"Whisper of the Wind"

Chapter 21

"Heavy Metals"

June 8, 2008

Early p.m.

Fleecy white clouds and a sky out of a fairytale had them both lighthearted and silly and completely free of anything so mundane as a guilty conscience. Jerry played around with the airplane a little, letting the giggling Suzanne know that he was an accomplished pilot, and not just an FAA lightweight with a Sunday joystick in his hand.

Below them, the snaky length of I-84 near Hartford stretched out like a ribbon on the landscape. Cars and trucks moved along like colorful species of insects, from ants to ladybugs to cock roaches. Crowns of trees that dotted the countryside thrust their leafy arms skyward, and rooftops appeared and disappeared beneath the plane's graceful wings. Then they were over I-91 at New Haven, still heading southwest and on course.

As they flew, Jerry turned off his radio-microphone, and they chattered loudly about silly and inconsequential things: movies they had seen, TV shows they enjoyed and actors they admired. They spoke of places they'd visited and people they had known. They prattled about their parents and childhood friends, siblings, old high schools, teachers, and the sports in which they had participated. Laughing together, they engaged in the type of light-hearted conversation practiced by every couple in the world seeking to get to know each other in a nutshell.

Wanda's name did not come up, or the fact of the child she carried. And Suzanne did not mention her husband. The only thing either of them wanted or needed right now was a day filled with carefree moments, free of all adult responsibility and life's problems left far behind.

After a time they could see the first faraway glimpse of the New York City skyline in the distance, and Jerry held up a hand for quiet in the cockpit. He needed to get ready to speak to the tower operator at Teterboro and prepare for a landing. He was about to reach up to turn on the mike.

That's when everything began to unravel. He was ready to begin to reduce altitude and prepare to circle for a landing. They both heard a distinct sharp "clunk" somewhere in the engine compartment, and the plane lurched momentarily, as though it had just tried to swallow something distasteful. Then it evened out for a moment and continued in level flight.

Jerry and Suzanne exchanged glances. "What was that?" Suzanne demanded. Her hand flew to her throat in alarm.

"Don't know," Jerry said. He moved the stick a little to the right and up a tad, and for a moment the little plane responded. Cautiously he worked both rudders, elevator and ailerons, shifting his feet back and forth on the pedals. The right rudder was hanging up for some reason. He fiddled with it, keeping his face mask-like to prevent Suzanne from panicking. She already had one hand at her neck and the other braced against the cockpit display panel. She was looking at him wide-eyed, half accusation, half alarm. She was a novice at this, and he had no clue what her reaction would be if they were in serious trouble.

Jerry reached up to flip the switch to activate his radio, notify the tower, broadcast a MAYDAY … But the line was dead. Something had snapped the connection. He swallowed convulsively, and a sharp pang of conscience clawed at his chest. There was going to be a price to pay. A price they must pay for their indiscretion. He said nothing, biting his tongue to keep from saying Wanda's name out loud.

Jerry played the controls gingerly, trying to get a feel for the problem they might be facing. The left rudder was fine, but the right one seemed to be stuck. From the corner of his eye he saw that the left wing was coming up slightly, and he didn't want that to happen. Not yet. He tried to compensate for the right rudder, but nothing was happening. He held the control stick tightly in his right hand and eased it to the left with a slight pressure on his palm. The plane righted itself and the engine roared slightly.

Like a lioness that had been cuffed by her cub.

Something was definitely not right, but Jerry couldn't seem to get a handle on it. Puzzled and a little heavy again in his chest, he listened to the pitch of the engine. It was laboring.

The cotter pin that Joe Callucci had loosened on the apron at Logan International that morning, caught on the rudder stabilizer and parted company with its rigging. The metal arm it had been attached to shifted lazily to the left, where it jammed between the other two arms and very effectively froze the rudders, the elevator and the aileron.

In the cockpit, Jerry felt the change in the stick immediately. Pulling back and hard to the left, he felt something shift. Suddenly the stick was made of concrete. The pitch of the engine rose and so did his heartbeat. Sixty seconds ago they had been on a leisurely excursion, and now they were in a crippled, shuddering, out-of-control airplane that was ready to fly them nose-first into the unforgiving Earth.

Jerry glanced across at Suzanne and knew she was quickly losing her cool. Fortunately she was strapped tightly into her seat, or she would be jumping up and down, shifting from side to side. She would be scratching desperately for a means of escape, trying to climb into his lap.

He gave a final desperate heave on the stick and felt something below jerk loose. It was almost like holding onto a broom handle. He did not dare lift up on it like he would with a fucking broom … the thing might come off in his hand. The plane was off course now, careening out of control and spinning like a bullet toward Route 78.

Suzanne was screaming, both hands clawing at the sides of her head and pounding in panic at the bulkheads. Her eyes were like saucers, her mouth contorted in horror, spittle flying …

They were in a holographic instant of pre-destiny limbo. Jerry was panicking too, but frozen in place, his pilot's long experience telling him there was nothing he could do but sit and wait for the inevitable while the little plane keeled over. In a brilliant flash of clarity behind his eyes, the image of Wanda and her unborn child passed briefly through his consciousness. He would never see her again … or get to know his child.

The left wing of the Cessna Skyhawk came up with lazy calm and filled the entire left side of the windscreen. The right wing dipped dangerously. Their luggage careened across the back and hit the bulkhead with a crash. The engine howled and the propeller screamed as it sped up in front of Jerry's horrified eyes. The shaft was going to break.

Suzanne was silent now, her face a fright mask of grotesque proportions. All the color had drained out of her, leaving her complexion a pasty white. Her blonde hair stuck out from her head in staticky yellow strands. Veins stood out on her neck like tiny ropes holding her head in place.

The plane rolled over onto its back and fell Earthward. A wide concrete overpass on

I-78 leading into New York City grew larger before them, like a camera lens zooming in for a closeup shot.

At the far end of the on-ramp, a gasoline tanker, a huge shiny dark blue eighteen-wheeler, was just entering the overpass, innocently closing the gap between plane and truck. Its driver was unaware; he had the pedal to the metal, trying to regain some speed, coming off the gradual curve of the ramp. The nose of the truck zoomed into the closeup shot of the camera.

At the last possible second, Jerry Waltham lost it.

He screamed …

June 8, 2008

1:10 p.m.

Hualu Hualu Malu rode serenely along the highway, watching his speed, watching his RPMs and keeping half an eye on the tach. And looking out the windshield into the glory of a beautiful day. Ten miles or so ahead, he would transition across to I-78, heading for New York. His payload papers were hanging from a clip that dangled from the radio knob and rocked back and forth with the gentle sway of the truck.

He had left his mother's place an hour or so before, and swung onto the mainline about fifteen minutes later. Now he had nothing but time to get to the terminal and pull his rig into line for unloading tomorrow, according to his papers, about 2:00 p.m. Depending on his place in line though, he might be able to shuck the load much sooner than that and deadhead on home.

Once back in Altoona, and checklists confirmed, he had four days off. His head was filled with plans for those four days. If all went well, there was a pretty, dark haired Wahini waiting for him in the town of Tyrone. He had met her the week before at a backyard barbeque with a group of mutual friends.

They recognized each other for native Islanders, as an Irishman knows another Irishman, the moment they laid eyes on one another. The inevitable "island" conversation that flared instantly had quickly gained momentum until they agreed to meet and go out on a date a week hence.

Tuesday was the day! Lelani was the human resources manager for a manufacturing concern in Altoona, and had the option of calling in for vacation days whenever she pleased. She "pleased" to do so on Tuesday, June 10th.

As a result, Hualu Hualu was in the best of moods as he drove his truck along the interstate. He regretted a little that he had not told his mother of his latest conquest. But he had only known Lelani for a week … almost … and it would have been a shame for him to get her hopes up about a possible liaison, and then not have it work out.

This one, he believed, however, would work out. But he would not brag before he knew for sure.

In the meantime, there was a CD by Hawaiian artist Israel Kamakawiwo'ole … "Iz" … playing loudly, reverberating through the cab. The big man with the mellow voice was singing "Over the Rainbow" … and Hualu Hualu, with a huge smile on his face, nodded his head with the lazy rhythm and hummed along as the big Peterbilt hummed along the ribbon of highway.

It was 1:45 p.m. and the ramp to Interstate 78 was looming. Hualu Hualu hit the right turn signal and began to edge carefully into the far right-hand lane. There was other traffic ahead of him. A pickup, a van and some guy in a rollback were already heading onto the ramp, which circled gradually to the right and mounted to the level where 78 crossed over the highway that ran below it.

Hualu Hualu kept his rig well away from the rollback, but when that vehicle speeded up to gain momentum in order to merge with the flow of traffic, Hualu Hualu checked his

side view mirrors and accelerated also. The right side was clear and he felt the powerful vehicle beneath him gather reserve speed. He flipped the left turn signal to merge fully, and in the left side view, something huge and looming filled up the entire reflective surface of the mirror.

What the …?

With horrified certainty, he recognized the apparition as the whirling propeller and glaring windscreen of a small airplane, out of control and spiraling straight toward him.

Time holographed into freeze-frame for a split instant as Hualu Hualu's last thought was of his mother and the pretty Lelani.

Then the world went away in the biggest bang since the Big Bang …

… and so did, mercifully, Hualu Hualu.

June 8, 2008

1:35 p.m.

Gregory House was quoting from the newspaper he held folded in his lap as the old Dodge Dynasty sped down the highway, headed home.

"'Dr. Ralph Armstad of Montpelier, Vermont, this morning hinted that New Jersey oncologist, James Wilson, may have information in the death of Dr. Daniel Shepherd at a hotel near here yesterday. According to Armstad, Wilson knew of the plot to steal Shepherd's research papers when the two butted heads at a medical convention at the Best Western Hotel, downtown.'"

Wilson and House stared at each other in shocked disbelief from opposite sides of the wide front seat. "What the hell are they talking about?" House snarled. "The son of a bitch is trying to take the focus off himself by putting it on you! I don't believe this!"

He continued to read the article out loud. "'Police plan to detain Wilson at the hotel for further questioning …'"

Wilson's eyes grew large and round. "That's what those two black and whites were doing at the hotel when we pulled out awhile ago."

House chuffed angrily and snorted through his nose in disdain. "Well, they were a little too fucking late. Christ! Of all the idiotic crap! All they had to do was question the other people who were right there and heard what went on. What became of that? Why the hell would they believe Armstad? It'll take you all of five minutes to set 'em straight." House folded the newspaper and tossed it over into the middle of the back seat. In the side view mirror he saw the two black and whites behind them, paralleling their position and speed. He said nothing.

In his right jacket pocket, Gregg thumbed a tiny switch on a device that looked much like an old Zippo cigarette lighter. He spoke in a normal voice: "Disregard! Repeat … abort … disregard. This is New York One. Return to base!" He thumbed the switch again. The device vibrated in his fingers for a moment, then went silent and still. House removed his hand from his pocket and placed it in his lap.

Wilson was looking at him strangely. "Yeah … but isn't it great that what he says is spread all over the headlines? Not a single word about what the others of us told them. Sensationalism! Reporters getting even because the police locked them out! What a way to get your name in the paper! Not exactly how I'd planned it …" Wilson had meant the statement as a joke, but it didn't come out that way. He was upset. He got very quiet. Oppressively so.

House finally looked at his friend with consternation, eyes dark with regret. This was not good. In a sudden impulse he reached across and tapped his friend's arm once in support, and then withdrew. Wilson had gone silent, and that bothered House. A lot. "When was the last time you were in Vermont?"

Wilson looked across with sudden understanding, and smiled slightly, then returned his attention to the road. There was a maroon minivan in the lane to their right, a couple of look-alike sedans behind that, and two black and white police cruisers further back. "When I was about thirteen," he said. "Why?"

"Just wondered," House said. "That's where Armstad and Shepherd are from. Guess you can't steal their research if you aint there and don't know where the lab is, huh?" He was trying very hard to change the subject and raise Wilson's spirits.

James understood, and House's continued benevolence puzzled him. "Guess not," he agreed. He plied his attention between the highway ahead and the rearview mirror. The van and the other cars maintained their positions and held to the posted speed. The police cars were maintaining speed also, and there was no indication that they were activating lights or sirens. Yet.

"How's your hand?" House persisted. "Looks swollen. Is it sore? When we get back, you're gonna go to the Emergency Room and pay a visit to Goody Two-Shoes. Let her pity you a little and fix that up. You're damaged. She might want to have an affair with you. I still think you need stitches …"

Wilson sighed, a little bothered by all this snarky concern. "Why are you worried about it? It's okay. It's a minor cut … and I'll live. By the way … where would you like to go for your birthday? You've been avoiding that subject for days. Chicken of turning forty-nine, you poor limping twerp?"

House frowned. He hated having a snarky conversation turned around on him. "Hey! This is about you … not about me!"

Wilson grinned. "That's a switch. I told you we were going out somewhere for your birthday. I wasn't kidding. I even got you a birthday present … something that'll remind you of yourself."

House repressed a grin, laying it on a little thick, now that Wilson seemed to be shucking off his mantle of anger and disappointment. "What'd you get me?"

"If you want to find out, you'll just have to go along to your birthday dinner with me …

no dinner, no present …"

House grunted. "Humph!"

Wilson was paying more attention to the rearview mirrors now. The maroon van had a family in it. Man, woman, two kids. As it slid back and forth, maintaining a position off their right fender, he could see that there was a DVD playing in the back seat. Two pairs of youthful eyes were glued to it. Wilson smiled to himself, wondering for a moment, what might have happened if he had had children of his own.

He saw that one of the sedans had changed lanes and now traveled behind them. Ahead, he became aware of another car that had dropped back in traffic, and was now only a few car lengths ahead of them. The police cars had dropped back a little.

In the meantime, Gregg ceased his chatter. He reclined his seat and pushed back in it, stretched out as far as his long legs could reach. Wilson figured his bum leg was not happy with the travel arrangements.

That wasn't it at all. House had full view of the cops from his position, and saw that the cars seemed ready to slow down and peel off, out of traffic.

House turned his head back to the left and squinted at Wilson, and at his wounded hand resting lightly, palm-up in his lap. "I can hear your little wheels turning, Wilson," he said softly. "I can read your mind … and as long as we're going to go to some restaurant for my damned birthday, I might as well warn you … there's something I should tell you. Something I should have told you a long time ago …

"Now turn around and keep your eyes on the road. I'm tired." He turned his head back toward the center, and as he did so, his eyes grew wide and huge and blue.

"Wilson! Look! Up there!"

Wilson gazed upward through the car's windshield and saw the airplane. It was in trouble. It loomed high in front of them at an undetermined distance, careening downward, right wing dipped too low to be under control.

An underpass that ran beneath I-78 was coming up fast. As they neared, they could hear the thundering roar of a laboring eighteen-wheeler, a gasoline tanker running through its gears, struggling to gain speed on the uphill ramp directly overhead.

Added to that, another roar, the laboring slap of the plane's damaged engine as the little aircraft fell out of the sky, going down like a flying brick, headed straight for the tanker loaded with gasoline, and an overpass full of Sunday traffic.

James and Gregg both bolted upright. James' foot went down hard on the brake as they entered the underpass. The plane grew larger and larger, bearing down almost on top of them. Then it disappeared beyond the concrete abutment, and a thunderous explosion rocked the highway for a mile in all directions as the tanker went up like Vesuvius.

The van's driver jammed his brakes also, as the car in front of the Dynasty accelerated like a jet plane and fishtailed through a red blossom of fire. The car behind the Dynasty rammed its rear end with a crash, and the maroon van slid around into a 180-degree skid that was halted when it was smashed by another car that careened into the side of it. It bounced and rammed the passenger side of the Dynasty with a violence that threw Gregory House forward against his seat belt like a rag doll, and rammed him hard against the shoulder of James Wilson.

Wilson's mouth opened in a silent scream when the burning, still whirling, propeller of the little airplane impacted his driver's side window, which imploded. James Wilson had no time to react. His temple took the hit and it forced his head to the right, against the ricocheting shoulder of Gregory House. A small sedan came out of nowhere on the other side of the van and T-boned the Dynasty. Pieces of metal trim clanked around on the roadbed. Broken radiators hissed their indignity. Horns wailed.

Then all was still except for the ominous echo of death, the stuck car horns, and the "pop-pop-pop" of smaller explosions above them.

The destroyed airplane prop had dropped to the concrete and lay burning. House's car was reduced to the shape of a smashed cardboard box, and the men inside did not move. The smoking remains came to rest against the concrete pillar of the underpass with another car halfway into its trunk. The maroon van and the little green sedan both slid backward a few feet and came to rest behind the passenger door.

Above the underpass structure, a conflagration raged; a dozen cars incinerated, halting traffic in all directions for miles around. Some of their occupants were reduced to blackened shells. The old Peterbilt lay in smoking metal ruin, its cab peeled back like a smashed tin can. No sign of a driver. He had vaporized, as had the occupants of the small aircraft. All Earthly remains would be identifiable only through examination of dental records. Maybe not even then.

The police were out of their cars and running forward, lapel mikes against their lips, requesting ambulances and cruisers from every nearby facility that could spare them. They hurried toward the tangle of wrecked vehicles beneath the underpass.

Miraculously, people were beginning to move about, protected from the worst of it by the concrete and steel overhead.

Then they got to the old Dodge Dynasty.

There was blood everywhere. The front seat was red with it, and the two occupants were not moving. Both cops drew closer, yanking grimly at the twisted metal, which by some divine intervention, yielded beneath their adrenalin-powered super strength.

Fingers on carotid pulses told them the men inside were still alive.

Just barely …

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