The Breaking Point: A Body Farm Novel Read Online Free PDF

cross himself, his trembling finger touched the very tip of the hurtling jet.
    It was the briefest of touches—less than a millisecond—yet in that fleeting touch, Jesús’s fingertip wrought a miracle: Night became day; darkness was transformed into light, a burst of red and orange and yellow, with pyrotechnic sparks and spokes of purple and green and magenta shooting off in all directions; Jesús himself was transubstantiated—the injured immigrant, the indigenous mountain lion, the hurtling airplane, and the high-octane fuel, all of them—transformed from mundane matter into dazzling energy, a radiant bloom upon the blackness that engulfed the wider world beyond.

I WAS HUMMING, HALFWAY THROUGH MY MORNING shower, when Kathleen flung open the bathroom door. “Bill, come quick!” she shouted, then turned and ran, adding, “Hurry. Hurry! ” She sounded not just urgent but upset.
    I flipped off the water and grabbed my towel, calling after her, “What’s wrong? Kathleen? Kathleen! Are you hurt?”
    “No, I’m fine,” she yelled from the other end of the house. “There’s something on the news you need to see.”
    I mopped the suds from my head and chest and wrapped the towel around my waist. Still dripping, I hurried to the kitchen, where I knew Kathleen would be watching The Today Show, as she did every weekday morning over coffee and granola. On the countertop TV screen, a tanned, silver-haired guy—a tennis pro or investment banker, judging by the well-kept, self-satisfied look of him—was slow dancing with a gorgeous younger woman. “Viagra,” intoned a deep voice, smooth and confident. “Make it happen.”
    “So . . . honey,” I began, turning toward her, “is there something you’re trying to tell me?” I turned toward her, expectingto see amusement in her eyes—she was a good prankster, when she wanted to be—but her coffee cup was trembling in her hand, and her expression looked distraught.
    “What? No, not that. This .” She tapped the television, where The Today Show ’s news anchor, an attractive woman whose name I could never remember, had just appeared on-screen for her 7 A.M . rundown of the headlines. Superimposed across the lower part of the screen were the words “ BREAKING NEWS — FIERY CALIFORNIA JET CRASH .”
    The newscaster’s sculpted face was solemn, her impeccably manicured eyebrows furrowed with concern. “Authorities are investigating a fiery plane crash that occurred outside San Diego in the early morning hours today,” she began. “The crash is believed to have claimed the life of pilot and humanitarian Richard Janus, founder and president of the nonprofit organization Airlift Relief International.” The image cut to aerial footage of a steep, rocky hillside at night, lit by a fire blazing high into the sky. “According to the FAA,” the anchor’s voice-over continued, “Janus was on a solo night flight from San Diego to Las Vegas in his agency’s twin-engine jet. Minutes after takeoff, the aircraft slammed into a dark mountainside and exploded.” The camera cut to another aerial, this one showing emergency vehicles and firefighters gathered on a ridge above the blaze. “Darkness and rough terrain are hindering search-and-rescue efforts,” continued the woman. She reappeared on camera, her face brimming with compassion. “And with high winds, wooded terrain, and hundreds of gallons of jet fuel feeding the fire, authorities say the blaze could continue to burn for hours.”
    The newscast moved on—another psychotic meltdown by some pop-culture princess—and I turned down the sound. “That’s awful,” I said. “Poor Richard.”
    “Poor Richard,” Kathleen agreed. “And poor Carmelita. She must be devastated.” I nodded. We didn’t actually know Richard Janus or his wife, Carmelita, but we felt almost as if we did. Kathleen and I deeply admired Richard’s work, and we were regular contributors to his nonprofit, Airlift Relief, which delivered