The Speed of Sound

by Eric Bernt

  Jacob could see that both his student and his girlfriend truly hated the subway, but neither said anything further. The professor regretted his insistence almost immediately when he noticed the homeless guy following them. The man was in really bad shape. He walked with a severe limp. His tattered clothing was filthy. Jacob figured the guy had probably targeted them because of Barry’s girlfriend. Not that she was his objective, but no woman like this would be with a guy like Barry if he wasn’t filthy rich.

  They turned a corner as they made their way through the station. Jacob used the opportunity to glance behind them to see if the bum was still following them. He wasn’t. Jacob was just being paranoid. At least, that was what he told himself.

  Arriving at the uptown platform, he glanced at Tatiana. “Have you ever seen a French film?”

  She responded in French. “Professeur, ce n’est pas parce que je suis mannequin que je suis inculte.” (Professor, just because I am a model does not make me illiterate.)

  He responded in kind. “Je n’ai jamais dit ça. La majorité des Americains n’en ont pas vu un seul.” (I never said you were. Most Americans have never seen a foreign film.)

  Barry interjected. “English, please, or I’m going to start getting jealous.” He smiled playfully.

  Tatiana glanced at him, then at Jacob. “I am not American.”

  “Yeah, I gathered that. I was only offering to give you some background in case you weren’t familiar with what we’re about to see.” Jacob said it without any airs. He was genuinely trying to be helpful.

  “I have seen many French films, but never an avant-garde one.”

  “Well, you’re in for a treat,” he said loudly over the cacophony around them. “That or you’re in for the most god-awful time you’ve ever experienced, in which case I’ll buy you both a drink.”

  Barry chimed in, practically yelling over the noise of the approaching train. “In that case, I’ll be calling a car.”

  “Maybe then you’ll have to bring the professor out clubbing with us.”

  “Who said we were going out?”

  “Who said we weren’t?” she purred.

  Considering the possibilities of where this night might go, Jacob didn’t notice the homeless guy making his way toward them again.

  Ever since the Twin Towers went down, New York City had been on constant vigil for the next terrorist attack. The subway system was widely considered one of the most likely targets, simply because of the scale of the thing. There were 468 different stations along 842 miles of track. Over five million passengers rode the trains every weekday, making it the seventh-busiest subway system in the world, behind Beijing, Shanghai, Tokyo, Guangzhou, Seoul, and Moscow. The points of vulnerability were simply too many to count.

  Jacob, Barry, and Tatiana listened as a train neared the station. Local trains slowed their approach and weren’t nearly as piercing as express trains, which zoomed right on by. The approaching train was clearly not going to stop.

  The homeless guy yelled as loud as he could above the shrill of the approaching train. “It is time America paid for its sins!”

  Nobody gave much attention to him until he put on a gas mask, which had been hidden beneath his tattered coat. The gas mask looked brand new.

  By the time he held a canister high above his head, he had the attention of every single person on the crowded platform.

  Most were frozen with panic. One woman screamed. Another man raced up the stairs, knocking over several kids. A businessman close to the bum charged toward him, trying to tackle him. But not before the homeless guy pulled the pin on the canister and dropped it to the cement floor.

  Fsssssssss. It was a horrifying sound.

  The gas dispersed rapidly. This was really happening.

  Smoke immediately filled the subway tunnel as the screeching express train entered the station. It was hard to see anything. People’s eyes were burning. So were their lungs. So were their minds.

  They thought they were dying.

  Passengers scrambled over each other to get out of the station. Many went the wrong way. It was pandemonium.

  In the middle of the melee, just as the express train reached the platform, the bum lunged for Jacob, grabbing the back of his coat. The grungy man’s grip was incredibly strong. Much stronger than it should have been.

  In one swift, violent motion, he hurled Jacob onto the tracks in front of the express train traveling at thirty-eight miles per hour.

  CHAPTER 27

  Sheridan Square Subway Station, New York City, May 24, 7:13 p.m.

  The screech of the express train passing in front of the platform jumped several decibels the moment the conductor hit the emergency brake. He’d worked for the MTA for twenty-three years and conducted for the last eleven. The only other time he’d pulled the emergency brake was also for a body on the tracks. That one was a suicide. This one was different.

  He’d pulled the brake on instinct. And immediately wished he hadn’t. Had he thought about it a moment longer, he would have kept right on going, because he was sure the rapidly spreading white gas cloud was lethal.

  They were all going to die.

  The squeal of the brakes was punishing. Sparks flew off the tracks where the giant steel wheels skidded down the rails.

  The passengers inside the train were thrown violently forward as the train rapidly slowed. Several would later require hospitalization, one in critical condition. Their screams were loud, but not as loud as the hundred or so people on the platform.

  Almost no one saw the man get thrown in front of the train. Most weren’t sure what had happened. They were too busy running away from the ever-expanding cloud of noxious white smoke. Only those nearest Jacob actually saw him tumble to his death. The gas cloud was too thick. Everything was too chaotic.

  In total, thirty-seven New Yorkers would be treated for injuries sustained during the stampede. The unfortunate were trampled, including Tatiana, who was screaming at the top of her lungs. She was one of the few who had seen Jacob fall to the tracks and watched the train cut him in half. Her eyes were glazed. She was going into shock, and mumbled incoherently.

  The gas was everywhere. “Hold your breath!” Barry screamed at his catatonic girlfriend. He grabbed her hand and pushed and shoved his way through the throng struggling to get out of the danger zone. She moved like a zombie, but somehow managed to hang on.

  The paranoia worked in favor of the homeless man who had pushed Jacob to his death. He was not among those worried about a chemical attack. Because he knew it wasn’t lethal. It wouldn’t be until eleven hours later that a joint task force of federal, state, and city officials would determine the smoke was only tear gas, probably stolen from the NYPD. The entire event wasn’t anything more than a stunt, a desperate act by some crazy guy who wanted attention. It was not unlike the fake bomb incident that had shut down LaGuardia for seven hours in the summer of 2009.

  Only no one had died in that one.

  The killer was gone before anyone gave much thought to pursuing him. He had disappeared among the fleeing hordes by concealing his gas mask and acting like the rest of the herd running for their lives. The homeless man bounded up the steps swiftly, with no sign of a limp. He quickly reached the top of the stairs and continued along with the swell of other terrified passengers, until he ducked inside a men’s room. He locked himself in a stall and removed his disgusting, matted wig. It wasn’t until he pulled off his fake beard that Michael Barnes became recognizable.

  He removed his tattered coat and pants, revealing a Brooks Brothers suit beneath it: Mr. Businessman. He stuffed the ratty garments, along with the gas mask, into a nylon sports bag, which had been folded up inside a pocket. When he stepped out of the stall, no one would suspect that he was the crazy bum who had faked a terrorist attack and pushed an innocent man to his death.

  Barnes moved to the sink, where he splashed cold water on his face. He showed no emotion whatsoever. The assignment was not finished. He still had to
get out of the station, but that was the easy part.

  He stepped out of the bathroom, coughing into his hand like so many others around him. He looked just like every other New Yorker caught up in the chaos at what was supposed to have been the end of another ordinary workday. The nylon gym bag he was carrying suggested he had been on his way to Equinox or some other fashionable gym to work off the stress of the day, before the incident occurred. Like everyone else, he now acted more like he was heading to a bar.

  Michael Barnes exited the station, just one of a herd of terrified people. Some dropped to their knees to catch their breath, or to thank God that they were still alive. Most were on their phones, letting loved ones know what had happened and that they were unharmed. That was the pose Barnes adopted, appearing to be on his phone for the entire walk to his beige Impala parked near New York University, which now had one less professor than it had at the start of the day. As he pulled into traffic, he passed the first of dozens of emergency vehicles that would be arriving on the scene.

  CHAPTER 28

  Jacob Hendrix’s Apartment, Greenwich Village, New York City, May 24, 10:57 p.m.

  It was almost eleven o’clock that evening by the time Skylar walked up the two flights of stairs to Jacob’s apartment on Bleecker Street. It had been several days since she’d done any Pilates, and her body was craving some exercise. These stairs weren’t much, but they would have to do for the moment.

  When Skylar reached the third floor, she was surprised to find a weathered man in a wrinkled suit standing outside Jacob’s door. He was sticking his business card in the crack by the lock. He was in his late thirties, but looked more like fifty. “Can I help you?”

  He turned to face her. “Is this Jacob Hendrix’s apartment?”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “Who wants to know?”

  He removed his business card from the door and offered it to her. “I’m Detective Butler McHenry, NYPD.”

  She studied his card, then took out her keys. “Yes, this is Jacob’s apartment. For the moment, it’s mine, too. What’s going on?”

  “Could I see some identification, please?”

  She nervously took out her wallet and handed him her Massachusetts driver’s license. “What’s this all about?”

  “Ms. Drummond, this says you live in Cambridge.”

  “I just moved. I haven’t had time to change it yet.” Her pulse quickened as she became nervous. “What’s going on?”

  He handed her back her license. “May I come inside for a moment?”

  She hesitated. “I guess so.” She led Detective McHenry into the apartment. Inside, McHenry noted the many photographs featuring Jacob and Skylar.

  “You’re kind of freaking me out, Detective. Would you tell me what’s going on?”

  “I think you might want to have a seat.”

  “I don’t want to sit.” She started to panic. “Did something happen to Jacob?” McHenry took a deep breath and looked at her sadly. “He’s okay, isn’t he?”

  His eyes told her everything, and then he confirmed it. “No.”

  “Oh my God.” She sat down at the kitchen table, practically collapsing in the chair. Her hands were shaking.

  McHenry sat down across from her, swallowing hard as he struggled to say the words properly. “Jacob Hendrix is gone.”

  She wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. She couldn’t have. Her words came out rapidly. “What do you mean, ‘gone’? What kind of gone?”

  McHenry stared at the table, then slowly raised his gaze to Skylar. “Jacob is dead.”

  “What?” She didn’t believe it. She couldn’t. It was too much to process. She started to feel light-headed.

  He paused to let her catch her breath. “There was a terrorist incident in the Sheridan Square subway station.”

  All she could think was to blame herself for not listening to the radio on her way home. For not wondering why so many streets had been blocked off nearby, making it nearly impossible to get home. She should have put two and two together. Dammit! “What happened?”

  “It appears to have been some kind of gas attack. We’re not sure.”

  “How many people died?”

  “We don’t know yet. A lot of people are being treated in area hospitals. Mr. Hendrix is one of two confirmed fatalities so far. It appears he tripped or was pushed in all the commotion. It’s too early to know for sure. But, somehow, he ended up on the tracks in front of an oncoming train.” He said it as gently as he could, but it still came out like a diesel-powered sledgehammer.

  Tears streamed down Skylar’s face as her mind went reeling. She refused to believe it. “How can this . . . I was just talking to him as he was walking into the station. We got cut off.”

  “We’re still interviewing witnesses, trying to determine exactly what happened.”

  The blood drained from Skylar’s tear-soaked face. She went numb, trying to remember their last conversation. What was the last thing she said to him? What was the last thing Jacob heard from her? It was all jumbled. In this moment, she could only remember bits and pieces.

  Detective McHenry continued. “All we know at this point is that there were two students with him. One was pretty badly shaken up.”

  Skylar stared vacantly at the surface of the table. Her voice was distant. “Only one of them was his student.”

  McHenry looked at her. “Excuse me?”

  “Only one was his student.” She sounded a thousand miles away.

  “How do you know?”

  “Jacob told me on the phone.”

  McHenry nodded. “Ms. Drummond, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s doctor. Dr. Drummond.” She turned and looked him directly in the eyes. “I’m such an asshole.” She sobbed heavily as guilt, sadness, and regret began to overwhelm her. There was so much she hadn’t said. So much she hadn’t done. Jacob was devoted, loving, intelligent, sexy, and fun. Everything. All he had wanted was to make her happy. All he had asked for was a modest commitment in return. What is wrong with me? she wondered. What the hell is wrong with me?!

  McHenry knew not to say anything. Almost everyone regretted not saying or doing something after a loved one died. It was only natural.

  “Do you know if he died right away?”

  McHenry nodded. “I can assure you he didn’t suffer.”

  Skylar stared at him vacantly, barely able to process what she was hearing. “I can’t believe this.”

  “I can only imagine how hard this must be.” He stood, pointing to his business card on the kitchen table. “This has all my numbers. You can reach me anytime, day or night.”

  She nodded mechanically. She couldn’t imagine why she would ever call him.

  “May I have a phone number in case I need to reach you?”

  “Why would you need to reach me?”

  “You never know if you might be able to help us with the investigation.”

  She jotted down her number on the back of an envelope and handed it to him.

  He pocketed the envelope. “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  It was only after he closed the door that she really allowed herself to feel what had just happened. Skylar burst into tears and cried like she hadn’t cried since her younger brother died, over ten years ago.

  CHAPTER 29

  American Heritage Foundation, Alexandria, Virginia, May 25, 7:21 a.m.

  Early the next morning, Bob Stenson walked briskly toward the conference room inside the American Heritage Foundation. He carried three newspapers, all of which featured multiple stories about the apparent terrorist attack in the New York City subway station. The New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and the Washington Post all had extensive coverage, with wide-ranging theories, but nothing conclusive. The incident was too fresh. The investigation too new.

  Stenson had three lieutenants who reported directly to him: Caitlin McCloskey, Daryl Trotter, and Jason Greers. McCloskey was the eldest daughter of one of the Foundation’s original part
ners. She wasn’t the visionary her father had been, but Caitlin was both extremely sharp and completely committed. She was also damn good in a crunch. The woman shined in a crisis. There was never any question she would be a Foundation lifer.

  Trotter was the deep thinker of the three. He was a chess player who had achieved a FIDE rating over 2600 and the rank of Grandmaster by the age of nineteen, which only 123 other people in the world had ever accomplished. Had he not found a much better game to devote his considerable faculties to, he almost certainly would have gone on to reach the status of a Garry Kasparov or Magnus Carlsen. But from the first moment he got to play with real pawns and real rooks in the real world, from inside the confines of the American Heritage Foundation, Trotter knew he’d found his game. He never played competitive chess again.

  Jason Greers was the most well rounded of the three. He was also the most ambitious. There was never much question as to which of them would get Stenson’s office when he decided to retire. The other two seemed to have accepted it—a good thing, because a fluid transition would be important when the time came.

  All three were already seated at the conference table, waiting for Stenson, as he entered the room and tossed the three newspapers on the table. “Talk to me.”

  Jason Greers spoke first. “It’s peculiar.”

  “Why?” Stenson knew why, of course, but wanted to hear what they were thinking, just like his mentor, Walters, used to do with him.

  McCloskey spoke matter-of-factly. “It was a well-coordinated strike. Well planned. Well executed. This was not the work of an amateur.”

  “If it was a professional, everyone in that station would be dead.”

  Trotter jumped in. “Suicide bombers are not professionals.” His thoughts were often so far ahead of what he was saying he would forget to complete a statement.

  “This was not a suicide bomb.”

  Trotter snapped himself back to the present. “No, it wasn’t. Which means we can rule out an amateur.”