The first time I climbed into Dalton’s plane, he’d given me two sedatives from the town doctor, who’d heard that my parents died in a small-plane crash. I’d been confused for ten seconds before shame washed over me. The doctor provided the tabs presuming riding in a small plane would be traumatic for me. I’d felt not one iota of concern, and that shamed me.
I could have died moments ago. Died as my parents did. Now there is a plane out there, and that scream of metal—and the silence that followed—tells me the passengers are not okay. The daughter inside me realizes she’s about to see a reflection of her parents’ death, and it will be terrible.
“I’ve got this,” Dalton murmurs against my ear. “If I need medical help, I’ll call you.”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not,” I say, though my voice comes out as a croak. I lurch forward. My knees are still fluid, and I realize with a dull detachment that one of them hurts. I must have cracked the kneecap at some point. I grit my teeth, but I do accept Dalton’s offer of a supporting arm as we make our way from the forest.
The first thing I hear is an ominous creaking. Metal groaning. Then a human groan. A soft cry. I pick up my pace. All I see at first is our plane. It’s where we left it, and when we get around the other side, I note with relief that our plane is undamaged, the other one skidding mere inches past the wingtip.
That other plane is ahead. Half submerged in burned forest. The front end …
There will be no survivors in the front end. It plowed straight through dead trunks, ripping one from its roots. The other trunks were larger, and they did not give way. The entire nose of the plane is mangled metal, and there’s a still-standing tree in the first row of seats, the plane wrapped around it.
The metal has been ripped open, and we can see inside through the gash. One cargo door is open, too, hanging as the plane lists to one side.
“Hello!” Dalton calls. “We’re—”
He stops so abruptly he almost whips me off my feet. I follow his gaze. He’s looking toward our plane.
I’m not sure what I see at first. Then I am. It’s a body.
I do not know who it is. I only know that I don’t have to run over and check for vital signs, no more than I need to rush and check on the pilot and whoever sat in the copilot seat.
Dalton tugs my arm, drawing my gaze away. “Can’t help him,” he murmurs. “But there may be others we can help.”
Are there? The groaning has stopped. The soft crying continues, but in my heart I am afraid we are already too late. The crash is horrific. If there are survivors, I’m not certain my rudimentary medical skills will help anyone.
“Our radio’s working, right?” I say to Dalton as we continue toward the wreck.
“Should be.”
“Let me do this then, while you radio for help.”
He hesitates, and I know what he’s thinking. Radio whom? The outside world? Will we really summon help at the cost of exposing Rockton?
Maybe we should continue our mantra of “What does it matter?” It does matter, though. That caution is entrenched in us.
“Call Phil,” I say. “Even Tamara can’t ignore this.”
He nods, but he doesn’t leave, just stays at my side while glancing toward our plane.
“I’ll be fine, Eric,” I say. “Bring help. Please.”
A squeeze on my arm and one last look toward the wreckage before he lopes off.
I take out my gun. Pure instinct when walking into an unknown situation. I continue toward the plane while trying very hard not to look at that body to my left, trying hard not to identify it as someone I knew.
The crying stops abruptly and that yanks me back.
“Hello!” I shout. “It’s Casey. Detective Butler. I’m approaching the plane.”
No one answers. No one did for Dalton either. The groans have ceased. So has the crying. All is silent. Eerily silent.
Then, “Casey?” It’s a woman’s voice, coming from the wreckage. It’s weak and tremulous, but I recognize it in a heartbeat.
“Gloria?” I call back.
Snuffling answers, and I pick up my pace, fingers wrapping tight around my gun. I say her name again, but only get more snuffling. Ten paces from the plane now. I’m parallel with that opened cargo door, and I can see inside. Someone’s crying again, the sound rising to a keening.
“Is that you crying, Gloria?” I say.
“N-no.” Her voice comes from the darkness. “It’s Ted. He’s hurt bad. There’s … there’s something … through him.” Her voice starts to shake. “Something went flying, and it’s right through him, Casey. Through his stomach. He passed out, but he’s awake now and making that … that noise.”
I take my penlight from my pocket and shine it into the dark interior. The plane seats eight. Pilot up front, with a seat for either a copilot or another passenger. The council had, of course, wanted that seat for a resident. Behind them are two benches, each seating three. The door I’m looking through opens just behind the last row. I can see nothing but that seat, and I’m viewing it from the rear.
“Where’s Ted sitting?” I ask.
“What?” Her voice is sharp. “He needs help. We all need help. I’m bleeding. Brandon’s unconscious. So’s Sylvia.”
“I know, but you landed in a very precarious position,” I lie. “I need to be careful. Eric says the damage may have perforated the plane’s … I don’t remember what it’s called, but it could release some kind of chemical. He’s gone to call for help. So I’m going to come in slowly. I’m hurt, too. I was getting out of our plane when yours crashed and the force caught me.”
As I make up nonsense excuses, I peer through the cargo door. At first I see nothing but that rear seat. Then my breath catches. There’s something poking through the vinyl. Something bloody. I shine the light, and my gorge rises as I see a metal rod piercing the back of the seat. Blood drips from it, and I know Gloria is telling the truth. Something impaled Ted.
The low keening rises again, and it is clearly coming from that seat.
I clench my fists against the urge to run to his aid. My caution might cost a man his life, and later I might discover that I’d been wrong about Gloria. That she might have faked her own burial, but she didn’t kill Jolene, that I’d misread the evidence and misread her reaction to April’s questions. I might discover that the crash was actually a tragic accident, unrelated to anything I’m investigating, and my paranoia cost Ted his life.
“I think I see him,” I say. “I’m going in behind the seat to see whether I can pull the object free from there.”
Gloria buys this, which proves she lacks even a rudimentary knowledge of first aid. All that matters is that she believes me. I make a few thumping noises, as if climbing in.
“Tell me what happened,” I say, and then I carefully slip along the wrecked body toward that other opening, where the impact ripped the metal.
“Conrad,” Gloria says. “Conrad happened. He got the pilot’s gun and, oh God, I thought he was going to kill me, Casey. He pointed the gun at me, and the pilot tried to stop him and Conrad shot him.”
I keep easing forward, my gaze fixed on that opening, watching for any movement within.