Breaking Point (23 page)

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.

“You and Andrew were close. I should have called.”

Amy broke the bear hug and used Kleenex to wipe her eyes, then blew her nose. “God, no. No. You had … Fuck, don't worry about it. Did you…” She gestured toward the meat shop.

Renee nodded. Amy's eyes brimmed. She stood with her weight on one leg. She reminded Renee of some kind of small, light shorebird, especially with that curly mop of cherry-red hair. “Okay. Okay. Wow. This wasn't … Hey, are you, y'know…”

Renee actually belted out a raggedy little giggle. “No. No. I'm not. No.”

Amy hugged her again. “This fucking sucks.”

HELENA

Kiki Duvall was checking into the airport hotel as Hector Villareal stepped out of the elevator.

“Hi. Kiki, is it?”

She turned. “You're … I'm sorry, Hector…?”

“Hector Villareal. Hi. We met at that conference in Miami.”

They shook hands. He said, “Are you all right?”

“Pretty much. They released me.”

They shook hands. “Dr. Tomzak?”

“He's okay. Concussed.”

“Listen, about Isaiah … I'm just … We're all of us so sorry.”

“Thank you. That's so sweet.”

“You need help carrying your luggage?” Then he rolled his eyes. “Of course. Your luggage is in the Claremont.”

“Beth Mancini told me she left me an NTSB credit card at the desk. I'll go find some clothes tonight.” She lived in Levi's and sweatshirts; the task wasn't daunting.

Hector's eyes traveled around the lobby as if looking for surveillance, and Kiki wondered why he looked guilty. Maybe talking to tall redheads in hotel lobbies did that, she thought, and almost smiled at the vaguely naughty thought.

Hector reached into his windbreaker pocket and withdrew an iPod Nano. “Do me a favor? Don't tell Peter Kim about this.”

He placed the device in her palm.

“Oh my god! Is this…?”

“You're the Sonar Witch,” Hector said. “I know how good you are. Give it a listen. Tell me what I missed.”

She hugged him. “Thank you. I need to help. I need to be useful.”

“I know. But that being said: don't tell Peter.”

*   *   *

Lakshmi Jain called a meeting of the medical examiner and his staff, plus volunteers who had come from three adjacent counties to help, giving up their Saturdays. But so far there had been no bodies upon which to conduct postmortem examinations.

“We appreciate everyone volunteering,” she said, addressing the twelve staff and volunteers in the sterile, white examination room with its three metal tables. Lakshmi disliked public speaking. She held herself stiffly, wearing the eyeglasses she really needed only for reading fine print. She wore them without consciously realizing she used them as a shield.

“Our host,” she nodded to the medical examiner, “and I performed autopsies on the pilots immediately because we wanted to rush the lab results. That's standard operating procedure for such events. However, the airline has flown in the families of the dead, and are letting them attain … closure, I suppose is the word, before we begin conducting posts.”

She checked her cell phone for the time. “That should be happening now. The process won't make any of the families happy, but research shows that it will reduce post-traumatic stress in the months to come. That's why we wait. If there had been overwhelming evidence that a passenger played a pivotal role in the crash—as, say, one might have in a hijacking—then that would necessitate an immediate postmortem.

“I intend to go to…” she checked a notepad, “Twin Pines momentarily. My goals are threefold: to make sure the bodies are being properly and humanely stored; to make sure all of the evidence is protected; and to confirm that the families have had the chance to say their goodbyes.

“Once I am satisfied, I shall begin the transfer of bodies here. Doctor?” She turned to the medical examiner. “I will leave you in charge of conducting the postmortems. However, before we begin post, every victim will be scanned, twice, with X-rays. We also will run metal detectors over them.”

“Twice?” a volunteer asked, raising one hand.

“Some of the shrapnel from an airliner can be as thin as a sheet of paper. X-rays are conducted from two acute angles to make sure we miss nothing. As we proceed with the autopsies, all foreign items found in the bodies will be photographed, bagged, and tagged. The victims' clothing will be searched as well. I, myself, would hardly recognize any of the shrapnel we find, but my counterparts in other NTSB teams likely would. It is important that we catalog all of the shrapnel. Questions?”

There were none. She thanked the medical personnel again and gathered her things.

In the corridor outside the medical examiner's suite, Lakshmi applied her earpiece and punched the number 2 on her belt communication rig.

“Hi, this is Beth.”

“Hallo. This is Dr. Jain.” Lakshmi winced, realizing she needn't be so formal. “I am heading out to Twin Pines to check on the bodies.”

“Okay.” The intergovernmental liaison seemed not to be her usual chipper self.

After a beat, Lakshmi added, “I need a driver.”

“A driver?”

“Forgive me, Beth. Since moving to America, I have lived in New York City. I have no need of a car, nor a driver's license.”

“Oh. I'm sorry, I'm … working on a report regarding the All-Thing. Plus, we're still trying to find out why there were so few passengers on board.”

“I wouldn't dream of asking you to drive me. Are other team leaders heading toward the crash site this afternoon?”

Beth said, “Jack and Reuben are there now. I don't think Gene's back yet. Hang on.”

Lakshmi heard a hiss, indicating that she was on hold. Beth came back on the line within seconds.

“Teresa is heading that way. Tell me where the medical examiner's office is, and she'll pick you up in ten minutes.”

*   *   *

Amy Dreyfus drove Renee from Twin Pines back to Helena. They agreed to have dinner together. It was almost 8:00
P.M.
They found a bar near the hotel with black-and-white photos of San Francisco on the walls and Sinatra on the sound system. They took a booth and Amy ordered a vodka gimlet. Renee asked for Haitian Barbancourt rum and the waitress looked at her as if she'd ordered Sheetrock. “Any rum will do.”

When they had their drinks and some privacy, Amy said, “Listen, what was it Andrew needed my help with?”

Renee sipped the dreadfully mediocre rum. It tasted like cough syrup. “What do you mean?”

Renee stuffed her hand into her suede jacket and gently gripped the reassuring, hammerless Colt .25. Her hand felt better wrapped around the cold metal. She wasn't sure why she'd brought it but its presence was comforting.

“He called the
Post
. I don't know, Wednesday, I guess. He called and said he needed some help leaking a story and wanted my media expertise.”

Renee's mind raced. “Really?”

“Yes. What's going on?”

Renee hunched her shoulders. “I don't know. I don't know. Why would he call you about the media?”

Amy studied Renee.

“I asked him if it was serious and he said, ‘life-and-death serious.' What do you think he meant?”

Renee drained the rum. She caught the waitress's attention, pointed to the empty glass. “I don't know.”

Amy leaned forward. “Renee! You're his wife. What was he working on that he needed to
out
someone or, whatever, some
thing
to the media?”

The waitress brought another rum and Renee drained it in one long pull.

Amy observed this and,
click,
realized how insensitive she was being. Her eyes glittered with tears. “Oh shit. Oh shit I am so sorry. You're in noooooo condition to put up with my journalism crap. Oh, forgive me, I am so sorry.”

Renee Malatesta's eyes remained as dry as sandpaper. She gripped the glass in one hand, her other hand on the .25 semiauto in her suede pocket. “No. It's okay. I can't help you. I don't know why he called. I'm just…” She reached across the table and touched the reporter's forearm. “I'm just glad you're here.”