by Cubed, Magen
She kept her chin up, her voice even, and her eyes on the folder between them. “Do you understand why you’re here?”
“You’re a lazy cop and the Feds are breathing down your neck?”
“Don’t make this personal.”
Sitting up, he rattled his handcuffs at her. “You already did that.”
“You were at two, separate bombings. You also have a criminal record and a history in law enforcement, Kyle. I’m just doing my job and you know that.”
“Fine, whatever. Then, why did you pick up the rest of them? They don’t even fit the profile.”
“Maybe they were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know that for sure yet.”
“You honestly think I did this?”
“I’m just trying to do my job and figure out what’s going on. That’s why you’re here.”
“Amanda, this is wrong and you know it. I’m not the guy you want. He has an agenda and he’s not going to stop anytime soon. You’re wasting time here and he’s counting on that.”
“Where were you on Wednesday?” she asked, opening her file. “Between ten and noon?”
He sighed. “I got up and went out to see you at the Go Nightly Diner in Camden. You remember that, right? Which would make you my alibi.”
Eyeing the two-way mirror, she straightened up. “Just answer the question.”
“I have. I know everything you know. You’re wasting your time, I promise you.”
“Prove it. Clear your name and I’ll let you out of here.”
Tossing his bound hands up, he laughed darkly. “What can I tell you that you don’t already know? You’re on a witch hunt.”
“I’m looking at all the angles here. Don’t act like you don’t know how this goes.”
“Then, listen to me—this guy is just getting started, and he’s going to go big next time. He’s not going to stick to political targets or landmarks, so don’t waste time staking out the usual places. This is personal, so you have to get creative. Think hospitals and schools, sites with big body counts. He wants to make a public show of it. Trust me—this is going to get bloody before it ends.”
Sitting back, she sighed. “The FBI has a different profile.”
He leaned forward. “You agree?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re on the case. Of course it matters. Don’t tell me you’re just following orders on this one.”
“It’s not my case.”
“That never stopped you before.”
Whatever she planned to say evaporated as Agent Reinhardt opened the door and stuck his head inside.
“That’s enough. Cut him loose.”
They both sat up. Amanda spoke first. “What’s changed?” she asked Reinhardt.
“Bomber released a manifesto. It’s time-stamped for three hours ago.”
“So?”
“Their stories all check out, and there’s nothing on the bank tapes that puts them at the scene beforehand. Looks like a dead end.”
The cuffs came off with no pomp, circumstance, or apologies. Kyle knew better than to expect such platitudes. One by one, the interrogation room doors opened and each of them were escorted to the lobby downstairs. There, beyond the bank of elevators, were four televisions fixed in opposing corners.
Every screen was set to a different news channel. Every station replayed footage from the same video. Images of the Camden train crash and the Welsh Regional Bombing were looped between dusty frames of roadside ambushes, suicide bombings, and dark-skinned men firing guns in the desert. Farsi characters flashed across the screen during the playback of a heavily augmented audio track of fire and laughter. A male voice took responsibility for the bombings and promised the blood of Americans running hot and red in the streets.
Rubbing his wrists, Kyle shook his head. “I’m going to get this motherfucker.”
None of his companions tried to change his mind.
Chapter Nine
I.
The last bus on the uptown route crawled down Latham Street as the evening traffic faded with the sunlight. In the back sat Kyle, who rubbed his face with the heels of his hands until he saw stars. His companions slouched around him in various stages of sleep. Sleep sagged Adam’s large shoulders, Clara’s round eyes, Norah’s heavy limbs, and Bridger’s drooping head.
Outside the sweat-smeared windows, the city wasn’t the same as it had been when they disappeared into the precinct. News networks gobbled up the bomber’s tape, and social media caught fire with conspiracy theories and allegations of police cover-up. Panic would follow, and then the violence, but it was still early.
Kyle blinked the spots from his vision. “This isn’t right.”
“None of this is right.” Norah rolled her head up from its lull against her shoulder, angling to look at him. “In case you haven’t noticed, the pure cosmic stupidity that’s thrust itself upon our lives isn’t right.”
“What do we do now?” Clara piped up from her rest on the edge of her seat. She held the support rail in the crook of her arms. “I mean, the cops, the tape... This is crazy, right?”
“We’re off the FBI radar at the moment while they’re busy chasing shadows,” Kyle said, leaning back into his seat. “They don’t know anything about us. I suggest we keep it that way. Keep our heads down.”
Bridger’s laugh was hollow. “Yeah, because that’s been working out like gangbusters for us so far.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Well, what do you know?” asked Clara. “Don’t you have connections?”
“All I have are theories, none of which I can prove. But this feels wrong to me, like this guy’s just putting on a big show.”
“And you dreamt of this, didn’t you?” Norah looked to Bridger. “Of the bank, right?”
Bridger shrugged. “Not clearly. I didn’t get a name or anything.”
“But you did see it,” Clara said hopefully.
“So what? You want to run around the EBC waving me around until I pass out on the culprit?” Bridger asked.
Clara pointed to Kyle. “Yeah, but he’s a detective. Who says we can’t?”
“Last week, I was a felon,” Kyle said.
“And the situation’s changed. You’re a detective.”
“Can’t you go to the cops with this?” asked Norah. “Float your theories and see what comes of it?”
“It’s not that easy. I don’t have any evidence.”
“That cop who picked us up seemed to know you pretty well, though.”
“She’s my ex.”
Norah laughed. “No wonder she had you arrested.”
“We need a plan—a course of action—here.” Adam tugged idly at his dog tags. “Nobody else knows about us? Fine, but we’re in this together now.”
Kyle leveled him with a cold look. “And we’re supposed do what now, exactly? Fight crime?”
“No, I mean, to survive. We’re all a part of this, whatever it is. Who else can we rely on but each other?”
“Here.” Clara fished through her bag to pull out her phone. “Give me your number.”
Norah and Adam pulled out their phones. Bridger took a pen and piece of paper from his jacket pocket.
Kyle sighed again. “Seriously?”
“Look, I’ve died, like, eight times this month, and we all just spent the day together in police custody,” Bridger said. “Getting their numbers is the least weird thing I’ve done so far.”
“If anything happens—anything at all—you call me,” Adam said as he thumbed the new numbers into his contacts. “I mean it.”
Norah sighed and reached for Kyle’s pocket to steal his phone before he could stop her. Thumbing his number into her phone, she ignored his undignified huff. “Whatever. Just in case.”
The bus slowed to a halt. Getting up, Bridger tucked the paper into his pocket. “All right, hate to cut the party short, but my subway stop is on the next street. Try not to get arrested, kids.”
Outs
ide, he took seven steps down the sidewalk to the Old Union Street stop. As the bus pulled away, he seized and hit the ground in a heap. Adam was out the doors before the driver could stop to let him off, prying them open and hopping down to rush to Bridger’s side. The others followed after him.
“Hey,” Adam said. “Hey, hey, hey.”
Adam scooped Bridger up and turned him over to pull him into his lap. He wiped the blood away from Bridger’s nose and checked his eyes as they rolled around in his skull. A bruise blossomed on his forehead where he hit his skull on the pavement. His muscles shook in violent waves, locking his arms and twisting his legs. Behind his eyelids, his brain was on fire as images popped and fizzed in the dark like burst bulbs or poorly packed fireworks.
As the fit broke, Adam grabbed his hand to squeeze it. “I got you. It’s all right. We’re all right here.”
“What happened?” Clara bent to help Bridger to his feet and dust him off. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Bridger spat blood into the street and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He took two steps before sagging back into Adam’s arms. “Seizure. Happens every time I see something.”
“What did you see?”
“Snow,” Bridger said. His head spun. His sinuses filled with that old penny smell. “I think I saw snow.”
“Okay, we can talk about that later.” Adam put Bridger’s limp arm around his shoulder and let his weight rest against him. “I’m taking you home with me.”
“What? No, don’t be stupid. Just drop me off at the station. I’ll be fine.”
“You just had a seizure and hit your head in the middle of the street. You’re coming home with me, idiot.” Adam turned to Clara and Norah with a pleading nod. “Call me, seriously. Let me know you guys got in okay.” With that, he shuffled off with the dying clairvoyant on his arm and disappeared down the street. Kyle looked at the blood at his feet. Norah glanced at him.
“What?” she asked.
“Snow,” he repeated.
“Maybe it’s a place?” Clara offered. “Or a name?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Looking at her watch, Norah winced. “Shit. Look, I have to pick up my kid from my parents’ house. I’m already late and they’re going to freak out.”
She waved and turned to sling her bag over her shoulder and retreat opposite Adam’s slow departure. Clara turned to Kyle. He squinted.
“Are we solving this case?” she asked.
“I am,” he answered. “You’re not.”
“You need a sidekick. I’m a genius, you’re a detective, and this is some serious Batman shit right here.”
“I don’t need a sidekick. Go home.”
As Kyle shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away, Clara made a face at his back.
“You’re no fun.”
II.
The train was easy. Tell the maintenance guy he could earn a ten percent cut if he leaves a duffel bag of what he thinks is cocaine, and you can blow up anything. Find an overworked, underpaid member of the overnight security staff to let you stash a box in the utility closet. Find the right combination of ammonium nitrate fertilizer, nitromethane and some viable commercial explosives, and anything was possible. It just took time, patience and practice.
For the hospital, Damon decided, it had to be the maintenance closet in the laundry room. He contacted a friend of a friend and found a fifty-eight-year-old, Puerto Rican grandmother who worked in laundry services and raised the three sons of her meth-addicted daughter. When he arrived at her doorstep, she was desperate for the extra money he offered in an envelope. He promised she wouldn’t get in trouble and no one would call her daughter just so long as she left the bag alone. Gripping his hands, she thanked him and cried. A part of him—somewhere far away where he could still feel regret—shrank away until there was nothing left.
At his desk there were blueprints and floor plans showing exits and entrances, the twelve doors to employee stairwells that he’d marked with red pen, and a dissection of St. Bart’s Hospital in clinical slices. Take out the three basement floors and everything above—from emergency services through cardiology—would topple in on itself like a house of cards. All it took was a sweaty wad of loose cash and a convincing smile. That was all it ever took in the end.
III.
“Yeah, Mom, it’s me. No, I’m fine. I’m good, actually. How’s Abuelita? That’s good. That’s good. No, I’m really glad. So, hey, I just wanted to let you know that I know I’ve been kinda flaky lately, but it’s going to be fine. I can’t really explain why over the phone, but—Yeah. Yeah, I know. But I’ve met some people, and they’ve really kind of helped me figure some stuff out... kinda sort it out for myself. No, of course I’m not on drugs. Yes, I’m sure. I’m just—I’m just really calm right now, you know? For the first time in a while. So, don’t worry about me anymore, all right? I’m going to be fine. Look, I’ve got to go, but I’ll call you soon. I promise. I know. I love you, too, okay?”
Clara hung up the phone and wiped her yes. She put her head up and her feet on her improvised starting block. Breathe. She pictured her goal speed in digits and equations. Breathe. She ran down the abandoned strip of pavement between factories and loading bay doors. That night, she would sleep more soundly than she ever had in her life.
IV.
Hannah spent the afternoon sprawled out on her grandparents’ floor with a sketch pad and a box of pencils. The television flashed a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes as news anchors cycled through footage of the train and bank bombings. Screaming passersby ran for cover with blood and ash on their clothes. Responders hauled bodies from the wreckage in black bags. She had set up camp there at 5:00, and by the time Norah arrived to pick her up at 8, her grandmother Doris had given up trying to change the channel.
“I don’t know why you let her watch that news,” Doris said, grabbing Hannah’s backpack and school supplies from the kitchen table. “She’s too young to understand these things.”
At the doorway, Norah shrugged. “She’s seven, Ma. She goes to school with kids who lost their parents in these bombings. What am I supposed to do, lie to her? She already knows what’s going on.”
“Not lie to her—just don’t tell her everything. She’s just a child. Things aren’t supposed to be this complicated yet.”
“Her life is complicated. My life is complicated. At least I’m honest about it.”
“Fine, fine.” Her mother waved her off. “How did the job interview go?”
Caught in her own lie, Norah winced inwardly. “It was okay. I mean, there were a lot of other candidates, so we’ll just have to wait and see what comes of it.”
“You know, you should try to get your job back at the school. Give up the rest of this service industry nonsense.”
“Yeah, Ma, but they’re in a hiring freeze in our district.”
“Your father is golf buddies with the administrator at Penrose. If you want, I can talk to him to see if there’s something he can do.”
“Ma, no. Just let me handle this. The last thing I need is you and Dad meddling.”
“Yes, because you’re doing such a great job so far.”
“I can really do without this right now. Just saying.” Norah poked her head into the living room. “All right, munchkin, I’m springing you loose. Get your stuff and say goodbye to Gramma.”
Hannah clambered up to gather her drawing supplies, shoes, and homework. Norah dutifully followed after the tornado of motion to pick up the leftover debris and herd her child outside, stopping in the foyer for hugs and goodbyes. Out on the sidewalk, Norah shouldered Hannah’s too-heavy bag and wriggled her fingers for her daughter’s hand.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“What happened today?”
“What happened where?”
“Why are you late?”
“What did Gramma tell you?”
“Gramma said you had a job interview.”
“Well, I lied to Gramma.” She hesitated. “I got arrested.”
“Oh.” Hannah blinked. “Are you an outlaw?”
“No. Yes. Maybe, I guess. Just don’t tell Gramma, okay?”
Squeezing her mother’s hand, Hannah all but bounced. “No way. This is our secret.”
“Yeah.” Norah nodded. “Exactly.”
V.
Connolly’s was empty by 11:00 but for the five people scattered around the bar. The dartboards and pool tables were cold; all eyes were fixed on the televisions mounted to the wall. Kyle didn’t look. He didn’t have the stomach to watch the manifesto video all over again, the jumpy film giving him a sour stomach, the pops and whistles in the audio getting under his skin. It could have been the rage, which his third beer had tempered. It could have just been the exhaustion creeping into his eyelids and making weights of his head and arms. The video made him ill despite his best efforts. It dug under his thoughts to undermine his resolve to ignore it, to keep his head down, and to mind his own business.
His phone dinged in his pocket. It had been going off since he got there, and he ignored that, too. After the fourth chime, he pulled it out and looked at his inbox to find Amanda’s slew of messages.
We need to talk.
I’m off now. Message me back?
Look, I really need to talk to you.
Where are you?
Thumbing across his keypad, Kyle sighed. “I’m home.” Thirty seconds passed.
“No, you’re not.”
“How do you know?”
Thirty seconds passed.
“I’m here, stupid.”
He sighed again. “I moved.”
“Obviously. Can we talk?”
Thumbing his response, he regretted it even before hitting send. “I’m staying at the Fairbanks Inn on Dover. Meet me there in fifteen minutes.” Kyle settled his tab and took to the nearly vacant streets with his hands in his jacket pockets. Four blocks later, he came to the stoop of his rented hovel where Amanda sat in denim cutoffs and an oversized sweater. Her boots tapped softly on the slick pavement. A six-pack of Mexican beer was sweating between her feet. When she saw him, she stood, held up the beer, and gave it an enticing shake.
“Peace offering.” She smiled gently. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
