Till the Dust Settles

by Pat Young

  She’d promised herself, since the day of the catastrophe, that she would stay away from the World Trade Center, but today something seemed draw her towards the smouldering skeleton at Ground Zero. Everyone on the street seemed to be heading in the same direction and it was easier to walk with them and go with the flow than try to battle against it. What attracted people to the scene of a tragedy? She’d never understood drivers who slowed down as they passed a road accident, so keen to witness a horror they endangered themselves and other drivers.

  This – 9/11 – was like the world’s worst car wreck, dreadful beyond imagination. And there were plenty of rubberneckers in New York keen to have a look, it seemed. Some folks were obviously trying to get to work but the sidewalks were thronged with people watching rescue workers, medical staff, police officers, as they went about their grisly task of looking for survivors.

  Lucie had seen enough and was ready to jog away in the opposite direction when she overheard a conversation start up between two women beside her.

  ‘He was on the ninety-sixth floor, South. We were so proud of him when he got that job. The youngest broker in company history. He was only twenty-six. And now he’s gone. I can’t comprehend it. I stand here every day praying he’ll walk out, covered in dirt and dust, unrecognisable to anyone but me. I’ll call his name, “Jamie!” He’ll look around, then, when he sees me, his eyes will light up and he’ll shout, “Mom!” and come running out of that wreckage, right into my arms.’

  The woman broke down and, touched by her sadness, Lucie turned slightly and watched. The two strangers, joined by tragedy, hugged and appeared to take comfort from each other. That kind of thing didn’t normally happen in the streets of this city. She heard the second woman say quietly, ‘I know what you’re going through. I dreamt last night they’d found everyone alive, safe in some secure underground bunker, and my Amelia walked out, just like your son, and said, “Momma, sorry I’m late.” Just like it was any old normal day and we were going for lunch.’

  Lucie looked around with more compassionate eyes and saw that these people were not rubberneckers here for a cheap thrill at the expense of someone else’s loss. They were desperate grieving mothers, sisters, fathers, wives, husbands, even a few children. Many people carried pictures, family snaps of loved ones, their likeness so enlarged, every pixel stood out. Pictures of happy times, a woman with a new baby in her arms, a smiling man, his face illuminated by a candle-covered cake, a couple in Santa hats. Each one a snapshot of a life brought to a sudden, ugly, premature end. Lucie was aware of how many young faces were pictured, faces like hers, and knew again the rush of relief and gratitude that she’d never made it to that interview. At the time, running from Curtis, she’d felt her whole future depended on getting that job. Lucie said a silent prayer of thanks to a God she’d stopped believing in some years before. She turned and made her way courteously through the bystanders, murmuring her apologies and avoiding eye contact, scared of seeing more pain and despair.

  When she had enough clear space to break into a jog at last, Lucie felt so lucky to be alive she was worried it might show on her face. Would anyone in Manhattan ever feel it was okay to smile again? Especially if, like her, you were one of the fortunate few.

  Curtis must have been found by now. Dylan would have been round to the house, called the cops. She felt guilty that poor Dylan had to be the one to find his friend, but Lucie felt neither guilt nor sorrow for Curtis and when she remembered the grief of those sobbing mothers, she knew her heart had become hard as the sidewalk beneath her feet.

  26

  Diane was in a mood. And it was all his fault.

  She’d been in bed when he got home. It had been his intention to come straight back and pick up his role of dinner party host right where he left off. But once he’d dealt with the smug little schmuck, he’d felt too sick to socialise. Killing someone, even a douchebag like that guy, hadn’t ever been his intention. He’d only taken the gun along in case he needed to defend himself. But the minute blackmail was mentioned, he’d been left no choice.

  Instead of going home, he’d gone to a bar to drink the adrenaline out of his system and formulate a plan. His dark mood had lifted by the time he got back, and, to his relief, the dinner guests had departed. He’d climbed into bed and cuddled up close to Diane. Sex was another great way to neutralise excess adrenaline. He’d slid his hand under her nightgown, the stroke of warm silk arousing him as he swept his palm over her stomach and downwards. When she groaned quietly he took it as a sign she wanted him and his fingers had explored further till she moved away, saying sleepily, ‘No, please don’t.’

  He knew better than to try to force himself on her.

  By morning, despite his sleep being disturbed by dreams of warehouses and gunshots, he was dying to make love to her, but Diane was taking her time to thaw. They’d played this game before and it was usually worth the wait. When she gave in, and she always did, she made sure he had a good time. But for now, she was making him pay.

  ‘Those dinner guests were your business contacts, not my friends,’ she complained. ‘You had no right going off like that and leaving me to hold the fort.’

  ‘Diane, you were born to play hostess. I’ve never seen another woman welcome guests as graciously as you. It’s effortless.’

  ‘It may look effortless to you, but it was hard work after you left. That awful Miriam flirting with anything in pants and Raymond with his terrible halitosis, breathing all over me.’

  She was sitting up in bed now, delectable in a gossamer-thin negligee, a ruffle of marabou around her neck. The pale pink colour showed up her skin to perfection. Diane never let the sun touch her face and her complexion was still smooth as silk. He suspected she spent a fortune on face creams too, but hell, they could afford the best and she deserved it. Besides, he needed his wife to look good. She was like the First Lady of the New York business world.

  ‘And just what are you smiling at, may I ask?’ she said, sounding cross.

  ‘I’m smiling at that lovely pout of yours, but don’t go spoiling your pretty face with frowning. You’ll get wrinkles.’

  ‘Well, no wonder I’m frowning. What kind of a husband leaves his poor wife with such a bunch of boring people?’

  ‘The kind of husband who makes his wife very rich.’

  When she smiled, he moved closer and pulled her down under the covers. As she slid towards him, the silky nightgown rose up and exposed her naked thighs. This time she didn’t say no.

  Diane’s cheeks were blushed when they drew apart and he knew he was forgiven.

  ‘Still love me?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course, always.’ She kissed him and he believed her.

  ‘Good. Because I’ve got to go away for a day or two. Got some out of town business to attend to.’

  The pout was back. Her lips were irresistible. He kissed them, over and over, saying between each touch, ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ till she gave in to him again and all was good.

  He rode into Manhattan on the subway. Not his usual choice of transport, but he’d given his driver a few days off and didn’t want to be seen in any of his own cars. He wanted to slide into the crowd for a while, to take stock. He couldn’t risk involving any more bozos, not after the blackmail episode. The last thing he’d expected was to be tying up loose ends by himself.

  How to do it, though, that was the problem. Without arousing suspicion. As he’d nursed a Scotch or three in the dark corner of that dive of a bar last night, he’d run through various scenarios in his head. He had to make some sort of contact with Charlotte, that was paramount, but he couldn’t just turn up at her apartment. For one thing, he wasn’t supposed to know where she lived. She’d been adamant about meeting him in hotels, said she was protective of her private space and never took anyone there.

  He, however, always made it a priority to find out all he could about potential partners before he considered sharing any type of venture with them, business or otherwise. T
hat way he didn’t get any nasty shocks further on down the road. It had been months since he’d followed Charlotte home to Fitzgerald Square. Just to make sure she was who she said she was.

  He rubbed his gut. His ulcer had been bothering him since he’d found out Charlotte was alive. Drinking didn’t help, of course, he knew that, but this pain was different from his usual gastritis. If he didn’t know himself better, he’d say it was nerves, but that was nonsense. He was unshakable, had nerves of steel. That was what everyone always said about him.

  This was more than a business deal gone sour. This was a woman who knew far too much about him and his family. And she could tell the world any time she chose.

  He had to stop her, one way or another, before she went public with her knowledge.

  27

  He looked over his shoulder, suddenly sure he was being watched, but no one seemed to be paying him any attention. He told himself to calm down and strode off in the direction of Charlotte’s apartment.

  Apart from television footage, this was the first time he’d seen Manhattan close up since the towers fell. The skyline was like a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing and he deeply regretted the fact that such splendid buildings had gone. He could still remember how proud he’d been the day he’d moved his business into WTC. The most iconic buildings in the world, now erased from the cityscape. But they’d be rebuilt, bigger and better, and he had many fingers in the pies of the construction industry.

  The sidewalk was busy with people staring at walls of pictures. Excusing himself he picked his way through the crowd. Grieving relatives, he supposed, but not this many. The others were sightseers. This public outpouring of grief had all started over in England with Lady Di’s death. Outside her palace in London, people had left a sea of flowers, candles and little cuddly toys. He couldn’t see the point.

  He looked at the wall of faces. All shapes, sizes, and colours, united by the fact that they all happened to be in the same place when they died. Some of the fliers were like the Wanted posters that fluttered in the breeze of Western movies. Some were like the kind of signs folk stuck to lampposts when their cat went missing. ‘Please come home. We miss you.’ Others were bald statements of fact, like the cops might issue. John Doe. Height: Six foot three. Hair: brown with blond streaks. Going a little grey at the sides. Eyes: Brownish green. Age: Forty-seven. Weight: Two hundred and five pounds. Weight, for Godsake. What was the relevance of the man’s weight?

  He shouldn’t judge. People did the strangest things at a time like this and if making these posters helped, well, who was he to criticise?

  This might be the ideal time for him to be seen donating some money. After all, along with his premises in the North Tower, he’d lost most of his workforce. Not that he gave a damn. He didn’t know most of them and those he did know by name meant little to him. But it would be an appropriate gesture for someone in his position to make. Might even start a groundswell of donations from other benefactors. He’d get Diane to make the arrangements. She was brilliant at that sort of thing. Maybe they could get a photo shoot organised with Diane at his side looking sad and beautiful as they handed over a huge cheque to relatives of the lost ones. The nervous pain nagged at his belly. Plastering his face all over the newspapers might not be the cleverest thing he could do at the moment.

  If Charlotte were lying low, biding her time before going to the authorities, he’d be wise to keep a low profile too. She must be sure he was dead, lost with his faithful employees, like a captain going down with his ship. The longer he could keep her thinking that way, the better. At least until he could get a hold of her and work out what she was up to.

  Fitzgerald Square. This was the place. Now he was here, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. He couldn’t hang about outside her apartment block, like a stalker, waiting for her to appear. Someone might call the cops. And yet, how else was he ever going to find out what the hell she was planning to do next?

  He needed to get himself a vantage point. Somewhere he could sit and keep an eye on the building without looking suspicious. He found a coffee shop and chose a little table on the sidewalk from which he’d look like Joe Ordinary enjoying a latte in the pleasant September sunshine.

  At first it was quite relaxing, sitting there sipping coffee, people watching and listening to the chatter of other New Yorkers. There seemed to be only one topic of conversation, as far as he could hear, and that was the audacity of terrorists striking right at the heart of their country.

  After a while, the novelty of sitting still wore off, the appeal of eavesdropping paled and he became bored. He requested another latte from the pretty young waitress and, on her suggestion, added a chocolate muffin to his order. Anything to occupy him while he waited for Charlotte.

  ‘Can I freshen up your water glass for you, sir?’ asked the waitress as she pocketed her order pad and tucked her pencil into the loose chignon of hair on the top of her head. She was cute.

  ‘No, I’m good, thanks,’ he responded with a smile, wondering if she’d be up for some fun, but there was nothing in her demeanour to suggest she might be interested in anything he had to offer, other than a decent tip. He turned his attention back to the block on the other side of Fitzgerald Square.

  He was peeling the paper case from his muffin and licking chocolate off his fingers when the futility of what he was doing occurred to him. How long could he sit here, or anywhere else, waiting for Charlotte to walk out the door of her apartment block? He had no idea what the woman’s daily routine was, even when he was seeing her regularly and she had a job to go to. He knew she liked to jog. She’d told him so, one time when he’d been clutching her buttocks and admiring their pertness. But he didn’t know if she ran in the morning or in the evening. Could be she preferred to work out indoors, on a treadmill, like many who disliked the polluted city air and refused to exercise in it. He could sit here all day and never see her.

  Just then, as if he’d willed her to appear, the Lycra-clad figure of his erstwhile mistress stepped into the street and jogged off in the opposite direction.

  He leapt to his feet, spilling coffee and knocking his muffin to the ground. He steadied the table then took off down the street in pursuit.

  The cute waitress shouted, ‘Hey, you haven’t paid,’ but he couldn’t afford to stop.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he called as he ran, not caring whether she heard.

  Sprinting had never been his strong point and he was carrying the after-effects of too many business lunches, but he had to keep Charlotte in his sights.

  There she was, up ahead, making for Central Park probably, but he was losing her and it was hurting to breathe. His chest felt like he was zipped into a jacket ten sizes too small and he couldn’t expand his lungs. He was running out of air and she was getting away.

  He stopped, breathed in till it hurt and shouted, ‘Charlotte!’

  She didn’t react in any way. He tried again, louder this time, but that tight little butt disappeared round a corner as if he’d never opened his mouth.

  He doubled over and leaned his forearms on his legs, gasping for breath. There was nothing he could do. He wasn’t going to catch up on her now, not in this state.

  When his ragged breathing had stilled a little he straightened up and began to walk back to the café to get the check. The waitress was clearing his table and looked relieved when he appeared at her side, apologising for taking off.

  ‘Could I trouble you for a glass of water, please?’

  ‘Sure. Like, right after you pay,’ she said, all trace of her earlier smiles gone.

  He grabbed some bills from his wallet to show her his good intentions. When she held out her hand he gave her a bundle of notes, uncounted, and collapsed on the nearest chair. ‘Keep the change,’ he said, ‘But can I get that water quick, please?’

  He’d regained both his breath and his composure before he’d drained the glass. How long could someone spend jogging round a park? Five minutes would be too long for him
, judging by the state of his heart and lungs. Obviously sex was not sufficient exercise for a man of his age. He’d have to do something about his health soon, if he didn’t want to die of a coronary. He made a mental note to see his physician and try to get fit after all this Charlotte nonsense was settled. The next bozo he hired would be a personal trainer. Someone who’d knock him into shape again.

  ‘Sir? Can I get you something else?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s just that, we’ll, like, need this table pretty soon. Like, for lunch and all?’

  ‘That’s okay, I need to be going anyway. Thanks for the water and sorry about earlier.’

  Her smile was back.

  He was walking away, still thinking about the pretty waitress when Charlotte appeared, running straight towards him. He stopped and waited for her to spot him, wondering how she would react. Closer and closer she came and still she didn’t seem to notice him. She was almost upon him. Her name was on his lips but he hesitated too long. She slowed to a walk and turned towards the doorway of number thirty-two.

  28

  Running in the park had given Lucie a chance to think things through. She’d come up with a solution.

  All she needed to do was phone the hospital and pretend to be a relative calling from Scotland.

  While the phone was ringing, Lucie pictured Mousie, the kindly woman on the front desk who had been so helpful yesterday. At the sound of a man’s voice, Mousie’s face vanished like condensation from a mirror.

  ‘How may I direct your call?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I thought my mother, Margaret McBride was in ICU, but …’

  Before she could finish the line filled with static and she thought she’d been cut off.

  ‘Mrs McBride is in station three. Connecting you now.’