“A long, long time ago…” Lyle had slurred the opening lyrics up to the window.
Melanie didn’t open the window and Lyle couldn’t brook another version of he-said-she-said. He picked up his favorite sweatshirt and left the rest of the clothes and decided to spend the night at his UCSF office until he could figure out a better plan. I can still remember, how the music used to make me smile. He had pawed at the piece of paper in his back pocket, considered slipping it under the door, and decided not to give Melanie the satisfaction.
Back at the hangar, Lyle stuffed away the image, said fuck all of it to himself, walking forward past the airplane to his left and toward the source of the light, and then, startled by what he saw, came to an abrupt stop.
“Eleanor?”
“Jerry, stay where you are.”
“You’re okay.” Jerry shoved a cargo box beneath the opening in the flight deck. “Why didn’t you answer?”
“I erred on the side of caution. Wasn’t sure what, or who might hear us.”
“Work with me, Eleanor. I’m trying to look out for you here.”
“What’s your deal, Jerry? We’re coming out.”
A flicker of fury nicked him, like a lightning strike. Sometimes, he imagined that she thought of him like the boy in the bubble, that kid from the after-school movie who was so sick and pitiable he lived, isolated, in a biosphere. “Eleanor, I don’t like your tone—”
“It’s not safe in here. We’re evacuating, the two of us. We’re going to drop down there. I’m bringing the last medical supplies, but I don’t want to bring anything else from the cabin because I don’t know how it gets carried.”
She held a rucksack over the opening, as if to indicate she was going to drop it, which she did. Thud. Supplies hit the hold floor at Jerry’s feet.
“You have the gun?”
“Locked and loaded.”
“Okay, Clint Eastwood. Listen, Jerry, can I get your input?”
“Of course.”
“I’d like to leave the heat running. It’s going to eat fuel. I… these people.”
“Eleanor?”
“Never mind, I figured it out.”
“Hey, listen, it’s not your fault. You hung in there as much as you could.”
“We’re coming down. The passenger first.”
Jerry saw a foot appear in the hole. He guided it with a hand, helping the small woman until she could stand on the crate and then dismount it. Eleanor followed. When she hit the crate, she said, “Thank you, Jerry.”
“No problem, Captain.” No problem at all.
She stepped off the crate. The three quickly made their way out of the hold down to the tarmac.
“Where’s the doctor?” asked the captain once they were on the ground.
“He’s gone over to the hangar.”
“What? Why?”
Jerry sensed a moment. “I’m not sure I trust that guy.”
“What happened, Jerry? Just tell me what happened.”
“I can only vouch for what he told me.”
Jerry recounted the story, his version of it.
The three of them—the pilot and navigator and the last surviving passenger—walked to the hangar, not sure if they should be more afraid of what they were leaving behind, or what they’d find inside the dark building.
Lyle mumbled, “The Price Is Right.”
It’s what came to mind as he looked at the scene that appeared thirty feet in front of him, illuminated by a reedy light from somewhere farther back. Lyle looked at the living room set, the sort of setting that you’d see game-show contestants compete for. A couch in the middle, with a coffee table in front of it, and two end chairs. It only seemed out of place for an instant and then Lyle realized it was just a homey little construction for the workers here, an open-air rest area. What Eichler would’ve created if he’d decorated airplane hangars.
Lyle had a pretty good idea who used this setting to kick back. It was the guy sitting up on the couch with his head lolled on to the top of the backrest. Another body.
Lyle took a step closer. Then he remembered that a few paces earlier he’d passed a bucket with a mop sticking out of it. He retreated and took the cool wooden mop handle. Lyle marveled at the primitive nature of his instinct to take a weapon and wondered if it meant he cared, after all, if he lived.
Again, he said, “My name is Lyle Martin. I’m a doctor.”
He scrutinized the shape of the man on the couch. Looking for movement, anything. The man remained static. Static. The word that came to Lyle’s mind. He took another step forward. He felt a tickle on his upper lip. Shit. A drop of mucus. Lyle wiped it on his forearm and, without fully taking his attention from the man, glanced down at his arm. Was it bloody? Was it the beginning of an immune response? Or just his body’s response to cold? Lyle inhaled the sharp, frigid air. It needled the soft, pink flesh inside his rib cage. It hurtled tiny shards of glassy air at his larynx.
Just cold, he told himself and let himself believe it.
On the table to the left of the static man stood a half-foot stack that looked to be magazines or technical manuals. Just in front of the man, a tin cylinder on an electric plate that Lyle guessed was filled with coffee or hot water. Then nearer the man on the table, some confirmation of that: a mug overturned. A clue. Had the man been holding the cup when he was stricken, and then had an instant to put the cup down? Did he kick it over in a death throe?
Still no movement from the man. Had he been the source of the coughing? Lyle seriously doubted it. He squinted farther back, trying to discern the source of the light. It had the thin, atmospheric feel of a battery-powered lantern that you’d take on a camping trip and provided just enough light to an otherwise night-dead camping site. Lyle took purposeful steps forward, letting the man’s shape crystallize. No jacket. A long-sleeved shirt covered his torso and arms, though they otherwise hung vulnerable at his sides. Faster steps from Lyle until he heard the sound of steps behind him. Tap tap on the cement floor.
Lyle froze. He squeezed his hands around the mop stem. He listened to the echo of footsteps.
Nineteen
“Stay where you are,” Lyle said.
“Dr. Martin?”
“I think it’s advisable that you stay there,” Lyle said. He estimated they were fifty yards back.
“We need to talk to you.” It was Eleanor speaking, her voice coming through the darkness from near the entrance to the hangar. Lyle, without turning his head that direction, could sense the flicker of a flashlight, presumably Jerry’s.
“Can I meet you outside?” Lyle said. He directed his gaze at the right corner of the couch. Looking for movement. He heard Eleanor urge whoever was with her to stop. Lyle thought he picked up three sets of feet. Why weren’t they on the plane? Who was with the passengers? He heard a scraping noise from the area of the couch, movement on the pavement. Then it abruptly stopped.
“Why can’t we come that way?”
Lyle didn’t answer. He didn’t want to spook the person behind the couch. And a few puzzle pieces were falling into place, and he just wanted to be left alone with this patient or witness.
No such luck. He could hear the footsteps again and prepared himself for a shit show. Jerry was like the dean. A shiver seized him, warm blood fighting through cold-constricted vessels.