Not long after she reserved a flight to Logan Airport, Helen received another phone call. It had to be Cory at that hour, something she may have forgotten to mention earlier.

"Hey, baby," Helen said seductively.

"h.e.l.lo, darling," a voice whispered deliciously.

Helen was wide-eyed. Cory never called her darling. The whisper was familiar, but she couldn't place it.

"Who is this?"

The voice whispered, "One of your Israelites."

Helen thought. "Ah. Then may I call you Michael? Or would you prefer Mr. Jackson?"

"You're a snot, Townsend."

"Me?" She laughed. "What's that song Jackson recorded about starting with the man in the mirror?"

"Okay, I get your drift. Listen, I'm flying to Boston Friday afternoon. Do you want to have lunch with me beforehand?"

"Really? I'm booked for Boston, too. That's a strange coincidence. I wonder what the odds are-"

"Slim to none, and stop making it sound so creepy. My departure is three thirty."

Helen raised her eyebrows. "Mine, too. Wow."

"Knock it off, Helen."

"Sorry. Yeah, let's have lunch first. How about meeting me at the paper, say noon?"

"Fine. By the way, there's a matter you need to address. I think I'm about to throw a wrench into your queer show."

"How's that?"

"I was watching the news tonight. The dock workers are on strike in Oakland, California."

Like she cared. "What does that have to do with us?"

"Does the word 'union' mean anything to you?"

"Of course it does. Unions protect just about any worker in the United States."

"Like actors? Wardrobe? Makeup?"

"Among others." When a mental list of those she knew belonged to an organization, and those who had never worked in the theater, flashed through her mind, she sat upright. "Oh, s.h.i.t. Some of us need union cards."

"You catch on quickly, Ms. Townsend."

"I need to call everyone immediately." Another fifteen phone calls before she could call it a night didn't thrill her.

Blair laughed. "You sound like your palms are sweaty and your heart's racing."

"Yeah, a shock wave of 'what the h.e.l.l am I doing?' just tore through me."

"Well, relax. Anyone involved knows they need the proper credentials. I just wanted to spook you."

Helen's tense muscles relaxed, but now she was p.i.s.sed off. "You really are a b.i.t.c.h."

Still, she laughed. "I wish I could have seen your expression. Are we still on for tomorrow?"

"I guess so, but you're buying lunch and the cab. Good night, Blair."

"Wait. There's one more matter."

"You better make it worth my time," Helen said.

"You may not call me Michael."

Chapter Sixteen.

A fax came over Helen's office machine. Cory had sent a rundown of her Friday night program. They would open with Mozart's "The Marriage of Figaro Overture," a fabulous opening with great power. Helen knew Cory was tickled. Then would come Bach's "Air On the G String." Couldn't he have come up with a cla.s.sier t.i.tle? Either way, the piece possessed the ability to lull Helen to sleep. The next one was underlined, with a happy face drawn next to it. Chopin's "Military Polonaise." Helen cringed. That music Cory had practiced repeatedly, ad nauseam, and Helen had learned to loathe the piece.

The list continued. Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries," works by Bizet, Chabrier, Tchaikovsky, and Sousa. Then Copland's "Simple Gifts," followed by the last piece, Anderson's "Sleigh Ride." A great night for music. "I love you," the fax ended.

A house gopher poked his head into Helen's office.

"Helen, some woman on line seven says she's Michael Jackson."

"Thanks." She grabbed the phone and punched in the line. "h.e.l.lo, Mikey."

"Our flight's been canceled."

"Don't bulls.h.i.t me, Blair. I wanted to smack you last night."

"No fooling. I called to confirm. There's a mechanical problem, but we're on a flight at eight."

Helen pouted. Cheated again. She wanted to see Cory at five, not wait until ten and miss the concert as well as the extra time with her. She appreciated the cla.s.sics as well as the next person and she'd never heard the Boston Light Orchestra live. She would miss the fun.

"What a bunch of bull," Helen said.

"Griping won't get us there any sooner. We can't drive. We'll hit every imaginable traffic pocket. An early dinner for us instead of lunch, then?"

"New York Deli at four," Helen said.

At least she'd have a great Reuben.

Inside the flight terminal, Helen removed her coat, but Blair remained dressed. She'd included dark gla.s.ses and a wide-brimmed floppy hat to conceal her ident.i.ty.

"Can't disturb the natives," she said and pulled the brim lower to her eyes.

Helen looked up from her boarding pa.s.s. A smiling, black-vested, male flight attendant approached their seats.

"Miss Whitman and Miss Townsend?" he asked.

"Yes," Helen said.

"The captain has asked me to seat you before the normal rush. I'll take your pa.s.ses, and you can follow me, please."

"Great," Blair said and leaned toward Helen. "It's good to be the king."

They entered the narrow ramp to Flight 1201, and the attendant stopped at the third row of first cla.s.s seats.

"I'll take the window seat," Blair said and shoved her hat into the overhead compartment.

With the aisle on her right, Helen got comfy in her seat and pulled her lap belt across and buckled it. When she noticed Blair's was still at her side, she picked it up and handed it to her.

"Kings of Pop wear them, too," she said.

Blair took the belt and snapped it into position. "You know, if this plane goes down, that belt won't do jack for me."

"And if you don't wear it, you'll be thrown off the flight, and I'm not going with you. Isn't it grand that life offers choices?" Helen smiled at Blair's kiss-my-a.s.s expression.

The flurry of boarding pa.s.sengers grew louder, and soon the attendants instructed the standard lifesaving techniques. The captain welcomed his pa.s.sengers and announced they were cleared for takeoff. All pa.s.sengers were instructed to remain in their seats, belts fastened, and please observe the no smoking regulation.

Minutes afterward, thundering engines increased power and hurtled the aircraft down the runway. Blair grabbed a firm hold of Helen's hand. "Do you mind? Takeoff scares me."

Helen didn't mind.

The nose of the craft tilted upward and the landing gear tucked into the bowels of the plane. Helen squeezed Blair's hand. "You okay?" Blair nodded.

A sudden and violent yank on Helen's belt told her the worst: wind shear. A wing tipped right. Claws from h.e.l.l ripped the jet downward. They dropped. One hundred feet. Two hundred feet. Helen knew. No way out. Blair and Helen locked eyes. She pushed Blair down by the shoulder. Sounds of heavy metal clashed with concrete; ten thousand screaming nails on chalkboard scratched a path through darkness.

A burst of wind freckled snow onto Helen's face and awakened her. Dark. Sounds and smells. Sirens wailed; voices screamed. Smoke, fuel. Warmth beneath her. Nerves blasted pain throughout her body, and consciousness fell into darkness.

"Over there!"

She awakened to the shout of a rescue member. A light over her shoulder revealed her provider of warmth.

"Blair," she whispered and closed her eyes.

Jolted conscious again, she heard steel jaws chew through metal behind her.

Alive. An explosion pierced her ears.

"Keep that fire out of here!" a rescue member yelled.

A fine mist dampened her. She felt on fire, and then felt no more until she heard the joyous whoop of her attending emergency medical technician.

"Good heart rhythm," he said. "Gotta watch the BP. Eighty-eight over seventy-three."

A fractured fraction.

Someone switched on the siren and they sped off. Cla.s.sical music played within the ambulance.

Chapter Seventeen.

Helen heard distant whispers. Soft footsteps. A squeaky wheel. A closer, intentional voice fully disturbed her sleep. A hand pressed against her shoulder.

"Helen, can you hear me?" a man asked.

Helen tried to speak but wanted more to sleep.

"Do you know where you are?" He grasped her hand. "Squeeze if you can hear me."

She had no energy or desire to squeeze. Helen took a breath. "Hosp'al."

"That's right. I'm Dr. O'Brien, and you've been our surgical guest for the last eight hours. You're in recovery and we'll take you to a room shortly. Do you know what happened?"

"Pla'e. Pla'e," she said again, desperate to complete the word. The longer she remained conscious, the greater her pain from head to toes. Her entire right side felt engulfed in flames. Her flesh boiled. Her head was about to burst from tight bandages. Her teeth hurt. She groaned. "Pai-nuh."

"Pain. Okay. I'll raise your morphine dosage."

She faded out and fell into a slippery slope of muddy dreams. Blair was beneath her. Cory played manically on a piano with no keys. On a wing of the Princess, Marty danced a windless ballet. Sam flashed his furry eyebrows. "They could stonewall you."

She had hit the wall.

Was it another day? A different hour? September? Somewhere in time, her oral oxygen tube had been replaced with a simple tube that hissed life-sustaining air into her nose. Voices cluttered her sleep.