Impact (13 page)

He shook his head. “A friend. The passenger's wife is over there.”

He gestured toward Laura. The desk clerk took in her gown and the amount of flesh it failed to cover. When she turned back to Tollison, her lips were white with anger. “I certainly hope this isn't your idea of a joke.”

His face roasted under the accusation. “Of course not,” he managed. “Mrs. Donahue was on her way to a dance when they called about the crash. I … it was a benefit. She was on the committee. Naturally, she went right to the airport, so … her husband's name is John Charles Donahue. He was on the plane. At least we think he was.”

As he stammered into silence, the clerk glanced at Laura a second time, then shook her head and rubbed her red-rimmed eyes. “I'm sorry. You wouldn't
believe
the things that happen at times like this. Lawyers, undertakers, real estate agents, every sleazeball in town comes flocking around to make a buck off these poor people.” She breathed deeply. “Then there's the ones like I thought
she
was, family members who figure they might as well party on our money since what's happened has happened and they can't do anything about it. I'd like to say I think that attitude is healthy, but I'm afraid I think it's sick.” She gulped another swig of juice. “I'm sorry. It's just so … unfair.” She consulted a list. “Very well. I have her name. But who are you?”

“A friend.”

Something in the air made her hesitate. When she spoke again, her words were arch with judgment. “Breakfast is being served in the coffee shop. At our expense. I suggest—”

“We don't want breakfast, we want information.”

“I'm afraid I don't have anything beyond what's on the board.”

“What board?”

She gestured across the lobby. “As soon as we are informed as to the identity of a survivor or decedent, we post the name over there, and notify the family if they are staying here or contact them at home if they are not. Right now there are fifty-five names of the deceased and sixteen survivor names.” The clerk consulted a paper behind her. “Mrs. Donahue's husband is not on either list.”

“How long do you think it will take before all the names are in?”

“Sometimes it takes days. And sometimes weird things happen. Once, a pickpocket died in a crash carrying only the identification in the wallet of his last victim, so it was assumed … well, I'm sure you can appreciate the difficulties.”

“But surely there's
something
you can do.”

She looked at him with pained intensity. “In the Paris crash they found over fifty body pieces
per passenger
. Perhaps that will help you appreciate what we're up against.” Her eyes strayed to the glass doorway, as though carnage could be transformed by the air of morning.

“So we wait here,” Tollison concluded.

“I believe that offers the quickest resolution of the uncertainties. There will be some religious leaders here shortly,” the clerk continued, brightened by the prospect of providing tangible assistance, “should you or Mrs. Donahue feel spiritual counseling would be helpful. And we have arranged for a psychologist to be available this afternoon, a specialist in dealing with mass tragedies. If we can be helpful in any other way, please let us know. All expenses of your stay are of course the responsibility of SurfAir. I only wish there was more we could do.”

“I'm sure you're doing all you can.”

She seemed thankful for the sentiment

They ate breakfast in a silence broken only by outbursts of emotion at adjoining tables. After finishing his waffle, Tollison went to the lobby and bought a morning paper, but its pages were so full of pictures and accounts of the tragedy that he tossed it in the trash.

They were finishing their coffee when the desk clerk announced that three more names had been posted to the lists. Several people rushed from the room; moments later, one returned in tears. When the crowd had cleared, Tollison stood up. Toying with her toast, Laura avoided his eyes. He went to the lobby and searched the lists.

Jack's name was still not posted. He read the rolls through twice, then once again as he indulged in a vision of a world from which Jack Donahue was absent

Flushed with self-reproach, he returned to their table.

“I … is there something else I should do?” Laura asked after he told her Jack was still not listed. “I feel so useless just sitting here.”

“Does he have family?”

“A cousin somewhere. An uncle, maybe. I haven't heard him speak of them in years.”

“How about you? Is there anyone you want me to call?”

She shook her head. “I'm not that close to anyone in Altoona. No one who would be a help.” She lowered her eyes. “No one but you.”

As he basked in the phrase, Tollison reached for her hand and held it for as long as he could without becoming lurid. “How sure are they that Jack was on the plane?” he asked when he felt he could.

Laura blinked back from wherever the moment had sent her. “He was listed on the …”

“The manifest.”

She nodded. “They called to ask if I knew whether he'd actually taken the flight. I didn't know what had happened—I hadn't been listening to the news or anything—so I just told them I wasn't sure, but that he'd gone to LA as scheduled and I hadn't heard of any change in plan. Then they told me about the crash and said I should come to the airport if I wanted to be certain I got the details as soon as possible.” She sighed ruefully. “I didn't realize I still had this dress on until I was crossing the Golden Gate and the toll guy whistled at me.”

“He might not have been on board,” Tollison said, the statement less a likelihood than a slap at the part of him that wished otherwise. “Maybe he decided to stay over. Maybe he's trying to call you right now.”

He expected she would take encouragement, but instead she shook her head. “Last night was poker night. He
never
misses poker night.”

He refused to be dissuaded. “Can you activate your answering machine from a remote location?”

She nodded. “There's a code number.”

After she told him what it was, he went to a pay phone and dialed a number he knew by heart. When the machine was engaged, he pressed in the code and waited while four callers identified themselves. Two were clearly business people wanting Jack, one was him wanting Laura, one was Brenda wanting him. Brenda's voice was strained and formal. There was nothing from Jack himself.

He hung up, dialed Brenda's number, and listened through ten rings before giving up. It was Saturday, so she was not at school, was likely somewhere with her son, which meant there was no telling where she was. Wherever it was, she wasn't happy.

When Tollison reentered the coffee shop, another man was sitting in his chair. For an instant he thought it was Jack, bloodied but unbowed, emerged from the ruins to reclaim his wife. His heart lurched, but the man pivoted in the chair and proved himself a stranger.

When Tollison reached the table, Laura looked up. “Keith. This is Mr.…?”

The man's smile was quick and practiced. “Chambers. Hawley Chambers. I'm a representative of SurfAir in this unfortunate matter.”

Chambers floated off his seat and stuck out a hand, his rimless glasses a set of gleaming wheels beneath his looming forehead, his grip the beginnings of a contest. “I was just telling Mrs. Donahue that we realize how difficult the waiting is and that we stand willing to do anything we can to ease the situation.”

“Do you have any idea how long before identification will be complete?” Tollison asked.

“I wish I could tell you. In the Cairo crash, only four of fifty-two victims were
ever
identified.” His smile was languid. “But of course that was Cairo.”

Tollison looked at Laura. “Maybe you should wait at home. Maybe it would be easier.”

Uncertain, she glanced at the man from SurfAir.

“May I make a suggestion?” Chambers offered easily. “Wait here till this evening. Talk with our counselors or church personnel if you wish, or simply get some rest. If no word has come in by then, by all means return home. The desk clerk has your number, and we would of course call the minute anything comes in on Mr. Donahue.”

Laura glanced at Tollison. He shrugged. “Whatever seems best to you.”

She nodded. “I'll stay. But only till suppertime.”

“Good,” Chambers proclaimed, then glanced at his watch. “One more thing. We try our best to keep intruders out, but we have information that at least one aviation attorney has been seen in the building. There may well be more—they tend to appear like hyenas at times like this. They will attempt to persuade you to sign fee agreements retaining them to represent you in this matter, but I can't emphasize too strongly that our advice is to do
nothing
at this point—there is no need to be precipitous.” Chambers looked at Laura. “Do you have a personal attorney?”

Laura pointed. “Him.”

Chambers's eyes narrowed to the width of a subpoena. “I see. Well, of course I wasn't speaking of family counselors. Not at all. In fact, in our judgment general practitioners like Mr. Tollison can give you perfectly adequate advice in this matter. Our policy is to make generous settlements at times like this. Very generous.”

Chambers paused for a response, but Tollison provided only a polite silence.

“Well, I must be going,” Chambers said after an awkward moment. “I hope for the best, Mrs. Donahue. I truly do.”

“Thank you.”

“If the outcome is not salubrious, however, we will no doubt be contacting you, Mr. Tollison.”

“Fine.”

Chambers bowed, then swept out of the room. “A nice man,” Laura murmured in his wake.

“Maybe,” Tollison said. “And maybe you'll be lucky and never have to know if he is or not.”

Laura treated his false optimism as a canard. “Jack was on that plane.”

“Is he dead?”

His question came unbidden, presumed powers Tollison didn't believe existed, but Laura considered it seriously. “I don't know.” She looked toward the window. “What if he is? What do I do? With his business and all?”

“Do you really want to go into it? Maybe Jack'll walk in here in a minute and—”

She sighed disconnectedly. “I just wondered what happens at a time like that. What all has to be done.”

“Who wrote his will? Do you know?”

“Fred Fitch, probably. He handles Jack's business things.”

“Well, if Jack made you his executrix, you'd authorize whichever lawyer you choose to represent you to file the will for probate and go through Jack's records and open his safe deposit boxes to see what insurance and stocks and other assets he had, so the inventory can be made. Basically, the probate process assembles the property, puts it in the name of the legatee, pays the taxes and expenses such as the funeral and any other debts Jack had, and—”

“I imagine he's cut me off without a cent, don't you?” Laura interrupted.

That she had considered such an insult oddly cheered him. “Why?”

She shrugged. “I told you he knew about us, so I'm sure he changed his will. Jack's always been big on revenge. You, for example, were in line for retribution even before we became … whatever we became. I never knew why—I assumed you'd taken something from him at some time or other.” Her smile was cruel. “Lately I've been wondering whether you only pursued me as part of the silly
game
you two have been playing all these years.”

He clutched her hand. “You know that's nonsense, Laura. It's a difficult time, I know, but—”

“Difficult?” Laura looked at him with an almost drunken languor. “Are you telling me you never
hoped
for something like this, Keith Tollison? Are you telling me you never wished that Jack was dead?”

In the silence that was his only answer, he wondered what she wanted him to say and whether she would answer the question differently herself.

Back in the room, Laura attempted to shoo him to Altoona. He resisted, for his welfare as much as hers. She turned on the television, to a rerun of something that had been terrible the first time.

When the phone rang, Tollison picked up the receiver, but Laura snatched it from him. “Yes … yes … that's right.… Can you tell me anything more? … Should I go down there now? … I will. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Her eyes ballooned and bright, she dropped the receiver to the floor. “He's alive,” she said simply.

“Great.” The word lodged in his throat like a bone.

“He's hurt very badly, but he's alive.”

“Where?”

“A hospital in San Jose.”

“Let's go.”

“You don't have to.”

“Yes I do.”

When she started to protest, he reached out and tugged her to his side, less her lover than a teammate in a game being played by brand new rules.

It took twenty minutes to reach San Jose and ten more to find the hospital. When they entered, a SurfAir woman was waiting in the lobby. After Laura gave her name, the woman instructed the orderly slumped in the chair beside her to escort Mrs. Donahue to the fourth floor, east wing.

They wound through stairs and hallways, obeying signs, inhaling scents of medicines and death. Their destination read
NEUROLOGY
.

Their guide went to the nurses' station and rang a bell. A moment later a nurse came toward them, imperious, speaking while she was still several feet away. “Your husband is badly injured, Mrs. Donahue. There is nothing you can do for him at the moment, so I suggest you—”

Laura dismissed her dictates with a wave. “I want to see him.”

The nurse shook her head. “He is unconscious. Doctor will have to authorize any—”

“Where
is
the doctor?”

“I'm afraid he cannot be disturbed.”