Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

W e return to the parking lot, where Lucy waits inside the helicopter, the blades untied and rocking in the wind. She steps down to open the rear clamshell door used for stretchers as Marino and I climb into the back cabin. We help slide in the plastic-shrouded body, securing it with bungee cords attached to rings in the flooring.

Marino and I are dripping wet as we sit down next to each other, shutting the doors, another roll of paper towels waiting for us. We wipe off, fastening our harnesses as I’m conscious of Sal’s disfigured face and tangled gray hair, his flesh and wounds showing through the clear plastic. Lucy and Tron are in the cockpit going through an abbreviated start-up, stressed and in a hurry.

When the blades begin to turn, I put on my headset, looking out my window, the rain flooding the helicopter. Lightning flashes, thunder cracking unnervingly close, and I’m not liking this any more than Marino. But staying put in hopes the tornado will miss us would be foolish. I imagine a funnel cloud appearing in the distant eerie glow, then roaring like a train bearing down, turning the roller coaster into a pile of twisted metal.

Not to mention what it would do to the helicopter, and I don’t want to wait around for that finale. Our options are limited, and I don’t blame Marino for chewing on another motion sickness pill, his headset off. I continue staring out at the frightening weather because I don’t want to look at Sal on the floor near my wet muddy boots.

His bent rigorous limbs push grotesquely against the pouches as if he’s trying to get out, and I can’t help but think of the indignity. In my head I hear his chuckle as if he’s next to me, bending close, taking me into his confidence, his voice quiet in my ear. I remember the spicy masculine scent of his cologne, the tickle of his hair touching my face.

No doubt he’d make some silly crack about being shrink-wrapped. Or sealed in a big sandwich baggie. He’d joke that if he had to go, at least it was entertaining.

We must never be boring, Kay, he used to say, and I can see him leaning into the candlelight, raising his glass in a toast to that.

“Everybody all set back there?” Lucy’s disembodied voice in my headset interrupts my thoughts.

“All set,” I reply.

I feel gravity slip away as we lift off the pavement, the tall weeds growing through cracks bending and flattening, the sky dark. We’re rising above the parking lot’s tall light standards when they suddenly blaze on to my astonishment.

“What the flying fuck…?” Lucy’s voice sounds as tall iron lamps along the Yellow Brick Road blink on all at once, their lanterns smudges in the gloom.

At the same time, lights flicker in the Witch’s Castle dark empty windows. Music starts playing over the helicopter’s intercom, and I don’t see how any of it is possible.

“… We’re off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz…” The childlike singsong voices from long ago. “… Because, because, because of the wonderful things he does…” Stopping just as suddenly as it started.

I stare down at the roller coaster lighting up, and the train of empty cars begins shuddering, barely moving along the tracks, reminding me of the elevator in my building. Then I can’t see anything at all but moiling thick gray clouds as we gain altitude. I look over at Marino, his eyes squeezed shut, his face wan, an airsick bag in hand, oblivious to what just happened.

“Everyone still okay back there?” Lucy’s voice again, and it seems an ironic thing to ask, as I’m aware of the dead passenger riding with us.

“What just happened?” I don’t know what’s worse, looking down at Sal or out the window at the storm.

“Everything in the park was turned on. Some of the lights and such are operable, but not many.”

“Turned on by who or what?”

“We don’t know.”

“And the music playing through the intercom? I don’t understand. Has the helicopter been hacked?” I ask while thinking please God no .

“What you heard was coming out of the speakers in the park,” Lucy says as we fly through squalls of rain. “No, we’ve not been hacked.”

“The helicopter’s got sensors that can pick up loud noises on the ground,” Tron explains as we’re shoved by the wind, the mountains in and out of fog.

“I’m pulling in full power and climbing to a higher altitude that will avoid the worst of the turbulence.” Lucy’s voice in my headset, and I’m grateful Marino has his off and can’t hear a word. “You won’t be seeing anything out the windows for a while. Probably not until we get close to where we’re going. The weather there will have cleared by then.”

“How might someone turn on rides, lights, music inside a theme park that’s been closed for years with the electricity shut off along with everything else?” I can’t get away from that. “And doing it at the very moment we were taking off?? As if for our benefit?”

“You’re asking the same questions we are,” Tron says. “I’ve got people checking with the power company to find out when the service was turned back on.”

“Could lightning have caused something like that?” I ask.

“Not if the power is disconnected,” Lucy says.

“Someone was watching and ready, and wants us to know it,” I decide. “That’s what I think, explaining why Marino and I heard music inside the Witch’s Castle.”

“We’re being screwed with,” Lucy says, and I envision crazed eyes that remind me of spinning pinwheels.

I see the scars on Carrie Grethen’s once perfect face, and I know how she feels about me. I know who she blames for everything wrong in her life, and in an odd way I understand it. Perversely, I can see her side. A psychopath has no conscience or remorse. From her point of view, she’s done nothing wrong. But I’ve become the over-controlling mother who’s robbed her of everything that matters.

I committed the unpardonable sin of interfering with Lucy and Carrie’s relationship in the beginning when they were together at the FBI Academy. I unjustly maligned Carrie to put a wedge between them. I’m responsible for the ruination and deaths of those Carrie loved, most of all her own flesh and blood. That’s what she’d say, and I know she’s not done.

“We’ll be busy flying instruments and on crew only until we get out of the worst of this.” Lucy’s voice continues. “You won’t hear us but I can see you on camera.”

The thudding of the rotor blades is muffled by my headset, and I feel the Doomsday Bird’s powerful vibrations in my every cell. As we fly through volatile clouds, I can’t see the ground. I try to work out where Lucy and Tron are taking us and can think of no better medical examiner facilities than what I offer in Virginia.

But that’s not an option for some reason. At moments I have the sensation of being abducted while imagining Sal naked and alive inside a flying vehicle of some type. He had to know he was about to die, and I would have expected him to resist. Yet I haven’t noticed injuries that might make me think he put up a struggle. That suggests to me that he was incapacitated somehow.

As I try to reconstruct how he might have been confronted last night, I envision him driving his standard-shift truck up the poorly lit switchback leading to the Allegheny Peak Lodge, where Benton and I have stayed many times. I imagine Sal’s headlights illuminating a seemingly disabled vehicle, the driver waving him down. Or perhaps the person was on foot, acting distressed.

Sal would have tried to help, and my attention is constantly drawn to the floor. I understand the rationale for total containment pouches fabricated of clear plastic. Once sealed with heat or adhesives, they aren’t meant to be reopened. It’s helpful to look at who’s inside before cremation or burial. But visual identifications aren’t to be trusted, and seeing through the pouch is nothing but a drawback in my opinion.

I’d rather not look at the bag at my feet while belted in my seat, listening to nothing over the intercom with only gray out the windows as if reality is offline. Any minute life will return to normal, rebooted or patched like faulty software. Maybe I’m dreaming or in a different dimension. I’ll come to and Sal won’t be in a body bag. I’m rocked by another powerful wave of emotion as I look down at him in turbulence that’s unnerving.

I can’t hear the thunder with my headset on. But lightning shimmers in clouds, and I have no idea how high off the ground we are. I close my eyes, leaving my hand on Marino’s wrist until the winds retreat, the air smoother, more like skiing blue runs than black diamond moguls. I feel his thick muscles beneath my fingers, his sun-damaged skin clammy, his pulse rapid like a bird.

He can’t hide his fear from me, and I keep my hand where it is until the overcast is brighter and the rain has stopped. Then I move away, digging out my cell phone and turning it on, the signal full as we retreat farther from the heart of the Quiet Zone. I begin to click through messages. Shannon has sent a weather report that shows tornadoes touching down in the Monterey area accompanied by power outages and severe damage.

She’s worried sick about us, and I write back assuring her that we’re safely away from the worst of it. I’ll give her more information when able. She answers by sending me a link to a most unfortunate and irresponsible TV interview that is all over the internet. I glance at the accompanying transcript, and Ryder Briley has gone public with his allegations about my corrupt office being in bed with the police and the governor.

Dana Diletti interviewed him this afternoon at his sprawling stone and timber home. He described Fabian as menacing, referring to me as heartless and conniving. When the Brileys appeared at my office this morning, supposedly I refused to answer their questions. I wouldn’t take their calls or so much as let them into my parking lot. I won’t release Luna’s body or explain what I’m doing to it.

… He and the mother were in their child’s bedroom crying crocodile tears on TV, Shannon writes. Thought I might gag.

She says that Dana Diletti’s people continue trying to reach me. They want to know why you’re pending the manner of death. If it’s an obvious accident, why aren’t you calling it that?

I think about who knows that I’ve pended the case. Fabian, Wyatt, others at my office are aware. I mentioned it to Jesse Spanks inside the vehicle bay as Marino and I were on our way to the airport. But I have a feeling the information came from Blaise Fruge. It would make sense for the media to reach out to her. I ask Shannon what she thinks Dana Diletti’s producers are digging for.

It seems they’re releasing a news story about their investigation into Luna Briley’s “questionable” death. Was it really “accidental”?

Shannon suspects that the show ran a favorable piece earlier to gain access to Ryder Briley. All the while Dana Diletti was filming and acting empathetic, she was waiting to do a number on him. I wouldn’t be surprised. That sounds about right.

I look at Marino as the first rays of light break through clouds, touching his face. I notice the lines that show he scowls a lot, his strong stubbly jaw bulkier than when he was young. The scars on his nose and the top of his shaved head are from recent skin cancer surgeries. Ignoring my warnings about the sun, he’s as tan as summer and it’s only the middle of April.

When he finally opens his eyes, it’s getting close to half past five, the sun a bright smudge on the dimming horizon. I hand him his headset, and he puts it on.

“That was fun,” he says sarcastically, still unnerved—he can’t fool me. “Are we alive?” Acting like he wasn’t terrified.

“It appears we’re through the worst of it.” I stare out at churning gray clouds, glints of blue shining through.

I’m aware that Lucy can see us on camera. She knows that Marino has his eyes open and headset on. Yet neither she nor Tron are checking on us or offering an update. They must have their hands full in the cockpit. Or maybe they don’t want questions about where they’re taking us and when we might get there.

“How are you feeling?” I watch Marino sitting tensely.

“You mean after being shaken like a fucking margarita?”

“It was pretty awful, maybe the worst I’ve experienced,” I admit. “I had moments when I wondered if this was it.”

“Don’t say that when we’re not on the ground yet.” He stares out at nothing but grayness again. “Did I mention how tired I am of Lucy and her damn death wish?”

“I’m sure she did what she believed was safest.”

“I’d hate to see what she thinks is risky.”

“Would you rather stay put like a sitting duck, waiting for a tornado to lift us out of Oz?” I realize what I’m saying as I hear myself. “Shannon reports that several have touched down in the Monterey area. Apparently, there’s a lot of damage.”

As I’m saying this, the big cat and his bright white eyes appear in my mind, and I hope he’s safely out of the weather. I continue wondering how he ended up inside the theme park, and if animal control officers have been able to look for him yet.

“You really thought we were going to die?” Marino is serious.

“It was crossing my mind.”

“I guess we won’t now. I was hoping that if it had to happen, it would be quick. I’d rather not see it coming. And I said to myself, after all the doc and me have been through? At least we’re together in the end.” He nudges closer to my boundaries, and I wish he wouldn’t.

“Hopefully we’ll be landing soon,” I comment as sunlight intermittently shines through clouds, the rotor blades thudding monotonously. “But landing where is the question.”

“I was sitting there thinking what I’d say if it was all about to end.” He puts on his Ray-Bans. “I thought about sending a text to Dorothy. I don’t know why I couldn’t make myself do it.”

“If you don’t send the note, then maybe the bad thing won’t happen.”

“Did you think of sending a note to anyone?”

“I was thinking a lot of things.”

Through patchy clouds I can see the red tile roof of Keswick Hall, a splendid former villa, now a resort that Benton and I treat ourselves to on special occasions. I catch a glimpse of the swimming pool and tennis courts before we’re completely socked in again. We’re close to Charlottesville, but I’m unsure what direction we’re going except that it’s away from the mountains.

“If it was me, I’d want to know how someone feels before it’s too late. Wouldn’t you?” Marino isn’t going to stop probing.

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether one is really better off knowing.”

“If you thought this was it, Doc? What would you say that you’ve never said before?” He inches closer to spaces he shouldn’t explore.

“I don’t want to wait until I’m about to die to say what matters.”

“What would you say to me?”

“I might tell you how I feel about people asking invasive questions,” I reply, and I can’t help but smile as he laughs in spite of himself.