96 Hours (23 page)

Dressing in layers to combat the chilly October morning that was due to become a fairly warm October afternoon, she left a note for her mother, stocked a backpack with snacks, her wallet, an extra pair of socks, and a baseball hat, and headed for the train into the city.

Riding the train—or the subway—was a way of life for people who lived in, lived around, or worked in New York City, and most of the time the landscape inside one of the cars was standard. People kept to themselves, reading books or newspapers, silently head-bobbing to the music from their earbuds, working on their laptops, quietly directing tourists at which stop they should disembark, napping. Abby had noticed a change, however, in the month since the attack on the towers. Passengers seemed more—dazed? Was that the right word? Bewildered? Many simply stared into space as if wondering where they were and how they’d gotten there. Others showed angry expressions, scowled, eyebrows dipped to form a V above the bridge of their noses; Abby questioned if those people even knew they were doing it, if they could feel the divot, the slight squint. Anybody who even sort of resembled somebody who might possibly be of Middle Eastern descent often received looks of disdain, even of downright hatred. Of all the side effects of 9/11, that one broke Abby’s heart. The terrorists had succeeded in taking a city known for its cultural diversity and making its people suspicious of that diversity.

The bustling of activity at Ground Zero seemed almost apropos, this being Manhattan. If the borough was anything, it was bustling. Even a month later, swarms of people were busy working. Digging, moving, helping in some way—in
any
way—to get things back to some semblance of normal.

Abby had no trouble finding the Red Cross trailer that served as indefinite headquarters, and within a half hour of her arrival she was helping to hand out water and snacks to the exhausted, dirt-covered workers, adding her own pats on the back and thank yous for all their time and effort. It was astonishing to watch, even a month after the attacks. The firefighters, EMTs, police, and K9 rescue units all working like a giant army of ants, everybody with a job to do, everybody with head down, diligently toiling to accomplish the task at hand. Some with smiles and attempts to lighten the mood just a bit, others with serious—often stricken—expressions, still horrified.

Hours later, Abby sat on a curb, nibbling a granola bar, her sweatshirt tied around her waist, a dark ponytail threaded out the back of her New York Mets ball cap, watching and amazed that the energy level hadn’t seemed to drop even a little bit as the day went on. Hundreds upon hundreds of flyers showed faces of the missing and they all seemed to stare at Abby, plead to her. She’d actually seen one of Tyson Baker earlier, his dark eyes kind like his mother’s, his white teeth gleaming inside his fabulous smile. She somehow managed not to burst into tears right there in the street—even though that’s exactly what many people did.

“Hey, are you Abby?” The voice startled her. A tall young man with sandy hair and a scruffy chin that made him look older than he probably was regarded her with gentle brown eyes.

“That’s me.”

“Hi. I’m John.” He held out his hand and Abby shook it. “Roberta sent me to find you. We’re running low on masks and gloves and she wants us to run over to that medical supply place. They have more for us.”

Abby stood, ready to be moving again. “Lead the way.”

John gestured for Abby to follow him.

The medical supply place was only a couple blocks away, so they hoofed it. John explained that the items they were to pick up would be on a rolling cart for easy transport, since traffic was still unpredictable and often clogged. The building housed pharmaceutical offices and laboratories according to the signage and the medical supply company was on the ground floor.

“Ugh,” John said as he held the door for Abby. “Science hated me in school.”

“Me, too. Chemistry might as well have been a foreign language.”

“Right? I think I passed by the skin of my teeth.”

A tall, lanky African-American man met them and gestured to two rolling carts like he was Vanna White showing off letters. They were loaded down with paper masks, boxes of gloves, plastic bags of plastic bags, paper towels, bottled water. John and Abby each took positions behind a cart.

“Shall we?” John asked as he pushed his cart forward and out the door the man held open.

Abby wanted to challenge him to a race, but managed to keep herself in check. “Right behind you,” she said instead.

The wheels of the cart on the pavement made enough noise to prohibit conversation, so Abby’s mind drifted as she walked. Despite the horror that had been spread over the city, it was still a melting pot. As she looked around the street, she saw people of all shapes and sizes. An older man with silver hair and glasses passed her on the left. A college-age woman with a thick blond braid and skin so pale it was almost translucent spoke firmly into her cell phone. An African-American woman gave her a half-smile as she passed.
Obviously a tourist,
Abby thought. Beyond that woman a flash of color caught Abby’s eye, just a quick zip of copper that was then blocked by a number of people moving as a group on the other side of the street. Abby squinted and moved her head, trying as best she could to see around them.

“You coming?” John asked from several yards in front of her as he glanced back and saw her slow down.

“Yeah, I’m coming, but . . .” The crowd moved slowly, a mishmash of eight or nine people walking as if they were one entity, but finally somebody moved and Abby saw the copper again. It was a ponytail and it was the exact color of . . . no. That was impossible. Wasn’t it? What were the odds?
Slim to none,
she told herself, shaking her head, but unable to look away as she walked.
Ridiculously slim to none.
Deciding she was being silly, Abby picked up her pace. At that exact moment, the woman turned and looked in her direction. Abby’s heart stopped.

“Erica?” she said with disbelief as the woman met her gaze, and smiled widely.

That smile was the last thing Abby saw before she crashed her cart headlong—and very loudly—into a trash can and ended up on her ass, covered in garbage, medical supplies, and her own embarrassment.

Chapter 18

“No, it’s okay. I’ve got this. She’s a friend.”

The familiar voice drifted into Abby’s brain as she took mental stock of her body, making sure all the parts worked, that nothing had been broken, that everything was where it should be. When she was certain things were functional, she gradually looked up. Blue eyes that she’d always thought of as icy looked down at her, this time with warmth and genuine concern.

“Erica?” she croaked a second time, still not able to believe that’s who it was.

“Hey. Nice dismount. Are you okay?” Erica stroked the hair off Abby’s forehead with one hand, held on to her forearm with the other.

“I’m fine. Nothing bruised but my ego.” Abby studied her, studied her face. Erica looked different somehow. Not physically—she was still the same stunningly beautiful woman Abby had shared the most poignant four days of her life with—but something in her eyes, in her face. Abby couldn’t narrow it down and she squinted as she tried.

“What are you doing here?” It was the obvious question, so she asked it.

“Working,” Erica said simply.

“But you work in North Carolina.”

Erica picked various sundries off Abby’s legs, handing them to John, who was restocking her cart with the items she’d dumped. Erica’s warm hand still lay on Abby’s arm. “Right. I do. That’s where my company is based, but the company I work for sent several scientists here to help with the research and study of those anthrax letters.”

“Oh my god,” Abby gasped, thinking of the news reports she’d seen about envelopes of anthrax powder that had been mailed to various media outlets and a couple senators barely a week after the attacks. The government was working tirelessly to find answers, despite the chaos already affecting the country.

“It’s okay,” Erica reassured her.

“It’s dangerous. Isn’t it dangerous?”

“We’re careful. It’s okay.”

“But . . .” Before she could say more, before she could find a way to express her anxiety, a young man from the group Erica had been a part of bent to her and said something in low tones.

Erica nodded. “Okay. I’ll be right there.” She looked at Abby with an apologetic half-smile. “Listen, Abby, I have to go. But—” Her voice trailed off as if she wasn’t sure what to say.

“I e-mailed you,” Abby blurted.

Shock zipped across Erica’s face. “You did? When?”

Abby looked away and grimaced. “This morning. I—” She swallowed, having no way of explaining why it had taken so long and not thinking to ask why Erica hadn’t contacted
her.

“Abby, listen.” Erica used Abby’s chin to direct her gaze back to her. “I’d love to sit and talk to you. I actually have a lot to talk to you about, but there’s just no time here.” She rattled off the name of a hotel and the street it was on. “I’m staying there for the time being and there’s a great little bar and restaurant downstairs. Maybe—” Her energy seemed to wane, along with her confidence, and she took a moment to clear her throat. “Maybe you could meet me there? And we could have dinner or drinks and—talk?”

“I’d like that,” Abby answered without hesitation.

“Yeah?” Erica’s relief was obvious.

“Yeah. Is tonight too soon?”

Erica’s smile lit up her entire face and Abby realized sadly how rare a sight it had been in the short time they’d spent together. Sadly, because it was beautiful: her eyes shone and crinkled slightly at the corners, a subtle dimple appeared at the base of her left cheek. If Abby had been on her feet rather than sitting on the pavement, she was certain she would have swooned. “Tonight is perfect. I should be done here by six. Give me time to shower?”

“I’ll be sitting at the bar by seven,” Abby said.

“Great.” Erica squeezed her arm. “I’ll see you later.”

“Later.” She watched as Erica headed off in the same direction the young man had gone earlier. Only then did she notice Erica was wearing jeans. Jeans?
The queen of designer suits is working in jeans?
Her gaze drifted lower, settling on Erica’s retreating backside.
Oh, my. She needs to wear jeans
all
the time.

Yeah, something was definitely different.

“Wow. Who was that?” John was at her side, looking in the same direction as Abby, his eyes wide, his voice quiet as if he hadn’t meant to actually speak aloud. When he looked at Abby and realized he had, his face flushed while Abby hid a grin.

“A friend.”

“What happened?” he asked her, hurriedly changing the subject. “Are you okay?”

“Apparently, it’s a good idea to actually watch where you’re going when you push one of these things. Here, help me up.” She held out her hand and he helped her to stand. She was already planning the timing of the evening in her head. Though she would rarely make a trip back home and then back into the city again—that’d be over two hours more in travel time alone—there was no way she was showing up for dinner with Erica dressed the way she was now, with an unidentifiable stain on her shirt and the distinctive smell of garbage emanating from her general vicinity. She mentally perused her wardrobe as she and John finished cleaning up their mess and continued on their way.

Erica studied herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door of her hotel room. Her outfit was simple, but she didn’t have much choice. She hadn’t brought anything dressy. She’d known she’d be working outside or in the lab or at the headquarters closer to Ground Zero and none of those places were conducive to skirts and heels. So, she’d packed accordingly. This was fine by her because she was much more comfortable in these casual clothes—she just hoped Abby wasn’t disappointed.

She’d used the iron provided by the hotel to press the black slacks and now they hugged her body nicely. She’d donned a black camisole and covered that with a royal blue, full-zip sweater in a comfortable autumn weight. The combination left a nice expanse of skin at her chest, not showing cleavage but leaving lots of collarbone in view. A small diamond on a silver chain hung around her neck, matching the earrings in her lobes. She’d been wearing her hair in a ponytail since she’d arrived, to keep it out of her way, so she took this opportunity to wear it down, fluffing it a bit with her fingers, letting it skim her shoulders. A little makeup on her eyes (something she hadn’t worn since she got to New York), a touch of clear lip gloss, and a spritz of her new (too expensive) perfume, and the look was complete.

Not bad, she thought, giving a curt nod to her reflection.

She tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach as she checked the bedside clock. Seven on the dot. It was time.

Why was she so nervous? It was just Abby.

Just Abby.

She snorted. There was no such thing as “just Abby.” Not in her mind. Not for the past month. She looked around the room, picked up a few scattered items, neatened her toiletries in the bathroom, made the place presentable.