Flashover

by Suzanne Chazin

  “Fire Marshal Skeehan here,” she choked out. She was having trouble breathing. “I’m in the steam tunnels below the East Side storage area. I need help.”

  And then, a hundred feet ahead, Georgia saw Connie struggling to her feet. She had somehow tripped. The yellow hard hat was gone. Her blond hair was drenched with sweat. She half limped, half ran out of the steam tunnel and onto a narrow concrete platform lit only by construction lamps. It was a railroad maintenance walkway, maybe four feet wide, above a set of train tracks. The tracks were dark. They looked abandoned. Connie started down it, then ducked into what Georgia assumed was a side tunnel. Georgia’s lungs seared. She was dizzy and near collapse herself. If Connie gained any kind of lead in the tunnel, Georgia would lose her.

  She followed Connie to the entranceway. Only there was no tunnel beyond it—just an unused storage area cut out of the rough granite bedrock. The jagged, glistening rock rose fourteen feet to a concrete ceiling. A bare bulb dangled from a construction lamp.

  Connie was doubled over at a rear wall, hands on her knees, struggling for breath. Her gasps echoed in the hollow, cavelike room. Her coveralls were soaked with sweat, and her blond hair had turned nearly dark with it. Although she was nearly six feet tall, right at this minute, Connie Ruiz looked very, very small.

  48

  Adrenaline and anger surged through Georgia’s veins, pumping her up so much she felt like a balloon about to explode. She walked up to Connie and pushed her hard against the wall.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Georgia screamed. She was breathing hard herself. “Do you know what I’ve been through? What Mac’s been through?”

  Connie didn’t answer. She was bigger and stronger; she could have pushed back. But when she straightened up, her dark eyes were tentative and fearful.

  “Goddamn it, answer me.” Georgia pushed her again. “You’re Robin Hood, aren’t you?” she choked out. “You killed those doctors. You set a bomb on the pipeline. Why would you do this, Con? Why?”

  Connie gulped some air. Her breathing slowed. She nodded at the wire still attached to Georgia’s wrist. “The radio won’t work down here, you know,” she said in a flat voice. “Your sweat’s shorted it out. And you’re too far from the receiver.”

  Georgia stared at her friend in disbelief. “You think I’m asking for them?” she said, gesturing above her head to some mythical police command post.

  Connie didn’t answer. Georgia reached inside her sweat-soaked blouse, yanked out the wires and threw them on the ground. “This is you and me. Right here. Right now.” She pulled out the black stone still dangling from a silver chain around her neck. “What was this you gave me—huh? Bullshit, Con? Another bullshit game? You lied to me at every turn. You didn’t tell me about you and Mac. Or your brother. Or your father. Jesus Christ, you didn’t even tell me you got a goddamn tattoo. You were everything I wanted to be, Con. Why did you throw it all away?”

  “I was everything you wanted to be, huh?” Connie tossed off a small, bitter laugh. “What? A foster kid? The daughter of a broken man who died before he turned fifty, forgotten by his own department?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Georgia. She shut her eyes tight for a moment to collect her thoughts. “You brutally murdered those two doctors, Con. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Do you know what those doctors called my father?” Connie asked. “A liar. He couldn’t stand up, couldn’t stop the trembling in his hands enough to feed himself, and they said he was faking. He was strong as a bear before that warehouse fire in Greenpoint,” she said, her voice brittle with emotion. “That’s what everyone called him: Bear. Those doctors deserved to die.”

  On the tracks outside, a train rumbled by. The sound exploded out of nowhere, shaking the room—and then it was gone. A headache throbbed behind Georgia’s eyes. She tried to wipe her face, but her hands were black with grime.

  “Do you know who started the fire that killed my dad?” asked Georgia. “A six-year-old. In the basement of a store, playing with matches. Kid ran out when it started—never had a scratch on him. And my father burned to death. I still miss him every day. But I don’t go around blaming the city or the kid or his family for what happened. I’m not blowing up pipelines over it.”

  “You got to mourn your father’s death,” said Connie. “They gave him a department funeral. They gave your mother a good pension. You go to a firehouse, there’s a plaque on the wall in his name. Do you know what happened to me? Do you?” Connie shouted, her voice echoing in the high reaches of jagged rock and cement overhead.

  “Yes,” said Georgia softly. “Your brother told me.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, Con. Truly, I am. But you hurt a lot of innocent people. Goddamnit, Connie, you hurt me.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  “And you wanted to, didn’t you?” said Georgia.

  Connie’s eyes glowed with undeniable satisfaction.

  “I couldn’t take the life I was leading anymore. I wanted an end to the pain. All of it,” she said.

  “Even if it hurt others.”

  Silence. Georgia could read it in her friend’s face: especially if it hurt others.

  “My brother chose drugs as his escape,” said Connie. “I tried to erase my life. Start over. God knows, I tried. But Carl was right in the end. One way or another, it catches up with you.”

  “You could’ve talked to me about it.”

  “You looked up to me—you think I wanted to destroy that? That was one of the only good things I had. And then you started seeing Mac, and even what he and I had started to feel like a sham. You had what I lost.”

  “So you decided to destroy his life,” said Georgia, an edge of disbelief in her voice.

  “I needed a way to disappear after the pipeline payoff anyway. So I swiped a couple of blood-donor bags and syringes from an EMT. I figured if I doped Mac up on GHB and poured my blood around, you’d forget about having his baby.”

  Georgia’s shocked expression made Connie pause. She swallowed hard. Tears crested the rims of her dark brown eyes. Georgia couldn’t ever recall seeing her cry.

  “I just couldn’t take the pain anymore,” Connie choked out. She wiped her sleeve across her eyes. “Not from my father’s death. Not from you and Mac.” She clenched her fists as she searched for words to convey the depths of her torment. “You were always wishing you could be me,” she said softly. “Dear God, baby girl, you never knew how much I wished I could be you.”

  The damp, cool air made Georgia’s sweat congeal on her skin. She took a step forward and stared at her friend’s face. She saw the butterscotch skin and full lips as she had always remembered them, marred only by a blinding sheath of blond hair. She saw Connie’s failures. But she also saw her own envy and longings reflected back at her. The shame on Georgia’s face was not just for Connie but for herself as well.

  “You’ve got every right to hate me, Georgia. I can’t explain the things I did. The worst part about them is…” she held back the catch in her throat “…I really do care for you.”

  “Connie, listen to me,” Georgia begged. “Killing innocent people isn’t going to take away your pain. You understand that, don’t you?” Georgia felt as if she were talking to someone who’d just woken up from a deep sleep. Connie seemed dazed and unfocused. Even now, all she could do was nod, distracted.

  “Con—please,” said Georgia in a firm voice. “Please tell me where the bomb is.”

  49

  Connie checked her watch. Georgia saw the time: 9:40 A.M. Connie knew explosives. Georgia was sure it would go off at noon without a hitch.

  “There’s still time to change things,” Georgia pleaded with her. “You don’t want this to be your father’s legacy.”

  Connie palmed the tears from her eyes. “And then what? I rot in a prison cell and Bear’s name is forgotten?”

  “I will try to change that, Con. I swear to you. I will do everything I can to make sure your dad—all the men and their
families who suffered at that warehouse—are not forgotten.”

  Connie sank back against the wall and stared up at the construction lamp dangling overhead. Georgia could see she was trying to be strong, trying to suck in the pain. Georgia reached out a hand.

  “Come upstairs with me, Con. Tell me where the bomb is. I’ll stay with you. I’ll make sure no one hurts you.”

  Connie came off the wall, Georgia took a step forward, and they fell into each other’s arms. Then Connie leaned over and buried her face in Georgia’s hair. Georgia could feel her tears.

  “I’m so sorry things turned out this way,” Connie whispered. “Tell Richie and your Ma good-bye for me. Tell Mac…” she swallowed hard. “Tell him to take good care of you.”

  A crack reverberated across the room. It sounded like a backup of high-pressure steam. Then Connie toppled forward into Georgia’s arms.

  “Connie? Connie, what happened?” Georgia put a hand out to brace her friend’s back. It felt wet. Sticky wet. Georgia brought her hand up to the light. Her fingers were coated with blood. “Oh, my God.” She looked over toward the entranceway now. She saw the nine-millimeter Glock first, its dull black surface picking up the light from the construction lamp. It was a standard-issue gun for a fire marshal.

  “Andy? What did you do?” Georgia stared in disbelief at the frozen figure of Andy Kyle in the doorway. “She wasn’t going to hurt me, you moron,” Georgia yelled at him.

  Connie was losing consciousness fast. Her legs were collapsing. Her breathing became ragged. Georgia tried to lay her down gently. She was moaning. “It’s going to be all right,” Georgia cooed. Then she rose.

  “Get on your Handie-Talkie,” she ordered Kyle. “Tell A and E to radio an ambulance down here right away.”

  Kyle didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stared at the groaning woman spread out on the dirty concrete floor. He seemed to be in shock. He’d probably never shot anyone before.

  “Give me the Handie-Talkie,” Georgia demanded. He still didn’t move. “Goddamnit, Kyle. Give it to me, you dumbass jerk!”

  Kyle pulled his Handie-Talkie out of his duty holster. But instead of handing it to her, he flung it out of the room. Georgia heard the plastic crack and shuffle as it skidded down the platform. “She has to die,” he said softly, holding her gaze, his usual even confidence returning. “Do you understand, Georgia?”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” Georgia ran to the entranceway to retrieve the Handie-Talkie. Kyle grabbed her arm.

  “No,” he said. “Don’t you see? Ruiz tells Empire where the bomb is, the whole incident will be hushed up. No one will ever know about Bridgewater Street or the toxic chemicals that were in that neighborhood. They’ll build the stadium right over it. Empire and Northway will win, Georgia. They’ll win.”

  “Let go of me, Kyle. Innocent people are going to die because of what you just did.”

  She struggled free of his grasp and stumbled onto the platform. The Handie-Talkie was lying next to some mechanic’s tools, just two inches from the edge of the dark tracks, six feet below. It crackled with detectives’ voices. Cops were roaming all over the building now. All the exits were covered, but there were too many tunnels and crevices to search every one. Georgia bent down and picked up the Handie-Talkie. She depressed the Talk button and heard a click behind her. “Put the Handie-Talkie down and step away, Georgia.”

  She turned, her hand still depressing the button. Kyle’s gun, which had sat limply in his hand since the shooting, now came to rest on her.

  “I gave you Delaney’s report—Goddamn gave it to you,” he said icily. “And you threw it away.”

  “How did you get that report?”

  “You never checked who Tristate’s lawyers were when the firm went belly-up. You should’ve. Because one of them was my father, Georgia. Jerome Kyle formed Northway. He bought out Gus Rankoff and his company, Tristate, then kept Rankoff on as an advisor, along with John Welcastle. I pieced all the details together when I found my father’s copy of Delaney’s report—the copy I gave to you.”

  “What is this? Some guilt trip you’re on?” asked Georgia. “You hate Daddy’s money and power, so you want to destroy him?”

  “This isn’t about my father!” Kyle shouted. “This is about justice. I thought you understood that. I thought you were going to stop those bastards from getting richer off the suffering of others. You let Empire weasel out of this, you’ll be helping Gus Rankoff—the man who followed you to that firehouse and tried to burn you.” He saw the shock in her face. “That’s right, Georgia. Rankoff tried to kill you. I asked my father about it, and he told me. If you protect them, you’re just as bad as they are. And you deserve to die.” He stepped closer and raised his gun.

  Time stood still. Georgia became acutely aware of every function inside her body. She felt the blood gushing through her arteries. She felt a wateriness in her bowels, a fullness in her kidneys, a dryness in her mouth, the beads of sweat mixing with dirt on her skin. Every breath seemed like one of those elaborate cuckoo clocks with hundreds of bolts and gears, all precisely aligned to make the wooden figures dance at the stroke of every hour.

  Her mind had gone blank, filled with a sensory overload from her body. She tried to seize on the mental image of her little boy’s face. She tried to picture the soft, creamy cheeks, the black hair in need of a trim, the honey-colored eyes, the sticklike body. But it was just a cloudy jumble to her right now. It was almost as if the first step to dying was letting go of the ones you love. She felt like a small bug caught in an emptying drain. She kept getting sucked deeper and deeper into a place where she didn’t want to go.

  And then she heard the rumble. A train was coming. On the opposite side of the tracks, over a six-foot concrete divide. Kyle heard it, too. He looked over his shoulder and allowed his concentration to waver for an instant. He had assumed that his size and his gun were enough to keep an unarmed, five-foot-four-inch woman in check. He forgot that Georgia was a cop, too.

  As the train on the opposite side barreled past, Georgia let go of the Handie-Talkie and sprang forward—not at his chest. She had neither the size nor bulk to knock a man down. But she knew that the right momentum delivered at knee level could topple the heaviest of men. So she wrapped herself tightly around his legs.

  His shoulder hit the ground hard. The gun tumbled from his hands, onto the tracks. His cool, confident façade vanished, replaced by a rage in his eyes that made even Gus Rankoff look tame by comparison.

  “You piece of trash,” he shouted at Georgia as the rumble faded. “I can buy and sell you. And you do this to me—to me?”

  Georgia spotted a heavy, stainless-steel stilson wrench lying next to a couple of smaller wrenches on the platform. She grabbed it, but Kyle was faster. He yanked it from her hands and swung it at her head. She ducked, but the edge of the wrench caught her in the shoulder and knocked her off balance.

  She tumbled. Six feet down. Georgia and the wrench landed on the tracks. Her shoulder and hip ached from the impact. But that was the least of her problems.

  A sudden gust of wind blew through the tunnel. At the bend, Georgia could make out the headlights of a train coming her way. She couldn’t scale the six feet to scramble back onto the platform. She couldn’t make it over the concrete divider to the opposite side. And there was no recessed area to flatten herself against until the train passed.

  “Please,” Georgia begged Kyle, as she struggled to her feet. “I’ll die down here.”

  Kyle looked down at her now, pity in his eyes. He shook his head. “Too bad, isn’t it? But as I told you—it’s the big picture that matters to me—not the individuals. Sometimes, for the greater good, sacrifices have to be made.”

  He ran along the platform, then paused at the entrance to the corridor. “If it’s any consolation, I’ll see to it that you’re buried as a hero.” Georgia barely heard the words. Instead, she stared at the bend in the train tunnel. The reflected headlights were growing
larger, the rumble was getting nearer. In any minute, there would be a wall of air, then a blinding stab of lights, then impact. The conductor would never see her in time. She saw Andy’s gun and the stilson wrench at her feet. Neither could stop a train. They were just two useless hunks of metal.

  Metal. Next to an electrically powered track. Georgia grabbed the gun. She had less than a minute to short out the power in the track. She threw the gun sideways at the third rail. It slid underneath the plastic cover, coming into contact with the high-voltage current. Already, she could see the train’s headlamps glowing like two cat’s eyes a hundred yards in the distance. The gun was now electrically charged. But that meant nothing if she couldn’t connect the third rail to a grounded rail and short out the power.

  She grabbed the wrench and balanced it upright on one of the track rails. Then she took her hand away and stepped back. The tool crashed to the track bed, one end still on the grounded rail, and the other just centimeters from the tip of the electrically charged gun.

  I missed. I’m dead. Panic seized Georgia. The wind pushed hard at her from inside the train tunnel. The ground quaked with the force of twenty tons of barreling steel. The headlights were blinding. I have nothing metal left on me to short out the circuit and stop the train. Nothing except…

  Tinfoil. From the candy bar. Georgia pulled out the foil now. It was already balled up. She pitched the crushed foil at the gap between the stilson wrench and the tip of Kyle’s gun. She heard a buzz like a fluorescent light fixture about to fizzle, and saw a spark of bright blue light. Her breath stalled in her chest. Her rib cage felt like it was wrapped in a corset. She was so focused on the screeching brakes of the train as it came to a stop that she barely noticed the thud of feet and crackle of Handie-Talkies on the narrow platform above her until a voice spoke directly overhead.

  “I should fucking leave you down there, Skeehan.”