by Sharon Sala
A sense of purpose was new to Beatty Andrews, but it was something he knew he could get used to. Before, he’d only read about such things as implemented explosive devices, but now he was about to use one. IEDs were as varied as the people who used them, but their intended purposes were always the same. Whether the device maimed or killed was unimportant. What mattered was that notice be taken of the cause.
He thought of the opulence of Rachel Austin’s lifestyle and how she had changed, from the kind and loving woman she’d been when she moved into the apartment to the spoiled, bed-hopping cheat she’d become. Of course, Beatty’s world was a maze of fabrications. The fantasy in his mind had become his reality because his reality was too painful to bear.
He made a mental note to pick up some fancy wrapping paper and ribbon on his way home from work. Rachel’s little present was ready. All it needed was a bit of something pretty to catch her attention. There was a slight skip to his step as he started down the stairs into the subway station. It felt good to be prepared. Before the week was out, Rachel Austin would be sorry she’d messed with a real man.
Rachel could hear the phone ringing as she stepped off the elevator. Juggling her shopping bags, she made a dash for the door, punching in the entry code as fast as she could. The phone was still ringing when the door slammed shut behind her. She frowned, wondering why her answering machine hadn’t picked up.
Yanking the receiver from the cradle, she let her bags slide to the floor and dropped to the sofa, breathless.
“Hello?”
“Miss Austin, this is the front desk. We have a delivery for you.”
Rachel sighed. Why hadn’t they said something to her a few minutes ago when she’d walked right past?
“Thank you. Please send it up.”
She dropped the receiver back into place and then kicked off her shoes. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch. She headed for the refrigerator to fix herself a snack. Jules was sending a car for her at eight, but that was almost four hours away. No way was she going to wait until then for food.
In the midst of smearing mustard on a slice of bread, the phone rang again. She grabbed the receiver, balancing it between her ear and shoulder as she continued to make her sandwich.
“Hello?”
“Rachel, sweetheart, it’s me, Estie.”
Rachel started to grin. “Esther! It’s so good to hear your voice. When are you going to come see me?”
Esther Goodman laughed. “Soon, lambkin, soon. But that’s not why I called.”
Rachel slapped a piece of pastrami onto the bread and then folded it all in half, licking a droplet of mustard from her thumb as she took her first bite.
“Are you chewing in my ear?” Esther asked in a mock scolding tone.
Rachel grinned. “Yes. I was starving.”
“The only model I know who has no regard for her diet.”
“I don’t have a diet,” Rachel said.
“My point exactly,” Esther said, and then chuckled. “But I don’t suppose it matters now, does it? You are a capable woman in your own right. You don’t need an old woman telling you how to take care of yourself.”
Rachel’s smile slipped. “I don’t know about that,” she said softly. “I hesitate to think what would have happened to me if you and Maury hadn’t taken me under your wings.”
Esther leaned back in her chair and stared out the window. It was raining in Philadelphia today. She missed New York City. She missed the shows and the restaurants... and she missed this young woman’s company more than she would have ever believed.
“Rachel, about that visit...”
Rachel’s smile widened. “You’ll come?”
“Let’s just say that I’m giving it careful consideration.”
“I have plenty of room,” Rachel said.
Tears blurred Esther’s vision. “I know you do, child, especially in your heart. But if I come, I’ll stay in my old place above the restaurant. The sound of breaking dishes always did put me right to sleep.”
Rachel burst into laughter. Esther joined her.
And then the doorbell rang and Rachel remembered the delivery.
“Someone’s at the door. Don’t hang up. I’ll be right back.”
Rachel dashed to the door, then peered through the peephole. As promised, one of the staff was standing outside her door holding a gaily wrapped package.
She swung the door wide. “My goodness, that’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
The young woman smiled. “Yes, Miss Austin, it surely is,” and placed it in Rachel’s hands.
“No card?”
The girl shrugged. “No, ma’am. Maybe it’s inside. Most of the nicer shops do it that way.” Then she smiled. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Rachel shook her head and handed her a couple of dollars. The girl smiled and waved as she left. As Rachel closed the door, she remembered that Esther was waiting and headed back to the kitchen.
“Sorry about that,” she said as she picked up the phone and set the box onto the counter.
“No problem,” Esther said. “I have nowhere to go but to bed.”
Rachel laughed, then impulsively scooted the package aside and jumped up on the counter to sit, letting her legs dangle off the edge as she continued her visit.
“I almost forgot why I called,” Esther said. “Which doesn’t surprise me. I forget a lot of things these days.”
“So, why did you call?” Rachel asked, then reached for her sandwich.
As she did, her elbow caught the corner of the present. And then it seemed as if everything began to happen in slow motion.
“Oh no!” she cried, and made a desperate grab. But it was a case of too little, too late. The package disappeared over the edge of the counter.
“Rachel, what’s wrong?”
The world exploded in Esther’s ear. For a second her heart stopped, and then it started back up at a frantic pace. She knew that sound. She’d heard it far too many times in her nightmares to forget. But it made no sense. The war was over. There were no bombs in Manhattan.
“Rachel!”
No one answered. Esther started to cry.
“Rachel! Sweetheart! Answer me!”
And then she heard a low moan. She pressed her fingers to her lips and started to shake. “Oh God. Oh, sweet God. Don’t let her die.”
Then she dialed the restaurant. Maury would know what to do.
Ten
Someone was screaming. In the back of Rachel’s mind, she kept wanting to tell them to stop, but when she tried to take a deep breath, she realized it was her own voice that she was hearing. She stopped on a groan and tried to sit up, but the pain was so intense she blacked out. When she came to again, she was crying. She choked and then moaned. What was wrong? It hurt even to breathe.
She stretched out her arm, expecting to feel pillow and bedclothes beneath her. But nothing was where it should be, and there was some sort of dirt on everything she could feel. Something sharp jabbed beneath her rib cage, and she gasped, almost passing out from the pain. She thought of Houston. He was always there for her. He would know what was wrong.
“Houston, can you hear me? I need help. I think I’m going to be sick.”
He didn’t answer. She couldn’t imagine where he might be. He never slept far from her side. Then she remembered that she wasn’t in her bed. She closed her eyes and groaned. That was why he couldn’t find her. She wasn’t in her bed. But if she wasn’t in her bed, then where was she? None of this was making any sense.
She lay motionless, struggling to breathe, praying to stay calm. Then she heard the far-off sound of sirens and it all came crashing back. She wasn’t in Mirage, she was in New York City. Houston couldn’t come find her because he didn’t even know where she lived. Sorrow welled, tightening her throat and sending hot, burning tears to her eyes. Something crashed to the floor near her feet, shifting the dust-laden air. She screamed. But when a blessed silence followed, she
tried to relax, making herself focus on what she could remember last.
Her memory skipped backward. The phone! She’d been talking on the phone. And there was a present beside her. It had fallen. A frown creased her forehead. After that, any memory stopped. But whom had she been talking to? Oh yes, Esther. She’d been talking to Esther. She sighed. Poor Esther. She was probably hysterical. Then Rachel bit back a sob. Given a little encouragement, she could get hysterical herself.
Something trickled down the side of her cheek. She lifted her hands to her face and then moaned aloud from the pain. Her face was wet, and it stung. Why was it stinging?
Then she froze, her fingers still cupping her cheeks. Smoke. She smelled smoke. Dear God, the apartment must be on fire. That was why she hurt. Her face had been burned. Panicked, she tried to roll over. She had to move. She wasn’t about to lie here and burn to death without trying to get out. It took several moments before she realized she couldn’t get up, and then a few more before it became apparent something was holding her down. Her hands were raw, her body aching as she ran her ringers along the weight, frowning at the unfamiliar shape and wishing it weren’t so dark. She needed to see. But as best as she could tell, a length of heavy metal was lying across her body. Gritting her teeth, she tried to push it aside, but it wouldn’t give.
She blinked, trying desperately to clear her vision, but nothing happened. There must be a blackout. She’d heard of them happening but had never thought she’d experience one.
Then something crackled behind her, and a new fear arose. She whimpered. Dear God, was the fire coming closer? Panic spiked as she tried once again to move whatever it was that was holding her down. It was no use. She was going to die.
In that moment she thought of Houston again. He would never know that she was sorry. He would never know how much he meant to her. All he would remember was that she hadn’t had the guts to stay. She started to cry, then choked at the coppery taste of blood on her lips. She closed her eyes, praying to die before she burned. Her head was getting lighter, her breathing more labored. Through her fading consciousness, she thought she heard shouts at her door, then the sounds of splintering wood. Running footsteps vibrated the floor on which she lay. With her last ounce of breath, she cried out.
“Help me. Help me. I’m here.” ***
Beatty Andrews stood on the opposite side of the street, watching as firefighters spilled from the fire trucks and ran into the apartment building. He looked up. Black smoke was boiling from the windows on the top floor. A pang of regret hit then. This didn’t have to happen. If she’d stayed true to him, everything would have been fine.
In the distance he could hear more sirens. He shoved his hands in his pockets and watched with absent interest as a half-dozen police cars came to a screeching halt and the officers began blocking off streets and rerouting traffic, giving free access to all the necessary emergency vehicles. Almost immediately, ambulances followed, parking as near to the building as they could get. Medical personnel began moving into place, readying for the injured to be brought out.
His eyes narrowed. They might as well send for the coroner. There was no way anyone in the apartment could have survived the blast. And while he hadn’t planned on anyone else being hurt, he wasn’t going to dwell on it if they had. They were casualties of war. In war, innocents died. And in Beatty’s mind, the battle between him and Rachel Austin was real.
The police began moving back the curious while roping off the area with rolls of yellow crime-scene tape. Beatty quickly obliged by stepping into a doorway out of the way.
Across the street, people began spilling out of the smoking building. Some were running; others walked as if in a daze, their faces etched with terror. Beatty watched, mentally counting them off. At this time of day, he knew, the residents present would be few.
And then the first stretcher came out. His belly clenched and he took a step forward, watching as the paramedics transferred the patient to a gurney and wheeled it into a waiting ambulance. Was it her?
He glimpsed a shock of white hair beneath a layer of blankets. He frowned. That would be Mr. Anthony from 6A. He should not have been injured. He lived six floors down. And then it hit him. Mr. Anthony had a bad heart. Beatty moved back against the building, ignoring another pang of conscience. So maybe the old man had had a heart attack. So what? Beatty’s mother was dead, and all because of Rachel. If Mr. Anthony died, it would be Rachel’s fault, too.
As he watched, several more people were carried out. The two ambulances left, only to be replaced by another and then another as the casualties of Beatty Andrews’s war were taken away to be treated.
And then there was a sudden flurry of excitement near the front of the building, and somehow he knew. He pushed his way through the crowd, desperate to see, needing to make sure.
If it had not been for that long black hair, he would never have known it was her. What he could see of Rachel’s face from beneath the oxygen mask was a sooty black and covered in blood. A gasp rose from the crowd around him as they carried her toward a waiting ambulance. Stunned by her appearance, he froze, his mouth agape, his eyes wide and fixed. It wasn’t until the ambulance sped away that it hit him. Despite all his careful planning, Rachel Austin was still alive.
He bolted toward a policeman standing on the corner.
“Where are they taking her?” he shouted.
The policeman barely gave him a glance. “Bellevue,” he answered. “They’re taking all of them to Bellevue.”
Beatty started to shake. He didn’t know what to do. She should have been dead. He had followed the plan carefully. So carefully. Then what the hell had happened? A sudden wave of panic swept over him as he bolted for the subway like a rat going to ground.
Jules Farrier’s private phone began to ring just as he was walking out of his office. For a couple of seconds he considered ignoring it, then he dropped his briefcase on the sofa and answered the call, his voice gruff with impatience.
“Hello.”
“Jules, it’s Maris. There’s been an—”
Combing his fingers through his hair in an uncharacteristic moment of frustration, he interrupted her. “Damn it, Maris, it’s after hours. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“Listen to me, Jules. There was an explosion in Rachel’s apartment. She’s in the hospital.”
Jules heart stopped as images he couldn’t bear to consider flashed through his mind.
“God have mercy,” he muttered. “What happened?”
Maris was breathless, and it was obvious by the tone of her voice that she was near tears.
“I don’t know. Maury Feldman called me. He said Rachel was talking to Esther when it sounded like something exploded. Esther panicked and called him. He called an ambulance, although one had already been dispatched.”
Jules closed his eyes. He was afraid to ask, and yet it had to be said.
“Is she... how bad do they... ?”
Maris choked on a sob. “All I know is that she’s still alive. I’m on my way to Bellevue now.”
“I’ll meet you there,” Jules said.
The line went dead in his ear. For a moment he couldn’t bring himself to move. And then he thought of Rachel. Beautiful, beautiful Rachel. Thank God she was still alive. But he couldn’t help thinking: What must have happened to her face?
Tom Mikeowitz was talking on his cell phone just outside the door of Rachel’s hospital room when he saw Maris hurrying down the hall. He quickly disconnected and went to meet her.
Maris grabbed his wrist, almost afraid to ask. Tom shook his head.
“It doesn’t look good.”
Maris started to cry. “This is a nightmare. My God, my God. Do they know what happened? Maury said she was in the kitchen. Was there a gas leak? I don’t understand.”
Tom frowned, then lowered his voice and pulled her aside. “I was just on the phone with a friend in the department. Right now this is just preliminary, but they think it was a bomb.”<
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Maris gasped. “Are you serious?”
He nodded. “They’ll know more by tomorrow, but one of the staff said a package had been delivered to her only minutes before the explosion.”
Too stunned to speak, Maris turned away and covered her face with her hands.
And that was how Jules saw her. Fear struck him, and it was all he could do to keep walking.
“Maris?”
She looked up. “Jules!” She pressed a hand to her lips, trying to maintain some control. “Oh, Jules,” she whispered.
Clearly she was beyond conversation. He looked past her to Mikeowitz.
“Tom . . . talk to me.”
Mikeowitz took Jules by the shoulder and led him aside, repeating the same thing he’d just told Maris.
“But this isn’t for public knowledge,” he warned. “If it’s true, there will be a criminal investigation. And you know what the media will do with that news.”
Jules groaned. “Can we see her?”
“No,” Tom muttered, and then slapped his leg, as if in sudden memory of something left undone.
“What? “Jules asked.
“Her family! We should be calling her family.”
Maris looked up from digging in her purse for a tissue. “She doesn’t have any. Both her parents are dead.”
“But surely there’s someone back in her hometown— a best friend, a preacher—who would want to know what’s happened to her.”
Maris frowned. “To my knowledge, the only person she talked to with any frequency was Esther Goodman.”
Jules looked away, unwilling to let either of them know he had information they didn’t. There was someone—a man from her past. What was his name? Dallas, no... Houston. That’s right, Houston. Houston Bookout. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked toward a cluster of chairs at the end of the hall. His conscience pulled at him as he slumped into a seat. But he didn’t move. Jealousy overrode compassion. He didn’t have the guts to face the man who held Rachel’s heart.
