After zipping a sleeping Hope into a light bunting, Mel kissed her forehead. She glanced at the television just as an airliner smashed into the south tower. Oh God, no! Air traffic controller error my ass! The city was under attack.
She held the baby close and wondered what Mark’s assignment was today. Had he been assigned the desk or patrol? Mel hadn’t even woken this morning to say goodbye, never mind to wish him a safe tour. “Don’t you worry about your daddy. He’ll be just fine,” she whispered as she hugged the baby.
After switching off the television set she reached under the dinette table for the car seat. She gently belted the baby into the seat and dashed to the phone. She dialed the 19th Precinct desk. Mark, answer the phone. Busy. She hung up and redialed. A busy tone, again. Damn. She dialed the Switchboard. Bzzz. She hung up. Please God, keep him safe.
She shouldered the diaper bag and lifted the car seat. “Boxer. Come on, boy.” She left the apartment without giving the stroller a second glance. She trotted down the stairs to the garage as quickly as she dared and snapped Hope’s infant seat into the backseat of her sports coupe.
The dog hopped onto the front passenger seat and sat at attention. Mel ran around into the driver’s seat. Boxer pointed his nose at her face and whined. As she drove up the block, he pawed the center console. He sensed her anxiety, just as he had on the first day she’d adopted him. Over four years ago, she inherited the dog after her partner’s funeral. Grieving together, they had formed a special bond. She wondered if the dog still remembered Matt.
She patted his head and threw him some air kisses. “I don’t know what’s happening either, Boxer. I’m dropping you and Hope at Grandpa’s so I can find out.”
Chapter 3
Richie slammed the car door and sprinted up Duane Street. He turned the corner onto Broadway and skidded to a halt. A stream of people strode northward, just short of stampede speed. He raised his forearms in front of him, to protect his face and prepared to clear a path through the pedestrian swarm. He took a deep breath and charged south down Broadway.
A strong tug on his jacket yanked him backward. He jerked his shoulders and pivoted with fisted hands. His jaw dropped and he lowered his arms when he came face to face with Lieutenant Jordan. “Lieu! What the hell are you doing? We have to get to the tower!”
“Look!” Lieutenant Jordan jabbed his arm toward the corner. “At the intersection!”
Gridlocked ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars stood still, engines idling, trapped in a frozen sea of yellow taxicabs. The constant we-whoo of emergency sirens had melded into background noise, unnoticed by Richie. Now, the sirens were thunderous. Richie pressed his palms against his ears and looked south. Torrents of smoke billowed from the north tower.
“Richie!” Lieutenant Jordan shouted, cupping his palms around his mouth. “We have to get the emergency vehicles through.”
Richie turned in a circle. Should he ignore the lieutenant’s order and run to the World Trade Center? FD would put out the fire, he had no doubt, but they would need all their men to fight it. At the very least, he could help with the evacuation, freeing up more firemen for firefighting.
And the lieu wanted him to direct freaking traffic!
A massive fire engine blurted its air horn over and over, and the chauffeur tapped the gas pedal in time with the horn blasts. Richie couldn’t put out a fire or run an intravenous line, but he sure as hell could clear this intersection so fire trucks and ambulances could reach the tower. Lieutenant Jordan was right. He was more useful here than at the scene of the fire.
“Okay, Lieu.” He clipped his gold detective shield onto his jacket pocket and ran into the middle of Broadway and Duane Street. He faced north, pointed at a taxicab blocking the intersection and directed it east onto Duane Street. He stepped out of the way and the fire engine turned onto Broadway. The chauffeur fired three quick blasts on the air horn in triumph. The truck, carrying a brave crew, sped toward the World Trade Center.
Richie pumped his arm toward Duane Street, directing all non-emergency vehicles off Broadway and toward the East River bridges and the FDR Drive. Standing at the Duane Street crosswalk, Lieutenant Jordan diverted taxicabs.
Turning to the south, Richie peered down a now unclogged Broadway. First responders had a clear path to the World Trade Center. As he watched emergency turret lights reach the twin towers, his triumph morphed into terror. Orange fireballs erupted from the northeast wall of the south tower and shot out toward the northern buildings of the complex. Both towers were now aflame!
Chapter 4
Mark Ronzone sat on a bench outside the courtroom chewing the last of an egg sandwich, and crumpled the wrapper into a ball. He reached over his uniform cap and memo book for a brown paper bag and tossed the wrapper inside. He pulled out a Styrofoam cup, tore the tab off the plastic lid, and sniffed. A strong whiff of Arabica-bean brew swirled out, and he took a sip. Hot, bold, and dark. Nice.
He didn’t miss testifying one bit, but he did miss the vendor cart in front of the courthouse. Hassan’s old-fashioned coffee and fried-egg sandwiches were worth the trip downtown. His new precinct in midtown had a fancy coffee shop on every other corner, selling gourmet lattes and watercress egg-white wraps. Watercress? Really? What the heck was watercress?
He took another sip. Umm! He’d find an excuse to visit Centre Street more often, just for Hassan’s coffee. Today was the first time he had travelled downtown to testify since being promoted to sergeant. A felon he’d arrested while he was still a cop was scheduled for trial this morning, and he was the primary witness. He looked around the deserted hallway. Was he the only witness? He’d better refresh his memories of the year-old arrest. He didn’t want to fumble his words in front of the jury, especially if the case relied solely on his testimony.
Flipping through his memo book, Mark studied his notes. A simple case, really. Felony assault. The victim identified the perp on the scene before being escorted to the hospital for treatment of a stab wound. Mark had recovered the bloodstained switchblade on the perp during a legal frisk. Open and shut. The perp had no chance of acquittal. Mark shook his head; the dope should have taken a plea.
He looked up. Where was the perp, anyway? The hallway was still empty. And where was the victim? If he didn’t show, the perp might get off after all.
He glanced at his wristwatch. It was after nine. Court should have started already. The perp must have smartened up and accepted a last-minute plea.
This morning, the radio room had been short on radios so he’d decided against taking one for the trip to court. Patrol needed it more than he did. And if he had signed out a radio, his command would have notified him that his court appearance had been cancelled. He might not have even made it to the subway station before turning back to command. He snickered. And I would’ve missed out on Hassan’s breakfast.
Mark tilted his head. Even if his case had been cancelled, though, the empty benches should be filling with lawyers prepping clients and witnesses for other trials. Where was everyone?
He stood to chuck the paper bag and find a telephone. He stiffened when he reached the lobby. The unmanned metal detectors and locked newsstand gate spelled trouble. A lone court officer gazed out of the lobby doors overlooking the street. Mark approached the man and looked out as well. Throngs of people scurried past the courthouse. Some ran. He tensed, something was very wrong.
“What’s going on?” Mark asked. He wished he had signed out a damn radio!
The court officer glanced over his shoulder at Mark. “A fire in the World Trade Center.”
“How bad?” The overhead lights flickered and went out. Bad, I’m guessing. Mark rubbed the back of his neck as he pictured the crater a bomb had made in the World Trade Center garage in ’93. He sighed. This fire couldn’t be as bad as that. He tapped the court officer’s shoulder as he walked past him. “I’ll check it out.”
He stepped outside. From the top of the granite stairs, Mark had a clear view downtow
n. Both towers were aflame. What? He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, the view hadn’t changed. White smoke bellowed from both towers. A bright yellowish-orange glow crept down the buildings. Not his imagination. The towers were on fire.
He trotted down the courthouse stairs and trudged against a human riptide. He overheard bits and pieces as he sidestepped through the strong pedestrian flow. Jetliners had smashed into the towers. Holy Shit! Airplanes! He looked up at the buildings, shaking his head. How had this happened?
Strange yellowish-orange stuff continued to flow from the corners of the impact zones. What the heck was that glowing gunk? Certainly not jet fuel. Jet fuel would have exploded upon impact and burned up. No time to ponder that now. Office workers had to get out of the buildings before the smoke suffocated them. The fire department would need all their manpower to put out the fires. He’d join the evacuation effort.
The towers were less than a mile away. If he hustled, he’d be there in a few minutes. Mark pushed through the crowd. Jogging through dry sand would have been easier. Was this a nightmare, where he could only run in slow motion?
When he got closer, he saw human figures flailing through the air. Jumping! His stomach roiled as he watched people free fall from high windows to their deaths. He barreled through the crowd. If only it were a nightmare.
Chapter 5
A slate-gray skyscraper loomed over midtown, and above the entire city. Thick window panes absorbed the bright rays of the sun, and reflected nothing back to the street below. Blocking sunshine from reaching humanity, the windows remained dark.
On the very top floor, Dewer Rock rose from his desk and shuffled across a chess-board-patterned floor. His legs bowed, and just before his knees gave out, he collapsed into a chair facing the window. Dewer looked at the floor while regaining his strength.
He remembered choosing the marble tiles with his brother, six decades ago. After they approved the blueprint for the building they picked out the most luxurious building materials available at the time. And after they settled in, Dewer appreciated the sound of their footsteps on the marble as they paced and brainstormed. They had plotted together for forty years, right here. Now, he heard only his own footsteps, and the click of his cane striking the tile.
After all that time, he was here, alone. Today of all days. A culmination of the plans they had laid long ago.
He gazed out of the window all the way down Seventh Avenue toward the crisp silhouette of the buildings that made up the financial district. He closed his eyes for just a second and bit his lower lip, as if in ecstasy. The long-awaited glorious day had arrived. And he was ready!
Everything was planned down to the last detail. This morning he’d even instructed his valet to fasten on his wrist the watch with the largest Roman numerals. He checked the Cartier’s faceplate and smirked. Any minute now, everything would change forever. The transformation of America was the final step—the last barrier.
At 8:44 a.m., he focused his gaze on the tall towers of the World Trade Center. Two minutes later, a colorful explosion followed by a cloud of smoke rose from the north pillar. He slapped his knee. That’s one.
He kneaded his thighs as an unexpected feeling of nervousness crept over him. There was no going back. Not that he wanted to. But his plans were no longer speculative. His strategies, at long last, were becoming reality.
Suddenly, the back of his neck tingled, and the air surrounding his body began to sting his skin like a bee swarm. Positive energy pinged all around him. He shrugged it off. Briefly repelled, the energy hung in the air for a split second and intensified as it sprung back, a magnetic force pressing all over his skin. Something was fighting back, resisting his plans. Trepidation threatened to overwhelm him.
Licking dry lips, Dewer focused on relaxing. He imagined his brother standing behind him, watching and waiting. Although his ashes had been buried in the family cemetery a long time ago, Dewer sensed his presence today. He looked over his shoulder. Norman wasn’t there, of course he wasn’t, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone.
Dewer waited for Flight 175 to smash into the second tower, and fifteen minutes later, it did. A huge fireball followed by a cloud of smoke rose from the south pillar. He took a deep breath. That’s two.
He closed his eyes and slowly exhaled; blowing away the jitters, and the positive energy with it. This moment was his to cherish.
His old, flaccid body was as close to orgasm as it could get. A century-long gestation would soon birth a new world. The orchestration had begun even before he was born, and it was his right to conduct it!
The office door swung open and smacked against the wall, jarring him from his jubilee.
His secretary rushed in, and his jaw dropped when he faced an empty desk. “Sir?” He raced across the room toward the lavatory and stopped short when Dewer cleared his throat.
“I’m right here, Henry.”
His secretary dashed up to him. “Mr. Rock, sir, Manhattan is evacuating. We must leave at once.”
Dewer continued staring out of the window. “We will remain here.”
“All skyscrapers may be terrorist targets.” Henry ran to Mr. Rock’s desk and began packing his briefcase. “I’ll instruct the driver to take you to the Council House. You can work from there, sir.”
“Leave my things, Henry.” Dewer craned his neck and stared into his secretary’s eyes. “Remember who I am.”
The secretary froze, and he took a deep breath.
“We are completely safe here.” Dewer turned his head back toward the window.
The secretary stood still, brought his fist to his mouth, and closed his eyes. His shoulders heaved and he cleared his throat. “Can I bring you anything, sir?”
Dewer leered at the burning pillars. “The binoculars from my desk.” Unwilling to look away from the window, he held out his hand until he felt the weight of the binoculars. “You may go home, if you wish.”
“I’ll stay, sir.”
Dewer aimed the long-range spyglasses a fraction northeast of the pillars. “All right, Henry.”
“I’ll be at my desk.”
“All right, Henry.” Dewer heard footsteps and then the click of the door closing.
He focused first the left eyepiece and then the right until Building 7 blurred into crisp clarity. Caressing the binoculars, he waited for number three.
Pillars one and two were ready to fall. The airplane that slammed into tower two was supposed to smash into the Salomon Building as well, but it banked too far right and left the building undamaged. The 110-storied towers Dewer had built forty years ago and the Salomon Building constructed fourteen years ago should fall together. Today. September 11th.
Chapter 6
Mel fumbled with the car radio tuner until she found the local AM radio station, and raised the volume. A newscaster was reporting an orderly evacuation from the World Trade Center complex. Mel sighed and bobbed her head. New Yorkers could cope with anything. She braked for a red light in front of Saint Ephrem’s Church, and prayed that everyone would get out.
Tapping the steering wheel, she waited for the traffic light to turn green from its usual long red phase. Today it felt as if the light were painted red. She twisted around and checked on the baby. Hope was still asleep.
Suddenly, the reporter’s voice screamed through the car’s speakers. “There were explosions and”—she heard a deep intake of breath— “the south tower, it’s, it’s, hooah, it’s falling. Dropping straight down!” The sound of scampering feet. “I’ve got to—”
Static. Dead air.
Did I hear right? She rubbed her ear. The building was collapsing? No! All those people inside! Had they gotten out? What about the firemen? She squeezed the steering wheel to keep from screaming. What about the police?
Mark couldn’t have been there, could he? No, he was safely behind the 19th Precinct’s desk coordinating a response. He had to be. She took a deep breath.
A truck ac
ross Fort Hamilton Parkway drove through the steady red traffic signal and raced north. The driver must be on his way to the towers. I have to get there too!
She was just four blocks from her dad’s house. If she drove through all the lights she’d be there in a minute. She looked up. The light was still red. Darn. She bit her lip. I’m taking it!
She checked all directions and drove through. As she passed the church she made the sign of the cross, as she always did. This time, a tingling sensation engulfed her chest. “Dear Lord, help them,” she whispered. Tears flowed down her cheeks and Boxer barked. “Shush, you’ll wake the baby.” Mel could see only the tips of her feet in the darn backward-facing infant seat. They were still; Boxer hadn’t woken her. Mel stretched her shirt-sleeve over tear-drenched cheeks, and drove on. She’d get it together before Hope woke up.
The reporter returned to the airwaves. “We’ve escaped a huge rolling dust cloud. After a huge explosion”—Mel stomped the gas pedal—“followed by smaller explosions debris started popping out, floor by floor. The detonations travelled rapidly around the building at regular intervals. Just like controlled demolition.”
Controlled demolition? Had the bastards finally finished the job they first attempted in ’93? She knew that terrorists plan simultaneous attacks. The Day of Terror plot alone targeted four locations. There was more coming, for sure! She had to get to work and help pinpoint the other targets. She pressed the gas pedal harder.
In her rush to leave, she’d forgotten to call her dad. What if he wasn’t home? Too late now. The driveway gates of her family home were already open. She closed the driver’s door and her father rushed down the porch steps. He must have known she’d come. They hugged, and she couldn’t hold back tears from streaming down her cheeks. She didn’t even try.
The Council House (The Impoverished Book 3) Page 2
