Before the Fall(63)

And I quote, Interviews with Mr. Burroughs’s manager in New York confirm that he had several meetings with gallerists set for the week. Upon further questioning, however, a startling (to me) detail emerged, and that concerns the content of Mr. Burroughs’s most recent work. As described by Mrs. Crenshaw, there are fifteen paintings in total and all present a different photorealistic disaster scenario, with many of the images focused on large-scale transportation accidents. These include (1) a train derailment, (2) a fog-bound highway pileup, and (3) a large passenger plane crash.

Continuing on, O’Brien writes: Given this, I can’t stress enough the need for further questioning of the man who, at very least, is our only witness to events that resulted in the crash of this flight, and claims that he was knocked unconscious when the plane first pitched should be tested.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have a hard time understanding why Gus Franklin, the team’s lead investigator, would hesitate for a second to listen to the advice of what is clearly a very smart and very experienced agent of our nation’s greatest law enforcement agency. Is it possible that Franklin has his own agenda? That the government agency he works for has an agenda or is being pressured by this liberal administration to bury this case quickly, lest it become a rallying cry for men and women who, like our heroic former leader, David Bateman, can’t stomach any more business as usual?

For more on the story we turn now to ALC’s Monica Fort.





Chapter 24


Allies



When she pulls into the driveway, a car Eleanor doesn’t recognize is parked under the elm tree. A Porsche SUV with a press sticker in the front window. Seeing it, Eleanor panics—the boy is inside with her mother—and she ditches Doug and runs to the house, banging through the front door, already calling—

“Mom?”

She scans the living room, moving deeper into the house.

“Mom?”

“In the kitchen, hon,” her mother calls back.

Eleanor throws her bag onto a chair, hurries down the hall. She is already chewing two people out in her mind, her mother and whoever owns the Porsche.

“You’re sweet,” she hears her mother say, and then Eleanor is through the door and into the kitchen. There’s a man in a suit and red suspenders sitting at the table.

“Mom,” Eleanor barks, as the man hears the door and turns.

“Eleanor,” he says.

Eleanor stops in her tracks, recognizing Bill Cunningham, news anchor. She has met him before, of course, at David and Maggie’s parties, but he exists in her mind mainly as an oversize head on television, brow furrowed, talking about the moral bankruptcy of liberal minds. When he sees her, he opens his arm, a patrician gesture, as if expecting her to run to him.

“The things we must endure,” he says. “Savagery and setbacks. If you knew how many funerals I’ve been to in the last ten years—”

“Where’s JJ?” says Eleanor, looking around.

Her mother pours herself some tea.

“Upstairs,” she says. “In his room.”

“Alone?”

“He’s four,” her mother tells her. “If he needs something he’ll ask.”

Eleanor turns and goes into the hall. Doug is coming toward her, looking puzzled.

“Who is it?” he asks.

She ignores him, takes the stairs two at a time. The boy is in his room, playing with a pair of plastic dinosaurs. Crossing the threshold, Eleanor takes a cleansing breath and forces a smile.

“We’re back, we’re back,” she says breezily.

He looks up, smiles. She kneels on the floor in front of him.

“Sorry it took so long,” she says. “There was traffic and Doug was hungry.”

The boy points to his own mouth.

“Are you hungry?” Eleanor asks.

He nods. She thinks about what that means, bringing him downstairs into the kitchen. She is about to tell him to wait here, but then she thinks, He’s hungry, followed by an intuition about the power of the boy in her arms. The strength he will give her, she who was always such a people pleaser.

“Okay, come on.”

She holds out her arms. He climbs in and she lifts him from the floor and carries him downstairs. He plays with her hair as they go.

“There’s a man in the kitchen,” she tells him. “You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”

Bill is sitting where she left him. Doug is at the fridge, digging around.

“I’ve got a Belgian ale,” he says, “and this Brooklyn microbrew some friends of mine make.”

“Surprise me,” says Bill, then sees Eleanor and JJ.

“There he is,” says Bill. “The little prince.”

Doug grabs two bottles of the microbrew, comes over.

“It’s a pilsner,” he says, handing one to Bill, “not too hoppy.”

“Fine,” says Bill dismissively, putting the bottle down without looking at it. He smiles at the boy.

“You remember your uncle Bill.”

Eleanor switches JJ to her right hip, away from him.

“Is that what this is,” Eleanor asks, “a family visit?”

“What else?” he says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. It’s a terrible thing when your life becomes the news and the news becomes your life. But somebody had to be up there telling the truth.”