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double-reversal, in which she apologized for apologizing.
    Brandon had to laugh. That girl could burn up more tape than a recording studio.
    The final four messages were all hang-ups, the time stamps for which were fifteen minutes apart.
    How odd. Punching the time into the microwave, Brandon tossed the empty box into the trash compactor, then scrolled through the caller ID to see that the hang-ups were all from the same number—the Fairfax County Police Department. He scowled.
    The digital countdown on the microwave had just cleared 2:00 when Brandon picked up the phone to call the number back. He’d pressed only the first two digits when someone mistook the knocker on the front door for a battering ram, hammering hard enough to make Brandon jump out of his shoes.
    “I have a doorbell, you moron,” he muttered, replacing the receiver on its hook and heading toward the foyer. He’d made it halfway when they hammered on the door again. “I’m coming!” Brandon shouted. “Jesus, do you think I missed it the first time?”
    A quick look out the peephole revealed the image of a freezing cop, the fur collar on his nylon jacket nearly touching the furry ear flaps of his Elmer Fudd hat. Brandon pulled open the door.
    Actually, there were two men out there. The one he hadn’t seen through the peephole was a priest of some sort. Or maybe a chaplain. He wore a clerical collar. Brandon felt all the air rush out of his lungs.
    “Mr. O’Toole?” the police officer asked.
    Brandon nodded. “Yes. Brandon O’Toole. That’s me. What’s wrong?”
    “I’m Officer Hoptman. This is Father Scannell.” With an uneasy glance, the cop deferred the rest to the priest, who inquired, “May we come in?”
    Brandon quickly stepped out of the way, ushering them into the foyer. “Tell me what’s wrong.” He said the words as a demand, but his head screamed for them to apologize for frightening him. He wanted to hear a sentence that began, Everybody’s going to be okay, but…
    Hoptman winced as he said very softly, “I’m afraid we have bad news for you, sir.”
     
    S COTT FELL THE LAST TEN FEET , landing on his back. Snowflakes kissed his upturned face. He choked on one as he drew in a deep breath, and his cough shot a jet of white vapor toward the sky. Rolling first to his side, he struggled up to his knees, and for the first time got a real glimpse of his surroundings. Down here, there was more light; the world was still a dim black-and-white television picture, but at least the shapes had definable form.
    Behind him and to his left, the wreckage at the base of the trees made a soft popping sound, casting an instant of bright light, like a camera strobe, bright enough for him to see his shadow against the snow. He could barely make out the twisted pieces of aluminum and steel that had once been their Cessna. “Cody!” he called. “Cody, are you here?” Sooner or later, he’d have to check to make sure, but Scott didn’t entertain even a moment’s doubt that the pilot was dead. For the time being, he’d settle for recovering his dropped flashlight. There it was, over there by another tree, still on and casting a beam straight up into the air.
    The snow was nearly hip-deep out here, and as he forced his legs to piston their way through, his ankle protested with shots of pain that reached all the way to his knee. That the ground below the snow was uneven and treacherous made it all the worse.
    The wreckage sputtered again, and now that he was closer, the arc revealed a glimpse of the devastation. The plane rested nose-down, with the cockpit either crushed flat or buried, but either way invisible. Behind that, the passenger compartment and tail were twisted like a discarded toy. The right wing was nowhere to be seen, but the left one looked pretty much intact. Scott’s breathing faltered as he took it all in. He had no business being alive at all.
    Armed with his flashlight, Scott waded back to the wreckage to check on