“Run!” he cried, but she just stood there. “Run!” he repeated, stamping his foot in front of her and waving his arms, making like he was going to push her over. Kareem never touched her, but his jarring motion was enough to break through the shock. She turned and ran.
Kareem vaulted over the counter and back into the foyer. The security guard was barely able to stand. He leaned forward on his knees. Blood dripped from the back of his head, marking where he’d struck the marble floor.
How much longer was there before the blast? As far as Kareem could remember, there were just seconds left, not minutes. Out on the street, police officers crouched behind their vehicles or leaned over the hoods of their cars with their guns drawn.
“Kareem Hadee Rafid,” a bullhorn cried over the sound of the alarm. “Come out with your hands raised above your head.”
Kareem looked at the Coke machine and then at the guard. He couldn’t remember what happened next. He knew he survived, or at least he thought he did. But did he survive because he bolted out of the museum? Should he risk saving the guard? Helping the guard could cost him his life, but he couldn’t leave him.
The guard shuffled over and braced himself against the counter, trying to stop himself from collapsing back to the floor. No, Kareem couldn’t leave him. Being a paramedic, he couldn’t turn his back on this man, regardless of how much his self-preservation instinct demanded otherwise.
He grabbed the security guard, hoisting the man’s arm over his own shoulder.
The guard was disoriented. He’d suffered a major concussion. His uncoordinated stagger and slurred speech indicated significant brain trauma.
“I need to, have to. I should,” the guard mumbled as Kareem hurriedly dragged him down the stairs toward the police. Even in his groggy state, the guard seemed to be wanting to help others. Kareem understood that selfless drive.
The guard didn’t recognize him. It was possible he too was suffering short-term memory loss, Kareem thought, understanding how disorienting and confusing that could be.
The police officers kept their guns trained on Kareem as he hurried down the broad steps with the guard. The officers were shouting at him, waving at him, wanting him to stop where he was, but he couldn’t. Kareem knew what came next. He remembered. He had to get as far down the steps as he could to make sure he and the guard got below the blast.
Kareem’s memory came back to him in waves. There were times, like when he was running through the park, where he barely remembered anything at all. But as he dragged the guard down those stairs, Kareem remembered precisely what would happen next. He knew which stair his foot would touch when the bomb exploded. The blast may have taken everyone else by surprise, but Kareem was ready for the wall of superheated air that threw him into the side of a police car some twenty feet away.
Most of the blast was directed through the foyer, coming out level with the top of the stairs, sparing Kareem and the guard. The deafening boom shook his bones. Rock and dust billowed through the air. Surprisingly, those slightly farther away from the stairs were worse off; they had been hit by shrapnel. Kareem and the guard had been in a dead spot, partially sheltered from the blast by the fall of the stairs.
Cars rocked with the shockwave. Several pedestrians over by Central Park were knocked off their feet. Tiny shards of plastic and bits of torn metal pelted the police cars along with the trees lining the avenue. Smoke billowed through the air. A dark cloud mushroomed into the sky.
At first, Kareem thought the aftermath of the blast was silent, but then he realized that his hearing had cut out, replaced with an incessant ringing in his ears. Slowly, the screaming became audible. Kareem helped the security guard to sit up against a car door that was peppered with shrapnel.
“Stay here,” he said. Although he thought he’d yelled, his voice sounded like a whisper. The only noises he could hear were muted and dull. The guard nodded.
Several ambulances pulled up from both directions. Paramedics began tending to the wounded. A few more police cars arrived, and the officers began administering first aid to the victims of the blast, tending to bystanders and fallen police officers. Kareem slipped quietly back into Central Park.
Chapter 03: Future
“Oh my God,” Deb said, sliding into the booth next to him. “Are you okay?”
Kareem was shaking. Using two hands, he raised a coffee cup to his lips, struggling to sip at the dark drink. He put the cup down, spilling some coffee on the table.
“Kareem, what happened to you?” Deb asked.
His eyes darted around the inside of O’Malley's coffee house. Following the blast at the museum, barely three blocks away, the streets had cleared. Most of the customers had left, but an elderly couple sat by the door, apparently oblivious to what had happened. Police cars, fire engines, and ambulances rushed past, but the couple didn’t seem to notice. They laughed and chatted loudly as they ate breakfast together. Oh, to have not a care in the world, thought Kareem, staring absentmindedly across at them.
“Kareem?”
Kareem blinked. He hadn’t even noticed Deb walk into the restaurant. The plush leather seats had felt so soft and comfortable when he arrived. The waitress had asked him if he knew what was going on, so he told her about the blast at the museum. She could see he was shaken and had given him a cup of coffee on the house.
Deb put her arm around his shoulder. She ran her fingers through his hair, moving down from the long locks into the freshly shaved hair on the side of his head. She was looking at the stitches.
“They did a good job.”
Kareem still hadn’t spoken. He turned to her, trying not to cry.
“Hey, it’s okay,” she said, resting her hand on his shoulder. “You’re safe.”
Deb was like that, expressing herself through physical touch. When he’d first joined her crew he’d thought she was coming on to him, but it was just her way of communicating. Deb was from an Italian background. Well, as Italian as a fourth-generation Italian American could be. Kareem doubted she’d ever been to Italy.
Deb ran her hand along his forearm, gently stroking the hair on his arm.
“Talk to me,” she said. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Kareem had always thought she was beautiful, and never more so than now. He felt as though he’d died and gone to hell, but that some dark-haired angel had come to redeem him.
“They... They think I did it.”
“What?” she asked. “The bombing?”
Kareem nodded. For a moment, he wondered if she was going to ask him if he’d played any part in the terrorist attack, but Deb was kind. They’d worked together for eighteen months. Pulling an injured mother from the crushed remains of a car, or resuscitating a junkie that had overdosed on heroin, forged a bond between them. There was something about the raw, unscripted pain they saw daily that demanded camaraderie. Such bonds seemed like the only appropriate response to the carnage they witnessed. Without them, Kareem would have gone crazy. There was only so much blood and gore he could deal with on his own. In some ways, he wondered if Deb’s desire to touch was her way of dealing with the anguish, her way of connecting to reality. For him, her touch was soothing.
Kareem breathed deeply, sighing, thankful she didn’t need any kind of justification or alibi from him. It felt good to be instinctively trusted by her.
Deb sniffed at his sweater.
“You were there. You were at the museum.”
Her words were an observation, not judgment. Kareem nodded. She must have been able to smell the smoke on his clothes.
Deb was silent, giving him time to compose his thoughts.
“I remembered the attack, Deb. I don’t know how, but I remembered it before it happened. I know it sounds absurd, and I don’t know that I’d call it dejà vu, but I remembered it like I remember going to Florida last year on vacation.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Deb replied. She had to remember their text messages from earlier that morning. Kareem was
sure he’d mentioned the blast before it happened. She must have sensed that, as she frowned, looking intently at him as she spoke. “You remember the past, not the future.”
“I know,” Kareem said. “Believe me, I know how crazy this sounds.”
He paused, turning toward her and looking deep into her eyes.
“I can’t explain it. I can’t control it. I just remember.”
Deb was quiet. Her eyes dropped, and he wondered if she was having a hard time believing him. If he were in her place, he would think she was crazy.
“I remembered the blast like I remember what I had for lunch yesterday.”
Deb pursed her lips. She was on the verge of saying something, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
“I can prove it,” he said, pointing at the television screens above the serving area. One TV showed news coverage of the bombing, the other was an in-restaurant feed, scrolling through menu items. At the bottom of that screen was a banner revealing the latest instant lottery results.
“Have you got a pen?” he asked.
Deb rummaged around in her purse and pulled out a pen, grabbing a napkin from the table.
Kareem closed his eyes. He waited for a moment, clearing his mind, wanting to move past the anxiety welling up inside. Trying to remember was next to impossible; he’d have a thought on the edge of his mind, just out of reach. But if he relaxed and just let the thought come to him, it was easy. After all, he didn’t have to do anything, just remember.
“20... 4... 56... 17… and the Powerball will be a 5.”
That was the strange thing about remembering, he thought. There was really nothing to it. If it was in your head, you could recall it. There was no magic, no trick. The harder he tried, the more elusive that fragile thought became, but if he cleared his mind, memories drifted gently to the surface.
Kareem opened his eyes and watched as the fifteen-minute lottery cycle ticked over from one draw to another. Slowly the numbers 20, 4, 56, 17 and 5 scrolled along the bottom of the screen.
“Okay, that’s creepy,” Deb said, looking at the numbers she’d written on her napkin and comparing them with the ones on the screen. “Is this some kind of trick?”
Kareem laughed.
“I wish it was.”
It felt good to laugh. All the pent-up emotion inside him melted away. Sitting there with her, life felt simple. For a moment, he could forget the insanity of the morning.
“You knew that ahead of time?” she asked, curious. She looked at him sideways with her beautiful brown eyes. He’d never told her what he thought of her. One day he hoped he’d have the courage to talk with her in something other than a professional capacity and tell her how beautiful she was. To him, her beauty was more than physical; it was a combination of looks, intelligence, character, wit, and a playful persona.
“I remembered that. I’ve always had kind of a photographic memory, always been good with license plates and maps, phone numbers and addresses.”
“But you can’t remember something that hasn’t happened.”
“I thought so too, until today,” he replied.
“So this isn’t some party trick?”
“Deb,” he said. “This is your lucky day: 4, 17, 22, 33 and the Powerball will be a 7... no, an 8.”
Deb scrawled the additional numbers farther down her napkin.
“Go,” he said. “Get a ticket!”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I dunno,” she replied sheepishly, “It feels like cheating.”
“Maybe it is,” he said. “But who cares?”
Deb scooted sideways, pulling herself out of the booth.
“You know I don’t gamble.”
Kareem shrugged his shoulders. Whether she did or didn’t made no difference to him.
“Gambling is a tax on our hopes and dreams,” she added.
“Sometimes dreams come true,” he replied.
“If you’re yanking my chain, I’m going to be pissed.”
Kareem just smiled.
“Do you want some more coffee?”
“I’m good,” he replied, loving the way she switched seamlessly between thoughts, accepting and trusting him on one hand, and then asking after him on the other.
He watched as Deb went over to the waiter behind the counter and placed her bet. With all he was going through, it felt good to think she’d get something positive out of this. She turned and looked over toward him, pointing at something in the display cabinet and mouthing the word “Cake?”
He waved no, but she brought back two slices anyway. Instead of slipping in beside him as she had previously, she sat opposite him in the booth. From her body language, he could see she wanted to look him square in the eye. For Deb, eye contact must have been as important as touch. He felt as though she could look past his eyes into the depths of his soul.
“Chocolate mud cake,” she said, just as he was expecting her to say something deeply profound. He smiled. He knew what the cake was, it was obvious to see, but she had a childlike innocence in her excitement at something as simple as a moist slice of cake.
The waitress came over with Deb’s coffee.
“Thanks,” she said, smiling as the waitress put the cup before her.
“Yum,” Kareem said, taking a bite of cake.
“So, how does it work? Did you remember that?”
“What?”
“The cake? Did you know I’d bring some over anyway?”
“No, it’s funny,” he replied, sipping his coffee. “Some memories flash up out of nowhere, others hide in the background, and some just aren’t there at all. Sometimes it’s like there’s nothing to be remembered.”
“You took one hell of a knock to the head yesterday,” she said, talking with her mouth full. “You think that caused it?”
“I don’t know. That’s the strange thing. I remember today, but not yesterday. I have no idea what happened to me or how I got home last night.”
“You were over by the stage at Battery Park,” she said. “Taking the early shift. I was supposed to replace you after lunch, but that plan went out the door pretty quick.
“The blast happened about 11:30, just as the Vets were preparing for their march. I heard about it on the news before I got the call. I was already halfway to the hospital when I got a text calling me in. At first I assumed you were one of the early responders. It never even occurred to me that you were caught in the blast.”
Kareem was fascinated. Deb was recalling details in much the same way he remembered the future. There was no stress or strain: her mind simply retrieved the information she needed as she walked herself through the sequence of events. She remembered just as he did, only she remembered the past, while he remembered the future.
“It took about eight hours before we cleared the site. I was clocking off when I saw you wandering along one of the halls near the ER. You were in a daze, pushing an IV on a stand, with a bloody bandage wrapped around your head. You were lost. You were trying to find the main entrance to get out of there. When I couldn’t talk you into staying, I hailed a cab and gave the driver fifty bucks.”
Kareem finished his slice of cake. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, and after his run through the park he was famished. Listening to Deb speak had been like listening to someone tell a story about a friend. He couldn’t relate personally to anything she’d described.
Another customer approached the waitress, asking her to turn up the television. Kareem and Deb watched as a news bulletin reported the bombing at the museum.
“—our reporter on the scene, Wendy Arthouse.”
“There’s chaos here, John. At this point, the death toll stands at twelve, but the police have warned this figure is likely to be revised upward once they can gain access to the upper floors within the museum.
“As you can see behind me, the fire department is struggling to contain the blaze that erupted following the bombing. From what the fire chief is saying, the mezzanine level has col
lapsed, along with sections of the second floor.”
“Oh, Kareem,” Deb said, reaching out and holding onto his arm.
The reporter continued, saying “Amateur footage of the blast shows one of the terrorists entering the foyer moments before the explosion. Although the footage is grainy, you can see him disarming the guard.”
“Tell me that wasn’t you,” Deb whispered.
Kareem was silent. How could he possibly explain himself to her? His actions seemed crazy even to him.
The image switched to a police officer standing in the park opposite the museum, speaking to a phalanx of cameras and reporters. “We’re seeing a growing level of sophistication in these attacks. In Seattle and Chicago, the attacks were isolated incidents. Here, though, the perpetrators have mounted a second attack within twenty-four hours, which suggests a level of planning and coordination we haven’t witnessed before.”
A barrage of questions erupted from the reporters, but the senior officer, with his formal parade dress and silver-grey hair, held out his hands, visually imploring them to let him speak.
“The attack on the museum may not be by the same group, as the method of operation is unlike anything we’ve seen elsewhere. This is the first time a member of the terrorist cell has remained on the scene to ensure the detonation of the device.”
Again, questions burst forth from the media pack. Most of them were crying out for leads or suspects.
“We have identified one of the bombers,” the officer continued. “The bomb threat was phoned through to our investigation hotline this morning by one of the cell members, identified as Kareem Hadee Rafid.”
Deb gasped. Kareem struggled to swallow the lump in his throat as the photo from his driver’s license appeared on the screen.
“So,” one of the reporters yelled over the media cacophony, “you had advance warning?”
“I wouldn’t call it a warning so much as an invitation to a trap,” the officer replied. “We were given just enough information to ensure we arrived on the scene at the point the detonation occurred. Seven officers were caught in the blast. Three of them are in critical condition. Make no mistake. The NYPD, in association with the FBI, will hunt down these criminals and bring them to justice.”
From the Indie Side Page 27