by Kim Pritekel
Denny stood off by herself, her mind reeling from the heat that still traveled through her body. When she glanced at the blonde, the heat level raised, her body clenching from months of neglect. Turning away, she headed into the thick jungle, Dean's knowing look lost to her back.
The brunette took several deep breaths, trying to still her quickly beating heart. She gathered her long hair into her hand, trying to take the heavy load off the back of her neck to cool down. Guilt was her constant companion as she made her way toward the waterfall, slipping behind it to the small alcove she'd discovered, and quickly became her hiding place when she needed to be alone.
Sitting heavily on the cool, stone floor, she leaned her head back against the wall, looking into the spray of water that cascaded down, not ten feet in front of her, the world beyond distorted and dulled. She blew out a long breath, trying to clear her mind of feelings and sensations, instead trying to bring Hannah's face before her eyes, her body, her voice, the smell of her dark hair, anything. It worked, and she began to calm, convincing herself there was no reason to feel guilty. Rachel was a beautiful woman, no one could deny that, and the only one around that would interest Denny if they were back home, let alone stranded with two other women, one sixteen, the other a mother hen to them all.
"It's only natural," she explained to herself softly, nodding to try and convince herself. "You did nothing wrong, only had a visceral reaction." She blew out a breath, feeling like her body was finally under control, and she could return to the group.
* * *
"Anybody seen the food masher?" Pam called out as the men grunted, pushing the slide out to sea, then climbing aboard. Michael didn't like the idea of spending time alone with the little fairy in the middle of the ocean, but bit his tongue, knowing he had to honor his commitment to the gals who counted on them back ashore.
The men remained quiet, neither wanting to be on a fishing expedition, but knowing they had no choice, so to make it as pleasant as possible, they kept their mouths shut. Dean glanced at the mechanic, noting Michael's vacant stare out into the expanse of water as they silently rowed the raft further into open sea, but careful not to get too far.
"This should do," Michael said suddenly, bringing up his oar, made from heavy tree branches with vine wrapped round the end to create a large mass for paddling. Dean also brought up his oar, situating them to the side of the raft, and removing his shoes. He knew he looked like a dork with jeans, ripped off to the mid-thigh, no shirt and Gucci loafers on. Modesty and fashion sense had long ago hit the road. All the same, he wasn't going to ruin his loafers any more than they already were.
"You going or am I?" he asked, meeting the Texan's gaze. Michael leaned over the side of the boat, staring into the depths, imaging all the fish swimming just under the surface. "I'll go." He met the other man's gaze once more. "Think you can pull me back in?"
"Eye, eye, captain." With a salute and small smile, Dean watched the mechanic slide over the side of the boat, and quickly disappear in the ocean, nothing but waves and bubbles where he had just been.
Michael waited for his eyes to adjust to the salt water, blinking rapidly, but then everything began to clear. It was so peaceful down there, quiet and dark, yet a whole world began to come into view, a world filled with alien plant life and creatures. It was like floating on another planet. Darting to his left, a huge, colorful fish came into his world, and Michael turned away, knowing from his youth that it was a bad fish, not for eating. As a kid, they used to call them cyanide fish, cause it could knock out a grown man with just a bit of the poison stashed in its body.
He kicked powerful legs and arms, moving deeper into the depths to see what his options were before he needed to surface for air. Just before he headed up, he saw a huge school of fish, nice, big fat ones.
Dean saw the glittery outline of Michael as he rose toward the surface, breaking through with a gasp. The Texan hung on to the edge of the raft with one hand while brushing his hair out of his eyes with the other.
"Found 'em." He panted for a moment as he got his bearings again and filled his lungs. "Huge groupin' down there. Be ready."
"Okay." Dean watched the big man take an even bigger breath, then he was gone again. Dean sat back in the raft, looking up into the sky, clouds gathering.
* * *
Gloria Vinzetti looked at herself in the mirror above her dresser. It was oval and shadowed with age, having belonged to her grandmother when she was a girl. Waste not, want not. She couldn't see it being thrown out. Adjusting the collar of her black dress, she sighed heavily at the familiar color. She hadn't allowed herself to wear anything else in the past months. The bags under her eyes made a better accessory than her pearls.
As ready as she would ever be, Gloria slipped into her jacket and grabbed her keys and purse. Never in her life had she dreaded something so badly. Well, that wasn't true- Mia's funeral had been the hardest day of her life, but this was a close second. She didn't want to be reminded of this anymore. She was tired of it. As it was, her beloved Rachel Holt's name and face was still plastered over the TV screen and magazine and newspaper covers. Damn, if only the short woman had known her favorite author had been on the same flight with her. She had been astonished and devastated to find that out. At every bookstore in Brooklyn, Rachel's books were flying off the shelves, everyone trying to cash in on Rachel's death.
Traffic was bad, as usual, but that was okay. The delay was delaying the inevitable, and Gloria just didn't know if her stomach could handle it. Her Nonna and Papa had flown home more than a month ago, Paolo Vinzetti needing to get home to see his doctors. Gloria had been so tempted to go with them, leave everything in America, as she felt she had nothing left to stay for, but Lizbeth had talked her out of it. Her life was in Brooklyn, the place she'd raised her daughter, seen her grow from an adorable little girl to a bright, beautiful young woman. If truth be told, Gloria couldn't leave. She felt her daughter still with her in the apartment, and just couldn't let that go. She had a feeling that Mia's spirit wouldn't be with her still in Milan.
The convention center was packed, filled with the families of the two hundred and sixty-three people who had died on flight 1049, banners hanging up welcoming and directing guests. People were already roaming about the huge ball room, drinks in hand, voices soft murmurs at the Meet and Greet. Cheerful paper and balloons were strung over just about anything that would stand still, hoping to lighten the mood of such an event. As Gloria made her way through the crowds, she almost felt like she was at her high school reunion again. She caught snippets of conversations as she made her way toward the refreshment table:
"… son's babysitter, so sad…"
"… married for thirty-three years. She loved to…"
"… Davies will fly the search missions. I believe there are other survivors to be found."
The Italian woman stopped at this, turning to see who was saying this, for a moment, feeling a glimmer of hope. She just hoped the finely dressed man was talking about what she thought he was talking about. "Excuse me, my name is Gloria Vinzetti."
One of the women standing in the little group of four's eyes got huge, her hand going to her open mouth. "Aren't you one of the Lucky Three?" she whispered, referring to the title the press had dubbed the three rescued as. Gloria nodded. The woman fell to pieces, taking Gloria in a monster hug, nearly taking the smaller woman off her feet. "I'm so glad you three were able to survive such a horrendous tragedy."
Gloria smiled shyly, not sure what to say. She had been hounded by the media for the first month or so after the rescue, but it had all died down as they turned their attention to other breaking stories. The new attention was somewhat disconcerting, especially as the entire group turned toward her. She eyed the handsome man with the sandy-colored hair, which was her initial target.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I overheard you talking as I walked by. Were you talking about sending out search planes for 1049?"
Will smiled charmingly
at the woman, who's face he'd seen a dozen times on the news. He also knew she'd lost a daughter. "Yes, ma'am. I'm Will Ash," he extended a well-manicured hand, enveloping the smaller hand in his. "I'm so sorry for your loss, Miss Vinzetti, and think it's wonderful you were able to be saved."
"Thank you, Mr. Ash," Gloria said shyly, charmed by him.
"Call me Will."
Gloria swallowed, shaking off the charisma so she could think straight and get her focus back. "What is your interest in this, Will? What makes you think you'll find anything?'
"My partner, Dean Ratliff, was on that flight, Miss Vinzetti. My heart tells me he's still alive, and I intend to either prove it right, or," he swallowed, "prove it wrong."
"The coast guard won't help you any further?" one of the men in the group asked, sipping from his drink. Will turned to him, shaking his head.
"I've tried every angle, and it was suggested to me that I go private. Thus where Miss Davies comes in. We've already taken one pass in the general area, but intend to go back out in another month. I heard the author, uh, what was her name," he snapped his fingers as he tried to remember her name.
"Rachel Holt," Gloria provided.
"Right! Rachel Holt's husband is supposed to be here today, and I'd like to talk to him. Perhaps with such a high profile victim, we can bring some public interest into this story, get some financial support for rescue efforts."
Matt and Reenie walked in together, but quickly separated, Matt heading toward the cash bar, Reenie taking in everything around her, astounded by the number of people the tragedy had touched. How many lives in the room had been ruined by what happened? The newspapers were announcing new findings from the black box that was finally found, along with wreckage at the bottom of the ocean. Instrument failure, they said. The 767 had been so drastically off course, and the pilots had never known it until it was too late. Then to add insult to injury, engine two had given out, causing the plane to make its fiery descent to a watery grave.
There was talk of lawsuits, and no doubt the airline was about ready to shit a brick. The editor couldn't help but smile at that, as she felt they should be scared. Her best friend and favorite client had died because of their negligence.
She accepted a flute of something amber and bubbly from a passing waiter's tray, nodding her gratitude as she sipped. She was mildly intrigued by the mixture of souls present, and their mixture in life status. Some walked around in Armani and Prada, while others walked around in the K-Mart blue light special. But through all the poverty and pomp, there was one thread that wove everyone together- loss.
Total stillness, harsh in its completeness. Visions before her, people walking, gesticulating, expressions and emoting bodies. Tracy Sloan took it all in, eyes wide with curiosity and slight fear, as she always had when entering into an unknown world that she wasn't given time to explore and learn. She felt better at the constant touch on her arm, knowing it was Colleen, her interpreter and constant companion since she was seven. Nineteen years later, the older woman was her family. Colleen had been the one to break the news to the young woman about her mother's death. Next to Dr. Pam Slaon, Tracy trusted Colleen like no other.
The twenty-six year old felt a slight tap on her arm, and turned to see Colleen signing to her with swift, graceful fluidity. Tracy nodded in understanding and signed her response. Together they joined the crowd as it headed toward the double doors that lined the great ball room.
Matt stood nervously next to Reenie, as it would be their turn to shine after the speaker finished, before the memorial actually started. Reverend Mark Stantz and Rabbi Chaim Halevi were standing by to deliver to their respective sermons.
The detective looked down at his fidgeting hands, clasped in front of his suited self. He had to admit, he looked good tonight: freshly showered and shaved, the new tailored suit Reenie had insisted on buying for him. His hair was trimmed and slicked back in an appealing style. He stood next to a stunning Reenie, hair styled with "product", and tucked behind her ears to allow her dangling earrings to shine. Her cocktail dress was black, yet stylish and conservative. Her figure was well displayed without being over done.
The dark-eyed editor could feel Matt's nervousness as he stood next to, and slightly behind, her. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearing his throat more than was necessary. Reenie tried to ignore it and listen to the announcer, and promoter of the night's event, Brian Manley, a big wig for the airline behind the disaster.
The auditorium was filled to standing room only with hundreds of family and friends of those lost, the lights dimmed, and a giant screen behind Brian slowly showcasing one face after another, candid shots taken of those who died, along with their name, age and where they were from. Sniffles could be heard in the darkened room, random flashes like lightning strikes.
"The lives of these two hundred and sixty-three people are forever linked together, and live on in our hearts and memories." The last picture to show on the large screen was Rachel Holt, which was Reenie and Matt's segue. "I'd like to introduce to you tonight Reenie Bazilton, Rachel Holt's editor and dear friend, and Matt Frazier, Rachel's husband." Brian Manley stepped aside to thunderous applause as Reenie and Matt stepped into the spotlight.
The detective stared out into the darkness, trying not to think about the hundreds of pairs of eyes on him at that very moment, but instead focusing on why they were there. He happily granted Reenie the stage.
"Thank you for coming tonight, ladies and gentlemen. You have no idea how difficult it is for me to stand up here before you," Reenie paused, staring out into the sea of unseen faces, only able to make out the red and green lights of cameras and a few faces up close. "Then again, maybe you do. Rachel Holt was the closest friend I've ever had, and the most talented person I've ever had the pleasure of meeting and working with. She bared her heart in every novel she wrote, and every word was lovingly applied to the page. Rachel loved her fans, and though this room isn't filled with them now, I know she'd support one hundred percent what I've done." Reenie stepped aside, looking at the screen behind her, which showed the homepage for the website she'd been working steadily on. "I've created 1049 Club in Rachel's name. It's a fund bourn to help the children and needy families of those who died in the tragedy. Donations have already totaled more than a quarter of a million dollars from public donors, as well as the two million the fund was started with."
Matt had heard all of this before, but he still couldn't keep the smile from his face, knowing just how pleased Rachel would be that her money had been put to such good use. He felt pride fill his chest, and different eyes fell upon Reenie. She wasn't the greedy, scheming bitch he'd taken her for after all.
Reenie glanced back to the audience when she heard the collections of gasps go up, as well as more sniffles, though this time of gratitude. "Every passenger is listed on the website," again the editor turned back to the screen, which changed to the page in question. "I've gathered information from the authorities, and will be opening special page for all of you to write in about your loved one, and leave a special message for others to read." The screen changed again. "Here you can write to talk to Matt and I personally, telling us of the financial problems you face from the loss of a spouse, parent, guardian, et cetera."
Gloria watched, the tears glistening in her dark eyes as she listened to what the dark haired woman was saying, stunned at her generosity and kindness of spirit. As the editor wrapped it up, once again a larger than life picture of the blonde author was put up on the screen. Gloria had never seen that picture: Rachel was smiling, her eyes twinkling, the most beautiful color of green. All her pictures on her books were in black and white. The Italian woman studied her for long moments, feeling more tears spring to her eyes. What a complete waste.
* * *
His face hurt. His hand hurt. Hell, even his hair hurt. Conrad Dupree sat in the hard chair outside the principal's office, waiting. He wanted to rest his chin on his fist, but even that hurt, so he rested his head
back against the wall, instead. His grandma was inside talking to Mrs. Caster, no doubt about what a bad boy he was, and how he needed to change, and watch his temper. Whatever.
The boy with blonde hair jumped as the office door was opened, his principal stepping only halfway out, just far enough to get his attention, beckoning him inside with her finger. Conrad sighed heavily as he flopped down in the chair next to Meredith Adams, though he tried his best not to wince, cause even that hurt.
"Conrad, do you have anything to say for yourself?" Mrs. Denise Caster asked, leaning slightly forward on her desk, gray eyes focused on the slumped form before her. The boy said nothing, didn't even meet her eyes, as he shook his head.
"Conrad, this is the third time this semester," Meredith reminded, her brows knit as she studied her grandson, nearly at a wit's end with him. She winced again when she saw the bruise on his jaw and eye beginning to darken. He'd look like he'd been through war come the light of day. Walter was going to hang the boy out to dry! "What happened?" she asked, deciding to try another tactic. She softened her voice, reaching over to brush a few blonde strands out of his eyes. The boy jerked away, breaking her heart.
"You need to tell us what happened, Conrad," Mrs. Caster said. "Nick isn't telling us anything, so you'll have to."
"Nick's a jerk," Conrad finally muttered, almost into his chest, his head had fallen so low.
"Why is he a jerk, honey?" Meredith asked.
Conrad could see it again, plain as day. He'd been walking down the hall, trying to get to his math class, when suddenly Nick Stavros had stepped away from the lockers in the sixth grader hall, arms spread out wide like bird wings, making airplane sounds, then running into the locker with a verbal explosion. Conrad Dupree felt tears immediately sting behind his eyes, but couldn't allow them to see it. Instead he'd jumped the kid, nearly beating him to a pulp before the gym teacher, Mr. Martinez separated them.
