Rafe tried to smile. “By Tuesday.” He pressed his face against his father’s shoulder. “That’s what I told Mrs. Benson. She swallowed hard and said she sure hoped so since she voted for you.”
Dix said slowly, looking from one face to the other, “Is there anything else you want to talk about?”
Rafe hugged his father’s waist. Rob was slower, stepped back so he could look squarely at his father. Dix saw, to his shock, that Rob looked no more than two or three inches shorter than he. When had he shot up like this? He was filling out, too, his shoulders less bony, his chest and arms thicker. “Tell me what’s wrong, Rob.”
Ruth stood silently, knowing she probably shouldn’t be there, but that didn’t help her feet move. She held still and kept quiet.
Rob stole a look at her. “I saw you kiss Ruth, Dad.”
Rafe jerked back, stared at his father then at Ruth. “You kissed her? When?”
“A minute ago,” Rob said.
“Yeah,” Dix said, “I did. Maybe I didn’t plan it, but I did.”
“Well, if you really didn’t mean to—” Rob said, and looked closely at his father.
“That wasn’t exactly the truth,” Dix said. “I wanted to, although I knew I shouldn’t, but I did anyway. Either of you got a problem with that?”
There was a moment of charged silence, then Rob whispered, “It’s Mom.”
Dix had known this moment would come, sooner or later, when a woman finally came into his life. In the days after Christie disappeared, Dix had wandered around in a fog of pain, too busy trying to find her to try to sort things out with the boys. When his brain began to clear some weeks later, he realized the boys very much needed to talk with him about their mother. He also realized he needed them as much as they needed him. What he gave them was as much honesty as he could. In return they got into the habit of always telling him what they were feeling. At least he’d believed that was the case. As for himself, he’d let his own pain stay buried, for the boys’ sake, and they slowly adjusted, accepted what couldn’t be changed. Until now, when his kissing Ruth had finished their unspoken agreement. Dix ran his hands through his sons’ hair, love, pain, and guilt sweeping over him, nothing new in that. But now Ruth was added to the mix.
Rob said again, “It’s Mom.”
Dix said, “I know, Rob, I know. But your mom’s been gone for almost three years now.”
Rafe said, “Billy Caruthers—you know, that jerk on the baseball team I beat out as pitcher—he was shooting his mouth off about how he bet Mom ran off with a guy she met at the gym. I don’t believe it—
but if that’s true, maybe she’ll come back.”
Hard, raw anger roiled in Dix’s belly. “You know that didn’t happen, Rafe.”
Rob’s eyes blurred with tears, but his voice was steady. “Yeah, I know. I told him Mom wouldn’t do that, and that’s when we got into a fight.”
Rafe said, “And Uncle Tony told us that maybe she got real sick and didn’t want us to see her die, and so she left. But if that’s true, Dad, why didn’t she write and tell us?”
“Your uncle Tony told you that? When was that, Rafe?”
“Maybe three months ago.”
Rob nodded. “I asked Uncle Tony if she had cancer, but he said he didn’t know, but it had to be something bad, something that couldn’t be cured.”
They simply didn’t want to accept that their mother was dead. Dix well understood denial because he’d felt the same thing many times himself. “Listen to me, your mother would never have left us, never. No sickness, nothing would have made her up and leave without a word. Why didn’t either of you tell me about this?”
Rob wouldn’t meet his father’s eyes. He shook his head, his eyes on Brewster. “It’s Ruth, Dad. We told you because of Ruth.”
“I see. I didn’t plan to kiss Ruth, but it happened. At some point I have to move forward with my life, with my feelings, hard as that is for all of us. Your mother would want that. I wish you’d come to me when you heard these things and not kept them hidden deep inside. I thought we were well beyond that.”
Rob whispered, “You believe Mom’s dead because that’s the only way she’d leave us for this long.”
There was silence in the entrance hall. Dix looked at his boys. He’d told them the truth since the beginning, but he knew they didn’t want to accept it, and he, because he’d hated their pain, hadn’t pushed it that hard. Well, only the stark truth would do now. And so he said, holding them both away so he could look at them, “Let me say it again, your mom wouldn’t have left us for a single day, you both know that. I pray every day that I’ll find out what happened to her because all of us need to know. I’ll never stop looking, never.
“I know she’s dead, Rob, know it in my head and in my heart. Since your mother left—No, let me be clear about it. Since your mother died, I’ve tried to love you with her love added on to mine, and believe me, that’s enough love to reach all the way to heaven. And that’s where your mom is. And every once in a while, I feel her close by, and I know she’ll always be here for us.
“You know I’ve searched and searched for any clue to help us find out what happened to her but there haven’t been any. I’m more sorry than I can say about that. Something bad happened to your mom, and I wish I’d been this straight with you sooner. I was dead wrong. I see now that we have been trying to keep the truth buried deep because it hurts so badly. We won’t do that anymore. It’s not fair to any of us. You’ve both been very brave, and I am so very proud of you.”
Dix straightened, looked over at Ruth, then down at his sons. “You saw me kissing Ruth and it upset you. I understand that. Truth is, I like Ruth very much. I have no idea what she thinks of me, but I do know she’s smart and nice and she really likes you delinquents. Can we keep things loose? Is that good enough for the time being?”
“Ruth isn’t Mom,” Rafe said.
“Of course not. Ruth isn’t anything like your mother, but the thing is, she doesn’t take a thing away from your mother, doesn’t make her any less special to you or me or anyone who knew her and loved her. Do you understand?”
The boys looked stony.
“Actually, Ruth is exactly like your mom in a couple of important ways. She’s tough and she’s good all the way through.” Dix handed Brewster to Rafe. “You don’t need to study right now. Here, take the Doberman out for a walk until I call you for dinner.”
Dix and Ruth watched them toe off their sneakers, put on boots, jackets, and gloves, and head out. The front door slammed behind them. At least that was normal for them. They heard them yelling to Brewster, and that was normal, too. He turned to Ruth. “Do you want to go sponge off that beautiful leather jacket?
”
Ruth looked at him, bemused. “You really think I’m tough?”
“Maybe. Though I wouldn’t mind being caught in a dark alley with you.” He laughed. “When you get through with your jacket, you want to help me whip up a salad and save us all from a frozen pizza?”
CHAPTER 31
WASHINGTON, D.C. FRIDAY NIGHT
SAVICH’S CELL PHONE played the opening lines of Bolero at 9:15 that evening. He was tucking Sean in for the night, reminding him again about what it was like to take care of a puppy. He kissed him good night, then walked into the hallway.
“Savich.”
“Savich, Quinlan here. An explosion just rocked the Bonhomie Club—might be the boiler, we don’t know yet. There’s lots of smoke, people are hurt, and panic’s going to hurt more.”
“Is Ms. Lilly all right?”
“Yes, but she’s not about to let a fire burn all her jazz records. I don’t know yet about Marvin and Fuzz.”
“Keep her out of the club, Quinlan. I’m on my way.”
Savich forced himself to be calm. He looked back into Sean’s room, saw that he was well tucked in under his favorite blanket, Robocop next to him. He quickly walked back in, kissed his boy again. Sean gave a little snort in his sleep.
“James Quinlan just called from the Bonhomie Club. There’s been an explosion. Maybe the boiler blew, he didn’t know, but people are hurt. It sounds like a mess. Ms. Lilly’s all right, just really mad, I bet. I’ve got to go down and help.”
“It might not be the boiler, Dillon, and you know it. It might be Moses Grace.”
“It might be, but it doesn’t matter. Those are our friends there, Sherlock.”
“We’ll both go. And we’ll keep our eyes open. Graciella, we’ll be back when we can.”
They heard Graciella yell from behind them, “Be careful!”
They heard the sirens two blocks from Houtton Street, a “border” neighborhood five years before, now slowly gentrifying.
Emergency lights flashed, lighting the sky like Bat signals. They saw fire trucks parked sideways on the street and up on the sidewalks, firemen running toward the club, hoses and axes in hand. A media van screeched to a stop close to the police cars and fire trucks, hoping the cops wouldn’t have time to order them out. Houtton Street was blocked off, as well as the side streets. The first line of police was trying to hold back gawkers, reporters, and cameramen. Behind them, others were helping patrons streaming out of the club, stumbling, dirty, coughing, yelling for their boyfriends, their wives, whomever. Reporters stuck microphones in any face that came close enough. They blurted out their questions, happy and eager to ask about the disaster, maybe get their spot on the late news. There were a good hundred people jostling about, many of them dressed for a Friday night at the club, many of them bystanders who had gathered to look or to help. Savich pulled the Porsche directly in front of the club, where six cops had kept a space clear, probably for the chief of police, or maybe some politician who’d called ahead to do a sound bite showing his interest in and compassion for this largely black area. Before the cops could yell at him to move, Savich jumped out and flipped out his shield. “Agent Dillon Savich. What’s happening?”
Officer Greenberg, one meaty fist aimed at a reporter who’d managed to break through his line, panted,
“An explosion of some kind in the club. Not a big one, I don’t think, but there’s lots of thick black smoke, which helped feed the panic. You know what happens when folks try to stampede out of a club like this. So far I’ve counted maybe a dozen injured. Almost everyone is out, but there’s still the fire to contend with and making sure no one is trapped in all that poisonous smoke. Hey, get that guy with the microphone back! Sorry. It’s taking a while, Agent Savich, but we’re getting things under control. I know it still looks like pandemonium but you should have been here ten minutes ago. Stay back!” he yelled at three reporters who’d seen Savich and were trying to get to him.
“Blowhard sharks,” he added when their flashes went off. “You’ll probably be on the news, Agent Savich, everyone knows who you are. You need to talk to Detective Millbray. He’s in charge along with Detective Fortnoy. I’ll get you to him, otherwise you’ll never find him.”
“Savich!”
Agent James Quinlan ran to him, grabbed his arm. He was filthy, his suit jacket ripped, and he had a small cut over his eye. “Glad you got here so fast. I shouldn’t have scared you. It’s not as bad as I first thought. More smoke than anything else. But that explosion was so bloody loud, it shook the whole building. Ms. Lilly’s all right, frothing at the mouth about the club, as you can imagine, and about her white dress. Fuzz the bartender is okay, just inhaled some smoke. He’s helping get people out. An ambulance took Marvin the bouncer to the hospital. I think he went down in the panic to get out of the club. The paramedic said he’ll be all right.”
“Where’s Ms. Lilly?”
“I saw her and a fireman hauling out boxes, probably her records and accounts. There she is, over by the firemen, telling them what to do.” He grinned, his teeth very white against his smoke-blackened face. Savich almost didn’t recognize Ms. Lilly. Her beautiful white satin dress was ruined. But she was yelling, and that was a huge relief. He waved to Officer Greenberg. “Hold on a moment, I’ll be right back.”
Savich grabbed Sherlock’s hands and pulled her close so she could hear him. “I want you to hang back, keep your eyes open for Moses and Claudia. Maybe we’re being paranoid, but you know what I think about coincidences. I’m going to ask the detective to have three officers surround you, just in case. If you spot Moses and Claudia, yell at the top of your lungs, okay?”
She nodded. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about being trampled trying to get through the throngs of people. He left her leaning against the driver’s side of the Porsche, her SIG held loosely at her side, looking through the jostling crowd. She watched Officer Greenberg lead Dillon and James Quinlan through the hordes of clubgoers, cops, and firemen to where a bull of a man was closely studying a device in his big hands, his back to the chaos. He was wearing a long wool coat, one of those big Russian fur caps on his head.
Savich tapped Detective Millbray on the shoulder. He turned quickly, started when he saw Savich, then studied his shield. He looked faintly puzzled, then, “Hey, I know who you are, Agent Savich. Ben Raven’
s worked with you, right? He’s around here somewhere. That girlfriend of his, the reporter with the Post, she’s been bugging everybody. At least she got some blood on her, pulled somebody out from under a chair. I’m Ralph Millbray.”
Savich introduced Detective Millbray to Agent James Quinlan. “Quinlan isn’t just an FBI agent. He performs here one night a week on his saxophone.”
“That’s some combination, Agent Quinlan.”
Savich said immediately, “Please send a few of your guys over to guard that redheaded woman standing against the Porsche at the curb. It’s critical. I’ll explain later.”
Quinlan and Savich watched Detective Millbray quickly assemble four cops and dispatch them to surround Sherlock.
“Thank you, Detective. What have you got?”
Detective Millbray handed Savich the device. “Would you take a gander at this harmless-looking little gadget. It’s a piece of a cell phone, used as a homemade detonator. It’s a pretty popular item in the Middle East, as you probably know. Turns out the blast didn’t cause all that much damage, but it created enough of a rumble and spewed out enough thick black smoke to scare the crap out of everybody. Whoever went to the trouble and tossed the bomb could have put a much bigger charge on it. It was just enough to set off the mad stampede. It almost looks like some kind of sick stunt, like someone wanted to close the place down.”
“It wasn’t about closing this business, Detective,” Savich said. “When Agent Quinlan called me, I knew it could have been Moses Grace. He knows I perform here on occasion and am friends with Ms. Lilly. That’s why I asked for protection for Agent Sherlock. She’s my wife.”
Detective Millbray grew very still. “You mean that crazy old guy every cop in the city is looking for? And that teenage girl?”
Savich nodded.
Detective Millbray shouted for his sergeant and stepped away for a moment. When he returned, he said,
“I’ve told him to tell everyone the perpetrators might still be here. And I’ve told him who it might be. If he knew this place, knew the owner was important to you, then why did he just flirt with this pissant little bomb and not make it a full-bore disaster?”
Another plainclothes detective stepped up. “I’m Detective Jim Fortnoy. I’ve called for more police. We’
re going to do a sweep for those two.”
Savich nodded, then turned back to Detective Millbray. “You asked me—”
He heard Sherlock yell. She was swinging her SIG upward, to a point beyond his right shoulder. She yelled, “Dillon, get down!”
She fired off two shots as she ran toward him, the four cops running behind her, their guns out, firing up at the two-story building.
But
Savich wasn’t looking over his shoulder, he was looking at his Porsche. He thought of the bomb Moses had left at Hooter’s Motel. There were a dozen people milling around the Porsche, and he knew as surely as he knew his name what Moses had planned. He cupped his hands around his mouth, yelled as loud as he could, “Run! Get away from the Porsche! There’s a bomb! Run!”
Fortnoy and Millbray shouted with him even though they didn’t understand. Wasn’t Moses Grace in the building behind them? But there was no return gunfire.
No one hesitated. Nerves on hair triggers from the terror in the club made them scatter fast. Detective Millbray grabbed Savich’s arm. “Why do you think there’s a bomb there? Your wife and the police have been shooting up at that building. What’s happening, Savich?”
Savich heard the roar as his Porsche exploded into a ball of flame. There was an incredible concussion and a wave of heat that sucked up all the air. The power of the blast flung the dozen people closest outward, forcing them to the pavement or hurling them into one another. Savich heard screams, and a policeman yelling for everyone to stay down and remain calm. Savich, flanked by half a dozen cops, ran toward them. He fell to his knees in front of a young woman lying motionless on the sidewalk, and touched his fingertips to the pulse in her throat. Thank God, she was alive. He yelled for a paramedic. After an eerie moment of quiet, firemen started to rush toward the burning Porsche, some pulling their fire hoses, others pulling people to safety, carrying those who couldn’t walk. It was a nightmare landscape—the screams, the moans, the weeping, the roaring orange flames that gushed into the night air, the struggle to control panic and fear.
Savich whirled around, yelling Sherlock’s name. He’d seen her for only an instant when she ran toward him, looking up, firing her SIG. He saw her then. Her wool cap was gone, her hair streaming about her shoulders looking like it was on fire in the surreal glow of the orange flames. Then she was there, right in front of him, her face black, her heavy coat ripped. “I thought I saw him up in a window on the second floor. He was aiming down at you. Some of the cops went up there to look.”
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