Vanished (8 page)

The image of her being blown apart.

Not just her. Other people, bodies lying around, scorched
and broken. The worst ones were those who were still alive and
moaning. Deep, guttural sounds, like wounded animals. At
least jasmine had been spared that, though Ben would live with
the smell of burnt flesh for the rest of his life.

Which might not be much longer.

How terrifying had this Luther been to send her running
into the bomb? Or had she simply not believed Ben when he
said the mound of clay was plastique and the tiny wires and
Blackberry-type device a detonator?

He'd be blamed for the whole thing.

Even if no one remembered Ben carrying the knapsack,
witnesses would recall him warning people away from the
Circle. How long would it be before his description was on FOX
News, along with a sketch of a geek with thick glasses and a
Celtics shirt?

Slow down, don't run. People would notice running. Ben
shoved his glasses into his pocket and hunched his shoulders like
most kids in the Flats. As he cut down a side street, no one even
gave him a second look. Almost everyone moved in the opposite
direction, more interested in seeing danger than fleeing it.

Was that something in the shadows? Maybe just the wind
ruffling the leaves of a small birch tree. Or-maybe not. Maybe
Luther had spotted him and wanted to turn him into the same
red mist jasmine had become. Would a bullet to the head be
more merciful than getting blown up by a bomb?

Ben ran down another block and into the alley next to
Pizza King. He climbed onto the Dumpster and hopped onto
the roof of the shop. When he, Cannon, and Tripp were little
kids-in those innocent days before they had to worry about
their status on the "street"-they used to shoot acorns down
on people coming out of the store, then flatten to the shingles
and try not to laugh.

The street in front of Pizza King was empty. The quiet gave
him goose bumps. Where were the fire trucks and the bomb
squad people? It was almost ten minutes since the blast. Had
bombs exploded somewhere else in Barcester? That would
explain why there hadn't been a response yet. In a citywide
disaster, the Flats was the last place the cops would come.

What if the attack was even more widespread? Maybe Boston
or even all of the Northeast. But ground zero had to be the
Circle-the whole world knew the two train lines crossed there.
Stupid Quanta had bragged they were terrorist-proof. Hadn't
they ever seen Titanic?

Mom was probably freaked. Hopefully she'd see on television that the damage was confined to the Circle and assume
he was safe at McDonald's. People were probably hanging out
there now, like they did after 9/11. Looking for water or a soda,
just wanting to be near others, even people they didn't know.

Where were the news copters? They were always first on any
scene. Ben rolled over on the roof and looked up at the sky.
The smoke hung like a gray curtain, fluttering like tinsel on

a Christmas tree. He jammed his fists into his eyes to clear his
vision. An illusion, that was it-created by a new kind of bomb.

Which meant Ben had really messed up this time. He felt
marked, as if a giant arrow hung over his head, flashing a neon
sign that read: Here's the sucker who carried the bomb.

Think, loser. It's the only thing you're good at. Think.

Jasmine said Cannon had hooked her up with Luther. If
Ben could get a description-or, better yet, find out where
the guy hung out-he might be able to clue the cops where to
nab this Luther. And convince them that he hadn't meant for
this to happen.

If Cannon even knew. He wasn't the sharpest skate on the ice.
A fringe player in the Flats, his talent was in connecting people
up. He ran schemes, bullied his brother, dissed his mother. But
he had always been good to Ben, covering him with his word so
the street wouldn't eat him alive.

Ben opened his cell and speed-dialed Cannon. Stupid
phone-not even a no service screen. That didn't make sense.
He was fully charged and in close range of the nearest tower,
the steeple of Grace Community Church. He could see it
from this vantage point, even make out the dish behind the
clock tower.

What if someone had taken out the satellites?

Was he blaming Osama bin Laden for something that
would require a world power to pull off? Too many nuclear
weapons from the old Soviet Union were still unaccounted
for. North Korea and Iran were both involved in high-level
weapons development. And where did those weapons of mass
destruction really go?

Not enough information. And no way for a fifteen-year-old
fool from the Flats to stop it if some rogue power wanted to
blow up the best country in the world.

Think locally, loser. One terrorist at a time.

Visualize success, the therapist in fifth grade had told him.
After the old man-he would never be "Dad"-had punched
him out, Mom had wanted someone safe for him to talk to. But then she yanked him because she didn't agree with that
kind of behavioral therapy.

What was the difference between a therapist teaching him
positive visualization and a Sunday school teacher telling him
the invisible and unprovable Holy Spirit would present his
prayers to God? People believed what they wanted to believe.
Didn't make it true.

Mom admitted that she desperately believed the old man
would stop beating on her. Old man-weird term for a guy
who hadn't reached forty yet. But Ben would never call Gus
Murdoch his father, even though the jerk was responsible for
half of his DNA.

Not that Gus would admit it. When he wasn't outright
cursing, he called Ben a half-breed. "You wouldn't catch me
dead watching Discovery Channel. Or reading all those books,"
he'd say and pop another brew.

"Gus was my mistake," Mom always said. "Not yours,
Benedict. You're nothing like him, nothing at all. You're my
blessing."

Would she say that if she found out he was the one who
carried the bomb? He'd already done the stupid thing today.
Now he'd do the right thing. Track down some information
from Cannon, pass it to Sergeant Logan or whoever they sent
looking for him.

Instead of being the kid who carried the bomb, Ben
Murdoch would be the kid who caught the dirtbag who blew
up the trains.

IRST-RESPONDER PRIORITIES.
I

Communicate with Central. Not going to happen.
Logan's two-way was dead, as was his cell phone. Where
were Jamie Walsh and Paul Wells, his other cops on duty? He
hoped their training would kick in.

Establish a perimeter. No need, at least right here on East
University. No one was eager to approach the flames. Strange
clusters of smoke roiled up from around the Circle, trailing so
high overhead that he couldn't see the sun.

Logan's knees wobbled. No, he couldn't deal with any pain
or fear, not right now. Work to be done. First on the scene,
respond appropriately.

Deal with casualties. It was too late for the poor souls who
had been in the Circle when the bomb blew, but there were
plenty who needed attention. Those closest to the blast, like
Pappas and himself, had shock injuries that would need to be
evaluated. Other people were hurt by flying glass and debris.
The numerous vehicle crashes would have spawned injuries.

Where were the ambulances? Logan had to start triage and
needed more help than the one-armed Pappas could provide.

"Can I have your attention, folks? Listen up for a minute.
I'm Sergeant Logan, Barcester PD." He hoped some would
recognize him even though he was bare-chested and dressed in
shorts. "We need people with medical training."

No one came forward.

"Nurses, technicians, EMTs. Even if it's just first-aid training.
Come on, folks. We need you."

Two women and one man moved out of the crowd. They
identified themselves as a physical therapist, a nurse's aide, and
a lab tech respectively.

"Now I need at least two volunteers for each of these
medical folks."

A thin woman in a miniskirt shook an accusatory finger at
him. "The EMTs will come and take care of this. The rest of us
should just go home."

A man with a bushy white mustache glared at her. "How?
Your car working?"

Then a dam burst, shock erupting into fear, anger, and
worry. I need to get home... I left my elderly mother... Someone's
trapped a couple hundred feet back ...I hurt my neck... My car is
wrecked... Why aren't the cell phones working?

Logan took a deep breath, waved his arms. "If you're willing
to help, step up. Otherwise, stay on the sidewalks and out of
the way."

"Why won't the cars start?" someone shouted.

"I don't know," Logan said. "But we need them moved. If
anyone is a good runner, you can head down the street, tell
people to roll cars out of the way. We need a clear path for
when emergency vehicles arrive."

A thin woman in a flowered skirt raised her hand. Logan
recognized her as Dorothy Britain from Muir's Hair Salon. "I
can do that," she said.

"Thanks. If there's something I need to know about, send
someone back this way."

"You got it." Dorothy jogged down University, shoulders
squared with purpose. In the face of chaos, any measure of
control was comforting.

"What about the bodies?" someone yelled out.

Pappas had covered the face of the woman in the yellow
sundress with newspaper. There were four other fatalities that
Logan could see, but who knows how many others had been
caught too close? A dark-haired girl had run toward the Circle
just as the bomb blew.

Triage-help those who can be helped and grieve later.

"Sergeant" An older woman touched his arm. "What about
the bodies?"

"Leave them for now."

"Can't we at least cover them up?"

"That would taint the investigation."

"We don't need no investigation," a man in paint-covered
overalls roared. "We know who did this."

"If someone can round up some sheets or towels, just lay
them over the faces. But please, don't touch anything or move
anyone.

Logan bent over, trying to clear his head. First-responder
duties. Circle the blast site, see who else needs help.

Wait for word from Central-Boston-Washington-telling
him what to do.

"Sarge!" One of his patrolmen pulled up on his bike. Paul
Wells was a muscled stud and rough around the edges, which
made him perfect for the Flats. "They're saying someone blew
up the trains?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Listen, I need you to get to Babin's
Pharmacy, load up on supplies, and get them to my medical
responders. Tell Chet I sent you. He's on the disaster planhe'll know what to do."

Logan scanned the crowd, waved over two kids on bikes.
"You kids go with Officer Wells. Do as he tells you"

"Rockin'," one of the kids said. "We get to help!"

"Have Chet ring everything up. The city will reimburse him.
We need sterile water, bandages, soap, ice packs. Get those boys
knapsacks or something to haul stuff-"

Wells swung back onto his bike. "I got it, man."

"Yeah, OK. Go."

A chunky teen handed Logan a Coke. "Look like you need
this."

"Hey. Thanks. I guess I do."

"I got you this, too." He held up a gray T-shirt with a New
England Patriots logo on it.

"Wow. I owe you, man." Logan slugged down the soda,
the sugar restoring a bit of what adrenaline had drained. He
pulled on the shirt. A size too small, but at least he didn't
look like Tarzan now.

First-responder priorities. Go around the fire, see if there are
injuries on Spire or West University.

He found the nurse's aide trying to gently remove a rollerblade from a young boy's broken ankle.

"I need to check the rest of the immediate area," Logan told
her. "Are you OK for now?"

"For now, but... " She stood, blocking the boy's view. "Where
are the ambulances? It's been almost ten minutes."

"They're coming. We called for them befo-" He caught
himself.

"Before?" She squinted. "Before what?"

"They've been called, and they'll be here." Logan turned away.
If word got out that he'd had advance notice of the bomb-even
by only a couple of minutes-people would be on him.

Pappas caught up to him, his face still gray and his shirt
soaked with perspiration. "I've done what I can here. I'm
going back to the substation and try to get communication
established."

Logan's cop radar kicked in. The man had flashed credentials,
dressed like a fed, sounded like a cop. But without Central's
blessing, how could Logan really know? Pappas shows up,
and an hour later a bomb blows. Maybe a coincidence. Maybe
Homeland Security knew of some threat.

Or maybe Pappas was the bomber, wanting to see his own
handiwork.

"After we assess the rest of the blast area."

"Sergeant, you've got your priorities. I've got mine."