by Brad Meltzer
Nola stared at him. “I always thought Death was a she.”
Zig let that one sink in. “Anyway, when it’s winter in the Middle East, fighting season winds down, so there are fewer casualties among our troops. When Dover gets quiet, I’ll sometimes add a few hours and moonlight here after work.”
Nola turned back to the garage. “Tell me why we need a hearse.”
“You said Horatio’s in Alaska. I checked the schedule. The flight that brought the bodies to Dover is finally headed back. If you want to be on it, we have to first get you on base.”
“Dover won’t stop a hearse?”
“Of course they’ll stop a hearse. It’s a military base. They stop everything—scan your IDs…mirror under the car…pop the trunk. But even when they search the trunk, there’s one place they’ll never check…”
Inside the garage, Zig pulled the string for an overhead light. In front of the hearse, up on a rolling church cart, was a seven-foot-long box. Shiny cherry veneer. Antique bronze hardware. A casket.
Nola looked like she was about to take a half step back, but she stood her ground.
“All you have to do is lay there,” Zig said, raising the casket’s head panel and pointing inside. Cream velvet interior.
Nola studied the coffin for a solid ten seconds. Her lips were pressed together in a thin flat line. As always, she had that blazing focus, like her eyes were microscopes, able to see down to the molecular level.
“Nola, if you don’t want to do this—”
“I can do it.”
Committing to the cause, she climbed inside the coffin and leaned back into resting position, as if she’d done it before. “Shut the lid, Mr. Zigarowski. I’m not missing that plane.”
73
Dover Air Force Base, Delaware
They found a what?”
“A finger,” Zig said. He kept his voice low, like he was sharing a secret. “Plus someone’s femur.”
Out on the runway, the young staff sergeant with cropped black hair and a triangular nose made a face. He was barely thirty. Easily fooled.
“That’s what happens in a plane crash,” Zig added, his voice still quiet. With a glance over his shoulder, he checked for the fourth time that they were alone. It was almost 6 a.m., the sky starting to blink awake. Like any military base, Dover was up early. But not this early. As far as he could tell, there was still no one watching. “During search and recovery, we’ll be finding portions of people for days.”
The staff sergeant looked at the three metal transfer cases, sitting there, each on its own industrial rolling cart. If they had been transporting fallen service members, the cases would be packed with ice and covered with American flags. These three were uncovered, looking like long silver coffins shining in the morning sun. “I don’t know how you do it every day,” the staff sergeant said. His name tag said Kesel. “But I appreciate that you do.”
“Then maybe you can help me get these on board?” Zig asked, tugging on the metal cart and steering one of the metal transfer cases across the asphalt runway.
He didn’t like hiding Nola like this. But forty minutes ago, as he rolled her out of the hearse and into the mortuary building—and then switched her from the casket into one of these metal shipping cases—he knew it was the only way to pull this off.
Fifty yards ahead, a mammoth C-17 transport plane was on the flight line, its back loading ramp wide open, awaiting its last few items. The four fans weren’t spinning yet, but its engines were prepping, making a loud drilling sound.
“Here…you need these,” Kesel said, reaching into his pocket and handing Zig what the Army called hearing protection. A two-dollar set of bright orange earplugs.
As Zig put them in with one hand, he used his other to rap his knuckles against the head of the metal case, right where he drilled the airholes. A single tap, loud enough that there was no missing it. Simple code. Almost on the plane.
Zig knew Nola was too smart to tap back. Not until she was sure they were alone.
“So you think there are more bodies in Alaska?” Kesel called out, grabbing the other two rolling carts and giving them a tug. He was used to the job. As a loadmaster, he was in charge of the plane’s cargo.
“We’ll certainly find out,” Zig said, leading the way and checking over his shoulder for a fifth time. He scanned every window in every nearby building. On the second floor of the mortuary, a light popped on. Dr. Sinclair in the ME’s office was setting his morning tea on his desk.
Even if Sinclair looked outside, there was nothing out of the ordinary, at least for Dover. Two days ago, Kesel and his crew flew the bodies here from Alaska. Today, he’d be making the return trip, the plane restocked with empty transfer cases for when the next disaster hit. For mass fatalities or something like a plane crash, a mortician would also be sent to the crash site to help with recovery and cleanup—a detail Zig took full advantage of first thing this morning when he switched with a coworker to be on this outbound flight. To keep anyone from finding out, he didn’t even put it in the system. Stay out of sight. Don’t let them know you’re coming. The only question was: Could he do the same for Nola?
There was a metal ch-chink as the wheels of the rolling cart hit the base of the plane’s ramp.
“Here…lemme help,” Kesel called out. “The cases are light. We can just carry them on b—”
“I’m fine,” Zig insisted, shoving the rolling cart and pushing it—and the metal case—up the ramp. The thick wheels on the cart were able to hold six hundred pounds. This should be an easy climb. If the casket were empty.
Zig stared down at the aluminum case. Even as it rolled, it barely rattled at all.
“You okay?” Kesel called out.
“Fine. Tweaked my back a few weeks ago,” Zig said, faking a grin and taking a sixth scan of the building behind them. There was another ch-chink as they reached the top of the ramp.
Inside the plane, the cargo hold was pretty much bare. If a general was scheduled to be on board, they’d roll in a palette with a fully functioning executive office, complete with desks, couches, and a fancy bathroom. If there were loads of passengers, they’d add a palette filled with airline-type seats. Today, though, at the back of the cargo hold were two large supply crates strapped into place. The rest of the open space was empty, except for three other metal transfer cases, lined up side by side, their toes facing Zig, in meticulous formation.
“There should be straps—”
“I see ’em,” Zig said, eyeing the black nylon straps that would hold the case in place. Inside the cargo hold, the humming of the engines echoed even louder.
In one quick movement, Zig turned the pushcart around, lowered it to the ground, and gave a tug to the handles on the aluminum transfer case. Six metal rollers sent the case sliding toward him. Momentum let it skid across the floor and roll into place so that the head of Zig’s transfer case was perfectly in line with the foot of the case already on the plane.
Outside the back of the plane, at the mortuary, another light went on in another window. The blinds were closed, but Zig knew that room. Colonel Hsu. If she found out what Zig was up to…
Don’t think about it. Just keep moving; get to takeoff, Zig told himself, quickly ratcheting and strapping Nola’s case to the metal floor so it’d stay put during the ride.
Next to him, Kesel was doing the same, lost in his work.
Seeing Kesel distracted, Zig again gave a quick knock-knock to the metal case. Two taps this time. On the plane.
“Need some assistance?” Zig offered, turning his attention back to Kesel, who was already working on the third case. With a hard tug of the nylon straps, they ratcheted it in place and locked it to the floor. Outside the back of the plane, two more lights went on in the mortuary. Time to get this moving.
“What else you need?” Zig asked, purposefully stepping a bit too close into Kesel’s personal space.
“Actually, I should get upstairs,” Kesel said, heading for the ladde
r that led up to the cockpit. Despite the mammoth size of the plane, the flight had a tiny crew: pilot, copilot, and Kesel the loadmaster, who stopped at a large wall panel of knobs and switches. He pushed a button and, with a mechanical whirr, the loading ramp slowly closed, swallowing the morning sun from outside. Zig’s eyes were still on the mortuary, which seemed to shrink as the back door shut. The interior went dark; fluorescent lights popped on.
“Ten minutes until takeoff,” Kesel said as the plane began to rumble. The first of four engines started to spin up to full speed.
“Sorry I can’t offer you a better seat,” Kesel added, pointing to the fold-down jump seats along the wall of the hull. “Our pilot’s a stickler, but once we hit ten thousand feet and level off, I’ll get you up in the cockpit.”
As Kesel disappeared upstairs, Zig pretended to sort through his own belongings, including the oversized army duffel he’d brought onto the plane earlier and strapped to the metal rings on the floor. Inside was Zig’s winter coat, plenty of layers, plus his full mortician kit, including baggies, modeling clay, makeup, and of course scalpels and tools. He also had a guidebook on their actual destination—Alaska’s Wrangell–St. Elias Park and Preserve—not far from where the original plane went down and all of this started.
Zig already knew the park was enormous, the largest national park in the entire country. But according to the guidebook, it was also one of the least explored, which begged the one question Zig still couldn’t answer: What was the government really doing out in the Alaskan wilderness?
From what Nola said—and what Zig learned at the magic shop—Houdini’s specialty was moving money, more specifically, money that was used to pay off innocents when the government accidentally plowed through their lives. So was that what happened in Alaska? A disaster took place during Operation Bluebook? Or was Bluebook itself the disaster? Whatever the case, according to Nola, only one person had the answer. The person who was pulling the strings from the start: Horatio.
Outside, the second engine churned to life, its fan now spinning. Wouldn’t be long now. Sitting in the jump seat and pretending to flip through his guidebook, Zig opened to a page that featured the rare fauna of Alaska, including a tiny blue flower that was so poisonous, it could kill a humpback whale. Upstairs, there was a loud metal clank, the cockpit door slamming shut. Kesel was finally inside.
Racing across the hull, Zig slid down on his knees, nearly slamming into the farthest transfer case on his left. He gave the metal top three quick taps with his knuckles. Their final code. All clear.
Zig waited for a response.
Nothing.
He tapped the case again. Three taps. All clear. Tap back that you understand.
Still nothing.
“Nola, can you hear me? Tap back if you hear me,” Zig whispered, his mouth up against the casket’s airholes.
Once again, nothing but silence, Zig’s brain quickly calculating just how little air was inside.
The airholes he drilled were big enough. Weren’t they?
74
Homestead, Florida
Ten years ago
This was Nola when she was sixteen.
He threw the letters at her head, the whole stack of them. It happened midway into one of Royall’s rages, one that ignited when he blamed Nola for a flat tire caused by a broken bottle of scotch in their driveway. Never mind that the bottle was left there by Royall. “You should know to clean it up! That’s your job, nigger!” Royall screamed.
It’d been barely a week since Royall lost the military granola-bar deal. He was back to making IDs and fake paperwork for Mr. Wesley.
Nola was down on her knees, garbage bag in hand as she picked up shards of glass from the driveway.
“You know what this costs me? That was my spare!”
Whap!
She didn’t even see where the letters came from. Royall reached into the car—was he hiding them in the glove box?—and next thing she knew, with Royall in mid-rant, his rage peaking, the full stack hit Nola in the back of the head, ancient letters from Barb LaPointe scattering along the asphalt.
“Don’t you dare pick ’em up!” Royall roared, awkwardly trying to kick the letters down the driveway, most of them going nowhere.
At the sight of it, Nola almost laughed. She didn’t, though, not after what he did last time he thought she laughed at him. Still, seeing the old letters, an odd relief ran over her. She knew he’d make her pay for finding the letters; at least the waiting was over.
“You think you can go through my stuff!? You think you can steal from me like that!?”
I didn’t steal, Nola thought to herself.
“Don’t look at me like that! You got something to say?”
Nola stared straight down, picking glass from the driveway, knowing better than to answer.
“You know how much money you cost me!? When those thieves the LaPointes… When I took you in… That wasn’t a party! I was trying my fuckin’ best, but it cost money! Everything costs money! Class costs money! Don’t I teach you that!?” he shouted, working himself up to the next level of rage, a bonus level, where he was yelling so loud, his voice went hoarse and his nostrils went wide. The grid of veins below his eyes was now showing.
Nola knew what came next.
Hoping to buy some time, she picked up the final shards from the driveway, a web of glass held together by the scotch label, and tossed it into the trash.
“Let’s go…now!” Royall growled, yanking her by the back of her neck, shoving her toward the side of the house, to the backyard.
At the center of the yard, Royall unleashed a violent kick on the upside-down kiddie pool, sending it sliding across the green grass, wobbling like a 1950s flying saucer and revealing the hole that Nola had been digging since they first moved here.
“Half hour. No stopping!” he said with a final shove, sending her crashing to her knees, into the damp dirt. “No breaks either!”
At the bottom of the hole was a shovel—a new one actually, since Nola threw the old one away, pretending it was stolen. Royall borrowed this one from a neighbor, Nola knowing he’d never give it back.
“What’re you waiting for?” Royall added, even though she was already climbing into the hole, which was as long as a coffin.
It was deep now too, up to her thighs, and would’ve been even deeper if the frequent Florida rain didn’t backfill at least half of it with each downpour. Royall didn’t care. When you dig yourself into a hole, you dig yourself out.
For the next half hour, Nola did just that. Shovelful by shovelful. She wasn’t eight anymore. She’d just turned sixteen. Each scoop of dirt was hard, but it wasn’t impossible. Her hands had calloused long ago as muscle memory handled the rest.
Dig…and throw. Dig…and throw. Dig…and throw.
Twenty minutes in, she’d barely slowed down. It’s not that she wasn’t tired. Beads of sweat high-dived from her nose. But over her shoulder, she could feel Royall watching from the house. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Dig…and throw. Dig…and throw. Dig…and throw.
Twenty-five minutes in, the sky was getting dark, and the moon was out. A half-moon. Nola wouldn’t look up at it. Ever since Royall gave her the moon as a present, she hated it.
By the last few shovelfuls, sprinkles of dirt were scattered across the back of her neck, in her hair, on her arms—she was covered. But finally finished.
She looked back at the house. Royall was gone.
Tossing the shovel like a javelin into the ground, she actually felt good. In fact, as adrenaline flooded her brain, it made her wonder if, despite Royall’s assholeyness, he might actually be on to something. After so much digging, her anger was gone, or if not gone, at least muted. She remembered that, taking it with her always.
Heading back to the house, she saw the kitchen lights were on—Royall had grabbed a soda. TV flickered from the living room—he was now medicating himself with sports highlights, waiting for her to make
dinner. She took it as a good sign. He didn’t like anything interfering with dinner.
Indeed, as the back screen door snapped shut behind her, the one thought in Nola’s brain was that, maybe, tonight might even be a quiet night.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
She stopped mid-step, seeing the shadow on the orange linoleum floor that was supposed to look like terra-cotta tile.
“Dooch?”
At the center of the kitchen, her skunk was lying there, flat on his side. His four legs were awkwardly extended, like he was sleeping. But…he always slept curled up, in a ball.
“D-Dooch…?” Nola whispered, the dark feeling already tightening in her chest.
The skunk didn’t move.
“Dooch, you okay?” she added, smacking her palms together in a single loud clap, hoping to startle him. Even before the sound hit, she knew the answer.
The skunk didn’t react to the sound, didn’t move. He just lay there, frozen on his side, with a weight Nola had never seen before, but instantly recognized.
“Nononono,” Nola pleaded, sliding to her knees, fresh dirt raining off her as she scooped the lifeless skunk into her arms. His body was stiff—the stiffness caught her off guard, and she dropped him. He bounced awkwardly against the linoleum, his eyes still open, pupils wide and dilated.
She didn’t care. She scooped him up again, holding him to her chest, embracing him and knowing this lifeless thing in her arms, it wasn’t her pet anymore. It was just a thing, and she hated herself for thinking that.
“I-I’m sorry…I’m so sorry,” she whispered, down on her knees, rocking back and forth, cradling Dooch’s body.
In the corner, his food bowl held a few crumbs. He’d just finished eating.
