Black Friday (17 page)

Saint Mary’s Hospital
Minneapolis, Minnesota

H
enry Lee wanted to continue pacing. He had been able to pace all he wanted downstairs in the cafeteria, watching for the FBI agent while pretending to sip coffee and burn off nervous energy. Not much of a ruse—he had been nervous, anxious and angry. Pacing helped.

Though disappointed, he felt a slight bit calmer back here, sitting at Hannah’s side, holding her hand and listening to the machines wheeze and hum. There were still too many machines attached to her. But she was sleeping, resting, breathing on her own, now that the tube had been removed from her throat.

Henry glanced at his wristwatch. He had waited in the cafeteria ten minutes longer than his own self-imposed deadline, though the whole time he had been anxious to get back to Intensive Coronary Care. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the FBI agent didn’t meet his request. She must have thought he was some psycho and had passed on the message as a hoax.

Probably just as well. The hospital cafeteria had been a bad idea. He hadn’t been thinking clearly. It was risky. They might be watching him. He couldn’t see them, couldn’t pick them out, but he wondered if they were here. After all, they must have taken Dixon from the hospital. If they had recognized the FBI agent from the TV news clips and saw him talking to her, they would most certainly kill Dixon.

Henry wasn’t sure what he’d do now. He had five hours before they would allow him to talk to Dixon again. He had called his cell phone number anyway. It rang five times before it clicked over and he heard his own voice ask if he wanted to leave a message. He called it three more times. Each time it was the same. That meant they had left the phone on, left it somewhere to ring, probably just out of Dixon’s reach, taunting him, reminding him who was in control.

Henry was worried sick about the boy. He tried to keep from conjuring up images of what they were doing to him. These were ruthless people who didn’t mind blowing up innocent women and children in a shopping mall. People who had an agenda beyond what they were hired to do. He feared they would kill Dixon whether Henry “behaved” or not.

Maybe it was the fatigue, maybe it was sheer madness, maybe it was the realization that he had nothing to lose. They could take the project and twist it into their own selfish scheme, but by God, he would not allow them to take his grandson down with them. They had crossed a line and for that, he’d send them all to hell even if it meant he had to go along with them.

A nurse had left when Henry returned to the room. He’d lost track of the in-and-out traffic. Now a white-coated doctor came in, still gowned up from surgery. Henry ignored them all unless they spoke to him first. He didn’t want them interrupting his thoughts.

This doctor checked the machines, like all the others. Then she stood on the other side of Hannah and did something that surprised Henry. The doctor took a tissue from the side table and gently wiped a small line of drool that had escaped down Hannah’s chin.

Henry raised his eyes to meet the doctor’s. “Hello, Mr. Lee.”

Henry simply nodded. At first he thought she was just another doctor, a polite one taking time to introduce herself. But she held his eyes and little by little he recognized her beyond the black square-framed eyeglasses and the hair that was slicked back to accommodate the surgical cap. She looked smaller in the scrubs, white coat and blue paper shoe covers, but she had donned the role of doctor or surgeon with an air of grace and confidence that had fooled him.

It was too late to hide his surprise or the sigh of relief. She’d come, after all.

“H
ow did you find out my name?” Henry Lee wanted to know, but Maggie could see he was pleased rather than upset about it. “And how did you find me?”

“There’s a consult room next door. Security key card entry only,” she told him in the same calm voice she might use had she really been one of his wife’s doctors, updating him, comforting him. “It’s already been swept for bugs. We have it for the next twenty minutes.”

He stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language and he needed an interpreter. Finally he nodded. She waited while he tucked his wife’s hand under the covers. He had been holding it all this time and looked reluctant to let go. Then he followed Maggie without further hesitation.

“I’m sorry about your wife,” Maggie told him as they settled into comfortable chairs in the next room. “It sounds like she made it through surgery quite well.”

“That’s what they keep telling me.” He sounded like he didn’t believe them.

She reminded herself that his wife’s condition wasn’t her concern, though she admired his obvious devotion to her.

In the short amount of time since his phone call, Maggie had learned quite a bit about Henry Lee. With David Ceimo’s connections as the governor’s chief of staff, he had been able to track the anonymous phone call to Maggie’s cell phone. The call had come from a waiting room in Saint Mary’s Hospital’s ICC.

In their brief conversation the caller had let it slip that his wife had just had surgery. On the day after Thanksgiving, there were no planned surgeries. Maggie had been able to find out that there were, in fact, only two emergency surgeries. One, an appendectomy. The other, a triple bypass. Another quick phone call to ICC—this one a bit of a finagle—and Maggie was able to get the patient’s name. From there she discovered her anonymous caller’s name. While David Ceimo took care of getting her hospital credentials and security clearance, Maggie searched everything she could find about Henry Lee by using her smartphone’s Internet connection.

Turned out the man had an outstanding reputation as a business mogul, taking several companies and building them into national Fortune 500 successes. Now retired and remaining chairman of his empire, he used his clout to lobby for homeland security measures. He was far from the wacko she had expected.

“I’ll only tell you what I know if I’m promised immunity from prosecution.” He said it like it was something he had memorized, perhaps rehearsed. There was none of his earlier passion in this request.

“I don’t have the authority to make that promise.”

In the past A.D. Cunningham had backed her up with any deals she believed necessary. She was pretty sure A.D. Kunze would not.

“I can assure you that I’ll talk to the authorities about your cooperation,” she told him, “but that’s as much as I can promise.”

He studied her with tired and hooded, watery blue eyes. She could see him evaluating his options. She waited while his eyes left hers, darted down to his wringing hands then back to hers.

“They have my grandson,” he said and cleared his throat, an unsuccessful attempt to hide the hitch in his voice. “Will you at least try to get him back?”

“I’ll do everything in my power to try to get him back.”

Then Maggie sat forward and waited, not wanting to throw out questions that might limit the information he gave.

“I’m a patriot,” he chose to open with.

It surprised Maggie, but she kept from showing it. One of the companies Henry Lee owned was a security provider. From the brief background search, she had expected to come here and get information from him that might involve some breach of security or perhaps a failure to report a warning.

What Maggie O’Dell didn’t expect was a confession.

N
ick stood at Jerry Yarden’s side as Yarden gave his long-winded and animated version of what security had done to try and foil the attack. The Chapmans nodded, thin-lipped and unblinking. Nick was relieved when his cell phone started ringing.

“Sorry, I’ve got to take this call,” he told them, excusing himself and escaping down the hall without even looking to see who was calling. “This is Nick Morrelli,” he said with just a hint of importance mixed with a dab of irritation for the Chapmans’ benefit.

“Finally. I can’t believe you answered.”

It was his sister, Christine. True enough, he had ignored her previous calls and not returned any of her messages. He hadn’t been ready to divulge any details that he suspected the news reporter in her would be wagering for.

“Yeah, sorry. It’s been crazy here.”

He glanced back down the hall. The Chapmans had forgotten him already and were focused on poor Jerry. Nick took another hallway, searching for somewhere a bit quieter.

“We’ve been watching,” Christine said. “It’s hard to imagine. I can’t even pretend to know what it must be like to be there in the middle of it.”

He found a small, empty room off the elevators and ducked inside. Stacked, dirty coffee cups filled a table. Folding chairs were left in no particular pattern. Nick sat down in one against the wall.

“The director of security and I were just getting our asses chewed by a couple of the owners of the mall.”

“You’re kidding. What did they think could have been done?”

Nick heard the interest in Christine’s voice and immediately hoped he wasn’t sorry he had told her that.

“It’s kind of late,” he said, glancing at his watch and wanting to prevent any follow-up questions. “Is everything okay?”

“I didn’t want to add to your stress, but I knew you’d want us to call you.” He didn’t like the change in her voice. “We had to have Dad taken by ambulance to Lakeside Hospital’s emergency room.”

Nick shot out of the chair, gripping the phone tight against his ear.

“Is he okay?” He found himself bracing one hand against the wall.

“They’ve got him stabilized.”

“What happened?”

“Mom noticed his breathing was more…I guess raspy. That’s how she described it.” There was a long pause.

“Nick, I don’t think she’s gonna be able to take care of him from here on out. It’s getting harder and harder.”

He needed to sit back down. Found the chair again.

“Okay,” he offered as his best gesture of agreement. “What are you thinking?”

He’d never been in on these conversations. It had always been Christine and his mom making the decisions regarding his dad’s care. He had been off in Boston, 1300 miles away, up until several months ago when he moved back to Omaha. Now he realized how lucky he had been all those years, and he couldn’t help but wonder why Christine decided to foist this on him this time?

That wasn’t fair. He knew that wasn’t fair. But he was exhausted, overwhelmed and 400 miles from home. What could he do about it?

“You know she won’t agree to moving him anywhere outside of home,” Christine said. “But she’s being stubborn about having some outside help. She keeps saying Dad doesn’t want some stranger helping him pee. It’s ridiculous.”

He glanced around the room. He wanted to ask her why all of this needed to be decided right now? He was safe, stabilized, she had told him. Christine was always worrying about things before they happened.

“How long will they keep him in the hospital?”

“His doctor wants to run some tests. Probably through the weekend.”

“Can we talk about it when I get home?”

Silence. Had it been the wrong thing to say? “Sure, that’s fine,” she finally said.

Nick recognized that tone. It meant waiting was anything but fine. Passive aggressive. Wasn’t that what they called it. Both of them had the symptoms. Number one on the list was “hates confrontation.”

“It’s just that I’m a little overwhelmed right this minute,” he tried to explain and knew it sounded lame as soon as it escaped his mouth.

“I just wanted to talk to you about it, Nick.” She was upset but doing her best to keep it from her voice. “I’m fully aware that when it comes time to actually fix it, that I’ll be the one doing it by myself.”

He didn’t know what to say. He felt like she had slugged him in the gut. He felt like an asshole.

“I’ve gotta go,” she said and he heard the click before he could respond.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. He wasn’t good at this family stuff. That’s why they’d never asked him before. But if Christine knew that, why was she expecting something different from him? Why now?

M
aggie tried not to interrupt Henry Lee. She refrained from crossing her arms or any other nonverbal gestures that might stop him. Her psychology background had taught her to listen without giving any indication of prejudice. Sometimes an impassive listener gathered more valuable information than a seasoned interrogator. Human nature dictated certain behaviors, like filling in long silences or attempting to please a receptive listener.

“My daughter, Dixon’s mother, was one of the 168 people who were murdered on April 19, 1995. Four thousand eight hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate and jet fuel driven right up to the front of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City.”

There was still enough emotion to cause the blue eyes to go watery, again. He took an irritated swipe at them and continued, “I didn’t believe it could happen. Thought we’d never allow it again. But we Americans have short attention spans. We become complacent. Six years later, 9/11.”

He sat back, sat forward, couldn’t get comfortable. Didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.

Maggie waited out his silence and his fidgeting.

“We’ve become complacent again,” he told her. “This was meant to be a wake-up call. This administration keeps tearing down our policies on terror, weakening our security systems. They’re leaving us vulnerable for another attack. And mark my word, there will be another attack.” The anger was creeping back into his voice.

“It’ll be some major sporting event or in one of our shopping centers or an airport. They’ve broken down the barriers we worked so hard to build. Closing down Gitmo. It’s crazy. Treating those monsters to three square meals while all they want to do is get back out there and slaughter innocent Americans.”

“Thirty-two innocent Americans were killed today.” She couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to listen to his diatribe and let him believe her silence might excuse, condone or possibly understand it.

“Dear God, thirty-two?” He covered his face with trembling hands. “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said through his fingers as they rubbed at his disbelief. “I swear to you, that wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“What exactly was supposed to happen, Mr. Lee?”

“A disruption. That’s all.” He shook his head and sat forward, hands wringing. “Our group…and it’s an influential group of high-level, upstanding individuals…”

“Citizens for American Pride?”

He let out a breath, something that sounded between a snort and a chuckle.

“CAP? It’s a smokescreen, a distraction. That organization has nothing to do with this.”

“Then I don’t understand, what group are you talking about?”

“No one knows about us. We’ve managed to keep it secret for almost fifteen years. We’ve influenced business contracts—billions of dollars—making sure that American companies are awarded. We’ve manipulated government policy. Nothing different than what lobbyists do, only we have members who are…let’s just say, a bit closer to actually making government policy.”

“Are you saying members of Congress are a part of this secret group?”

He shrugged and she knew he was monitoring what he told her, perhaps deciding as he went along.

“We’re not thugs,” he said. “That’s all I’m saying. Sometimes our methods may have seemed a bit unconventional. We did what we felt was necessary to influence, to persuade, to keep America on track. Yes, we pushed the envelope. But no innocent lives were lost. I promise you that.”

Now he glanced around the room as if checking to see if it was, indeed, secure. “This was meant as a wake-up. The devices—electronic jamming devices—were supposed to be in those backpacks. They were designed specifically to disrupt computer and satellite feeds. I helped create them myself. It was supposed to be a virtual electronic blackout, appropriately timed to occur on what the retail world calls ‘Black Friday.’ A day of substantial profits would be turned upside down to show how easily a terrorist could walk in and do the same, maybe worse.”

“You certainly proved the worse part.”

Maggie bit down on her lower lip. Calm, steady, impassive—she could do this without injecting emotion. She kept from balling her hands into fists, willed her feet to stay planted when she wanted to pace.

“You’re right. Someone certainly proved it. Someone with his own agenda. Those boys didn’t have anything to do with this.”

“You know the boys involved?”

“They were friends of my grandson. Chad, Tyler and Dixon got hoodwinked into carrying those backpacks. And Patrick—they shouldn’t even have his picture. He didn’t have anything to do with this. Patrick and Becca just went to the mall to be with Dixon.”

“You know Patrick Murphy?”

“Patrick and Becca celebrated Thanksgiving at my home yesterday, spent the last two nights with us. They go to University of New Haven with Dixon. Came from Connecticut all together. Drove two days. Good kids. Good, decent kids.”

He was shaking his head and didn’t notice Maggie swallowing hard.

Patrick had been telling the truth. He didn’t have anything to do with the bombing. She shouldn’t have been so hard on him, should have trusted him instead of asking him to trust her. Now she was sitting with the man who Patrick had spent Thanksgiving with and he seemed to know more about her brother’s character than she did. Suddenly her stomach did a flip as she realized something.

“Was Patrick with Dixon when he was taken?”

“No, neither was Becca.”

The relief was hard to contain but Henry Lee didn’t seem to notice as he stared at his hands again.

“Dixon said he left the backpack with them. Are Patrick and Becca alive?”

Maggie saw the realization in his eyes. He hadn’t thought of it until now, that Dixon’s friends may have been killed in the blast.

“Patrick is alive. I don’t know about Becca.”

Henry Lee shook his head. “Dixon was here at the hospital with me,” he told her. “I was so relieved that he was safe. Then those bastards took him from here. That’s how I know they must be watching.”

He stopped, took a couple of deep breaths to steer himself away from the anger. “Dixon was worried about his friends. He borrowed my smartphone. He was talking to them.” He paused and squinted, looking for the right term. “Texting them, making sure they were okay. That’s how those bastards are making me keep in touch, controlling how I keep in touch. With my own goddamn phone.”

“Who exactly are
they
, Mr. Lee? Who is it that has your grandson, who switched bombs with jamming devices?”

“The one in charge calls himself the Project Manager.” He looked away. Took several more deep breaths as if steeling himself for what came next. “And he’s getting ready to make another attack on Sunday.”