War Lord

Eight

Without headsets the flight from Darwin was noisy as well as being cramped and dull: two hours of looking at pretty much nothing except the occasional herd of cattle or kangaroo or dolphin pod out the tiny porthole beside my shoulder as we flew low across the top end of Australia. Finally, the Cessna dipped its wing over the blue sea as it lightened to green, and the droning engine note changed. In the front passenger seat, Grubb turned and pointed down at the ground, following this with the thumbs-up sign as we crossed a white-and-black-sand beach of an island that was tinder-dry khaki-colored scrub over red earth. Elcho Island. Petinski struggled forward, craned her neck and looked past me out the window, then wedged herself back into her default position, a cross between aloof and snooty, and continued staring at pretty much nothing except the back of Grubb’s head.

The pilot flew over the corrugated metal roofs of the settlement called — if I heard it right — Galiwinku. Grubb had already briefed us on the place before departure. It was home to the largest indigenous community in this part of the world, known as Arnhem Land. It was also home to Senior Constable David Nolngu, sitting behind us in the back seat, whom the detective inspector had borrowed from another department to act as our guide and effectively get us a free pass into the community, access to which was apparently limited and subject to all kinds of formal requests to public servants who always said no.

The Cessna banked again several times to line up the runway, then dived steeply down, flaps extended. Something didn’t feel right. Maybe it was our speed. The pilot pulled the nose up a little, goosed the throttle, and we roared along, tracking the strip at about tree height. I understood the problem when I pressed my nose up against the porthole and saw maybe fifty kangaroos scattering helter-skelter across the dusty runway below us, in a panic to avoid being chopped into pet food. The pilot was just clearing the decks. Another circuit of the runway and we landed, bouncing a couple of times on the undulating surface lined with kangaroos staring blankly at us, and finally taxied up to an aluminum-clad shed servicing another light aircraft similar to the one we’d arrived in.

‘How was that, mate?’ Grubb asked as we climbed out of the winged sardine can.

I opened my mouth to clear the ringing out of my ears. ‘Can’t wait to do it all again,’ I said, brushing a fly out of my face while trying to adopt the über-casualness of the Australians.

‘There a restroom nearby?’ Petinski asked, scanning the area.

Grubb consulted with SC Nolngu and then said, ‘Sorry, luv, not here. Plenty of bushes, though.’ Black flies were at the corners of his mouth, a couple making a play for his nostrils. ‘Is it urgent?’ He brushed at his face.

‘I’m okay,’ she replied.

I waved at half a dozen of the critters myself, my hand hitting several on the way through, something that didn’t seem to discourage them at all.

‘The flies are bad,’ said Petinski, stating the obvious.

The senior constable produced a tube of insect repellent and handed it to her.

‘In this part of the world, we got two seasons,’ Grubb remarked. ‘Dry season and fly season. This is nothing — hardly any of the buggers around at the moment.’

Petinski squeezed some repellent into the palm of her hand then passed me the tube. The back of Nolngu’s khaki shirt was covered in moving black dots.

An old Toyota SUV drove out from behind the maintenance shed and came to a stop in front of us, an Aboriginal man at the wheel. Nolngu raised his hand and smiled broadly, approaching the car. A hand came out the window and patted the senior on the back. Nolngu opened the rear passenger door and gestured at us to climb in. ‘This is Robert. He’s my brother.’

Robert turned and flashed us a startlingly wide grin as we took our seats. We made our own introductions as the pilot and SC Nolngu pulled gear from the underside of the Cessna and transferred it to the Toyota’s roof racks.

‘Only an hour of daylight left,’ said Grubb. ‘So we’re going to stay here overnight and get up at sparrow’s tomorrow.’

‘Sparrow’s?’ Petinski inquired.

‘Sparrow’s fart, luv. Means fucken early.’

The Toyota moved off with a jerk, bumped over some ruts and rattled down a road of red dust. The homes — the handful I saw — were small with simple gable roofs and deep verandas all the way around. None had gardens or lawns. Mostly they were set on hard-packed red dirt, a layer of red dust over everything. I wasn’t sure whether the place was dirt poor or the people just lived simply. The only white folk around were in the vehicle with me. Kids seemed happy enough though, and I saw groups of them chasing each other, fighting with sticks, playing in and around an abandoned rusted-out vehicle sitting in the dirt on bare axles. Small groups of adults sat in the shade here and there and talked, mostly ignoring us as we drove by sending up a wall of red dust that drifted across toward them. There were no shops, at least not on this road.

‘I bet the A-Star chain has a hotel here,’ I said, leaning forward.

‘No hotels, no pubs. But they got a footy club,’ Grubb replied over his shoulder. ‘That’s where we’re staying.’

‘No pubs? No bars?’ A cold shiver ran through me.

‘This is a dry community. No alcohol allowed. Causes problems. No gasoline, either, for the same reason. Cars here run on stuff called Opal — you can’t get hooked on it.’

I didn’t know anything about Australian Aborigines — the indigenous people — other than that they’d been in this country a very long time and were supposedly masters at living off the land; at least, they were when they lived on it. My guess was that the European Johnny-come-latelies had changed the rules of survival too fast for the locals to catch up. If so, the story had a familiar ring to it.

I sat back as we drove past two old women in colorful summer dresses that fit them like only hand-me-downs can. First one woman and then the other looked up and waved at us. David Nolngu waved back, hand out the window, as we motored by and bathed them in dust.

A few minutes on down the road, we pulled up to the footy club, a cinderblock bunker beside an oval playing field. The windows had been removed, leaving black holes in the brick. We parked, got out, and I helped the Nolngus pull the gear, packed into a couple of sealed canoe-shaped tubes, off the roof racks. The DI opened one of the tubes, found a backpack, took out a roll of toilet paper and tossed it to Petinski.

‘It’s inside.’ He gestured at the club.

‘Thanks,’ she replied, and walked hurriedly up to the building’s open doorway.

‘Gonna go with me brother,’ said the senior constable. ‘Bring back some tucker. All right, sir?’ Nolngu talked fast, his lips barely moving. Make a hell of a ventriloquist if he could do that drinking a glass of water.

‘No worries, mate,’ Grubb told him. ‘See yez later.’

The two brothers hopped back in the Toyota, and Grubb and I watched it disappear in a red dust cloud.

‘Gimme a hand,’ said the DI, putting the lid back on the tube and lifting the front end. We carried it up the steps and into the club. The space inside was littered with trash — paper, cans, containers, plastic and bottles, some of them smashed. The interior walls were covered in spray-painted black writing. I couldn’t make out any of it, though I gathered that someone was unhappy about something. Actually, having just driven along the outskirts of the settlement and seen the conditions there, I figured the unhappiness was probably about everything.

We set the tube down on the floor, a smooth concrete slab, and went back for the other. Setting it down, Grubb removed the lid. Inside were a number of items — sleeping bags, inflatable mattresses, a gas stove and various cooking and eating utensils. There were also two rifles, both with telescopic sights.

‘That a Remington 710?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, a. 300 Win Mag. That’s mine. The old Brno 601 is Nolngu’s.’

I was familiar with the Remington. There were photos in a drawer back home of my uncle holding one. The camera was close and he was looking over his shoulder into the lens, smiling. I never knew what happened to that gun. Maybe he pawned it.

The DI lifted the weapon out of the tube. It was probably the rifle featured in the hunting pictures on his office wall. It was well used, the look of an heirloom about it. He pulled back the bolt, showed me the empty chamber and the fact that the safety was on, and handed it over. Nice rig. The weight and balance felt about perfect. I took the cups off the sight, kept my forefinger outside the trigger guard and aimed out the window, at the sky. The. 300 Winchester was a large bore round — 7.62 x 67mm — and it packed a kick.

‘Expecting trouble?’ I asked him.

‘Keeps the salties honest.’

I handed the rifle back as Petinski came out with the toilet roll in hand, her face pale. She dropped the roll in the tube and said, ‘Next time I’m going behind a bush.’

The Nolngus returned half an hour after sunset with a massive silver fish, already gutted and scaled. Robert cut steaks off it, which were thrown with some unidentified herbs into a large pan sitting on the gas burner, and within a few minutes half a dozen black men in shorts and t-shirts turned up to help us eat. They sat crouched on their haunches in a semicircle around the burner, smiling broadly, but there wasn’t much dinner conversation to go with the best fish I’d ever eaten, at least not with Petinski and me. They didn’t speak our language. Or maybe they did — we just couldn’t understand it. Eventually, though, Senior Constable Nolngu introduced us to two of the men, who were somewhere between thirty and fifty, saying that they were the two who’d caught the original bull sharks from which the partial remains of the pilot had been pulled. Petinski and I both told them they’d done a great job, which seemed to trigger a flurry of amused discussion between them and the senior constable.

‘They want me to tell you a joke,’ said Nolngu when the exchanges had finished.

‘Must be a good one,’ I said, based on the fact that one of the men was already on his back, laughing.

‘There are two sharks,’ the senior began, ‘a large father shark and his smaller son. They are swimming around and eventually come across some humans splashing about at a beach. “Let’s go and eat them,” says the son, who is ready to snatch a tasty-looking human. “No,” says the father shark. “That is not the best way. Follow me and do as I do.” The son follows his father, who rises to the surface so that his fin slices the air above the water. The humans scream. The father shark then rushes away and comes back, flicking his tail above the water. The son does as his father does. The humans are crying and wailing. Finally, the father shark races in, circles the humans and snatches one, shaking him hard so the water turns red. Later, after the father and son have had their fill of human and are swimming away, the young shark asks, “Father, why didn’t we just go straight in and tear them all up? Why waste all that time going in and out?” The wise father shark says, “Because, son, they taste so much better when there’s no shit left in them.”’

I saw the punch line coming, but the way Nolngu told it was funny. The men all fell over, the sound of their cackling bouncing like stones off the cinderblock walls.

Petinski leaned close to me and whispered out the side of her mouth, ‘What’s so funny?’

I looked at her, the grin frozen on my face. Maybe Petinski had a no-humor policy to go with her no-drinking one. Fortunately, though, she had infeasibly large breasts with which to offset those deficiencies.

‘There’s a man torn to shreds, Cooper — someone you knew, for Christ’s sake,’ she reminded me.

She was probably right, but the times you don’t feel you should laugh are, perversely, some of the times when you just can’t seem to stop.

Robert Nolngu turned up with his Toyota at dawn and drove us through low, salt-battered bush five klicks or so to a boat ramp on the other side of the island. I’d slept okay, the hard floor agreeing with my back, though I sensed Petinski tossing and turning a few feet away. She sat beside me, looking the other way, silent. She hadn’t said much to anyone since we arrived, preoccupied with the seriousness of the task at hand, I supposed.

My window was down, the rushing air cool, the flies still in bed as we broke through the scrub and the sand dunes and the sea opened out to a horizon edged with rose gold. I could see a large double-hulled fishing boat nosed up onto the sand; two men silhouetted by the pre-dawn light were tending to its anchor. Robert plowed the Toyota down onto the beach, but didn’t get far before it stopped with a jolt. One of the silhouettes acknowledged us with a quick wave.

We got out and walked toward the boat, and the man who’d waved jogged up and shook hands with Grubb. The guy was large, as well as being salt-, sun- and alcohol-damaged, with short gray hair and a puffy red face that reminded me of a blister about to burst. Grubb handled the introductions. The man’s name was Ern. This was his boat, the words Killing Spree stenciled on the side in pink and silver lettering. The detective inspector was going to borrow it for the day, which Ern seemed more than fine with. I overheard several exchanges between the two pals; I gathered they were regular fishing buddies. Perhaps his photo was up on Grubb’s wall along with the coroner’s.

Within minutes the DI was behind the wheel, opening the throttles on the two massive outboards hung off the back of the boat, and we accelerated toward the horizon just as the top of the sun winked above the edge of the world.

‘How far?’ I shouted above the engine and wind noise, the boat leaping over the lines of swell.

‘Bit more than an hour,’ Grubb shouted back.

On the other side of the DI, Senior Constable Nolngu gazed out across the water, dark eyes hidden in the deep shadows under his brow.

I glanced behind to watch the shoreline recede, a white gouge in the blue water churned by the Johnsons. A few fishing rods placed in holders along the boat’s gunnels whipped back and forth a little in the wind. A couple of crab pots and a hand net occupied some deck space. Petinski sat in a chair facing the receding shore, a waterproof jacket done up tight to keep out the morning chill and sea spray, her hair contained under a blue NTSB ball cap. She seemed lost in her own world. I worked my way back and sat beside her.

‘Be there in an hour,’ I said.

She gave almost no response other than the barest nod. I wondered what the Myers-Briggs type indicators for Ice Maiden were.

The boat surged forward briefly, picked up by its stern wave after Grubb cut the throttles. We’d been motoring south for at least half an hour, heading for the mouth of a dark green estuary. The banks on either side, lined with mangroves that appeared to float on the water, were gradually converging at a point somewhere before us. Black birds squawked into the sky, disturbed by the burble of the outboards.

Dead ahead, a large fish leaped clear of the water, disturbing the glassy surface.

‘Get ’im on the way back, Senior,’ the DI told Nolngu as the widening rings it left behind disappeared beneath our bow.

More birds, large white ones with long black legs, took to the sky in a panic above the mangroves. The place wasn’t used to humans. Or maybe it was and knew what to expect. The water soon lost its clarity and became a murky green, the air thick with insects as the banks closed in on either side.

We puttered through a one-eighty-degree bend, the river continuing to narrow and the hum of insects competing with the noise of our outboards. The boat got hung up on the bottom momentarily, clouds of billowing black mud rising to the surface behind our stern.

‘Shallow here,’ said Grubb. ‘Three feet, maybe less.’ He operated a control and the motors angled back, changing the exhaust note from muted burble to a throaty growl.

Petinski slapped at her neck, and Nolngu passed the insect repellent back to her. ‘Sand flies,’ he said. ‘Bad fellas.’

Petinski squeezed a long worm of the thick, foul-smelling repellent into the palm of her hand, passed me the tube, and started applying the worm to her exposed skin. Apart from the insects, the landscape seemed pretty benign. I hadn’t seen any salties, sharks or boogie men.

‘Nice country,’ I said to Grubb as I rubbed some repellent into my forearms.

‘Yeah, and it’ll bite you on the arse if you’re not careful, as your pilot mate found out,’ he said. He turned to Nolngu. ‘Senior, take the wheel. Let’s drift a little.’

Nolngu slid into the DI’s place behind the controls and cut the throttle to idle as Grubb stepped back toward the stern. He lifted one of the rods out of its holder and unhooked the lure.

‘A bibbed minnow,’ he informed me, holding the bright silver lure with three hook clusters in front of his eyes. ‘Barras love ’em.’

‘Barras?’

‘Barramundi. Gorgeous fish.’

Killing Spree had come almost to a stop. The DI cast out toward the shade beneath the mangroves, plonked the lure in a hole just in front of them, and then reeled it in. Nothing. He cast out to the same place a second time. Nothing. He went for third time lucky and, as I was starting to wonder what point he was hoping to make, the rod jerked violently. Grubb whipped it back and began reeling in.

‘Yeah…’ he said, straining. ‘Fucken monster.’

The rod bent into an inverted U. Petinski came and leaned against the gunnel to get a better look. Grubb brought the fish alongside, its silver flanks flashing in the sunlight beneath the surface of the water.

‘You need the net?’ I looked down at it. The fish was seriously big.

But then a shadow stole over it like an eclipse on fast forward. A thrash and the silver was gone. Grubb grinned and lifted what was left of the fish out of the water, dropping a big head attached to some guts onto the deck.

‘What happened?’ Petinski asked.

‘Bull shark, luv,’ Grubb replied. He unhooked the head and tossed it overboard. Something moved just below the surface and took it. ‘Water like this is perfect for the buggers — shallow and shitty.’ He signaled to Nolngu, who put the engines into gear so that we idled forward. ‘Only a couple of feet deep here, but that’s all they need. And then, as I said, there are the fucken salties.’ He motioned at a tree trunk floating in the water over toward the opposite bank. On cue, the thing suddenly grew a tail, propelled itself forward and then slid below the surface. ‘Not so nice country.’

Okay, point made.

‘Boss,’ said Nolngu. He motioned ahead, another bend in the river approaching. A chunk seemed to have been taken unnaturally out of the wall of mangroves where the SC was pointing. Behind it was a rise in the ground — a hill about a hundred and fifty feet high, the only one I could see anywhere. The something unusual was halfway up the hill. It was white, and far too large to be a bird.

‘There,’ said Petinski, pointing.

The object was a wing partially obscured by the bush. The angle changed as we closed the gap and most of the rest of the broken aircraft came into view, lower down the hill slope.

‘No fire,’ I overheard Petinski say, commenting to herself.

A thin screen of mangroves lined the curve in the river, a mudflat behind them. Grubb steered for it and brought the Johnsons farther out of the shallow water, the exhaust note amplified by the natural amphitheater caused by the river bend. The hulls kissed the mud then, grounded more firmly, nosed straight into the mangroves. Nolngu climbed up onto the side of the boat with the Brno in one hand, and moved forward to a hatch. He pulled out an anchor, threw it onto the mud, and then jumped down after it, disappearing from view until I saw him lugging the anchor up the mudflats toward more solid ground lined with scrub, tugging occasionally on the attached rope, slipping once or twice in the mud.

Grubb came back and extracted the Remington from the opened tube. ‘Saltie tracks further up,’ he explained, pointing to a stretch of the mudflat twenty yards away and loading a magazine from his hunting vest.

‘You look worried,’ I said.

‘Nah, just cautious. Worry is the look I get when I’m firing repeatedly at point-blank range at the fuckers but the slugs don’t seem to make any difference. The crocs round here are fucken dinosaurs. The cunts don’t feel pain. The big ones are extra mean and unpredictable. They’ll jump right out of the water if they think they can get you.’

Hmm. The water was particularly murky here — black lagoon murky. Any kind of creature could live down there, and probably did.

‘Shall we, y’know, get off?’ I suggested, a little less cool about it than I intended.

‘Yeah. Move up the beach quickly,’ Grubb advised. ‘Away from the water’s edge.’

I had no intention of hanging around collecting shells. I shouldered a pack with built-in camelback. Petinski likewise had her gear and water supply in a pack slung over her shoulder.

‘Let’s go,’ she said.

Grubb eyed the water behind our boat, standing his ground like he was covering our retreat. I climbed up onto the hull, went to the bow and jumped. My boots disappeared into the soft mud, which made farting sounds as I pulled one foot then the other clear of it, using the anchor line for support. When I reached the scrub, I stopped to catch my breath and sucked in some insects along with the oxygen, swarms of them buzzing furiously around my head. Gagging, I spat the things out. Ahead, Nolngu materialized from behind a screen of scrub and waved at me to come toward him. Easier said than done. The ground stopped being mud and had turned into a bed of rotting desiccated bush. Something snapped dully under my next footfall and I sank up to my knee in the bed of powdered twigs.

‘Can I get past?’ said Petinski impatiently as she pushed on by, stepping lightly on the rotting vegetation.

I dragged myself up and out of the decaying ground one step at a time and eventually found solid footing, my shirt and hat soaked with sweat, the repellent stinging my eyeballs. I drank a mouthful of warm water from the camelback, spat some into my hands and rinsed my eyes. Petinski and Nolngu had gone on ahead, tired of waiting. I caught up with them standing among the buckled, twisted remains of a largish twin turboprop Beech Super King Air spread around the side of the hill. The plane was broken into half a dozen large pieces, the T-tail ripped off the fuselage along with one complete wing, the fuse itself broken into three. Bits of gnarled aluminum skin and hunks of foam insulation and wiring were scattered everywhere. Petinski had a Canon in her hands, and she began photographing everything. Grubb came through the scrub behind us, the Remington slung over his shoulder.

‘Shit,’ was all he said, looking around, taking in the destruction.

I caught up with Petinski as she climbed the hill to get a view looking down on the wreckage. ‘Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ I said when she stopped climbing. Petinski ignored me and kept taking photos. ‘Where’s your team?’ It had gradually dawned on me. Would Uncle Sam send her all the way down here by herself to investigate the accident?

‘What team?’

‘The Aussies are sending a team. But the NTSB has sent just you. You don’t even have a partner. You must have a partner.’

‘I work on my own.’

‘What sort of Myers-Briggs indicators do I need to win that jackpot?’

Petinski stopped clicking away with her Canon to scowl at me. ‘Can I do my job here? Please?’

‘And what is your job, exactly?’

‘You’re watching me do it. Now, if you don’t mind…’

‘Seriously, who gets to work on their own?’

She kept up the scowl. ‘I’m the advance party, making initial observations before adverse weather sets in — document the scene, take photos. Working on my own, I can move faster. Be nimble, flexible.’

‘Right.’

‘The NTSB has some more investigators joining the Australian team. Teams take time to organize.’

‘Okay.’

‘Now, can I get back to work?’

‘Who’s stopping you?’

Petinski’s eyes flashed a couple of shades of blue at me, changing color the way a squid does when it’s angry, before returning to her viewfinder.

‘So what do you see?’ I asked her.

‘Cooper…’

‘Just asking.’

‘You’re not a good advertisement for partnership, you know that?’ Petinski swept the wreckage with her camera several times. ‘Okay, well, what I’m seeing that I think might be significant… the landing gear is up but the flaps are down. And see the engine on that wing?’ She gestured with her camera at the buckled stub of riveted aluminum still attached to the fuselage. ‘The propeller’s feathered. Same as the prop on the other engine. That says to me that Randy had no power but had enough time to get set up for a dead-stick landing. He made a decision to put it down here, rather than on dry land. I have no idea why he didn’t make a Mayday call. Maybe he did, but it wasn’t picked up. This aircraft had VHF and UHF radios, so I don’t know why it wouldn’t have been. Maybe by the time he got around to it he was too low. Looking at the physical evidence, he obviously tried to land on the river, gear up. But he might have misjudged it, maybe came in a little fast, skipped off the water like a stone, hit the mangroves followed by the trees and the hill.’

I took in the scene, looking back toward the river. The mangroves and trees were damaged pretty much in a line that joined up with the dark green river beyond. Petinski’s hypothesis fit. ‘And the cause?’ I asked.

‘That’s why they’re sending in that team you’re so hot for.’ Petinski brought the Canon back to her eye, peeled off a bunch of shots. ‘I’ll give you an educated guess when I’ve finished nosing around, okay? And please don’t touch anything. Think of this as a crime scene. Now, if you don’t mind…’

I could take a hint. We went our separate ways, Petinski continuing up her own ass, me down the hill toward the broken fuselage. The nose was punched in on the co-pilot’s side. Randy was lucky to have walked away from this one — albeit briefly. I stepped between the separated tubular sections of the fuselage, the one just behind the flight deck, the two sections still joined by umbilical cords of wiring, cables and hydraulic lines. The air smelled vaguely of jet fuel. I could see the backs of the pilot and co-pilot seats. Flies buzzed in the air, interested in black coagulated blood spatter on the smashed instrument panel and a splash of it on the shoulder area of the co-pilot’s seat.

Petinski arrived, ducked around me, stepped up inside the area behind the seats, and snapped away with her camera. Somewhere along the way, she’d put on a pair of rubber surgical gloves. Her camera dangled around her neck while she slipped blue crime-scene covers over her boots.

‘When you said don’t touch anything, I didn’t realize trampling was okay,’ I said.

‘I’m trained for this — are you?’ She climbed over the console between the seats and disappeared from view.

‘What do you see?’ I asked her.

‘Nothing.’

Abrupt, blunt, aloof, snooty, humorless, uncommunicative ice maiden.

‘This crate equipped with black boxes?’ I asked her.

‘Has a cockpit voice recorder as standard. Flight data recorder was an option and the registered owner has informed us that the option wasn’t installed.’

‘That’s Ty Morrow.’

‘Mr Morrow, yes.’

‘The recorder in the tail?’

‘That’s where they always are.’

‘You wanna go get it?’ I asked her.

‘No, I’m not touching it.’

‘You don’t want to get a photo of it, for the album maybe?’

‘Busy here, Cooper.’

I looked back toward the rear. More wires, cabling, crushed and twisted metal. Lashed against the side of the fuselage was a life raft canister, mandatory equipment for over-water flights. It could’ve transported the pilot safely down the river, and the survival gear that came with it would’ve come in handy too.

‘See any personal effects up there — a suitcase or sausage bag?’ I asked. ‘Randy would’ve had a change of clothes with him, toiletries.’

‘No.’

I supposed he could have taken his things with him when he left the scene. Maybe there was a bull shark swimming around, about to shit a Samsonite. The blood spatter indicated injury. Maybe the pilot had a head wound and he was dazed, disoriented, which might have explained why he didn’t use the raft. Whatever the reason, he’d wandered down to the water and decided to swim for it. Bad decision.

‘Bingo,’ said Petinski.

‘What you got?’

She held up a large document wallet then unzipped it, examined the contents.

‘And?’

‘Passport, FAA security pass, FAA license. All in the name of Randy Sweetwater. The photos are consistent. They’re Randy’s.’

‘Or forgeries,’ I suggested. Petinski didn’t respond to that. Assuming they weren’t, the documents said Randy was behind the wheel. Was it unusual that he would leave the scene of the crash with his clothes but not his ID? Maybe. People often behaved irrationally under intense stress. I once pulled a woman from a house fire who wouldn’t leave because she couldn’t find a pair of socks in her washing basket to put on.

Looking around, I noticed a collection of magazines wedged in the space between the pilot seat and fuselage, jammed there by an aluminum rib bent out of shape. I reached forward and, working them up and down, eventually pulled them free. Six glossy magazines. ‘Hey, Petinski, you found any moisturizer up there?’ I said, flicking through them.

‘What?’

‘Moisturizer. You found any?’

‘No.’

‘How about tissues?’

She popped her head up, curious. I showed her the magazines, which brought on a look of supreme distaste.

‘Inflight entertainment,’ I said. ‘I don’t recognize the language, although her I understand in any language.’ I held up a spread of a naked black woman doing the splits; she reminded me a little of Sugar if I looked at the page with a squint.

‘Show me that,’ Petinski demanded, climbing back over the center console. I handed over the mag and she examined the spread intently.

‘Something wrong?’ I asked. There seemed to be.

‘This… this woman here. Her name’s Emanuel. She’s an Olympic gymnast, or was. Brazilian.’ Petinski shook her head, disappointed. ‘Mani… She was a finalist in the uneven bars.’

‘You sound like you know her,’ I said, having difficulty hiding the sloppy grin spreading across my face.

‘Knew her. I was on the US team.’

‘You were an Olympic gymnast?’ That explained her body type, at least from the waist down.

‘My specialty was the floor. Rolled my ankle in a warm-up session the first day of competition. And that was the end of me.’ She shook her head with dismay, apparently as much at seeing a fellow champion gymnast plying a new trade as at the memory of her own career. ‘Mani was good.’

‘She still is, in a bad kinda way, if you know what I mean.’

Petinski did, and she wasn’t impressed. ‘Where’d you find this?’ she snapped. ‘I told you not to touch anything!’

I showed her. Botox wouldn’t have budged the frown on her face. ‘Did Randy speak Portuguese?’ she asked.

‘No, as far as I know he didn’t. Though I’m sure that if he did, he wouldn’t have brought those along to read. Hence my question about the moisturizer.’

Petinski pursed her lips. ‘You’re disgusting.’

‘And you’ve got nice-looking friends.’

‘Just because these magazines are here,’ she said, ‘doesn’t mean Randy brought them on board. As he didn’t speak Portuguese, that suggests to me a previous pilot or passenger left them behind.’

A reasonable assumption, but it was also not impossible that, despite the presence of his FAA license and so forth, perhaps Randy wasn’t the pilot at all and that someone else was, a Brazilian maybe, who brought the pornos along to help pass the time. Unreasonable, it seemed to me, was Petinski gravitating to a particular view about it while so readily excluding other likely theories along the way.

‘I’m taking them back with me,’ I said, holding my hand out, wiggling my fingers, gesturing at her to hand them over.

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s a long trip.’