by Noah Hawley
You can tell him, sweetie. Just—anything you remember.
The boy thought about this, then took his digger and crashed it into a chair.
Raar, he yelled.
JJ, said Eleanor. But the boy ignored her, getting up and running around the room with the digger, smashing it into walls and cabinets.
On the floor, Gus nodded, climbed wearily to his feet, his knees popping.
It’s okay, he said. If he remembers anything, it’ll come out. Better not to push.
Now, in the conference room, a logistical conversation is in progress about the techniques a hit squad (from Libya, North Korea, et cetera) might have used to bring down the plane. The most likely scenario is a bomb planted at some point during the flight’s time either at Teterboro or on the Vineyard itself. Schematics of the plane are brought out and they stand around the table pointing at possible hiding spots. The exterior of the plane is unviable, given the pilot’s thorough visual examination before takeoff.
Gus has spoken to the ground-crew techs who refueled the jet on the runway, working-class men with Massachusetts accents who drink green beer on Saint Patrick’s Day and eat hot dogs on July Fourth. No gaps can be found where a third party could have come aboard and planted an explosive device.
O’Brien floats (again) the idea that they should look at Charlie Busch, a last-minute addition to the crew. There are rumors, unconfirmed, that he may have dated the flight attendant, Lightner, but no hard proof. Gus reminds him that a thorough background check of Busch has been done. He was a jock from Texas, nephew of a US senator and something of a playboy, if his personnel file was to be believed. Nothing in the man’s past suggests he might have crashed the plane deliberately, no matter what his dating profile said. He certainly didn’t fit any known terrorist profile.
The day before Gus had been summoned to Washington to meet with Busch’s uncle, Senator Birch. Birch was a lifer in the Senate, six terms in. He had a full head of white hair and the broad shoulders of a former college running back. Off to the side, his chief of staff sat typing on his cell phone, ready to step in if the conversation floated too far afield.
“So—what’s the answer?” Birch asked him.
“Too early to tell, sir,” Gus said. “We need the plane, need to analyze the systems, recover the bodies.”
Birch rubbed his face.
“What a mess. Bateman and Kipling. And meanwhile, my poor sister.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Look,” said Birch, “he was a good kid. Charlie. A little bit of a fuckup early on, but he pulled his shit together, as far as I can tell. Made something of himself. What are Jim Cooper’s people saying at GullWing?”
“His record was good. Not great, but good. We know he was in London the night before the crash, that he socialized with a number of GullWing employees, and that Emma Lightner was there as well. But as far as anyone can tell, it was just another night. They went to a bar. Emma left early. We know that sometime that night your nephew switched flights with Peter Gaston. He wasn’t meant to be on Flight Six Thirteen.”
Birch shook his head.
“Bad luck.”
Gus bobbled his head to say, Maybe it was bad luck. Maybe it wasn’t.
“Your nephew caught a jump seat on a charter to New York the next day. We don’t yet know why. Gaston says the switch was Charlie’s idea. Said he just felt like going to New York. Apparently he was like that, though—impulsive.”
“He was young.”
Gus thought about that.
“He may also have had some boundary issues with women.”
Birch made a face as if to say, That’s not a real thing.
“What are you gonna do? He was a handsome guy. His whole life he basically skated by on a smile. If he was my kid I’da taken him out to the woodshed and beat some discipline into him, but his mama thought the sun rose and set up his ass. But I did what I could, made some calls, got him into pilot training at the guard, helped him find his footing.”
Gus nodded. He was less interested in knowing what kind of person the copilot was, and more interested in understanding his physical and mental state on the day of the event. Planes don’t crash because pilots grew up without fathers. Backstory gives you context, but it doesn’t tell you what you really need to know. Which is, what happened in the eighteen minutes between the wheels leaving the tarmac and the plane touching down in the ocean? Were there any mechanical faults with the aircraft?
As far as he was concerned, the rest was just something to do while they waited for a real lead.
Across from him, Birch nodded to his aide. Time to wrap it up. He stood, extended his hand.
“If this thing looks like it’s going to reflect badly on Charlie, I want you to tell me. I’m not asking you to do anything illegal, just a heads-up. I’d like to protect the boy’s mother as much as possible.”
Gus stood, shook the senator’s hand.
“Of course, sir,” he said. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Now, in a high-rise conference room, Gus watches himself in the glass, tuning out the suited men around him. They too are filling time. Right now the investigation is a game of Clue where the cards are missing. He needs a plane. Until then, all they can do is guess.
Hex bumps Gus’s arm. He realizes O’Brien is talking to him.
“What?”
“I said I got a warrant,” says O’Brien.
“For what?” Gus asks.
“The paintings. We seized them from Burroughs’s studio about an hour ago.”
Gus rubs his eyes. He knows from O’Brien’s file that he is the son of a boarding school principal, Andover or Blair Academy, he can’t remember which. This seems like as good way as any to design a judgment machine, one whose function is to police and punish—which is clearly how O’Brien sees his role in life.
“The man saved a child,” he says.
“He was in the right place at the right time, and I’m wondering why.”
Gus tries to keep his temper under control.
“I’ve done this job for twenty years,” he says, “and no one has ever described being in a plane crash as being in the right place at the right time.”
O’Brien shrugs.
“I gave you the chance to make this your idea. Now I’m moving on it myself.”
“Just—bring them to the hangar,” Gus tells him, then, before O’Brien can protest. “And you’re right. We should look. I would have done it differently, but it’s done now. So bring them to the hangar. And then pack your bags, because you’re off the task force.”
“What?”
“I brought you on because Colby said you were his best man, but we’re not going to do this. It’s my investigation, and how we treat the survivors and the suspects is a tone that I set. So it’s done now. You seized artwork created by a man who may one day get a medal of honor from the president. You’ve decided he’s hiding something, or maybe you just can’t accept that life is full of random coincidence, that not everything that seems meaningful is meaningful, but the truth is, it’s not your decision to make. So pack your shit. I’m giving you back to the FBI.”
O’Brien stares at him, jaw tight, then stands slowly.
“We’ll see,” he says, and walks out.
Chapter 22
Painting #3
You are underwater. Below you there is only darkness. High above, you see light, a gradual gray hinting toward white. There is texture to the murk, what appear to be black crosses peppering your field of vision. They are not obvious at first, these slashes of black, like something has been drawn and crossed out, but as your eyes adjust to the painting you realize they are everywhere, not simply brush technique, but content.
In the bottom right corner of the frame you can make out something shiny, a black object catching some glint of light from the surface. The letters USS are visible, the final S sinking below the edge of frame. Seeing it draws your eye to something else, cresting the very bottom of the canvas, the tip
of something triangular, something primordial rising.
It is in this moment you realize that the crosses are bodies.
Chapter 23
TRANSCRIPT
Leaked Document shows tension inside the Bateman crash Investigation, raises questions about the role of a mysterious passenger.
(Sept. 7, 2015, 8:16 p.m.)
BILL CUNNINGHAM (Anchor): Good evening, America. I’m Bill Cunningham. We’re interrupting our regular programming to bring you this special report. ALC has acquired an internal memo written by Special Agent Walter O’Brien of the FBI to National Transportation Safety Board’s lead investigator, Gus Franklin, penned just hours ago. The memo discusses the team’s current theories of the crash, and raises questions about the presence on the plane of purported crash hero, Scott Burroughs.
(BEGIN VIDEOTAPE)
CUNNINGHAM: As seen here, the document—which starts off cordial—shows disagreement between the investigators in how to handle the case going forward. As listed in the memo, investigators are currently working on four main theories. The first is mechanical error. The second is pilot error. The third is listed as sabotage, possibly to impede a government investigation into Ben Kipling and his investment firm. The final reads as quote a terrorist attack, aimed at David Bateman, chairman of ALC News.
But there is a fifth theory, raised here for the first time, one that questions the role played by Scott Burroughs in the crash. It is a theory Agent O’Brien clearly raised in person with the lead investigator earlier that day, only to be rebuffed, and so now, as he writes, quote: and though I know you’ve said in person that you have no interest in this line of questioning, given recent revelations, I feel I must put in writing a possible fifth theory, and that is the idea that passenger Scott Burroughs either knows more than he’s saying, or bears some culpability in events leading to the downing of the aircraft.
And wait till you hear why, my friends. Quote, Interviews with local vendors and residents of Martha’s Vineyard suggest that Burroughs and Mrs. Bateman, wife of David, were very close and appeared to have a comfortable physical relationship—hugging in public. It is known that Mrs. Bateman had visited Mr. Burroughs at his studio and seen his work.
And friends, as a personal friend of the family, I can tell you I don’t read those words lightly, nor am I suggesting that an affair took place. But the question of why Mr. Burroughs was on that plane continues to nag at me. But fine, say they were friends, even good friends. There’s no harm or shame in that. It’s the next thing Agent O’Brien writes that is, to me, the bombshell.
And I quote, Interviews with Mr. Burroughs’s manager in New York confirm that he had several meetings with gallerists set for the week. Upon further questioning, however, a startling (to me) detail emerged, and that concerns the content of Mr. Burroughs’s most recent work. As described by Mrs. Crenshaw, there are fifteen paintings in total and all present a different photorealistic disaster scenario, with many of the images focused on large-scale transportation accidents. These include (1) a train derailment, (2) a fog-bound highway pileup, and (3) a large passenger plane crash.
Continuing on, O’Brien writes: Given this, I can’t stress enough the need for further questioning of the man who, at very least, is our only witness to events that resulted in the crash of this flight, and claims that he was knocked unconscious when the plane first pitched should be tested.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have a hard time understanding why Gus Franklin, the team’s lead investigator, would hesitate for a second to listen to the advice of what is clearly a very smart and very experienced agent of our nation’s greatest law enforcement agency. Is it possible that Franklin has his own agenda? That the government agency he works for has an agenda or is being pressured by this liberal administration to bury this case quickly, lest it become a rallying cry for men and women who, like our heroic former leader, David Bateman, can’t stomach any more business as usual?
For more on the story we turn now to ALC’s Monica Fort.
Chapter 24
Allies
When she pulls into the driveway, a car Eleanor doesn’t recognize is parked under the elm tree. A Porsche SUV with a press sticker in the front window. Seeing it, Eleanor panics—the boy is inside with her mother—and she ditches Doug and runs to the house, banging through the front door, already calling—
“Mom?”
She scans the living room, moving deeper into the house.
“Mom?”
“In the kitchen, hon,” her mother calls back.
Eleanor throws her bag onto a chair, hurries down the hall. She is already chewing two people out in her mind, her mother and whoever owns the Porsche.
“You’re sweet,” she hears her mother say, and then Eleanor is through the door and into the kitchen. There’s a man in a suit and red suspenders sitting at the table.
“Mom,” Eleanor barks, as the man hears the door and turns.
“Eleanor,” he says.
Eleanor stops in her tracks, recognizing Bill Cunningham, news anchor. She has met him before, of course, at David and Maggie’s parties, but he exists in her mind mainly as an oversize head on television, brow furrowed, talking about the moral bankruptcy of liberal minds. When he sees her, he opens his arm, a patrician gesture, as if expecting her to run to him.
“The things we must endure,” he says. “Savagery and setbacks. If you knew how many funerals I’ve been to in the last ten years—”
“Where’s JJ?” says Eleanor, looking around.
Her mother pours herself some tea.
“Upstairs,” she says. “In his room.”
“Alone?”
“He’s four,” her mother tells her. “If he needs something he’ll ask.”
Eleanor turns and goes into the hall. Doug is coming toward her, looking puzzled.
“Who is it?” he asks.
She ignores him, takes the stairs two at a time. The boy is in his room, playing with a pair of plastic dinosaurs. Crossing the threshold, Eleanor takes a cleansing breath and forces a smile.
“We’re back, we’re back,” she says breezily.
He looks up, smiles. She kneels on the floor in front of him.
“Sorry it took so long,” she says. “There was traffic and Doug was hungry.”
The boy points to his own mouth.
“Are you hungry?” Eleanor asks.
He nods. She thinks about what that means, bringing him downstairs into the kitchen. She is about to tell him to wait here, but then she thinks, He’s hungry, followed by an intuition about the power of the boy in her arms. The strength he will give her, she who was always such a people pleaser.
“Okay, come on.”
She holds out her arms. He climbs in and she lifts him from the floor and carries him downstairs. He plays with her hair as they go.
“There’s a man in the kitchen,” she tells him. “You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”
Bill is sitting where she left him. Doug is at the fridge, digging around.
“I’ve got a Belgian ale,” he says, “and this Brooklyn microbrew some friends of mine make.”
“Surprise me,” says Bill, then sees Eleanor and JJ.
“There he is,” says Bill. “The little prince.”
Doug grabs two bottles of the microbrew, comes over.
“It’s a pilsner,” he says, handing one to Bill, “not too hoppy.”
“Fine,” says Bill dismissively, putting the bottle down without looking at it. He smiles at the boy.
“You remember your uncle Bill.”
Eleanor switches JJ to her right hip, away from him.
“Is that what this is,” Eleanor asks, “a family visit?”
“What else?” he says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. It’s a terrible thing when your life becomes the news and the news becomes your life. But somebody had to be up there telling the truth.”
Is that what you do? she thinks. I thought you reported the news.<
br />
“What is the latest on this thing?” asks Doug, sipping his beer. “We’re, you know, we try to stay focused on the kid and not—” Then, worried he’s alienated his celebrity guest, “I mean, you understand—watching the news isn’t really—”
“Of course,” says Bill. “Well, they’re still looking for the rest of the plane.”
Eleanor shakes her head. Are they insane?
“No. Not in front of JJ.”
Doug’s mouth gets tight. He has never liked being scolded by women, especially in front of other men. Eleanor sees it, adds it to the list of today’s offenses. She puts the boy in a chair and goes to the fridge.
“She’s right, of course,” says Bill. “Women are better at these things than men. Feelings. We tend to focus on the facts. What we can do to help.”
Eleanor tries to tune him out, focuses on feeding her nephew. He’s a picky eater, not fussy but selective. He’ll eat cottage cheese, but not cream cheese. He likes hot dogs, but not salami. It’s just a question of dialing it in.
Bill, meanwhile, has decided it’s his mission to get the boy to smile.
“You remember Uncle Bill, right?” he says. “I was at your baptism.”
Eleanor brings the boy a cup of water. He drinks.
“And your sister,” Bill continues, “at hers too. She was—such a beautiful girl.”
Eleanor gives Bill a look. Watch it. He nods, shifts focus without hesitating, trying to show her he’s a good listener, a good partner. That they’re in this together.
“And I know I haven’t been around much lately, unfortunately. Work and, well, your dad and me didn’t always see eye-to-eye. Too close maybe. But, you know, there was love there. Especially on my end. But in the end it’s what we do, grown-ups. You’ll see. Or I hope you won’t, but probably you will. We work too much at the expense of love.”
“Mr. Cunningham,” says Eleanor. “It’s nice of you to visit, but this is—after we eat it’s nap time.”
“No. He napped this morning,” her mother offers. Eleanor glares at her. She too is a people pleaser, Bridget Greenway, especially men. The original welcome mat. Their father, Eleanor and Maggie’s, left their mother when Eleanor went off to college, divorcing her and moving to Florida. It was the smiling he couldn’t take, their mother’s constant Stepford grin. Today he lives in Miami and dates brooding divorcées with fake tits. He’s meant to come next week, after Bridget leaves.
