Flight #116 Is Down by Caroline B. Cooney Page B

into the courtyard, into the dizzying array of whirling blue and red and yellow and white lights, the men shouting, the women looking grim, the trucks unable to move. “Who’s in charge?” she said.
    “My dad is, actually,” said Patrick. He did have a grin of relief and joy on his face, and it didn’t vanish when he saw the traffic problems. The sight of his father steering a bunch of volunteers in a specific direction gave Patrick as much relief as Teddie would have had if her Mommy had arrived. Patrick said “ Dad ” in almost the same voice as Teddie would have, too. His father put an arm on his son’s shoulder for just a moment.
    “This is Heidi; she lives here,” said Patrick. “She can tell you anything. Heidi, my dad, Mr. Farquhar.”
    Immediately she was surrounded by big demanding men. They wore firefighting gear, packs for emergency breathing strapped to their backs, big boots, helmets with thick plastic visors, immense gloves. “Is there another entrance? Another driveway? A neighbor close enough so we can come in through their driveway?”
    “No. The woods are full of ravines. You can’t cross them.”
    “Is there anywhere to land Life Star?”
    “What’s Life Star?”
    “Hospital helicopter.”
    Heidi said, “What kind of landing space does that need?”
    They told her.
    She nodded. “Way out past where the wing caught fire is a pretty flat field. Six acres. When we had horses, we kept them there. It was mowed this fall to keep trees from growing.”
    “Great. Now. Is there any way around these stone walls in this courtyard? We’ve got to get this place opened up.”
    Heidi shook her head. Builders in New England, since building had begun in New England, were fond of stone walls, and many masons had worked many years around Dove House.
    The man’s jaw tightened.
    Heidi hung her head, thinking. We should have dismantled those stone walls years ago.
    She should have known that one day this would come up. It seemed to be her own fault for not planning ahead. The self-loathing that had crippled Heidi at boarding school weakened her again. She couldn’t even meet their eyes. If the rescue effort failed, it would be because of her stone walls.
    “Are your parents home?” asked another man sharply. She had a feeling he wanted to shake her.
    They know I’m useless, thought Heidi. And I am. “They’re out of town,” she said. She was apologizing. It was wrong of her to have parents who were out of town.
    The host of trucks, cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and rescue vehicles were stuck as if in a turnpike accident. They couldn’t turn around any more than you could on a six-lane highway. As far as you could see, vehicles had stopped where they were blocked. Would-be rescuers were abandoning them, heading on foot for the crash site, thus doubling the problem: no drivers to move the vehicles if they ever did open up a path.
    They’re jerks! Heidi thought suddenly. It’s their own fault! They should know better than to wreck their own exit.
    She thought of the papoose baby, the little girl whose bone had stuck up out of her leg, the bleeding flight attendant soldiering on at the base of the broken plane. Heidi’s brain started working again. “There are two possibilities. We can knock down the whole wall here, where the arch is—”
    “No,” said Mr. Farquhar. “We’d need a bulldozer, which we don’t have.”
    “Then the hedge has to go.” She led him beyond the courtyard, where a long row of ancient holly, beautiful beyond compare, was a vicious sentry. Her mother raided the hedge every December, filling the house, the local museum, and all the town’s churches with green boughs and red berries.
    “This is where the holly for St. Anne’s comes from?” asked Mr. Farquhar.
    Heidi shrugged. “Yes, but it’s only holly. Chainsaw through the bottom of each trunk. Toss them into the ravine. From there you can drive down this hill,” she pointed, “and taking care not to drive