Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

After a dessert of strawberries on vanilla ice cream, we took coffee to the den and switched on the news. The Air TransSouth crash was the lead story.

A grim-faced woman stood at the overlook, the Great Smoky Mountains rolling behind her, and talked of a meet in which thirty-four athletes would never compete. She reported that the cause of the crash was still unclear, although a midair explosion was now almost certain. To date forty-seven victims had been identified, and the investigation was continuing around the clock.

“It's smart they're giving you time off,” Pete said.

I didn't answer.

“Or did they send you down here on a secret mission?”

I felt a tremor in my chest and kept my eyes on my Doc Martens.

Pete slid close and raised my chin with an index finger.

“Hey, babe, I'm only kidding. Are you O.K.?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“You don't look too O.K.”

“I'm fine.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

I must have, for the words poured out. I told him about the days of gore, about the coyotes and my attempts to pinpoint the foot's origin, about the anonymous complaint and my dismissal. I left out nothing but Andrew Ryan. When I finally wound down my feet were curled beneath me, and I was clutching a throw pillow to my chest. Pete was regarding me intently.

For a few moments neither of us spoke. The schoolhouse clock ticked loudly from the den wall, and I wondered idly who kept it wound.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Well, this has been fun,” I said, unwinding my legs.

Pete took my hand, his eyes still steady on my face.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“What can I do?” I said irritably, pulling free. I was already embarrassed by my outpouring and dreaded what I knew was coming. Pete always gave the same advice when aggravated by others. “Fuck 'em.”

He surprised me.

“Your DMORT commander will clear up the issue of entering the site. The foot is central to the rest. Was anyone around when you picked the thing up?”

“There was a cop nearby.” I focused on the pillow.

“Local?”

I shook my head.

“Did he see the coyotes?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who he is?”

Oh yes.

I nodded.

“That should settle that. Have this cop contact Tyrell and describe the situation.” He leaned back. “The trespass is going to be tougher.”

“I wasn't trespassing,” I said hotly.

“How strongly do you feel about this foot?”

“I don't think it fits with anyone on the passenger list. That's why I was snooping around.”

“Because of the age.”

“Largely. It also looked more decomposed.”

“Can you prove the age?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you absolutely certain the foot donor was that old?”

“No.”

“Is there any other test that can more firmly establish your age estimate?” Pete, the lawyer.

“I'll check the histology once the samples are processed.”

“When is that?”

“Slide preparation is taking forev—”

“Go there tomorrow. Get your slides bumped. Don't quit until you know the guy's collar size and the name of his bookie.”

“I could try.”

“Do it.”

Pete was right. I was being a pansy.

“Then ID Foot Man and shove it up Tyrell's ass.”

“How do I do that?”

“If your foot didn't come from the plane, it must be local.”

I waited.

“Start by finding out who owns that property.”

“How do I do that ?”

“Has the FBI checked the place out?”

“They're involved in the crash investigation, but until there's proof of sabotage, the Bureau isn't officially in charge. Besides, given my current status, I doubt they're going to share their thoughts with me.”

“Then find out on your own.”

“How?”

“Check the title to the property and the tax rolls at the county courthouse.”

“Can you walk me through that?”

I took notes as he talked. By the time he finished, my resolve was back. No more whining and self-pity. I'd probe that foot until I knew every detail of its owner's life. Then I'd find out where it came from, nail an ID, and paste it to Larke Tyrell's forehead.

“Thank you so much, Pete.”

I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Without hesitating, he drew me in. Before I could pull back, he returned my cheek kiss, then another, then his lips slid to my neck, my ear, my mouth. I smelled the familiar mix of sweat and Aramis, and a million images burst in my brain. I felt the arms and chest I'd known for two decades, that had once held only me.

I loved making love with Pete. I always had, from that first earthquake magic in his tiny room on Clarke Avenue in Champaign, Illinois, to the later years, when it became slower, deeper, a melody I knew as well as the curves of my own body. Making love with Pete was all-encompassing. It was pure sensation and total detachment. I needed that now. I needed the familiar and comforting, the shattering of my consciousness, the stopping of time.

I thought of my silent apartment. I thought of Larke and his “powerful people,” of Ryan and the unknown Danielle, of separation and distance. Then Pete's hand slid to my breast.

“Fuck 'em,” I thought.

Then I thought of nothing else.

I AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF A PHONE. PETE HAD DRAWN THE shades, and the room was so dim I needed several rings to locate it.

“Meet me at Providence Road Sundries tonight and I'll buy you a burger.”

“Pete, I—”

“You drive a hard bargain. Meet me at Bijoux.”

“It's not the restaurant.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“I don't think so.”

The line hummed.

“Remember when I wrecked the Volkswagen and insisted we push on?”

“Georgia to Illinois with no headlights.”

“You didn't speak to me for six hundred miles.”

“It's not like that, Pete.”

“Didn't you enjoy last night?”

I loved last night.

“It's not that.”

I heard voices in the background and looked at the clock. Eight-ten.

“Are you at work?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Why are you phoning?”

“You asked me to wake you.”

“Oh.” An old routine. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“And thanks for keeping Birdie.”

“Has he made an appearance?”

“Briefly. He looked edgy.”

“The old Bird has become set in his ways.”

“Birdie never liked dogs.”

“Or change.”

“Or change.”

“Some change is good.”

“Yes.”

“I have changed.”

I'd heard that from Pete. He'd said it after his tryst with a court reporter three years earlier, again following a Realtor episode. I hadn't waited for the trifecta.

“That was a bad time for me,” he went on.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

I hung up and took a long shower, reflecting on our failings. Pete was where I'd always turned for advice, comfort, support. He'd been my safety net, the calm I'd seek after a day of tempest. The breakup had been devastating, but it had also brought out strength I'd never known I had.

Or ever used.

When I'd toweled off and wrapped my hair, I studied myself in the mirror.

Question: What was I thinking last night?

Answer: I wasn't. I was angry, hurt, vulnerable, and alone. And I hadn't had sex in a very long time.

Question: Would it happen again?

Answer: No.

Question: Why not?

Why not? I still loved Pete. I had since first laying eyes on him, barefoot and bare-chested on the steps of the law school library. I'd loved him as he lied about Judy, then Ellen. I'd loved him as I packed and left two years ago.