Black Friday (Maggie O'Dell)

by Alex Kava

  That he was concerned made Maggie concerned. This was a doctor, who all the while she was quarantined and restless for results, kept telling her to slow down and wait, that they would deal with whatever it was when they found out exactly what it was. The “whatever” they were dealing with ended up being Ebola Zaire, nicknamed “the slate sweeper.” Maggie had been exposed but didn’t show any signs of the virus. The incubation period for Ebola was up to twenty-one days. It had been fifty-six days since Maggie’s exposure. That she knew exactly how many days was a testament to how seriously she still took the threat.

  “You don’t think—”

  “No, of course not,” Ben interrupted. “Just a safety precaution. Your immune system has been through a hell of a lot.”

  “Okay,” she said and started to clear a place for him to set the bag on her dresser. Her Pullman was spread out on the bed, almost packed. She’d learned a long time ago to keep the basic necessities already in the bag. While Ben prepared a syringe Maggie looked for a warm turtleneck sweater. She’d been to the Midwest enough times during this time of year to no longer underestimate the cold.

  “It’s snowing there,” Ben said as if he could read her mind.

  “Boot snowing or just snow-snowing?”

  This time he stopped his hands and looked up.

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Oh, big time. You haven’t been to the Midwest in the winter?”

  “Chicago, but no. It was spring.”

  “My first trip I only had leather flats. It snowed like eight or ten inches and the only place nearby to buy boots in the middle of nowhere, Nebraska, was a John Deere implement store.”

  “Let me guess, you ended up with bright green, size twelves?”

  “Something like that.”

  She rummaged through her closet and pulled out a pair of slipover boots that folded easily. When she turned back to her suitcase Ben was watching her, smiling.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head but still smiling.

  “You’re just pretty incredible, that’s all.”

  She hoped the flush up her neck didn’t show in her face. She held up the boots for him to see as she placed them in the suitcase. “I knew eventually I could get your attention with my sexy footwear.”

  “I hate to disappoint you,” he said, setting aside the syringe and coming close enough to touch the back of his hand to her cheek, “but you managed to do that without any footwear at all. The first time I saw those bare feet in oversized athletic socks back at USAMRIID my heart skipped a couple of beats.”

  Maggie wasn’t sure if it was his touch or his rare and surprising admission that caused her own heart to miss a couple of beats.

  “A foot fetish, huh?” She tried to keep it light. “Big time.”

  Another knock on the door startled both of them. This time it was Gwen.

  “Sorry to interrupt. Your ride to Andrews is here.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Mall of America

  The glass hadn’t plunged in as deep as Rebecca thought it had. It was bleeding but no major gusher. So no major arteries. She still had to pull the chunk of glass out.

  She could do this. Of course, she could.

  She had cleaned up and taken care of her share of wounds and injuries. Never mind that they were on dogs. Bites from other dogs, rips from barbed wire or abuse from owners. One of the dogs she helped treat had been hit by a car. All of the wounds were gross. No different than this. If anything, it should be easier when it was herself. No sad brown eyes looking up at her. If only her head would stop throbbing and her stomach would stop threatening to shove everything up or down.

  The security guard had left and Rebecca felt relieved. Scared and in pain but relieved. How weird was that? She couldn’t help wondering if the security guards had seen Chad and Tyler and Dixon with the exact backpacks? Had they been watching them on the security cameras? Was that possible on a day like today with the crowds? Or maybe especially on a day like today. How else would they know?

  She looked around again and couldn’t see any other blue uniforms. Or did some security guards wear plainclothes? If they had been watching the guys and were suspicious of the backpacks that meant they had seen her, too. Would they recognize her now?

  Maybe not with this harpoon in her arm.

  God, it hurt.

  She thought she could hear sirens now. There were shouts from below. Was someone shouting “Police”?

  The shouts were drowned out by an ear-piercing electronic buzz. Somewhere an alarm had been set off. No one seemed to pay attention to any of it. There wasn’t a sound that could stall the hysteria.

  Rebecca stayed put. She tried to assess the damage to her arm. Her coat was shredded on the left side where broken glass must have pummeled her. Funny, she didn’t remember.

  How could she not remember the pain?

  It happened so quickly. She was probably lucky to have just one piece of debris stuck inside her.

  She carefully ripped the fabric away from the wound and the sight of her own flesh, purplish-red, raw and torn made her sit back. She leaned her head against the rail, waiting for the nausea to pass. She felt the vibration of the stampede around and under her. She couldn’t focus, couldn’t hear over that buzz and now there was an annoying whirling sound like bursts of wind through a tunnel. She closed her eyes and that’s when she realized it wasn’t wind. It was her own raspy breathing.

  She had to do better than this.

  She needed to get the glass out of her arm.

  Come on, Rebecca. Just pull the damned thing out.

  One, two, three…like a Band-Aid in one quick jerk. But she’d need to stop the bleeding when she pulled out the glass. Her eyes flew open. She’d have to shove something into the hole the glass left in her arm. If not, she’d bleed to death. This was actually good. It made her think through the process. It made her focus.

  She grabbed pieces of her coat that she had ripped away and began peeling out the lining. It’d be cleaner than the outside of the coat. And it was softer.

  “I can help you with that.”

  Rebecca looked up to find a man standing behind her. He wore a cap that read PARAMEDIC but he was in jeans and hiking boots. No uniform. Although she couldn’t really see underneath his winter coat. A duffel bag was slung over his shoulder.

  She should have felt saved, rescued. She wouldn’t have to do this herself. But there was something about the way he held the already loaded syringe that didn’t seem quite right.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Omaha, Nebraska

  Nick Morrelli was trying to check flights on his smartphone while Christine waited to drive them home. Outside the car her son Timmy and his friend Gibson helped the Lanoha Nursery worker load the Christmas tree on top of Christine’s SUV. Nick had offered to help, too, but the boys insisted they could do it. He didn’t argue. All he could think about was finding a way up to Minneapolis.

  His new boss had chosen Nick to represent Mall of America’s security company, their security company, United Allied Security. With his experience as a county sheriff he had dealt with homicide scenes and forensic evidence. And as an attorney he had the legal background to protect the company’s rights. That’s what his boss Al Banoff had told him. Nick guessed it was one of those golden opportunities that shouldn’t be questioned. Even if the opportunity would be measured in fatalities.

  “How many do they think are dead?” Christine asked him.

  Nick gave her a warning look. “What?”

  “Stop being a reporter,” he told her.

  “I’m just asking,” she said, then added, “Out of concern. Nothing more.”

  “Right.”

  He waited. He knew she wouldn’t give up that easily. “Seriously, it’s bad, isn’t it?”

  But this time without even glancing at her Nick could tell she was concerned by the catch in her voice. He caught a glimpse of
her hand before she hid it in her lap, nervous fingers combing through her blond hair. Explosions going off in a crowded mall the day after Thanksgiving—it was a nightmare that could happen anywhere. That’s what grabbed you by the throat and choked your senses for a minute or two.

  “Yeah, I think it’s bad.”

  “Reminds me of the Hawkins shooting,” she said in almost a whisper.

  “It was around this time of year?”

  “December 5th.”

  Nick had been living in Boston at the time but he knew the incident had rattled the state of Nebraska. A nineteen-year-old named Robert Hawkins walked into the Von Maur at Westroads Shopping Mall, took the elevator to the third floor and started shooting. By the time he was finished and turned the gun on himself, eight other people were dead. All of them random and innocent shoppers and store employees.

  “That was so hard on the entire community,” Christine said, now watching out the SUV windows, as if she wanted to make sure her son couldn’t burst in and overhear. “I can’t even imagine what this will be like for the families.”

  Nick operated by getting through life step by step, prioritizing and keeping focused on what needed to be done immediately. He couldn’t think about the victims right now or their families. As heartless as that sounded, he needed to stay focused on his job. For his old job as a Boston prosecutor that meant finding the bad guys and putting them away. This job would be a little trickier. The premise remained the same—find out who did this. Find who cracked their firewall of security. No, not cracked. More like ravaged.

  “I’ll take you to the airport,” Christine said, startling Nick back.

  “Looks like there’s room on a Delta flight in two hours from now.”

  “Can you pack and be ready that fast?”

  “Sure, why not. If I forget something I’ll be at the mall.”

  She rolled her eyes at him and he thought he saw the beginning of a smile. But just as quickly it disappeared. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel and Nick watched her face transform from sister to mom while Timmy and Gibson opened their doors and piled into the backseat.

  “You’re gonna miss the Nebraska Colorado game, Uncle Nick.”

  “You can TiVo it for me, okay?” he told the boys.

  Nick caught Christine’s eyes and just in that moment they seemed to exchange the same thought: Oh but to be fifteen again and have the world revolve around only you.

  CHAPTER

  14

  Mall of America

  Patrick saw Rebecca just as he heard the first shouts from down below, “Police, put up your hands.” She looked crumpled against the railing that separated the open expanse of the atrium and what used to be the food court. Tables and chairs were tossed and broken, splintered into pieces like a tornado had blown through. She was conscious though hugging her left arm to her body. And there was a man standing over her. Someone trying to help.

  But why had he chosen Rebecca?

  He remembered trying to help the mother get her baby out of the stroller and wanted to kick himself for being paranoid. Of course, people helped each other.

  As Patrick got closer he could see the white type on the man’s baseball cap. Paramedic? Strange, he didn’t think there was a rescue squad here yet. He looked down over the railing. Two uniformed police officers scrimmaged the mall entrance two floors down. They were the first responders that Patrick had heard or seen though he guessed it was certainly possible for more to be here without him noticing.

  Blue jeans, hiking boots, a duffel bag.

  Patrick still wasn’t satisfied. And there was something in the guy’s hand that looked like…damn, it looked like a needle and syringe. None of the volunteer rescue and fire units Patrick had ever worked with would approach an injured person with a syringe.

  “Hey,” Patrick shouted, but his voice was drowned out in the whirl of noises.

  “Rebecca,” he yelled and saw her body jerk up. But it wasn’t in response to his call.

  In one swift move she jumped to her feet, kicking at a table leg and sending it into the man’s path before sprinting off in the other direction. The man stumbled but only for a second. He pocketed the syringe and bolted after Rebecca, shoving a pair of teenaged girls out of his way. In the chaos no one else noticed.

  Patrick took off after both of them.

  What the hell was going on?

  CHAPTER

  15

  Washington, D.C.

  Andrews Air Force Base disappeared below and Maggie forced herself to not look for it, to stop watching out the airplane window. Killers, she could handle. Being at 38,000 feet and not in control still required conscious effort.

  Conscious effort or a Scotch, neat.

  It didn’t even matter that it was a private jet with comfortable leather lounge chairs. To make matters worse, Assistant Director Ray Kunze sat across from her alongside Allan Foster, the silver-haired senior United States senator from Minnesota. To Maggie’s left was the Assistant Deputy Director of Homeland Security, Charlie Wurth. The three men were finally quiet after exchanging pleasantries, a few barbs and then the requisite comments of disbelief and anger. Maggie had simply sat back and tuned them out.

  “They warned us,” Senator Foster said for a second time.

  “We’ll know soon enough if this was the work of any organized group or simply one madman.” A.D. Kunze looked to Maggie and nodded like it was some secret signal to back him up. “Our Special Agent O’Dell should be able to tell us exactly who to look for as soon as she sees those videotapes.”

  Instead of agreeing or offering any assurance, Maggie asked the senator, “What exactly were the warnings?”

  “We haven’t substantiated or authenticated them yet,” Kunze answered for the senator. “But I’m certain once we get a look at the terrorists—on the security cameras and from eyewitness reports—we’ll be able to determine if the warnings provide an appropriate template.”

  Maggie found herself staring at Kunze. Did he always talk like this? As if surrounded by TV cameras and reporters?

  “I’m just curious,” she said and shrugged as though it didn’t matter whether or not they shared. “Warnings and threats often reveal more than intended.”

  Senator Foster met her eyes and nodded, “That’s very true.” Then as if to squelch any protests, he added, “And the warnings are all we have right now.”

  “You said security had video,” Kunze tossed at Wurth, again reminding Maggie of a politician looking to already place blame if need be.

  “Yes, they should have video,” Wurth said with a calm that made Kunze’s bulging vein in his forehead look manic.

  “But you know how retail security is. They’re more concerned about shoplifting than bombs. We’ll be lucky if we caught any of the terrorists on camera. And hopefully the cameras weren’t tampered with or destroyed.”

  Maggie knew Wurth had been awarded his position in Homeland Security for his work investigating the fraud and failures of the federal government after Hurricane Katrina. He had a reputation for pushing the envelope and getting things done. Compared to his FBI counterpart and the senior senator, Wurth would be the one least worried about political correctness or organizational protocol.

  Ironic, Maggie thought as she watched the small, wiry black man. Ironic and refreshing to meet someone who didn’t premeasure his actions to limit his accountability. In other words, it was refreshing to meet someone in this business whose number one concern wasn’t covering his own ass.

  Kunze dug a file folder from a bulging leather satchel and handed it to Maggie.

  She glanced at the three men as she started to sift through the contents. Each man watched her with different looks that telegraphed their different agendas—looks and agendas as different as were the men.

  Maggie guessed Wurth somewhere around her age, middle thirties with a small but athletic frame. He shed his sport jacket as soon as they boarded and rolled up the sleeves of his oxford shirt, a pale pink shi
rt with a bright red necktie. She immediately liked Wurth who didn’t seem to care about putting on airs or hiding his working-class past. He sat on the edge of his chair, nervous energy tapping out with his foot.

  In contrast Senator Foster’s tall, lanky body lounged back in his chair with legs crossed at the ankles and extending well beyond his personal space. His elbows braced up on the chair arms, hands together creating a steeple of fingers that held up his head and seemed to point out the deep cleft at the bottom of his chin. He reminded Maggie of an academic professor, thoughtful, slow to speak as if he truly were pondering every answer before he responded.

  Assistant Director Kunze was physically a direct opposite of both Wurth and Foster. Square head on massive shoulders, Kunze looked more like a well-dressed bouncer at a private nightclub. His stare could easily be mistaken as vacant while, in fact, his mind analyzed and processed every move his opponent made. He used the image of all brawn, no brains to his advantage and had even been rumored to play it up every chance he got.

  A.D. Kunze’s superiors called him straightforward and quick-thinking. Maggie considered him reactive and impulsive. Colleagues described him as determined, focused and passionate. Maggie saw him as unpredictable, short-tempered and vindictive. In plain English, a petty brute of a man who didn’t deserve to walk in Kyle Cunningham’s shadow let alone take over his position.

  Previous to Kunze being assigned interim assistant director of the Behavioral Science Unit Maggie had never worked with the man, and yet he came to the position loaded with an unshakable perception of her, a preconceived misperception. Evidently her reputation of bending the rules was something Kunze had no patience for. His accusation that Maggie and Agent Tully had contributed to Assistant Director Cunningham’s death somehow, by their individual negligence in the case, was absurd. Why Kunze insisted on using it against them puzzled her. It almost seemed ridiculous, except that Maggie knew Kunze might actually be able to pull it off.