a private torture chamber where no one, not even a brother, could reach through.
From that torture chamber... waiting, always waiting... there could be only one relief. It was the way be had already chosen, and would carry through.
"I guess they could use you back inside, Keith," the tower watch chief said. It was the gentlest kind of chiding. Keith had already had one work-break tonight; another inevitably threw a heavier load on other people. It was also a reminder to Mel, perhaps unintended, that as airport general manager his writ did not run here.
Keith mumbled something and gave a distant nod. With a serise of helplessness, Mel watched his brother return to the radar room. He had heard enough to know that it was desperately important he should hear more. He wondered when that would be, and how. A few minutes ago he had broken through Keith's reserve, his secrecy. Would it happen again? With despair, Mel doubted it.
For sure, there would be no more confidences from Keith tonight.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Bakersfeld." As if belatedly guessing Mel's thoughts, the tower chief spread his hands. "You try to do the best for everybody. It isn't always easy."
"I know." Met felt like sighing, but restrained himself. When something like this happened, you could only hope for the right occasion to occur again; meanwhile you got on with other things you had to do.
"Tell me, please," Mel said, "what were those messages again?"
The tower chief repeated them.
Instead of telephoning the Snow Control Desk, Mel walked down one floor of the control tower and went in. Danny Farrow was still presiding over the busy snow clearance command console.
There was a query about priorities in clearing the aircraft parking areas of competing airlines, which Mel settled, then checked on the situation concerning the blocked runway, three zero. There was no change, except that Joe Patroni was now on the airfield and had taken charge of attempts to move the mired Aereo-Mexican 707, which was still preventing the runway being used. A few minutes earlier, Patroni had reported by radio that he expected to make a new attempt to move the aircraft within an hour. Knowing Joe Patroni's reputation as a top-notch troubleshooter, Mel decided there was nothing to be gained by demanding a more detailed report.
At the Snow Desk Mel remembered the message to call Police Lieutenant Ordway. Assuming that the lieutenant was still in the terminal, Mel had him paged and, a few moments later, Ordway came on the line. Mel expected the lieutenant's call to be about the anti-noise delegation of Meadowood residents. It wasn't.
"The Meadowood people are starting to come in, but they haven't been a problem and they haven't asked for you yet," Ned Ordway said when Mel raised the question. "I'll let you know when they do."
What he had called about, the policeman reported, was a woman who had been picked up by one of his men. She was crying, and apparently wandering aimlessly in the main terminal. "We couldn't get any sense out of her, but she wasn't doing anything wrong so I didn't want to take her to the station house. She seemed upset enough without that."
"What did you do?"
Ordway said apologetically, "There aren't many quiet places around here tonight, so I put her in the anteroom outside your office. I thought I'd let you know in case you got back and wondered."
"That's all right. Is she alone?"
"One of my men was with her, though he may have left by now. But she's harmless; I'm sure of that. We'll check on her again soon."
"I'll be back at my office in a few minutes," Mel said. "I'll see if I can do any good myself." He wondered if he would have more success talking with the unknown woman than he had had with Keith; he doubted if he could do worse. The thought of Keith, who seemed close to breaking point, still troubled Mel deeply.
As an afterthought, he asked, "Did you find out the woman's name?"
"Yes, we got that much. It's a Spanish-sounding name. Just a minute; I have it written down."
There was a pause, then Lieutenant Ordway said, "Her name is Guerrero. Mrs. Inez Guerrero."
TANYA LIVINGSTON said incredulously, "You mean Mrs. Quonsett's aboard Flight Two?"
"I'm afraid there's no doubt of it, Mrs. Livingston. There was a little old lady, exactly the way you've described her." The gate agent who had supervised boarding of The Golden Argosy was in the D.T.M.'s office with Tanya and young Peter Coakley, the