Eleanor and Alex saw edges of light peek from around Lyle as he appeared beyond the nose of the plane. The slightest phone light framed him.
“Do you think they’re okay? Back home?” Alex asked. “Are they . . .”
“Hmm,” Eleanor said, focused on Lyle.
“Why not use the big light?” Alex mumbled, referring to the Boeing’s external lights.
“I don’t want to bring attention.” Eleanor clenched her teeth. She even wanted to whisper to Lyle: Turn off the light. It brings attention.
Lyle got within five feet of the orange lump on the ground. He turned off the light. He must’ve been having the same thought as Eleanor. But from the flight deck, who the hell knew what he was doing?
They could see Lyle suddenly pause. He bent at the waist, to about seventy degrees.
“What’s he doing?” Alex said.
“He’s looking for blood.”
Lyle marveled at the silence. It was so quiet as to be distracting. Just him and an unseen power, overwhelming silence as its emblem.
He waited for his eyes to adjust. Five feet away from the body, he concluded there was no bullet or shrapnel that had felled this body. That was evident from the way the man—it was a man, right?—had fallen. Not ripped from the ground, not propelled. But toppled, on his side, more or less, face flat. The man fell as Lyle had seen other bodies fall naturally. In Tanzania, one of the adolescent sons of a tribal elder had taken his last step in the direction of a water tank. His foot sunk into the soft dirt and he fell to the side, midstep, a recently deceased statue in perfect human form.
He took two steps forward and stopped again. Now he was sure it was a man, the jawline gave that away. Caucasian. Stringy long hair appeared from the edge of a wool cap. His hairstyle made Lyle think the man was youngish, twenties or early thirties, maybe someone who snowboarded, though that extraneous observation faded. The man’s right arm stretched forward onto the ground. Did that mean he’d had a second to brace himself for the fall?
Lyle took two steps forward and knelt at the body.
Eleanor tasted blood. She’d bitten her lip. She wanted to call Lyle back. Her gut told her this wasn’t right. She shouldn’t be sending a passenger out there, and, was that motion there, over to the right of the airplane, by the hangar? “Jerry!” she yelled.
Lyle was twenty feet, she guessed, from the tip of the plane. It was too dark to distinguish shapes. His lump of black melded into anything else. “Jerry. Get him back in here!”
Calm overcame Lyle. He put his left hand on the man’s cheek. It was cold. That didn’t tell him a thing, and Lyle quietly cursed the lack of light and tools. That could be solved. He turned on the light on his phone. He shone it on the man’s face, the left eye, the one he could see. Yes, Caucasian, and long hair. Face rosy. That was worth noting. Blood had flowed there, either recently or before death. Lyle put the light beneath the man’s nose, looking for breath. If it was there, it couldn’t be seen in this light or was too faint.
Lyle put his hand on the carotid artery. Where are you, pulse? Nothing. Lyle repositioned his hand. A blip. Was it a blip? He lost it. He repositioned again. He couldn’t tell.
He scooted over and took the man’s right wrist. Same thing. He thought he’d found a pulse, then it seemed he couldn’t. His freezing hands weren’t helping. He blew on them through the rubber gloves.
He heard a scuffling sound.
Lyle turned off the light.
He looked in the direction of the hangar. Nothing. What could he possibly see? He closed his eyes and listened. Whatever scuffling he’d heard, or imagined, was gone. He could hear the distant hum of machinery. A generator, he guessed. Otherwise, the air filled with the silence of falling snow.
Lyle turned on the light again.
He looked at the man’s angular nose. A droplet of moisture hung on the right nostril. Mucus. Maybe useful. An immune response or a response to cold. In either case, the body had responded at some point, relatively recently. Be alive, Lyle heard himself think.
Lyle heard a sound behind him, a voice. He assumed it was Jerry looking for an update. Lyle put up his thumb without looking back.
He pulled back the light to get some context. The orange jumpsuit looked puffy, indicating clothing worn underneath. Good news, thought Lyle; if the man’s alive, his layers may have saved him. He was at least six feet tall, thin, sinewy with muscle. Lyle scanned upward along the body and saw the blood.
It was near the back side of the man’s head. Just a trickle. Must have come when the man hit the ground, Lyle surmised. Only one way to find out.
Lyle set the phone down and slid his hands under the body. He tried to feel for heartbeat and warmth but knew he couldn’t cheat this. He’d have to have the body turned over and get a good look, really confront this man. The thought jarred him. He tipped the body gently, trying not to injure a vertebrae. Gently, again, he lowered the body down.
He lifted the light. The man wore a name tag. Don.
“Hello, Don,” Lyle said. “Let’s see what’s going on with you.”
He looked at the temple where the blood originated. As Lyle had suspected, Don had scraped his head when he’d fallen. It indeed looked more like a scrape than a massive contusion. It was further evidence that the man had been able to brace himself, felt himself falling, perhaps, rather than hitting like a stone.
Lyle brushed the hair away from the man’s scalp. It was time to look into the man’s eyes. Peel back the eyelids and look for signs of life. He reached for his face.
Don’s body jerked upright.