The Darker Side

'What the hell are you doing?' he asks, suspicious.

'Don't worry, honey-love,' she says, 'I have no problem with you being gay, really I don't. But I'm getting married soon, and, well--they say those gay cooties can be catching. Better safe than sorry.'

I manage to keep the smile off my face. James gives her a speculative look before sighing and saying: 'You're an idiot.'

Again, there's a certain relief there. Callie is treating him the same as ever and this annoyance is comforting to James in the wake of his revelation.

What about me? I wonder. What did he expect from me?

I glance his way, but James is staring out the window again. He seems relaxed.

I realize he wasn't worried about how I'd react. James knew I'd accept him. This makes me feel good.

'Now that we've gotten the Jerry Springer moment out of the way,' Callie says, 'can we get back to the business at hand? Let's not forget our priority: planning my wedding.'

'What does the business at hand have to do with that?' I ask, bemused.

Callie rolls her eyes at me. 'Well, it looks like we have to catch a killer first. So, chop-chop.'

I grin at her. She's not actually worried about her wedding. This is Callie's way; she lives to lift the somber, to light the dark.

'Let's head to Dulles,' I say. 'They're holding the plane for us. We can talk on the way.'

Alan gets the car moving and I reflect that this is the thing about life that's so different from death. Life is in motion. It's always happen- ing, always going somewhere, forcing its way through the cracks, moment-opportune or not. Alan's unexpected ugliness regarding transsexuals, James's sudden reveal, good or bad, both mean alive, and the often uncomfortableness of living is always preferable to the always tidy peacefulness of dead.

5

IT TOOK US ABOUT FORTY-FIVE MINUTES TO NAVIGATE OUR way to the airport. A local cop who'd been waiting got our car hurried through a security checkpoint and pointed us in the right direction. It's after midnight now, but like all international airports, Dulles lives off the clock. As Alan drives, I can see planes taking off, jumping from a sea of light into the night sky.

The plane Lisa was killed on had been moved to a maintenance hangar. The hangar is large, made of metal and concrete, which means it's cold. The temperature is continuing to drop and I realize I'm really not dressed for this weather.

Lights are on in the hangar, big and bright. The late hour and the stark utility of the place combine with the cold to create a feeling of solitude.

'Guess we're supposed to just drive right in,' Alan mutters, and does so.

'Who's that?' Callie asks as we pull up.

We're being met by a blonde woman I've never seen before. She's about my age, and she's wearing a black jacket, black slacks, and a white shirt. Simple, but it fits her too well to be off-the-rack. She's neither tall nor short, about five-five, pretty without being beautiful. Her face, which is a study in blankness, frames intelligent blue eyes.

'Smells like an exec to me,' Alan mutters.

She walks right up to me as I get out of the car. 'Agent Barrett?'

'Yes? And you are?'

'Rachael Hinson. I work for the Director.'

'Okay.'

'You have the plane for up to twenty-four hours,' she says, skipping any preamble. 'No one will be allowed in this hangar until then. You won't be bothered.' She points to a rolling cart near us. 'Forensic field kits are there, including cameras, evidence bags, and the file created by the police before we took over. I'll be supervising.'

I thought this might be coming.

'No,' I say, keeping my voice mild.

Hinson turns to me with a frown. 'I'm sorry?'

'I said no, Agent Hinson. This is my investigation. My team and I will be the only ones on that plane.'

She steps close to me, very close, using her height advantage to try and intimidate me. It's a smart move, but an old move, and I'm unfazed.

'I'm afraid I'll have to insist,' she says, glaring down at me with those blue eyes.

She's fairly scary looking, I'll give her that.

'Call the Director,' I say.

'Why?'

'Because he's the one who can resolve this. This isn't a power play, Hinson. Okay, maybe it is a little. But the truth is, you'll just be in the way, and your motives for being there would be a distraction. We don't need someone looking over our shoulders right now.'

She doesn't so much step back as shift her weight onto her right leg. I can see her considering what I'm saying, weighing whatever directive she'd been given regarding keeping an eye on us against the wisdom of bugging the Director. She's not worried, she's thinking it through. Hinson is used to exercising her own discretion.

'Look,' I say, to help her along, 'You know I'm not here just because the Director ordered me to be.'

'Functionally, you are.'

'Functionally, but not actually. I'm here because the congressman's wife asked for me.'

The smallest of smiles ghosts her lips, a slight softening of that all-business blankness. It's a smile of respect, an appreciation of my not-so-subtle name-dropping.

'Fine, Agent Barrett,' she says, stepping back now. She reaches into her inside jacket pocket, giving me a glimpse of a weapon held by an under-the-armpit shoulder holster. She produces a simple white business card and gives it to me. The card says: Hinson in black type, followed by a phone number and e- mail address. Nothing else. I glance at her. 'We're into brevity, I see.'

She shrugs. 'I can count on two hands the number of times I've handed that card out. Please call if you need anything. You can reach me twenty-four seven.'

She turns and walks off without another word, pumps clacking against the cold gray concrete of the hangar.

Round one to me, but I remember AD Jones's warning and I'm sure now he was right to give it.

'Hm,' Alan rumbles, 'how do you describe someone like that?

Scary? Tough? Both?'

'Describe her as she lives to be,' I murmur.

'Which is?'

'Useful. Useful is her higher power. Now let's check out our crime scene.'

'I'VE NEVER BEEN ON A totally empty plane before,' Callie says. 'It's odd.'

'Too quiet,' Alan observes.

They're right. Under normal circumstances, planes have their own noise, a kind of murmuring crowd sound. This one is a tomb.

'What is this, a seven twenty-seven?' Alan asks.

'This is a seven thirty-seven eight hundred,' James replies.

'Medium-sized, narrow body, seats one hundred sixty-two passengers in a two-class layout--which is what this plane has. It's one hundred twenty-nine feet long with a wingspan of a hundred twelve feet. It weighs ninety- one thousand pounds empty, can travel over three thousand nautical miles fully loaded, and has a cruising speed of roughly mach point seven.'

Alan rolls his eyes. 'Thanks, Encyclopedia Brown.'

'Where was she seated?' I ask.

Alan consults the file. 'Twenty F. Window seat.'

I frown. 'One question to ask: How did he ensure he had a seat next to her? That requires prior knowledge of her seating arrangements. We need to find out how she booked her flight.'

'There are too many variables here,' James says. I glance at him. 'Meaning?'