Gone by Morning

by Michele Weinstat Miller

  When Kathleen’s boss was sidelined by breast cancer, Kathleen had taken over the business gradually, supporting her old friend financially as a matter of honor and loyalty until she died.

  Kathleen had been in charge for a couple of years before she met Sharon. The young woman was smart and elegant. Kathleen would have sworn Sharon would eventually turn the page, find a rich husband or end up with a PhD or both, and move away, with no one the wiser about her youthful sex work. But it hadn’t turned out that way for Sharon. Twenty years later and she was still hooking and dancing, last Kathleen had heard.

  The Life left an indelible mark on some girls. Maybe that mark was scar tissue. Kathleen had never thought she was hurting anyone in her days as a madam. But she wasn’t so sure anymore. She would have wished for a better life for Sharon.

  Kathleen looked at the time on her phone. It didn’t seem like Sharon was coming. They rarely saw each other and only occasionally caught up by phone. Maybe Sharon needed money. But that seemed out of character, even though Kathleen wouldn’t have thought twice about trusting Sharon with a loan. She wondered whether the subway attack had triggered some inner terror for Sharon and she just needed somebody to talk to. But Sharon had never been the type to open up in that way, at least not to her.

  She stared at the news for a couple of minutes, keeping it on mute. More of the same videos of the perpetrator, people taken away in ambulances, a burst of fire in a train station. Cable news had begun recycling videos, milking the story when there was nothing to add to it. She turned off the TV and headed to bed. She thought she wouldn’t be able to sleep after the frightening day, but she fell into the blackness of sleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

  CHAPTER

  5

  CARL SAT IN his favorite recliner chair, up late. He was tired at all the wrong times. Even though the city was in an uproar, he’d been too tired by midafternoon to stay awake. Now he couldn’t sleep because of the nap. His wife, Lauren, had gone to bed over an hour ago. The cable news was on mute, and Carl studied the video replay of the subway bombing that he’d seen several times already.

  A fat black-and-white cat rested beneath his muscular arm, which had softened disconcertingly over the last two years. Carl had been okay today, all but his legs, which felt like they were encased in cement, waiting for Mafia hitmen to dump him in a body of water.

  He’d had way worse days—trouble swallowing and talking. Tingling in his hands and legs. Poor balance. A couple of times he’d fallen. He wasn’t feeling any of that now. Heavy legs he could live with. Any improvement meant he was headed in the right direction.

  At six feet tall and fifty years old, Carl wasn’t ready to say good-bye to the FBI yet, despite Lauren’s reassurance that they had enough money and he could find a less physically demanding and stressful career. He’d scoffed at that. He’d been on medical leave for nearly three months, and he had every intention of returning to work when his FMLA leave expired. He’d be damned if he’d take disability retirement before he hit the twenty-year mark, and frankly, he didn’t want to retire at all. He liked his job.

  Multiple sclerosis was a disease of remission and relapse, a roller coaster of hope and brutal disappointment. Either scenario could come without warning. For Carl, his condition had badly worsened this year, two years after his diagnosis. But a remission could happen any day, which could mean complete or nearly complete relief from his symptoms for months or years, even decades. For the last several months, he’d woken up each day and taken inventory with his eyes still closed. Did he feel any different? Would he be able to pass the physical and go back to work? No surprise, most days he woke up in the same condition as before he fell asleep. Trapped in his body. Groundhog Day, MS style. But he was on a new drug trial now and the doctor had reassured him that it wasn’t all in his mind that he’d begun feeling better, less tired, less heavy, better balance.

  Carl stared out the window at the far end of their living room. The George Washington Bridge was a looping string of lights in the black distance. He pulled himself back from his thoughts, back into his living room. He couldn’t allow himself to hope too high. He was afraid of the crash.

  A banner at the bottom of the TV screen caught his attention: The Associated Press confirms that the NYC Subway Bomber is a man named Jackson Mattingly, 20 years old, from Beacon, New York.

  Carl’s frustration flooded back. Being out on medical leave after a terror attack was like being on the disabled list during the World Series.

  The TV turned to live feed. In the glare of news van spotlights, a frenzy was going on outside the home where the killer had lived with his parents. Carl pitied the parents. When it came to young killers, it was generally true that the parents had played some part in making a monster or giving him access to weapons. But whatever they’d done wasn’t necessarily worse than what a million parents had done, and they were doomed to a living hell as parents of a mass murderer. They would endure people spitting and cursing at them, vandalism, death threats, and worse, for the rest of their lives.

  Carl called his partner and close friend, Rick, who was working late in the office, along with hundreds of other agents, tracking down every aspect of the killer’s life, activities, and associates.

  “Hey, Carl, what up?” Rick said.

  Carl spoke softly, not wanting to wake Lauren. “I see they’ve found the parents.”

  “The media found them at the same time as us but beat us there. Beacon police haven’t even arrived yet to put tape around the place to keep the reporters in check. Our team is on its way.”

  “What do you have?”

  “He was white, homegrown.” Carl heard the click of a mouse. Rick seemed to be reading from an email. “The parents have lived in the same place for almost twenty-one years.” Rick paused. “Bought a house there shortly before their killer son was born in Newburgh General Hospital. We’re starting to get his medical records, school records. We’ll execute a search warrant with Beacon police at the parents’ home. Hopefully, we can search before reporters get in there like tomb raiders, screwing everything up.”

  Carl watched the muted TV. A man he assumed was Mattingly’s father came to the door of the small house. Squinting in the lights, he was waving the cameras away, apparently asking for privacy. Good luck with that, buddy. Your days of privacy are over.

  A flicker of alarm crossed the man’s face. A white flash, brighter than the klieg lights of the news vans. The father was torn off his feet, head over heels. A massive explosion whooshed the house into a fireball, the father igniting, becoming a human firebomb, hurtling toward the reporters. The CNN reporter’s arms flew over her head from shock, exclaiming in pantomime. The reporter was running away, her cameraman filming the scene choppily as he sprinted backward.

  “Holy shit,” Carl said.

  “What is it?” Rick asked, but before Carl could answer, Rick said, “Damn. Gotta go.” He hung up.

  Carl unmuted the TV. The CNN reporter was recovering herself but crying and panting while she spoke. “Suddenly, a massive explosion engulfed this house. A man was engulfed in flames before our live cameras. Others appear to be hurt, Brett,” she said to the news anchor. “You can hear the sirens approaching now. We don’t know how many people were inside the house, but I cannot imagine anyone surviving the blast.”

  Carl watched the flames as the reporters moved aside to let firefighters run past, their hoses already spraying. He considered the unlikelihood of what he’d just seen. Who would have killed these people? Who would have known they were the killer’s parents in time to set the explosives before the police arrived? And who would have the skills, supplies, and access to do it?

  * * *

  Kathleen didn’t know where she was for a second. The phone was ringing, buzzing and flashing in her dark bedroom. The clock on her dresser said two AM in bright-red digital light, supersized for geriatric eyes. She rolled over to the nightstand next to her bed to pick up the phone, which was still
attached to its charger. Sharon was calling.

  “Hello,” Kathleen mumbled.

  A sob. “Kat.” Crying, whispering: “Oh my god. Kat. They’re going to—”

  Kathleen shot up in bed. “Sharon?”

  The voices were muffled now, distant, like a pocket call.

  Kathleen strained to listen. Silence.

  She looked at her phone, her heart pounding: Call Ended.

  CHAPTER

  6

  EMILY WOKE AT dawn. Skye had climbed out of the crib in her bedroom and crawled into Emily’s bed, inserting herself under her mother’s arm. Emily smelled Skye’s sweet baby scent and kissed her pudgy face. Skye popped up in the bed smiling when she realized her mom was awake.

  “Good morning, Firefighter Skye,” Emily said.

  Skye wore firefighter-themed pajamas. At two years old, she had passed quickly through the princess stage and was now firmly committed to her future career as a firefighter. Emily had needed to buy two pairs of the pj’s, because Skye refused to sleep in anything else.

  Skye had come upon her stubbornness honestly. Emily and her mother, Lauren, frequently accused each other of having insufferable stubborn streaks.

  Emily sat on the side of the queen-sized bed in her compact bedroom and pulled out a dresser drawer to grab a bra and panties. Skye ran ahead to the bathroom with its claw-footed tub and just enough room for her fire truck potty.

  Emily lived frugally on her modest City Hall salary and Hector’s contributions to Skye’s support. She usually appreciated how lucky she was, but on days like today, she had to make a conscious effort to be grateful. When she was a child, her mother had taught her to make gratitude lists to keep her daily upsets in perspective. Now, at the top of the list, she was grateful that she was alive, her baby was safe, and no one she knew had been hurt or killed. And she loved her little apartment in Inwood. Even though she lived far, far uptown, that meant she always got a seat on the subway. Her apartment was a straight shot, thirty-five minutes on the A train to work. And she was grateful she had a job she loved and excellent childcare.

  But she was so tired, having worked for hours after Skye had gone to bed. Then she’d had trouble sleeping, her mind spinning with thoughts of her to-do list for the next day. Lack of sleep inevitably darkened her mood even on days when there hadn’t been a terror attack.

  She sighed and leaned against the bathroom doorframe, waiting for Skye and reading the latest news alerts on her phone. A man with mysterious motives had blown up forty-three people, injured a hundred more. Five kids from her old middle school had died. A pregnant woman too. And a tourist couple from Dallas, celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in the Big Apple. She felt so sad, imagining the pain of those left behind.

  And things like that made her take a hard look at her own life. She adored being Skye’s mom and had great relationships with her friends and family. Hector too. He still referred to Emily as his best friend. But, despite her gratitude for all the people who loved her and that they were all safe, being single was challenging at times like this. She imagined how much easier it would have been last night if she’d been answering emails while cuddled up on the couch next to someone she loved. And when she’d been unable to sleep, she might have listened to his breathing instead of her own racing thoughts. But finding a partner wasn’t easy when you worked nonstop and had rules against bringing dating-app guys into your child’s orbit.

  “Mommy, my lollipop?” Skye looked expectantly up at Lauren from her fire truck potty.

  “Did you go?”

  Skye nodded her head solemnly. Emily looked inside the potty, but no jackpot.

  Emily had taken Skye to Coney Island last week, and the girl had pointed with glee at a huge carnival lollipop the size of her face. Emily had bought it, telling Skye that, when she pooped in the potty, the lollipop would be her reward. Emily reminded herself that everyone potty trained successfully—eventually. Skye would certainly know how to use a toilet before college. But even the coveted lollipop hadn’t yet done the trick. It was that damn stubborn streak.

  “Sit longer, baby.”

  “I’m not a baby,” Skye said.

  Emily sighed. “I know.”

  She looked down at her phone and clicked into the stunning video of Mattingly’s father coming out of his house to wave away the cameras, then the smoldering remains of the home. It was bizarre. Anxious to hear what her coworkers knew about the Beacon explosion, she checked the time on her phone. She wanted to get to work as early as possible.

  “Mommy!” Skye called, startling Emily from her thoughts. “My lollipop now!”

  * * *

  Carrying a plastic trash bag and pushing Skye in an umbrella stroller, Emily took the elevator to the basement. Glossy gray walls. Gray cement floors. A faint smell of old food emanated from garbage bins lined up against a wall. Kathleen was breaking down Amazon boxes. Emily often saw Kathleen doing odds and ends around the building, gardening, and hosing down the sidewalk when the super wasn’t around. Emily wondered whether this might be a part-time gig for her, something to make ends meet in retirement. But from what she’d seen last night from the doorway, Kathleen had a very nice apartment and didn’t need to do building chores.

  The older woman nearly jumped when Emily said good-morning from behind her.

  “Sorry,” Emily said.

  Kathleen smiled at her. “I’m a little on edge. Good morning, Skye. You are very quiet!”

  Skye looked up at Kathleen, assessing her.

  “Yeah, so scary,” Emily said, not in the mood to goad Skye into saying good-morning to their neighbor today. Emily threw the trash bag in a metal bin. “It’s hard to believe anyone is that evil. Even after all the mass shootings,” she said, considering whether to talk about it in front of Skye. Skye didn’t seem to be listening, but Emily spoke carefully. “It feels different when it’s our town, our train.”

  Emily waited with Kathleen for the elevator. “Did you see anything strange last night?” Emily asked.

  “Strange?”

  “There was a woman walking toward our building.” Emily lightened her voice, trying not to communicate her irrational discomfort. “Probably nothing, but I happened to look out the window. I saw a woman. I thought it was one of your friends at first.”

  “Why did you think that?” Kathleen said, seeming anxious.

  “She was tall and very pretty. Like she was one of your model friends.” Noticing the dismay on Kathleen’s face, Emily asked, “Is everything okay with her?”

  “I was expecting a friend to stop by last night.” Kathleen pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and showed Emily a thumbnail photo for a contact named Sharon. She had shoulder-length auburn hair and high cheekbones. “Is this her?”

  “That could be. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think so.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was just a little weird. She was walking from the direction of Broadway. A car pulled up and double-parked. A man got out of the car and talked to her. She seemed surprised at first. There was something about it … she sort of flinched backward. Then she went with him. It didn’t look like she was being forced to go, but it was strange that she would change her destination like that.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  WHEN KATHLEEN RETURNED from the basement, she turned on the TV. She paused in front of the screen. Every few moments there was a new story about the subway bombing, someone spouting theories about the bomber’s motive, or an anecdote about people helping victims. The stories about people saving others made Kathleen feel better at times like this, refreshing her sense of the goodness of humanity. She always looked for those stories after disasters. She’d read that the world was, statistically speaking, less violent than ever before; it was only technology that broadcast every atrocity into people’s lives constantly, magnifying the world’s awareness of the savagery of humans. It was hard to believe, but she hoped it was true.


  “We are learning more every hour about Jackson Mattingly, everyone wanting to know why he committed mass murder in New York City,” the CNN anchor said. “He lived in Beacon, New York, with his parents, Jason and Elyse Mattingly. Beacon is a small edge city of fifteen thousand people a little over an hour north of New York City.”

  The picture switched to a panorama of cookie-cutter homes in a virtually treeless lower-middle-class tract with green Mount Beacon rising in the background. As a child, Kathleen had gone to sleep-away camp there on scholarship, back when Beacon had been a tiny rural town. By the eighties, it had become a larger, depressed town with a raging crack epidemic, but over the last twenty-five years it had remade itself again as a cultural destination for Manhattan day-trippers. Its formerly blighted Main Street had filled with art galleries, quaint shops, and restaurants.

  Kathleen sat in her office alcove and turned on her PC. She clicked on the desktop icon for the building’s security cameras. She picked the camera that unobtrusively watched the front of the building and clicked into yesterday’s date. She fast-forwarded, watching choppy images of people, dogs, cars parking and pulling out. The shadows lengthened in the video. She slowed down at nine PM, when she’d first heard from Sharon. Kathleen moved from minute to minute of the recording, the street becoming dark. Then she saw her.

  Sharon was in frame for a second. She turned around. A maroon car pulled up, only a small slice of it visible. Emily had been right about Sharon seeming initially surprised, but not upset, by the person in the car. Sharon turned back to talk to someone. He was out of frame, a position Kathleen couldn’t help but believe was intentional. Sharon left the frame. She and the maroon car never reappeared.