Helena and I waited at the Halifax airport for our return flight to Houston on the black leathered seats with chrome armrests, staring out into the murky overcast sky, both in consumed thoughts companioned with sullenness. I was plagued with thoughts about Helena and Angelos, disturbed by her willingness to stay in a shattered relationship, to endure torturous throbbing because the person you love doesn’t love you. I was embarrassed for her. I was embarrassed for myself―that was my situation with Chloe.
I glanced over at her and she seemed pensive, using her critical thinking skills regarding the story perhaps. A flat screen monitor hung low around our gate where a collective consciousness forced other passengers to look up at the latest breaking news penetrating every channel. People’s faces were startled and sympathetic, I looked around and everyone was glued to the monitor.
Flames and smoke surrounding the wreckage of a plane grounded somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean were shown in terror. The information regarding the wreck was displayed on the bottom screen―Flight 213 heading from Massachusetts to Bombay suffered mechanical failure causing the pilot to lose control over the Atlantic Ocean. No passengers survived the accident. The information was recurrent on the bottom of the screen.
“Oh my God,” said Helena, “I think Emma Marlowe was on that flight.”
My heart dropped into the abysmal plate tectonics beneath the earth. I grabbed my mobile phone. All I could think of was Jane Milton, Emma’s in Halifax. First the shooting, now this. My heart felt like it was caving in from an avalanche. I looked for her phone number from my stored address book. She answered the other line sobbing, I knew then I didn’t have to say much, I extended my condolences without much of a response on the opposite end.
Jane Milton was speechless, words could not be conveyed, and so the flat sound of a hung-up phone call after intense breathing and sobbing served as the liaison. Her partner had lost her life in a fatal accident that was causing shockwaves in every broadcast. I looked towards Helena and nodded my head, she too began sobbing, and she sunk into her seat like a sloth embracing me for support. I couldn’t help the weeping myself, we had just seen this person a few days ago, we had met with her domestic partner, and now she was gone. How could this be? How could this be possible…and then it occurred to me.
“Wait a minute! No, this can’t be!”
“What Michael, what? What are you thinking?” asked Helena, she sat upright.
“This can’t be a coincidence. There’s no way, I’m not buying it. First…Jay Jacobs was poisoned, then that reporter or whoever he was gave us that autopsy report with a warning attached, then someone tried scaring us off in Barton Hills with the widow. And then someone broke into my apartment and left a second warning, the shooting in Canada, and now Emma Marlowe accidentally died in a plane crash! Someone must’ve known we had met up with her, or maybe someone was after her already. This is too connected. We’re probably the main players trying to unravel this conspiracy. I have to call Pencho, maybe those bastards went back.”
I dialed Pencho, then the house phone, no answer. I rubbed my face in despair.
“C’mon fucken Pencho, you idiot! Answer the stupid phone, asshole! Stop fucking with me! Answer, answer, please, c’mon…answer.”
My legs shook, my heart raced cross country, my foot tapped like a ground drill, and my mouth shifted from left to right. There was no answer. Pencho wouldn’t answer the damn telephone. I couldn’t remain calm. Helena leaned towards me.
Her pale skin almost appeared translucent, she looked over at me, “Calm down Michael, you’re starting to scare me, please calm down. Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions. We need to stay focused. Let’s review the facts.”
“Focused…facts! What are you talking about? Look at the situation we’re in. There’s no way we’re walking out of this alive. These people won’t stop! We’re obstacles in their path. If we try to expose this conspiracy, or whatever it is, then we might as well have signed our death warrant. I don’t know about you, but I’m dropping out of the stupid story. I don’t care about these damn supercorridors or NAFTA, I care about my life! I’m not going to be some martyr for some social cause, that’s what you do remember―I report crime, Helena! I report fucken street crime, that’s what I do!”
The NAFTA Blueprint Page 29
