Marcel almost smiled. "I am quite pleased we put these black boxes into the airplane. We should be able to find out what happened."

"It will certainly help."

He looked into my eyes to make sure I was listening. "I want you to be there too," he said, pointing at my chest. "At the playing of the tape. You're a pilot." Marcel returned to what he was doing, and Rachel and I were left alone. She was videotaping the NTSB inspectors doing their work. "Videotape everything, twice. I've got to look around."

I walked around the perimeter and just looked. I tried to absorb what it was telling me. An accident site speaks to you like a painting. You may not get it the first time, or even the second. And years later, when you look at it again, you'll see new things. That morning every blade of grass, every piece of metal, every pattern, had something to say, something about how this helicopter had ended up where it did and why it crashed. I wasn't an expert in accident reconstruction, but I had learned that when those experts did form their conclusions, I'd often notice something either by having been there or from a photograph that caused me to question their conclusions. And sometimes it made a difference.

I walked away from the tarp and found pieces of wreckage a hundred feet and more away from the impact point. I was sure the NTSB would find every piece and create a wreckage diagram. I'd had bad experiences where they had missed things, but this was Marine One. They wouldn't leave anything undone. And if they needed an army to find things, they had the entire FBI at their disposal.

I looked at the trees and the ravine and tried to visualize what had happened in the dark night. I imagined the helicopter with its lights flashing and its blades desperately trying to keep the helicopter in the air as it plummeted through these tall trees in the dark in its dying seconds, in a hail of shattered blades, screaming jet engines, breaking metal, and death. I began to wonder if it had been on fire before it hit. That might explain everything. And I couldn't forget that it might have been shot down.

WE GOT TOWED up the giant mud hill by a massive Marine Corps truck and drove back to my house in the dark. We arrived about eight, completely exhausted. Rachel went on her way, and I spent an hour explaining to Debbie what I had been doing all day. Later that night I typed the twenty-page to-do list that had been spinning in my head since the morning. It was more stressful not to write it down and run the risk of forgetting things than it was to stay up through my exhaustion and write it. At least I had the beginning of a plan, including responding to the investigations I knew about, and the others that were sure to come. The government investigations would be the heart of it. If they were able to hang this on WorldCopter, lawsuits and the collapse of the company would surely follow. We had to blunt the attack in the beginning. After finishing the list, I collapsed into bed.

The next morning I stood under my open garage door at 6 AM drinking hot coffee waiting for Rachel. The rain still poured down from the same massive storm that had been blowing on the South Lawn when President Adams had insisted on going to Camp David. Rachel pulled up and we climbed into my Volvo SUV. It was still coated with Maryland mud everywhere the rain couldn't reach. We headed off to D.C.

Neither of us spoke for the first fifteen minutes as we waited for the coffee to kick in. She looked tired and put her head back on the headrest.

I turned down NPR, which was covering the crash and the implications. "You okay?"

"Tired."

The rain slackened. "That's the first time you've ever been to a crash site, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"What'd you think?"

She rolled her head toward me against the headrest. "It's also the first time I've ever seen a dead body."

"Really?"

"I've seen pictures, but I've never seen a dead body. Outside of a casket."

"Sticks with you, doesn't it?"

Rachel slowly moved her hand up and down the shoulder harness across her chest. "I think I was up all night. I couldn't get the image of A3 out of my mind."

A3 was the nickname given to President James Adams, or maybe chosen by him. Although he was now simply known as "the deceased president," James Adams claimed to be descended from John Adams of colonial fame and his son John Quincy Adams. So he claimed to be the third Adams president, which everyone abbreviated as A3. Some in the political press claimed that one of the men in Adams 's line of descent had been adopted and he didn't therefore count. But none of that stopped the usually critical press from making endless jokes about the Adams Family as just an extension of the television show.

President Adams had loved the nickname A3. He loved the historical resonance he believed he got from being in the lineage of two of the first six presidents of the United States.

Rachel continued, "All I could see was A3 lying there on the ground with his lips burned back over his teeth." She stopped as she studied the image again. "Like a big shit-eating grin. One of those things you wish you had never seen, but you can't tear your eyes away." She glanced up at me in the morning dimness, probably wanting me to say something deep.

I nodded. "I've seen enough dead bodies that I don't notice so much. But it's always different when they're burned. It's just more… obscene. Like they've been defaced. I don't mean that literally… I mean that it's like it burned away their identity."

Rachel nodded. "I just hope I don't start snoring when they're playing the cockpit voice recorder."

"Not likely. There are few things more riveting than listening to the cockpit voice recorder of an airplane that you know is going to crash but the ones speaking don't." I turned onto the freeway heading west to D.C. "Plus, I want you to do more than just listen. I want you to watch the other people in the room. Sit in the back, see how they're reacting. See when the people glance at each other like they've heard something significant or noteworthy."

"Do you have any more coffee?" Rachel asked.

"On the floor behind my seat."

She didn't move. "Maybe I'll just get some sleep on the way down."

"No way. We've got lots to discuss. I'll talk, you write." I handed her my to-do list.

Like the naval officer she used to be, she sat up without protest and got out her notepad. I handed her my typed to-do list, and we went through everything, from understanding the manufacturing process, getting diagrams and the maintenance manuals for the helicopter, to checking newspaper and Internet materials on every wacky theory that was already being circulated. I knew how this investigation was going to be conducted. Not only would no stone be left unturned, but each stone would be smashed open and examined from the inside, regardless of whose stones they were. Of course what was on everyone's mind, and what the NTSB didn't yet deny, was that maybe terrorists had finally taken out the president. The thought sent chills through the government and the entire country. No one had seen any evidence of terrorism, or even foul play, but a lot of FBI experts could be talking to each other about that very thing and not WorldCopter, or me, or the press.

I felt my BlackBerry buzzing. I grabbed it, pushed the phone button, and answered, "Mike Nolan."

"Mike, Kathryn."

"Morning."

"Where are you? I called your office and they said you were on your way to D.C., but I didn't think your meeting with WorldCopter was until lunch."

"The NTSB is going to play the CVR this morning. Marcel wanted me to be there."

"Mike, you've got to keep me posted on what you're doing. I needed to know that. I might have liked to listen to the tape. What time are they playing it?"