Page 10 of Unnatural Death

“It’s like crying wolf,” I say to her. “You stop hearing it after a while.”

“Artificial intelligence software that talks too much, nothing’s perfect, a work in progress.”

“Seems less than ideal to pull the plug on your AI assistant,” I remark.

“Her software needs tweaking or it’s like anything else that will drive you nuts. There’s not much choice but to shut her up like I just did,” Lucy says. “Or she’ll keep going until we get away from all the congestion like I’m about to do. Hold on, because I’m busting a move.”

She makes a tight turn, the G-forces pushing me hard. Unfortunately, the course will take us directly over Shady Acres Funeral Home and their cemetery. Set back from West Braddock Road, the sprawling complex is surrounded by a serpentine stone wall, the pillared entrance ostentatious, their billboard across from it advertisingHAUNTED TOURS.

“Best you don’t go anywhere near them.” I remind her that the people who work there don’t need much of an excuse to complain.

I’m not high on their list because I don’t direct business to them. They’re accustomed to being treated with favoritism. For more than twenty years Elvin Reddy, Maggie Cutbush and Shady Acres had a very close and profitable arrangement. They likely still do in some form or fashion.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be polite.” Lucy pulls in power, gaining altitude.

We fly over what looks like a combination family religious retreat and amusement park. Attractions include peaceful sitting areas, an amphitheater, picnic grounds and an artificial lake with swan boats. Workers rake leaves, tending to the landscaping, the rolling grassy grounds groomed like a golf course.

Sprinklers are going, and sunlight refracted by spraying water creates small rainbows as if by design while a backhoe digs a grave. Everybody stops what they’re doing as we thunder overhead like a mechanical dragon. The white-painted brick buildings have blue tile roofs and steeples topped by weather vanes that look familiar for a reason.

The architectural design is a deliberate appeal to nostalgia and old-fashioned values. The funeral service says exactly that in prolific advertising. Shady Acres compares its variety of goods and services to the different flavors of ice cream the Howard Johnson’s restaurant chain was famous for in the good ol’ days.

“Clam strips and a chocolate shake to go.” Lucy places her mock order. “Do you dare me to broadcast it over the public address system?”

“Please don’t,” I reply.

“Because this thing has one.”

“Lucy, if we so much as cause the slightest disturbance? There will be hell to pay.”

“Twenty-eight tacky ways to be ripped off. Pick your favorite flavor of being taken advantage of and robbed.” She overflies the outdoor chapel where folding chairs are being set up. “How ’bout a double scoop of greed in a sugar cone of fake sympathy with plastic-flower sprinkles on top?”

Making another tight turn that pushes me against my door, she heads toward I-395, solid with cars in both directions. She pushes the obstruction alert system’s circuit breaker back in.

“The big problem’s going to be when we come back carrying our curious cargo,” she says. “And by the look of things, Dana Diletti will be there capturing every bit of it. I have a feeling that she’s gotten tipped off about what’s happened.”

I scan around us as if I might see the local celebrity TV journalist and her crew somewhere on the ground or in the air. We pass over pastures dotted with bales of hay, and fields of rapeseed as yellow as road-marking paint. Cannons outside a Civil War museum look like a child’s playset, and buzzards sail past like tattered black kites.

“Her chopper’s on the ramp, getting ready for action.” The “smart” lenses of Lucy’s dark-tinted glasses are computer assisted, constantly updating information I can’t see. “I think we know what she’s up to. The word is getting out.”

“Let’s just hope she’s not been tipped off about what Marino found,” I reply. “Although I can’t imagine how that could happen this fast unless the guilty party is one of those closest to the investigation.”

“I’m not seeing any mentions of Bigfoot, so that’s good,” Lucy says. “But Dana Diletti’s helicopter is being fueled at Dulles as we speak. Passengers are waiting to board. No flight plan has been filed, unsurprisingly. I can’t tell you for a fact where they’re going, but I think we know.”

“That would be most unfortunate if they film us recovering the bodies.” I envision the female victim floating in the lake, and how grotesque that would look on the news.

“Their pilot’s an asshole.”

“You two know each other?”

“Lorna Callis, twenty-five years old, an aviation major in college.” As Lucy is saying this, an image of the pilot appears in one of the digital displays. “Her ratings far exceed her experience. She doesn’t always execute good judgment, as we’re about to find out, I have a feeling.”

I’ve seen her on TV, an unattractive smug-looking woman with short hair shaved close on the sides. In the photograph Lucy’s voice recognition software pulled up, Lorna is standing next to the news chopper, a white Robinson R66 with the TV show’s logo on the doors.

“But to answer your question,” Lucy explains, “we’re not friendly.”

“Well, I hope she’ll stay away from us but don’t know what we can do about it.”

“If asked, most aircraft will avoid the area.”

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