Before the Fall(61)

The boy looked up at Scott’s name, but didn’t speak. Gus nodded to him encouragingly.

But, he said, did you—do you remember waking up at all, before—

The boy looked over at Eleanor, who had taken a place behind him on the floor.

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 f*ckup 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.