by Robert Graf
"Sort of. I was developing my theory and didn't have much time or interest for anything else. Why?"
"It started from the bottom-up with ordinary people, students, workers, farmers, wives, not from the top-down. The top wanted to keep its entrenched power, stability, and control and reacted violently. The bottom-up approach succeeded because of the social networks. Now the bottom is the top and nothing has really changed. If anything it’s worse. Today the social networks are even more entrenched, even in China. Put your fact checker in that environment and what happens? Worse violence because now there’s an independent arbiter to validate perceived grievances."
Her voice rose. "Dammit, you think I haven't had the same thoughts? But there's no going back. Once our theory was published it was just a matter of time. If it hadn't been us, someone else would have discovered it. It's inevitable.” She was shouting, venting her pent-up frustration.
Alex stared at her, his face set in stone.
She'd gone too far. "Alex, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to spout off." She wasn't sorry for speaking her mind, but if she'd killed their budding romance...?
His expression softened. "I was angry, blaming you for what I see as imminent disaster. Your fact checker is a society changer, and historically that always meant violence. At first I held you personally responsible and thought you could prevent it. As if I had any right to judge you or anyone. Others will blame you or your corporation or America or..." He shrugged, mouth curved in a faint smile. "Did we just quarrel? At least it wasn't over the toilet seat."
She reached over and grasped his hand. "We'll not solve anything this instant, so let's enjoy the time we have."
He returned her squeeze. "Agreed, what's to see around here?"
"Let's look." She released his hand and opened a drawer under the counter, revealing a mess of maps and brochures. She found one for Northern California and spread it out on the counter top. "We could go to the coast and maybe spy a whale or two, though it’s early for their migration. How does that sound?" She didn't mention her recent excursion with Isaac.
"'I've never seen a whale except in pictures. Sounds great, especially if you drive."
The weather cooperated as did the whales, though it got too windy in the afternoon and whitecaps obscured the spouts. They had a wonderful, relaxing day. Ann enjoyed playing tourist guide, even stopping to point out where Hitchcock filmed the Birds. They stopped at the Tides and had a late, tourist-priced lunch before driving back
Sunburned and tired she was glad to be home.
"I've got to pee," Alex said, striding toward the bedroom.
"Me too. Use the other bathroom." She rushed ahead of him and slammed the door behind her.
Back in the living room she switched on the thermostat.
Alex, in his flight jacket, was rummaging through her book case, shaking his head. "I can barely read some of these titles. I mean, Principles of Quantum Chromo Dynamics? Don't you have any westerns or erotica?"
She laughed. "No westerns, might be one or two erotica. I need to check the mail. It's my ZIP code's turn for Saturday delivery." She extracted a fistful of envelopes from the mail box by the front door and laid them on the coffee table. "Junk, one bill, what's this?" she asked, holding up a business-size envelope. “Kind of heavy.”
"What's what?" Alex asked, standing behind her.
"Says it's from NASA addressed to Mrs. Ann Grey. Why not Dr. Grey?" she asked, sliding her little finger under the envelope's flap to tear it open.
"NO," Alex shouted. He slapped the envelope from her hand and yanked her backward down to the rug. A simultaneous blinding flash and BOOM shook the room. She felt a blast of hot air and sharp stabbing pains in her legs and arms and face. She lay stunned, his weight suffocating her, her ears ringing, eyes seeing colored spots. The smoke alarm above her bedroom door began a shrill wailing, knifing through her ringing ears.
"ALEX," she screamed, pushing his body off her. She knelt next to him. "Oh God, please don't die," she sobbed, panicked at the blood streaming from his ruined hand and burnt, bleeding face. She put a trembling hand against his neck, felt for a pulse and found it. "Get help, must get help." She staggered to her feet and ran to the bedroom for her phone. With shaking hands she stabbed 911, plugging her other ear to lessen the shrieking alarm.
A calm voice answered, "What's the nature of the emergency?"
"A bomb injured my friend but he's alive and unconscious, please hurry."
"What's the nature of the injuries?"
"His hand is smashed, and his face is badly cut, and he's bleeding badly. Hurry!"
"Help is on the way. Can you control the bleeding?"
Bleeding, right. She felt stupid. "I'll try." She dropped the phone and ran into the bathroom, grabbed towels and ran back to the living room. Alex hadn't moved, his breath was labored. She tried not to scream at the bloody gashes in his cheek and forehead amid the blackened burns. She wrapped a towel around his shattered hand and pressed one against his face, careful not to block his nose or mouth.
The shrieking smoke alarm was driving her crazy. She ran to the kitchen, found the broom in the corner and knocked the alarm to the floor and ran back to Alex. No change but the towel on his hand was soaked in blood. Wailing sirens grew louder and louder before abruptly shutting off. She stood, stumbled to the front door and yanked it open, leaving bloody smears on the handle. Two firefighters in mustard-colored turnout gear and white helmets carrying small cases ran in. They glanced at her. She shook her head and pointed to Alex, then watched, barely breathing while they administered first aid.
"Shit, he's armed," one said.
"Leave the piece," a second voice commanded. "It's not our problem."
One stepped over to her. "He'll be OK. We'll have him in the hospital in a few minutes, and they'll patch him up. They're really very good." He peered at her face and her blood-streaked hands and pants. "You need attention too."
Another siren halted its wail in front and two paramedics, dressed in black and carrying satchels, hurried inside. One stopped at Ann's side while the second hurried over to Alex. More sirens arrived and uniformed police ran up the walk and into the house.
Ann felt light-headed and started to shake and slumped down, her back against the wall. The paramedic knelt and flashed a small light in her eyes. "Shock." He held out an arm. "Come on, Ma'am, let's get you to the ambulance."
She took his arm. He lifted her, and she stood. "What about Alex?"
"We'll have him loaded in a jiffy, just come along."
Numbly, she allowed him to guide her outside, down the path past the staring neighbors and though the open rear doors of the ambulance. She sat on a bench while he wrapped a blanket around her.
"Put your head down."
She did as ordered. In minutes the firefighters loaded Alex, strapped to a stretcher, into the ambulance. One paramedic climbed in and closed the doors. The second got into the driver's seat, switched on the siren and accelerated down the street.
She stared at Alex, his eyes closed, blood weeping from cuts on his face, thankfully breathing. The medic inserted an IV into his uninjured hand. God, what had she done?
Once inside ER, nurses in blue scrubs wheeled Alex away on a gurney. She tried to follow, but a short balding nurse stopped her. "You can see him later. Now let's get you fixed up," he told her in a melodious voice. He led her to an empty room and pointed to the bed. "Sit down, Ma'am; we need to get that shirt off."
With the help of the nurse she struggled out of her bloody shirt, wincing at the cuts in her arms and hands, feeling chilled wearing only her bra. He had a patient smock ready, and she slipped it on.
"Lie down, please; Doctor will be right with you."
She stretched out on her back while he hung a clear plastic bag of a liquid over her. He covered her with a blanket, inserted a needle into the back of her hand, taped it in place and attached the tube from the hanging bottle. "A saline drip, it'll help with the shock." He smiled at her while o
pening drawers and pulling out packages of gauze and tape and bottles. "You look like you lost a fight with a very large rose bush."
She managed a weak smile. "Bomb," she croaked.
His eyes narrowed. "Oh dear." He continued hooking her up to monitors, and she fell into a fitful doze. She woke at the sound of voices.
"Cut the pants off," a woman ordered. "I don't want to move her until I check out those legs."
The nurse began at her cuffs, slicing the pants with a large angled scissors. He gently pulled the remnants off with minimal pain. She looked down at her blood-smeared legs, felt faint and lay back.
"Give her 5 cc of Diprivan, then we'll clean her up. She told you a bomb?"
"Yes. Her friend is in OR now getting patched."
"We'll need to check for shrapnel."
At this Ann opened her eyes, "Is Alex OK?"
"Yes," the doctor assured her, "Now try to relax."
Whatever she'd been given worked as she felt warm and detached as the doctor scrubbed her cuts and probed them. An occasional tug on her legs and hands was followed by a “tinkle” as an object was dropped into a metal basin. "They're tiny glass shards, nasty."
"Too right," the male nurse said. "Reminds me of Iraq."
"You were a medic?"
"Navy corpsman, but yes, it's the same. Stitches, do you think?"
"A few, but most we'll close with adhesive, especially the face. I want to minimize scarring, little ones, just glue."
The voices faded out and Ann slept.
[Sunday, Petaluma]
Ann had slept without dreams, but once awake the sedative wore off her wounds throbbed. After arguing with the attending doctor, she'd been released. She felt self-conscious standing at the checkin/out counter in the borrowed blouse and skirt. But with the bandages on her legs there was no way she'd wear pants, not for a few days anyway.
"Is that all the paperwork?" she asked the administrative assistant as she signed the last of the hospital forms. Her insurance cards were at home so she agreed to be personally responsible.
“Yes, Mrs. Grey.”
She burned with the need to see Alex, but the nurses monitoring the surgical recovery floor told her to wait until 10:00.
"Dr. Grey?" a woman behind her asked.
She recognized the voice and turned. "Agent Winslow."
The FBI agent looked at Ann's bandaged legs peeking out from under the skirt, then at her hands and face and shook her head. "Are you well enough to answer a few questions? I won't keep you long."
As if she had a choice. "Sure, where should we go?"
Winslow glanced around the busy reception area. "Not here." She showed the receptionist her badge. "Is there an office I could use?"
The receptionist looked at the badge, and her face paled. "Uh, yes, let me show you." She stepped into the reception area and pointed to her right, "Down the hall by the restrooms, that door marked Hospital Personnel."
They walked over to the indicated room and entered. There were a few chairs, a couch, and a small table with a water cooler in the corner. Winslow closed the door and sat in a chair. ”Have a seat.”
Ann gingerly sat on the couch.
Winslow pulled a tablet and a plastic bag from her shoulder bag. "We've collected as much evidence from the crime scene as we can, so you may return home at any time. It's rather a mess." She handed the plastic bag to Ann. "Here's your wallet, phone and house key. We locked up after we finished."
"We found a hand gun on the sofa. The firefighters tell us that your friend," she glanced at her tablet, "Alex Baxter, had it. It was sold to California's DOT, and it's not reported stolen, so we left it. We haven't been able to question him yet. Can you tell me why he had it?"
Ann took the proffered bag. She hadn't liked the agent before, and maybe she'd misjudged her. "Thank you. Alex works for Caltrans and carries it as part of his job as a surveyor. His equipment is quite expensive, and the state wanted some on-site security." Her turn. "Can you tell me what happened?"
Winslow studied her for a moment. "You know it was a letter bomb. It had an electrical detonator imbedded in a sheet of plastique. The explosive was coated with tiny shards of glass, shrapnel. If you had received the full force of the explosion, you'd have been killed. We're analyzing what's left and hope to trace its origin."
"Alex knocked it from my hand as I opened it. He shielded me from the worst."
For a second the agent's composure slipped, and she smiled. "A very brave man. Do you remember anything about the envelope?"
Her memory couldn’t get past the explosion. "It was hand-written, addressed to Mrs. Ann Grey from NASA; of course it wasn't."
"No. Someone knew you were working with them." She sat back and stared at Ann. "Any idea why?"
Oh yes, but would Winslow believe her? "The fact-checking property of the EntComs. Nothing else makes any sense."
Winslow's expression turned thoughtful. "I contacted the Houston Space Center and spoke with a Dr Toffler. He assured me you were telling the truth. So I have to accept that as a working hypothesis, hard as it is for me to believe."
"Any luck finding my husband's killer?"
"We're following up some leads."
Cop-speak for not a clue. "What about Farid, anything?"
Winslow sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Nothing, it's as if he vanished. Rest assured we'll find him."
Dead, Ann thought, with a sinking feeling. Poor Farid. She didn’t want to continue the interrogation. "I'm very shaky, so if you don't mind..."
Winslow stood. "Of course. You might consider hiring an executive protection service."
"A little late, isn't it," Ann replied in a bitter tone.
"In your case, I don't think so." Winslow stood, opened the door and left.
Ann remained seated, thinking over Winslow's words. Did she have any choice? She’d involved Alex, well it was mutual, still Hooper had refused Ian’s request for guards. She glanced at the wall clock —10:13, time to go visit Alex.
Ann’s face gave her away. She couldn't control her shock at his appearance. Alex lay in bed, his head and shoulder partially raised. The left half of his face was covered with red splotches and small bandages; the right half was completely bandaged. His right hand and forearm were encased in a blue cast; his other arm was festooned with tubes and wires hooked to bags of liquid and beeping monitors behind his bed.
"That bad?" he asked, his voice raspy.
"Not for a mummy," she managed to answer without breaking down. She carefully took his good hand, avoiding the plumbing, and held it.
He squeezed her fingers. "You look like you lost a shotgun duel."
"Scratches, they'll heal in few days. You?"
"I'm waiting for the doctor. She's been busy with other patients, and there she is."
Ann turned to see a rather stout, grey-haired woman in green scrubs with the ubiquitous stethoscope stuck in a pocket, walking in. She stopped on the other side of the bed.
"How are we feeling, Mr. Baxter?" she asked, watching the numbers and squiggles on the monitors.
"Dopey. I can't feel my hand, and I've got the mother of all headaches. My ribs hurt like hell when I breathe, otherwise I’m fine."
She eyed him with a professional smile. "Excellent." She looked at Ann. "I'm Dr. Waters, the orthopedic surgeon. Dr. Cheng worked on his face, and you are..." She nodded. "Of course, the other victim."
"Ann Grey, his friend." Ann smiled at Alex. "He saved my life."
"We usually only allow family to visit, but we'll make an exception for you."
The doctor turned her attention to Alex. "Here's what we've done. I've rebuilt your hand but couldn't save your little finger. With therapy you should regain most of the use, though you'll find it awkward for some time. Both the face and hand will need cosmetic surgery. To that end, we extracted tissue from your butt and immersed it in a solution that will allow it to generate stem cells to grow new skin. Think of it as seeding a lawn. Twenty years ago we'd have had
to perform skin grafts. I assure you that would have been unpleasant and left extensive scarring. The new procedures are amazing. Your right eye didn't react to stimuli. The optic nerve may be damaged, though there was no external trauma. I'm afraid that sight is gone. I'm sorry."
Alex's croaking laugh became a coughing fit.
The doctor frowned. "Something amusing?"
Alex motioned to Ann.
"He's blind in that eye from a war injury, been that way for years."
The doctor's eyes opened wide in surprise. "That's a first for me. Was that from TBI?"
Alex had the coughing under control. "Yes, I awoke in the evac and couldn't see but eventually regained vision in the left eye."
"You're going to stay here for a day or two before we release you. Are you local?"
"No, I live east of Sacramento, though lately I've been working near Yreka."
"You're not returning to work for some time. I would prefer you remained nearby so I can see how your hand is healing, say four weeks. Then we can get you started on physical therapy."
"He can stay at my place," Ann blurted.
Alex’s good eye focused on her. “Four weeks is a long time, Ann."
She grinned, though it hurt. "We’ll manage." She hoped.
The doctor glanced at her watch. "I must finish rounds," she said and left.
Ann studied Alex's face. God, he looks tired, but he's alive, and that's what matters.
His eye closed for a few moments, then opened. "I'm too sleepy. Come back this afternoon?"
"Yes." She kissed his forehead and left. At the nurse's station she called a cab, then made her way downstairs and out through the lobby to wait in the cool morning sunshine. Ian's going to have a fit.
[Sunday, London]
The curly-haired reporter looked up from typing notes on his tablet. "You have no further comment?"
Swales kept his expression of innocent outrage with difficulty. "I repeat, I categorically deny everything. It's an obvious, shameless ploy by Labour to discredit me. This is ancient history, a matter of public record thoroughly investigated and resolved years ago."
