by Brian Thiem
There were too many unknowns with too many possible outcomes, but one thing was for certain: Sinclair had no doubt he could pull the trigger. It didn’t matter if a gun was in Travis’s hand or on the ground. Any uncertainty he had when he faced Garvin in the Mills Café a few days ago had vanished the moment he’d stepped into the school.
“Last chance, Travis,” Sinclair said. “Put down the detonator.”
“You won’t shoot me. You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man.”
Sinclair squeezed the trigger.
Everything began to move in slow motion. He felt the recoil of the rifle against his shoulder and heard the report of the gunshot. Travis’s head jerked backward. Red mist sprayed from the back of his head. Pearson looked at Travis, an expression of shock and surprise on his face. Sinclair released the rifle and went for his pistol on his right side. His eyes shifted to Pearson—his next target. Sinclair’s hand touched his Sig Sauer. In another second, it would be in his hand and at eye level, pointed at Pearson. In a split second, he’d decide whether to pull the trigger or not.
Since he was still alive and hadn’t been blown to kingdom come, the thought that Travis had been bluffing flashed through Sinclair’s mind as his fingers curled around the butt of his pistol and began to lift it from the holster. Simultaneously, a brilliant flash of white light blinded him, a deafening roar filled his eardrums, and a shock wave smashed into his body.
Chapter 42
Sinclair fought to open his eyes. They felt glued shut. He tried to reach his hand to his face to separate his eyelids, but it had ropes or something attached to it. He tried his other hand. It took all the strength he had to move it. He touched his face. It was scratchy. He was sure he had shaved this morning. Familiar voices sounded as if they were at the end of a tunnel. They were coming closer. Or was he moving through the tunnel toward them? He rubbed his eyes with his free hand.
“I think he’s waking up.”
The voice sounded like Maloney.
“Matt, are you awake?” Braddock asked.
Sinclair opened his eyes. He was in a hospital bed. A blurry shape that he made out to be Maloney stood on one side of his bed. With great effort, he turned his head and recognized Braddock on the other side. All around him were machines attached to wires and tubes that were running into him. Braddock pressed a button on a box, and the back of Sinclair’s bed rose until he was sitting up. She held out a glass and put a straw in his mouth.
He sucked on the straw. Tasted something cold and sweet. Apple juice. That confirmed he was in a hospital. No other place served apple juice to adults. He tried to raise his left hand again, but saw a thick IV tube stuck in his forearm. He had so many questions, he didn’t know where to start. He tried to speak, but his voice cracked. He swallowed more of the juice.
Maloney turned and spoke to a uniformed officer seated outside his room. “Tell a nurse he’s awake.”
“You don’t need to talk,” Braddock said. “You’re in the ICU at Highland Hospital. You’re going to be okay.”
Braddock’s voice sounded distant, even though she was beside him. Sinclair stuck a finger in his ear, hoping to clear it. He ran his right hand down his chest and tried to move his legs. His feet moved the blanket that covered him.
Braddock laughed. “Every body part is accounted for.”
“What about the kids . . . are they . . . ?” Sinclair began in a hoarse whisper.
“They’re all alive,” she said. “The blast blew out part of the cinderblock wall that separated the hall from the classroom. A few were injured by debris, others had minor concussions, but nothing life threatening. The last child was released from Children’s Hospital today.”
“Today?” Sinclair said, trying to form a complete thought in the mud in which his brain seemed to be immersed.
“It’s Saturday, Matt,” Braddock said. “You’ve been unconscious for two days.”
“Two days?”
“You came around a bit yesterday,” Braddock said. “You mumbled something, thrashed about, and tried to pull out your IV. The doctor gave you some more pain meds and you drifted off.”
“Alyssa?” Sinclair asked.
“She’s fine. She and the other teachers were checked out at ACH and released. She’s been one of your most frequent visitors.” Braddock smiled and took his hand in both of hers. “I called her when you started coming around. She’s on duty downstairs in the ER and will be up to see you soon.”
The final moments before the explosion were slowly coming back to him. “What happened?”
“Cathy was getting Buckner onto a gurney when the next officer arrived,” Maloney said. “He ran inside. How do you stop an officer from rushing toward the gunfire? He got to the corner of the hallway where Bucker had been shot just as Travis pulled out the detonator. The officer thought if he rushed down the corridor to cover you, one of them might panic and start shooting or press the button. His body camera was on, so we have a full video and audio recording of everything that happened. When you shot Travis, the officer instinctively ducked around the corner. There was a full-second delay between your shot and the explosion.”
“Buckner?” Sinclair asked.
“He’s alive,” Braddock said. “Two paramedics and three firefighters arrived. The doctors don’t know if he’ll fully recover and return to duty, but he’ll live. The bullet went through a lung and other stuff, so he’ll be in for a long time.”
“The trauma surgeon said that if he got here two minutes later, he’d be dead,” Maloney said. “Cathy was a warrior. The paramedics weren’t exactly waiting at the front door for her. She dragged Buckner across the parking lot and was getting ready to head down the street when the paramedics and firefighters finally decided to ignore the staging order from their bosses and ran up.”
Braddock gripped Sinclair’s hand harder. “He wasn’t going to die in my arms because I sat at the front door waiting for help.”
“Bucker’s body camera was on,” said Maloney. “The chief’s office edited it and released it to the media. It’s great PR to show the heroic actions of the three of you, but they did have to add a bleep when you told Cathy to drag Buckner all the fucking way to ACH if she had to.”
“I’m proud of you.” Sinclair squeezed her hand. Buckner was well over two hundred pounds with his gear on, so dragging him nearly a quarter mile was no easy task even for a large, muscular man. But he had no doubt Braddock wouldn’t have quit until she got Buckner into the hands of the paramedics.
“Me? Shit, Matt, you blew yourself up to save those kids. You can’t turn on the news without hearing your name.”
A nurse walked in, checked Sinclair’s vitals, and shined a penlight in his eyes. “How’s the pain?” she asked.
“I feel fine,” he said.
“I’ll talk to the doctor and see if we can cut back on the pain meds. We’ll probably run another MRI later. Can I get you anything?”
“Coffee,” Sinclair said.
“That’s not on the approved list for patients, but I’ll see what I can do.” She stopped at the door and smiled back at him. “We have some good stuff at the nurse’s station, and I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“ATF brought in their big team from back east to work the bomb scene,” Maloney said. “Both devices were pressure cookers just like the last one, but with twice as much black powder. ATF said that if even one bomb had gone off inside the classroom, everyone would’ve died. Not that they even needed the bombs. Both Pearson and Whitt had twenty loaded magazines for their nine millimeters. They had four hundred rounds and only needed a few seconds to change magazines. Shooting kids and teachers huddled in corners is no more difficult than shooting tin cans at the dump.”
The nurse brought Sinclair his coffee. He felt his head begin to clear at the first sip. “Was this all over Travis’s father and his affairs?” Sinclair asked.
“I don’t know if we’ll ever know the full answer,” Braddock said. “I read his mother’s diary a
nd William’s journals. We have to assume Travis did, too, and that’s what set him off.”
“What’s the connection between him and the anarchists?” Sinclair asked.
“The FBI pulled out all stops and processed every bit of evidence at both of Dawn’s apartments and the one where Edgar Pratt was killed,” Braddock said. “Coupled with e-mail and cell phone records, it looks like Travis went to Dawn’s apartment alone and killed her. He returned later with Edgar Pratt and another anarchist by the name of Justin Dixon to move the body. Dixon was the man you and Buckner shot at the school. Travis, Pratt, and Dixon took her body to the park. I have to think that was all Travis’s idea. Andrew Pearson came into the group and accompanied Travis and Dixon when they went to kill Edgar Pratt. Then a fourth guy, an anarchist friend of Pearson, joined them at the school. He was the rifleman you killed with the shotgun. Travis apparently had all these guys convinced they were mounting a noble attack on the establishment, when in effect, it was just personal. I think he planned to go out in a huge bang that his father had no choice but to notice.”
“Is Yates connected to this at all?” Sinclair asked.
Sinclair noticed a conspiratorial look between Maloney and Braddock.
Maloney nodded to Braddock, obviously giving her permission to continue. “William Whitt knew Travis lost his job three months ago, and he and Councilmember Yates were actually closer than he let on,” she said. “Yates needed someone in his community outreach office to revamp their computer network and website, and William recommended his son. Yates hired Travis to work twenty hours a week, but it was like hiring a master chef to flip hamburgers at McDonalds. Travis met scores of political activists while working there, some of whom were connected to the anarchist, Occupy, and Black Lives Matter movements.”
“How do you know Yates didn’t put him up to killing Dawn?” Sinclair asked.
Braddock shrugged her shoulders. “We talked to Yates’s staff. They acknowledged that Yates and Travis had talked together privately at times, but everyone assumed it was about computer stuff. Since the chief thinks we’re the biggest heroes in OPD history, he let the lieutenant and me interview Yates. The man is smooth and convincing. If he and Travis conspired to kill Dawn, he never let on, and their secret died with Travis.”
“So he gets away with it?” Sinclair said.
“We can’t prove he did anything,” Maloney said.
“What about other evidence that connects them—phone records, e-mails?”
“The FBI gave us all of Travis’s cell phone and e-mail records,” Braddock said. “There were calls to and from Yates’s offices. All of that is explainable by Travis working there.”
“What about the ties between Yates and Kozlov?” Sinclair asked. “How does Yates explain Kozlov giving him a condo for his mistress?”
“He took the fifth on that,” Maloney said. “Kozlov’s attorneys won’t let him talk to us about it either.”
“And that’s it?” Sinclair said.
“Look, Matt, we’re the murder police,” Maloney said. “We solved both homicides. All of the suspects are dead, so nothing’s going to trial. It’s up to others to investigate political corruption and bribery.”
“It’s not right,” Sinclair said.
“I know,” Maloney said.
“What about William Whitt?”
“Jankowski and I interviewed him for hours,” Braddock said. “He’s guilty of protecting his son, but that’s about it. His life is in shambles. He resigned from Cal Asia and has already listed his house for sale. He’s talking about moving to Florida, where he has a sister and can start a new life.”
“I’m sure they have escort services down there,” Sinclair said.
“I spoke to Dawn’s parents and both of her sisters numerous times over the last few days,” Braddock said. “No one understands why Dawn was so fixated on leaving home and living out here. I explored the possibly that she was abused as a child, but both sisters were adamant such a thing never occurred.”
“It’s probably impossible to look at someone else’s life from the outside and figure out why they took a particular path,” Sinclair said.
Braddock looked at him funny, squinting with one eye. She wasn’t used to him being so introspective.
She continued, “One thing’s for sure: Madison couldn’t be in a better home. Just this morning, I got a call from Dawn’s father. He received a notice that the brokerage account that was sending the checks will begin sending five thousand dollars every month and will deposit another two thousand into a college fund, both until Madison turns twenty-five.”
“Guilt money to make Yates feel better, or hush money so Dawn’s parents let it go,” Sinclair said. “That’s all it is.”
“Dawn’s parents would love to talk to you once you’re better, and they want Madison to meet you when she gets older.”
“I’d like that,” Sinclair said. He thought for a moment about meeting the boy whose parents he couldn’t save outside the movie theater years ago, and now planning to meet Madison, whose mother he also couldn’t save. Maybe by the time those meetings happened, he’d be in a place where he no longer felt that he had failed them.
“I don’t intend to let this stuff with Yates go,” Sinclair said.
“Get yourself better,” Maloney said. “We’ll talk about it more later.”
The nurse pushed a wheelchair into his room. “We have a reservation for you in radiology. Do you feel up to taking a ride?”
Chapter 43
Walt drove Sinclair home from the hospital Sunday evening in the big Mercedes sedan. Sinclair sat up front and watched the full moon light up the city through a clear sky. A few hours ago, a physician who specialized in traumatic brain injuries had explained that even though his physical injuries—mostly bumps and bruises from being thrown twenty feet by the blast—were minimal, the pressure wave passing through his brain probably disrupted its functioning to some degree. Even though the latest MRI showed no permanent damage, the doctor wouldn’t approve Sinclair’s release because he lived alone and there would be no one to notice if he experienced convulsions or seizures in his sleep. When Walt assured the doctor that either he or his wife would remain with Sinclair overnight, he reluctantly agreed to release him.
Sinclair had lost count of the number of visitors who stopped in to see him over the last two days. The police chief escorted the mayor to his bedside to tell him that he and Braddock would be awarded the Medal of Valor once he returned to duty. U.S. Attorney Campbell and District Attorney O’Brien visited together to praise him for his actions. O’Brien assured him that the DA office’s investigation into his officer-involved shooting was just a formality, and his office and the police department would together announce his shooting was justified as soon as he was up to giving his formal statement. Campbell told him, with a wink, that he was glad Sinclair hadn’t followed his admonishment to tread softly. Countless police officers and federal agents, many of whom Sinclair didn’t know by name, passed through his room, most only to shake his hand and wish him a speedy recovery.
Alyssa came by when she got off shift. She stayed with him most of the evening and never lost her smile even after getting up for the twentieth time so other visitors could come in. Sinclair wanted to talk about whether their relationship had changed after what happened at the Caldecott Academy. But every time he tried to talk to her, another well-wisher showed up in the doorway. She had mentioned that Christmas was eight days away, but he was afraid to ask about her plans. He was afraid she might laugh and remind him that they were only friends, or worse yet, he was just her patient, and that spending Christmas together was something couples did. How could he rush toward multiple suspects armed with rifles and bombs, yet be afraid to risk rejection from a woman?
Walt parked the car next to the kitchen door of Sinclair’s guesthouse and walked him inside. “If you’re hungry, Betty stocked your refrigerator with all kind of goodies, and I can have her make whatever you want.
”
“I ate just before they signed me out,” Sinclair said. “What I want first is a shower. Hospital sponge baths don’t cut it. Then I just want to sit in my chair, watch the Raiders finish losing their eleventh game of the season, and sleep in my own bed.”
“While you’re showering, I’ll park the car and grab a pillow and blanket so I can camp out on your couch tonight.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
“Matthew, the doctors said you should not be left alone tonight, and we will obey the doctors.”
Sinclair knew it was useless to argue with Walt, so he headed toward the shower.
He had just hung up his towel when he heard a knock at the French doors that led from his living room to the pool area.
It wasn’t like Walt not to carry his keys. Sinclair pulled on his robe and went to the living room to let him in.
On the other side of the door stood Alyssa, wearing a fleece jacket over a sweater and skinny jeans. Sinclair opened the door. “This is a surprise,” he said.
She stepped inside. Sinclair looked past her to see if Walt was there. He wasn’t. Her long, sleek hair was down and the corners of her mouth turned upward. Her entire face was smiling.
“I was going to wait until Christmas morning to give this to you,” she said, holding up a shopping bag. “But I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t wait to see the expression on your face.” She reached in the bag and pulled out a Burberry trench coat, a brand-new version of the Westminster classic that was destroyed in the first explosion.
“Jeez, Alyssa, this is way too much.”
She draped the coat over the back of his sofa. “When I went to the Burberry store in San Francisco and told them who it was for and what happened to your last one, the owner came out and . . . well, he almost gave it to me for free.”