Winking at himself, he walked out of his executive bathroom into his sprawling office. On the east wall were photos of Hollinger with Elvis Presley, Muhammad Ali, and Presidents Reagan and Clinton. A large gold frame held a photo of Lou Gehrig smiling in front of the dugout at Yankee Stadium.
Hollinger, who was short, but spry for his age, walked briskly across Persian carpets toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced west across the Hudson. The morning was bright and clear and he squinted at the horizon, trying to glimpse the conical spire of his New Jersey estate. He hoped Sonia would get soup for the party—but of course she had, she knew how much he loved soup. Lobster bisque, or maybe crab.
A stream of black smoke drifted toward the window. Hollinger lurched back, spun around, and scanned the three flat-screen TVs on the wall. On WNYW, a wobbly shot showed the top of the north tower, partially obscured by leaves. He grabbed a remote and unmuted the TV. A male reporter’s voice filled the room. "Just a few moments ago, something believed to be a plane crashed into the north tower of the World Trade Center. I just saw flames inside. You can see the smoke coming out of the tower. We have no idea what it was."
He switched to CNN—a live shot of the smoking tower—and read the headline at the bottom of the screen: "World Trade Center Disaster." His body tensed. His feet felt strange, leaden. Sheets of smoke clouded the windows. A pang of terror shot through his head.
He was going to die. This struck him as a bodily certainty and his first thought was that he had to tell someone about the money. He walked to the phone and picked up the receiver, but paused before dialing. Smoke billowed past his windows. He heard Sonia’s voice in his head, warm and grating at the same time. Vamos!
His eyes darted around the office and landed on the photo of Lou Gehrig. He dropped the phone and scrambled across the room. Up on his tiptoes, Hollinger yanked the photo off the wall and tucked it under his left arm, then jogged into the lobby of his firm.
"Susaaa—" He tried to yell, but the sound caught in his throat. His secretary wasn’t there. The two other offices in his suite were empty.
He passed a marble placard that read "Hollinger Quantitative Investing" and followed the hallway to stairwell B. He peered down and counted the stairs between him and the landing. Nineteen stairs per floor. Ninety-nine floors. 1,881 stairs. He wouldn’t make it. Sonia. If she were there, she’d tell him what to do. He stepped back toward the hallway, but, again, Sonia’s voice cut through the fog of his indecision. Vamos! He blinked twice and stepped down.
Ten minutes later, he stood on the landing of the eightieth floor, sweating and shaking. He leaned the photo against the wall and cupped his palms over his knees. People rushed past as images flooded his mind—smoke pressing on windows; a sea of blue seats at Yankee Stadium; Sonia’s blonde hair, dark at the roots. He heard an explosion above him and froze in terror as the building shook. Within seconds, he smelled what he thought was kerosene. Smoke drifted down the stairwell toward him.
A woman bumped into him on her way past. "We got hit, too," she shrieked into a cell phone.
He heard crackling a flight up, then screaming. He looked at the photo leaning against the wall and smiled back at Lou Gehrig, then continued down the stairs without it. His knees buckled with each step and he gagged on the sour smoke that followed him down. He saw his wife’s athletic legs walking on hot sand—her smooth skin the color of milky coffee. Vamos!
At the fortieth floor, people packed the stairwell. Most were quiet but some yelled into cell phones pressed to their ears. A young man asked, "What happened?" to no one in particular. Hollinger heard sirens and men shouting from below. He fought to keep up with the crowd, but his lungs burned and his legs had gone numb.
At 9:25 a.m., he stumbled into the crisp morning air. A small piece of steel struck his shoulder as firefighters rushed past him into the towers. "Get the hell out of here," one yelled. "Run!"
At the corner of World Trade Center Plaza, Hollinger stood in line for a pay phone, watching the charcoal smoke fill the sky. Glass and steel smashed down on cars parked around the towers. He doubled over and coughed violently, then looked up again. A woman in a blue dress fell to the street from a hundred stories above.
"Please, God, no," he said. He spat blood that tasted like charred iron, then closed his eyes as hard as he could, trying to drive the image from his mind.
After a few minutes it was his turn to use the phone. He pulled some coins from his pocket and dialed, then waited until the answering machine picked up. He hung up. "Damn it, Martin."
He fished out more change and dialed another number. "It’s Mac. Come get me." His voice was raspy, dry.
"Where are you? Are you all right?" Denver Bice spoke in a calm, thin voice.
"I made it out. Come get me."
"Can’t you get any help down there?"
"Everyone’s running into the buildings."
"Why didn’t you call Sonia?"
"I can’t call her." He coughed into the phone and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "She’s at the Farm."
"It’ll be ten minutes, at least. I’m at the Standard Building."
"I’ll be walking up Church Street."
* * *
Sonia Hollinger was on her final set of crunches in the gym of the New Jersey estate she and her husband referred to as "The Farm." As she brought her elbows toward her knees, Juan Carlos wiped the sweat from her forehead.
"Thanks, baby," she said as she exhaled.
"Three more," he replied.
Sonia breathed hard. "Vamos," she said, dropping her head onto the mat. Before she could come up for a crunch, the phone rang.
"You want I should get it?" Juan asked.
"No, honey," Sonia said. "Who calls this early anyway?" She finished the set and lay on the mat, stretching her long, tan legs onto his lap. "All this sweat has me feeling a bit excitada. Is it nine yet?"
Juan lay beside her. "Five to nine, and you are done for the day, Mrs. Hollinger. We have time." He put his hand on her taut thigh.
The phone rang again and Sonia shot a look across the gym. "Who would be rude enough to call twice before nine?"
Juan slid his hand up to her waist.
She moaned lightly and put her hand behind his head. "I have Mac’s party to prepare for, honey. We should probably wait until after lunch."
"The caterers will not be here for an hour, and I can do a lot in that time."
"I know you can." She sat up and pulled her blonde ponytail tighter. As she stood up, she rubbed her hand over her belly. "I feel gorda."
"Mrs. Hollinger, you are the sexiest fifty-five year old woman in the world. Why you think I do what I do for you?"
She smiled. "Because my husband pays you seventy-five thousand a year."
"He pay me to cook and work you out. The other things I do for fun."
The phone rang again.
"Well!" Sonia barked, walking across the gym past a single-lane swimming pool and a row of cardio machines. The pink cordless phone on the wall was studded with rhinestones. "Hello?" she said, irritated. "What? Slow down . . . what happened?" She grabbed a remote and clicked on a wall-mounted TV. Smoke billowed from the north tower. "Meu Deus," she said. She dropped the phone, knelt, and made the sign of the cross. "I need to call Mac."
Juan ran across the gym and took her hand. "Qué?"
"A plane hit the trade center." She picked up the phone and dialed her husband’s office. "Pick up. Pick up. Pick up." She slammed the phone back down and looked at Juan. "What should I do?"
"Try again."
She dialed again, but this time the call wouldn’t connect. "Phone lines must be overloaded," she said. "We’ve got to go there, find him."
Juan put his hand on her shoulder. "Mrs. Hollinger, no. It will be too much chaos. They’ll close the tunnels."
She tried five different numbers. Three of the calls didn’t go through and when the others did, she left frantic messages. For the next hour she stared at the TV and call
ed her husband’s office every few minutes. At 9:58 a.m., she and Juan watched live TV coverage as the south tower collapsed. "Meu Deus," she said again, this time under her breath.
* * *
Macintosh Hollinger stood at the corner of Church and Duane, studying each car that passed. Where the hell was Bice? As the south tower began to collapse, he heard the slow, rhythmic crash of each floor crumpling into the next. Smoke filled the sky and Hollinger gagged on a smell that reminded him of the Polo Grounds—cigarettes and sauerkraut.
A black Lincoln pulled up next to him. Hollinger fell into the front seat and looked into the pale gray eyes of Denver Bice.
"Den, what hap—" Hollinger’s voice stuck.
Bice wore a black suit and his dyed black hair was stiff with gel. "No one knows yet. What happened to you?"
"Smoke. Something hit my shoulder."
Bice made a U-turn, drove north a few blocks, and turned left on Canal. "Did you call Sonia after we spoke? Does she know you made it out?"
Hollinger closed his eyes and slumped in the soft leather seat. He pressed his shoulder with the tips of his fingers. "No," he said. "Take the West Side Highway up to Roosevelt Hospital. They know me there. Then call Sonia for me."
At the highway entrance, Bice glanced at Hollinger and gripped the wheel tighter with his long, tan fingers. He turned south. Hollinger opened his eyes when he felt the direction of the turn. "Where are you going? North. Go north." He coughed and wiped blood on his sleeve.
Bice stared straight ahead. "You need immediate attention," he said, his voice steady and slow.
"What are you doing?" Hollinger asked weakly.
Bice took the Albany Street exit and made a soft left into an alley at Albany and Greenwich. Dust shrouded the car as he shut the engine off. Tiny bits of debris pinged on the windshield. He glanced at his golf bag in the back seat, then stared at Hollinger, who was coming in and out of consciousness. Slowly, Bice reached back and pulled a black velvet club guard off of his seven iron.
"What’s happening?" Hollinger asked, opening his eyes. "Are we at the hospital?"
Bice leaned toward him and looked into his bright blue eyes. "Who else knows about the money?" he demanded.
"What money?"
Bice leaned in closer and raised his voice. "The stock. I got a call from Sadie Green."
"What?"
"I’ll take you to the hospital," Bice said, his tone softer now. "Just tell me, have you started the process?"
Hollinger stared back at Bice, then closed his eyes. "No."
Bice passed the club guard from his right hand to his left. With a sudden thrust, he crammed it into Hollinger’s mouth and halfway down his throat. Hollinger’s eyes flashed wide. Bice pressed hard as Hollinger kicked at the underside of the glove compartment.
After ten seconds, Hollinger went still.
Bice pulled the wet club guard from Hollinger’s mouth, dropped it onto the seat, and stared at the lifeless body next to him. He slammed his fist into Hollinger’s chest. "Damn it!" he shouted. "Why did you make me do that?" He slammed his fist down on his own thigh. "I wasn’t supposed to do that." He leaned toward Hollinger, so close that his nose nearly brushed the dead man’s bloody lips. Bice’s cheeks and jaw tightened, then shook. He spat into Hollinger’s face. "Why did you make me do that?" he asked quietly as the yellow phlegm dripped from Hollinger’s chin.
Ambulances wailed from all directions as Bice started the car. He propped Hollinger up, eased the Lincoln out of the alley, and drove through a cloud of dust. A few minutes later, he stopped at the half-collapsed entrance of the Marriott. Seeing no one around, he leaned over the body, opened the passenger door, and pushed it out. Hollinger’s head struck the sidewalk with a deep thud. Bice pulled the door shut and made a slow U-turn.
At Washington Street, he let an ambulance pass and followed it to the West Side Highway. He heard a slow rumbling followed by a giant crash. In his rearview mirror he saw the north tower collapse.
* * *
Sonia sat on a weight bench, drinking bottled water and staring at the TV. Juan stood behind her, rubbing her neck. The towers collapsed over and over. Each time she felt tears rise up, she gripped the bottle tighter and told herself to be strong.
"In Cuba," Juan said, "this would never happen."
"That’s because no one cares enough about Cuba to bother," Sonia said. "Everyone wants to be us. That’s why they attack us. You’re too young to know it, but you’re lucky to be in this country."
"What about Brazil?" Juan asked. "Doesn’t this make you wish you had stayed? Maybe no one cares enough to attack you, but also you don’t get attacked."
She grimaced at the replay of bodies falling from the towers. "I’m American now," she said. "Brazilian-American. And proud. You should learn to be proud as well."
The phone rang. She lunged at it and almost fell over. "Mac?" she yelled.
"No, it’s Denver Bice."
"Mr. Bice, have you heard from Mac? He should have been in his office when it happened."
"Sonia, I’m so sorry. I haven’t heard from him."
Her shoulders dropped. "And you, Mr. Bice? Are you okay?" Juan pressed his hand into her lower back, adjusting her posture.
"Denver, please call me Denver. And yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry. The police will find him. It could take a few hours, but I know you’ll hear from him soon."
"Thank you, Mr. Bice. You will call me if you hear anything?"
"Of course, and you as well."
"Of course," she said, sitting up as straight as she could, struggling to hold back the tears.
* * *
Denver Bice closed his cell phone and scanned the parking garage of the Standard Media building through the windshield of his Lincoln. He scooped up the club guard and put it in his pocket as he got out of the car. He opened the door to the back seat and pulled the guards off the rest of his clubs. He buried them in the dumpster in the corner of the garage, then took the elevator to the thirty-third floor.
The corporate offices of The New York Standard were bustling. Employees hurried back and forth, called loved ones, and gathered around televisions. Bice set up a meeting with his VPs for later in the afternoon and sent his assistant home for the day. "Go be with your family," he said gravely. "Our people downstairs will get the story. I want to make some calls and see what I can do to help."
As he closed the door to his office, Bice heard the thud of Hollinger’s head. His breath tightened. He saw the body in the shadow of the Marriott and all his muscles contracted at once. It’s not my fault. He didn’t give me a choice. He locked the door, then sat at his desk and focused on an orange spot on the vast art deco carpet. "You can choose to be in control," he whispered. He took ten deep breaths. His muscles relaxed.
He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a thirty-eight-caliber Iver Johnson pistol. He stashed the club guard in the drawer, next to a flattened, navy blue NYU hat. He closed the drawer and heard the thud again. It wasn’t my fault.
He ran his index finger up the thin, silver barrel of the pistol. Mac wasn’t my fault. Dad wasn’t my fault. When he closed his eyes he was twelve years old. He saw his father stumbling up the steps of their Connecticut farmhouse, belt in hand, reeking of Scotch. He felt the welts on his back. His chest contracted. It’s not my fault. He took five more deep breaths and his chest relaxed. He saw his father again, lying face down in freezing gray mud on the riverbank behind the house. He felt himself running toward his father’s body, the pistol laying next to it, as blood pooled in the man’s frozen shoe prints. A note stuck out of a muddied pocket. He heard the roar of the river and felt the cold steel on his belly as he stashed the gun under his shirt, hoping to somehow undo his father’s act by hiding the weapon. He heard the crinkle of paper as he read his father’s note. When you hurt someone, you deserve to be punished.
Bice opened his eyes and looked at the gun on his desk. "It wasn’t my fault," he said.
He pic
ked up the phone, dialed, and left a message. "Chairman Gathert, it’s Denver. Everyone here is safe. I went down to get a first-hand look, but there was nothing I could do. I want you to know that this isn’t going to derail the deal. Let’s meet later this week, once things have settled down."
He hung up and opened his laptop, clicking on an MP3 recording that he had downloaded from his cell phone. "Hello?" he heard himself say on the recording. As he listened he stared at the gun.
"Bice, you asshole. You evil prick. We finally have a fair fight." Now it was a young woman’s voice, drunk and happy. "Mac Hollinger is pulling his money from The Standard. He has seeeeeen the error of his ways. It took a year, but I did it. I did it!" He heard laughter and a steady drumbeat in the background. "You bastard."
"Who is this?" Bice’s voice demanded.
"You’re in trouble. Not you, personally. I would never threaten a man as pathetic as you. But I know about the merger." For a moment the woman’s voice was silent, the music thumping louder. Then she spoke again. "You and your company are screwed."
There were a few more seconds of heavy breathing, then the recording ended.
Bice looked down at the gun and back at the laptop. "You made me do it you stupid dyke. It’s your fault."
He listened to the call twice, closed his laptop, and took five more controlled breaths. His face tightened, then shook, and he smashed his fist on the desk three times. "Stupid! Fucking! Dyke!" Heat coursed through his body.
On the TV, people ran from a wave of dust, screaming.
"None of this is my fault." He opened the desk drawer and slid the pistol past the club guard and under the NYU hat. "I will never be like him," he said quietly. "I will never kill myself."
Chapter One—Preview of The Anonymous Source
The Cutline (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 0) Page 9
