suter said.
“What? You want to take a bunch of missing person cases? You just said we weren’t conducting a criminal investigation.”
“Do it, or I will. They are already a part of our investigation. Why have another set of cops working it?”
Bohannon tapped his phone. “Lieutenant? We will follow up on the reports. Can you email them over to us?… Yeah, I’ll file updates on what we find out.… Yeah, I’ll let you know.” He hung up and looked at Suter. “We now have six missing-person cases.”
CHAPTER 42
PATRICK HARRINGTON, A late twentysomething guy with the wiry look of a vegan, invited Bohannon and Suter into his nicely remodeled bungalow just off Glisan Street in northeast Portland. Dark circles and haggard hair indicated he probably had not slept since his wife had reportedly vanished the previous evening.
Bohannon and Suter introduced themselves as the young man grabbed a floppy stuffed bunny off the couch and motioned for them to sit. He tossed the toy into an armchair and sat on an ottoman in front of it.
“Mr. Harrington, can you recount for us what happened to your wife last night?” Suter asked.
The man rubbed the side of his face for a few seconds.
“Kathy and I were getting ready for bed. Well, I was already in bed. She was sitting at the vanity across the room. We were talking about our daughter’s preschool—we’re thinking of moving her. I was looking directly at her while we talked, and suddenly she exploded. There was a flash of light that seemed to consume her, and then she was gone.”
The investigators looked at each other.
“That’s it? There was an explosion, a flash of light and then she was gone? What was she doing? Was she handling some kind of flammable liquid or explosive? Messing with an electrical device or something like that?”
“No, just doing her thing at the vanity.”
“What precisely was she doing when this occurred?”
“Well, she brushed her hair, but that was before. It looked to me like she was working on her nails or hands, clipping, filing or something like that. I wasn’t watching that closely. We were talking, but her back was to me.”
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