How many people died on the roads each year? He should know this. He tended to enough motor vehicle accidents. From memory, he thought it hovered somewhere between thirty to forty thousand, so that had to be, what? A hundred a day, he figured, if his math wasn’t wrong. Damn, he’d come close to being part of that horrifying statistic.
Kareem picked up his smartphone and sent a text to his work buddy, Deb Drysdale.
Morning.
Almost instantly, Deb replied. She must have been online already.
Hey, how are you doing? Are you feeling OK?
Yeah, Kareem replied, slowly typing out each letter, trying not to invoke the fury of autocorrect. I’m a little groggy, but I’m OK. What the hell happened?
You don’t remember? came the reply. How did she reply so quickly? Damn, she was fast with her fingers, Kareem thought.
No, he replied.
Dude. You were caught in the blast.
Kareem sat there on the bed, stunned, watching as more messages rolled in.
You’re lucky to be arrive.
Alive, alive - damn autocarrot!
You were on standby when the bomb went off.
Standby for what? Kareem asked, unable to recall even the most basic details about yesterday.
Vets for Freedom March. They were supposed to leave from Battery Park.
Kareem typed two words in response, his fingers moving somewhat autonomously as his mind struggled with Deb’s comments.
Battery Park?
Yeah. Do you remember?
No, Kareem replied.
What a fucking mess, Deb typed. 47 dead. 600+ injured. And you, you dumb fuck! You were thrown across the road by the blast.
Me? Kareem replied.
Wrong place. Wrong time, dude.
You wouldn’t stay in the hospital overnight.
You kept saying you were fine.
Kareem sat there watching the messages roll in, hoping they’d trigger something in his memory, but his mind was blank.
You said you didn’t want to take up an extra bed.
You goddamn martyr. Ha ha!
Kareem remembered the blast by Central Park, the blast he’d been waiting to hear about on the news. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why they’d only cover the blast in Battery Park.
What about the museum? How many were killed?
Museum? Deb replied.
Yeah, the M of Natural History by Central Park.
There was no reply. Deb had lightning-fast fingers when it came to working with her smartphone, so a few seconds felt like an eternity. Finally, a response appeared on Kareem’s phone.
There was only one attack.
At Battery Park.
But Kareem could remember the first attack vividly.
Are you OK?
Do you want me to come over?
Kareem shook his head, typing, I’m fine.
How about breakfast at O’Malley's?
Not hungry, Kareem replied. But will come for intravenous coffee.
Ha ha. Good man. C U at 9.
Bye, Kareem replied, switching off his mobile phone and sitting it on the bed next to him. His recollection of the blast at the museum was surprisingly vivid, and yet it came in fragments. He must have been there, but Deb was describing a different attack, the one on the news. Kareem was confused.
Closing his eyes, he allowed memories to bubble to the surface of his mind. He could picture what had happened. He had crossed from Central Park. He was jaywalking, never a smart thing to do in New York. Had that been when he was hit by a car? Although Deb said he’d been caught in the blast in Battery Park, his mind still associated his injuries with a vehicle accident. He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d been hit by one of the yellow taxis that raced through the city.
A delivery van had parked outside the museum; he remembered that detail vividly. He’d made eye contact with the driver as he crossed the road. That face! Kareem’s eyes flashed open, catching the same face on the TV screen in front of him. That face was the same one as the police artist sketch, he was sure of it. Only the cheeks were slightly narrower, and the nose was more square, but the eyes, they were identical. He’d seen one of the bombers!
“Police are urging anyone with any information on the identity or whereabouts of either of these men to come forward. They are considered armed and dangerous and should not be approached. An information hotline has been set up by the NYPD.”
Kareem already had his phone out and was dialing the number on the screen. The call was answered immediately, but he was met with an automated response.
“This is the New York Police Department. You have reached the information hotline for the investigation into the bombing at Battery Park. Please hold, an operator will be with you shortly.”
Music began playing.
“Your call is important to us and will be answered by the next available operator.”
“Son of a...” he cried as a pleasant jingle sounded from the phone.
His phone began beeping, signaling imminent battery failure.
“Shit!”
Kareem kept the phone to his ear as he rummaged through his dresser, looking for his power cord.
“Your call is important to us and may be recorded for training—”
“Just get on with it,” he snapped, finding a cord to recharge the phone and plugging it into the wall. The cord was short, forcing him to crouch down next to the power outlet. Kareem went to switch the phone to speaker when a woman’s voice answered.
“New York Police Department. You’re talking with Officer Kransky.”
“I saw him,” Kareem blurted out, forgetting about the growing cramp in his leg for a moment. Adrenaline surged through his veins.
“I’m sorry, sir. You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“I saw him. The bomber.”
“Sir, I need to make you aware that the New York Police Department is assisting the FBI investigation into the bombing at Battery Park. Misleading an officer investigating this incident is a federal offense. Fraudulent claims constitute a serious crime and may be punishable by fines of up to ten thousand dollars and a prison term of up to five years. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, yes. I saw him before the bombing. The one on the right, on the TV, he was driving a delivery truck. The old sort, with a box cabin and the sliding side door.”
“What can you tell me about the van? Did you get the license plate?”
“No.” This was good. Talking with the officer was helping him to recall more detail.
“Was there anything unusual about the van, perhaps a bumper sticker or a distinct dent?”
“The logo was crooked!”
Kareem was excited. He was remembering. He could see the logo in his mind’s eye.
“What did the logo say?” the officer asked. “Was this a Fed Ex truck or UPS?”
“No,” Kareem replied confidently. “It looked like a UPS truck, with a copper logo set on a dark brown background, but it wasn’t UPS. The initials were...”
The officer waited. Kareem relaxed. The letters were right on the tip of his tongue. He was on the verge of remembering. Suddenly, it came to him.
“HSF.”
“HSF?” Officer Kransky replied.
“Yes. I remember it clearly.”
“Do you remember what time you saw this truck? Had you looked at your phone recently or seen the time on a clock?”
“Yes, there was a clock above the entrance, an old clock with big arms.”
“What was the time on the clock?” the officer asked.
Kareem could picture the arms of the clock. He could see the angle they formed.
“Just after 8:30, maybe 8:33.”
He was trying to be helpful, not sure what detail would be important to the police.
“Okay,” Officer Kransky replied. “So this was just over three hours before the blast.”
“Oh, no,” Kareem replied. “The explosion happened just a few m
inutes later.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“How sure are you about the time you saw?” the officer asked.
“Positive,” Kareem replied. “I could see the clock in the entrance to the museum, right behind the truck.”
“Museum?”
“Yes, the American Museum of Natural History.”
“American” never sounded right when Kareem said it. Being of Egyptian descent, Kareem tended to articulate his words rather than slur them and “American” never sounded American to his mind.
The woman’s voice stiffened.
“Can I confirm that I’m talking with Kareem Hadee Rafid, 12 East 78th Street, apartment 4A?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re calling from your residence?”
“Yes.”
“Please stay where you are.”
“Okay,” Kareem replied innocently, hearing some noise in the background. There was a commotion, but Kareem couldn’t figure out what. To him, it sounded as though the officer was in the middle of a busy office.
“A police officer will be over to talk to you shortly.”
“Fuck!”
Kareem hadn’t meant to swear aloud, but he couldn’t help himself. There was something in the officer’s tone of voice, in the way she articulated the word “talk.” He could hear her getting someone’s attention; she must have had her hand over the microphone instead of using mute.
“Can you describe the bomb?”
Kareem understood what was happening. Officer Kransky thought she had the bomber on the line!
“What time is it set to go off?”
Kareem was silent.
“Is it easily recognizable?”
Kareem noticed she no longer referred to the bomb directly, softening her language and referring only to “it.”
“Did you carry it there yourself? What does it look like?”
Kareem panicked. He jumped up, leaving his phone sitting on the floor. Officer Kransky was still asking questions, but he couldn’t make out any distinct words, just a jumble of sounds. He crept out of his apartment, shutting the door silently behind him.
Chapter 02: Museum
Kareem ran a few blocks to Central Park. He wasn’t sure what the time was, but it had been just after eight when he’d called the police.
Leaves swirled in the autumn breeze, blowing up against the low-lying fences on either side of the path. Joggers ran along, earbuds playing music as they exercised. Kareem ran past them, failing to pace himself. Concrete paths wound through the park, following the curves and contours of the land, frustrating his desire to run straight and hard. He ran across a road cutting through the park without even looking for traffic. With only a vague notion of direction, Kareem took whatever path continued on over to the far side of the park.
He ran up a steep rise, surprising himself with how out of shape he was and how the hill was sapping his strength. His lungs were burning in the cool air.
Ducks floated calmly on a pond to one side, oblivious to his concern as he sprinted past. A cyclist rode past him and he seriously considered stealing his bike from beneath him, but the moment passed and the cyclist was gone.
Kareem came to a T-junction and freaked out. Which way? Lives were in danger. He wanted to run straight ahead, through the bushes, but that would slow him down and he knew it.
“Fuck!” he cried, resting for a moment and catching his breath. He didn’t remember this. He remembered being by the museum when the bomb went off, but he couldn’t remember how he got there. The irony tormented him. He could remember the future! He could remember things that hadn’t happened yet! That revelation was astonishing, electrifying his mind, and yet there were blind spots, aspects he couldn’t grasp for some reason, and that frustrated him. He didn’t have time for this. He had to get to the museum if he was to prevent the bomb from going off.
Kareem looked up at a sign: The Rambles. He’d run into a section of the park intentionally designed to be chaotic and confusing. Some people must enjoy getting lost in the maze-like paths, but he didn’t. He scanned the map on the sign, trying to figure out how to get out onto one of the running paths, and then set off again.
A girl jogged past with a dog on a lead.
“Which way to Central Park West?” he cried.
She was already well past him, but she turned and pointed on an angle as she continued.
“Thanks,” he called after her, running in the direction she’d indicated.
Kareem ran on, but he was lost. He should have reached the other side of Central Park by now. He was just about to turn around when a gentle rise led him up toward the familiar stone wall encircling the park. With renewed vigor, he jogged on, following the slow curve of the path and coming out directly across from the museum.
There was the delivery van, exactly as he remembered it, parked directly in front of the steps leading up to the museum entrance. Four lanes of traffic whipped by in front of him, two lanes in each direction. Kareem looked for an opening, wanting to cross to the middle, but this was wrong. He hadn’t crossed here. This wasn’t what he remembered. A taxi raced past. Someone honked their horn, yelling at him as he stood just beyond the curb.
“Get off the road, ya bum!”
It was the hot dog stand. He was on the wrong side.
Kareem ran around the stand. This was better. He remembered this. It was impossible to time the motion of four lanes of busy traffic, but he knew he’d made it across the road in once swift motion. Cars and trucks raced by. In spite of the heavy traffic rushing past, he stepped out, trusting his memory, timing the first vehicle, knowing there would be an opening.
Brakes squealed, cars skidded, horns honked, but as he ran across the road, Kareem never took his eyes off the terrorist sitting in the front seat of the delivery van. Somehow, he made it across.
The terrorist locked eyes with him. The man’s eyes were cold and uncaring. Dark hair covered his jaw. Not a beard, but new growth, a sign the man hadn’t shaved in a couple of days.
Kareem was standing in the middle of the final lane. A taxi honked, wanting him to get out of the lane. A gun pointed out of the delivery van at Kareem, and the taxi’s horn fell silent. In the distance, police sirens broke through the autumn chill.
Kareem wasn’t afraid. He was staring down the barrel of a nine-millimeter Glock, but he remembered what happened next.
The passenger side door of the van opened and the second terrorist jumped in.
“Drive. Drive!”
The driver lowered the gun, popped the clutch, and roared out into traffic.
Kareem should have been shaking, but he wasn’t. He had known the terrorist wouldn’t fire, and he knew what was coming next. Fragments of his shattered memories crept through into the moment, giving him direction. He had two, maybe three minutes before the bomb detonated. He had to save as many people as possible.
The taxi driver came up beside him. The elderly driver had hopped out of his taxi after seeing Kareem threatened with a gun.
“Hey, buddy. Are you okay?”
Kareem ignored him. He ran up the stairs of the museum, recognizing the bomb beside the entrance, just past the disabled ramp to one side of the building. To anyone else, the bomb looked like a Coke machine, but Kareem knew different.
“Get everyone out of here,” he yelled, bounding up the stairs two at a time.
A security guard standing by the entranceway responded, crying out, “What?”
“There’s a bomb! You’ve got to get everyone out of here.”
The guard turned his head to one side, grabbed at a microphone clipped onto the shoulder board of his drab blue uniform, and spoke rapidly into his radio. His other hand unclipped the cover of his holster. From his defensive posture, it was clear the guard considered Kareem the immediate threat.
Kareem didn’t have time for this. He leapt up the steps, pumping his arms, accelerating rather than slowing. The guard pulled his gun. Kareem
lashed out with his right leg, kicking the revolver from the guard’s hand. The gun flew through the air. Kareem dropped his shoulder, colliding with the guard and sending him flying backward, sliding across the polished marble in the entranceway.
The attendant behind the counter raised her hands in surrender. Kareem didn’t have a gun, but that didn’t seem to matter. As far as she was concerned, this was a holdup.
Kareem jumped over the counter and landed beside the young lady. There was a fire alarm on the wall by the cash register. With a single motion, he punched downward at the alarm, breaking the thin, brittle glass and activating the switch. An alarm sounded throughout the building, pulsating through several frequencies.
The girl stood there stunned. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen years old, and she looked terrified.
The security guard staggered to his feet, clutching at the back of his head. Blood pooled on the marble floor behind him.
There was an intercom. Kareem adjusted the microphone, holding down the large transmit button as he spoke.
“There is a bomb in the foyer. Please leave the museum through the emergency exits to the rear.”
He hoped there were exits to the rear. The sound of his voice over the intercom echoed through the museum.
Police cars screeched to a halt outside, their sirens blaring.
“Do not panic,” Kareem said into the intercom, getting a little too close to the steel mesh covering the microphone. His voice boomed through the vast, lofty entranceway, sounding malicious.
Who was he kidding? He should have been telling them to run like hell. His Egyptian accent had probably scared them half to death. If there was one way to get people to take a bomb threat seriously, it was to speak English with a Middle Eastern accent, he figured. And from the fleeting glimpses he got of people scrambling for cover on the mezzanine floor, the message seemed to be getting through.
The attendant was still standing there with her hands raised. She was in shock. Tears streamed down her cheeks, causing her mascara to run. She was shaking.
“Please, don’t hurt me,” she whimpered. The poor girl was in a state of shock. Kareem had seen this before, but normally due to injury. Her mind wasn’t processing information properly. From what he could tell, his words over the intercom hadn’t registered with her.
From the Indie Side Page 26