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, Iam clever, and itwas 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…”