Night Fall

  I got up from my chair, sat on the coffee table, and leaned toward the big plasma screen. I hit the Slow Motion button and watched closely.

  At 8:29 and 19 seconds, I saw a glow on the horizon to the right, and I froze the frame. The video camera at the top of the dune was about twenty feet high, including the tripod, and from this vantage point you could see a little more than most of the eyewitnesses who’d seen this from a boat, or from ground level, which on the south shore of Long Island was barely ten feet above sea level, if that. I looked at the glow awhile and decided it could be—could be—a missile launch.

  From where I’d seen the glow, I could now see a tongue of bright, red-orange light rising into the sky. It rose quickly, even in slow motion, and I could now make out a white plume of what looked like smoke, trailing behind it. I glanced at Jill and Bud, but they hadn’t seen it yet. It was 8:30 and 5 seconds, and I hit the Pause, slid off the coffee table, and knelt in front of the TV screen, staring at the point of light until my eyes got blurry. I rocked back on my haunches and continued the tape in slow motion.

  There was no mistaking what I was seeing now, and what over two hundred other people had seen, including Captain Spruck, who, to be honest, I had doubted. I could see why he was so obsessed with this now that I saw it myself, and I owed him an apology. More important, the American people were owed an apology, but I didn’t know from whom.

  I thought of my meeting in Jack Koenig’s office and him looking me in the eye and saying, “There is no fucking videotape of a couple screwing on the beach with the plane exploding behind them,” then, “No fucking rocket either.”

  Well, fuck you, Jack. And fuck Liam Griffith, and fuck Ted Nash for starters. Lying bastards.

  The streak of light, trailing its white plume of smoke, rose higher until it was about mid-frame on the TV screen. At this point, I saw Jill’s head turn toward the light, and she stared up at the sky, then Bud sat up quickly so they were face-to-face, then he turned and looked over his shoulder to where she was staring. The light was almost incandescent on the TV screen, and I could see it was gathering speed. I glanced at the lights of the aircraft, then back to the rising streak of light. I was too close to the TV to see the whole screen, so I stood quickly, backed up to the coffee table, and sat.

  There was no audio in slow motion, but there was nothing to hear anyway, and I stared, mesmerized by what I was seeing, because I knew exactly what was going to happen.

  The burning light seemed to make a sudden turn as it converged on the blinking lights, and I saw the evidence of the turn more clearly in the smoke plume, as it twisted.

  A few seconds later, there was a flash of bright light in the sky, which looked strange in slow motion, like a Roman candle burst, then a few seconds after that, a huge fireball began to grow in the black sky—like a bright red flower, blossoming in a time delay film. I froze the frame at 8:31 and 14 seconds and stared at it.

  Jill and Bud were caught in the freeze-frame almost standing up straight now, both facing the red sky burst. I hit Slow Motion and watched as the fireball grew larger. I could see that, indeed, the burning aircraft was rising, then I saw two streams of burning jet fuel descending toward the ocean, and as they got closer to the surface, I noticed the reflection of the burning fuel on the smooth, glassy surface, and yes, the reflections appeared to be two streaks of light rising upward, but there was no mistaking the burning fuel dropping downward from the sky to meet its own reflection. This way is up. Right?

  I watched the seconds counter, and about thirty seconds from when this series of events began, I hit the Play button and restored the audio.

  Everything on the screen was moving at normal speed now, including Jill and Bud, who weren’t really moving much at all, but were staring, transfixed, at the fire in the sky.

  I saw pieces of burning debris now, dropping from the sky. Then I heard the first explosion as it reached the camera microphone, a dull muffled bang, followed a second or two later by a much louder explosion. I saw Jill and Bud flinch a half second before I could hear the bigger explosion, which reached them before it had reached the camera microphone.

  I went back to slow motion and watched the aftermath of the disaster: the main part of the aircraft, which had incredibly climbed another few thousand feet until the fuel ran out of its engines, now began to spiral downward. I couldn’t see or comprehend all that was happening, even in slow motion, and I never saw the nose of the aircraft fall away, but I thought I saw the left wing separate, and I could see the great mass of the 747 dropping out of the sky and falling into the sea.

  The sky was clear now, except for smoke, which I could see illuminated by the burning fires on the smooth ocean.

  The couple on the beach stood there, naked, frozen, as though someone had pushed the Pause button of the world, except that the surf rolled in slow motion on the beach, and the horizon glowed with orange and red fire.

  I pushed the Play button, and the surf sped up, and the fire danced on the water.

  In Bud’s first take-charge action of the night, he took Jill’s arm, said something, and they turned and began running back toward the camera on the dune. He was faster than she was, and he didn’t slow down for her or give her a backwards glance to see if she was okay. The man was a complete asshole, but that was the least important thing revealed by this videotape.

  I stared at the burning fuel on the horizon, and neither Jill nor Bud could know it then, but 230 men, women, and children had perished in the blink of an eye. But I knew it, and I felt my stomach tighten, my mouth was dry, and my eyes were moist.

  Bud and Jill had disappeared at the base of the dune, then their heads and shoulders reappeared as they scrambled up the sandy slope, Bud first, followed by Jill.

  The camera had been set to maximum zoom, so their faces were blurry, but I could make out their features. I froze the frame and looked at him, his arms reaching for the camera. The man looked scared out of his mind. I looked at her, and she, too, looked frightened, with her eyes open wide, but I noticed also that she was looking at him, as though she wanted him to say something, to tell her what had happened and what they should do. I played the next few seconds in slow motion, and saw his stupid face right in front of the lens, filling the screen. That face, I thought, could be put on a Wanted Poster with the caption, “Have you seen this useless, self-centered piece of shit? Call 1-800-ASSHOLE.”

  Bud had gotten a grip on the camera, though not his nerve, and the screen became a crazy kaleidoscope of images that were hard to follow as our hero ran down the dune into the valley and dropped the camera. I heard Bud say, “Get dressed! Get dressed!”

  Then, someone picked up the camera, and I saw a flash of the night sky. I could hear them breathing hard as they ran, and I saw indistinct images bouncing around. A car door opened, then slammed shut, followed by two more doors opening and closing, then I heard the sound of the engine starting, and saw some bouncing on the nearly black screen, and then more hard breathing, but neither of them spoke. She was probably in shock, he was trying not to pee his pants. I wanted to scream at him, “Say something to her, you useless piece of shit.”

  I waited through about five minutes of black silence, and I was about to turn the TV off and rewind the tape, then I heard her voice. “Bud, I think a plane exploded.”

  He replied, “Maybe . . . maybe it was a giant skyrocket . . . fired from a barge. It exploded . . . you know . . . a fireworks show.”

  “Skyrockets don’t explode like that. Skyrockets don’t burn on the water.” Pause, then, “Something big exploded in midair and crashed in the ocean. It was a plane.”

  He didn’t reply, and she said, “Maybe we should go back.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe . . . people . . . got out. They have life vests, life rafts. Maybe we can help.”

  I said to no one, “You’re a good woman.” Bud said, “That thing just disintegrated. It had to be a couple miles high.” Pause. “The cops are already there.
They don’t need us.”

  I thought, “The passengers don’t need you, but the cops need your videotape, stupid.”

  There was a long silence, then Jill’s voice said, “That streak of light—that was a rocket. A missile.”

  No reply.

  Jill continued, “It looked like a missile was fired from the water and hit a plane.”

  Bud replied, “Well . . . I’m sure we’ll hear about it on the news.”

  There was another silence, then a movement on the black screen, then a black stillness, and I knew that Jill had taken the video camera from the rear seat and was rewinding the tape so she could look at it through the viewfinder.

  That was the end of this videotape, but then an image filled the screen as background music came through the speakers. Jean-Louis said something in dubbed English, but I wasn’t listening.

  I stopped the tape and pressed Rewind. I sat on the coffee table awhile, staring at the blank screen.

  I was completely overwhelmed by what I’d just seen and heard, and I knew it would take me a while to process these images that were so completely out of the realm of everyday reality.

  I stood motionless for a few seconds, then walked toward the bar, found a glass, and picked a Scotch bottle at random. I poured a few inches into the glass and stared at it. It was early on a Sunday morning, but I needed something to steady myself and wet my mouth. I knocked back the Scotch, put the glass down, and went into the kitchen.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Jill Winslow was not in the kitchen, but I saw her through a set of French doors sitting in a chaise lounge on the patio. She was still wearing her robe, sitting upright in the chaise, eyes open, staring off at something in her mind.

  I went out to the patio and sat in the chair beside her. Between us there was a table on which she had a bottle of water and two glasses. I poured myself some water and looked out over the expansive yard and the big swimming pool.

  After a minute or so, she asked me, “Did you take the videotape?”

  I replied, “No. I want you to give it to me.”

  She asked, “Do I have a choice?”

  “No, you don’t. It’s evidence of a possible crime. I can subpoena it. But I want you to give it to me voluntarily.”

  “It’s yours.” She smiled. “Actually, it belongs to the Bayview Hotel.”

  I replied, “Bud left a five-hundred-dollar deposit behind. It’s paid for.”

  “Good. That always bothered me. Stealing the tape.”

  It didn’t bother me; that’s why I was here.

  She stayed silent awhile, then said, “You’re a very clever man. You figured it out.”

  “It wasn’t that difficult,” I said modestly. Actually, I am clever, and it was difficult.

  She said, “I was very frightened when the FBI arrived. I thought they’d ask me if I made a copy of the tape before Bud erased it . . . but why would they think that? And how could they know about the video movie . . .”

  Actually, as I discovered, they did know about Jill Winslow borrowing a movie from the hotel library, but they were focused on destroying evidence that she’d been there, and it had apparently never crossed their minds that the weepy little rich girl had copied her mini-cassette tape over the borrowed videotape.

  She continued, “I wasn’t ready then to show that tape.”

  “I understand.”

  “Poor Mark. Poor Bud.” She sipped her water and said, “They’re going to be very angry with me. For different reasons.”

  I informed her, “This is not about them anymore, if it ever was. It’s about you, and about doing the right thing, and about truth, and about justice.”

  “I know . . . but Bud is comfortable in his marriage. And Mark . . . well, he’s comfortable, too.” She paused, then said, “He’s going to be devastated . . . humiliated . . .”

  “Maybe you can all work this out.”

  She laughed. “Are you serious?”

  “No.”

  She took some water, then said, “And then there’s Mark Jr. and James. My children.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Thirteen and fifteen.” She said, “Maybe someday they’ll understand.”

  “Someday they will. Maybe sooner than you think.”

  She looked at me and asked, “Will I go to prison?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t I withhold—?”

  “Don’t worry about it. They’ll want your cooperation.”

  She nodded, then asked me, “And Bud? Is he in trouble for erasing the tape?”

  “Maybe. But you’ll both cut a deal.” I added, “I suspect his major problem will be with Mrs. Mitchell.”

  Jill said, “Arlene will make his life hell.”

  I said to her, “Stop worrying about other people.”

  She didn’t reply. Jill Winslow sat up and looked at her house, then across the landscaped grounds and the pool. She said, “This was a prison with a life sentence.”

  I didn’t reply. As I said, it’s hard to feel sorry for a rich girl drinking champagne on a yacht—or by a pool. But I understood bad marriages, and it didn’t matter how much money or fame you had—a bad marriage was the common leveler of all classes.

  She said, more to herself than to me, “What am I going to do now?” She looked at me and asked with a smile, “Do you think I have a career in film?”

  I smiled in return, but didn’t reply. I looked at my watch. I needed to get out of here before the Black Helicopter landed on the Winslow lawn, or a car pulled up with Ted Nash and friends in it. But I also needed to let Jill Winslow decompress.

  She seemed to be thinking, then asked me, “Why did it take five years?”

  “I just got on the case.”

  She nodded and said, “When I heard the case was closed, I felt some relief . . . but I also felt some guilt. When was the case reopened?”

  Actually, about an hour ago, but I said, “The five-year anniversary in July reawakened some interest.”

  “I see.” She asked, “Would you like to go to church with me?”

  “Uh . . . actually, I would. But I’m afraid I have to get moving.” I asked her, “Do you have any way to copy that tape now?”

  She replied, “The same way I copied it the first time—but in reverse. VCR player to the video camera. Are you technologically challenged?”

  “Worse than that.” I stood and said, “Let’s make a copy.”

  She stood, and we went into the kitchen where I snagged the police radio, then back into the family room.

  She walked into a big storage closet filled with board games and other entertainment items and returned with a video camera, which she carried to the television, where she set it on the floor.

  I offered to help, but she said, “Just have a seat if you want this done right.”

  I had no intention of having a seat while she messed around with the evidence of the century, so I knelt beside her in front of the TV and VCR. I watched and asked questions as she connected the VCR player to the camera with a long cable, which she explained were for audio and video. She saw that I’d rewound A Man and a Woman, and she pushed a button on the camera, then on the VCR, and said, “The videotape in the VCR is now being recorded onto the mini-cassette in the video camera.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Do you want me to play the mini-cassette through the TV for you?”

  “No. I trust you.”

  Still kneeling beside me, she said, “You should. I could have erased this five years ago. I could have told you it didn’t exist. I played it for you.” She added, “And I trust you.”

  “Good.” I asked her, “How long is this going to take?”

  “The same as the original tape, obviously, about forty minutes. Do you want breakfast?”

  “No, thanks.” I was getting into a paranoid mode again, and I pictured Nash and friends pulling up to the house about now. Did I really need a copy of the tape? I asked her, “Can we fast-forw
ard to the scenes on the beach where the aircraft explodes?”

  “Are you in a hurry?” she asked.

  “Actually, I am.”

  She turned on the TV, and the tape appeared on the screen. We were up to the part where Mrs. Winslow was performing oral sex on Mr. Mitchell. Kneeling there next to the lady, I think I actually blushed. But she seemed strangely indifferent, and asked me, “Are you sure you don’t need me to copy this part?”

  “I’m sure.”

  She hit the Fast Forward on the VCR, and the action sped up. After the wife-tasting party, she hit Play, and the video resumed at normal speed. On the screen, Jill Winslow sat up and said, “I’m sticky. Let’s skinny-dip.”

  She looked at me and asked, “From there?”

  “Yes.”

  She stood, and I stood also, glancing at my watch, then at the TV screen, which was still showing the tape. The copying should take about fifteen minutes from this point.

  She asked me, “Why do you need two tapes?”

  I replied, “I lose things.”

  She glanced at me, but didn’t reply. She handed me the remote control and said, “I don’t want to watch the plane. You can sit and watch it again if you’d like, then when it’s finished—when A Man and a Woman comes on—hit this Stop button, then Eject. I’ll be on the patio. Call me if you need help getting the cassette out of the video camera.”

  I replied, “I’d like you to get dressed, and come with me.”

  She looked at me and asked, “Am I under arrest?”

  “No.” I glanced at the TV screen and at the running clock superimposed on the videotape. There were twelve minutes left until the explosion at 8:31 P.M., then more recorded images of the aftermath of the explosion, then Bud and Jill running back to the sand dune, and so forth.

  I took Jill’s arm and led her into the kitchen. I said to her, “I’m going to be very honest with you. You’re in some danger, and I need to get you out of here.”

  She stared at me and said, “Danger . . . ?”