Haskell got it on camera, but he couldn’t use it. Heroics by runaways are not in the script. He would edit that out at his leisure. For now he zoomed in on the sign above the entrance. It, too, had come loose. It had partly fallen. One end was dangling over the doorway just enough to cause some to duck under it. That thing falling, if it did, would make a great visual. Splice it to the end. A signature shot.
This is no good, thought Haskell. He was missing too much. That man and that woman who come off the bus were getting much better pictures. They had a better angle and were free to improve it. Get out of this shelter. Get closer than this. Even better, go inside and work your way to the back. That’s where the real carnage should have been.
“Charles… No!”
Sorry. Got to see. That’s too many survivors coming from the back room. Soot blackened, dazed, perhaps going into shock, but few of them seem badly injured.
Haskell felt a slow trickle moving down across his forehead and gathering at his right eyebrow. He wiped at it. Blood. It was that sting he’d felt. Must have been from a flying piece of glass. The cut was nothing, a mere breaking of the skin, but head cuts always bleed beyond their worth. Now his face was smeared and that could be good. He’d look more like a victim than they did.
“Sirens, Charles. Do you hear those distant sirens?”
Distant. Still distant. He had time.
“They are racing to the scene with the press close behind them. Charles, you can’t be here. They have cameras.”
Yes, he can. He’ll have faded into the background. Just another safe-distance on-looker by then. And it’s all the more reason to get his own pictures now. While he’s at it, even better, he’ll give Stride a hand. Let her see what he’s made of, ignoring his own hurt. Five minutes. That’s all it should take.
“Charles… are you out of your fucking mind?”
Besides, I need to get that Greek’s camera.
“Charles, I beg you. Do not…”
Beg all you like. He’d stopped listening to himself. After all, no one in there would know him from Adam. He was across the street in five seconds.
He kept his own camera running, but he held it low lest it seem his primary interest. He passed Stride’s Subaru. It was no longer green. It was fully ablaze, black smoke pouring from it. He could smell the upholstery melting. Its gas tank ought to go up any time. No loss. He’d buy her a Ferrari.
Whoa. There it goes. Not explosively, however. More like a giant match being struck. The tank must have been nearly empty. But the flames that licked up were being sucked into the building. That must be what they call a backdraft. He approached the bartender who’d gathered the three girls. Haskell asked him, “How can I help?”
The bartender saw the blood he’d smeared on his face. He said, “You could use some yourself.”
“There are many much worse. Tell me what I can do.”
The bartender had his arm around a shivering Rasha. He said, “She’s cold. You can lend her your jacket.”
Jacket, jacket, thought Haskell. He’d almost forgotten. He turned to where he’d seen the Samaritan fall. There he was, not moving, Gilhooley’s jacket half under him. He’d get to that in a second.
“Of course,” Haskell answered, slipping out of his own. “Poor little thing. Here you go.”
“Charles…”
Not now, thought Haskell. He placed his suit jacket over her shoulders. She looked up at him. So trusting. “Th-thank you, sir,” she said shivering. Lovely moment. But not in the script either.
He knelt with her wiping some grime from her face. A part of him wanted to hold that pose long enough for Elizabeth to see it. They’d meet again someday. Perhaps someday soon. And she would remember him as the man who, in total disregard of his own painful head wound, gave aid and comfort to Rasha.
“Charles… the prince’s note. His suicide note!”
Oh, shit. His breast pocket. He said to Rasha, “Excuse me.” He reached in and retrieved it the two copies that were in there and his camera cell phone as well. All those shots of her dangling father. He slipped them into the pockets of his trousers.
“And no posing, either. Get away from here, Charles. You might even pick her up and take her with you.”
Who, Rasha? Good thought. It would be a splendid coup. He could commandeer one of these cars that are leaving. To the bartender, he said, “She’s still very cold. Let me take her across and put her on that bus.” Once behind it, out of sight, he’d keep going.
The bartender, now more anxious, had seen the flickering glow through the smoke that resulted from the Subaru’s eruption. He said, distractedly, “They want to wait here.”
Rats, thought Haskell. Who cares what they want? He wouldn’t get to videotape who’s dead inside, but he’d have the little princess to deliver. All he’d have to do is get rid of this man. If he could, who’s to stop him? These two sisters?
He asked, “Wait for what? Oh, their parents, of course.”
“Not their parents. Their friend. The girl this party was for.”
“I’d go find her except I don’t know what she looks like. You can go. I’ll stay here and watch these three.”
The bartender hesitated, but only for a beat. He said to the three, “You stay here with this man. Elizabeth should be out in a minute.”
And with that he was gone. Into the smoke. Still confusion all around them. Everybody distracted. Good a time as any to retrieve Gilhooley’s jacket. He walked over to the dead man. Oops. Not so dead. He moaned softly as Haskell tugged the denim jacket free. Haskell fingered its folds and… yes… there it was, the Greek’s mini camera. It had been caught up in the middle of the jacket’s right sleeve. He extracted it, palmed it, and folded the jacket, placing it under the Samaritan’s head. Good move in case anyone’s watching. Haskell slid the mini into his pocket along with his cell and the suicide notes. His left hand still held his own camera.
At that moment, there came another shout of his name. Not “Charles” this time. The voice shouted “Haskell.” And it wasn’t coming from inside his head. It was coming from all that black smoke.
Haskell blinked. He peered inside. He saw several shapes approaching. The nearest, stumbling over a fallen bar stool, was pointing a finger straight at him. Haskell knew that face underneath the wet soot. Roger Clew. But how could Clew have recognized him? They’d been at the same event only once, maybe twice, and hadn’t so much as traded nods.
Whatever, thought Haskell. Take the bull by the horns. Calling out, “Wait. Let me give you a hand,” he bounded through the door frame toward Clew. While appearing to reach a helping arm around his shoulders, he swung the hand that held the video camera against the side of Clew’s head. Clew’s legs promptly buckled and he started to fall onto a tangle of bar stools. Haskell caught him, stopped his fall, and lifted him bodily. He carried him out to the sidewalk.
Clew wasn’t unconscious. He was struggling against him. But Clew was no match. Would not have been at best. Clew wasn’t so much fighting as flailing. Haskell shifted Clew’s weight. He wrapped an arm around Clew’s neck. He squeezed hard to stop the flow of blood to Clew’s brain and at the same time crush his voice box.
The older sister called, “Sir, what are you doing?”
“Convulsions,” said Haskell. “He’s gone into convulsions. I’ll handle it. I know CPR.”
Haskell saw that no one else was paying much attention. They were either absorbed by the scene inside or attending to their own discomfort. His intention, his plan, off the top of his head, was to drag Roger Clew between the nearest parked cars and silence him for good with a choke hold. The nearest spot that he saw with no cameras pointing at it was between the Mercedes and the stretch limousine.
He heard a woman’s voice repeat the same question. She called out, “What are you doing?”
Without looking back, he said, “He’s choking. The smoke.”
A male voice said, “I’ll take him. I’m a doctor.”
Haskell turned his head, intending to say, “No need. I’m a doctor myself.” He saw Sadik. Then he saw who was with him. The woman’s voice had come from Elizabeth Stride. He saw that half her hair was burned off. Her appearance must have caused him to weaken his grip because Clew was flailing again. He wormed loose enough to turn his head toward them. He gagged the words, “Haskell. It’s Haskell.”
Confusion from Stride. She couldn’t quite hear him. She’d cupped a hand to her ear. Clew’s voice became stronger. He gripped Haskell’s shirt. He cried out, “Haskell did this. This is Haskell.”
Sadik’s eyes widened. He said to Elizabeth at a level she could hear, “Roger’s right. That man is Charles Haskell.” He’d remembered the face from the offshore rig photo, the smear of blood notwithstanding. But the improbability, Haskell being at Mangiamo, caused him to freeze momentarily.
Not an instant’s worth of hesitation from Stride. She vaulted past the doctor, made a skip and a hop, and threw a spinning kick at Haskell’s knee.
He let out an “arghh.” He had felt the knee pop. He dropped Clew and feinted a jab with his right while swinging the camera at her face with his left. She ignored the feint; she ducked under the camera. The eye-piece end of it glanced off her skull. He swung it again, back-handed this time. Too late. She was on him. She kicked at his crotch. An explosion of pain and he was down.
“Elizabeth… Elizabeth.” Haskell choked out her name. “This isn’t… it’s not what you think.”
Staring coldly, she asked Clew, “This is Haskell? You’re sure?”
Clew was rising. “And he did this. You can bet your life on it.”
Haskell managed, “Wait. You don’t understand.” He tried rising himself. “All I wanted… why I’m here… I did not want you hurt… it was only to free you from Kess…”
Another kick came. This one to his mouth. It toppled him backward. Elizabeth moved in. She kicked him twice more. She was about to drive a spiked heel through his eye, when Sadik rushed to grab her. He pulled her away.
He said, “We’ll have questions for this one.”
Elizabeth’s response was to stomp on his stomach. It doubled him up. She rolled him onto his side. She patted his pockets. She extracted his wallet. She opened it and held it up to the light. “Charles Barrington Haskell. It’s him.”
Elizabeth put a hand on the stretch limousine. She asked Clew, “Where’s your driver? Have you seen him?”
“Inside. He’s helping the others.”
She moved quickly to the driver’s side window. In almost the same motion, she put her heel through it. She reached through the hole and opened the door. She found the trunk latch and released it.
“Good idea,” said Sadik as the trunk lid popped open. He reached in to retrieve his medical bag. It was why he’d come out in the first place. Clew did the same with his briefcase. Sadik said to Clew, “Help me lift him. Be careful. I don’t think he’s finished.”
Together, they hoisted him into the trunk. He was, in fact, not quite finished. He struggled against them, trying to kick loose. He said to Elizabeth, his voice catching in his throat, “All I want… I came… I came to make peace. A trade. All I want is a trade.”
Elizabeth ignored him. She was checking the trunk lid. It had a yellow safety release. She used the heel of her ruined right shoe to disable it. She reached to close it on Haskell.
He saw his last chance. He tried to grab at her. She bounced the trunk lid off his forearms. He recoiled with a yelp. She reached to shut it again. Her foot touched his dented video camera. She picked it up. She threw it in with him.
Sadik said, “His cell phone. Don’t leave him with a phone.”
She saw it on his belt. She reached in and snatched it. But she had no pockets, no place to put it. She tossed it to Roger Clew.
Haskell screamed, “Elizabeth!! Please listen. Don’t go.” And then, as if yelling at somebody else, he snapped, “No. Shut up. I need to tell her… Shut up.” Then to Stride, “You’re too good for… they’ll betray you. He’ll betray you.”
Clew said to her, “Not me. He means Kessler.”
Haskell called out once more, his voice hoarse and pleading. His words were, “All I wanted… you’re Elizabeth Stride. All I wanted… Elizabeth… Oh, if we could talk.”
Sadik said to Haskell, “Talk about what? How you’d kill four young girls just to meet her?”
He sank back. His voice became a little boy’s whine. He said, “Elizabeth… to save you. I can give you so much more. We could… we could… play tennis.”
Elizabeth stood blinking. Her eyes went to Clew. He remembered what Harry had said of this guy. Wrote the book on abnormal psych. He said, “Don’t even try to understand that.”
She slammed the trunk shut. She could still hear Haskell. And Haskell was still whining, but at somebody else.
She also heard the sirens. They were now very near. She had no time to wonder who was in there with Haskell.
She said to Clew, “Get your driver. Him or the keys. Get this limo out of here now.”
“Take it back to the house?”
“If it isn’t burning. Either way, stay with it. I’m going back in to help Martin.”
THIRTY NINE
Four were killed or mortally injured outright. That number could easily have been forty. Almost everyone suffered from smoke inhalation in addition to cuts, burns and bruises. Many had been deafened by the blast temporarily. Most of these were expected to recover.
Many of the injured were treated at the scene in either of three emergency vehicles, assisted by a certain Dr. Freundlisch. About a dozen required hospital care. These were mostly from smoke inhalation. Of these injuries, many could have been avoidable. Most were patrons who had refused to leave until they saw their friends safely out. Not all were that selfless. Only most.
The dead included two cooks and a waiter. The fourth wasn’t found until later. The two cooks were crushed when the alley wall collapsed and with it that part of the roof. One had died instantly; the other soon after. Both had also been seriously burned. For a time, it was hoped that the waiter might live. He, too, had been burned, but to a lesser extent. But his station had been near the door to the alley. The blast blew the door and the waiter with it almost to the far side of the room.
A large commercial stove was thought to have deflected the greater part of the blast. It had the effect of shaping the charge more back into the alley than intended. It still took down most of the wall. Another factor, identified later, was that the alley’s trash bin had been empty. It was hollow. That, too, had dispersed the effect.
But the biggest of these factors had been Harry’s gesture of buying champagne for the house. Once all glasses were filled, he led them in a toast to be followed by them singing Happy Birthday to Aisha. There was no room in the back for all those at the bar. The girls and their hosts, therefore, had to come forward. They gathered in the archway, decorated with vines, that marked the divider between the bar area and the reserved dining area. It was the extra strength of the archway that kept that section of the ceiling from collapsing. Otherwise, it fell on the tables. It fell on platters of half-eaten antipasto, temporarily abandoned when the toast was announced.
Some there had called it miraculous.
Aisha had been fully shielded from the blast by the bodies of those standing around her. The toast was to her, the singing was to her, so she’d been guided, blushing with self-conscious modesty, into a center stage position. She’d stood with Rasha, flanked by the sisters, five adults standing behind them. The five were Harry Whistler who was leading the song, Kessler, Clew and Sadik, plus one of the Beasley twins. Whichever. Not Elizabeth, however. She just been called forward to take what was said to be an emergency phone call.
Harry had been struck in the hip by a piece of brick and mortar that flew in from the wall. It knocked him into the row of four girls, dragging three of them to the floor as if tackled. The Beasley twin assumed that this was deliberate so he threw
himself on the fourth, which was Niki. Kessler had been knocked down as well, although not by a projectile, the shock wave. While falling, he’d grabbed onto Clew and Sadik. It wasn’t deliberate. It was a reflex. No bodily shielding was intended by any with the single exception of the twin. Not that they would not have. They simply did not. Even so, no matter what the denials, the belief would persist that Whistler and Kessler had been ready to give their lives for the others, and for young Aisha in particular.
Another miracle. Of a sort. In later telling.
The overhead sprinklers had come on at once, drenching everyone there, front and back. Thick smoke rolled over them, first high and then settling. Stride had instantly plowed back through the crowd. Over it, actually. Most were down. She and Kessler, she frantic, were unscrambling the pile to determine who was hurt and who wasn’t. Stride’s first interest was the girls and in getting them to safety. She reached Rasha first, telling her to stay low. It was then that she realized that her hearing was affected, even having been so far up front. She could barely hear her own voice. She took Rasha and Niki, each by an arm and again stepped over the bodies of patrons who were too slow getting up. Shahla reached down to help one of these whose arm had clearly been broken.
Elizabeth shouted for Aisha to follow. Kessler, by this time, had Aisha in his arms and he had his own deafness problem. He was urging Elizabeth and the others to stay. He was saying that they might be safer where they are if this was a deliberate attack. He said that someone might be waiting to see who survives, ready to finish the job. She would have understood him if she could hear. All she saw was a time-wasting mouthing of words. She shouted, “Bring Aisha. Let’s go.” She went on, expecting that he would follow.
The Aisha Prophecy Page 38