Mara scanned the photographs, some slightly blurry, obviously taken with cell phones: small boats racing to pluck pa.s.sengers from the water, soaked people wrapped in blankets, airplane parts bobbing in the current and shocked spectators gawking from the banks. That was just the front page.

She flipped inside. Her eyes locked onto the picture of a sodden Mr. Ping, sitting on a park bench next to the river, looking exhausted and confused. The article next to his picture reported the flight was only half full, carrying 121 pa.s.sengers, all accounted for according to an airline spokesperson.

Mara rustled through the newspaper. "Come on, come on," she said to herself. After turning a few pages, she folded the paper in half and ran her finger down a list of survivors. She recognized Sarah and Jeremy Gamble, her seatmates, and Mr. Ping. Her finger slid past the rest of the names to the end of the list. She reviewed them several more times then gave up.

There was no Sam on the list.

CHAPTER 5.

NEWLY MINTED DETECTIVE Daniel Bohannon squinted into a rare sunbreak as he drove north on Interstate 205 toward the airport, listening more than talking to his phone's hands-free speaker.

"I know this sounds like busy work, but I don't really give a c.r.a.p if you don't like it. It's part of the job. Just do it. You'll get a chance to do some real detecting soon enough. Besides, it's Friday. What were you going to accomplish anyway? The NTSB investigator-in-charge, name is George Pirelli, says they need some local help. Probably directions or something," Lieutenant Mike Simmons said. "Turn south on Northeast Forty-Second Street away from the airport, and you'll see a big hangar on your left. Ask for George. He'll tell you what they require. Give me a call or email later with an update and an estimate of how long you'll be working with them."

"Not sure what help I'm going to be," Bohannon said. "It's not like I'm an aviation expert."

"They didn't call us for an aviation expert. They've got plenty of those. Just check in with George, see what they want and give it to them." The lieutenant hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, Bohannon pulled into a tiny gravel parking lot off the side of a large aluminum hangar. While a wall of gray sheet metal blocked the horizon, he sensed it was the narrow side of a structure that extended quite a ways. Access roads ran around the hangar, but there were no signs, so Bohannon wasn't sure he was in the right place as he got out of the car. A guard in a black tactical SWAT-style uniform carrying an automatic weapon stood between a personnel door and a huge hangar door clearly designed for large vehicles and equipment. He didn't move but kept his eyes on Bohannon as he approached.

"I'm looking for George Pirelli with the NTSB," the detective said, holding up his wallet, flashing his badge.

The guard clicked a b.u.t.ton on the microphone mounted to his left shoulder. "I've got a Daniel Bohannon from the Portland Police Department here to see IIC Pirelli." He tilted his head to the right, listening to a response in an earpiece.

"Wait here," the guard said, giving no more information.

Five minutes later, a short, pudgy man of about fifty walked out the smaller door with his hand extended. "Hi, George Pirelli with NTSB. Thanks for coming out to help."

"Daniel Bohannon. People call me Bo."

"I'm detecting a drawl there, Bo. You're not from around here are you?"

"I grew up in Georgia. Moved out here about eight years ago to work for the Portland P.D."

"Come on in. I'll show you around and bring you up to speed," he said, stepping back from the door to allow Bohannon to go in first.

"Not sure how much help I can be."

"Oh, I think a strapping young man such as yourself will be able to lend us a hand. You play football in school?"

"High school, not college. Bad knee."

No walls divided the interior of the hangar, making it s.p.a.cious enough to induce vertigo. Fifty yards in from the door stood the remains of the 757 that had plunged into the Columbia River five days before.

With its landing gear missing, the body of the plane lay on its belly, crumpled on the floor, broken into equal pieces set end-to-end as if someone had hoped to rejoin them. The back half featured a large hole, exposing the interior of the cabin. One wing, in several segments, was arranged perpendicular to the main fuselage, approximately where it used to connect. Engines sat off to the sides, surrounded by piles of parts. Random sc.r.a.ps of metal lay in front of the c.o.c.kpit, pieces of the puzzle yet to be fitted.

Wires, hydraulic lines and other innards protruded from every wound. The cracked sh.e.l.l of the airliner reminded Bohannon of an egg, much too fragile to be hurling hundreds of miles an hour into the sky. Its torn edges looked like paper and tinfoil, flimsy.

"We've recovered a great deal of the plane in a very short time, considering the circ.u.mstances. The plane broke up on impact, and the river's depth and current could have easily made recovery much more difficult. We've been lucky to make as much progress as we have," Pirelli said.

"It's hard to believe there were no fatalities. Look at that wreck," Bohannon said. "You're telling me not a single person was thrown out of that plane? No one was crushed or drowned in the river? The newspapers were spot-on. It was a miracle all right."

"We try not to speculate too early. Drawing conclusions too soon can lead you down the wrong path. Every crash has its twists and turns. Each is a puzzle in its own right. Sometimes what looks obvious, at first, ends up being wrong later. I'm sure you can relate to that, Detective."

"Do you guys have any theories about what brought the plane down?"

"Not yet. Obviously there's a hole in the back of the plane, but we don't know what caused it. We've done some preliminary testing for explosive residue, and we're checking some samples for metal stress and fatigue."

"So how can I help?"

"Well, we need help interviewing some of the pa.s.sengers to figure out what happened before it went down. I'll give you a quick orientation on what we do and how we do it. Then we'll partner you up with Special Agent Ethan Suter of the FBI to do the fieldwork. He's out of San Francisco and has experience working with us on crash investigations. He should be here in about an hour or so. We figure things will move faster having a local cop to help navigate and negotiate, if that becomes necessary," Pirelli said. "We've got a small conference room over here."

They turned right and followed the wall until they came to a small block of a room tucked into the corner of the hangar. A little round table with four chairs sat in the middle of the room taking up most of the s.p.a.ce. Pirelli had to suck in his gut and shimmy sideways to get to the seat on the far side. Bohannon sat across from him, blocking the exit with his wide shoulders.

"Here's what you need to know. The NTSB's interest in this investigation is to figure out what caused this crash, whether that was a defect in the aircraft, an explosive device or whatever else might've caused it. Then we recommend ways to fix it or avoid it in the future. Understand?"

Bohannon nodded.

"We don't do criminal investigations. If we conclude a bomb brought down an airplane, the NTSB doesn't go after the bomber. That's what the FBI does. Your role here is to help us, the NTSB, find out what caused the crash, not to chase bad guys. Although Special Agent Suter works for the FBI, his role also is to help with the crash investigation, not to conduct a criminal investigation."

Pirelli shuffled some papers while he spoke, building two neat stacks in front of him.

"You're largely here to help us get around Portland more efficiently, although I'm sure Suter will appreciate help with the interviews. If at some point the evidence indicates a crime has been committed, the FBI can begin a separate criminal investigation. If they do that, they may keep us in the loop, or they may not. It's up to them. Their only obligation is to share any information about the cause or potential prevention of the crash. They have no obligation to share anything with you or me about a criminal investigation, if they start one. They may have security concerns that we are not aware of, or they may simply not want to share. It's their prerogative. Clear?"

"Yes."

"Now, before Suter gets here, I'll run you through some of the questions we would like you guys to ask pa.s.sengers." Pirelli slid one of his stacks of papers across the table. "This isn't a survey, more like a list of talking points. Suter will be familiar with them."

Pirelli spent fifteen minutes going over questions and making sure Bohannon understood the finer details, then excused himself to deal with an issue on the hangar floor. Bohannon reread the list of questions and fidgeted, growing more irritated as the minutes ticked by-irritated about sitting around doing nothing in particular and irritated by the a.s.signment in general.

After an hour, he got up and stomped toward the door.

He heard voices outside.

"We've got to find out what's going on, and we need to find out now," Pirelli said. "Every time the coroners call family members to give a notification, they're told they've made a mistake. The whole thing is screwed up. I usually have families beating down the doors to get information. On this one, nothing."

"I've got the list. We'll get started and figure it out," said someone whose voice Bohannon didn't recognize.

"Remember, we've got to keep this quiet. You need to be circ.u.mspect until we've got a handle on this."

"Of course. I've got it."

They approached the door. Bohannon moved back to his seat.

A tall, wiry man with a black buzz cut walked in and reached out a hand. "You must be Detective Bohannon," he said. "Ethan Suter, FBI. Sorry I'm late. I had to wait for some information to be sent from San Francis...o...b..fore I could come over." Despite the almost jovial self-introduction, Suter's face betrayed an incongruent intensity. His smile said good ole boy; his eyes, predator.

The detective shook the bony hand. "Call me Bo."

"You ready to get started, Detective?"

CHAPTER 6.

BOHANNON'S DUTIES AS chauffeur began immediately. He drove his unmarked Chevy Caprice south to Gresham, a large suburb east of Portland.

"How many interviews are we doing?" he asked.

"There were 121 people on board. George's folks are handling the crew. About a quarter of the pa.s.sengers do not live in the Portland area. Luckily the flight was on Monday, so most of them were from here, as opposed to later in the week when more could have been out-of-towners leaving. We've got eighty-two people on our list."

"Does the NTSB or FBI have other teams out doing interviews?"

"No. It's just us for now. We'll work our way through the list until we find something or until the NTSB says we've done enough."

"That could take weeks if we go through the entire list." Bohannon began mentally composing his plea for relief to his lieutenant.

"I doubt we'll interview all of them. If George thought that was necessary, he'd ask them to come in to talk. Doing it this way allows us to work without drawing a lot of attention, which can slow things down."

"If he was in a hurry, a.s.signing more people to do interviews would do the trick. I'm sure you guys have the resources. You are the Feds after all."

"We're just here to talk to a few people. We want to quietly work through what happened, not draw a lot of attention. Most crashes, with a lot of fatalities, we don't have that luxury. We just need to work it, calmly, methodically, until we find out what happened."

Bohannon focused on the two-lane highway, keeping an eye on a knot of traffic ahead while scanning the green road signs to make sure he didn't miss the exit heading east.

"Before we get there, let's discuss our approach with these people," Suter said, turning his face toward the detective but not looking at him. His eyes remained fixed in s.p.a.ce beyond the windshield, his gaze locked onto nothing. When his eyes did follow his head, they looked through Bohannon, not at him. "I'll do all the talking, for now. I need you to observe, see how they respond. Look for tells."

"Tells?" Bohannon tried to track the FBI man's eyes, which seemed to move independent of his head.

"You know, indicators that something more is going on. Are they nervous, ticky, uptight? How are their family members responding? Stuff like that."

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into the Blue Spruce Apartments, a winding set of three-story buildings with matte earth-tone siding and alternating exterior stairwells. Bohannon roamed through the maze of parking lots until he located Building E. a.s.suming apartment 2A would be on the left side of the building, they parked along a nearby curb marked Visitor in stenciled yellow letters and walked up the flight of stairs in front of the apartment they sought.

Suter knocked on the door. They could sense movement inside, a shift of light in the peephole, then a click of a dead bolt and the turn of a k.n.o.b. A large haggard man of thirty going on fifty stood over them in the doorway, leaning on the frame.

"Are you the investigator that called?" he said.

"Yes. Are you Mark Bartkowski?" Suter asked.

"Yeah. Look, I don't think she's gonna be able to talk to you today. She's a little wound up, and I can't get her to settle down."

"You mean your wife, Deborah?"

"Yeah, that's who you wanted to talk to, right? She was the one on the plane."

"It would help a great deal if we could talk to her."

"Look," he said, stepping out on the landing, closing the door behind him. "Since she got back Monday, after the crash, she's been a little off. I think the whole experience freaked her out. She's been eating nonstop, and I mean nonstop. We've made three trips to the grocery store this week, filled up the trunk of the car with stuff each time. Also she doesn't sleep or slow down. She's always moving, walking, jumping, pounding, breaking things, crawling all over the place. She hasn't slept since the crash. She's as strong as an ox too. I've never seen anything like it."

"Maybe she's suffering from post-traumatic stress," Suter said.

"I've tried to get her to go to a doctor, but she says nothing's wrong. When I tried to get her to sit down for a minute, she threw me into the kitchen. Physically lifted me into the air. I weigh like three-twenty, and she tossed me more than twenty feet. You can see the dent in the fridge where I landed," he said, pulling his T-shirt neckline sideways to reveal a dark bruise on his shoulder and chest.

"Why don't you let us come in for just a minute? Maybe we can figure out a way to get you some help. Maybe family services or a local clinic could send someone over to take a look?"

"Just a minute." Looking doubtful and put out, he went back into the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

Suter turned to Bohannon. "Is there some kind of social or mental health services we can get out here? That guy looks like he's been put through h.e.l.l."

"The county or city probably has something, but they aren't likely to make house calls. It's more likely the Gresham P.D. would come out here on a domestic abuse call and then take her to be evaluated," Bohannon said.

"Come in," said someone from behind the door.

Bohannon looked at Suter, shrugged and pushed open the door. They stepped into a small living room. A well-worn couch and two recliners stood askew from walls adorned with crooked pictures knocked off-kilter by something that left deep gouges in the drywall. Claw marks. Shards of a gla.s.s coffee table were heaped into a corner. Books and CDs stacked on their sides teetered precariously on a bookshelf that appeared to have been haphazardly picked up. The television threatened to slide off its damaged stand. Tuffs of shredded carpet littered the floor.

Debbie Bartkowski, a two-hundred-fifty-pound blonde in a flower-print housedress, stood smiling in the hallway off to the side of the room. She raised a two-liter bottle of cola in a toast and took a swig. Her eyes went wide, and she belched, a drawn-out affair that lasted fifteen seconds.

Her husband cringed. "Deb, come sit with us for a minute." He motioned for Suter and Bohannon to take the recliners.

"You guys are the investigators from the airport?" she said, moving to the couch.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm Special Agent Ethan Suter of the FBI, and this is Detective Daniel Bohannon from the Portland Police Department. We're working with the Flight 559 investigation team. Can we ask you some questions? We'll try not to take too long."

"Just one minute. Mark, can you get me those cookies on the counter in the kitchen. I'm starving," Debbie said, waving to the back of the apartment.

"There aren't any cookies. You ate those about an hour ago," he said.

"Well, get me some other cookies," she said. Her face reddened, and her eyes bulged.

"Honey, there are no more cookies. We'll get some in a little while after you talk to these gentlemen." He leaned away from her, almost cringing.

"I'm d.a.m.n well not going to sit here and starve to death," she screamed, her complexion deepening, veins protruding on her neck and forehead, her breath coming in rasping pants. She jumped to her feet, held her head down like a bull ready to charge. "I'll go get them myself."

She bolted for the front door. Mark Bartkowski ran out of the apartment after her. Bohannon and Suter looked at each other, not sure what to do.

"We're not going to get anything here," Suter said. "Let's go see if we can help and then move onto the next pa.s.senger. She's obviously not in a state to provide any reliable information."

"Agreed," Bohannon said.