Description: Prologue: Flight I hate flying. Always have. It''s not just the old man on my left snoring, his liver-spotted hand brushing my leg, or the young man on my right darting looks down my blouse. It''s not just the plume of rebreathed air in my face or the flight attendants staring dead-eyed as they hand out bags of pretzels. It''s the impossibility of it. People aren''t supposed to fly. Hundred ton machines certainly aren''t. My stomach''s a knot. "Look at that," the young man says. His name is Jason. He''s got an Amish-style beard not because he''s Amish but because he''s too young to grow anything better. Too young for me. Jason hooks his nose toward the TV screen, which shows our current position over Billings. "We''re at 35,000 feet, and the air outside''s negative 75." "Cold," I agree, staring at the in-flight magazine as if I cared what meals were available for purchase. "Fall out of this plane, and you''d be frozen before you hit the ground," he enthuses. "You''d shatter like a glass doll." The knot tightens. "There''s a Darwin Award for you." They offer a turkey croissant with baby carrots and chocolate pudding. How much longer? It''s five minutes till noon. I hate flying, but business calls. "I need to get up," I tell the Amish kid. "Business calls." Jason grins, pivoting his legs to one side and watching my ass as I squeeze past. The midcabin lavatory is closer, but I pick my way back among the crammed seats. Can''t believe I booked in coach, a purgatory--all these dreary, drowsing people, their faces slack, eyes lidded, oblivious to the fact that people aren''t supposed to fly. . . . The rear lav is occupied. I wait. Three minutes to noon. I knock. The person inside groans. The bolt hisses in the slot, the door cracks, and out comes a fifty-something woman wreathed in a cloud of perfume and flatulence. She glances at me with annoyance, and I return the look as she shoe-horns past. I enter the lav and lock the door behind me and look at myself in the mirror. Blonde, thirty-two, and smart--and watch that smile, that killer smile. I can''t wait for this flight to be over. It is. There''s a noise so loud I can''t hear it, only see it--a white ball in my head. It hurls me up to the ceiling and pins me to the wall and flings me back down. Teeth crack on stainless steel. Chemical water gushes up my nose. Water and blood. Another white ball. I''m on my knees on the floor. There''s a terrible tearing. Metal shredding. The sound becomes a scream. Screams. An all-encompassing roar. I can''t see anything. I can only hear. It''s too much. # Why is everything so loud? My face is slick. Blood? What is this place? Plastic walls, panels, frames? I spot a metal knob and yank on it, and doors louver open. The roar is louder now--a narrow hallway with carpet below and blood beside. I stagger up and step out. I''m inside a plane, except there''s no floor. Just three rows of seats and then a big hole and torn walls. I look through the hole. Grassy hills flash golden below, and the shadow of the plane skims across them. The shadow grows larger. We''re going to crash. I can see trees and rocks. I step back through the door and pull it closed in front of me and sit down on the toilet and bend my head down between my knees and wait for the end. It comes. It sounds like a broken motor. It looks like the sun exploding. It feels like tigers tearing me apart. Chapter 1: Awakening There''s warm darkness and a heartbeat. All around me, there''s a heartbeat. Not the thud of blood in a body but a cold ping. A green line on a screen. My eyes are open, but I''ve been looking through them only seconds. The green line jags whenever my heart beats. My heart. Ceiling tiles and tan curtains and textured wall paper and a TV hanging above like a stalker. A hospital? There are tubes in my arms. I rip them out. I try to get up from the bed, but there''s another tube up my nose. I grip it. A worm of plastic drags up my throat and burns--the smell of puke. An alarm goes off. Footsteps scuff linoleum. A nurse bustles in. Her hair is tight and her eyes are wide so she looks like a startled fish. She sees the tubes dribbling on the floor and gulps, then leans over me and snaps her fingers. "You blinked!" Where am I? "You''re trying to talk!" She turns, her shoes rasping. "Doctor! She''s out of the coma. . . ." Her voice fades as she vanishes through the doorway. A man takes her place, filling the frame--a XXL man in an XL suit. He glances after the nurse and then comes and stands next to me and stares. He has curly black hair but an Irish face. The nurse returns, and the man makes room for her and an East Indian doctor. He scoops up my hands and sees the weeping holes in them. "It''s good to be having you back," he says in a musical voice. "How are you feeling?" What''s happening? "It''s all right," the doctor says. "Relax now. You are being safe." "What''s happening?" My voice is chalk. The doctor leans toward me. His brow is rumpled, his eyes ringed in white. "You were involved in a . . . in a . . ." He looks up at the nurse and the other man. "United Flight 311, Chicago to Seattle." "What?" "Terrible. Terrible." He rolls his R''s, making terrible sound charming. "Everybody wants to be talking to you, the only survivor." "The only survivor of what?" "A . . . terrorist attack. A bomb in the luggage. No one survives but you." "A bomb?" "Yes." "Why was I on a plane?" "Business." "What business?" "Banking." "Who--" my breath catches "--who am I?" At first, no one seems to know. "Susan Gardner," says the curly-haired man, stepping forward. "I''m Sergeant Krupinski from the FBI, and I have a few thousand questions, Miss Gardner." "I don''t remember anything." His jaw clenches, and the muscle leaps up to his temple. "A bomb rips out the belly of a DC-10 and kills three hundred sixty-one passengers, but the woman in the lavatory survives without a scratch?" "I don''t understand. . ." "Without a scratch?" the doctor blurts in annoyance. "She had a concussion--broken jaw, cuts everywhere! She was being in a coma for four weeks." "Four weeks." The room begins to spin. I clutch the rails on the side of the bed. "What did you say my name was?" "Susan Gardner," Krupinski repeats, then rattles off, "thirty-two year-old female Caucasian; blonde; blue eyes; sing director of foreign accounts at International Mercantile, downtown Chicago; daughter of William and Doloris Gardner, deceased; sister of Michael Gardner of Oak Park--any of this ring a bell?" They''re staring at me. They know more about me than I do. The sergeant puffs. "Figures. Sit around for four weeks--" "Why?" "Why what?" "Why sit around for four weeks?" "I''m here to protect you, Miss Gardner." "From what?" "From the people who did this." "I want out of here. I want to go home." Krupinski laughs. "You don''t even know where your home is." He''s right. Damn it. "Where is it?" "Oak Park," Krupinski says, "but you''re not going." "Am I under arrest? Is that what this is?" "No, you''re not under arrest. Not yet," Krupinski says. "Enough of that!" Dr. Rama demands, stepping between me and the big man. "You are upsetting to her." He turns to me, and his expression softens. "But you cannot leave. Your health is too fragile. Look at these IV''s and these machines. Look at these people. They have kept you alive. We have to be making sure you are well enough to go." "I want out of here as soon as possible." "As soon as possible," he assures, "but first, we need to redo the IV''s." I swing my legs down. "I''ve got to go to the toilet." "You can''t," the doctor says, wide-eyed. Now I feel why. There''s another tube. Another goddamn tube. "I want this catheter out, too." "We don''t even know if you can walk," Dr. Rama points out. "Your legs are atrophied. How are you going to get to the toilet?" I stand up, legs trembling under my hospital gown. "See?" "You cannot go to the toilet without help," he admonishes. "If you need to go now, the nurse will take you. If you need to go later, you will be pressing the button." "Thank you," I say, sitting back down on the bed. "The nurse can stay, but the rest of you, go. Now. Please." Doctor Rama turns to me, his eyes watery. "You need to understand, young woman, that you have only just met me, but I have known you for a month." "I don''t even know myself." The doctor nods and leaves. Krupinski also goes, trundling through the doorway and sitting heavily in a chair to one side. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares at an impressionist print across the hall. That leaves only the nurse. "I''m Michelle," she says, stepping up before me. He

Please Wait