The Siege

by Stephen White

  “There are a lot of elite schools, Poe. Same thing is true for ten others colleges. Twenty others. Yale’s no different.”

  “Stay with me, Dee. All together, these secret societies like Book & Snake take what—two, three percent of current students? That makes the kids locked inside that building the elite of the elite. John Kerry was in Skull & Bones. So was George W. Bush.”

  “Go on,” she said. “I’m not sure what argument you’re making with your examples, but go on.”

  “This is what I’m saying—we can assume that the hostages in the Book & Snake tomb are among the best and the brightest kids this country produces. We already know that some of them are from the best families, right? We can guess that some of them are from un-countable wealth. And if history is a guide, we can assume that some of them have the bluest blood running in their veins. Their parents are running our government. Ruling our industry. Overseeing our banking. Our military. Our judiciary. Everything.”

  Dee felt a need to bring Poe back down to earth. “Garry Trudeau, Poe?”

  Poe didn’t want to argue about which secret society counted Garry Trudeau among its members. “Come on, Dee. Supreme Court nominee’s kid? Secretary of the army’s?”

  “Are you thinking ransom, Poe? How much money he could get? What he could fund with it?”

  “I wouldn’t be in New Haven if I thought the unsub wanted money. No, he wants something else.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know what.”

  “Earlier? Before you left for New Haven?” Dee said. “You said that the mysterious thing was what was going on inside the building all day Friday.”

  “That’s the part that worries me most. Friday. Why nothing from inside the tomb on Friday?”

  “What about the murder at the hockey rink? The sniper scare in the tower? All of that? That was all Friday.”

  “Definitely related. But it all happened outside the building. Had all the local cops running every which way. The murdered kid in the hockey rink was from a completely different secret society. The sniper fiasco was on the other side of campus. I think it was all intended to ensure that the unsub has had all the time he needed for whatever the hell he was doing inside that building since he took control on Thursday.”

  “Misdirection?”

  “Has to be. Like the music he just played. He was up to something during that noise. The question is, did he get away with it? Damn. There’s so much I don’t know.”

  “What can I do, Poe? Realistically, how much help can I be? I’m in an airport departure lounge watching television.”

  His tone suddenly changed, his voice more subdued. “What I could use most is whatever the Company has put together about the kids. The ones who have already come out of that tomb. Alive or dead. And about the kids who might still be inside. Parents, grandparents, family connections. The more detail the better. I . . .”

  Poe went quiet while he fought off sudden intrusive images. He was remembering things he’d been trying to forget.

  Dee said, “You still there? Did I lose you?”

  His voice changed again. It was hovering in a range that was barely above melancholy. Unbidden memories oozed into his consciousness. He couldn’t plug the cracks fast enough. He tried to cover. He said, “I’m here, baby. You can’t lose me. Don’t even think about trying.”

  She recognized the unmistakable timbre of old pain in his voice. His vulnerability was a magnet for her. Always had been. “Where are you staying?” she asked. She made the nimble transformation from analyst to woman. She needed to know if he was okay, if he had a nice bed. Something to eat.

  “Don’t know. My out-of-town cop is at the Omni. May end up there. I have to keep an eye . . . You heading out soon?” Poe was fighting the dangerous draw of the undertow, trying to allow simple conversation to anchor him to current reality.

  “I’m on the next flight to Dulles, Poe. I have to get home. For real this time—boarding starts in a couple of minutes. I’ll let you know when I’m on the ground in Virginia. I’ll text or call. I will . . . do what I can to help you, but you need to be prepared that it may turn out not to be much. This stuff is locked down tight.”

  Poe’s voice continued the gravitational slide. All he managed to say was “Thank you, Dee. For . . . everything. I mean . . . everything. My breath.”

  “No. No,” Dee replied in staccato. She tried to catch herself. She was determined not to succumb. “No you don’t. Stop it, now! Don’t you go sentimental on me, Poe. Not when I’m in public. You know how much I hate to cry in public. You behave yourself right now.”

  Her voice was cracking. Her eyes were wet. She’d lost whatever composure she had.

  Poe had started walking, moving away from the pain. His pain and her pain. He’d turned the corner onto College Street. He was across the street from the big lawn that was the New Haven Green. His back was turned to Beinecke Plaza. He was creating distance between himself and Book & Snake. Away from the unsub. Away from SSG and HRT. Away from the noise.

  From Dee? He hoped not. But he knew that everything would change when she got on that plane.

  He was allowing himself the luxury of getting lost in the melody of her words, until Dee said, “Oh no, Poe. Poe? There’s another kid outside the tomb. He just moved out near the steps. He’s carrying a box.”

  Poe stopped walking. He focused. His voice became a version of ordinary. “I’m over two blocks away from the building. I can’t see anything, Dee. You’re my eyes. Tell me.”

  “It’s a cardboard box, like you would get at the grocery store. The bottom half of a produce box. He’s just standing there. He’s a . . . you know, college kid, um, student, five-ten, Asian . . . Japanese. Japanese-American. One-seventy? Strong. He’s blinking. His wrists are red. He’s barefoot. He’s just standing there with the damn box. Looking around. He’s terrified, Poe. Oh Lord.”

  “Earpiece?” Poe asked.

  “His hair covers his ears. Can’t tell.”

  “SWAT? HRT?”

  “Offscreen. Can’t see what they’re up to.”

  “Shit.”

  “And . . . wait . . . he just turned the box around. There’s some printing on it. It says . . . umm . . . ‘YouTube. Breach. Book & Snake.’ Hold on. Hold on. I got that. I’m still online. I’m putting you on speaker while I search. Just a second . . . Okay, okay . . . YouTube is up. I’m typing in the key words. And . . . a video comes right up. Right up.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Just a sec . . . Posted ten minutes ago. It’s four minutes and change. Title, HRT: What Happens if You Breach . . .”

  Poe said, “Oh, shit.”

  Dee went quiet.

  Poe said, “Talk to me, baby. Talk to me.”

  “I think the video was made inside the tomb, Poe . . . Holy. I wonder if there are any kids in it.”

  Poe didn’t know what to ask first.

  Dee said, “The TV screen just split. I’m looking at the CNN feed. They’ve started the video. And the kid is squatting down. He’s tilting the carton he’s carrying. He’s like . . . pouring it . . . emptying it out on the ground. . . It’s a box of . . .”

  “What, Dee? What?”

  “Holy.”

  “Pouring, Dee? What do you mean? What’s he doing? What’s in the box? What—Tell me . . .”

  “He’s pouring oranges down the steps. Dozens of . . . oranges. They’re just rolling down the steps. Onto the grass.”

  “Oranges?” Poe said. “Fruit?”

  APRIL 19, SATURDAY EARLY EVENING

  Sam

  I had circled behind the cemetery, continuing past the Whale on the sidewalk across the street. There was no new activity outside the hockey rink. The yellow police perimeters remained in place. Two campus cops were acting as sentries. They looked bored because they were bored.

  They were bored because they didn’t know the big picture.

  The orange X remained taped to the glass.

  I kept w
alking, skirting campus, heading toward downtown. When I was two blocks from the hotel a cacophonous racket of hip-hop music started playing. I stopped in my tracks on the other side of the New Haven Green. The noise was definitely coming from the direction of Beinecke Plaza. The volume was astonishing to me.

  I stood still for almost five minutes until the music finally stopped. The noise had meant something. I didn’t know what, but I was guessing it had been a diversion. I hoped that I would learn more when I had a chance to get to a TV. I was only a block from the Omni Hotel when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

  It was Ann. She said, “Another student just stepped outside the tomb, Sam. A boy. I’m watching it on the news. He’s been outside the door for twenty seconds or so. He has a box. That’s all so far.”

  “I’m not close, Ann. I’m blocks away, near the Omni. A box? Take me through what you see. What you’ve seen. Everything.” Even if I were as close to the tomb as the authorities would allow me to get, I knew I still wouldn’t be able to see what Ann could see on television.

  “Like I said, he’s carrying a box. Like a cardboard box. He’s so scared, Sam. His eyes. His poor parents. He’s moved all the way out front, near the steps. Past those pillars.”

  “Any . . . orange, Ann? What’s he wearing?”

  She was fighting to keep the pressure out of her voice. “The box is cardboard. Regular . . . brown cardboard. Not orange. He’s barefoot. Jeans. Baggy? Light blue polo shirt over a . . . white T-shirt, I think. Yes. White. No orange I can see. Oh God. Thank God. No orange.”

  “What about his hair?”

  “Wavy.”

  “Color?” I felt as though I was playing Password with my kid while he was distracted thinking about some girl. “He doesn’t have red hair, Ann?”

  “Oh, oh. God. No. Dark hair. He’s . . . Asian. Maybe Japanese.”

  “Go on.”

  “He’s standing. Looking around. He’s so scared. I can tell how frightened he is. He doesn’t know what to make of any of it.”

  “Keep talking, Ann. Everything you see.”

  “That’s it so far. Wait! Now he’s . . . he’s just turned the box around in his hands so the other side is facing us. It . . . it has printing on it. Big letters. From a computer printer. Like that. It says, wait a second . . . ‘YouTube . . . Breach . . . Book & Snake.’ All on separate lines.”

  Keywords? I wondered immediately. “You close to your computer, Ann?”

  “I’m ahead of you, Sam. Just a second. It’s loading slowly. Damn. Okay, here it comes . . . Those search terms bring up a You Tube video. It’s called HRT: What Happens if You Breach. It’s starting to play. Oh my God. Oh . . . my God. It’s from inside the tomb, Sam. Inside! Where’s my baby? Where is she? Jane? Jane? Baby . . .”

  I had to draw Ann back to the young man with the box at the top of the stairs. “What’s the kid doing, Ann? Right now?”

  “He’s . . . um . . . he just crouched down. He’s in the same place, but he’s squatting. He still has the box in his hands.”

  Five seconds passed. Then ten.

  “Oh my Lord! Sam, the box is full of . . . He’s tilting it down, toward the camera. Oh no, no, no. Noooooo. No, no, no, no . . .”

  “What, Ann? What?”

  She was whimpering. “He’s pouring oranges down the stairs. Dozens and dozens of . . . oranges. They’re going to kill him, Sam, aren’t they? They’re going to kill this boy. . . .”

  I made my voice as soft as I could. I found every bit of tenderness I’d ever felt while being my son’s father and I packed it tight around the next words I said to Ann. “You don’t have to watch this, Ann. Walk away. Just get out of the room. You don’t have to see this. You shouldn’t see this. Stand up now. Walk away now. . . . Go. . . . Now. Right now. Listen to me. . . .”

  “He just tossed the box aside. He’s up again, just standing there. Looking down at his feet, at the steps. No, no, no, no.”

  Soft hadn’t worked. I put an edge on my tone. “Get out of that room, Ann. Now. Do what I say. Turn your head. Walk away. Now!”

  “Okay, okay. I’m going.”

  I felt the concussion. I heard the explosion. In the void right after my body shook I thought I could hear the whole country gasp, too, but I wasn’t completely sure about that.

  Or about anything.

  APRIL 19, SATURDAY EARLY EVENING

  Poe and Dee

  Dee said, “Baby, he tossed the box off to the side. Now he’s just standing there. His hands are empty.”

  Poe saw the frame in his head. He could feel the progression of the scene as though he had already witnessed it. He whispered, “Oh God.”

  Dee felt Poe’s apprehension as clearly as if his quivering hand were resting on her flesh. Their many years together had convinced her that Poe had radar for calamity.

  “What, Poe? What does it mean?”

  “Turn away, baby,” he said. “Cover your—”

  Dee screamed.

  Poe’s brain registered a scream.

  He didn’t know at the time if it was Dee’s current scream pummel- ing his ears or if the scream he heard was a replay of one of the chorus of screams that were indelibly imprinted in his brain from that distant April in Oklahoma City.

  His bones felt the shock waves of the concussion before his ears registered the roar from the blast.

  His body began reacting to the reality long before his mind could begin to process the tidal wave of information flooding into him through his senses.

  Imagination and reality were indistinguishable.

  He dropped his phone before he heard Dee’s distant, plaintive “No! Oh no, no, no! Poe, Poe.”

  Poe was on the ground facedown, his arms covering his head. He didn’t know how he got there, but he knew he had to prepare himself for the coming cascade of horror, the one that would bury him in debris. He had to steel himself for the onslaught of blackness, for the tornado of dust. For the almost certain suffocation. For the certain pain, for the take-it-to-the-bank sense of loss.

  For the despair. For the eternity. He held his breath, his lungs full as he waited for the world to fall on him.

  The world didn’t collapse.

  For a flash of an instant, Poe was disappointed.

  The transient disappointment cut through all the chaos.

  Furiously, he began to dig.

  Seconds later, or maybe minutes—Poe didn’t know—he crawled off the sidewalk toward a building. He was on a patch of grass. He reached for his BlackBerry two feet away on the lawn. Dee’s voice drew him to it.

  The sound of her voice confused him.

  His hands were black with mud. Grass and dirt were packed beneath his fingernails. He’d been digging down through the rubble.

  Dee? Dee?

  She was talking nonstop. “Baby, baby. I’m here. Baby, you’re okay. We’re okay. I’m here, I’m here. Poe? Poe? Talk to me, baby. Talk to me. It’s Dee. I’m here, right here with you . . .”

  “Dee?” he said.

  “Poe! Baby! You’re all right. You understand? You’re all right. I’m here. I’m here, baby.”

  “They killed that boy?” Poe said.

  “They did,” Dee said.

  “It was an IED,” Poe said.

  Dee made the connections. She said, “Holy.”

  Poe sat cross-legged on the grass as they talked. Dee was desperate for assurance that Poe was connected to the present. That one more bomb hadn’t been one bomb too many.

  Slowly, he convinced her.

  Although he didn’t know how long they talked, he knew he needed to move on.

  “You go get your plane, Dee. You go home. This only makes me more determined. I need to go find my out-of-town cop before SSG realizes what they have and hide him from me.”

  “Are you sure, sure, sure you’re okay?”

  “When I’m talking to you, I’m fine. I know you don’t like to hear that. But that’s just the way it is, Dee. The rest of the time, I just am. Maybe if I help
stop this guy, you know? Maybe then, maybe then I’ll be . . . you know, free.”

  Dee said, “You’re a wounded man, Christopher Poe.”

  She’d had the thought a thousand times before, but that was the first time she had ever said it aloud.

  He didn’t have to consider her appraisal. His wounds weren’t news to Poe. “I suppose I am.”

  “You take care, Poe. No, wait—there’s something else I want to tell . . . I need to . . . I . . .”

  The breathiness in her voice betrayed her. Poe felt something monumental coming. He gave her three seconds before the urgency overcame him. He said, “What? You want to tell me what, Dee? What do you need to . . . ?”

  It took her a few seconds to reply. She said, “I have to go, too. Last call for boarding.”

  “I love you, too, Dee,” he said aloud.

  She had already killed the call. Poe knew that.

  Maybe in May. No, not maybe. Definitely in May, he thought. I’ll tell you for real in May.

  Dee said a silent prayer before she stepped out of the boarding line. She twirled her carry-on around and started walking in the direction of baggage claim.

  She stopped suddenly halfway down the concourse. She held her hair back with one hand, leaned forward, and vomited into a big gray Rubbermaid rolling dustbin that was being pushed along by a custodian who was in no particular hurry.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said when she was done. She grabbed a tissue to cover her mouth. “That was awful of me. I’m . . . so sorry. I didn’t feel . . . I didn’t know that was . . . coming.”

  The janitor’s face was impassive. His eyes were soft. “No, ma’am. Not t’all. Bett’n on da flo’,” he said. “Much bett’n dat.”

  APRIL 19, SATURDAY EVENING

  NEW HAVEN

  Christine Carmody tries three times in quick succession to get the attention of the young man who had just exited the tomb carrying the cardboard carton. She introduces herself. She asks him his name. She asks him to lower the box to the ground. She asks him to stop.