by Alex Kava
Inside the room, Maggie checked the time. She set aside the ice bucket. The ice was for her bruises, not the soda. She guzzled half the Diet Pepsi while she started pulling off her dirty clothes. Her suitcase lay open on one of the double beds. She wished she had time for a shower before their press conference, but she’d settle for a change of clothes. She turned on the TV only to fill the quiet, glancing briefly. Then she stopped completely.
The scene being played out looked like an episode of the reality show, Cops. It was, in fact, the local news. The camera had captured her chase of the young Sudanese boy. It wasn’t the first time the channel was playing it. The anchors were commenting as though they had seen it over and over and were now doing an instant replay analysis.
“Here it is,” the woman said just as Maggie watched herself jump up onto the hood of the compact car.
“Whoa,” the two anchors joined together.
“That had to hurt,” the woman added but she said it like she was a proud mother. “We’ve just learned that agent, Special Agent Margaret O’Dell, is a profiler from Quantico who is here at the request of Governor Williams.”
A professional photo of Maggie appeared in the corner of the television screen.
The anchor continued, “Special Agent O’Dell was able to assist and tell local law enforcement that this teenaged boy was not one of the bombers simply by the profile she has already come up with for the homicide bombers. The boy—”
Maggie’s cell phone started ringing.
On the television screen a photo of the boy was added alongside Maggie’s.
“This is Maggie O’Dell.”
“Some good news and some bad news,” Charlie Wurth announced without a greeting.
“What’s the good news?”
“You don’t have to do the press conference. I’ll join Chief Merrick and his home team for this one.”
“Let me guess. A.D. Kunze doesn’t want to exploit my escapade.”
“Aw, so you’re watching.”
“Just turned on the TV. Looks like the local station caught it.”
“Au contraire, cheri,” he said giving his voice a pretty good New Orleans Cajun spin, “Networks just picked it up. CNN and FOX have it, too. You’re a star.”
“So I’m guessing that’s the bad news.”
“No, no. That’s not it. Remember how disappointed your supervisor was about a half hour ago? Well, now he’s fit to be tied. He did want me to tell you that we’re all meeting down in the command center, ground level, room 119. Your presence is greatly appreciated. Why don’t you wait and come down in about thirty minutes. I should be finished with the media by then and I’ll do my best to play interference.”
He was gone before she could thank him. She found the remote and clicked through the channels. Sure enough, there was the chase in various stages on different channels.
Her phone started ringing again. What had Wurth forgotten to tell her?
“This is Maggie O’Dell.”
“Hey, it’s Nick. What are you doing right now?” He sounded as casual as if he were asking her on a date. Obviously he hadn’t seen a television yet.
“Having my nails done, followed by a spa treatment.” He laughed long and hard. Like someone who hadn’t laughed in quite some time and didn’t expect to right this moment. So long, in fact, that she had to wait for him. It made her smile.
Then he was serious, again. “We heard the fourth bomber was a false alarm. Are you okay?”
“A few bruises. I’m fine.”
“Listen, Jerry and I just learned a few interesting things. I know we’re all meeting over at the command center in a little bit, but I thought you might like a heads-up.”
“So what did you learn?”
He told her about the bomb expert’s findings. It only confirmed her suspicions, that the young men carrying the backpacks had no clue what was to happen today.
He told her that Jerry was downloading the best shots they had found of the five suspects and ended by asking if there was anything else she wanted them to bring.
“How ’bout a burger and fries,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He hung up before she could tell if he knew she was joking. With Morrelli it was hard to decipher. There had always been chemistry between them but otherwise they seemed out of sync with no common ground to rely on. Maybe she’d simply given up trying to figure it out.
She finished peeling off the rest of her clothes. Ironically the chase had been good for her, mentally as well as physically. A month ago she wasn’t sure her body would hold up to those sorts of challenges ever again. She had felt weak and nauseated. A fever and nosebleeds sent her into a tailspin of panic, constantly wondering if the virus she had been exposed to might be replicating itself inside her body. At times she believed she could feel it exploding her blood cells. But she’d been lucky. She’d gone past the incubation stage and still showed no signs of the virus. Yes, she’d dodged yet another bullet, unlike Cunningham.
Now as she examined her injured right side she could see it had already started to turn blue and purple. Next to the scars on her torso, the bruises looked mild. No big deal. She’d accepted the fact that her body was becoming a road map of past cases. Told herself it came with the territory. When you tracked killers for a living, sometimes it got rough. Most of those memories had been safely compartmentalized. Eventually the fear and panic of the exposure would find its own compartment. Now if only she could do the same with her personal life.
Her friend Gwen Patterson, the professional psychologist whose past client list included killers as well as five-star generals, didn’t believe in compartments. She oftentimes reminded Maggie that stuffing everything behind doors and into convenient little compartments of the mind sometimes had a way of backfiring.
“One of these days a few walls may crumble. Then what?”
She suggested Maggie find a way to sift through the good and bad. Learn how to hang onto the good stuff. But what if the good—those memories of her father—only reminded her of what’s missing in her life? Maybe that’s what Nick Morrelli was reminding her of, again. Too many things missing.
Maggie checked the time. A five-minute shower would definitely do her wonders. And then she needed to learn some things on her own. She pulled out her laptop and plugged it in on her way to the shower.
CHAPTER
41
Henry Lee sat next to his wife’s bed, staring at the tubes connecting her to a half a dozen machines. The biggest tube that came out from under the covers at the foot of the bed held his attention. Yellow and red fluids pumped through it, mixing into a spiral of pink. It nauseated him whenever he let himself think that fluid was actually being pumped out of Hannah.
He watched the tubes because he couldn’t quite look directly at her. She was bloated beyond recognition, thin lips shoved apart by more tubes down her throat. Her eye-lids fluttered and sometimes he caught her looking for him. Did she know he was here? He grabbed her hand and squeezed.
“That’s good.” The nurse noticed as she came into the intensive care room. “She’s going to be a little uncomfortable as she starts to notice the tube down her throat. We’re easing back on the morphine so she’ll wake up.”
“Uncomfortable?” He didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t want her to be in pain. He stood and wrapped Hannah’s hand in both of his.
“It’s okay.” The nurse recognized his angst. “We need her to be a little more awake and alert so when we pull the tube out she’ll breathe on her own. Otherwise heart patients want to sleep and let the machine continue to do all the work for them.”
“But she’ll be in pain?” He wasn’t satisfied.
“Uncomfortable.” The nurse corrected him. “As soon as we get it out, we’ll be able to increase the dose again. It won’t take long.”
Hannah was staring up at him now, eyes blurred but she looked like she was trying to tell him that she hurt. Though her arms were poked with needles and tubes she was att
empting to reach up to her throat, glassy eyes imploring him to help her. It killed him to see her like this.
“She’ll be okay,” the nurse said. “I’m going to need you to step out of the room while we take the tube out.”
He didn’t move. He didn’t want to leave her. Her eyes kept pleading with him. How could he leave?
The nurse put a hand on his shoulder.
“It’ll only be a few minutes. I’ll come get you just as soon as we’re finished.”
He tried to keep his face from wincing or showing his concern. No, it wasn’t just concern. Who was he fooling? It was fear…pure and simple. He could not lose this woman. Losing a daughter was one thing, like cutting off one of his arms. But Hannah? That would be like ripping out his own heart. You can survive without an arm. It’s tough as hell but you find a way. Without Hannah? No, he’d never be strong enough to survive without her.
“I’ll be right here, Hannah. The nurse is going to take good care of you.” Then he added as if he needed to hear it out loud, “You’re going to be just fine.”
He walked out of the room, his knees so weak he had to put his hand up against the wall to steady himself. He made it through the double-wide doors that took him out of the Intensive Coronary Care unit, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. The waiting room was still empty. He dropped into one of the unyielding vinyl chairs.
He glanced around. Still no Dixon. Henry hadn’t seen the boy since he left with Henry’s cell phone to call his friends. He still couldn’t believe that they had found a way to use Dixon, to suck his own grandson into this. My God, they went so far as to seek out and target the boy’s friends. And why? Because of Henry’s apprehension? Because they wanted to ensure his silence?
He closed his eyes and shook his head. He still couldn’t believe it. He wanted to call Allan again. Ask him if he knew. Find out what the hell was going on? How could something that had begun with such honorable intentions turn into a greedy and disgusting grab for power and money?
The boy’s absence only made Henry more anxious. He was relieved to have Dixon safe and with him, but now he grew impatient with the boy. Of course, he was concerned about his friends but his grandmother had just come out of major heart surgery. He should be here at her side…at Henry’s side.
He absolutely hated to admit that he needed someone to be at his side. For forty years he had worked his way up to establish a successful business, a national success. A Fortune 500 success. Even in retirement he had refused to hand it over, insisting on remaining chairman, casting the deciding vote, always in control and on top of things. Or so he believed until now.
Hannah’s emergency surgery had certainly caught him off guard. Just like his daughter’s death. He had believed there could be no worse day than that dreadful one in April back in 1995. The difference—Hannah was there with him, by his side.
Right now he didn’t care about anything else. Didn’t care that their strategy had gone so terribly wrong. Or had it? Is this exactly what they wanted to happen?
Henry was beginning to understand that what he considered patriotism and honor, his so-called business associates appeared to see as only methods to raise profit margins and leverage political power. Henry had made a mistake. He realized that now. Family was what mattered most. Family was the most important thing. Everything else—country, business, even honor, were secondary. The tragic irony was that it was his sense of family that had sent him down this path in the first place. Only he had strayed too far. He’d forgotten what his original mission was, letting his pride and pigheaded stubborn ideals jeopardize everything else. Everything including what family he had left. How the hell could he ever make this right again?
On TV the local channels were still live at Mall of America. A press conference was going on but in the corner of the screen a chase scene from earlier played out. Still no confirmation on how many were dead though the estimate had been put at anywhere from twenty-five to fifty. Hundreds more had been injured.
Henry rubbed at his eyes then rubbed his hands together. His fingers were trembling. He glanced down the hallway. Where the hell was Dixon? They had told him earlier that he could use the phone in the waiting room for local calls. He just needed to dial a 9 first. He grabbed the receiver and punched in the number for his cell phone.
Sometimes a boy needed to be reminded of his obligations. Family needed to stick together. And damn it! He needed Dixon here with him, not off checking on his friends.
The phone rang four, five times before a voice answered that Henry didn’t recognize.
“It took you long enough to call.”
“Who is this?”
“Never mind that. I’m sure you’ll want to talk to your grandson.”
There was a muffled sound and then, “Granddad? What’s going on?”
Only Dixon sounded muffled, too, as though he were being kept a distance from the phone. Then he heard the boy yell out in pain and this time Henry Lee felt his knees give out completely.
CHAPTER
42
Patrick had wandered around the hotel for long enough. He’d been up and down every hallway on every floor, checking stairwells, riding freight elevators and popping through doors to laundry rooms, ready to apologize each time. Rebecca wasn’t here.
It was freezing cold outside. He kept alongside the busy highway though there were no sidewalks and little room for pedestrians. On this night he wasn’t alone. There was a lot of chaos in and out of the parking lots of businesses that bordered Mall of America.
Would Rebecca have risked going to one of the restaurants? He didn’t think so. There were absolutely no taxi cabs. Rescue vehicles and police cruisers still lined the edges, red and blue lights flashing but the sirens off now. News vans with satellites on their roofs and reporters and camera crews took up any other available space. Uniformed cops directed traffic in and out of the hotel parking lot. All of the mall’s entrances looked like they were barricaded. A Red Cross RV was stationed near the front of the mall with shuttle vans.
No, there was enough chaos that no one noticed Patrick walking in and out of traffic. And no one would have noticed Rebecca either.
He stopped at a busy intersection, this one still using the traffic lights instead of a uniformed cop. Vehicles headed for the interstate could speed off to the ramp with no wait, unlike those stalled in the other direction. They had to wait in stop-and-go traffic inching their way toward the mall and the hotel.
Earlier he’d tried directory assistance to get a phone number for Dixon Lee. Nothing. There were no directories for cell phones. He got a number for Henry Lee. Practiced what he’d say to the man if he answered.
He dialed. Waited. Only an answering machine.
Of course, Mr. Lee was probably still at the hospital. Patrick didn’t have a message rehearsed for the answering machine so he hung up. He was running out of ideas. He was cold. He was hungry and he was worried about Rebecca.
That’s when he saw her.
Across the street he recognized her. She had just come out of the Gas ’N Shop. Tentative at first, holding onto the door of the shop as if she might need to run back in.
“Rebecca,” he yelled. His voice got lost in the hum of four lanes of traffic between them. He tried to cross against the light and the blast of a car’s horn stopped him. One lane of traffic moved slowly. The other didn’t need to wait for him and let him know. Evidently the Good Samaritan patience was wearing thin.
He found himself shifting, pacing, while waiting to run across as soon as the light changed. In the meantime, he watched helplessly as Rebecca hesitated then relinquished her hold on the shop’s door. Slowly she approached a white sedan, bending to a rolled-down passenger window before getting into the car.
A sigh of relief. Patrick recognized the car. He’d spent two days in that vehicle, riding and driving from Connecticut to Minnesota. Yes, now he could see the Batman: The Dark Knight decal on the back window. It was Dixon’s car.
Thank goodness.
Patrick started crossing the street as the car left the shop. He ran against the wind and ice. Twice he slipped, almost falling. He waved his arms though the car was driving away from him, leaving the parking lot. He raced around the gas pumps, zigzagging between vehicles, taking a short cut. Dixon’s car pulled onto the highway just as a van honked, almost hitting Patrick, so close he could feel the heat of its engine at his side. He jumped onto a curb, out of the woman’s way. Now all he could do was watch as Dixon’s car gunned its engine and sped toward the interstate ramp without even noticing him.
He was out of breath. His high-tops were caked with snow, his fingertips numb, his hair wet and plastered to his head. He stood there watching the red taillights disappear as pellets of ice pricked at his face.
It was okay, he told himself. He could relax. At least Rebecca was safe.
CHAPTER
43
Maggie shouldered her way through the crowded hallway. The entire floor of conference rooms at the hotel had become a makeshift command center. She passed one door she recognized as the triage room and another where victims reunited with families. Room 119 was at the end of the hall.
She had changed into blue jeans, a turtleneck sweater and leather flats. Her Smith & Wesson stayed back inside her room’s safe, along with her badge. All she carried was her smartphone, her ID, a credit card, room key card and a twenty-dollar bill she’d slid into her jeans pocket.
Nick and Jerry Yarden waited outside the door, both smiling at her. She could tell they’d seen the chase scene by now. So had the others. It was obvious as soon as she walked into the room. Heads turned and nodded. Eyes glanced then stayed and stared.
It was a small group. Maybe a dozen. Police chief Daryl Merrick’s group was in another room. Merrick had won jurisdiction and ended up lead on the case. He had his hands full recovering bodies and rescuing injured, setting up information centers for victims and families, not to mention juggling a media nightmare. However, it’d be up to the federal agencies—Homeland Security and the FBI—to conduct the investigation, issue warrants and track down the killers. That was this group, gathered in Room 119. Most of its members were still at the scene, sifting through debris and interviewing witnesses. They would still be cataloguing evidence and piecing together theories in the days, even weeks after tonight.