remembered.
"Why bring their families more misery?"
Farnsworth pressed. "Why inflict more pain? I've seen enough of it since
Monday to last me a lifetime."
"You're young yet."
"Can it wait until tomorrow?" McCarthy looked at
his watch. "Just a few more hours," Farnsworth implored.
There was no escaping what they both knew had to be done.
All next of kin had to be notified in person by a policeman and a
representative of the airline. Those were the rules they had set. Most of the relatives
who had stayed at the Marriott had been notified in that fashion.
"I suppose." McCarthy shrugged. It was nearly
2:00 A.M. He wondered which would be more cruel, a few hours' delay or bringing
bad news in the middle of the night. McCarthy relented. "Just until the
sun comes up," he agreed.
"Thanks. Maybe I'll get lucky and not live through the
night," Farnsworth replied.
13
They knocked on Edward Davis's door first. It was seven
o'clock in the morning. The day had broken bright with sun, and the air was
crisp with a cool, clean bite.
The man who opened the door showed the effects of his
ordeal. He looked as if he had slept in his clothes, and his eyes were red and
puffy. Sprouts of beard were coming out of his facial skin in uneven tufts.
God, will this hurt, McCarthy thought. Poor bastard.
"Are you Edward Davis?" he asked politely,
flashing his badge.
The man nodded, and McCarthy could tell from his eyes that
he already knew what was coming. Davis backed away, leaving the door open for
them to come in. He collapsed heavily on the couch. Farnsworth and McCarthy sat
opposite on upholstered chairs.
"It's about Lily?" the man asked lamely. He
looked weak. Panic and anxiety had already beaten him. "She's been gone
since Thursday," the man said. "I was about to call."
"Sure," McCarthy whispered. He glanced at
Farnsworth, whose hands clutched his thighs, knuckles white.
"I'm sorry to inform you that your wife Lily went down
with Southair flight ninety."
"Flight ninety?" the man repeated, not
comprehending.
"The plane that went down last week in the Potomac," McCarthy said.
Davis's face seemed to cave in upon
his skull.
"That's crazy!" he cried. "It's a mistake.
Why would she be on that plane? It was going to Florida. For a minute there you
had me really frightened. She went to L.A. I think you've got something
confused. Maybe the computers..."
He would have gone on had McCarthy not interrupted him.
"We have her handbag, her possessions and, I'm afraid,
her body."
"That is absolutely impossible."
"I hope you're right, Mr. Davis," Mr. Farnsworth
intruded sympathetically. He was obviously suffering through it. "You're
going to have to come down to the Medical Examiner's office and identify the
body. There's a cruiser outside waiting to take you there."
"I'm telling you it's a waste of time."
His lips were trembling, and his chest began to heave as he
gasped for breath.
"You can't just leave her there, Mr. Davis,"
Farnsworth said gently. For a moment McCarthy thought he, too, might be
breaking down.
"Leave her where?" Davis said. He was completely
disoriented.
"Downtown. At the Medical Examiner's office."
"Oh, God." Reality began to seep into his
consciousness. He rose and put on his coat, which had been thrown clumsily over
the dining room table. He didn't bother to put on a jacket underneath it.
"All right," he said. "Just to convince you
how wrong you must be."
They let him walk out first.
McCarthy hadn't expected Mrs. Simpson to be so attractive.
She was wearing a turtleneck sweater and beige slacks that showed off the
rounded firmness of her figure. She wore no makeup, but her skin was clear and
pale, and her chestnut hair, although cut short, fell neatly in soft waves. To
McCarthy, the woman had an air of cleanliness about her, a kind of brightness
that even this terrible predicament could not quite obliterate. But the
puffiness beneath her brown eyes and the frown etched on her forehead betrayed
sleeplessness and
"Why bring their families more misery?"
Farnsworth pressed. "Why inflict more pain? I've seen enough of it since
Monday to last me a lifetime."
"You're young yet."
"Can it wait until tomorrow?" McCarthy looked at
his watch. "Just a few more hours," Farnsworth implored.
There was no escaping what they both knew had to be done.
All next of kin had to be notified in person by a policeman and a
representative of the airline. Those were the rules they had set. Most of the relatives
who had stayed at the Marriott had been notified in that fashion.
"I suppose." McCarthy shrugged. It was nearly
2:00 A.M. He wondered which would be more cruel, a few hours' delay or bringing
bad news in the middle of the night. McCarthy relented. "Just until the
sun comes up," he agreed.
"Thanks. Maybe I'll get lucky and not live through the
night," Farnsworth replied.
13
They knocked on Edward Davis's door first. It was seven
o'clock in the morning. The day had broken bright with sun, and the air was
crisp with a cool, clean bite.
The man who opened the door showed the effects of his
ordeal. He looked as if he had slept in his clothes, and his eyes were red and
puffy. Sprouts of beard were coming out of his facial skin in uneven tufts.
God, will this hurt, McCarthy thought. Poor bastard.
"Are you Edward Davis?" he asked politely,
flashing his badge.
The man nodded, and McCarthy could tell from his eyes that
he already knew what was coming. Davis backed away, leaving the door open for
them to come in. He collapsed heavily on the couch. Farnsworth and McCarthy sat
opposite on upholstered chairs.
"It's about Lily?" the man asked lamely. He
looked weak. Panic and anxiety had already beaten him. "She's been gone
since Thursday," the man said. "I was about to call."
"Sure," McCarthy whispered. He glanced at
Farnsworth, whose hands clutched his thighs, knuckles white.
"I'm sorry to inform you that your wife Lily went down
with Southair flight ninety."
"Flight ninety?" the man repeated, not
comprehending.
"The plane that went down last week in the Potomac," McCarthy said.
Davis's face seemed to cave in upon
his skull.
"That's crazy!" he cried. "It's a mistake.
Why would she be on that plane? It was going to Florida. For a minute there you
had me really frightened. She went to L.A. I think you've got something
confused. Maybe the computers..."
He would have gone on had McCarthy not interrupted him.
"We have her handbag, her possessions and, I'm afraid,
her body."
"That is absolutely impossible."
"I hope you're right, Mr. Davis," Mr. Farnsworth
intruded sympathetically. He was obviously suffering through it. "You're
going to have to come down to the Medical Examiner's office and identify the
body. There's a cruiser outside waiting to take you there."
"I'm telling you it's a waste of time."
His lips were trembling, and his chest began to heave as he
gasped for breath.
"You can't just leave her there, Mr. Davis,"
Farnsworth said gently. For a moment McCarthy thought he, too, might be
breaking down.
"Leave her where?" Davis said. He was completely
disoriented.
"Downtown. At the Medical Examiner's office."
"Oh, God." Reality began to seep into his
consciousness. He rose and put on his coat, which had been thrown clumsily over
the dining room table. He didn't bother to put on a jacket underneath it.
"All right," he said. "Just to convince you
how wrong you must be."
They let him walk out first.
McCarthy hadn't expected Mrs. Simpson to be so attractive.
She was wearing a turtleneck sweater and beige slacks that showed off the
rounded firmness of her figure. She wore no makeup, but her skin was clear and
pale, and her chestnut hair, although cut short, fell neatly in soft waves. To
McCarthy, the woman had an air of cleanliness about her, a kind of brightness
that even this terrible predicament could not quite obliterate. But the
puffiness beneath her brown eyes and the frown etched on her forehead betrayed
sleeplessness and
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