Arnesto furrowed his brow. “What?”
“Didn’t you hear? This was a while back. Your aunt’s boyfriend C.J. was in some fishing contest down south when the highway bridge above them collapsed. C.J. and his partner had just boated under the bridge seconds earlier.”
“Whoa!” Arnesto was surprised. He hadn’t known C.J. had been that close to the barge accident.
“At least that’s how he tells it. You know how fishermen exaggerate. Anyway, only one car fell into the water. Seems there was a lull in traffic at just the right time.”
When they reached the house forty minutes later, Arnesto felt relieved to be back home and able to spend some quality time with his dad. It was something he took for granted in his first life, and he knew there weren’t going to be many more opportunities like this.
“I’m sure you’re going to be awake a while yet, but it’s past my bedtime,” Karl said. “I have plans Monday and Tuesday during the day, but otherwise I’m free. You know where your bedroom is and where the remotes are, though I have no idea what’s on these days. Oh, Monday’s the Boston Marathon, so that’s something to watch.”
“Yes, I’ve actually been waiting for the marathon for some time.”
On the Run
Boston, Massachusetts
Monday, April 15, 2013
10:15 a.m.
Beantown. Home to some of the country’s most irate drivers and the country’s oldest marathon. April 15, 2013. Patriot’s Day, aka Marathon Monday. Arnesto pushed his way through the crowd near the finish line.
He tried to look excited in order to blend in, but being jostled around by a mob wasn’t his idea of fun even when there weren’t bombs present.
As was often the case when he couldn’t remember a niggling little detail like the exact time of the explosions, he had arrived way early. Now he had nothing to do but wait. Wait and try not to look suspicious. He lingered toward the back of the crowd, able to keep an eye out for the suspects while appearing to watch the race. He also took note of the police nearby.
Once the initial anxiety began to wear off a little, he almost started to enjoy himself. It was exciting. He was right near the end of a 26.2 mile course that many had trained for months to attend. It was something he himself would never attempt, of course. He was starting to feel the effects of middle age and besides, he liked his joints too much.
Then he remembered why he was there. He vividly remembered the recording looking back from just beyond the finish line. It showed runners finishing then all of a sudden, BOOM, an explosion on the right side from behind the stockade which was itself behind a line of national flags.
Not this time. Not if he could help it.
He hung out in one spot for a while, then moved further down Boylston Street and back. He moved whenever he felt he had been in one place too long or when he found himself too close to someone smoking or shaking a cowbell. The hours crawled by. He spent more time watching the marathon than some of the runners spent running it. And with time came his old enemy, self-doubt.
Did he have the right marathon? It was definitely the right city. Like it did to so many other Bostonians, this attack felt personal. Was it the right year? Yeah, it had to be. Right event, right place, right date. The only unknown was when exactly it would happen. Shouldn’t it have happened by now? Maybe something had changed. Maybe somehow he had prevented this. After all, it wasn’t far from where he, the epicenter of alternate timelines, had grown up.
Right, wishful thinking. Either way, he couldn’t leave. Just in case.
He began walking even further west down the street when he caught a glimpse of exactly what he was waiting for.
A white hat.
He couldn’t see the wearer yet but could tell he was heading his way.
Arnesto quickly found a place to stop and observe. Mere seconds later, his view of White Hat became unobstructed. He fought off a chill as he immediately recognized the young man’s face as he had remembered it from Rolling Stone. The magazine had put White Hat on the cover after he was caught, creating much controversy. As nonchalantly as he could, Arnesto dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one, this call is being recorded, what city?” the responder asked.
“Boston.”
“One moment.”
After a few seconds, another responder answered. “Hi, what’s the emergency?”
“Hi, can you patch me through to Officer Maris?” Arnesto asked, recalling the name of an officer he had taken note of earlier. “He’s working at the finish line of the Boston Marathon right now. This is an emergency.”
“What’s happening? Is there something I can help you with?”
“No, I can only talk to Maris, Officer Maris, can you put me through?” Arnesto realized he sounded strained. Maybe that was a good thing. The clock was ticking.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, but I can give you the number of his station.”
“Uh, sure.” Arnesto got the number and hung up. He then dialed the station. The person who answered asked how they could direct his call.
“I need to talk to Officer Maris, who is at the Boston Marathon finish line, right now. It’s an emergency.”
“One moment.”
Finally, he was getting somewhere.
The phone rang a couple times before answering. “You have reached the voicemail of—”
“Fuck!” Arnesto mumbled to himself as he hung up. He paused for a moment then dialed 911 again. He didn’t have a choice; there was nothing he could do on his own. They answered with the same response; Arnesto cringed on the word, “recorded.”
White Hat passed his location, following a guy in a black hat with a similar backpack. Arnesto suddenly remembered. It wasn’t a “he;” it was a “they.” Of course, White Hat’s older brother.
“What’s the emergency?”
“There are two young men in black and white ball caps carrying bombs in backpacks walking east down Boylston toward the finish line of the marathon. They’re crossing Fairfield now.”
“Did you say, ‘bombs?'"
“That is correct.”
“And how do you know this, Sir?”
Seriously? “I overheard them talking a minute ago. One of them said, ‘Drop the backpack in the crowd, walk away, then we’ll set them off.’ Oh, and something about, ‘Allahu Ackbar?'" None of this was true, but it wasn’t crying wolf if there actually were wolves — Islamic extremist wolves with bombs no less. “One’s going to explode about fifty yards down, by Marathon Sports, the other, about a block west. Black ball cap with shades, white ball cap, backward, hair sticking out. Hurry, I’m getting the hell out of here.”
“Sir, you need to stay on the li—”
Arnesto hung up. He went to break his phone under his sweatshirt but realized it might still be useful. It had taken the FBI several days and countless man-hours to catch the murderers, who had killed another cop during that time. Maybe Arnesto could take pictures of the murderers and tip off the feds, speeding up their investigation and saving an officer’s life. He decided to pursue.
When the brothers split up, Arnesto stayed with White Hat. Easier to follow, and there were a lot more police officers at the finish line where Black Hat was going.
White Hat stopped and joined the crowd, while Arnesto found a spot away from the street where he could keep an eye on him. He didn’t like being so close to explosives, but he tried to take solace in the fact that this wasn’t a suicide mission for the brothers.
White Hat began talking on his phone with someone. Who was he talking to? Was it his brother changing their plans? Arnesto had no idea if this was supposed to happen. The call ended and the suspect appeared to be dipping down. He was sliding off his backpack!
Instinctively, Arnesto walked straight toward him. What am I doing?! No, I’m safe as long as I stay with him. I’ve got to help. I’ve got to try.
Arnesto got a few feet away when the first bomb went off down the street. Like everyone else, he turned in sh
ock and horror. Well, almost everyone else. When he turned back, he saw White Hat pushing his way through the crowd.
Arnesto grabbed the backpack. “Hey, you forgot your…” he shouted, putting on a show as he opened it up. One quick peek inside at the pressure cooker bomb was all he needed. When the FBI examined all the videos later, he would hopefully look like he was trying to do the right thing.
“Bomb!” he yelled, grabbing the top of the backpack with his right hand while pushing people away with his left. “Get away!” He threw the backpack as far and high up as he could over the barrier into the street. A few interspersed marathon runners would suffer far fewer casualties than a crowd. Hopefully.
He turned into the crowd, shouting, “Go! Go! Go!” as he brought his arms up to cover his own head. It was hard to move with so many people there. Still, there should be enough time. He realized he actually had no idea how far apart the blasts were. He had no idea they were only thirteen seconds apart. At least, they had been the last time. This time around, his interference by alerting the cops had, as it turned out, alerted Black Hat, speeding things up slightly.
He didn’t feel the blast when it knocked him and everyone else around him to the ground.
At first, he couldn’t hear anything, but soon heard a loud ringing and nothing else. There was white smoke all around.
As the ringing turned to screams and chaos, Arnesto realized he was unhurt, though he was shaken. He didn’t know if there were casualties, but he didn’t want to know. Not yet. Slowing getting to his feet and discovering he could walk, he knew there was still more he could do. Not tending the wounded, there were plenty of people to do that. No, it was more important to capture the suspects.
He took off in a run. It didn’t take long to see White Hat intermittently walking and jogging ahead of him. Man, he wanted to tackle that guy and beat the shit out of him. But no, that wouldn’t work for Arnesto for a multitude of reasons. Instead, he walked behind White Hat until they got to an intersection. Then, knowing which way he was going for at least the next block, he ran past him to the next intersection as fast as he could. He then turned around, phone at the ready, and started taking pictures in the general direction of the bombing, making sure the bomber was in the scene, while hoping not to arouse the bomber’s suspicion. After White Hat passed, Arnesto looked through the photos, found a couple good ones that clearly showed the bomber’s face, and sent them to the FBI.
He included the message, “White hat. It was him and his brother in the black hat. Get these assholes.”
Finally, he destroyed the phone.
Building Violation
Dhaka District
Bangladesh
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Afternoon
Bangladesh was a beautiful, verdant country. The heat and humidity were not unlike Massachusetts in the summer. After nearly being exploded in Boston, Arnesto felt he should probably get away for a little while, in case the feds were looking for the guy who threw the bomb. How could he have been so stupid?
He had another reason for coming to Bangladesh. It was because of something a coworker had said a couple days from now in his former life. He couldn’t remember the exact words, but it was something like, “All those people died in that factory, but the media still won’t shut up about the Boston Marathon.”
Upon arriving, he paid the rickshaw driver and looked up at his target: Rana Plaza, an eight-story, dilapidated eyesore. Soon, it would be collapsing, with or without Arnesto’s help.
He walked around it a few times, surveying the outside of the building. Points of entry, points of exit, and possible escape routes lead the list of which he made a mental note. Finally, he went inside.
He was surprised to see several shops — all he remembered of the place was that it was the site of one of the worst factory disasters in history. The factories were on the upper floors, including several floors built without a permit — in a building not intended for factory use — made from substandard materials — built on a pond. It’s a wonder the building lasted as long as it did.
The shops were small and didn’t appear to have many hiding places. Though the people were friendly to him, he was clearly a foreigner, and this made him feel even more conspicuous. His plan had been to hide somewhere until everyone went home for the night, but it was starting to look like he might have to break in after hours.
He almost didn’t notice the camera crew until he was on top of them. After putting some distance between them and himself, he observed from behind a couple of other observers who had gathered. He couldn’t figure out what they were recording, but the camera seemed aimed at the wall. Then he saw them.
Cracks. They were recording cracks in the wall. Cracks big enough to make one call a film crew. Had he missed them on his first pass or had they appeared since his arrival? One thing was certain — he was in the right place.
Someone ordered an evacuation soon after. Though it was unexpected, it gave him the opportunity he needed. Acting like he was supposed to be there, he alternated between directing evacuees and working his way upward. Eventually, he made it to the fifth floor, where he was able to sneak inside one of the now-deserted factories. He took note of his surroundings.
There were rows upon rows of sewing machines with some supplies scattered by the walls. At one end of the building were a couple of small offices while at the other end there was a generator. Behind the generator were a couple of small gas containers, while off to the side were a few large laundry carts that didn’t look like they were being used.
With the building evacuated, this might be the perfect moment to bring it down. He walked over to the window and looked out, then immediately changed his mind as he ducked down. Right, evacuated doesn’t mean sent home, it means evacuated to right outside the building. He cautiously raised his head to look out the window and saw roughly two thousand workers gathered a few stories below on the ground outside. Can’t exactly commit arson then run out the building in front of a few thousand eye witnesses. Besides, they’re too close, they’ll still get hurt. He turned his gaze toward the entrance in time to see a few men in construction helmets enter the building.
He slunk down again, deciding to wait until the inspection team went back out. After a long wait, he heard what sounded like crowd movement, so he again peeked out the window. For once, history was on Arnesto’s side. The workers were being sent home.
The building was his. There was no security, at least none that he saw, and there were no cameras watching the place. There also weren’t any smoke detectors or sprinklers. Sure, this would help him in his pursuit of arson, but he needed to make it big. What good would one little fire do if people still showed up to work the next day, only to have the building collapse on top of them?
Looking over at the generator, he decided to step up his game. He lifted the first gas tank and shook it. Empty. He lifted the second gas tank but didn’t shake it. There was half a gallon of gas inside. It would have to do.
First, Arnesto made sure he could, in fact, escape. The door leading out to the stairwell locked from the inside. From there it would be a cinch to run down the stairs and out a side door at the bottom. He couldn’t access the other factories or shop levels, but if the fire was big enough, he wouldn’t need to.
Second, he formed a makeshift fuse out of fabric and apparel. Unscrewing the gas cap on the generator, he stuck one end of the fuse inside while the rest continued down the side of the generator then along the floor between two rows of sewing machines. He then moistened the fuse with gasoline from the container.
Finally, he removed a lighter from his pocket and lit the far end. It took a moment, but the flame caught. He watched for a bit to make sure it progressed, then felt satisfied. He hurried out the door and down the stairs, then nonchalantly walked outside and away from the building. As he looked back, he could barely make out a tiny flicker in the fifth-floor window.
After a few blocks, he again turned to look at th
e factory. Shouldn’t he have heard something by now? What if the flame went out? Should he go back? He still had some hours of nighttime left, though he hadn’t propped the doors open, so he’d have to risk breaking a window—
BOOM!
The explosion was so loud that it scared him half to death even from three blocks away. The explosion had not only sent the burning wreckage of the generator into the floor below, it had also blasted a hole in the floor above, causing that generator to fall through as well. With so much heavy machinery tumbling through substandard building materials barely strong enough to hold the weight to begin with, the whole building collapsed in on itself into a massive pile of burning debris and sewing machines.
It didn’t hurt that the gas canisters had been nearly empty because they had been used to fill the generator after repeated power outages.
Arnesto made it back to his hotel to gather his belongings, then took a cab to the airport to get the earliest flight home. A day-and-a-half later, he walked into his apartment, dropped his bag, and fell exhausted onto his couch. His phone buzzed, but he didn’t feel like talking to anyone. He only decided to answer it when he saw it was Pete. Good, Arnesto wanted to ask him about any fallout from the Boston bombings.
“Pete,” Arnesto said as he answered the phone.
“Hello, Mr. Modesto,” said a pleasant but firm female voice. “I’m sorry we had to approach you like this.”
The hairs on the back of Arnesto’s neck stood on end. “Who is this? Where’s Pete?” he asked.
“Mr. Modesto, we have Peter Morgan in custody, and we’d like you to come in as well.”
Mementos
Arnesto's Apartment
Silicon Valley, California
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Afternoon
Arnesto froze. This was it. He always knew this day would come, but that didn’t make it any easier. He covered the mouthpiece and took a deep breath.
Arnesto Modesto: The World's Most Ineffectual Time Traveler Page 26
