“Don’t you have anything to say?” he said.
“What do you want me to say? Obviously, you had a traumatic experience on the plane. It’s normal to be confused. It will sort itself out eventually.”
Sam snorted.
“Mara, do you think I need to sort out things or do you?” Ping asked.
“Both of us. It was a jarring, life-threatening experience. It’s not surprising that you, or me for that matter, might be confused about what happened.”
“I understand the inclination to dismiss this as a delusion. I did the same, and, if it was just you and me here recalling our experiences, I’d probably agree. But how do you explain him?” Ping asked, pointing at Sam.
“What do you mean?” Mara asked.
“How did he get on your flight? He was not with you when your plane took off. You only saw him after it took off, correct?”
“As far as I know. And I didn’t see his name in the passenger list in the newspaper. Maybe Sam isn’t even his real name.”
Sam and Ping looked at each other and then back at Mara.
“You know that’s not true,” Sam said.
“How would I know?”
“Because I’m your brother, doofus.”
CHAPTER 14
THEIR FOOTSTEPS ECHOED out of sync in the vast hangar as Bohannon and Suter walked along the gray aluminum wall heading toward the small conference room tucked in the corner away from the remains of the airliner. The FBI agent made no effort to time his pace to walk alongside the detective. Bohannon stared at the back of Suter’s head, noted his dark hair looked spikier this morning, a little less conservative. Probably due for a haircut. The detective sauntered behind at his own pace, refusing to speed up.
“Are you feeling better?” Bohannon asked, projecting his voice ahead.
Suter didn’t slow down, just kept walking tap, tap, tap across the cement floor at his own speed.
“Much better,” Suter said as they arrived at the metal conference room door.
Inside Pirelli sat behind the table with his belly pressed against and spilling onto its edge, his red tie trapped and pulling at his collar. He shifted his seat back and forth enough to free it, then looked up and smiled at the investigators. He took off his heavy black glasses and wiped them with the tie.
“So let’s catch up,” he said, waving a hand at the empty chairs across from him. “What was up with Mr. Newsome Saturday morning?”
“He laid an egg,” Bohannon said, deadpan.
“I don’t follow.” Pirelli looked back and forth at the two men, his jowls spilling over one side of his collar and then the other with each swing of his head.
Suter raised a hand and glared at Bohannon. “We don’t know for certain it was an egg.”
“Well, a big white oblong globe came out of his backside, and the doctors implied it was an egg. They said he laid it,” Bohannon said. “And he spat acid all over the place.”
“What?” Pirelli’s eyes widened. “Suter, explain.”
“The doctors had Newsome in an examination room. Before we got there, they said he passed this so-called egg and began spitting acid at them. They hypothesized he was protecting the egg and wouldn’t allow anybody near him. We had to call in animal control and shoot him with a tranquilizer dart.”
“What’s the connection to our investigation?”
“Other than the fact that he was a passenger on the flight, we don’t know if there is one.”
Bohannon leaned forward. “Tell him about the woman jumping off the building and Mrs. Gonzales reading her husband’s mind. Something is going on with these passengers.”
“There’s more?” Pirelli asked.
Suter nodded. “The passengers we’ve encountered so far all seem to be behaving oddly. But again, we don’t have any evidence that there is a connection to the flight.”
Bohannon snorted.
Suter glared back at him. “We don’t have any evidence there’s a connection. Everything is just conjecture at this point, particularly for you.” Suter pointed a finger and then tapped the table in front of the detective with it.
“Particularly for me? What’s that mean?” Bohannon asked.
“He means there are facts in the case that you are not aware of,” Pirelli said, turning back to the FBI agent. “Portland P.D. has agreed to let us have him. Can we read him in on the rest of the case?”
“He’s cleared the security and background checks,” Suter said. “He’s already been exposed to some of the stranger aspects of the case. There is no point in keeping the preliminary findings from him. It will just interfere with his ability to help figure out what happened. I say, we let him in, all the way.”
“Detective, before we can discuss the preliminary findings from the crash investigation with you, I need you to read and sign this form. It basically says if you reveal anything about this investigation, even to your lieutenant or other supervisors, you can get up to ten years in prison,” Pirelli said.
“Are my supervisors aware that I will have information that I can’t tell them?”
“They are aware that you are legally prevented from discussing details of the investigation with them. They may not fully understand the ramifications to you if you tell them something.”
“All I can think of is ‘It doesn’t matter how many pieces of paper you guys sign…we’re all going to the pokey,’” Bohannon quoted the animal control guy from the hospital on Saturday.
“If you don’t sign, you will essentially continue to be my chauffeur. You won’t know enough to help much with questioning and most of what goes on will make absolutely no sense to you,” Suter said. “It’s up to you. You’ll be more help and the case will be more interesting, if you are in the loop.”
“I’m not sure I want this case to get any more interesting,” he said. “My dad would say this is like being caught between a dog and a fire hydrant. Got a pen?”
Pirelli reached into his shirt pocket, extracted a gold-trimmed black ballpoint pen, clicked it and handed it to Bohannon. He then reached down to his briefcase on the floor and pulled out a sheaf of papers. He slid them across the table.
“Sign the back page at the bottom,” he said.
Bohannon didn’t bother reading it. He signed and slid the document back across the table.
“Welcome aboard, officially. I wish I could say, you won’t regret it. I can say that I don’t think you’ll be bored. Special Agent Suter, let’s walk the detective through the preliminary findings.”
*
Floodlights bathing the plane wreckage cast long shadows from every crack and wound, making it look like a museum exhibit, an abstract sculpture warning of a technological apocalypse just around the corner. Pirelli acted as tour guide, pointing at various pieces of the plane and discussing what had been recovered and what had not. Bohannon and Suter followed him down the entire fuselage, stepping over parts and knots of cabling, ducking under a stub of a wing. Finally they got to the gash in the rear of the plane exposing the passenger cabin. While frayed cables and insulation hung raggedly along the edges, the metal alloy that made up the vehicle’s skin curled from the inside out. Clearly something had exploded from within.
The interior, as far as Bohannon could see, looked blackened along the edges of the opening, but fixtures, upholstery and carpeting had not been consumed by fire. They appeared stained but not melted or charred.
“It looks like something blew open the side of the plane. Was it an explosive?”
“Something definitely caused an explosion. We can’t determine what. We don’t see any signs of chemicals. Most bombs leave residue and a pattern to indicate its location. This looks like the plane just popped because of a sudden explosive force, like an aerosol can exposed to too much heat.”
When they cleared the end of the plane, Bohannon saw the far side of the hangar for the first time. A series of connected opaque plastic tents, which reminded him of portable greenhouses, filled the space beyond the wrecke
d aircraft. They emitted a steady hum, like fans circulating air or electric generators running.
“What is that?” Bohannon pointed at the tents.
“That,” Pirelli said, “is where we keep the preliminary findings. Special Agent Suter will take you through and give you the rundown. I have a conference call to attend.”
“Let’s go,” Suter said. “You haven’t seen anything weird yet.”
Suter opened a metal cabinet outside the molded plastic doorway leading into the tents. Inside hung full-body BioSuits.
“BioSuits? Are we in danger of being contaminated by something?”
Suter smiled. “No. These are designed to keep us from contaminating evidence, and they will keep us warm. It’s cold in there.” He handed a suit to Bohannon and said, “Just put it on over your clothes and throw it into that big bin over there when you come out. We don’t have to wear a plastic face mask and breathing gear, just wear the cloth surgical mask over your mouth.”
“This is a little more claustrophobic than it looks,” Bohannon said as he slipped it on.
“You’ll forget about it in a minute. You ready to go in?”
Suter held open the door. Bohannon walked into the dark, sliding his feet to avoid tripping until he could get his bearings. Behind him he heard the door close and a metal switch flip. A series of industrial fluorescent lights illuminated, revealing rows of stainless steel tables, each covered by a sheet.
Bohannon’s mind stalled. It took him several seconds to bring some context to the setting and to figure out what he saw. “What is this?” he asked. “It looks like a morgue.”
“Exactly,” Suter said. He picked up a clipboard.
“How many people are here?”
“One hundred and twenty.”
“How did these people die?”
“Bohannon, these bodies were recovered from the plane wreckage.”
“How can that be? Everyone survived.”
“That’s what we’re here to figure out.”
CHAPTER 15
“I DON’T HAVE A brother,” Mara said.
Ping and Sam did another double take as if Mara had grown horns out of her head. They looked at her but didn’t say anything.
“I think we’re done here,” she said, standing up. “I’ve got places to do and things to be… I mean, you know. Anyway, my plans don’t include sitting around here smoking whatever the two of you are on.”
“I’m sorry, Mara. I assumed you had a brother. I didn’t know,” Ping said.
“I guess what I meant was the Mara you saw is my sister,” Sam said. “It would make sense that you would have a brother—your own version of me, somewhere around here.”
“I guess I should count my blessings. I’m an only child.” She walked toward the front of the store, paused and turned back to them. “Well, come on, I’m locking up, and I’m certainly not leaving the two of you in here.”
Sam frowned. He looked at Ping and said, “I told you that she wouldn’t listen, that she wouldn’t help.”
Ping held up his hand. “Give us five minutes, and we’ll let you go. I promise.”
Mara rolled her eyes and walked back to the table. “Five minutes. And I would suggest you fill it with something other than this time-travel stuff or whatever it is. I’ve got more than enough voodoo in my life already.”
“Not time travel, dimensions,” Sam said.
“I prefer to think of them as alternate realities or realms,” Ping said.
“Five minutes. Then I’m out of here, in this reality.”
“I don’t think I can explain all the concepts involved in five minutes. Just suffice it to say, I am not the Ping you know, that I am from an alternate reality and that I was pulled here by the events on the airplane. You came in contact with your counterpart—”
“My sister, Mara,” Sam added.
“Right. When you touched her, it was like crossing positive and negative jumper cables. You sparked, resisted each other. When two people from different realms touch, it causes an explosive reaction, tearing the fabric of reality. Theoretically the person out of place is thrown back into their own realm. Because the other Mara held the Chronicle at the time, I suspect it magnified the effect, damaging the plane and creating the rift that pulled me here.”
“The Chronicle? What’s the Chronicle?”
“Remember the ball of blue light I had? That’s the Chronicle,” Sam said.
“It’s called the Chronicle of Creation,” Ping said. “It’s the record of existence. Think of it as a combination database and GPS device for creation.”
“Okay. A record of how the universe was created. Got it. Where is it now, the blue ball?”
“How existence is being created, not past tense,” Ping said.
“So let me get this straight. When I grabbed the other Mara while she was holding this Chronicle, that caused an explosion that caused the plane to crash. So I caused the plane crash. Is that what you are saying?”
“Well, it’s not like you did it on purpose, sis,” Sam said.
“I am not your sis. Don’t call me that,” she said, sterner than she had intended. She turned to Ping. “Let’s just assume all of this is true, and, believe me, I’m a long way from there. Why are you telling me this? You want me to turn myself into the authorities?”
“No,” Ping said. “We need your help.”
“Help with what?”
“We need to find the Chronicle and make sure other people, or creatures, don’t use it.”
“People or creatures? What are you talking about? More castaways from other realms?”
“Or worse,” Sam said.
“Why don’t you and the boy blunder here just go find the thing? What do you need me for? How hard can it be to find a blue ball of light?”
“We won’t be able to activate it. We think you might be able to.”
“Tell him to do it,” she said to Ping, pointing at Sam. “It looked to me like he had it powered up on the plane.”
“My Mara did that. I grabbed it from her after she had activated it. That’s why she chased me on the plane,” Sam said. “She wanted to get it back.”
“So you stole it from your sister. Why?”
“To stop her from crossing over to this realm, but I grabbed it too late, and we both crossed over. That’s when you saw us.”
“Why did the other Mara want to come here?” Mara asked, looking at her watch and then changing her mind. “No, ignore that. This is not a rabbit hole I have time to go down. Your five minutes are up, and I need to get on the road.”
“We really need your help, Mara. Please take some time to think about it,” Ping said.
“Look, Mr. Ping, I’ve got my own problems. I don’t really have the bandwidth to help you two work out your issues. If you want to go on a wild goose chase for the blue doodad from another dimension, by all means, help yourself. Just count me out.”
“So that’s it. You’re just going to walk away,” Sam said, his face reddening. He squeezed his eyes shut, clearly trying to hold back tears. “I told you that she wouldn’t help.” He looked away.
“Let’s let Mara be on her way,” Ping said, standing up. “Come talk to us if you change your mind.”
CHAPTER 16
SUTER RAN HIS gloved finger down the clipboard and said, “Number sixty-seven. Let’s take a look. There are labels at the end of each table. Just lift up the sheet a little, and you’ll see it.” Vapor puffed in front of the white cloth mask covering his mouth.
Indicating that Bohannon should follow, he walked down the aisle and stopped occasionally to lift up a sheet. The third time, he stopped and turned to Bohannon. “Go to the head of the table and lift up the sheet, and tell me what you see.”
Bohannon froze.
“You’ve seen a dead body before, haven’t you?”
“Of course, but why do I need to see this one?”
“Just do it. It will help you understand what we’re dealing with.”
Bohannon stepped between two of the tables and turned to the cadaver Suter indicated. Bohannon leaned over the table, pinched the upper left corner of the sheet and lifted it to reveal the dead passenger. He stared into the face of Debbie Bartkowski, the apartment climber and jumper. She was slimmer but recognizable.
“Jesus wept.” Bohannon jerked his hand back, used it to rub his jaw so hard it distorted his features. His other hand started to shake.
“Are you starting to understand?” Suter asked. He had a smirk on his face that Bohannon wanted to punch.
“Hell, no, I’m not starting to understand. What the hell is going on?”
“One hundred and twenty bodies were recovered from the fuselage of the plane when it was pulled from the river two days ago. There were 121 passengers and crew on the flight, and all of them were accounted for on the day of the crash. All of them supposedly survived.”
“Supposedly?”
“Well, we have a bunch of bodies here, and we have a bunch of people alive and well who say they were on the flight. The question is, are the people who survived—the people who were fished out of the Columbia—actually the same people who left Portland on that flight?”
“There simply can’t be two sets of the same people. That makes no sense. What are you saying? They’re clones, zombies, what?” Bohannon stabbed his finger in the air above the body. “Debbie Bartkowski cannot be dead here and alive over in Gresham at the same time. These people either died in that plane crash or they didn’t.”
“All evidence to the contrary,” Suter began, “we have not gotten a single call from a family member asking where their loved one is. Believe me, if someone were missing, we’d have heard about it by now. I’ve worked several crashes, and families don’t let you off the hook. Every passenger came out of the river into the loving arms of his or her relatives, and”—he paused for effect—“we also have a body in here for each person on the flight, except for one.”
Bohannon dropped the sheet over Debbie Bartkowski’s face. “That simply cannot be. How can you accept that?” He felt his blood pressure building, his eyes bugging.
Broken Realms (The Chronicles of Mara Lantern, Book 1) Page 8
