Impact (10 page)

Tollison hung up. When he got back to Brenda, she looked at him warily. “What's wrong?”

“There's been a plane crash.”

“Where?”

“San Francisco. Near the airport. Jack Donahue was supposed to be coming back from LA tonight. I have to go find Laura.”

“But surely someone else can—”

“She was trying to reach
me
,” he said, his ferocity as surprising to him as to the Woodleys and his date. “If there were someone else, she would have called them,” he added as reasonably as he could. “I've got to go. Jasmine, can you and Carl take Brenda when you leave?”

“But—”

“I'll call you.”

He bent to bestow a kiss that Brenda twisted to avoid, then sprinted toward the door.

His mind a whirl, the miles passed unnoticed. By the time he neared the airport exit, he was unable to keep from seeing the evening as a watershed. If Jack Donahue had been killed, after a period of mourning Tollison could marry Laura and begin a new life, the life he wanted rather than one that had been thrust on him, a life elsewhere than Altoona.

As he approached the SurfAir section of the terminal, the traffic thickened to a fudge. Beneath the canopy four TV news vehicles, two police units, an ambulance, and a crunch of other vehicles strayed under the bewildered supervision of a private guard. Horns honked, arms flailed, people dashed in and out, many of them crying.

If he observed legalities, parking his car was out of the question. Given the expense of the ticket, normally he would not have considered double-parking, but when it was clear that it would be many minutes before he could get through the jam, he left his Cutlass next to a dilapidated Chevy he hoped had been there as long as it looked, which was a decade.

The counter was a mob scene. Newspeople swarmed over the area like ants fighting their way toward fresher food. A woman in a SurfAir uniform looked both infuriated and on the brink of tears. As quickly as he could, Tollison edged to where he could hear the woman's response to the questions that flew at her like bats.

“I have no way of knowing if they will be made available.… Of
course
they are not being held against their will, but until the situation is clarified, we feel … I'm not at liberty to disclose their location at this time.… I have no word on survivors; an announcement will be made when definite information is available. I'm sure you understand our desire not to issue misleading comments on that subject.… At this time we believe the flight was full.… A complete manifest is not available—617 was a shuttle flight, with credit-card ticketing on board the aircraft. There were a few advance reservations, but not many.… Yes, the system might make identification of the passengers difficult.… Well, no one thought something like this would happen, obviously. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to consult my superiors. I have no reason to believe that the relatives and friends of the passengers will be returning to this area. As I said before, in the interests of privacy, their location will not be disclosed. They are, of course, free to contact you at any time they choose. As far as I know, none of them has chosen to do so. Now, if you will excuse me.
Please
. Let me by. Get that camera out of my face. You people are
savages
, aren't you?
Total savages.”

Tollison watched as the poor woman squeezed through the throng of reporters and made her way to an unmarked door to the left of the ticket counter. Gradually and grudgingly, the crowd of onlookers began to disperse, allowing Tollison a clear view of the counter area. When he saw no one resembling Laura Donahue, he concluded that those who had been awaiting passengers off the SurfAir flight had been taken by authorities to another part of the airport to await an account of the victims.

He looked up and down the ticket area but saw nothing to indicate where the families and friends of the passengers might be. The SurfAir counter was empty; the notation on the arrival schedule board beside flight 617 read merely
DELAYED
. He decided to drive to the short-term lot, leave the car, and come back to the terminal and wait. The media would have to be told something, and that something would surely indicate where they had taken Laura.

In his car and clear of the mob, he followed signs to the garage. As he was about to turn in, a knot of people emerged from a door at the far end of the terminal. Huddled together, they milled on the sidewalk until, ushered by a half-dozen SurfAir personnel, they moved toward a shuttle bus parked just outside the door and, in dreadful silence, filed into the gray-green vehicle.

Tollison slowed as much as he dared and looked at the men and women as they appeared at the windows. They had drawn faces, stark and anxious; more than a few bore tears or the empty eyes of dire perspective. One kept looking at the sky, as though she expected the plane to appear below the clouds, proof that the report of a disaster was a hoax.

In the next instant he saw Laura, her face a momentary moon beyond the dark plastic of the windows. As he was about to call her name, she turned to respond to something said by the man beside her. When she did not turn back, Tollison veered away from the parking lot and waited. When the bus pulled away from the curb he fell in behind it, close enough to keep tabs, far enough not to give alarm.

The ride was short. Five minutes after leaving the airport boulevard the bus turned abruptly, then pulled into a driveway that led through a high hedge to what appeared to be a small motel. Lights off, Tollison parked behind a service van that bore the SurfAir logo and waited as the bus riders trudged off the vehicle as desolately as they'd embarked. When they had filed through the revolving door into the gaily decorated lobby, he got out of his car and crouched behind the van, in position to see what was going on inside.

Enervated, the friends and families clustered around the registration desk as though its aura would revive them. They seemed fewer in number than the total that had gotten off the bus, and after a moment Tollison realized the group was in line, receiving room keys one by one. When he didn't see Laura, he guessed she had already been assigned a space. As he contemplated his next move, he found himself wondering whether she was as despairing as the others or whether, in some new nick of consciousness, she was relieved that Jack Donahue was out of her life so that Keith Tollison could enter it properly, through an open door.

Ten minutes later the last person had been dispatched toward the elevators. When they were alone, the SurfAir employees talked among themselves for several minutes, then one of them took a sheet of paper from the desk clerk, glanced at it and nodded, and led the others in the direction opposite the elevators. When they were gone, Tollison went inside.

The desk clerk was a young man with slick black hair, a slick black suit, and a transparent moustache that highlighted his chipped front tooth. He looked up with an expression that suggested he had prayed for a messiah.

“You're from the airline, right? So can I go now? My shift was up an hour ago, man, and these people are hassling me like mad and I don't know what—”

“I'm not with the airline,” Tollison interrupted. “I'm an attorney. My name is Tollison.”

After a jolt of panic, the desk clerk shook his head. “I got instructions. No reporters; no lawyers. Period.”

“I don't care
what
your instructions are, I have a client in this hotel. Her name is Laura Donahue. Her husband was on that plane. She came in along with the rest of the people. She's been trying to reach me all evening and—”

“I'm
sorry
, sir; I got my orders. You aren't supposed to
be
here.”

Tollison leaned across the counter. “Listen to me, son. I told you my client has been trying to reach me. She left word for me to contact her as soon as possible. I am attempting to do that now, and I want—”

“I can't help you, buddy.”

“As I said, I'm trying to reach her, and she
wants
me to reach her, and for you to forbid that to occur is a false imprisonment of Mrs. Donahue. I will sue
both
you
and
the airline for that, for the intentional infliction of mental distress on Mrs. Donahue in this time of tragedy, and for your gross and willful disregard of her basic human rights. It will cost you a bundle, son, and to prevent it, all you have to do is tell me what room she's in. The SurfAir people don't even have to know I'm around.”

The desk clerk thought it over, then looked at his list. “Donahue, Donahue,” he murmured as he ran his finger down the paper. “Got it. If you hurry, you'll be up there before they get back from their meeting.”

“Do you know anything at all about the crash?”

The desk clerk shook his head “It crashed, that's all I know.”

“While it was landing?”

“It was in a forest somewhere. By Palo Alto, I think. It was real bad, I know that. I think they're all dead,” he added softly. “I mean, it would take a miracle to survive something like that, right? God. You should have
seen
those people. Crying. Praying.
Swearing
, can you believe it? At
me
. Was
I
the pilot of the fucking thing? I only been in a plane once in my life and I got sick as shit over Denver. I didn't know anything like
this
would happen when I took this job. All I want is out of here, let me tell you. She's in three oh seven.”

Tollison took the stairs to the third floor. When he reached the door he tapped, and tapped again. When a voice asked him who it was, he told her.

After several seconds a desolate stranger appeared in the doorway, searched for succor in his face, then rushed into his arms. “His plane crashed, Keith.”

“Is he dead?”

As the echo of the question threatened to betray him, Laura Donahue shook her head. “They won't
tell
me anything. They just stuck me here to wait.”

“I'll go find out what—”

She held him fast. “Hold me, Keith. Please hold me. Hold me and tell me what to do if Jack's been killed.”

He held her as tightly as he thought she could bear, until he heard the telephone ring inside the room. When Laura made no move to answer it, he guided her to the bed, eased her onto it, and went to pick up the receiver.

“Listen good, 'cause I can only tell you once,” an oily voice demanded. “This could be the most important minute of your life. I'm the senior associate of Victor A. Scallini, the foremost aviation attorney in the world. Mr. Scallini would like to represent you in filing an action against SurfAir for the wrongful death of your loved one in the crash. His clients have received
major
damage awards in crash litigation—I'm talking
millions
here, believe me. There's no time for details now, but whatever you do, don't sign anything and don't talk to another lawyer. If you call Mr. Scallini's Los Angeles office tomorrow, you will be told what to do. The number is 213-555-1232. Write it down. This could be the most important thing you've ever done. I guarantee you won't be—”

Tollison dropped the phone into its cradle and returned to the bed. Eyes closed, shoes off, her green gown bunched and twisted at her waist, Laura blindly pulled him toward her. He crawled onto the bed and took her in his arms. As he pressed his lips against her hair, he could not help hoping that the catastrophe meant that he could lie with her forever—a dream as corrupt as the lawyer on the phone.

Postmortem, Examination No. 87-A-379

Name of Deceased: Jane Doe No. 16-W

Pathologist: Jacob Greenman

Date: April 2, 1987

Location: South Bay Mortuary, San Jose, California

External Description: The severely traumatized dismembered body of a Caucasian female, age approximately forty years, dressed in the charred and shredded remains of white silk undergarments, a cotton print blouse, and a blue wool blend skirt, the rest of the clothing being missing or decomposed or present in microscopic quantities.

There is a flattening of the torso as a result of multiple fractures of all of the long bones of the body, with displacement of the sternum downward. There is a decapitation injury close to the neck with avulsion of the neck and viscera. The heart and lungs and uterus protrude through a large defect in the chest. The lower left leg is missing below the knee.

Possible identifying features include abdominal scarring indicating appendectomy.

Cause of death: Traumatic evisceration of heart and brain due to airline accident. Remains will be held at the above location, pending identification and disposition.

WARNING:
Unless essential for legal or religious reasons, remains should not be viewed by next of kin.

FOUR

“But why?”

Alec Hawthorne crumples the top sheet of the legal pad on the desk in front of him, a sheet of scribbles that begins in lazy curves and ends in angry angles and irritated whorls. “I made the guy a senior partner last year, for God's sake.
I
doubled his draw
. I thought that was what he wanted.”

“He did,” Martha agrees mildly. “Last year.”

“He just packed and left? No explanation, no nothing?”

“That's the way I hear it.”

“Did he steal anything?”

“Only Gwen.”

“Who the hell is Gwen?”

“His secretary. The blonde with the legs you like.”

Perplexed and pained, Hawthorne shakes his head. “Did anyone see him go?”

“The receptionist. She thought the boxes meant they were remodeling his office. Again.”

“Who knew him best around here?” Hawthorne asks, casting his mind back across the years, seeking a foretelling incident.

Martha constructs a smile, filament-thin, maddeningly tranquil. “You did.”

Hawthorne shakes his head against the implication that he is somehow at fault. “Was he pissed about something? Lately people seem to be getting mad at me without me even knowing about it,” he adds, as if it is a phenomenon violative of natural law.