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Louis
slipped
the
flashlight
into
his
armpit
.
He
squatted
down
slightly
.
His
hands
groped
,
like
the
hands
of
a
catcher
in
a
troupe
of
circus
flyers
,
waiting
to
perform
his
part
in
a
mortal
docking
.
He
found
the
groove
in
the
lid
,
and
he
slipped
his
fingers
into
it
.
He
paused
for
a
moment
--
one
could
not
rightly
call
it
a
hesitation
--
and
then
he
opened
his
son
's
coffin
.
Rachel
Creed
almost
made
her
flight
from
Boston
to
Portland
.
Almost
.
Her
Chicago
plane
left
on
time
(
a
miracle
in
itself
)
,
was
cleared
straight
into
LaGuardia
(
another
)
,
and
left
New
York
only
five
minutes
behind
schedule
.
It
got
to
the
gate
in
Boston
fifteen
minutes
late
--
at
11:12
P.M.
.
That
left
her
with
thirteen
minutes
.
She
still
might
have
made
her
connecting
flight
,
but
the
shuttle
bus
which
makes
a
circle
around
the
Logan
terminals
was
late
.
Rachel
waited
,
now
in
a
kind
of
constant
low-grade
panic
,
shifting
from
foot
to
foot
as
if
she
needed
to
go
to
the
bathroom
,
switching
the
travel
bag
her
mother
had
loaned
her
from
one
shoulder
to
the
other
.
When
the
shuttle
still
had
n't
come
at
11:25
,
she
began
to
run
.
Her
heels
were
low
but
still
high
enough
to
cause
her
problems
.
One
of
her
ankles
buckled
painfully
,
and
she
paused
long
enough
to
take
off
the
shoes
.
Then
she
ran
on
in
her
pantyhose
,
past
Allegheny
and
Eastern
Airlines
,
breathing
hard
now
,
getting
the
begininngs
of
a
stitch
in
her
side
.
Her
breath
was
hot
in
her
throat
,
that
tuck
in
her
side
deeper
and
more
painful
.
Now
she
was
running
past
the
international
terminal
,
and
there
,
up
ahead
,
was
Delta
's
triangular
sign
.
She
burst
in
through
the
doors
,
almost
dropped
one
shoe
,
juggled
it
,
caught
it
.
It
was
11:37
.
One
of
the
two
clerks
on
duty
glanced
up
at
her
.
"
Flight
104
,
"
she
panted
.
"
The
Portland
flight
.
Has
it
left
?
"
The
clerk
glanced
behind
him
at
the
monitor
.
"
Still
at
the
gate
it
says
here
,
"
he
said
,
"
but
they
called
for
final
boarding
five
minutes
ago
.
I
'll
call
ahead
.
Bags
to
check
?
"
