April 4, 2002
John woke up suddenly, confused about the unfamiliar surroundings. Soft light was in his eyes. A breeze flowed through the open car window, bringing in the salty smell of the ocean with it.
He looked down to see a mass of brown hair. Monica was still asleep and had shifted until she sat in his lap, curled into a little ball. You'd never imagine someone so gangly could be so compact. He could have stared at her all day, just marvelling at the pitch of her eyebrows and the way the corners of her mouth curled up. There was only one reason to wake her: John's legs had fallen asleep. So he nudged her slightly, getting a yawn in return. Monica opened her eyes and gave him a confused, gimlet gaze.
"Good morning, sunshine," he said with a slight smile. She leaned back to assess her situation and jumped so suddenly her head almost hit the roof of the car.
"John, I didn't mean to fall asleep like this," Monica sputtered. With a leap, moved quickly into the passenger's seat, eyes wide.
"S'ok, Mon. My legs are just asleep, that's all."
They got out of the car and walked around the cemetary stiff legged. There was a low ground fog that made the place a little spookier than it had been the day before. The angels seemed to leer from the tops of their weatherbeaten stones, as if they could read his thoughts. John grimaced as he paced around among them. Blood returned to his feet in needle-like sparks. Monica tried her morning meditation. She sat on a small bench and turned her palms upward, the mist swirling at her feet. A butterfly landed on her head and John watched its wings flutter as she tried to concentrate.
The urgent need to pee rocked his bent body, so he made his way to a clump of old box hedges. While relieving himself, he noticed something slightly out of place on the landscape. There was a color that didn't quite match up with anything else, high up in the trees above the mist. Zipping up (and just barely escaping a "There's Something About Mary" debacle) he made his way to a tall cyprus slowly, trying to make out what was hanging on an upper limb.
Monica was done with her meditation, so she wandered over just in time to see her partner testing out one of the tree's creeping lower limbs. It denied his weight with a splintering crack, leaving John earthbound once again. "Well, that's that," he said, looking up helplessly. It looked to be a piece of blue cloth waving in the wind.
"Maybe we could knock it down," offered Monica. They used rocks, sticks and dirt clods to try and free the piece of material. Half and hour later they were filthy and dizzy and had gotten nowhere. Monica sat defeatedly on a toppled headstone and John sunk to the ground on his haunches. Both of them knew what would have to happen next. Monica pulled out her cellphone with a sigh. Let the carnival begin.
Thirty minutes later the whole town was there. The fire department backed its ladder truck up to the tree and the chief rode up in the bucket, whistling "MacArthur Park" the whole time. He plucked the cloth from the limbs like a piece of fruit, and held it to his chest as the bucket lowered.
"Jesus H. Christ," said Chief Leonard when the bucket reached the ground and he got a good look at what was in his hands. He gave it to Monica, who blanched when she realized what it was. The crowd closed around her and let out a collective gasp. John even stepped back.
It was a mangled flight attendant's uniform, smeared with blood. The crowd looked up at the sky, but John couldn't take his eyes off the cemetary. The yellow butterflies were back in force. Monica was looking that way, too, shaking her head. Her mouth was drawn up like a bow, making her appear older than she actually was. She held the uniform in a white knuckle death grip and didn't acknowledge when John tried to prise the dress from her hands. The yellow mass swirled around the headstones, lifting up over the churchyard like a dustcloud. Off they went. John had a feeling he'd like to fly away with them.
"We need to get this tested," John whispered in her ear, watching the butterflies disappear over the treeline again. "I want to see that manifest again, too."
Old blood doesn't smear. New blood does. Monica had it all over her hands and clothes. The uniform was inside out, its hem torn. People started to back away from it, noticing the glistening patches of blood that dotted the fabric. Chief Leonard put a hand on his head, unable to speak. He remembered that night the plane disappeared; he'd been playing baseball on the beach when the Constellation flew overhead. They stayed out well past their bedtime looking for it. At eight years old, he tagged around with his older brother Latane until the pink dawn began to rise in the eastern sky. They never found a thing.
10 AM
They were quiet on the way back to the inn. Monica had blood smeared on one of her cheeks, like warpaint. She wanted to drive. John guessed it was a way to stay in control of the situation. It felt like it was slipping through their hands.
"Damn airplanes," he said aloud, mostly to himself. "Those poor people."
Monica shrugged. She looked thoughful for the rest of the ride and didn't say anything until they reached the inn's porch. Both sank into the same chairs they'd lounged in two nights before. A storm gathered in the distance. The water seethed with foaming whitecaps.
"There is really no agony of death, John," Monica sighed, catching her partner by surprise.
"What's that mean? These people didn't feel anything when they died?"
"What I mean is that the only agony surrounding death in most cases is for those it leaves behind."
John had an inkling this was true. He thought of Luke riding away on that bicycle. There were those dark days when he couldn't get out of bed...the steady stream of visitors...Monica and her dark theories...his former NYPD partner bawling at the funeral...the sound of engines seizing as the plane shudders and pitches violently downward, body and earth soon to become one again...
The rockers creaked on the wooden porch. John looked out at the churning water, tears glistening in his eyes. "I read in a book once that impact is so violent in some of these cases that the mind refuses it," Monica continued. "It's what happens in those last few seconds that no one will ever understand."
"You sound like Scully," John said, unable to look in her direction.
Monica's chair slid back. "I don't mean to. Anyways, I'm tired, John. You look like you could use some sleep, too." He felt her hand on his shoulder and covered it with his own. John was having a hard time pretending he wasn't completely in love with her.
"You're okay, right?" she asked, eyes searching deep into his. John just nodded. She began running her other hand through his hair. It was so soothing he closed his eyes and rested his head on her stomach.
If the last few seconds of his life could be like this, John could die a happy man.
6PM
Rested and showered, John felt like new. The storm had come and gone. He was hungry and looking forward to the barbeque. Monica knocked twice and came in, wearing old Nikes with no socks, a Joe's Crab Shack t-shirt and a pair of jogging pants. "You look nice," he said, but got a look back indicating he was nuts.
They could smell the food cooking about a half-mile away. John was practically drooling on his US Navy t-shirt. The night was shaping up to be gorgeous...clear skies, balmy air and the smell of honeysuckle mixed with grilling smoke...
John Byrnes was glad to see them. He wanted answers, though, before they concentrated on eating.
"It was Eastern, right? I remember those...grey and blue...Who's blood was on it?"
"It's going to be tested. No answers as of yet," Monica said, looking eagerly at the tables piled with food and the other people eating.
"Go, eat. The police should be out here later. I invited your friend, Corporal Mosby."
Twenty minutes later, their plates piled high with BBQ chicken, potato salad, baked beans, squash casserole and cornbread, Monica and John were elbow to elbow at a picnic table shoveling food in their mouths. Both decided to have iced tea but the beers were tempting. A little too tempting, but not for another night with that old plane shimmying overhead.
Mosby made his way to the table. He had a beer in one hand and a bowl of boiled shrimp in the other. "Wish we'd get those tests back. Everyone's been bugging me about that today," he said, starting to peel his first shrimp of the night.
"If we could find something, anything about where that old plane went down. It's unbelieveable there was no wreckage found," Monica mumbled around a mouthful of food. The table was littered with balled-up napkins.
"Does it seem to like it's trying to get our attention?" Mosby asked, thoughtfully looking at the suds in his beer bottle.
"Yeah, we've talked about that," John said, nudging Monica under the table. More people were showing up and they seemed to gravitate to John, Monica and Mosby. Mrs. Byrnes was handing out strawberry shortcake and took great pains to make sure all three of them got the largest servings.
"A real shame about all those poor souls. It happened so long ago, but not a day goes by where we all don't think about it," she said. "I never hear a plane go overhead without thinking it might come down, too."
The tiki torches sputtered as they finished the meal. John groaned and Monica rested her elbows on the table. "God, that was good," she sighed, picking at the last little pieces of chicken on her plate. John noticed she wasn't so pale anymore. There were still bags under them but her eyes were clearer than they had been for weeks. She was tanned and smiling and staring right at him.
"John, you look better than you have in a long time. I don't know how long it's been since I've seen you without some kind of scratch on your face," she said, wiping whipped cream off his nose with her napkin.
They both laughed at this. It almost felt like a vacation. The atmosphere was warm and loving and the total opposite of the sickness and death and loss both of them had endured in Washington. Scully needed some time like this and so did Skinner. He carried the unit's troubles like a heavy cross, sworn in his allegiance to Mulder's cause.
At about ten, the crowd began to thin out. John, Mosby and Byrnes were deep in conversation about deep sea fishing. Monica was right beside John, their shoulders almost touching. Her perfume lingered in the air. John wanted to touch her, to kiss her, but God, he was afraid. Not that she'd reject him, but that it would end like Mulder and Scully. There was no way either of them would survive something like that. They depended on each other too much. Reyes and Doggett just couldn't stop.
"I wish you could've seen this marlin. It grabbed the...line," Mosby said, suddenly breaking off and staring at the sky. John hadn't been paying much attention, but he snapped back when Mosby stopped talking. They all craned up as a deep thumping sound became audible in the distance, a very different sound than a jet or a modern small plane would make.
"Is it...?" John asked, standing up. The noise changed to a loud throbbing. Monica, Mosby and Byrnes all joined John, searching the sky. Monica made as if to say something when something landed on the lawn with a loud thump.
Then there was another. And another. Something rolled right to Monica's feet. It was an old cosmetics case, corroded almost beyond recognition. A suitcase crashed through someone's car windshield. An umbrella fell on the grill, combusting in a cloud of flying black fabric. An old picnic cooler landed in the middle of the baked beans with a splat.
"RUN!"
Byrnes and his wife ran for their porch, along with about ten other lingering party guests. Mosby crouched under a picnic table. There was a bulky black object that landed beside him, making a screeching sound. It was an accordion that settled to the ground with a defiant honking chord.
Monica jerked a gigantic picnic table umbrella off its fasteners and pulled John underneath. Car alarms started going off. There was a bag of golfclubs that broke an upstairs window, followed by a large black Samsonite that nearly took out the table Mosby was hiding under. Yelling echoed across the island as the storm of luggage dented cars, splashed into pools and knocked holes in roofs.
But suddenly as it started, it stopped, like a spigot turned off by a giant. Monica stuck her hand out like she was testing the rain and John carefully peeked out from under the umbrella. They saw Mosby run at top speed toward the porch, nearly tripping over the accordion that sat in a dusty, defeated heap.
"Wow," was all John could get out. A large dark shadow was passing overhead, sputtering, choking and throbbing. John could make out the three ridge tails and the irregular body shape that was the Constellation's trademark. "We've got to catch it now," he said firmly, dropping his grip on the umbrella and running towards the cemetary. Monica launched a second later. Mosby ran towards his Jeep and everyone else huddled on the porch started looking for lanterns and flashlights.
All John could hear was the sound of his feet crunching on the gravel and the low moan of the plane. Monica caught up with him, panting slightly. The engines seemed to stop. Their insistent sound was replaced with the rushing wind. The plane was gliding!
Car headlights lit everything up as the residents bounced over the rutted road. Everyone jumped out of their vehicles and looked around, trying to spot the shadow. John and Monica had stopped running. They watched and waited, straining to hear any noise that would be out of the ordinary...a loud splash, maybe?
But instead there came a muffled thump from somewhere deep in the thickets, followed by a brief flash.
"That's it, that's it," Monica said excitedly. Was John enjoying this? An X File with a cut and dry end? Could it ever really happen?
They all jumped into the tangles of brush, getting cut and stained on berry plants. Someone had a scythe. It was passed to John, who cut and whacked his way through the tall weeds. "We checked back here," said Byrnes. "I know we did." There was an acrid, burning smell in the air, mixing with the swamp gas. It seemed like a dream to John as the mist rolled back in. How long had they been walking? Monica waded through the cat-tails behind him, cussing softly every time one of the weeds whacked her in the face.
"John...stop," she suddenly commanded. John stopped swinging the scythe and motioned for everyone else to stop walking. The flashlights and lanterns swung around wildly. A glint of metal shone through the brush. They charged towards it. Water flew in every direction as the crowd moved through the ankle-deep sludge.
Ten feet, twenty feet, thirty feet and John came to a screeching stop. Monica gasped at the sight.
The plane sat on its belly in a clearing as if it had been waiting for them all this time. It was broken in two like an egg, spilling a mess of corrorded wires out of its interior. It still encouraged all who gaped to "Fly Eastern Airlines".
"My God," said Byrnes. He was crying. Tears sparkled on other's faces in the glow of the flashlights. John needed to touch it, just to re-assure himself it was real.
"Fly Eastern Airlines," Monica mumbled. "They just wanted us to find them."
John waded through some unidentified muck towards the plane and grabbed a piece of the tail. It was in decent shape, considering the age of the wreck. The windows had mottled slightly, so he went to work prying off one of the intact cabin doors to see what was inside. Others joined him, pushing and tugging and rocking the broken plane. It was stuck fast, but John noticed a hole in the fuselage just large enough to wriggle through. Someone handed him a flashlight, and he slipped into the musty Connie like a mouse.
He was aware the floor could be flimsy. It was so dark in the plane and everything was jumbled-up and sharp edged. He sort of felt his way along, then he put his hand in something wet and cold. John closed his eyes and tried to keep from yelling. A check with the flashlight showed it was blood...lots of it...dripping from a jumble of seats. He began tossing them aside, feeling the fabric rip and disintegrate between his fingers.
"John?"
Monica was suddenly there, making him jump. She seemed to be meditating again. All she needed was a butterfly on her head.
"Help me, Mon."
They tore through the mass of seats, wires and other oddments. John's hand closed around something that felt like a Matchbox car. It was a small plastic airplane, like something they'd give kids to pacify them during flights. It was a miniature version of the plane they were on now. He pocketed it and kept sorting through all the stuff.
"Have you seen anyone?" Monica asked. It was odd that there were no bones or clothes inside the wreck. Just dust and blood. It covered both of them.
Suddenly, the plane creaked and they both stopped. People were shouting, their cries muffled by the skin of the airplane. The plane seemed to shift a little bit. John listened close to the yelling, trying to make out what the crowd was saying.
Quicksand!
The plane groaned and snapped. He grabbed Monica and shoved her rudely toward the hole in the fuselage. Things began to move inside the plane somehow, shuddering and snapping. John took one last desperate look around with the flashlight. For a moment he saw passengers reading magazines, dressed up, waiting for the return home or their vacation to start. He could even hear the healthy roar of the turbine engines, slicing away at the atmosphere.
"John!" Monica screamed, grabbing him as the Constellation started sinking. They tumbled out into the bog, being sucked at by the soft sand. Mosby and Captain Leonard from the fire department hauled them out, both sputtering and sneezing. They all joined the others on a small rise and watched the old plane give a final moan before collapsing into the ground, its frame cracking. It was swallowed into the sand.
Monica and John turned to face the crowd. They were thinking about government reports, the FAA and NTSB, the swamp being dredged to recover the old Connie. But as their flashlights swung among the crowd, John noticed bowed heads and lips muttering prayers. Mosby was crying now, sobbing softly into a handkerchief.
"I can't...' John sputtered, walking away. Moinica followed and put a warm hand on his shoulder.
"They don't want the government here, John."
He turned to look at her. Monica's cheek was bleeding slightly. "i don't even want us here. They're the ones that kept this alive all these years, after the families stopped coming and the whole thing was a distant memory for the government," she continued. John looked back toward the crowd and furrowed his brow. They were obligated to report this. But these people were crying for those passengers and the broken plane. It was a long chapter over for all of them.
"When I was on that plane, Mon, I can't explain it. I saw the passengers and the way the interior would've looked. Not the way it looked tonight. Maybe you're right. They wanted to end the agony all these people here endured thinking they didn't do enough that night to find the wreck."
Monica looked toward where the plane had been and back at John. "You're doing the right thing. It probably doesn't seem like it now," she said, smiling slightly. She took his hand in hers and they both walked back to the townspeople.
"We're gonna let you have this one. Let you rest in peace and them too," John said quietly. Monica squeezed his hand as the crowd rushed up to hug them.
April 5, 2002
Someone came out to the cemetary with a backhoe and carved an extra-large hole in the ground. Everyone, including Monica and John, worked all through the night to collect the luggage that had fallen from the plane. The bloody stewardess dress came over on the morning ferry after it was halted en route to the state medical examiner's office.
One by one, pickup trucks arrived at the cemetary. One by one, the jettisoned luggage was pitched into the hole. Captain Leonard, remembering his brother Latane who died the year before, dropped in the stewardess uniform on top of the pile. John Byrnes shoveled the first pile of dirt in the hole. The others started the grim work. Monica and John, bedraggled and covered with sand from the night before, picked up shovels and pitched in. The crowd was quiet until Mrs. Byrnes started to sing. Soon they were all singing as the sandy dirt spilled between the gaps and covered all that remained of Flight 2012.
When I die,
Hallelujah by and by,
I'll fly away.
Monica was singing her heart out, stopping occasionally to look at the blisters forming on her hands. She smiled at him warmly.
So the Tin Man had a heart. He'd never really been one to stray from procedure. That was Monica's job.
"John, you'll learn one way or another it all comes down to love. It always triumphs over everything."
Scully told him that just after William was born. It was hard for him to understand the significance of her statement at the time. But feeling the little plastic plane in his pocket and watching everyone working so hard and seeing Monica smile made it a little more clear. Maybe things would work.
When they dragged back to the inn, they stopped at Monica's door.
"Well, no rest for the wicked," John smiled.
"Yeah, you're tired too," she said, fumbling in her pockets for the room key.
"Monica?"
"What?"
John embraced her. The warm wind blew all around them, ruffling Monica's hair. They held each other for a long time. He broke the hug, stepping back to look in her eyes. "We always seem to end up like this," he said, stating fact.
Monica didn't say anything. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and John couldn't read her expression. She kissed his cheek and disappeared into her room. Instead of instantly retreating to his, he stood there for a long time just listening to the waves, thinking about why we're fated to love certain people.
John had no idea the hardships that they'd endure were just beginning.
And it was often during those trying times, he'd think back to these few days...the cemetary, the barbeque, the plane's shadow as it blotted out the sky, the sound of the water...things that made it worthwhile to hang on, even if it was just for her sake. Sometimes he couldn't remember if the whole thing had really happened...
Except he'd see the yellow butterflies in his mind's eye, taking off, reaching for the sunset.
The End