Cheating Time

Chapter One

Burnt metal and bodies twisted in a macabre sculpture. Christ almighty, she groaned. It never got easier for her. The initial shock of a crash site never failed to shrivel her soul a touch.

About time you got here.

Uneasy, Sara Jane tromped toward the closest familiar face. Cowboy, right?

Girl, you’ve been with us three months and you still don’t know my name?

She looked the lanky man over. With his worn straw cowboy hat and a goofy grin, he didn’t appear too brilliant but the NTSB didn’t hire morons. She glanced at the crowd beyond him. The busy swarm surrounding the site resembled a horde of ants devouring a picnic. Now and again a blue cap would dart into view, a teammate wearing the required uniform. Am I the last one here?

He chuckled. His long, weathered face contorted in amusement. You mean besides the FAA, ATC, every precinct of the Chicago Police and Fire Departments, the pilots union, the flight attendants union, reps from TransCon Airlines, Red Cross, and the mayor?

Sara Jane nodded.

No, Tom’s still MIA, probably got lost or stuck in traffic. I hate this town. My idea of a traffic jam is trailing behind a tractor on a winding road. You're from around here aren’t you?

Yes. Sara Jane jerked her head in a quick nod and steered the conversation back to work. She didn’t want to talk about Chicago or why she left. Looks like the media beat us all. She cocked her head to the crowd of cameramen and reporters corralled like rabid dogs at the edge of the field.

Cook County police got here soon enough and so did the guy from the Chicago field office. He’s been in the thick of that crowd since I got here. Cowboy shrugged his bony shoulders up to his ears. Guess he likes the media. Seeing as how you worked in that office up ‘til a few months ago you probably know him.

Her stomach muscles clenched. She held her breath. Who is it?

Mick Connelly.

Shit, she exhaled. She should have expected it. The entire Chicago office would be here. It was their territory.

Your ex?

A mischievous toothy grin spread across his animated face. Jerk, he knew Mick was her ex. Their breakup hadn’t been quiet. He’d cheated and she’d exploded. Rather than spend her days the subject of office gossip, she’d transferred to the main office in D.C. Sara Jane was not about to let Cowboy, or anyone else, get a rise out of her. Tucking a strand of chin length blonde hair behind her ear, she changed the subject. Plane crashed at what 3:15-3:20?

‘Bout that. Headed for D.C. from Vegas. Stopped over in Minneapolis for a refuel. Guess we can be grateful that the pilot chose to ditch here in this field rather than Lake Michigan. Wonder what crop he plowed?

You’re the hick.

Don’t know either, huh?

Soybeans. She swung her hiking boot and kicked a plant in front of her. It’s the Midwest. If it isn’t corn, it’s soybeans.

Like tofu?

She nodded. Have you been here long enough to guess what happened?

It crashed.

Nice work. We can go home then?

Cute. No, I haven’t a guess. That’s not my job. Operations is working on gathering the history of the flight. We’re looking into the crew but by all accounts this guy was an excellent pilot. Tom will begin the structure analysis when he arrives, can’t really get too close right now anyway, the plane’s still smoking. Fred is talking to the Air Traffic Control guys right now. Powerplant is on hold until the thing cools as well.

Post-crash fire?

Too soon to tell, but that’d be my guess. Go ahead and make your calls and observations we’ll need them for the record, but I don’t think the weather played into it.

The air was beginning to cool off as the sun launched its descent toward the horizon. Not a breeze stirred in the clear August sky. You’re probably right, she agreed. Just to be sure I’ll put a call into the National Weather Service, have them send me the afternoon readouts and talk to the weather observer on duty at O’Hare. Maybe there were some unusual wind patterns or something. It’ll take some time. Might as well put me to work.

He nodded and grinned. Good girl, he said, slapping a firm hand on her shoulder. You got your ‘go to’ bag

His patronizing tone and gesture bristled her already weary nerves. Sara Jane sidestepped out from under his hand. Don’t condescend to me, Cowboy. I’ve been with the board for five years so, yes I have my bag and, she paused for emphasis before continuing. I’m not a good girl.

Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m just teasing. I didn’t mean nothing by it. I know your record. I’m the one that convinced the D.C. team to hire you.

Her eyes bugged. I didn’t know that they needed any convincing.

They didn’t. I’m just messing with you. Nonetheless, you have my respect and the respect of your team so don’t worry about it. We’re all friends here.

Friends? Maybe. It was too soon to tell. She’d only been with the new team for a few months. If you say so, she said with a quick nod. His eyes, steely, intelligent eyes if you paused to look, scrutinized her over the top of his Ray Bans.

How’s come you don’t have a nickname?

More at ease now, it was her turn to grin. I probably do, it’s just used behind my back.

No. What’s your last name again?

Siemiantkowski

Shit. Tugging off his hat, he rubbed a large bony hand through his shaggy hair. His silver wedding band glistened in the sunshine. How about we just call you Sara J?

Fine, she said. Anything that didn’t ring of condescension was fine with her. The National Transportation Safety Board, affectionately called ‘the board’ by those within, was still a man’s club for the most part and she’d had to endure a lot over the past five years. Course it didn’t help that she had been sleeping with the boss. Just one of a long list of bad decisions she’d made in her life. What do you want me to do?

At this point just scan the perimeter. Start about two hundred yards out from the crash site and scour the ground for pieces, human or otherwise. Take pictures, flag and catalog anything you find. The usual. Got it?

She nodded. Got it. Sara Jane watched as Cowboy stomped toward the scorched wreckage. Turning around she hiked back across the green field to the dirt road where she had parked her rental car. Though she would have done whatever he asked of her, she was glad to stay away from the bodies. They had a particular smell, especially the burnt ones. It stung your eyes and lingered on your skin for days.

She checked her watch. 7:30, a few hours of daylight left. Popping the trunk, she grabbed her duffle bag from inside. Every member of a ‘Go Team’ sent to investigate a major aircraft accident carried a ‘go to’ bag. It held the equipment necessary for their part of the investigation. In addition to the usual paraphernalia, Sara Jane carried a box of sugar laden snack cakes – Twinkies, apple pies and her favorite chocolate-coated doughnuts that glistened in the sunshine, their sheen smooth and polished. She was eternally hungry. Stocked with healthy, cancer inducing preservatives, they never went bad.

Excuse me.

Sara Jane turned. Expecting to see a uniform, she was surprised to see a tall, broad shouldered man in a disheveled suit. His tie hung crooked and he had the weary look of a man who hadn’t gotten much sleep lately.

I’m sorry to bother you, he continued. My name is Patrick. That’s my mother over there.

He gestured to the roped off area where the media, looky loos and victims were being tended to. She’d been in that group once. It was a horrible, helpless experience.

My father was on that plane.

His statement hit her deep in the gut. Oh, how she felt for this man. She couldn’t help it. I’m so sorry for your loss but you really shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe. She should be waving the police over, that was protocol. He needed to be escorted back to the waiting area. But something in his sad blue eyes made her hesitate. Or maybe it was that he’d touched a nerve. She’d lost her dad in a plane crash too. Boundaries, Sara Jane, she reminded herself.

I understand, he said, not fighting her. I just thought you might have something I can tell my mother.

Sara Jane, impressed and touched by the fact that he was taking care of his mother, took a long look at the man in front of her. Irish, she thought. Definitely Irish. His voice held a hint of an accent. Like maybe he’d moved to the states as a kid. Standing stoically in front of her he emanated sex appeal and had a standoff reserved quality that while it should make a woman want to steer clear, drew her in. Then again, maybe it was merely his thick stubble and accent. She was a sucker for an accent. Suddenly, standing in jeans and her work boots, she felt conscious of her appearance. Sweaty and disheveled, she resisted the urge to run her fingers through her hair – a futile attempt to look just a touch better. Tell your mother that the best thing she can do for herself and for you is to go home, she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

We can’t, he said, shaking his head. She won’t. I’ve tried.

You have to convince her. We won’t have any answers for at least a few weeks, probably a few months. And we can’t give personal items to loved ones until the investigation is complete. It sucks. I know. Being here, it’s just hard on her. The wreckage, the imagination takes over. It’s horrible.

Sounds like you’ve been through it.

I have. She met his eyes for a minute and looked away. She didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to see or feel his pain.

Okay, he nodded. Thank you. I’ll tell her.

He turned to go and Sara Jane had the urge to reach out to him. To comfort him. She set it aside. It didn’t make sense to get involved with the victims’ families. And it made even less sense to get involved with the good looking ones. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.

Glancing over his shoulder, he offered her a small smile. You helped.

She watched him cross the small dirt lot and head back to the waiting area before returning to her task. Digging out a pair of latex gloves, her pen and notebook, assorted flags, flashlight, and a loaded camera, she headed for the farthest corner of the field. Away from the media, the victim’s families, and far away from Mick.

*****

A quarter past midnight, lights illuminated the wreckage like a baseball stadium. Long NTSB trailers, topped with looming satellite dishes, were set up along the edge of an adjacent field. Temporary headquarters. The Red Cross and the others had set up their trailers beyond.

Tom, the structures specialist, had arrived two hours ago. The D.C team was complete and for the most part had taken over the investigation. That’s the way it went with major airline crashes. The local divisions just weren’t equipped. Tom and the other six members, mostly aerospace engineers each with their own specialty, were scouring the cooling wreckage for clues. Alone in the darkness, at the other end of the field, Sara Jane trudged up and down the straight rows of knee high bushy plants. A round orb of light guided her way, occasionally illuminating scraps of metal or plastic lying on the ground. Some had probably been there for years, dropped by children playing in the field or by farmers. Others were new. All had to be photographed, documented, and tagged. When she had been a rookie in Chicago five years ago, they had told her a story about an investigative agent finding a bloody severed arm three hundred yards from a crash site. Tonight fortune seemed to be shining on her. No bits and pieces… yet.

Her light flashed on something shiny hiding in the shadow of a plant. Tugging her jeans up at the knees, she squatted down to have a closer look. As she brushed aside the thick leaves, a smooth circle of glass reflected her light like a miniature full moon. It appeared to be the face of a watch. Holding the flashlight between her tired knees, she picked it up.

Turning it over, she held the watch in the light. Oh my, she said sucking in her breath. A vintage Gallet Flying Officer. Her dad would have loved to see this. He’d been a bit of a WWII buff and the watches were worn by the Allied Forces. Harry Truman had worn one and commissioned them for the US Army Air Force. They’d actually made a watch specifically for female pilots, the Multichron Petite. She didn’t wear hers, of course. Never had. A gift from her dad, she was afraid she’d ruin it. Amazing. She read the inscription on the tarnished silver back. Charles O’Brien. June sixteenth, nineteen forty-nine. A passenger?

She studied the watch face. The time had stopped. Probably broke on impact, she thought. Determined to get this magnificent watch back to its rightful owner, she carefully bagged and tagged it and then resumed her search down the field.

*****

Daylight broke the sky in a glorious golden display. Taking a much needed break from the field, Sara Jane leaned against her car and drank the lukewarm coffee someone had handed her. She had just gotten off the phone with the National Weather Service. They were faxing over yesterday’s readouts but, based on her observations, weather was definitely not a factor in this crash. Zero precipitation, a cloudless sky and local wind shear detectors had come up negative. Wind from the West had been coming in at ten miles per hour. No sudden wind gusts had been recorded within a hundred mile radius.

Hey, Sara J. How’s it coming?

Squinting in the sun, she looked up to see Cowboy ambling toward her.

Find anything? he asked.

Sara shook her head. Not much. I’m still about a hundred yards out. Just got off the phone with my local weather guy."

I should’ve told you not to bother. The Feds are being brought in. Scott found traces of an unusual chemical composite on what’s left of the right wing.

Composite? You mean a bomb?

Looks like. He’s thinking it’s homemade. We’ll know for sure after the test results get back but the guy knows his stuff. Based on the fragmentation of the wing he suspects that there was a mid-air explosion. They’re already checking into all the people that came in contact with the plane both in Minneapolis and Las Vegas.

Anyone call in a threat?

Nope.

And no one is taking credit?

Cowboy shook his head.

Hmmm. So the plane blows. Pilot loses control. Crashes there. She pointed to the beginning of the scorched track at the edge of the field. Plane impacts and skids to a fiery stop there, she said swinging her arm in a large arc to the hollowed out jet.

Yep.

Well then. If it’s all wrapped up you probably won’t have me for much longer.

Cute. You know how this works. Everyone gets their own theory. We work for months compiling info to prove them right or wrong and the winner is the hero.

Yeah. I know. What else can I do?

Just keep at the field if you don’t mind.

She shrugged. I don’t. It’s certainly better than sitting behind a desk.

Good. We’re taking shifts. You and I are off tonight plus Fred and Mick. Could you drive me to my hotel? I came in with Scott and I want to leave him the car.

Sure.

Thanks. Where’re you staying’?

At my mom’s in Park Ridge. It’s about an hour South from here

He put his gloved hand on her shoulder. I heard about Mick gettin’ married. Sorry kiddo. That sucks.

It did suck considering she didn’t know her ex had gotten married, but at the moment, that wasn’t what bothered her. I hope that glove doesn’t have blood on it, she said with a shudder.

He retracted his hand from her shoulder. It did. He’d been digging in bodies all night. Someone sent for doughnuts. Get yourself one. You’re too skinny.

She did get herself a doughnut. In fact, she scarfed down three and chugged a warm Coke before going back into the field.

It was five o’clock. Her back hurt, her head hurt, sweat dripped down between her shoulder blades, her clothes clung to her skin, and she was tired of peeing in the turquoise blue port-a-johns. After a full day of photographing and tagging debris, she was relieved to see Cowboy sauntering toward her.

Hey, honey you ready?

More than, she sighed. Tucking her notebook under her arm, she walked across the field toward her car. Cowboy stepped in alongside her. Call me honey again, she said. And you’re walking.

"Sara J, honey, you need a nap."

And a shower, and a meal and a good screw, she said, wiping the sweat from her head with her forearm.

Is that an offer?

The meal or the screw? She said teasing. He was happily married and she didn’t think he was the type to cheat. Besides, she wasn’t interested in him or anyone else for that matter. Mitch’s betrayal was still too raw. Still, the flirtatious banter felt fun. Helped get her mind off the horrors in the field and the lingering memory of the Irish man looking to help his mother.

Whichever you’re more in need of darling’

Hmmm, she said, pretending to think about it.

Which are you more in need of, Sara J?

She smiled for the first time in two days. Get in the car, Cowboy.

After dropping him off in front of a chain hotel on the outskirts of town, Sara Jane drove home to the quiet suburban neighborhood she had grown up. She only left Chicago a few months ago but it seemed like a lifetime. The move happened fast. She requested a transfer the day she caught Mick. Three explosive and emotional days later, she was on her way to Washington D.C., to NTSB headquarters. They didn’t want to lose her. Not only was she the best damn meteorologist they had but also an experienced, licensed pilot, a rare and valuable combination. Additionally, she was willing to put up with all the travel and bureaucratic bullshit that went along with working for the government. The move had been good for her career. In Chicago, she had been nothing more than a glorified gopher, the boss’s protégé. Now, part of a ‘Go Team’, she was sent to investigate major airline crashes.

Parking in the street, she grabbed her small bag of clothes and her bag from the trunk and headed up the narrow brick walk of the old Tudor house. Using the same silver key she’d had when growing up, she unlocked the heavy front door and stepped inside. Her mother’s expensive perfume hung in the air.

Hey, J.J. I’m home, she shouted. Her voice bounced off the marble floors and traveled up the oak staircase. Sara Jane nervously bit her bottom lip and waited for a reply. Her mom didn’t answer. She must have gone out for dinner, Sara Jane muttered. Since her father’s death, her mother rarely stayed home. She spent her days volunteering or shopping and her nights socializing. Disappointed, but more relaxed, Sara Jane and her mother had a tendency to disagree about everything; she stood gazing around the foyer and feeling like a small child. Too many memories. She hadn’t been home much since graduating from high school and heading off to college, since her father died. She shrugged it off. She was tired, hungry, and raw from death and deceit.

Food first. Sara Jane dropped her bags. They landed on the hard floor with a thud. Kicking off her boots, she plodded into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Neat stacks of leftovers crowded the inside. She seized the largest container, labeled pasta salad, popped the green Tupperware lid and took a whiff. Smells good enough. Grabbing a fork from the drawer, she finished it off while standing in front of the open fridge contemplating what to devour next.

Sated, Sara Jane set the empty meatloaf container in the sink along with the other food containers that she had emptied. Alone in the house, she grabbed her bags and climbed the curved oak staircase. Each step sounded her presence with a loud creak. After twenty-four hours in a charred field scattered with plane parts and dead bodies, the normalcy of home, with all of its noises and smells, felt reassuring. For the first time since her father had died, she understood why her mother stayed.

The cool shower washed away two days’ worth of sweat and dust. She pulled a clean t-shirt over her wet hair, brushed her teeth, and climbed into the twin bed she had slept in as a child. Not due back to the site until 7:00 a.m., she had plenty of time to catch up on her sleep. Knowing the alarm on her cheap digital watch would wake her up she tugged the ratty blue quilt over her head and closed out the remaining daylight.

A loud ticking pulled her from her deep sleep. What the hell? she moaned. Blinking her crusty eyes in the dark, Sara Jane sat up. She dragged her fingers through her ratted hair. Like a metronome in her head, the ticking was loud, insistent. Swinging her legs out from under the covers, she stood up. Stumbling over to the wall Sara Jane flipped on the light. She winced in the brightness. Her eyes, quick to adjust, scanned the small room. The ticking continued. The only piece of furniture, a tall mahogany dresser, was bare except for a picture of her and her dad at the shore.

The sound seemed to be coming from the far corner of the room. A pile of dirty clothes lay, ticking, on the oak floor. Tugging her t-shirt down, Sara Jane walked over to the pile. Her thin, bare arm stretched out. Trembling, she snatched up the t-shirt on top. She shook it. Nothing. Socks, underwear, same thing. Her filthy jeans were on the bottom. Picking them up, Sara Jane stabbed her hand into the front pocket. Her hand hit on something hard, round. Her pulse quickened, matching time with the ticking. Wrapping her fingers around its smooth surface, she drew it out.

I’m losing my mind.

Chapter Two

Shoulders slumped, Sara Jane leaned against her dusty car and sipped her coffee. Even at the early nine o’clock hour the sun scorched. Streams of sweat dripped between her shoulder blades and settled on the small of her back making her t-shirt cling uncomfortably. The joys of the Midwest in summer. She had been on site for a mere two hours and despite the gallon of caffeine that she had already consumed, Sara Jane felt like collapsing.

The ticking that had kept her up all night, still lingered inside her head keeping time with her heartbeat. Damn creepy watch, she mumbled taking another sip of coffee. Out of the corner of her bloodshot eye, Sara Jane saw a pair of long legs in black heels sidle up next to her. She didn’t bother to raise her eyes further for a face. She didn’t care to. Whoever they were, they didn’t belong here, especially not in those shoes.

Mind if I ask you a few questions? the woman asked with smooth confidence.

Sara Jane lifted her tired eyes just enough to see a press pass dangling between a pair of large breasts veiled by a thin white cotton button up shirt. Yeah.

Just a few questions about the crash…please.

Over the rim of her Styrofoam cup Sara Jane raised her eyes to meet those of the annoying journalist. She said nothing for a moment. Instead, taking a sip of her coffee, she studied the woman. She appeared smug, confident, as if she knew how to get what she wanted and often did. She had a body that Sara Jane would have killed for had she been insecure about her own pathetic lack of curves. She was pretty too, beautiful long brown hair and an equally attractive face, the kind with sharp, pointed features that seemed both stern and exotic at the same time.

Under Sara Jane’s scrutinizing gaze a look of uncertainty passed over the woman’s face. Sara Jane watched as the woman’s hand moved up to the collar of her blouse and her fingers fumbled with the small, opaque buttons. Hmmph, Sara Jane growled. Guess I don’t need to ask how you got by security.

The woman took a half step back. What do you mean?

Sara Jane’s eyes darted to the woman’s left hand. That’s my ring you’re wearing.

The woman glanced down at her shiny ring and then back to Sara Jane. How? she asked, startled.

Taking another sip of her coffee Sara Jane looked away, focusing on the wreckage at the end of the field. Even without seeing your face, she said. The other woman is hard to forget.

Oh. The woman shifted her weight and her fingers moved down from her collar to fidget with her press pass.

What’s your question? Sara Jane sighed, still concentrating on the crash site. If pity were