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

food and medical aid to areas ravaged by natural disasters or human violence. “Funny how the mind works,” Kathleen mused. “I’ve always half expected him to die in a crash someday, but I figured it’d be in some jungle somewhere. To crash on his way to Las Vegas? Seems extra sad, somehow.”
    She was right; it did seem cruelly ironic. “Well, one silver lining,” I said, “if you can call it that. He must’ve died instantly. Probably didn’t even see it coming.” I had worked a few plane crashes, including an air force crash in the Great Smoky Mountains, and I was familiar with the swiftness and force with which airplanes—and the people inside them—could disintegrate.
    Kathleen laid a hand on my arm. “Let’s send a donation.”
    “We sent a big check six months ago,” I reminded her. “At the end of the year.”
    “I know, I know. But this is a huge blow to Airlift Relief. He was the heart and soul of that organization. They’ll be struggling without him—and they’ll lose donors, you know they will. Please?” There were many things I loved about Kathleen, but her instinctive compassion and reflexive generosity—qualities I myself had benefited from, time and again—ranked high on the list.
    I smiled and kissed her forehead. “You’re a good-hearted woman, Kathleen Brockton.”
    She responded by wrapping her arms around me and giving me a full-body hug. “You’re an observant man, BillBrockton.” After a moment, she reached down and untied her bathrobe, opening the front to press against me, skin to skin.
    “Oh my,” I said. “A lucky man, too.” After three decades of marriage, Kathleen and I had settled into a companionable relationship, one in which fiery passion had given way to steady warmth. Still, she retained the capacity to surprise me and even, when something enkindled her desire, to take my breath away. “Not that I’m complaining,” I managed to say, “but didn’t you tell me last night you were on the sick list?”
    “I feel much better this morning,” she murmured. “And I was thinking how bereft I’d be if I lost you suddenly. So carpe diem, I guess.”
    “ Carpe me-um, ” I murmured back.
    She gave me a squeeze, one hard enough to make me yelp. “One more bad pun,” she breathed in my ear, “and I might just change my mind.”
    “My lips are sealed,” I breathed back. I began kissing and nibbling the side of her neck, seeking what I liked to think of as the magic spot. When she groaned, I thought for sure I’d found it, but gradually I realized that the telephone was ringing, and I echoed her groan.
    “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t answer it.” But it was too late; she was already pulling away and picking up the handset. “Damn,” I muttered. “So close and yet so far.”
    “Hello?” Kathleen sounded breathless, as if she’d run to catch the phone; her eyes were shining, the pupils still dilated wide. “Yes, it is. . . . May I tell him who’s calling?” Her gaze grew focused and serious—her brows knitting together the way the newscaster’s had—and she held the receiver toward me, mouthing something I couldn’t quite make out.
    Moments later, I felt my own forehead furrowing, asimages from the television news—images of flames and smoke and emergency vehicles—flashed through my mind. “Of course,” I said after a moment. “I’ll see you there.”
    AN HOUR AFTER THE PHONE CALL, I WAS STANDING on the tarmac, my “go” bag slung over one shoulder, as a white Gulfstream V—its only markings an aircraft registration number stenciled on the two engines—touched down at McGhee Tyson Airport and taxied toward Cherokee Aviation, the small terminal for private planes and charter aircraft.
    The jet stopped, but its engines continued spooling as the cabin door flipped down and Special Agent Clint McCready appeared in the opening, beckoning me up the stairs that were notched into the door’s inner surface. McCready gave me a hand up—a