Yet he wondered what manner of beast he would bee if even the deaths of Michelle and Chrissie and Nina no longer mattered to him。 For the first time； he considered that utter indifference might inspire not inner peace but a limitless capacity for evil。
The busy service station and the adjacent twenty…four…hour convenience store were three blocks from his motel。 Two public telephones were outside； near the restrooms。
A few fat moths； white as snowflakes； circled under the cone…shaped downlights that were mounted along the building eaves。 Vastly enlarged and distorted shadows of their wings swooped across the white stucco wall。
Joe had never bothered to cancel his phone…pany credit card。 With it； he placed several long…distance calls that he dared not make from his motel room if he hoped to remain safe there。
He wanted to speak to Barbara Christman； the IIC … Investigator in Charge … of the probe of Flight 353。 It was eleven o'clock here on the West Coast and two o'clock Sunday morning in Washington； D。C。 She would not be in her office； of course； and although Joe might be able to reach a duty officer at the National Transportation Safety Board even at this hour； he would never be given Christman's home number。
Nevertheless； he got the NTSB's main number from information and placed the call。 The Board's new automated phone system gave him extensive options； including the opportunity to leave voice mail for any Board member； senior crash investigator； or executive…level civil servant。 Supposedly； if he entered the first initial and first four letters of the surname of the party for whom he wished to leave a message； he would be connected。 Though he carefully entered B…C…H…R…I； he was routed not to voice mail but to a recording that informed him no such extension existed。 He tried again with the same result。
Either Barbara Christman was no longer an employee or the voice…mail system wasn't functioning properly。
Although the IIC at any crash scene was a senior investigator operating out of the NTSB headquarters in Washington； other members of a Go…Team could be culled from specialists in field offices all over the country： Anchorage； Atlanta； Chicago； Denver； Fort Worth； Los Angeles； Miami； Kansas City； New York City； and Seattle。 From the puter at the Post； Joe had obtained a list of most if not all of the team members； but he didn't know where any of them was based。
Because the crash site was a little more than a hundred miles south of Denver； he assumed at least a few of the team had been drawn from that office。 Using his list of eleven names； he sought phone numbers from directory assistance in Denver。
He obtained three listings。 The other eight people were either unlisted or not Denver…area residents。
The ceaseless swelling and shrinking and swelling again of moth shadows across the stucco wall of the service station teased at Joe's memory。 They reminded him of something； and increasingly he sensed that the recollection was as important as it was elusive。 For a moment he stared intently at the swooping shadows； which were as amorphous as the molten forms in a Lava Lamp； but he could not make the connection。
Though it was past midnight in Denver； Joe called all three men whose numbers he'd obtained。 The first was the Go…Team meteorologist in charge of considering weather factors pertinent to the crash。 His phone was picked up by an answering machine； and Joe didn't leave a message。 The second was the man who had overseen the team division responsible for sifting the wreckage for metallurgical evidence。 He was surly； possibly awakened by the phone； and uncooperative。 The third man provided the link to Barbara Christman that Joe needed。
His name was Mario Oliveri。 He had headed the human…performance division of the team； searching for errors possibly mitted by the flight crew or air…traffic controllers。
In spite of the hour and the intrusion on his privacy； Oliveri was cordial； claiming to be a night owl who never went to bed before one o'clock。 'But； Mr。 Carpenter； I'm sure you'll understand that I do not speak to reporters about Board business； the details of any investigation。 It's public record anyway。'
'That's not why I've called； Mr。 Oliveri。 I'm having trouble reaching one of your senior investigators； whom I need to talk with urgently； and I'm hoping you can put me in touch。 Something's wrong with her voice mail at your Washington offices。'
'Her voice mail？ We have no current senior investigators who are women。 All six are men。'
'Barbara Christman。'
Oliveri said； 'That had to be who it was。 But she took early retirement months ago。'
'Do you have a phone number for her？'
Oliveri hesitated。 Then： 'I'm afraid I don't。'
'Maybe you know if she resides in D。C。 itself or which suburb。 If I knew where she lived； I might be able to get a phone…'
'I heard she came home to Colorado；' Oliveri said。 'She started out in the Denver field office a lot of years ago； was transferred out to Washington； and worked her way up to senior investigator。'
'So she's in Denver now？'
Again Oliveri was silent； as if the very subject of Barbara Christman troubled him。 At last he said； 'I believe her actual home was Colorado Springs。 That's about seventy miles south of Denver。'
And it was less than forty miles from the meadow where the doomed 747 had e to a thunderous end。
'She's in Colorado Springs now？' Joe asked。
'I don't know。'
'If she's married； the phone might be in a husband's name。'
'She's been divorced for many years。 Mr。 Carpenter 。 。 。 I am wondering if。 After long seconds during which Oliveri failed to plete his thought； Joe gently prodded： 'Sir？'
'Is this related to Nationwide Flight 353？'
'Yes； sir。 A year ago tonight。'
Oliveri fell into silence once more。
Finally Joe said； 'Is there something about what happened to Flight 353。。。 something unusual？'
'The investigation is public record； as I said。'
'That's not what I asked。'
The open line was filled with a silence so deep that Joe could half believe that he was connected not to Denver but to the far side of the moon。
'Mr。 Oliveri？'
'I don't really have anything to tell you； Mr。 Carpenter。 But if I thought of something later。。。 is there a number where I could reach you？'
Rather than explain his current circumstances； Joe said； 'Sir； if you're an honest man； then you might be endangering yourself by calling me。 There are some damned nasty people who would suddenly be interested in you if they knew we were in touch。'
'What people？'
Ignoring the question； Joe said； 'If something's on your mind …or On your conscience…take time to think about it。 I'll get back to you in a day or two。'
Joe hung up。
Moths swooped。 Swooped。 Batted against the floodlamps above。 Clichés on the wing： moths to the flame。
The memory continued to elude Joe。
He called directory assistance in Colorado Springs。 The operator provided him with a number for Barbara Christman。
She answered on the second ring。 She did not sound as though she had been awakened。
Perhaps some of these investigators； who had walked through the unspeakable carnage of major air disasters； did not always find their way easily into sleep。
Joe told her his name and where his family had been one year ago this night； and he implied that he was still an active reporter with the Post。
Her initial silence had the cold； moon…far quality of Oliveri's。 Then she said； 'Are you here？'
'Excuse me？'
'Where are you calling from？ Here in Colorado Springs？'
'No。 Los Angeles。'
'Oh；' she said； and Joe thought he heard the faintest breath of regret when she exhaled that word。
He said； 'Ms。 Christman； I have some questions about Flight 353 that I would…'
'I'm sorry；' she interrupted。 'I know you've suffered terribly； Mr。 Carpenter。 I can't even conceive the depth of your anguish； and I know it's often difficult for family members to accept their losses in these horrible incidents； but there's nothing I could say to you that would help you find that acceptance or…'
'I'm not trying to learn acceptance；