by Wally Duff
There was a blinding flash of light behind my eyelids, followed by the roar of an explosion reverberating in my head. The odor of broken medical bottles and cleaning solvents, and the stench of burned hair and skin, flooded my olfactory system.
And then a pounding headache gripped my head like it was in a vise.
Over the past five years, the PTSD attacks had gotten less intense.
Until now.
6
I kept my eyes shut and lowered my forehead against the top of the steering wheel.
“dèjá-BOOM! again?” Carter asked.
This was what he called the PTSD attacks I began to have after I was blown up in that Arlington clinic.
Taking in several deep breaths to center myself, I nodded but didn’t say anything. He gently rubbed my neck and waited, knowing any talking would just make it worse.
The incident dissipated in less than two minutes, and I was able to drive home with only a residual dull pain in the back of my head.
We live with our two-year-old daughter, Kerry, in West Lakeview, an upscale North Chicago neighborhood. Home is a three-story structure with all floors above the ground. It faces West Melrose. The two-car, detached garage is on the cross street, North Paulina.
When I pulled into the garage, I was still angry, but at least my neck pain was gone. I didn’t speak to Carter until I’d put Kerry down for the night and he’d returned from walking Liv Sanchez, the fourteen-year-old babysitter, to her home across the street.
We were in bed, and the lights were out.
“You should have told me,” I said.
“You used to be a news junkie. I assumed you read about it in the Tribune, and since you hadn’t mentioned it, I didn’t bring it up.”
This is too credible a counterattack.
His blood alcohol level had dropped, and he was thinking more clearly. He knew how to get me going and cause me to lose the focus of my argument.
His best defense was a good offense.
“You know I don’t have time to read the damn newspaper.” I began to talk louder. “I’m a ‘mommy,’ and all I have time for is taking care of our daughter!”
Which wasn’t exactly the truth. For the past few weeks, I had chased a terrific story that I really wanted to write. Except for that, most days it seemed like being a mom was all I did.
He paused a few seconds. “You have a valid point, but I knew how upset you would be if I told you.” He paused again. “And I didn’t want to ruin a perfectly enjoyable evening with our friends.”
“Now you know what I’m going to say before I say it? Couldn’t you at least have had the common decency to tell me the facts and let me voice my own opinion?”
“But you would have reacted the same way.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Carter took me into his arms. The faint aroma of the Tom Ford Black Orchid cologne I’d given him for his birthday drifted over me.
“Honey, please,” he whispered. “It’s too dangerous to work on another abortion clinic bombing story and risk getting blown up again.”
There it is, the “D” word: dangerous.
My husband is consistent whenever we argue about this.
“Isn’t your local column enough for you?” he continued.
I write a feature once a month in the Lakeview Times. It’s total fluff and could be produced by a middle school writing student using simple declarative sentences.
“You know how I feel about that.”
“At least it’s writing.”
“We’ve discussed this way too many times. I want to write front page stories again.”
“You just did,” he countered.
You have me there.
Since the Arlington bombing, I’d been in the penalty box for discredited investigative journalists. But last Thursday, an article I wrote about the story I’d chased was published above the fold on the front page of the Chicago Tribune.
To alert my former fellow reporters that I was back, I used the byline I’d written under for my entire professional writing career: Christina Edwards. I never considered using my husband’s last name, even though all of our friends in Chicago now know me as Tina Thomas.
The problem for me was some content in last week’s story – my reporting it as “industrial espionage”– was false, but I couldn’t tell Carter the truth. He would go ballistic if I fessed up and he learned that to get the story I had inadvertently put myself and our daughter at risk.
I didn’t say anything else. Instead, I kissed him and rolled over, praying I wouldn’t toss and turn again as I replayed the events of last Wednesday over and over in my head, when Kerry and I had almost been killed.
Since then, I’d tried to cope with the emotional turmoil by daily journaling, which had previously helped me climb out of the abyss after being blown up five years ago in Arlington.
But now, writing down my thoughts no longer worked to relieve my anxiety. And my husband had only added to it by confessing that the bomber might be back.
That’s where I have to begin.
7
I had another sleepless night as I relived what had happened to me last Wednesday, but Sunday morning, I wasn’t too tired to run. The only time I’d ever missed doing it was while I recovered from the injuries I had suffered in Arlington. I’d even run daily in Afghanistan where I was embedded while writing a series of stories about the Marines. Insurgent gunfire and IEDs couldn’t stop me.
The troops loved the stories I wrote about them and rewarded me with a Glock 19, which they taught me how to fire. I had it with me when I was blown up in Arlington, and it was destroyed.
But I had a replacement.
Last Wednesday, in our kitchen, the leader of the “industrial spies” tried to shoot me with his Glock 19.
We struggled.
He lost.
I won.
Now, as I began my run, I had his gun in my fanny pack, along with my cell phone, sunscreen, energy bar, and a bottle of water. Since the events of last Wednesday, including the “industrial spy” confrontation in my home and another at O’Hare, I carried the weapon because I had the eerie feeling someone was watching me.
I didn’t have my ear buds in. I always listen to music when I run — but not today. I needed all my senses to alert me to any danger.
It was a typical hot and windy Chicago morning, but I still felt a shiver run down my spine.
Is the bomber watching me?
Or was it Jamie, the one remaining “industrial spy” who had not been arrested during the debacle at O’Hare? I was scared that he was still in the Chicago area and might want to get even with me for foiling their plot.
Unexpectedly, a voice called to me from across the street. “Hi, Tina.”
It’s my leprechaun!
I met David John once before, when I bumped into him while running.
I waved. “Hi, David.”
After my story was published in the Tribune on Thursday, I debated whether to continue writing my monthly column in the Lakeview Times. But I promised my editor, Gayle Nystrom, I would consider submitting one.
Maybe David John is it.
With pale skin, red hair, and a well-trimmed red beard, David looked like a leprechaun. His large black glasses and New York Yankees baseball hat were the only items he wore today that didn’t fit with his leprechaun-like persona. Running with him would be a way to get to know him and his backstory.
“Let’s run together sometime,” I suggested.
Normally, I would rather have a root canal than run with anyone, because I savor the solitude. But if I continued writing my local column, a guy who looked like a leprechaun might at least have an interesting story to tell.
“Great,” he said. “I’ll look for you about this time each morning.”
“You’re on.” I waved as he continued running west.
As I watched him speed away, I was struck by a flashback, and it didn’t do anything to calm my anxiety.
Dr. Mick Doyle.
Fourteen years ago, Doyle was the only other leprechaun-like person I’d ever had contact with and he’d threatened to kill me.
I sure hope David John is different.
I added research on him to my list of things I had to do.
But the bomber comes first.
8
On Monday morning, after I returned from my run and Carter left for work, Kerry and I went downstairs to our first-floor office. We played with the toy wooden blocks she received from Santa last Christmas. Ever the multitasker, I went online and opened the Sunday Chicago Tribune website.
I had to figure out if there was a connection between the Arlington blast and the recent Chicago-area one.
I scrolled down until I found the story about the most recent abortion clinic bombing. I read it while helping Kerry build and knock down block towers.
In Deerfield early Saturday morning, a bomb severely damaged a new women’s abortion clinic. There was one victim, Dr. Colin D. Russell, the owner and head of the clinic.
Dr. Russell was called in to his private clinic for what proved to be a bogus emergency. The police theorize he was in his office in the clinic waiting for the supposedly bleeding post-op patient when the bomb was detonated. The explosion destroyed most of the building and killed the doctor.
Dr. Russell was thirty-nine years old. He leaves behind his wife, Sandra, and three children.
The investigation is ongoing, but at this time the police have no solid leads about the bomber.
I was furious Carter hadn’t told me any of this, but I knew why: this was a planned killing. The doctor had been lured to the clinic and murdered. Carter knew once he told me this I would have a problem ignoring the story.
I put my fingers on the keyboard to begin my research on David John, but I stopped. I know my husband.
Maybe this isn’t the only bombing story he didn’t tell me about.
I typed “abortion clinic bombings in the past six months, Greater Chicago area” into the Tribune’s search engine.
One story came up. It detailed how, in the early morning of July third, there had been an abortion clinic bombing in Hinsdale, a wealthy suburb community twenty miles west of Chicago. The bomb was made of C4 and had been placed in the men’s bathroom. A laundryman had been seen going into the bathroom prior to the bombing.
Just like Arlington.
I checked the byline. Rody Janzen had covered the tragedy. No wonder they talked about the Deerfield bombing at the dinner party.
Wait a minute. July third?
Carter had been late coming home that evening for our date night. He said it was because he was editing a breaking story.
Now I knew which one it was.
We hadn’t talked about it then because we left to catch a movie. My husband had kept the news of that bombing from me, probably hoping it was an isolated incident. But after the Deerfield bombing, he knew it wasn’t.
I needed to visit the crime scene to get a visceral sense of what happened.
The Hinsdale clinic was out, since that bombing happened almost six weeks ago. But the damage at Deerfield was fresh, and I had to see it pronto.
9
“Kerry, I need to run an errand, so I’ll leave you with Alicia for a little while,” I said. “Let’s try to use the potty before we go, okay?”
Kerry began screaming and pounding her tiny fists on the floor. “No, no, no, no, no!”
I hate the “terrible twos.”
“How would you like some potty candy?”
She immediately stopped screeching. “I wuv potty candy!”
Our little girl has a problem pronouncing some of her words. I think it’s cute. Carter’s parents are both PhDs in English literature. They see no humor in Kerry murdering our language.
I’ve been a total failure at teaching her to use the toilet and have resorted to offering candy as a treat if she succeeds. It hasn’t worked, but at least I have something to nibble on while I sit with her. And I usually give her a piece if she at least tries.
As I watched my daughter, I thought about the mess I’d been through last Wednesday and what could have happened to both of us.
It made me pause.
Was there any possible way going to the already bombed-out clinic building could be dangerous?
Better call Cas.
Kerry and I gave up on her using the toilet. We shared a piece of candy and walked upstairs to the kitchen. I called my friend Cassandra Olson. She is the feistiest of the Irregulars and would have my back if any problems did come up.
“I might have another story to work on, and I need your help,” I said.
“Really?” Cas said.
“Yep. Once I saw my name on the front page, I realized how much I missed writing an in-depth article.”
Even though the FBI made me change some of the facts.
“I can relate. I can’t find a way to replace the adrenaline rush I got from working with a team to resuscitate dying patients and, later, the patients thanking us for saving them.”
“Interesting you say that. It’s like the feedback I used to get from readers who had their lives impacted by my stories. That made the hard work even more worthwhile.”
“Does this mean I get to work on another story?”
“Only if you want to.”
“Want to? I’m bored out of my mind teaching exercise classes to idiots who claim they do it to lose weight then eat a bag of Cheetos on the way home from class. When do you need me?”
“ASAP.”
“Are you going to have Alicia watch Kerry?”
“I am.”
“I’ll call her and see if she can watch my kids too. If she can, I’ll pick you up at her house.”
“Great. Text me when you get close.”
10
Eighteen minutes later, I stood with Kerry in Alicia Sanchez’s driveway as Cas pulled in. Alicia is like family. She lives across the street from our home, and she, or one of her three daughters, is — thankfully — almost always available and willing to watch Kerry and my other friends’ kids, even with little notice.
Cas hopped out of a silver Hummer H1, her version of a mommy van, and unloaded her kids: Luis, four, and Angelique, three.
Cas is six inches shorter than me. Her skin has an olive tone, and she’s a buffed one hundred and five pounds with minimal body fat. She’s a nurse who no longer works at her profession, choosing instead to raise her kids and teach a few exercise classes at XSport Fitness, our local workout facility.
We left our children with Alicia and climbed into the Hummer.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“The abortion clinic in Deerfield that was bombed early Saturday morning,” I said. “I need to see the site while it’s still fresh.”
I programmed Cas’s Garmin. The trip to Deerfield took almost an hour. There was no yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter of the partially destroyed one-story women’s clinic building.
“Looks like the cops are done with their investigation,” I said.
“How do you know that?” Cas asked.
“The crime scene tape has been removed.”
We climbed out of the Hummer and stared at the carcass of the building. Half of the roof was gone. There were chunks of wallboard, ripped draperies, broken medical instruments, and glass shards from shattered windows lying in the puddles of water remaining on the street from the firefighters’ futile attempt to stop the blaze.
I pointed at the blown-out front door of the building. “According to the newspaper story, the bomber used C4.”
“Wow. It caused a whole lot of damage.”
“Criminals like the bomber love it because C4 is a stable explosive.”
“You mean you can drop it and it won’t blow up?”
“Yep. The bad guys mold it like clay into various shapes, attach a detonator to ignite it, and blast away. But they can also use chemical solvents to make it less viscous, almost like jelly.”
“Why?”
“They can inject the reconstituted C4 into something like an empty toothpaste tube and carry it through airport security without it being discovered.”
“Scary.”