Page 113 of Sharp Force
They climb up front while we get in back, sitting in forward-facing seats upholstered in a fire-retardant Nomex material. We buckle our four-point harnesses as Lucy and Tron go through the preflight checklist. The partition between the rear cabin and cockpit makes it impossible for me to see them, their voices muffled.
Soon the twin engines are roaring, the blades flying, and I can feel the powerful torque in my marrow.
“Everybody okay back there?” Lucy’s voice sounds in our headsets.
“All good,” I answer.
“I’ll clear us with the tower, and we’ll be on our way,” she replies. “We’ll be flying higher than usual to catch a kickass thirty-knot tailwind, ETA twenty minutes.”
“Holy smoke,” Benton says.
She goes on to explain that the intercom will be set tocrew only. She and Tron will be busy. They won’t hear us, and we can’t hear them. I listen to the pitch of the blades changing as Lucy opens the throttles all the way. I feel us getting light on the skids.
Then we’re in the air, lifting over a crowded ramp of parked prop planes and corporate jets. We fly away from the massive airport and its once space-age terminal that now looks almost primitive. Picking up speed, the Doomsday Bird thuds through a blue sky feathered with thin clouds, the sun high.
“Just buzz if you need us.” It’s Tron saying this in our headsets. “You know where the intercom button is. Otherwise, we won’t be talking to you.”
The homes and office buildings in Chantilly shrink to toy size as we gain altitude, churning over parks and forestland. A moving map video display shows the icon of our helicopter two thousand feet over the Civil War battlegrounds in Manassas. We’re too high to see the palings and cannons.
Benton is lost in his phone, checking on the latest communications from his headquarters. He informs me that federal agents searching Zain Willard’s Williamsburg apartment have recovered a quadcopter drone, the equipment that goes with it and other high-tech devices.
But they haven’t found anything that one might call a smoking gun, no sign that he was using dietary supplements or anything else containing chlorophyll and calcite. No violent pornography. No videos, photographs or souvenirs from victims that might memorialize murders or other crimes.
“But none of that will matter much.” Benton’s voice sounds. “It’s very bad for Zain that the fluorescing residue was on Georgine’s body, on the rug and in his hair. It’s bad for him that the cuts to his neck were shallow and he could have inflicted them himself.”
We continue talking as I watch the moving map display, our helicopter icon speeding along on a south-southeast heading, nothing under us but dark green forestland. In no time, we’ve reached the Williamsburg-Jamestown private airport between the York and James Rivers, surrounded by creeks snaking through marshland.
I don’t have to look to know that the numbers 13 and 31 are painted in white on either end on the single runway. The tiny terminal has a restaurant called Charly’s that Lucy and I have patronized over the years when buzzing around in one helicopter or another. I always get the tuna salad. She’s fond of their seafood bisque.
She slows into a steady hover a safe distance from prop planes tied down on cracked asphalt. Landing like a feather near the aboveground fuel tank, she cuts the throttles to flight idle. As the helicopter shuts down, Benton and I look out our windows at the bright afternoon. We take off our harnesses and headsets, checking our phones again.
He leans against me, showing the latest information. The FBI has released an official statement that Zain Willard is a person of interest in the Georgine Duvall murder. It’s suggested he’s the Phantom Slasher. Bose Flagler is all over the news talking about the case and the political pressure on those civil servants trying to respect the law.
“No one is above it,”he declares to Dana Diletti.“Just because he has a powerful uncle doesn’t mean Zain Willard or anyone can get away with murder…”
Lucy is flipping off switches, and then we open our doors. I grab my briefcase, climbing down on the skid and stepping onto the tarmac. Parked nearby is a black Suburban SUV driven by an FBI agent from their Chesapeake field office.
“Hank will take you to Georgine Duvall’s house,” Tron explains.
“You’re not coming with us?” I look at Lucy.
She digs in a pocket, pulling out a key attached to an FBI evidence tag that’s scrawled with today’s date and a case number.
“To her house.” She hands the key to Benton. “And I think you know why we’re not coming. I can’t.”
“Whatever’s best,” I reply.
“A conflict,” she adds.
“I see.”
“Because I once knew her.” That’s as much as she’ll elaborate.
“Understood,” I tell her. “We’ll meet you back here… I’m not sure when.”
“Hank’s already been inside the house,” Tron tells us. “Georgine Duvall has a lot of patient records there. The best thing is if you get a bird’s-eye view, pulling out what you want, and we’ll get copies made. If you try to read everything now, you’ll be there for days.”
We climb inside the Suburban, our driver Hank in his forties and solidly built like a thick tree trunk. He has an easy smile and quiet demeanor on the verge of shy. He tells us that Georgine Duvall’s neighbors describe her as nice and never any trouble. She was reasonably friendly, but for the most part kept to herself.
