The Last Flight(40)

As I cut across campus, I imagine what it would be like to be a student here, one of the many people hurrying to class, and try to picture Eva among them. I slow down as I approach a bridge that traverses a small stream and lean against the railing, looking down into the swirling water making its way downhill toward the ocean. Above me, the breeze whispers through the tall trees, a quiet rush that makes my thoughts slow. I can’t imagine ever wanting to leave a place like this.

I push off the railing and continue my walk back to Eva’s, past the coffee shop, where the barista is still working the morning shift, and past several other closed businesses—a used bookstore, a hair salon—until I’m back in Eva’s neighborhood again. My breath comes faster as I make my way up the winding hill, past apartment buildings and small houses and duplexes similar to Eva’s. I peer into them as I pass—a woman sitting at her dining room table, feeding a baby in a high chair. A messy-haired college student, eyes puffy and barely awake, staring out his kitchen window.

As I round the corner onto Eva’s street, I collide with a man walking toward me. He grabs my arm to keep me from falling. “Sorry,” he says. “Are you okay?”

He has dark hair, with a few flecks of early gray, but he doesn’t look much older than me. Sunglasses cover his eyes, and he wears a long coat, with a flash of color under it. Dark pants, dark shoes.

“I’m fine,” I say, and I look beyond him, up Eva’s street, wondering where he came from, whether he’s a neighbor of Eva’s.

“Beautiful morning for a coffee and a walk,” he says.

I give him a tight smile and step around him, feeling his gaze press against my back until the street curves and I’m out from under it.

It isn’t until I’ve closed and locked the door behind me that it registers. How would he know I’d just been for a coffee and a walk? I feel a heavy thump of apprehension pass through me, a low tremor that leaves me even more unsettled and on edge.

*

Back in front of my computer, I check Rory’s email and see a new one from the NTSB that he forwarded to Danielle. A request for a DNA sample and my dental records. His directions are short and to the point: Handle this.

I look toward the window, bright morning light flooding through it. If they’re recovering bodies, it’s only a matter of time before they figure out I’m not there. And that someone who isn’t supposed to be is.

I toggle over to the Doc in time to catch the tail end of a conversation between Rory and Bruce, and I have to scroll up to find the beginning. But it’s not about the body recovery like I expected. It’s about an email that arrived late last night from someone named Charlie.

I can practically hear Rory’s sharp tone, the clipped words of his directions.

Rory Cook:

This was dealt with years ago, with cash. You need to remind Charlie what coming forward will cost.

Charlie? The only Charlie I can think of is Charlie Flanagan, a senior accountant with the foundation who retired two years ago. I read the rest of their conversation, noticing Rory’s words agitating upward, Bruce’s becoming placating and conciliatory. But it’s Rory’s final comment that puzzles me the most, because buried inside his usual bullying tone is a flash of vulnerability.

Rory Cook:

I cannot afford for this to come out now. I don’t care how you deal with it. Or how much it’ll cost me. Just fix it.

I do a search of Rory’s inbox for any emails from Charlie. There are many, but not the one Rory and Bruce are discussing, and nothing recent. And as far as I can tell, every one of Charlie’s emails have at least two other foundation personnel cc’d on them.

I plug in the thumb drive and search there, but all that comes up is the standard nondisclosure agreement all employees sign. So I organize the folder containing the thousands of documents I copied from his computer alphabetically, focusing on the C’s and F’s. The only thing that would have Rory scrambling like this is if Charlie knows about some kind of financial misstep or fabrication that might derail Rory’s run for office. Information showing that the golden child of Marjorie Cook isn’t so golden after all. It’s why I copied the hard drive in the first place. Like a bear in the woods, you don’t have to see one to know it’s there.

But most of what I’m reading is unrelated. Memos about new tax laws. Quarterly reports. Occasionally, my name crops up in strategy notes. Claire might be better here, one says, in reference to an opening of a downtown art gallery. I click through documents, one by one, but it’s all junk, useless noise, like looking through someone’s garbage.

After an hour, I give up. Whatever Charlie knows that has Rory spooked, I’m not going to find the answers so easily. For now, I have to be satisfied with watching. Waiting for them to say more.





Eva


Berkeley, California

September

Five Months before the Crash

“Put on your shoes,” Liz said one sunny Saturday in late September. “I’m taking you to a baseball game.”

Eva and her neighbor attend a baseball game. “Baseball?” Eva asked.

Liz said, “Not just baseball. The Giants. At home.”

“We live in the east bay. Shouldn’t we be going to an A’s game?”

Liz shrugged. “My department chair has season tickets. She invited a few of us, and I asked if I could bring a friend.”