The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel

by T. Ainsworth

  He came back to Morgan and saluted. “Sir, let’s get you out of here.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Morgan collapsed in the seat while a medic harnessed him.

  The young man shouted in his ear, “Want some water, sir?”

  It took Morgan a moment to connect with the friendly Southern twang. Before he could answer, the man dug in a chest, twisted off the cap, and handed him a plastic bottle. Cold and sweet, the water was gone in seconds.

  His gloved hands inspected Morgan’s neck wounds. The antiseptic stung, but he was too numb to move.

  The medic shouted, “Lucky these are superficial.” He started an IV in Morgan’s arm. “Gonna give you an antibiotic and clean you up good. Get that shoulder fixed up later. How ‘bout some morphine?”

  “No morphine,” Morgan shouted with a strong head shake.

  The medic cupped headphones over Morgan’s ears. They instantly came alive. A penetrating voice demanded an immediate answer.

  “Doc’s aboard,” the pilot radioed. “Tower One Alpha team recovered…Going airborne.” Static. “Adios down there.”

  High above, a satellite relayed the words. Morgan couldn’t smile but felt the same way through his throbbing brain.

  The helicopter accelerated.

  The SEALs had been on the ground only fourteen minutes.

  “All teams, James Llewellyn here…good try, Americans! POTUS sends his thanks. We’ll get Conductor. He can run, but can’t hide forever. Sending friends along while you clear the airspace.”

  The F-15s screamed past, shuttering the Blackhawk airframes.

  “Tower Teams, good evening! Eagles at your service!”

  Through the cockpit window, Morgan saw the orange glow of their engines as the jets turned to assume their flanks. His headphones crackled again.

  “Dr. Morgan, this is Eagle One…We’re bringing you home.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Alexandria Friday Morning March 19, Eastern Time

  Elaine Jericho decided to take the morning for herself. She was sick of the parade of realtors and their clients who opened her closets and glimpsed inside the unsealed packing boxes, asking where she was moving.

  She turned up the volume so the music blasted through her earbuds, hoping it would drown her indelible disappointment. After she went running on the Potomac trail, she planned to sit in a café and drink tea, immersing herself in one of her books, trying not to look at any clock.

  If the strike had occurred, it was already over anyway. Someday she’d hear scuttlebutt or read the story in the newspapers, but she wasn’t certain she even cared. All Jericho wanted to do was withdraw to the next place and get on with her life—whatever that meant.

  When she finally returned home, she didn’t hear the phone ring until there was a break in the music.

  The blocked number made her stomach churn.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “Elaine, its Cottrell.”

  “Admiral…”

  Their former rapport wasn’t there.

  “Sorry to bother you,” he said. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Of course, sir. How may I help you, sir?”

  Her words held no emotion.

  “I wanted you to know…” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He sensed false indifference.

  “We didn’t get him.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. He escaped through a tunnel, but his day will come. Got a trove of information the spooks are dissecting. State and POTUS are repairing the damage with the Pakistanis.”

  “I wish I cared.”

  “Well, this other bit might perhaps cheer you.”

  Her heart skipped.

  “Someone you may be wondering about is coming home.”

  He heard the gasp as she grabbed the counter’s edge.

  “Elaine, are you okay?”

  “Yes…sir.” She added, “Thanks so much for calling, Admiral.”

  “Lainey, I’m sorry ‘bout all this. If there’s ever anything I can do for you…”

  “You already have, Cotty…You already have.”

  The pay phone rang. Jericho answered it.

  “How are you doing?” Jon Pruitt asked her.

  “I’m packing and doing other mundane chores that compliment my new ordinary life,” she replied.

  “Not much fun,” he said.

  “Doing my duty.” She sounded mournful. “Jon…I want to share good news with you.”

  Pruitt was certain what it was. The day after she visited the farm, Pruitt called on President Reeves at the White House to show his friend Morgan’s email and mention the unfortunate circumstances that fell on a navy captain who, while attempting to protect her country, had corroborated Morgan’s possible whereabouts. Reeves said he would do what he could for both Morgan and Jericho.

  Early this morning Reeves had called and told him of Morgan’s rescue, but Pruitt would give the moment to Jericho.

  “Please, Elaine. My heart can’t tolerate prolonged anticipation from an attractive woman.”

  “Jon…All I know…” Her eyes were misting. “Wes is coming home.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  Pruitt Farm Four Months Later

  When Morgan got back to the States, he needed an operation for his neck wound and another for his shoulder; he refused plastic surgery for the scars on his back. Those medals he would keep. Through it all he refused narcotics. Vowing to never enter that dark place again, he grimaced from time to time, but nothing more.

  Every morning, he examined his incisions in the mirror while the nurse changed his dressings. They looked damned good and were healing well. His bruises inside, however, were not.

  Jon Pruitt had made certain a psychiatrist monitored Morgan during the CIA debriefings. Through a one-way window, the physician watched him in the reclining chair as he perspired, repetitively flitted his gaze toward the door, then the doctor, then the ceiling.

  As Morgan told his story, his interviewers would later marvel in private about his disciplined ability to learn and train for a task considered impossible. With each subsequent session however, the evidence of Morgan’s torment compounded until the psychiatrist medicated him to reduce his stress. For a time the nightmares still broke through. Eventually Morgan’s traumatic anxieties softened. Able to be managed as an outpatient, he was discharged. Jon brought him to the farm.

  The Pruitts paid for everything.

  Every dawn Morgan stretched with a yoga master on a hidden knoll away from the house. After breakfast, while he met with his therapist, Connie placed fresh flowers in his room and made his bed. Morgan would often sit on the porch rocker and read—sometimes it was the Bible or the Koran they discovered in his pant’s pocket. He meditated often, and started running again. Slowly, his crippled mind began to heal. He was no longer feeling rudderless.

  Then his therapist suggested he care for Caroline’s horse, Goethe.

  For a week Morgan struggled with the proposal. He finally asked Jon to take him to the stables.

  His reunion with Goethe was bittersweet. As he stroked the horse’s forehead, he whispered into an ear, “Sorry, buddy…just going be just me now.”

  His fingers ran along the bridle hanging nearby on the wall. The rich hand-stained leather with raised stitching and brass nameplate was a present he had given Caroline on Goethe’s birthday.

  Intentionally clearing his throat to emphasize an expanding grin, Jon said, “I remember what happened the day you gave that to her.”

  Morgan nodded with a much-needed smile.

  One month later

  Goethe had already trotted in from the pasture and was waiting along the corral’s rail. He whinnied as Morgan climbed over the fence.

  “What a mess!” Morgan said. “Goethe, what you been up to with that tail? Spanking the mare?”

  He shook his head in mock annoyance.

  Goethe swished his flaxen tail wide as the chestnut gelding snorted.
A treat was coming.

  Morgan opened his hand. “It’s the peppermint you like.”

  A pair of red-and-white-striped sticks crunched and was gone. The horse bounced his head up and down, giving tentative thanks.

  “Not to worry,” Morgan said, using his fingers to untangle the horse’s mane. “You won’t get cavities. They’re still sugar free, just as your mistress always insisted.” He gave a slight thump on the horse’s hip. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up. Jon and I are riding later.”

  They walked together into the stables.

  “Care for nail polish today?” Morgan asked.

  Goethe snorted and clomped into his stall.

  After Morgan picked through one of the front hooves, Goethe pushed his nose into Morgan’s bent rear, signaling the time to switch. When he finished the last back hoof, Goethe’s tail splashed his face in thanks.

  “You’re welcome,” Morgan said with a gentle pat on his flank. The tail swished again. “Remind me tomorrow to trim that thing.”

  Goethe nickered. The best part was coming. The horse loved the currycomb.

  With each circle of the short plastic teeth across the barrel hairs, little clouds of dirt and clay splashed the sunlight.

  “You can only get this filthy if you’re rolling around, scratching your back!”

  Goethe’s ears turned toward Morgan as he spoke. He stopped brushing and came to the horse’s face.

  “Don’t think for a second I don’t know that’s what you’re doing,” he said sternly.

  Their conversation weaving wherever it went, Morgan finished with the right side and started on the left. Goethe’s ears turned away, but Morgan paid no attention. A front hoof stomped a few seconds later.

  “Magnificent animal,” said a voice.

  Morgan didn’t look and kept brushing. “Yes,” he mumbled.

  “Got a minute, Wes?”

  Morgan’s stomach muscles tightened as he glanced at the door, where a man stood dressed in a suit. A few feet behind, a bald head in a darker suit had a curly wire coming from the ear.

  “Jon said you’d be down here with Goethe.”

  “Every day,” Morgan replied.

  The president moved closer.

  “I remember when Cay first got him,” Reeves said. “Her father wasn’t sure about the name, but long before, Jon had learned never to argue with his daughter…so Goethe it was.”

  Each time the gelding heard his name, he whinnied.

  “Frozen music,” Morgan said.

  “Pardon me?” asked Reeves.

  “Architecture is frozen music,” Morgan replied. “It was Cay’s favorite saying. Johann Goethe coined it—she named him in his honor.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  The president tipped his head toward the Secret Service agent who stepped back and left the barn. The sincerity in Reeves’s face grew.

  “Cay was my goddaughter,” the president said. “I wanted to come by…to see how you’re doing, but I know you needed time. I waited until Jon gave me the okay.” Reeves lowered his voice even more. “So…how are you doing?”

  “I’m improving,” answered Morgan.

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  They stood an arm’s length apart.

  “Wes…I’m so sorry. You were both lucky to have each other, even if it was tragically too short. Jon and Connie were blessed too.” His tone stayed somber. “They’re still lucky…with a man like you.”

  Morgan said nothing.

  “Cay would have been proud of you.”

  Morgan shrugged.

  “What you did was impossible…to say the least.”

  “Had to do something,” Morgan said.

  Reeves gave a suppressed chuckle. “That’s a hell of an understatement.”

  “I hope you get him someday,” said Morgan.

  “We will.” Reeves paused. “Wes…there’s more I came here to say.”

  The president held out his hand.

  “Along with my personal gratitude…On behalf of the citizens of the United States, I thank you for your service to our country.”

  Morgan reached to shake the president’s hand until he realized he was still holding the currycomb. When he stopped his arm, both men looked down and smiled as Morgan pulled it off. Reeves tried again—successfully.

  “If there’s ever anything I can do for you…Jon and I are old friends.” Reeves produced a thoughtful smile. “I guess that’s…very old friends. Just tell him.”

  “Thanks…”

  “Going to go give Connie a hug and get out of here before I blow Jon’s privacy. Had to sneak away. Press, you know.” The president turned to leave and paused. “Anything, anytime, Wes.”

  And he was gone.

  Jon Pruitt flew to Chicago to meet with the Merrimacs and Janie Bonwitt. Seated in the fourth-floor lounge of the Four Seasons Hotel overlooking Michigan Avenue, Janie teared before they even ordered cocktails. Shaking his head, Pruitt handed her his handkerchief. When the waiter came to take their drink orders, Ross Merrimac asked for a margarita instead of following his wife’s lead of iced tea.

  Shandra scowled.

  “Queen,” Ross said, “I don’t drink much…but I’m going to have one today.”

  Janie blew her nose again.

  “I wanted to ask you face to face,” said Jon. “Wes told me he couldn’t bear to come back to the city, at least not yet. It was too soon…Too many memories…We talked about it. Because you were so much a part of their lives, he hoped you would join us in New York.”

  They quickly agreed.

  “Is anyone else joining us?” asked Janie.

  “What do you mean?” Pruitt asked.

  “Didn’t you mention a woman was involved in his rescue?”

  Pruitt reflected for a moment.

  “Well…Yes…I told Wes a few weeks back, he had a guardian angel who helped him get home—that she had called to tell us he’d been rescued.”

  “Did you ever meet her?” Janie asked.

  “Connie and I had her over for dinner to thank her.”

  Quick white lies were a skill he had perfected over the years.

  Janie began to smile. “Is she pretty?”

  Not understanding her curiosity, Jon scratched his head. Merrimac exploded in laughter, shocking his wife even more by taking a gulp of his margarita.

  “Janie,” Ross said, “there you go again!”

  Another long sip followed.

  “So, Jon…” Janie pestered. “This girl who helped him…She’s pretty?”

  “She’s a very beautiful redhead...and equally as smart.”

  Ross Merrimac laughed again while Pruitt appeared only more confused.

  “Jon! What are you waiting for?” Bonwitt’s smile grew huge. “Introduce her to Wes! You’ve got her phone number, I hope!”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  The North Tower site was busy. Dump trucks, cranes, and bulldozers never stopped moving debris. Morgan was at the bottom, below the street noise, walking, looking up and down at the four sides that rose around him. Ahead, a cement mixer and its operators waited. Wearing hardhats, the Pruitts, Merrimacs, and Bonwitt walked with Morgan, followed at a respectful distance by a swelling number of ground crew.

  “Thank you for letting me do this,” Morgan said when he reached the pit.

  “Our honor, Dr. Morgan,” replied the foreman.

  Concrete poured in the hole as Morgan knelt on one knee and dropped in the engagement ring.

  The next morning, before the September 11 anniversary ceremony, Morgan and Jon Pruitt stood at the small pool at Ground Zero and together raised the snifters filled with the remaining Macallan. After a taste they placed the crystal on the ledge and gently lowered blue orchids in the water. Red roses joined them. Pruitt put his hand lovingly but firmly on Morgan’s shoulder.

  “Wes, time to go.”

  Morgan gripped the railing as he stepped to the dais, unsure of the emotions he was about to face.

&nbs
p; Caroline’s name came last. The tears were impossible to hold back. His world changed the first time she kissed him, offering her love without condition, her blue eyes penetrating deep into his soul. Even in her final moment of life, she filled him with joy and hope. Yet Caroline would never succumb to the uninvited will of others and she chose to die on her terms—so she jumped.

  It was now time for Morgan to say goodbye.

  “Caroline Alora Pruitt,” he said proudly. “My beautiful Cay…”

  He looked beyond the collective sadness to the holy place where she was entombed, where the day before he finally gave her the ring.

  “My darling Cay, I love you…and will forever.”

  Epilogue

  The ceremony ended. Jon, Connie, Ross, Shandra, and Janie surrounded him with their hands linked together. Shandra offered a prayer. Arm in arm, they cried.

  When their emotions settled, Jon said, “How ‘bout we stretch our legs a bit?”

  Bathed in muted glory, New York City was emerging from the paralysis of that morning. Strolling along, talking about things they’d never remember, they paused frequently while the women window-shopped. It was carefree and that was good. The last several hours had been a strain on them.

  When they got to a stoplight, Janie said, “Ladies, I know some really great places uptown where we can shop!”

  Merrimac shook his head and said, “No…I think I’d rather get some coffee and meet up with you girls later.”

  Jon agreed.

  “Abandoning us! Ooo! You’re no fun!” said Janie, looking at Jon and Ross. “Well, boys…then be dearies and get us cab, will you? Pretty please, with sugar?”

  Jon Pruitt pointed across the street to a Starbucks. “Wes, go grab a table and we’ll find you.”

  Morgan nodded.

  With a mug of green tea, Morgan sat on a stool at the window and picked up an abandoned New York Times. Thinking he might read it, he put it in his lap and first looked out the window. The women were gone. Taking a sip of the hot liquid, he scanned the newspaper’s headlines. His eyes returned to the date.