Déjà-BOOM!

by Wally Duff

  “Carter, that’s not what happened.”

  “I know it, and you know it, but the bomber doesn’t. David might be wrong about the bomber.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The bomber might be extremely unhappy if he finds out that a woman who almost killed him five years ago outsmarted him again. He missed killing you in Arlington, but he had a second opportunity tonight. I don’t want him to have a third chance. The story is true. The detonator was thrown and a catastrophe was averted.”

  “There’s one problem. Brittany wants to splash this all over social media.”

  “She told me, and I okayed it.”

  “Are you crazy? We don’t have all the facts!”

  “All she will post is exactly what I just told you. No more and no less.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I have to assume the bomber will monitor all forms of communication. My hope is that he will read this on one of them and it will buy time to get you out of there and home safely.”

  “Okay, I get that.” I hesitated. “Do you hate me for doing what I did, especially since it was Tony?”

  “I know I wouldn’t have had the courage to do what you did, regardless of who you saved.” His voice was suddenly hard. “But promise me that this is the last time you will ever do something stupid like this. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

  I didn’t respond. Instead, I began to sob.

  116

  I walked with Cas to the church where the Lyft driver had let us off. Behind us, Molly helped David carry his computer equipment in the two carriers.

  “I have one question,” I said to Cas, while we waited for a Lyft to take them home. I was going to take a different one to the hospital. “You didn’t seem at all excited while you took care of Tony.”

  “I wasn’t,” she said.

  “How is that even remotely possible? I jumped from planes and have been shot at in a war zone, but I have to tell you, my heart was racing, and I didn’t know what to do next. Help me understand that.”

  “Years of training. I had to be focused, regardless of whether or not he was someone I knew. His life depended on me doing my job. If I screwed up, he was going to die.”

  “I could never do that.”

  “Scary part is that I loved it. I miss that adrenaline rush. It’s addictive.”

  The Lyft driver arrived. We had a group hug, and the three of them left.

  I called Hannah and Micah, but they didn’t answer.

  Unexpectedly, Carter drove up. He slammed on his brakes and jumped out of the car. He ran to me and grabbed me in a tight embrace.

  “I’m so glad you are safe,” he whispered. “I can’t stop shaking.”

  He leaned back and surveyed my blood-stained hair and clothes. He hugged me again.

  When he released me, I looked into his eyes. Tears flowed down his cheeks. I started crying too.

  Finally, I stopped and stepped back. “How did you get here so fast?”

  “I was already in the van when you called.”

  “Who’s with Kerry?” I peeked into the van. “You didn’t bring her down here, did you?”

  “Of course not. Alicia came to the rescue again.”

  “We need to give her a bonus for this.”

  “Already done.”

  “What about Micah?”

  “He was not in the lab when the bomb was detonated. Several FBI agents and policemen were wounded in the blast. So were many Hogan security guards and clinic staff members. The tally is thirty-four so far.”

  “Any of them killed?”

  “None.”

  I thought of my experience in Arlington.

  “Serious injuries?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did the bomber get a device inside a building that has been completely surrounded for at least a week?”

  “A question that all of the FBI higher-ups are asking of their minions. There’s a lot of finger pointing at this point, but the simple answer is that no one knows.”

  “We won’t figure it out standing here,” I said. “I have a job to do.”

  “It’s hard for me to say this, as the news editor of this story, but it doesn’t seem very important to me right now.”

  “It is to me. I want to write the story of Tony’s injuries.”

  Carter let go of me and pulled my laptop out of the back seat of the van. “You’ll need this.”

  He handed it to me, along with a raincoat I could use to cover my blood-stained clothes. “I’ll drop you at the hospital. It’ll be safe there, and I want you away from this turmoil.”

  “Is Brittany already there?”

  “She is.”

  “I hate to admit you were right. Having her on this story has been a real help.” I paused. “Even if she is using social media to report it.”

  I climbed into the passenger side of the van and cancelled my Lyft ride.

  Carter dropped me off in front of the Stroger Cook County Hospital ER.

  It is one of the busiest emergency rooms in the United States. The mob scene at the entrance, with all types of patients coming and going, reflected that.

  Even with all the chaos around me, it was the first time I’d been alone since Tony was shot.

  He’s in there because of me.

  I stood with my backpack in one hand and my laptop in the other. And I began to cry again.

  This time for him.

  I started to pray.

  I don’t know what else I can do.

  117

  I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, but eventually, I went inside and found Brittany sitting in the surgery waiting room.

  As soon as the hospital smells assaulted my nose, I began to freak out. I held on to the chair next to her and shut my eyes. The PTSD attack lasted less than a minute.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I don’t do well in hospitals,” I answered, when I could finally talk.

  “Why?”

  I told her. When I got to the part about my brain bleed, her face turned white and she began to breathe faster.

  “Oh, my God! Carter never told me about your injuries. No wonder you want to catch this guy.”

  I sat down next to her. “How is Tony?”

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. “He’s been in surgery almost five hours.”

  I scanned the room. “S.R.O.”

  Standing room only.

  “You got that right.”

  Every rank of police officer, including the commissioner, was crammed into the small, nondescript windowless room.

  I pointed at three police officers and an elderly couple. “Tony’s brothers and his parents.”

  “What about them?” she asked, as she pointed to four stunning young women, each standing alone.

  “It’s Tony. I’m surprised there aren’t more of them here.”

  While we waited, Brittany wrote the edited draft of the shooting on her laptop. I absentmindedly picked at the clotted blood on my shorts.

  Tony’s.

  I had dried blood under my fingernails.

  More from Tony.

  Bile rose in my throat, but I gulped it down.

  Ten minutes later, one of the trauma surgeons came out from the operating room. His green scrub shirt was soaked with sweat. I prayed harder, this time that something hadn’t gone wrong during the operation.

  118

  Everyone stood up. The police commissioner waved at us to sit down. We did. He walked over to the doctor. They shook hands and put their heads together for a quiet conversation. The commissioner stopped talking. The surgeon nodded. The commissioner led the doctor to Tony’s parents. More conversation. Another nod.

  Finally, the doctor faced the room. “I’m Dr. Michael Morrison. I’m a neurosurgeon, and I just finished operating on Detective Infantino. The Commissioner suggested that I brief everyone in the room, and I have the family’s permission to inform you about what happened.”
/>   My stomach began to churn.

  “The bullet entered in his right fronto-temporal region approximately three centimeters above and one centimeter behind the lateral edge of his orbit.” The doctor pointed to an area on his own right temple before he continued.

  “The missile traveled on a downward path and exited one centimeter above the medial aspect of his right eyebrow. There was profuse intracranial bleeding which was difficult to control, but once I was able to do that, I found there was surprisingly minimal damage to the patient’s right frontal lobe. My guess is that he was turning his head when he was shot, which caused an oblique downward trajectory of the bullet. His right frontal sinus was also fractured. Dr. Gerald Simons, one of our ENT specialists, reduced the fragments and endoscopically drained the sinus.” He paused and took in a breath.

  “In summary,” he concluded, “Detective Infantino is one lucky man. If he hadn’t turned his head a few centimeters before the bullet’s impact, he could have been blind in his right eye, or dead. He is now in a medically-induced coma and will be for at least forty-eight hours or until the swelling in his brain decreases.”

  I can relate to that.

  The doctor abruptly stopped talking. The commissioner stepped forward.

  “At this point, I think it would be inappropriate for Dr. Morrison to take any questions,” the commissioner said. “I’m sure he is exhausted and needs to check on his patient.”

  He studied the room and the cops under his command before he spoke again. “I want the man who did this. Every resource we have will be available to you.” He paused. “Get to work and find the bastard who shot Detective Infantino.”

  The room rapidly emptied except for Tony’s family and the four women, who continued to stand off by themselves.

  I gripped Brittany’s arm. “I’ll write this part of the story.”

  “But...”

  “I need to do this. For me. Go home. Send what you’ve written to Carter.”

  She walked away. I opened my laptop and began writing the copy about Tony’s injuries. When I finished the first draft, Carter would do a Q and A with me, insisting that I have at least two sources to substantiate each fact, especially the medical ones. I would then rewrite the piece, and he would edit it. I would argue with him. We would go back and forth until the story was acceptable to both of us and he sent it on.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  119

  At 3 a.m., I climbed out of the Lyft and walked to the apartment building behind our home. In my backpack I had the Glock, a flashlight, the lock pick gun, and the torque wrench.

  If the bomber was in his room, I was going to stop him once and for all. After everything he’d done to me, and now to Tony, holding him so the cops could arrest him wasn’t an option.

  I want to finish this.

  The front door lock wasn’t any more of a problem than it was the first time. I took the elevator to the third floor. I stopped in front of 3C and put my ear up to the door.

  Nothing.

  Taking in a deep breath, I let the lock pick and torque wrench do their magic. I put my equipment into my backpack and took out my Glock and a flashlight.

  I opened the door and held the gun and flashlight in front of me. The room was empty. All the computers and cameras were gone.

  I moved around the tiny apartment, but there was nothing else there. I sniffed. The odor of cleaning products was still present but not as strong.

  Walking over to the window, I stared down at our dark and peaceful home. That was when I saw it. There was a yellow Post-it note stuck to the window.

  There was writing on it: I cannot be stopped.

  I ripped the note off the glass, crumpled it up, and threw it on the floor.

  It was hard to disagree with him.

  Part 5

  120

  The Saturday morning sunlight seeped through the bedroom blinds and woke me up. I heard Carter in Kerry’s room putting her down for her morning nap.

  I tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen. The morning edition of the Tribune was on the table. The two stories, about the attempted bombing of an abortion clinic and the shooting of a Chicago detective during the attempt, were in the local news section.

  The facts about the shooting and attempted bombing were correct, except for one: I was the one who threw the detonator before it could ignite the C4 bomb and kill everyone around it. In the story, as per Carter’s plan, the hero was believed to be an unnamed SWAT member. Brittany’s byline was on it.

  The other story, about Tony’s injuries and subsequent surgery, was totally factual, and my byline was on it. We hoped the bomber wouldn’t even read it, but to be safer, I used my married name of Taylor instead of Edwards and my initials, C.E., instead of Christina.

  Carter walked up behind me and hugged me. “What do you think?”

  “For the most part, I like what Brittany wrote. My story is pretty straightforward.”

  He sat down across from me in the breakfast nook. “Tough night.”

  “Worse for Tony. Have you heard anything while I was asleep?”

  “Nothing. Are you going to see him?”

  “I hadn’t considered it, and I don’t see what purpose it would serve.”

  “He might want to thank you for saving his life.”

  “Honey, he’s in a medically induced coma. Been there, done that, but then, I was the one who was zonked out. I don’t need to see any of that again.”

  “There’s still a story out there.”

  “There is, but the bomber seems to always be one step ahead of me. I might not be smart enough to write it.”

  He waited.

  “One thing I don’t understand is how he planted the bomb in Micah’s lab while it was surrounded by lots of competent law enforcement people.”

  “That’s why there’s still an ongoing story, because the feds can’t figure it out either.”

  “Where was the device hidden?”

  “It was in Micah’s private bathroom.”

  “Suggesting it’s my bomber.”

  “I would agree.”

  “I understand why Brittany’s story and mine are in the local news section. But why isn’t Micah’s story on the front page?”

  “The FBI spiked the story. It won’t be published.”

  “What? Why?”

  “The president is coming to Chicago in two days to share the stage with Micah. The FBI and the Secret Service don’t want any publicity about the attempt on Micah or his lab.”

  “So they’re not worried about Micah?”

  “No, the president is their only concern.” He paused. “That said, I can’t envision how the bomber would be able to slip any type of weapon or bomb into the United Center with the FBI and Secret Service on full alert to protect the president.”

  “I think he’ll try.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “The bomber wants to bring the issue of embryonic stem cell production and abortion to the front page of every newspaper in the world, right?”

  “We have always assumed that to be true.”

  “Attempting to blow up or shoot Micah won’t have the same impact as trying to do the same thing to the President of the United States in front of thousands of people and the media.”

  “You think the bomber is going to be there.”

  “Call it my reporter’s intuition.”

  I can feel it.

  121

  It was early Sunday morning. I felt the need to run in the neighborhood with Macy Gray singing into my ear buds. I no longer felt like someone was watching me, and I wanted to listen to music so I could concentrate.

  I’m missing something.

  Each time I tried to figure it out, I saw blood spurting out of Tony’s head and my concentration evaporated.