Black Friday (14 page)

H
enry Lee sat next to his wife’s bed, staring at the tubes connecting her to a half a dozen machines. The biggest tube that came out from under the covers at the foot of the bed held his attention. Yellow and red fluids pumped through it, mixing into a spiral of pink. It nauseated him whenever he let himself think that fluid was actually being pumped out of Hannah.

He watched the tubes because he couldn’t quite look directly at her. She was bloated beyond recognition, thin lips shoved apart by more tubes down her throat. Her eye-lids fluttered and sometimes he caught her looking for him. Did she know he was here? He grabbed her hand and squeezed.

“That’s good.” The nurse noticed as she came into the intensive care room. “She’s going to be a little uncomfortable as she starts to notice the tube down her throat. We’re easing back on the morphine so she’ll wake up.”

“Uncomfortable?” He didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t want her to be in pain. He stood and wrapped Hannah’s hand in both of his.

“It’s okay.” The nurse recognized his angst. “We need her to be a little more awake and alert so when we pull the tube out she’ll breathe on her own. Otherwise heart patients want to sleep and let the machine continue to do all the work for them.”

“But she’ll be in pain?” He wasn’t satisfied.

“Uncomfortable.” The nurse corrected him. “As soon as we get it out, we’ll be able to increase the dose again. It won’t take long.”

Hannah was staring up at him now, eyes blurred but she looked like she was trying to tell him that she hurt. Though her arms were poked with needles and tubes she was attempting to reach up to her throat, glassy eyes imploring him to help her. It killed him to see her like this.

“She’ll be okay,” the nurse said. “I’m going to need you to step out of the room while we take the tube out.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t want to leave her. Her eyes kept pleading with him. How could he leave?

The nurse put a hand on his shoulder.

“It’ll only be a few minutes. I’ll come get you just as soon as we’re finished.”

He tried to keep his face from wincing or showing his concern. No, it wasn’t just concern. Who was he fooling? It was fear…pure and simple. He could not lose this woman. Losing a daughter was one thing, like cutting off one of his arms. But Hannah? That would be like ripping out his own heart. You can survive without an arm. It’s tough as hell but you find a way. Without Hannah? No, he’d never be strong enough to survive without her.

“I’ll be right here, Hannah. The nurse is going to take good care of you.” Then he added as if he needed to hear it out loud, “You’re going to be just fine.”

He walked out of the room, his knees so weak he had to put his hand up against the wall to steady himself. He made it through the double-wide doors that took him out of the Intensive Coronary Care unit, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. The waiting room was still empty. He dropped into one of the unyielding vinyl chairs.

He glanced around. Still no Dixon. Henry hadn’t seen the boy since he left with Henry’s cell phone to call his friends. He still couldn’t believe that they had found a way to use Dixon, to suck his own grandson into this. My God, they went so far as to seek out and target the boy’s friends. And why? Because of Henry’s apprehension? Because they wanted to ensure his silence?

He closed his eyes and shook his head. He still couldn’t believe it. He wanted to call Allan again. Ask him if he knew. Find out what the hell was going on? How could something that had begun with such honorable intentions turn into a greedy and disgusting grab for power and money?

The boy’s absence only made Henry more anxious. He was relieved to have Dixon safe and with him, but now he grew impatient with the boy. Of course, he was concerned about his friends but his grandmother had just come out of major heart surgery. He should be here at her side…at Henry’s side.

He absolutely hated to admit that he needed someone to be at his side. For forty years he had worked his way up to establish a successful business, a national success. A Fortune 500 success. Even in retirement he had refused to hand it over, insisting on remaining chairman, casting the deciding vote, always in control and on top of things. Or so he believed until now.

Hannah’s emergency surgery had certainly caught him off guard. Just like his daughter’s death. He had believed there could be no worse day than that dreadful one in April back in 1995. The difference—Hannah was there with him, by his side.

Right now he didn’t care about anything else. Didn’t care that their strategy had gone so terribly wrong. Or had it? Is this exactly what they wanted to happen?

Henry was beginning to understand that what he considered patriotism and honor, his so-called business associates appeared to see as only methods to raise profit margins and leverage political power. Henry had made a mistake. He realized that now. Family was what mattered most. Family was the most important thing. Everything else—country, business, even honor, were secondary. The tragic irony was that it was his sense of family that had sent him down this path in the first place. Only he had strayed too far. He’d forgotten what his original mission was, letting his pride and pigheaded stubborn ideals jeopardize everything else. Everything including what family he had left. How the hell could he ever make this right again?

On TV the local channels were still live at Mall of America. A press conference was going on but in the corner of the screen a chase scene from earlier played out. Still no confirmation on how many were dead though the estimate had been put at anywhere from twenty-five to fifty. Hundreds more had been injured.

Henry rubbed at his eyes then rubbed his hands together. His fingers were trembling. He glanced down the hallway. Where the hell was Dixon? They had told him earlier that he could use the phone in the waiting room for local calls. He just needed to dial a 9 first. He grabbed the receiver and punched in the number for his cell phone.

Sometimes a boy needed to be reminded of his obligations. Family needed to stick together. And damn it! He needed Dixon here with him, not off checking on his friends.

The phone rang four, five times before a voice answered that Henry didn’t recognize.

“It took you long enough to call.”

“Who is this?”

“Never mind that. I’m sure you’ll want to talk to your grandson.”

There was a muffled sound and then, “Granddad? What’s going on?”

Only Dixon sounded muffled, too, as though he were being kept a distance from the phone. Then he heard the boy yell out in pain and this time Henry Lee felt his knees give out completely.

P
atrick had wandered around the hotel for long enough. He’d been up and down every hallway on every floor, checking stairwells, riding freight elevators and popping through doors to laundry rooms, ready to apologize each time. Rebecca wasn’t here.

It was freezing cold outside. He kept alongside the busy highway though there were no sidewalks and little room for pedestrians. On this night he wasn’t alone. There was a lot of chaos in and out of the parking lots of businesses that bordered Mall of America.

Would Rebecca have risked going to one of the restaurants? He didn’t think so. There were absolutely no taxi cabs. Rescue vehicles and police cruisers still lined the edges, red and blue lights flashing but the sirens off now. News vans with satellites on their roofs and reporters and camera crews took up any other available space. Uniformed cops directed traffic in and out of the hotel parking lot. All of the mall’s entrances looked like they were barricaded. A Red Cross RV was stationed near the front of the mall with shuttle vans.

No, there was enough chaos that no one noticed Patrick walking in and out of traffic. And no one would have noticed Rebecca either.

He stopped at a busy intersection, this one still using the traffic lights instead of a uniformed cop. Vehicles headed for the interstate could speed off to the ramp with no wait, unlike those stalled in the other direction. They had to wait in stop-and-go traffic inching their way toward the mall and the hotel.

Earlier he’d tried directory assistance to get a phone number for Dixon Lee. Nothing. There were no directories for cell phones. He got a number for Henry Lee. Practiced what he’d say to the man if he answered.

He dialed. Waited. Only an answering machine.

Of course, Mr. Lee was probably still at the hospital. Patrick didn’t have a message rehearsed for the answering machine so he hung up. He was running out of ideas. He was cold. He was hungry and he was worried about Rebecca.

That’s when he saw her.

Across the street he recognized her. She had just come out of the Gas ’N Shop. Tentative at first, holding onto the door of the shop as if she might need to run back in.

“Rebecca,” he yelled. His voice got lost in the hum of four lanes of traffic between them. He tried to cross against the light and the blast of a car’s horn stopped him. One lane of traffic moved slowly. The other didn’t need to wait for him and let him know. Evidently the Good Samaritan patience was wearing thin.

He found himself shifting, pacing, while waiting to run across as soon as the light changed. In the meantime, he watched helplessly as Rebecca hesitated then relinquished her hold on the shop’s door. Slowly she approached a white sedan, bending to a rolled-down passenger window before getting into the car.

A sigh of relief. Patrick recognized the car. He’d spent two days in that vehicle, riding and driving from Connecticut to Minnesota. Yes, now he could see the
Batman: The Dark Knight
decal on the back window. It was Dixon’s car.

Thank goodness.

Patrick started crossing the street as the car left the shop. He ran against the wind and ice. Twice he slipped, almost falling. He waved his arms though the car was driving away from him, leaving the parking lot. He raced around the gas pumps, zigzagging between vehicles, taking a short cut. Dixon’s car pulled onto the highway just as a van honked, almost hitting Patrick, so close he could feel the heat of its engine at his side. He jumped onto a curb, out of the woman’s way. Now all he could do was watch as Dixon’s car gunned its engine and sped toward the interstate ramp without even noticing him.

He was out of breath. His high-tops were caked with snow, his fingertips numb, his hair wet and plastered to his head. He stood there watching the red taillights disappear as pellets of ice pricked at his face.

It was okay, he told himself. He could relax. At least Rebecca was safe.

M
aggie shouldered her way through the crowded hallway. The entire floor of conference rooms at the hotel had become a makeshift command center. She passed one door she recognized as the triage room and another where victims reunited with families. Room 119 was at the end of the hall.

She had changed into blue jeans, a turtleneck sweater and leather flats. Her Smith & Wesson stayed back inside her room’s safe, along with her badge. All she carried was her smartphone, her ID, a credit card, room key card and a twenty-dollar bill she’d slid into her jeans pocket.

Nick and Jerry Yarden waited outside the door, both smiling at her. She could tell they’d seen the chase scene by now. So had the others. It was obvious as soon as she walked into the room. Heads turned and nodded. Eyes glanced then stayed and stared.

It was a small group. Maybe a dozen. Police chief Daryl Merrick’s group was in another room. Merrick had won jurisdiction and ended up lead on the case. He had his hands full recovering bodies and rescuing injured, setting up information centers for victims and families, not to mention juggling a media nightmare. However, it’d be up to the federal agencies—Homeland Security and the FBI—to conduct the investigation, issue warrants and track down the killers. That was this group, gathered in Room 119. Most of its members were still at the scene, sifting through debris and interviewing witnesses. They would still be cataloguing evidence and piecing together theories in the days, even weeks after tonight.

Charlie Wurth was back from the press conference and at the front of the room, setting up a huge dry-erase board. Alongside him a CSI tech plugged in a computer and arranged a projection screen. Nick introduced Maggie to David Ceimo and a bomb expert, named Jamie, while Yarden made his way to the front of the room to hand off a jump drive containing the grainy, blurred images—the best shots they’d found—of the five suspects. Maggie listened to Nick and David Ceimo explain their connection while she watched Yarden with Charlie Wurth. There appeared to be some discussion, then Wurth was pointing to the computer. It looked like he wanted Yarden to stay and help run the show.

“Okay, people,” A.D. Kunze said as he made his entrance into the room, pulling the door closed and letting it slam shut behind him. “I know everybody’s tired. Let’s get to this.”

Wurth nodded at Yarden and handed him a wireless remote.

“Go ahead,” Wurth told him.

Yarden was a bit hesitant. Maggie could tell he was nervous. The tips of his ears had begun to turn crimson. He was a master at the computer panel but it was different in a dark room with only monitors. Here in front of a group of law enforcement officers it would be a bit out of Yarden’s realm.

Yarden glanced down before cueing up the photos on the projection screen. On the computer monitor Maggie could see there were rows of photos, about five photos in each row. The images, now jpegs, would have been downloaded from digital cameras used to record the scene. They were joined by the images Yarden had brought from the surveillance videos.

Yarden pushed a few buttons on the computer keyboard then pointed the wireless remote and clicked. A crime scene photo of one of the craters came onto the projection screen. He clicked again and another image came up alongside. On closer inspection, Maggie could see the smaller image was one of the shots of the same area from a surveillance camera before the explosion.

“We initially believed there were three bombers,” Yarden started to explain. “Then we discovered the site of one of the bombs was the women’s restroom.” He clicked the remote and the “before” shot was replaced by one with a zoomed-in image of the sign.

Yarden waited a few minutes then he cued up three more shots: the grainy images of four men and one young woman. Even on the projection screen Maggie was struck by how indecipherable the images were. They would never be able to identify them.

“What’s your assessment, Agent O’Dell?” A.D. Kunze boomed from his perch against the back wall.

“You must have a profile established. After all, you were able to determine that young man in the parking lot was not one of the five.”

There was silence. These were trained investigators. They knew this was an unfair call-out even if Kunze hadn’t used a condescending tone.

“At least one of them may have been a college student,” Maggie said. “We were able to make out logos on a ball cap and letterman jacket.” She saw Yarden cueing up those close-ups even as she spoke. “All five are Caucasian, between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six. None are wearing anything controversial. Other than the ball cap and letterman jacket there’s nothing to indicate by the way that they’re dressed that they belong to a specific organization or gang. There’s no visible piercings or tattoos. I know there was some expectation to connect these individuals to a group like CAP, but I see no evidence of that from the videos.”

“That’s Citizens for American Pride,” Wurth added.

“There were some warnings about an event called into Senator Foster’s office.” Then he pointed to the photos and he said, “We had three bombs, you have five suspects.”

“Right,” Maggie continued. “It appears that two of the people came into the mall with one of the bombers. Because one of those backpacks ended up in the women’s restroom, we suspect the young woman was involved. And possibly the other young man. I might add that none of the five suspects appear to be overly anxious or nervous. And certainly didn’t act like homicide bombers.”

“Which follows my theory,” Jamie, the bomb expert joined in. “There’s preliminary evidence that all three bombs were detonated by remote control. I’m speculating that none of these individuals knew they were carrying explosives. Or if they did, they didn’t believe they would be detonated while they were carrying them, otherwise, there’s no reason for an off-site remote. Also just from the fragments I can already determine the devices were constructed by someone who knew what he was doing. A professional. Definitely someone who was trained in the use and handling of explosives.”

“But in the case you told us about earlier,” Nick said, “you mentioned this detonator had some similarities to a guy who drew up a blueprint for a dirty bomb. If I’m remembering correctly, didn’t you say he claimed he did it for a class project? Wasn’t he a student?”

“I remember the detonator,” Jamie told him. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember other details.” She glanced around and noticed that wasn’t good enough. “I can get details.”

Wurth nodded, satisfied.

Kunze didn’t look satisfied. “What about groups like CAP?” he asked, looking to Maggie again. “We certainly can’t dismiss their involvement simply because none of these kids were wearing AMERICAN PRIDE T-shirts.”

“Agreed,” Maggie told him. “I did some checking. The ball cap and letterman jacket are from the University of Minnesota here in the twin cities. Citizens for American Pride held two rallies on campus within the last year, the most recent, last month. However, the university hosts a variety of similar events and forums.”

“So it’s possible these kids were members?” Kunze wanted to know.

“As I said earlier, there’s no evidence that points to that, but yes,” Maggie conceded, “it’s possible.”

Kunze seemed satisfied. He left before the meeting was adjourned. Maggie couldn’t help but wonder why he was so determined to pin the bombings on this particular group. From her brief research before coming down to the meeting, she couldn’t find a single incident of violence or criminal behavior attributed to the group. Sure, they had made some outrageous statements but even the so-called warnings or threats that Senator Foster’s office had received were mild. They also hadn’t taken credit for the attack which was odd.

Wurth and Yarden went over more crime scene photos. They created a list of information, evidence and leads. When they were finished David Ceimo offered to take them out for burgers and beer. Maggie realized, as she often did, that only law enforcement officials would think of food after a meeting like this.