Impact by Stephen Greenleaf

through the revolving door into the gaily decorated lobby, he got out of his car and crouched behind the van, in position to see what was going on inside.
    Enervated, the friends and families clustered around the registration desk as though its aura would revive them. They seemed fewer in number than the total that had gotten off the bus, and after a moment Tollison realized the group was in line, receiving room keys one by one. When he didn’t see Laura, he guessed she had already been assigned a space. As he contemplated his next move, he found himself wondering whether she was as despairing as the others or whether, in some new nick of consciousness, she was relieved that Jack Donahue was out of her life so that Keith Tollison could enter it properly, through an open door.
    Ten minutes later the last person had been dispatched toward the elevators. When they were alone, the SurfAir employees talked among themselves for several minutes, then one of them took a sheet of paper from the desk clerk, glanced at it and nodded, and led the others in the direction opposite the elevators. When they were gone, Tollison went inside.
    The desk clerk was a young man with slick black hair, a slick black suit, and a transparent moustache that highlighted his chipped front tooth. He looked up with an expression that suggested he had prayed for a messiah.
    â€œYou’re from the airline, right? So can I go now? My shift was up an hour ago, man, and these people are hassling me like mad and I don’t know what—”
    â€œI’m not with the airline,” Tollison interrupted. “I’m an attorney. My name is Tollison.”
    After a jolt of panic, the desk clerk shook his head. “I got instructions. No reporters; no lawyers. Period.”
    â€œI don’t care what your instructions are, I have a client in this hotel. Her name is Laura Donahue. Her husband was on that plane. She came in along with the rest of the people. She’s been trying to reach me all evening and—”
    â€œI’m sorry , sir; I got my orders. You aren’t supposed to be here.”
    Tollison leaned across the counter. “Listen to me, son. I told you my client has been trying to reach me. She left word for me to contact her as soon as possible. I am attempting to do that now, and I want—”
    â€œI can’t help you, buddy.”
    â€œAs I said, I’m trying to reach her, and she wants me to reach her, and for you to forbid that to occur is a false imprisonment of Mrs. Donahue. I will sue both you and the airline for that, for the intentional infliction of mental distress on Mrs. Donahue in this time of tragedy, and for your gross and willful disregard of her basic human rights. It will cost you a bundle, son, and to prevent it, all you have to do is tell me what room she’s in. The SurfAir people don’t even have to know I’m around.”
    The desk clerk thought it over, then looked at his list. “Donahue, Donahue,” he murmured as he ran his finger down the paper. “Got it. If you hurry, you’ll be up there before they get back from their meeting.”
    â€œDo you know anything at all about the crash?”
    The desk clerk shook his head “It crashed, that’s all I know.”
    â€œWhile it was landing?”
    â€œIt was in a forest somewhere. By Palo Alto, I think. It was real bad, I know that. I think they’re all dead,” he added softly. “I mean, it would take a miracle to survive something like that, right? God. You should have seen those people. Crying. Praying. Swearing , can you believe it? At me . Was I the pilot of the fucking thing? I only been in a plane once in my life and I got sick as shit over Denver. I didn’t know anything like this would happen when I took this job. All I want is out of here, let me tell you. She’s in three oh seven.”
    Tollison took the stairs to the third floor. When he reached the door he