“That’s right.” Her voice was as twitchy as the rest of her. He got the feeling that if she didn’t bite off each word, keep each syllable short and terse, she’d just open her mouth and scream as loud as she could. Scream until she couldn’t make another sound. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Justin said. “I’m a policeman. Police chief. Justin Westwood.”
“The police chief of Silver Spring?”
“No, ma’am. I’m from a town in Long Island, New York. East End Harbor.”
She practically wrapped her arms around her chest, as if she were now physically holding herself together. “That’s the town where my husband was killed.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
She seemed to age several more years right before his very eyes.
“What. . what. .” She had to lick her cracked, dry lips to get the words out. “What is it you want?”
“I’m just looking for some information.”
“What kind of. . of. . information?”
Justin lowered his voice to a near whisper. He looked the woman directly in the eye and did his best to give her a gentle smile. “Is there something you’re afraid of, Theresa?” When she didn’t answer, just stared back at him, he said in the same even tone, “You can tell me. What are you so afraid of?” he asked.
“Afraid of?” she whispered back. And when he nodded, she said, “I’m afraid of everything.”
“Then let me help you.”
A laugh escaped through her lips, but there was no humor in it. It was a harsh, crackling sound.
“Then help me,” Justin said. “Help me find out who killed your husband.”
“They said it was an accident.”
“But you know it wasn’t, don’t you?”
She stared with her hard, almost lifeless eyes, and then she said, “Yes. I know.”
From upstairs, the sound of the television filtered down. Justin heard frenzied, silly music. The girls must be watching cartoons.
“Do you mind,” Justin said very slowly, so carefully, “if I just sit and have a cup of coffee?”
Another long silence. The woman’s neck was stretched so taut he didn’t think it was even possible for her to speak. Her fingers moved even faster, picking deeper into her own skin, and he could see her shiver. She was like a fragile piece of glass and he was afraid to speak; she’d flinched at his words as if each were a rock being hurled directly at her. But the silence ended when she turned back to the stairs and yelled, “Reysa! Hannah! Stay upstairs and play! I need some quiet so I can talk to this man. Do you hear me? Stay upstairs!”
Justin heard two voices yell down, “Yes, Momma,” and then Mrs. Cooke spun on her heels and headed toward what he assumed was the kitchen. He waited a moment, watching the woman walk, her spindly legs looking as if they were going to snap after each step. When she disappeared around a corner, he emerged from his reverie and realized he should follow. It looked like he was about to get what he’d come for.
Justin sipped the hot black coffee, served in a delicate cup and saucer. He raised his eyebrow to let her know that it was good.
“I’ve lost twelve pounds since my husband died,” she said. “I haven’t been able to eat. Or sleep.”
“Have you been talking to anyone?”
She shook her head. It didn’t move more than an inch in either direction.
“Is there anyone who’s been coming in to help with the children?”
Now she recoiled as if slapped. “You think I don’t know my responsibilities?” she snapped. “I know my responsibilities!”
“I’m sure you do. That’s not what I meant. I was talking about making things a little easier on you, that’s all. You’re under a lot of strain. And you’ve suffered a loss. Everybody needs help in that kind of situation.”
“My husband! Hutch had responsibilities but he didn’t care!”
“I’m sure that he did.”
“No! He didn’t! And now my babies don’t have a father!”
Justin kept his voice soft and soothing. “What was he doing, Mrs. Cooke? What was he doing that made someone rig his plane and cause a crash?”
She didn’t seem to hear the question. She wrapped her arms even tighter around her chest. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“They took him, didn’t they? Those bastards! We don’t even get a real funeral.”
Justin nodded. “Do you know who ‘they’ are?”
“No. Not really.”
“But you have an idea.”
“Maybe.”
That was as far as she was willing to go, at least for the moment. She tried drinking some coffee but she only managed one sip before putting the cup down.
“Theresa, do you know-”
“Terry. People call me Terry.”
“Okay. What was your husband doing over the past year or so, Terry?”
“Flying. Flying like always.”
“But not for the Air Force.”
“No. Special people.”
“What kind of special people?”
“Scary people.”
“Like who?”
She shook her head again. This time it might have swung two whole inches from side to side.
“People at Midas?”
He could see the fear run through her. It left her eyes and seemed to rip through her insides like an insidious, all-consuming disease.
“Can you give me the names of any people at Midas, Mrs. Cooke?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “A phone number? An address?”
The fear was clamping her jaws shut. Justin waited until he knew she wouldn’t-or couldn’t-respond.
“I spoke to your husband’s commanding officer,” he said finally.
The fear let go of her throat and allowed her to speak now. “Zanesworth?”
Justin nodded and said, “He told me your husband was stationed at Andrews the last eighteen months, that things were done just as they’d been done in the past.”
“That’s not true.”
“Do you have any idea why he’d lie?”
“Because somebody told him to. Because he’s scared, just like me. Or at least he should be.”
Justin wished he’d brought a flask with him. He’d sneak into the bathroom, have a long pull, and feel a lot better than he felt at this moment. But it was just wishful thinking. Something he didn’t have much time for. “Who did your husband fly when he was in the Air Force?” he asked, when he finally got away from the image of nice, warm alcohol flowing down his throat. “What kind of passengers?”
“Everyone.”
“The president?”
“No. Everyone but him.”
“The vice president?”
“Sure.”
“He piloted the vice president? Vice President Dandridge?”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
“Lots of them. Secretary of state. Defense secretary. Everyone had their territories. Hutch had the Middle East a lot. That was his route.”
“He never left the Air Force, did he?”
“No.”
“They just let him take time off from his duties to do something else.”
She nodded.
“The people he was working for, they must have been pretty important to arrange that.”
She nodded one more time. He was beginning to wonder if he’d hear her speak again.
“During the time off, did he fly some of the same people he was flying for the Air Force?”
Another nod. Then, “I think so. Yes.”
“Was he still flying to the Middle East?”
“Yes. I mean, I was never sure where he was. He said it was usually better for me not to know. But he forgot sometimes, and told me things. They slipped out. Or else he’d give me hints. It was kind of like a game. Once he called me up from a hotel and I asked him how he was and he said, ‘I fell down the tower,’ and I didn’t know what he meant but it sounded bad so I got all concerned, but he was just laughing and told me to think about it. After we hung up, I figured out what he meant. He was saying Eiffel Tower to let me know he was in Paris. I think he flew the secretary of state there for some secret conference. No, it was the vice president, because after that he flew him to Saudi Arabia. I remember because Hutch brought me back this little veil thing, like Arab women wear, and he said that Dandridge was making fun of him on the flight back. Whenever he had time, Hutch always tried to bring me back something from one of his trips.”