The Guilty Dead

by P. J. Tracy

  This building hadn’t even been on their radar as a target. They’d missed it somehow, but at the last minute, Magozzi had known. She thought about City Hall: what if they’d missed something there, too?

  Panic temporarily subsumed everything else and she struggled to sit up. A torrent of pain washed over her and she felt her fragile tether to consciousness start to slip. “Harley?” she called out weakly, groping in the dark. She felt chunks of drywall, pieces of rebar, then recoiled when her fingers met with sticky liquid she knew was blood. A lot of it. “Hang on, baby, it’ll be okay,” she whimpered, rubbing her belly, then everything went black again.

  * * *

  Magozzi pushed against the wave of crying, hysterical people fleeing the burning building, oblivious to the thick haze of dust and the foul black smoke searing his oxygen-starved lungs. The sounds of pandemonium were earsplitting—sirens and more sirens, infinitely multiplying; shouts, screams, cries for help; the guttural roar of fire chuffing out a taunting devil’s laugh.

  Shards of broken glass glittered on the ground, like freshly fallen snow, and piles of steel and concrete littered the sidewalk. Fire trucks were massed on the street amid mangled cars, their hoses gushing water toward the building, while emergency personnel of every stripe descended on the scene. Stretchers and gurneys carrying the injured had started to come out of the building, and he frantically checked each one, all the while futilely dialing and redialing Grace’s number, even though all the circuits were jammed and would be for hours.

  “Sir, get back …”

  He felt a strong hand on his arm and spun around, snarling, “I’m a cop, goddamnit!”

  “Magozzi?”

  He couldn’t see the person behind the fire helmet and face shield, but he recognized the voice of a friend and a fierce broomball opponent. “Freddie Wilson?”

  “It’s not safe here, Magozzi, Just step back and let us do our job. It’s bad in there and we need clearance.”

  “Grace is in there, Freddie,” he said, choking on a combination of smoke and emotion. “I think she’s in labor. Harley is with her, too.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ, any idea where they might be?”

  “In a stairwell. They were at the FBI office on the seventh floor.”

  “I’ve got it covered. Stay put, Magozzi, I mean it. Don’t fuck with me and don’t fuck with your life. Your baby needs a daddy.”

  Those last words kept Magozzi frozen in place as he watched Freddie spin around and run into the burning building, dodging flaming chunks of debris and the sheets of black water that were raining down from where the fire trucks were focusing their spray as they tried to extinguish the conflagration.

  * * *

  I want you to have this, Harley.

  But it’s your favorite book, Miss Lizzy.

  It’s our favorite book now, isn’t it? And I won’t have much use for it soon.

  Why not?

  I’m getting called to the other side. My husband Henry, he visits me now. He’ll be taking me there.

  What do you mean?

  You see, Harley, when your time comes, people you’ve loved and lost come back to you in your dreams. Sometimes you even see them when you’re awake. They’re your shepherds. They help you, they guide you, they walk with you to the Pearly Gates and let you in.

  Are … are you dying, Miss Lizzy? Please, you can’t die …

  Don’t cry, son. I’m an old, sick woman who’s enjoyed a blessed life. And you know what my greatest blessing is?

  No.

  You. Take this book and remember me, Harley. What’s your favorite poem?

  “Invictus.”

  Why?

  Because at the end it says “I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.”

  That’s exactly right, Harley. That’s exactly right. You are and so am I. Don’t ever forget it. And when it’s finally your time, I’ll be coming down to guide you, too.

  Harley jolted up and felt a searing pain in his left leg. He couldn’t feel the other one at all. “Grace? Gracie?” he called, into an echoing darkness that smelled acrid and deadly and felt hellishly hot. Magozzi had told them to take the stairwell out and then there had been an explosion, that much he remembered, but not much else.

  He struggled, tried to stand up, but couldn’t. “Grace!” he kept shouting, but heard no answer above the din of mayhem outside the stairwell. At least they’d gotten this far, thanks to Magozzi.

  He let out one last powerful shout: “GRACE!” Then the effort and the pain in his leg overwhelmed him. He lay down again and let his eyes flutter shut.

  When it’s your time, I’ll be coming down to guide you, too.

  “It’s not my time, Miss Lizzy,” he groaned. “Please, I have things to do.” He rolled his head to the side and felt it rest on hard concrete that was tacky with blood. He could smell it now, and he could feel it growing cold on his left leg, stiffening the fabric of his jeans. “Not my time yet,” he murmured.

  When he opened his eyes again, he saw a wobbling light, which terrified him. Go to the light.

  “NO!” he shouted, kept shouting, until he realized he was looking at the beam of a flashlight.

  CHAPTER

  60

  “LEO!” GINO WAS running across the street, dodging debris, police, and firemen. “Leo, Jesus, are you okay?”

  Magozzi didn’t know how he was holding it together, how he was just sitting on the hood of a squad while an emergency medical technician bandaged a nasty cut on his face. His suit was covered with dust and ash and blood. The EMT said something about shock, and maybe he was in shock, a surreal place of calm that shunted your blood to your organs and flooded you with endorphins. He couldn’t leave this strange place, he didn’t dare—if he did, he would simply disintegrate into a million pieces. He felt like a dying animal, curled up in the woods, blessedly anesthetized by brain chemicals while it waited for the end. “Freddie Wilson went in for them, Gino.”

  They didn’t look at each other, didn’t say anything, just stared at the open maw of the building, waiting. Time passed as turmoil swirled around them at dizzying speed; they sat as immovable as two boulders in the middle of a furious, engorged river.

  “MAGOZZI!” somebody shouted, and he turned around slowly. Annie and Roadrunner were shoving their way through the panicked confusion, and God help anybody who got in Annie’s way. But Annie didn’t look like herself, not this morning—her clothing was as chic and impeccable as always, but her normally sleek bob was disheveled and mascara was trailing down her cheeks in sooty runnels. Roadrunner was as white as a sheet of paper and his sharp Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat.

  “We didn’t know what else to do, Magozzi,” she said, then started sobbing, sharp tremors shaking her body. He took her hand and held it tight and the four of them together held their collective breath as they watched a horror movie unfold in front of their eyes.

  He didn’t let go of Annie’s hand until he saw Freddie Wilson jogging out of the building, clearing the way for two gurneys, and at that moment, everything that had been coiled so tightly inside exploded in a fierce discharge of violent energy.

  “Grace!” he shouted, covering the distance in seconds. “Grace!”

  His breath stopped when he reached her side. Her beautiful face was bloody and her right arm was at an odd angle, but her eyes were open and somehow, they found his in the midst of all the chaos. She mouthed his name, but no sound came out.

  He felt tears stinging his eyes for the first time in decades as he walked beside her toward a waiting ambulance, his hand on her cheek, wanting so desperately to touch more of her, but without any knowledge of her injuries, he knew he didn’t dare. “You’re going to be okay, Grace. You and the baby are going to be okay. I’ll be right behind you.”

  He thought she gave him a faint smile, then her eyes closed as they loaded her into an ambulance. As it pulled away, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Freddie Wilson’s soot-b
lackened face. Trails of sweat had washed away some of the grime, leaving pale streaks, like war paint. “Is she going to be okay, Freddie?” he asked, not recognizing the desperation in his own voice.

  “She’s going to be fine. Keep the faith, friend.”

  Magozzi read ambiguity in Freddie’s response, but deflected it because he couldn’t face an alternative answer. “What about Harley?”

  “Looks like his left leg is broken. They’re both pretty cut up from flying debris. I don’t know what the hell they were doing in a stairwell or how you knew about it, but it probably saved their lives.”

  CHAPTER

  61

  ROSALIE AND HER mother had been sitting in front of the television ever since they’d heard and felt the explosion. There were no details yet, but plenty of speculation. Terrorism was always the first assumption, but the reporters had to restrain themselves and present alternative possibilities. One of the theories was a gas leak caused by a construction project. That had happened at a school just a few months ago and three people had died. But she didn’t believe that theory, and she didn’t think any of the reporters did either.

  “This is just horrible,” Betty said, eyes fixed on the billowing plumes of smoke filling the TV screen. “I can smell it. It must be close. I wonder where.”

  “They’ll tell us soon.” Rosalie switched channels and they watched and waited as information dribbled in. Details were sketchy so early on, but eventually a breaking news flash confirmed the location of the blast—the Lakota Building at 111 Washington Avenue ‒ the building where Uncle Robert’s offices were. And that was when her mother let out a startling, gut-wrenching keen of agony.

  Rosalie took her hands and squeezed them. “Mom? Are you all right?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Robert.”

  Rosalie withdrew a little, uncertain what to do. That stoic Betty Norwood was starting to unravel was clear, and it was difficult for Rosalie to wrap her mind around this new, emotionally fragile mother. Not that she didn’t have every right to be unraveling: it was just disconcerting to witness her ongoing distress when she’d only seen her cry for the second time that morning. “Uncle Robert wouldn’t go to the office this morning. He was coming right to the hotel and he probably stopped at church to light a candle for Father. Just stay calm and I’ll make some calls.”

  “You won’t be able to get through to anybody. The news said all the circuits are jammed.”

  “The landlines still work. I’ll call their house from the hotel phone.” She reached for it on the end table next to her and dialed the Zellers’ home number. It rang and rang and rang, then finally went to voicemail. “Nobody’s answering, Mom, but I’ll keep trying.”

  Her mother looked down at her frail hands, listless in her lap. “I knew something else horrible was going to happen, Rosalie. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “You did, and you were right. But let’s not think the worst about Uncle Robert. We don’t know anything yet.”

  Her mother looked at her with vacant eyes. Her pupils were dilated and her gaze couldn’t seem to settle permanently on anything. “So much loss. I don’t think I could bear another one right now.”

  “There won’t be any more loss, Mom.” She poured her a fresh cup of coffee, smeared a croissant with jam, and passed her the plate. Injecting caffeine and sugar into a distraught person was probably a horrible idea, but it was a minor distraction for both of them. What she should have been offering was a selection of tranquilizers, but she didn’t have any, and if her mother did, they weren’t working. “I’ll check on my computer, see if there’s any more online about this.”

  Betty nodded and sipped, then tore a small flake off the pastry. It took an expeditionary journey to her mouth, but she dropped it before her lips made contact. “That’s a good idea, dear. Thank you.”

  Rosalie paused halfway to her bedroom door. “Mom, do you know where Father’s laptop might be?”

  “He always had it with him. I imagine it’s somewhere in the house.”

  “It isn’t. The detectives checked.”

  “I’m sure they’ll find it eventually.”

  * * *

  Robert Zeller was kneeling at the altar of the Basilica of St Mary, murmuring the Act of Contrition softly as he prayed the rosary.

  O, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you. I detest all my sins because of your just punishment, but most of all because they offend you, my God, who are all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Your grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin.

  When he was about to begin the ninth station of the cross, he heard the soft echo of footsteps behind him. He opened his eyes and turned to see Father Demestral walking down the center aisle. His broad shoulders were sloped this morning, his gait stiff and slow, his face worn with worry. He was an old man, but had never shown his age before, not like this. Robert found it disturbing and somehow ominous. “Good morning, Father Demestral.”

  “Praise be to God you’re here, Robert. Praise be to God.”

  He frowned. “Is something wrong, Father?”

  “I’ve just learned of dreadful news. Absolutely dreadful news. There’s been an explosion—a terror attack, they’re saying ‒ at your office building. There are many injured, and I fear there will be fatalities.”

  Robert blinked and opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  “You’re here and not there. Your faith spared you. I believe God has plans for you, Robert.”

  CHAPTER

  62

  MAGOZZI WOULD NEVER forget the agony of waiting as he paced the floor of one of the intensive-care unit’s family rooms—a cruelly deceptive term used to describe a special place in Hell where stricken friends and family idled helplessly, endlessly, awaiting word of their sick or injured loved ones. In a level-one trauma center like this, these walls had probably absorbed a lot of bad news, which was why Magozzi couldn’t stop moving. If he did, the bitter reality of the situation might catch up with him and dispel the fog in his mind that was keeping him sane.

  Gino, Annie, and Roadrunner were pacing, too, and it was probably a miracle they hadn’t collided by now as they performed an anxious, shell-shocked minuet in front of an audience of upholstered chairs and softly colored landscape prints that were meant to be soothing. All of them were silent as their feet worried the carpet because there was nothing anyone could say to make it better.

  A wall-mounted television droned the ever-breaking news in the background. The national affiliates had taken over the local news and a cavalcade of pundits was speculating about the terror attack. There hadn’t been any official confirmation yet, but that would come soon. He kept waiting to see Amanda White on the screen.

  He watched morosely as cutaways of reporters on the ground tallied casualties and fatalities as they were confirmed. So far, three were dead; dozens more were injured, Grace and Harley among them. Names weren’t being released yet.

  It suddenly occurred to him that nobody had more information about the potential source of this attack than himself and Gino, and the core of the cop that still lived inside Magozzi’s devastated psyche couldn’t ignore that fact. He reached out to Gino and grabbed his arm in mid-pace.

  “Gino, get back to the office and finish pulling this together with McLaren, Freedman and Dahl, if he’s still alive.”

  “It’s already pulled together enough for them to know Riskin is responsible for every dead body in Minneapolis these past couple days. McLaren, Freedman and the feds are on him big-time, and if he’s not already in custody, he will be soon. Your only job is here and I’m staying to wait it out with you, period, end of story.”

  Magozzi felt the sludge in his mind clear a little. Gino was right, of course, but it still didn’t stop the manic compulsion to do something, anything, but wait. A shrink would probably tell him he was trying to fill the vacuum that fear, uncertainty, and helplessness had carved out of his soul. Denial, avoidance, di
splacement behavior—whatever the term, he was in the thick of it.

  Annie stopped pacing and gestured to the television, which was showing grim pictures of the scene on Washington Avenue. “Wait. Are you saying that August Riskin was behind this?”

  Magozzi shrugged. “We think so.”

  Roadrunner settled into a chair, shaking his head in confusion. “How does a terror attack connect with Norwood?”

  “It’s a long story, Roadrunner, and we’re not at the end yet.”

  Roadrunner seemed to accept the non-answer and returned his attention to the television.

  Magozzi had no idea how much time had passed before a doctor finally entered the room and introduced himself. Annie, Roadrunner, and Gino clamored around him, like kids at a free ice-cream stand, but Magozzi froze, suddenly realizing that he was no longer in a holding pattern where possible outcomes were indefinite. It was wheels-down time now, and the plane was either going to crash or it wasn’t.

  The doctor’s words came in a roaring surf, at least in his mind, although he suspected that, in reality, they were calm and measured and delivered with compassion. Harley would recover from a badly broken leg; the orthopedic surgery to pin him back together had been successful, and he would be ready for visitors soon.

  “Grace MacBride?” Magozzi asked, before anybody else had the chance. His voice was shaking, and it was all he could do to keep from shouting.

  The doctor appraised him. “Are you Detective Magozzi?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled. “Ms. MacBride is stable …”

  Magozzi let out a rush of breath and almost collapsed in relief.

  “… but because of complications, we had to perform an emergency C-section. Congratulations, Detective. You have a healthy, beautiful baby girl to meet. Follow me.”

  “I told you it was going to be a girl,” he heard Annie upbraid Roadrunner, as Magozzi let the doctor lead him down the hall.

  She was beautiful, impossibly beautiful—tiny, red-faced, wrinkled, with a cap of fine black hair. But the mental snapshot he took as he entered Grace’s room and saw her cradling such a precious gem took his breath away and reached a place in his soul that hadn’t existed until now. At this moment in time, there was nothing else in the world except the three of them—not the cuts and bruises on her face, not the monitor flashing Grace’s vitals above her head, not the array of IV lines sprouting from her arms, like unruly plastic vines, feeding off bags that hung from metal trees behind her bed. The cruel simile of a garden no one should ever have to walk through simply wasn’t there.