The Council House (The Impoverished Book 3)

by Frances Fletcher

  Jordan was already on him. “Police! Stop right there!” He held out his shield. “Show me some ID.”

  “Is he a cop, too?” The man jutted his chin at Richie. “He’s about to loot my truck!” He unclipped an identification card from his shirt and handed it to Jordan.

  “Looting?” Jordan gave him a hard look before he compared the picture to the man. “You were right, Richie. He’s with Con Ed.” He returned the ID. “What are you guys doing in Building 7?”

  “Turning off the substation.”

  “You need four trucks to do that?”

  “It’s a big substation.”

  Richie looked across Vesey Street at the rubble, broken beams, and men digging. He didn’t want the lieu getting into it with this bozo just to defend him. Anyway, the guy checked out. “Lieu, let’s go.”

  They jogged the rest of the way to the site, where they joined a bucket brigade. Richie lost all track of time while he dug for signs of life. He didn’t stop until he heard warning shouts from a megaphone.

  “Get back. Building 7 is coming down! Everyone back up.”

  Rescue workers jogged past them toward West Street and Richie and the lieutenant followed. When they reached the edge of the Hudson River, they stopped. Catching his breath, Richie looked back and saw the building implode in a fraction of a minute.

  With drooping shoulders, he shuffled his feet and lowered his head. No more, damn it. No more. The group stood in silence for a few minutes until one man coughed and then they slowly walked back to the site.

  As they passed the new rubble pile that just five minutes ago had been Building 7, Richie stopped and tapped Jordan on the shoulder. “Lieu, what the hell just happened?”

  The lieutenant shrugged, exhaled, and shrugged again. “Maybe the plane that hit the south tower sent debris into Building 7.”

  “Nah, I didn’t see any damage when we were there earlier.”

  “What time did we run into that shithead in the hard hat?”

  Richie looked at his wristwatch, wiped it on his shirt, and looked again. “It’s five twenty-five now, and we got here around eleven. So ten-thirtyish?”

  “And when did the office fires in Building 7 start?”

  “I counted eight fires on the lower floors sometime after we joined the bucket brigade.”

  “Too small to do any real damage to the building.” Jordan nodded and pursed his lips. “Strange.”

  “And Lieu”—Richie sighed deeply—“why did the fires start after Con Ed showed up, and not when the planes first hit?”

  “Rich, what the hell happened here?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked at the remains of Building 7. “But I’ve got an idea of how to find out.”

  Jordan stared at him and raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ll be right back.” Richie trotted up Vesey Street, climbed into an abandoned fire truck, and rummaged around in the compartments. He found a stash of firemen’s gloves and pulled out a pair. When he jumped back down to the street Jordan was walking toward him.

  “Hell, no. Richie.” He shook his head and looked around.

  “Lieu, it’s just gloves.” He couldn’t seriously have a problem with scavenging FDNY equipment. Not after everything that had happened. “I need them to collect metal from the rubble pile. Then we’ll—”

  “Toss me the car keys, Richie.”

  “I’ll return the gloves when I’m done. It’s really not a big deal.”

  “The keys!” He held his hand out.

  Is he kidding me? Richie passed the lieutenant the keys with a huff.

  “I’ll empty the emergency kit the nurse left us. Otherwise the metal might burn right through the gloves. Richie, don’t lift it until I meet you at the site.”

  Richie let out a huge sigh. “That’ll work.”

  Chapter 12

  Mel lay awake next to Hope in the queen-sized bed. Her mind was spinning, struggling to process everything that had happened in the past two days. Her brain kept trying to understand it all. If she could just sleep for a few hours, things might make better sense in the morning.

  She fluffed her pillow and moved Mark’s pillow down, just in case Hope rolled over. Mark’s side of the bed was cold and empty. She sighed. Mark had called again yesterday, but she still wouldn’t believe he was safe until she saw him.

  Last night, the baby had slept through the night in her crib, against the bedroom wall. But Mel had dozed only for a few minutes, off and on. The mahogany crib, just steps from the bed, was too far away. She worried that she wouldn’t reach Hope fast enough if something else happened.

  She hoped that with the baby beside her, close enough to snatch and run, she could sleep too. Deep down, she feared that if something else did happen, it wouldn’t be anything they could run from. And if they couldn’t, she needed the baby close enough to hug so they could die together. She’d think about how wonderful she felt when she held Hope for the first time, instead of how it felt to hold her for the last time.

  She wiped her tears on the pillowcase and looked at the baby’s sweet face. She prayed with all her heart to be around when Hope took her first steps and mumbled her first words. She rested her palm on her daughter’s stomach. As she felt the baby’s lungs gently expand, Mel drew comfort from Hope’s vitality. Perhaps it was a blessing that she’d been blocked out of the city yesterday morning. She’d been given precious time to spend with her baby girl.

  Yet, it still stung that the lieutenant sent her home while the city was in lock-down mode for the first time ever! At least, while at the BAT she’d loaded her car trunk with her firearms, extra ammunition and bullet-proof vests. When Mark came home, with his guns, they’d have a small arsenal. If the shit hit the fan, they’d be ready.

  And if things became that drastic she’d have to consider passing off her extra firearms to Dad and Eva; she was more like family than an upstairs neighbor. And she could handle a gun. She had fascinated Mel with stories about hunting for meat during long winters in Russia, so gun safety wouldn’t be an issue. And Mel had dragged her father to the range when she was a rookie just in case she ever needed him to safeguard her firearms.

  She shook her head again. Would she really hand off her guns? She’d never considered the possibility before—she sighed—she’d never had a reason to before.

  Mel looked down at the faded T-shirt she wore as a pajama top. The 79th Precinct’s motto, “Do or die in Bed-Stuy,” in crinkled white letters, meant so much more now. Now it meant, “Stand and fight in New York City.”

  Boxer sprang from the rug by the bed whining his happy whine, tail stub wagging, and raced out of the bedroom. Was Mark home? The scratch of a key in the lock. Mark’s key!

  Mel flew from the bed. Two seconds later, she clutched her husband and squeezed him with every part of her body and she cried. He held her tight, and hot tears fell on her neck. Mark’s tears! She had never seen him cry, not even when the baby was born blue and quiet for a few awful seconds after her birth.

  She pulled away and examined his body, from his hair to his shoes. He was dusty, sweaty, and wrinkled. She touched every part of him—his arms, his torso, his legs. He was in one piece. All of him, here, with her. She hugged him again. She couldn’t let go, wouldn’t let go.

  Boxer jumped and pawed at Mark. He knelt and petted him. “Settle down, boy. It’s okay. Everything will be okay.”

  Would it? Would it really be okay? Mel took a good look at Mark as he soothed the dog. Even his back was filthy. She grabbed his hand and tugged him up. She looked in his eyes and swallowed. Things are okay, for now. Mark is home.

  She unhooked his gun belt and lowered it to the wood floor. Then she unbuttoned his uniform shirt and let it fall. A puff of dust rose in the air and she grimaced. After she unzipped his pants she lowered them slowly, careful not to let dirt into the air. She left all the dust and grime and death on the vestibule floor and led him to the shower. She stripped off her T-shirt and hugged him under the warm spray. She w
ashed ground zero from his skin.

  Clean and content, they collapsed into bed, the sleeping baby between them. Mark’s arm reached over Hope and around Mel. Safe. And she finally slept the whole night through.

  In the morning, she woke to a squirming baby. And to the sight of her husband. She blinked and thanked God. Mark was home, asleep, next to her. She cradled Hope and crept from bed. She watched Mark sleep as she tiptoed to his side of the bed, and bent down and gently kissed his warm lips. Mark was home.

  After changing and feeding the baby, Mel started making breakfast and coffee. She was rummaging through the freezer for sausages when her cell phone rang. She read the name on the display screen—Richie Carson—and rushed to answer it. She had asked her partner to call when he got home from the bucket brigade. She knew he needed sleep and wouldn’t keep him on the phone long. Just long enough for her to know that he was okay and for him to know that someone cared. He caught her up to speed as she cooked, promised to keep in touch, and clicked off.

  Mel was leaning over Hope’s infant seat making funny faces when Mark spun her around and planted the best good-morning kiss ever on her lips. She reached up and hugged him tight. “I made you eggs.”

  She sat beside him on the sofa, her leg touching his, while he ate. Mark is home.

  “I’m going back,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “After breakfast.”

  “I know.” She got up to freshen his coffee and wiped away a tear.

  Chapter 13

  Richie popped his head out of the covers and groped for his cell phone. Three hours had passed since he phoned Mel. Although he hadn’t eaten, he felt a heavy weight in his stomach. How could he sleep so soundly after so many people had died? The only way to lighten the lump in his stomach was to get them justice.

  He scrolled through his messages and clicked on the latest Intel update. Twenty people had been rescued from the pit. It was the third day of digging, and only a few out of thousands of people were alive.

  Was there no one left to save? He crumpled the blanket and squeezed. The attack had been too damn brutal for survivors. The best he could do was report back to the pit and dig for human remains, to give dignity to the dead and their families. But wasn’t it equally important to find out who had conducted this brazen and horrible act? He knew how the terrorist mind worked. Shit! He had lived with terrorists for years, pretended to be one, for God’s sake. He was in a unique position to hunt them down.

  The evidence left by Saudi hijackers and uncovered by the feds felt phony, staged, as if it belonged in a disaster movie with a fantastic plot that relied on action scenes to shock viewers and keep them from realizing how implausible the plot actually was.

  Islamic hijackers had left wills and Korans in rental cars parked in airport lots. Maybe. Devout Muslim martyrs had drunk alcohol and consorted with strippers the night before they planned to reach paradise. Not likely. Passengers in midair had made telephone calls from their cell phones describing Islamic terrorists where no cell phone reception was ever possible before. Doubtful. A singular hijacker’s passport had survived the crash and was miraculously found in the downtown rubble. Not a chance! Everything found pointed to al Qaeda. Richie’s stomach clenched; it was all too damn pat.

  Something else was going on here. He had no idea what, but he had to find out. He closed his eyes and stopped listening to his mind. Instead, he tuned into his gut. A solemn feeling that nothing was what it seemed came over him—that he had to think far out of the box to find answers. He snapped his eyes open and jumped from the bed. It was too much. He was just one guy.

  But he knew what he had to do. He had to face his past. Even though it was just a pretend past, it was a place he’d never wanted to revisit—the time he had spent undercover in the Impoverished. If the connections he’d made then would help now, he had no choice. The prison was half a day away. He’d head there right now, before he changed his mind.

  He drove the rest of the day and all night to the penitentiary in Marion, Illinois, stopping only for necessities and a quick phone call to Lieutenant Jordan. He knew the lieutenant couldn’t authorize his trip, but he would account for him on the duty roster.

  He arrived at the prison’s visitor parking area just as the sun began to rise. Richie switched off the truck and caught a glimpse of the red BIC lighter in the ashtray—a reminder of what almost happened all those years ago in the Lincoln Tunnel. The last day that he’d seen Rashid.

  He rested his head on the seat back, closed his eyes, and sighed. Was he really going to see his old cell leader after all these years? He’d never expected to see Rashid again, but he was desperate for the answers he might have. He swallowed and pushed open the truck door.

  Inside the prison, Richie stepped into a tiny gun room. The door brushed his back as it swung shut. He secured his Glock and extra magazines in a metal compartment and tucked the key in his pocket before knocking on the door. The lock clicked and he turned the knob.

  A tall, trim, and neat federal corrections officer waited outside the room. “Spread your feet and raise your arms over your head.”

  Richie clenched his jaw as he assumed the frisk position. His oblique abdominals contracted as soon as the corrections officer touched his waist. He hated being on the wrong side of a pat down. Even though he knew the body search was just procedure he felt like the drug dealer he had been a lifetime ago. The corrections officer finished the frisk and a puff of air escaped Richie’s twisted lips.

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  Richie managed a nod. He’s just doing his job.

  “I’ll escort you through.” The officer walked down the intake hall to a set of thick iron columns. “On the gate,” he called to the officer on the other side of the bars.

  After a loud click, a door-sized gate slid to the right. Richie followed the officer through a glazed cinder block hallway, up a flight of iron stairs, and into a visitor’s room.

  Rashid sat on the far side of a wooden table. His hair, once a thick brown Afro, was now gray and short. Muscles bulged under an orange jumpsuit. He sat erect in his chair, neck and shoulders stiff. With a stern face he extended his arm, directing Richie to sit across from him.

  Richie’s heart thumped as he neared the table. Rashid was in charge, just like before.

  “What brings you here, traitor?” he asked, staring at Richie.

  Richie had to forget the past and take control of this interview now. He swallowed and sat down. “Did the Impoverished have anything to do with the attacks in New York?”

  “Phfff.” Rashid smirked. “The Impoverished doesn’t exist, fool.”

  Richie snapped his head back and narrowed his eyes. The Impoverished damn well did exist. “I was part of it for eight years.”

  Rashid’s expression remained cold. “You were part of a fabrication.”

  “I sat on a pile of explosives. That was real!” The back of Richie’s neck tingled.

  “Maybe the explosives were real. The Impoverished . . .” Rashid shook his head. “The Impoverished”— he exhaled and waved his hand—“is a US-government-sponsored fairy tale.”

  Richie licked his lips. Has Rashid lost his mind or is he playing with me? “What the hell are you saying?”

  “The truth.” Rashid rapped the table and the guard approached.

  Richie stared at Rashid, trying hard to read his expression. What truth?

  Rashid glared at Richie but he spoke to the guard. “We’re done here.”

  Richie’s mind raced, searching for something to say, anything to get Rashid to stay and talk. “Gilbert died believing in the Impoverished.”

  “No.” Rashid stood.

  “They shoveled what was left of him into a body bag”—he pointed at Rashid—“Because you ordered him to drive a van bomb into the Holland Tunnel!”

  “I’m not listening to another word.”

  Richie stood and looked Rashid in the eye. “You’re imprisoned here because of the first
attack on the World Trade Center. You must know who did the recent attacks.”

  Rashid glared and blew air from his nose. “Bin Laden, you fool.”

  The door buzzed.

  “No. I don’t think he did.” Richie squared his chin and held Rashid’s gaze. “And neither do you.”

  Rashid slumped for a split second and his eyes narrowed. “If I say any more, I’m a dead man.” He marched out the door, and the guard followed.

  Richie took a deep breath and sank back into the chair. Damn. He’d been so close to getting Rashid to talk. He’d have to be more persuasive next time.

  Chapter 14

  Mark pulled open the subway grating and shone his flashlight down into the emergency entrance. He hadn’t used a sidewalk entrance into the subway tunnels since he was a transit cop, before the merge. He’d chased a lowlife who had just robbed a newsstand down this very tunnel and had followed him until he reached the subway platform below the World Trade Center. The perp then disappeared in the tiled wall. When Mark reached the wall, a hatch had just snapped shut. He pushed the hatch door and crawled through a small opening onto a parallel set of train tracks. They led up to the World Trade Center concourse. The perp had gotten away that day, but he’d inadvertently taught Mark a way around the tunnels below the World Trade Center.

  Back then, Mark had been single and carefree. He hadn’t given his personal safety a thought. It was all about the chase. But now, he had Mel and Hope to consider. He paused before climbing down. If something happened, no one would know where to look for him. Then he remembered the roll of orange reflective tape. He brought it with him to mark the locations of trapped people so he could return with Emergency Service Unit cops and rescue equipment. The tape could mark his location as well. He tore off a big piece and tied it on the grating sticking out of the sidewalk. That should draw attention. He sighed and descended the metal stairs to the train tracks.

  He walked through the subway tunnel, his flashlight beaming a broad cone of light ahead of him. Every couple of yards, he tied orange tape around a subway column. The subterranean version of breadcrumbs. He reached the subway platform under the World Trade Center concourse more quickly this time; he didn’t have to duck into cutouts to dodge passing trains. He sighed. Trains were not running here anymore.