Speaking of the copilot, divers had found Charles Busch strapped into his seat in the cockpit, hands still gripping the yoke. One of the bullets had buried itself in the floor behind him, but there was no evidence that anyone had made it inside the cockpit before the plane hit the water. Gus told the agent that autopsy results on Busch would be back that afternoon. None of them knew what they were hoping for. The best-case scenario, in Gus’s mind, was that the young man had suffered a stroke or heart attack. The worst case, well, the worst case was this was a calculated act of mass murder.
All loose debris had been tagged and bagged and was here now, being cataloged. The good news was that the black box and data recorders had been recovered. The bad news was that it appeared one or both may have been damaged in the crash. Techs would work around the clock to recover every last trace of data. By the end of the day, Gus told him—barring an unexpected turn of weather—the fuselage should be up and on its way to the hangar.
O’Brien listened to everything Gus said, then called in the helicopter.
Now, in the kitchen, Agent O’Brien makes a show of taking a small notebook out of his pocket. He removes a pen, unscrews the cap, lays it next to the pad. Gus can feel Scott’s eyes on him, questioning, but he keeps his focus on O’Brien, as if to signal to Scott—this is where you should be looking now.
They have agreed not to discuss the case on the phone, not to put anything in writing until they find out how O’Brien’s memo was leaked. From now on, all conversations will take place in person. It is the paradox of modern technology. The tools we use can be used against us.
“As you know,” says O’Brien, “we found the plane. And Mrs. Dunleavy, I’m afraid I have to tell you that, yes, we have officially recovered the bodies of your sister, her husband, and your niece.”
Eleanor nods. She feels like a bone that has been left to bleach in the sun. She thinks about the boy, in the living room watching TV. Her boy. And what she will say to him, or should say to him. She thinks about Doug’s last words this morning.
This isn’t over.
“Mr. Burroughs,” says O’Brien, turning to Scott, “you need to tell me everything you remember about the flight.”
“Why?”
“Because I told you to.”
“Scott,” says Gus.
“No,” O’Brien snaps. “We’re done holding this guy’s hand.”
He turns to Scott.
“Why was the pilot outside the cockpit during the flight?”
Scott shakes his head.
“I don’t remember that.”
“You said you heard banging before the plane crashed. We asked if you thought it was mechanical. You said you didn’t think so. What do you think it was?”
Scott looks at him, thinking.
“I don’t know. The plane pitched. I hit my head. It’s—they’re not memories really.”
O’Brien studies him.
“There are six bullet holes in the cockpit door.”
“What?” says Eleanor, her face draining of blood.
The words push Scott back in his chair. Bullet holes? What are they saying?
“Did you ever see a gun?” O’Brien asks Scott.
“No.”
“Do you remember the Batemans’ body man? Gil Baruch?”
“The big guy by the door. He didn’t—I don’t—”
Scott loses his words, mind racing.
“You never saw him pull a gun?” O’Brien asks.
Scott racks his brain. Somebody shot up the cockpit door. He tries to make sense of that. The plane pitched. People screamed and somebody shot up the door. The plane was going down. The captain was outside the cockpit. Somebody shot up the door trying to get in.
Or was the gun pulled first and the pilot—no, the copilot—put the plane into a dive to—what? Throw him off balance? Either way, they’re saying this wasn’t mechanical error, or human error. It was something worse.
There is a visceral twist of nausea in Scott’s guts, as if it’s only hitting him now how close he came to death. And then a wave of light-headedness as the next thought strikes him. If this wasn’t an accident, then it means someone tried to kill him. That instead of an act of fate, he and the boy were victims of an attack.
“I got on the plane,” he says, “and took a seat. She brought me some wine. Emma. I don’t—I said, No, thank you, asked for some water. Sarah—the banker’s wife—was talking in my ear about taking her daughter to the Whitney Biennial. The game was on TV. Baseball. And the men—David and the banker—they were watching, cheering. My bag was in my lap. She wanted to take it—the flight attendant—but I held on to it, and as we taxied I started—I started going through it. I don’t know why. Something to do. Nerves.”
“What made you nervous?” asks O’Brien.