Foul Play

Forty-Seven

Stone woke in an examining room in a hospital, IVs in both arms, an oxygen mask strapped on, sitting up on a hard, barely cushioned table.

“He’s awake,” a young male voice said.

“Mr. Barrington?” a female voice said, and a bright light streamed into his eyes.

“Turn that off,” Stone said.

The light went off. “It speaks,” the woman said. “I am Dr. May Harris. You are at the Martha’s Vineyard Hospital in Oak Bluffs, in the emergency room. Do you understand that?”

“I think so,” Stone replied. “But why am I here?”

“You were flying an airplane that decided not to fly anymore.”

“Did everyone survive?”

“No, only you and a man named Karl Walters. The two other passengers are deceased.”

Stone winced. “What made the airplane stop flying?”

“There’s a man here from the National Transportation Safety Board who can explain that better than I.”

“How long have I been here?”

“About five hours.”

“How did the NTSB get here so fast?”

“I believe they choppered your man to our pad from Logan. I’ll get him for you.”

“Wait,” Stone said. “How badly am I hurt? I’m afraid to move.”

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“I hurt all over,” he said.

“We’ve already done the necessary scans. Miraculously, you have no broken bones and your internal organs are about where they’re supposed to be. I’ll give you something for the pain.” She injected something from a syringe into his IV tube, and a moment later he felt a little rush of warmth.

“Better,” he said.

“Be right back.”

Stone luxuriated in the new lack of pain. Morphine, he guessed. What else could work so fast?

Dr. Harris returned with a man who, Stone thought, looked like ex-military: short, cropped hair, not much belly. “I’m Ray Leonard, NTSB,” he said. “How you doing?”

“I’m drugged, thanks, so I’m okay. What happened?”

“There’s going to be a long and very thorough investigation to determine that and to learn if this was a criminal event.”

“Can you give me the short version?”

“Okay, but I’ll deny telling you, if anybody asks.”

“Your secrets are safe with me,” Stone said.

“Right. Somebody stuck a bomb, probably a plastic explosive, into the aft portion of your airplane. When it exploded, the tail disappeared, and you took a dive into the drink. One of the passengers, a Karl Walters, got himself out and fired his life jacket. He tried and failed to get the other two out in time.”

“Where’s Walters?”

“Next door, zonked on morphine, just like you. He wasn’t able to tell us much. We were hoping you might do better.”

Stone told him what he could remember.

“Question,” Leonard said. “Why were you all wearing life jackets? The standard ones were still stowed under the seats.”

Stone explained about the ramp inspections at Teterboro.

“Well, I guess that FAA guy saved your life and Walters’s, too.”

“I guess so. Funny, Walters was there to protect the other two men, whose names were Roderick and Shepherd Troutman.”

Leonard wrote down the names. “Protect them from what?”

“They had recently been involved in a business deal that went wrong, and threats were made against them. I guess I’ll leave that for the FBI, or whoever conducts the criminal investigation.”

“Fair enough. How long were you at your meeting in the FBO?”

“It was the Troutmans’ meeting, not mine. I sat in the pilot’s lounge and read a magazine article. About an hour and a half, I guess.”

“Could you see the airplane from where you were sitting?”

“No, my back was to it. I was pointed at a big TV screen, which wasn’t turned on.”

“What was the magazine article about?”

“About a new autolanding system for King Airs and Pilatus PC-12s.”

“I’m afraid your airplane was a total loss.”

“I used to own the airplane, but I sold it to a company called Strategic Services, on whose board I serve.”

“And who employs Karl Walters,” Leonard said.

“That’s right.”

“Where were you headed when you took off?”

“Back to Teterboro. The Troutmans were headed to England tomorrow, aboard my G-500, but they had to depart from an international airport, and that’s not the Vineyard.”

“And where is that G-500 right now?”

“In the Strategic Services hangar at Jet Aviation, Teterboro. That’s where the M2 was based, too.”

“I think the criminal investigators are going to want to go over the G-500 with a fine-toothed comb.”

“Fine by me.”

“You’ll be seeing more of me,” Leonard said, then left the room.

The male nurse came in. “Can I borrow a phone?” Stone asked. “Mine got lost in the crash.”

The young man laid one on his belly. “Dial nine for an outside line. Don’t worry about the charges. They’ll be on your bill.”

“Did you find my wallet?” Stone asked.

He held up a plastic bag.

“You’ll find my medical insurance card in there. Make sure that makes it into the system, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

He dialed the number.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone.”

A brief pause. “You’re not dead?”

“I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you, but no.”

“The report I read said four fatalities.”

“Only two. The Troutmen didn’t make it.”

“You free for dinner tonight?”

“Not unless you like creamed chicken and Jell-O. Besides, I’m enjoying the morphine too much.”

“I hear that’s fun.”

“More fun than the alternative.”

“I’ll make some calls, and try to find out if they’re lying to you about your condition.”

“I don’t have a phone, but here’s the number of the ER at the hospital on the Vineyard.” He read it out. “Will you call Joan and tell her that all — well, nearly all — is well?”

“I’ll call Lance Cabot, too. He’s already been on the horn. Dinner tomorrow, maybe?”

“We’ll see.”

They both hung up.