It begins with a chill wind and screams. Burnt scent of jet fuel and whistle of air across torn wings. I toss in my bed, desperately wanting it to be a dream, and flail against the terrified voices, the hush of descent. There is a horrible, rushing sound in my ears. At the whisper of death and the gouging of metal against ground, I bolt up from the bed, my skin clammy with sweat. My stomach aches and tears gather in my eyes. Please--not another one.
Turning on the light, I sit up and hug my pillow. Icy fear trembles through my body and my teeth chatter. I rock against the headboard, trying to dislodge the images. My hands hurt. I glance down at them. They're burnt and smell of jet fuel. My hands haven't burned in a long time. It's a bad crash--a jet. Lots of people.
Sunrise is a couple of hours off and he'll be calling. Maybe by then I can pull myself together?
In a short while, my shaking stops, the blankets at last warming me. I rise slowly and go into the kitchen to make some coffee. After two cups, I slip into the shower and dress. The horizon is fiery now. I pour myself another cup of coffee and wait.
Finally, I lay my hand against the phone and a heartbeat later, it rings. My trembling returns.
"Hello, Mark," I say, my voice raspy.
"Uh--Stacia?" NTSB Investigator Mark Vincent's voice shakes more than usual this time.
"It's a jet, isn't it?" I ask, my hands still throbbing.
A long sigh hisses through the receiver. "Yes, Stace. Two hundred people dead. Only one survivor. We're still looking for the black box."
My heart twists at the ghostly feel of a stuffed bear and the image of a little girl clutching it like a life preserver, her head down. The whistle of air across the plane's fuselage echoes in the phone's static. The impact is sharp then numbing. I lurch forward. The silence is heavy. They always call me when the black box is lost.
I glance out the window at the darkness beginning to lighten on the horizon and I hear the fragile chirp of birds. Morning will come soon.
They say that God hears even a sparrow when it falls to the ground. What must He hear when two hundred of his own fall?
"I'll be there in four hours," I say finally, my voice still hoarse.
"But I didn't tell you where the crash site is."
I sigh. I've been working with NTSB investigators for almost a year now, yet Mark hasn't gotten used to what I see.
"I know where it is," I say calmly. "An old growth forest northwest of me." I can smell the tang of pine nettles and the raw stench of fire. And I see the blackened furrows and broken trees, the long, white plane a greenstick fracture poking through the earth's brown skin.
"We can't find the box and the little girl's critical. The tower thinks it was pilot error. What went wrong?"
I clutch the receiver. "We'll know soon enough," I say and hang up the phone.
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