In the absence of facts, he thinks, we tell ourselves stories.
This is clearly what the news media is doing—CNN, Twitter, Huffington Post—the twenty-four-hour cycle of speculation. Most of the reputable outfits are sticking to facts and well-researched op-eds, but the others—Bill Cunningham at ALC being the worst offender—are building legends, turning the whole mess into some giant soap opera about a lothario painter and his millionaire patrons.
Gus thinks of the boy, settled in now with his aunt and uncle in the Hudson River Valley. He drove out to meet them two days ago, sitting in their kitchen and drinking herbal tea. There is never a good time to question a young child, no perfect technique. Memories, which are untrustworthy even in adults, are unreliable at best in children, especially after a trauma.
He’s not talking much, Eleanor said, bringing him his tea. Ever since we got him home. The doctor says that’s normal. Or, not normal, but not abnormal.
The boy sat on the floor playing with a plastic front loader. After letting him get used to Gus’s presence in the room, Gus settled on the floor beside him.
JJ, he said, my name is Gus. We met before. At the hospital.
The boy looked up, squinting, then went back to playing.
I thought we could talk about the airplane, when you went on the plane with your mommy and daddy.
And sissie, the boy said.
That’s right. And your sister.
Gus paused, hoping the child would fill the silence, but he didn’t.
Well, said Gus, do you remember the plane? I know you were—Scott tells me you were asleep when it took off.
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 fuckup 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.”