I reached for the chain on the bedside lamp. Lying in a silence filled with crickets, I felt that my issues were at last being resolved. I was confident of vindication, and never questioned the venue or purpose of the morning's meeting.
That was a mistake.
THE FIRST THING I NOTICED ON OPENING MY EYES WAS A SHEET OF paper wedged against the braided rug.
The clock said seven-twenty. Throwing back the covers, I retrieved the paper and scanned the contents. It was a fax containing six names.
Shivering in panties and T-shirt, I checked the header information:
It was the list of H&F officers. McMahon must have forgotten to mention it the night before and had slipped it under my door. I read the names. Nothing clicked.
Chilled through, I tucked the fax into the outer pocket of my computer case, ran on tiptoes into the bathroom, and hopped into the shower. Reaching for the shampoo, I suffered my first defeat of the day.
Damn! I'd left my groceries in Luke Bowman's truck.
Filling the empty shampoo container with water, I gave my hair a low-lather scrub. After blowing it dry and applying makeup, I slipped on khakis and a white cotton blouse, then checked my image.
The woman in the mirror looked appropriately prim, but a bit too casual. I added a cardigan, buttoned at the top as Katy had instructed. Wouldn't want to look like a dork.
I checked again. Stylish but professional. I hurried downstairs.
Too tense for breakfast, I threw down coffee, fed Boyd the dregs from the Alpo bag, had a nervous tinkle, and collected my purse. I'd just crossed the front door threshold when I stopped short.
I had no wheels.
I was standing on the porch, looking good but feeling panicky, when the door flew open and a boy of about seventeen emerged. His hair was dyed blue and shaved to a single strip running from his forehead to the nape of his neck. His nose, eyebrows, and earlobes displayed more metal than a Harley shop.
Ignoring me, the young man clumped down the stairs and disappeared around the house.
Seconds later, Ryan appeared, blowing steam across the top of a mug.
“What's up, buttercup?”
“Who the hell was that kid?”
“The studded Smurf?” He took an experimental sip. “Ruby's nephew, Eli.”
“Nice look. Ryan, I hate to ask, but I have a meeting with Tyrell in twenty minutes and just realized I have no car.”
He dug into a pocket and tossed me his keys.
“Take mine. I'll ride with McMahon.”
“Are you sure?”
“You're not on the rental contract. Don't get arrested.”
In the past, family assistance centers were established near accident sites in order to facilitate the transfer of records. This practice was abandoned once psychologists began to recognize the emotional impact on relatives of being in such proximity to the death scene.
The FAC for Air TransSouth 228 was at a Sleep Inn in Bryson City. Ten rooms had been converted into offices by replacing beds and armoires with desks, chairs, telephones, and laptops. It was here that antemortem records had been collected, briefings had been held, and families had been informed of identifications.
All that was finished now. With the exception of a single pair, the rooms that had once swarmed with grieving relatives, NTSB personnel, medical examiner interviewers, and Red Cross representatives had reverted to their original function.
Security was also not what it had been. Pulling into the lot, I was surprised to see journalists chatting and drinking from Styrofoam cups, obviously awaiting a breaking story.
So intent was I on a timely arrival, it never crossed my mind that the story was me.
Then, a cameraman shouldered his minicam.
“There she is.”
Other cameras went up. Microphones shot out, and shutters clicked like gravel in a power mower.
“Why did you move remains?”
“Did you tamper with disaster victim packets?”
“Dr. Brennan . . .”
“Is it true that evidence is missing from cases you processed?”
“Doctor . . .”
Strobes flashed in my face. Microphones nudged my chin, my forehead, my chest. Bodies pressed against me, moved with me, like a tangle of seaweed clinging to my limbs.
