Black Friday (7 page)

In flight

M
aggie set the file folder aside. She was more interested in Homeland Security Deputy Director Wurth’s phone call. He took what looked like meticulous notes, while he nodded and inserted “Yes, I understand” several times. For the rest of them seated around him and listening, it was impossible to know what was going on.

FBI Assistant Director Kunze didn’t bother to hide his impatience. He waved a beefy hand at Wurth, palm up accompanied by a shoulder shrug. It was as plain as if he were saying, “What the hell’s going on?” Wurth ignored him. He continued to take notes in the small leather folio, underlining words and redotting
i
’s in between writing. Maggie saw it as a nervous habit of a man with too much energy. Also a way of controlling information and ignoring the rest of them. Perhaps the deputy director had a few political tricks up his own sleeve.

“Three bombs,” Wurth told them even as he was tapping the button on the phone to end his call. “Mall security noticed at least three men with identical red backpacks earlier this morning. They started tracking them just minutes before the blasts.”

“Arabs?” Foster made no excuse for his first question.

“Mall security cameras are pretty crappy,” Wurth said.

“No one seems willing to make that assessment at this stage. They also aren’t willing to discount anything either. Right now their focus is making sure there aren’t any more bombs in the mall. Some of these sickos get their kicks from waiting for and taking out the first responders.”

Maggie remembered all too well. That was exactly the case two months ago when she and Assistant Director Cunningham responded to what they believed was a bomb threat. A quiet suburban neighborhood. An ordinary house. Only the woman and her daughter who lived there had not been the real targets. She didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t need to relive it again for the hundredth time.

She glanced at A.D. Kunze fingering his too-tight collar and loosening his tie as he shoved into his mouth the last bite of a bagel loaded with cream cheese. Between chews and as he wiped at the corner of his lip he asked, “So how many dead?”

At that very moment, Maggie realized how much she missed Cunningham, his brisk but polite manner, that crinkle of concern indented in his brow, his quiet authority that seemed to enter the room with him. She even missed his nagging. Kyle Cunningham had been Maggie’s mentor for over ten years. She’d learned so much from him, taking her cues not only on how to work a case but how to relate to colleagues, when to remain quiet, what to look for, even how to dress. In some ways Cunningham had replaced her father. And losing him felt like losing her father all over again. She didn’t need her degree in psychology to understand that was why she was having nightmares again. Nightmares of going through her father’s funeral over and over, still from the eyes of a twelve-year-old.

“It’s too early.” Wurth brought her back to the inside of their jet and not alongside her father’s coffin. He was sidestepping Kunze’s question. “You know how these things are in the preliminary stages. We can’t rely on mall security to give us an accurate read of what’s happening.”

“Why not?” Maggie asked and surprised Wurth with her challenge. “You believed their report about three bombs, three men with three red identical backpacks.”

Kunze stopped eating and actually sat forward, interested in Wurth’s answer.

The deputy director looked from Maggie to Kunze then to Senator Foster who continued to sip his martini but raised an eyebrow to show that he, too, was waiting for the response.

“Right now they think the explosions were confined to the third floor. But the day after Thanksgiving the place was packed. Estimates are anywhere from 150,000 to 200,000 people inside. Depending on the detonation power inside each backpack…” Wurth shrugged—his best guess was as good as theirs. “We don’t have a body count, if that’s what all of you are looking for. But I will tell you that early reports indicate it’s bad, very bad.”

Mall of America

A
sante had missed his opportunity. He hated loose ends.

He watched the young woman escape his reach and wedge herself even further inside a mob that pressed tight against each other as they swarmed to get out the mall exit closest to them. Asante didn’t recognize the young man who waved at her. It wasn’t Dixon Lee.

Here on the first floor, cops in uniform with rifles yelled at people to get their hands up. The cops wore Kevlar vests and blue jeans, their badges in plain view, strapped to their arms or thighs. They tried to cut a path through a swarm of shoppers at the side entrance for firefighters and paramedics to enter.

Real paramedics.

Asante resisted the urge to pluck off his own cap and stuff it into the duffel bag. Instead he left it on, parroting the cops, telling people to get out of his way. Only Asante headed the opposite direction. He hurried for the back service exit for a second time in the last hour, walking quickly, not rushing, shouldering past one throng of people and cutting through another. The service exit wasn’t marked so no one crowded toward it. He slipped out the heavy door. The alarm that he had dismantled earlier remained silent though it wouldn’t have mattered now with the chorus of alarms and whistles and screams.

He dodged behind the set of Dumpsters until he got a good look around. Then he allowed his cap to add confidence to his stride across the parking lot. There was too much chaos for anyone to pay attention to him. The snow came down heavier now. The wind had picked up. The weather became an unexpected bonus.

Before Asante reached the car, he flipped on his headset and punched several numbers into the computer strapped to the inside of his arm.

In seconds came a voice, this time a female voice, calm and ready. “Yes?”

Asante used the computer screen’s touchpad to continue his task.

“I’m downloading two photos,” Asante said as he ripped off a glove and glided a finger over the computer’s touch screen. He had taken quick pictures with his cell phone while on the escalator.

“The woman may have been with Carrier #3 earlier,” Asante continued. “That must be how she ended up with his signal.”

He tapped the keyboard and touched through the menu to send the photos, his fingers expertly knowing what to do without hesitation. “I want you to tell me who both of them are. Find out everything you can. Start with the woman. I want all the basics: credit cards, driver’s license, pass-port, home mortgage, prescriptions, parents, siblings…all of it.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll let you know when and what photos to release as planned.”

“Consider it done. Anything else?”

“I have a flight to catch. I need Danko to continue tracking Carrier #3’s GPS signal.” A quick stroke brought up that computer screen that showed the GPS signal. It appeared to be stuck back inside the mall. He climbed into his car and took in the scene across the street, wondering if perhaps he could still finish her out here.

“Sir, I may be able to do better than that.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have the most recent text messages from that signal right in front of me. I can tell Danko exactly where the subject is headed.”

Of course. How could he have forgotten. He smiled. This loose end wouldn’t be so difficult to tie up after all.

“Where?”

“Saint Mary’s Hospital. She’s googling the directions to get there right as we speak. In fact,” and she paused, “I can access all the text messages that were made and received from that signal.”

Mall of America
Bloomington, Minnesota

N
ick Morrelli followed his security escort as they made their way to the front entrance of the mall. He brushed the snow off his trench coat and raked a gloved hand over his hair.

Boots. He should have brought boots.

In his rush to pack he’d forgotten boots. It hadn’t been snowing in Omaha.

The escort, who had introduced himself to Nick at the airport as Jerry Yarden, insisted the snow was letting up. Made it sound like the five or six inches on the ground were no big deal to trudge through. This was Minnesota, after all.

“Should be stopping in about an hour,” he told Nick.

He followed alongside Yarden, straining to keep up. Nick was almost a head taller but the little man walked briskly through the mall parking lot. That’s because Jerry had boots.

Finally Nick slowed and let Yarden go ahead of him to the next police barricade. This was their third one. While Yarden flipped open his ID Nick approached with caution. By now his leather loafers were caked with snow. He was afraid he’d slip and make an ass of himself. Nick waited his turn then without a word he showed his badge and security credentials to yet another police office at the door. This one had his own badge strapped to his thigh. A two-way radio was strapped to his shoulder. He wore a black stocking cap and Kevlar vest, both with POLICE in white letters across the fronts. He held a rifle in one hand and took Nick’s ID in the other, lifting it to eye level so that his head never bowed, never lost track of everything going on around him.

He looked at Nick hard, not just comparing the photo to Nick’s face but almost as if he wanted to see if he could make him crack, expose any weaknesses, any deceit before Nick made it past his station. Nick wanted to tell the officer he appreciated the tough scrutiny, but to say it would insinuate that he expected something less. Instead, Nick kept quiet, accepted his credentials back with only a nod. As soon as the police officer waved Nick and Yarden through, the man’s eyes were somewhere else, ready for the next threat.

Although it was believed that all the bombs had gone off on the third floor, even the first floor showed signs of the explosion. Streamers of debris hung from a huge holiday wreath. The Christmas tree in the center of the atrium was littered with bits and pieces that Nick could tell didn’t belong, some shiny, some ragged.

Down here the sprinklers had not been triggered but there was a damp chill. Enough that he caught himself reaching for the lapels of his trench coat and stopping himself before he turned them up.

Off to the side, strung out in front of Macy’s, two units of rescue workers barked requests and orders as they handed out blankets and tended to injured shoppers. But Nick’s eyes searched above, trying to look up at the four-story atrium. Snipers, dressed in black with Kevlar vests and helmets, were stationed at the tops of the stalled escalators, weapons shouldered and ready. The overpowering smell of smoke and sulfur permeated the air. Shouts echoed down.

“We don’t need to go up there,” Yarden told him like he was doing Nick a favor.

Nick glanced down at the little man. Removing his stocking cap had released Yarden’s large ears and sent his red hair straight up. That, and his ruddy cheeks, made him look almost like an elf. It only added to the bizarre scene.

“Our security office is down this way.” Yarden pointed.

“County police cordoned it off. Mr. Banoff convinced them to leave everything as is until you arrived.”

“No one’s looked at the tapes yet?”

Yarden shook his head. “They’ve had more important things to do.” He stopped suddenly, turning to Nick and looking around to see if anyone was watching them. “Mr. Banoff convinced them that it’s to their benefit if we sift through the tapes. It’ll save time and we understand the equipment so we can pinpoint angles, views, etcetera.”

Then Yarden wiggled a long, skinny index finger for Nick to come closer. “You do understand what Mr. Banoff means when he says
sift
, right?”

For the first time since he entered the mall Nick’s stomach twisted a bit. He hated to think that his new employer was simply worried about covering his own liability at a time like this. Nick didn’t answer Yarden. He simply nodded.

“K
eep her still. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Patrick told the large, black woman in the too-tight blue uniform.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her purple latex-gloved hands, quick and expert fingers working on the wound in Rebecca’s arm.

The wound looked deep. Really deep.

No, he didn’t think keeping Rebecca still would be a problem. If anything he thought Rebecca looked too still. He wished she would say something, anything. Open her eyes for longer than a series of unfocused blinks.

“We’re gonna need some plasma over here,” the woman yelled over her shoulder, making Patrick jump. She noticed him jump, but pretended not to. He appreciated that small gesture. Instead she continued to give him instructions.

“And warm. You need to keep her warm,” she told him as she pointed with her chin at the blanket.

He immediately pulled it up and started tucking it in along the sides of Rebecca.

“You’re doing good,” the woman told him. “Real good.”

He knew she was giving him things to do to keep him from going into shock, too. He wanted to tell her he was a volunteer with a fire department back home in Connecticut and had some experience with this kind of thing but just as he thought of it, he quickly dismissed it. He realized he didn’t have experience with anything at all like this. Not bombs going off. Not friends hurt and unconscious. It was different with Rebecca lying here.

He had barely caught up with her, squeezing and shoving his way through a swarm of people trying to exit the mall. Rebecca had been tapping frantically at Dixon’s iPhone while being jostled about. One minute she was trying to tell him something, drowned out by the noise engulfing them and the next minute she was slipping down into the mob, like a swimmer being sucked up under a wave.

He had to pull her up. She was faint and feverish, her eyes rolling back into her head. She grabbed onto his arm and her hand was filled with blood. He had already noticed the wound in her arm. Glass impaled the skin, too deep for him to pluck it out. He knew it would bleed even more if he did that. Somehow he had managed to separate her from the mob and get her to sit down before she collapsed completely.

“You got that plasma?” the woman yelled again, startling Patrick again, but this time, at least, he didn’t jump.

He watched her finish the last sutures.

“Is she gonna be okay?” He knew it was a lame question but he needed to ask it anyway.

“Of course she is.” But she didn’t look up at him, concentrating instead on the rhythm of her fingers. Her right hand sutured while her left hand dabbed at the blood. “Your girlfriend’s gonna be just fine.”

Patrick opened his mouth to correct her but stopped himself. Rebecca wasn’t his girlfriend. She would have been the first one to protest if she could. Not because they didn’t like each other. It was an independence thing. At least that’s what she called it. She connected independence with being totally on her own. He actually got that. Understood it completely. Or maybe recognized it since it was close to his own philosophy, his own creed.

That fierce independence was probably what connected them in the first place. Although Patrick didn’t refer to it as independence so much as a lack of trust. When you grew up without anyone to count on you learned quickly to count on yourself. His mom had done her best but as a single mom she was gone a lot, working long hours. Patrick didn’t blame her. It was what it was. Besides, he turned out just fine. Maybe grew up a bit sooner than his classmates. Nothing wrong with that.

He had never felt like he belonged with kids his own age anyway. They were always too immature. Like Dixon Lee, full of unrealistic ideals. Patrick didn’t have the time or luxury to worry about and protest things like immigration when it took all his energy just to keep his own job and work full-time so he could pay for his rent and tuition. He didn’t make time for guys like Dixon Lee. Didn’t let them in. Didn’t trust them. Or anyone, for that matter. It was part of the creed. You can only trust yourself. But then came Rebecca messing up his resolve.

She was witty—that dry humor that takes you by surprise—and smart. Not just book smart but capable of debating an issue, reasoning, quipping with a polite sarcasm he found totally charming. Most importantly, she knew how to listen. He’d throw out bits and pieces of himself—the safe stuff, not anything that would reveal his true secrets—expecting her to bat them aside. Only Rebecca absorbed it all. Not just absorbed, but sorted and sifted and tried to put the bits and pieces together. Patrick had never met anyone quite like her.

And oh, by the way, did he mention she was pretty easy on the eyes? Small with an athletic build and enough curves to offset her tomboy attitude. Big brown eyes and creamy skin, although right now, she looked too pale. Her shoulder-length hair was wet with perspiration, the feathery bangs stuck to her forehead. Her normally full lips were now thin and tight from fighting the pain.

Her eyes fluttered open and he reached for her hand underneath the blanket. He decided he liked the sound of her being his girlfriend though he wouldn’t admit it out loud. If you let someone in they usually expected to know everything, including all your secrets. Patrick wasn’t ready for that.

The plasma arrived and the woman in the blue uniform started preparing the lines and checking Rebecca’s other arm for an entry vein. She didn’t ask Patrick to let go of Rebecca’s hand as she positioned the arm to her liking.

“You’re gonna be just fine,” she said and Patrick nodded before he realized she was talking to Rebecca now.

Her eyes focused on him and stayed there. She squeezed his hand and he smiled at her. Had he ever told her she had the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen? Of course he hadn’t.

He wanted to tell her she could count on him. Right now. For as long as she wanted or needed. She could set aside that fierce independence and lean on him. And it didn’t have to mean anything. But instead, he didn’t say anything and he knew he would regret it.