Sweet Dreams

by Aaron Patterson

  Finally, he forced his feet to go to the garage, where he gathered empty boxes and took them into the house to pack the few things he couldn’t live without. Family photo albums. Samantha’s teddy bear. K’s Bible.

  He packed two suitcases worth of clothing, looked around the house one last time, then loaded the boxes and suitcases into the silver BMW Hank had had delivered to replace his destroyed Honda.

  He stopped by K’s parents place to ask them to watch the house until he decided what to do with it. Handing them the key, he said, “I’ve got everything I want out of it. Take anything you want.”

  “We can’t do that!” Holly exclaimed.

  “I left K’s jewelry and clothing. Maybe you’d like a memento or two. Or one of Sam’s stuffed toys. The rest—furniture, kitchen stuff, all if it—can go to the Salvation Army or the Rescue Mission. However you want to dispose of it. I’m not going back.”

  His mother-in-law pulled him close, holding him for a long moment. “I’m so sorry this has happened, Mark, but please don’t leave us. You’re like a son to us.”

  He sniffed, fighting for control. “I’ll keep in touch.” He turned and walked away, knowing he was leaving his old life behind, forever.

  Finding an apartment turned out to be easier then he’d expected. After a few calls to apartment buildings his company had designed, he located an upscale, fully furnished apartment he could move into immediately.

  When the leasing agent left with the signed lease and his deposit in hand, Mark dropped onto the overstuffed sofa, his hand over his eyes, his mind in a fog. What day was it? Sunday? “Yeah, it’s Sunday.”

  He grabbed the remote on the coffee table and clicked on the news channel.

  “Yesterday was a busy day here in New York.” The anchorwoman looked grim. “A car chase in the Northeastern Industrial Park area resulted in a shootout that left one man dead and a Detroit detective wounded.”

  He only half-listened as he bit into a ripe apple from the gift basket on the coffee table. Had she already talked about the supermarket explosion? Did he tune in too late?

  “The shootout left over three hundred thousand dollars in collateral damage. At this time, we have no comment from NYPD, other than that the situation is under investigation. In other news, we still have no information as to the cause of the explosion at the Super Mart yesterday. Sources say a ruptured underground gas line may have been the culprit. The blast killed more than two hundred people and destroyed the entire building. We now go live to Andrea Kilpatrick, who is at the scene, where investigators are still trying to pinpoint exactly what happened. Andrea?”

  “Yes, Susan. I’m standing in front of where Super Mart once was. As you can see, there isn’t much left here.” The camera panned the rubble.

  Mark’s stomach lurched.

  “The police say they are not ruling out foul play, but so far they have not found anything to lead them to believe this was more than a very tragic accident.”

  “Andrea, is this something that might have been caused by faulty wiring or a gas line that needed to be repaired? Could the store have prevented this?”

  “The investigators have not released a statement. In fact, they say it could take months to get to the bottom of this. We will let you know as soon as we hear something from the local authorities.”

  “Thank you, Andrea. A relief fund has been set up for—”

  He shut off the TV and walked over to the kitchen counter, where he’d left his cell phone. He dialed the police station. He needed answers, and his gut told him the explosion was not an accident. The image of the terrified man rushing from the building right before it exploded burned in his mind.

  “Yes. Hello. This is Mark Appleton. I need to speak to whoever is in charge of the Super Mart investigation.”

  The dispatcher connected him to a Detective Bruce Owens, who answered in a deep voice, “What can I do you for?”

  “Hello, Detective. My name is Mark Appleton. My wife and daughter were killed at the Super Mart yesterday.” His voice broke. Just saying it aloud made him want to weep, but he choked his grief back and went on. “I was told you’re the one overseeing the investigation.” He tried to sound firm, in control of his emotions, but his voice cracked anyway.

  “Yes, Mr. Appleton. I’m the one in charge of the investigation. I’ve been meanin’ to call you, but I didn’t want to push too hard, with what you’ve been through—”

  Mark interrupted. “Can we meet tomorrow? I just got out of the hospital.” He wanted to get it over with, find out if they had anything besides the crap the media was reporting.

  “If you can be here around ten o’clock, I’ll make sure I’m in the office. The officers at the front desk will show you to my office.”

  Mark thanked him and hung up the phone. Bruce sounded like a good-enough guy. He hoped he wasn’t a hardened detective whose main concern in life was finding out what time the donut shop opened.

  * * *

  AS THE LAPTOP DOWNLOADED the patch Mooch was sending over, Kirk thought about how little he knew about the internet, which usually caused him more problems than solutions.

  His laptop hummed quietly.

  “Mooch, what’s taking so long?” He hated to wait for anything or anyone, especially a low-life hacker or fast food.

  “Well, excuse me. I’m only trying to hack into a government website and still keep us out of jail. If they see us, we’re screwed!”

  Kirk could hear him tapping keys.

  “This is hard enough over the phone, getting you a link and—”

  “Fine, Mooch, fine. Just get me to last Friday. The address is Five Sixty-Four West Fuller Avenue. Simco Foods. Do you have cameras around that area?”

  Mooch’s voice cracked like a teenager. “Yeah. I can see almost anywhere in the world. I hack into the street cameras, into the Crimson Satellite that isn’t running, so they say.”

  “Not running?” Leaning on his elbows, Kirk peered at the coffee beans beneath the glass that topped the small wooden table where he sat and took a sip of his coffee.

  “Been broken for years, too expensive to fix, but I can still use it for looking around. Me and my buddy Chucko—do you know Chucko? Anyway, we rigged it to take snapshots, just not live action stuff.”

  Kirk shook his head. “You get off on this stuff, don’t you?” He saw something come up on his computer screen, an aerial view of the Simco warehouse. “What day was this taken?”

  “It’s the day you wanted, Friday. Hold on. Here’s the video from the loading dock cameras.”

  “Run it from about eight a.m. in fast forward.”

  The video showed semi-trucks pulling up, loading, and driving off. He looked for Martinez’s face among the drivers but didn’t see him. He watched the clock at the bottom of the screen spin by.

  “Wait! Back up a sec. I think that’s it. Stop it there.” Kirk cursed as he looked at what was plain to see—Martinez loading his truck with boxes.

  “What are we trying to find here?”

  “I’m not sure. Can you follow that truck? Can you go in real time?” Putting his coffee down, Kirk scooted his chair closer to the table.

  “We better make this quick. We’ll be spotted if we stay on too long. I’m running a Radian Jammer, but it’ll only work for about five minutes.”

  “Just do it. We won’t get caught.” And if they did, he’d have no problem throwing Mooch to the wolves.

  The truck left the warehouse, headed toward the interstate, then disappeared. “Where’d he go?” Kirk frantically punched buttons on his laptop and almost spilled his coffee all over it.

  “Man, you’re jumpy. Hold on. He’s out of range. I’ll have to switch back to Crimson. But it will be in stills, so don’t blow a gasket.”

  The screen showed snapshots of the loaded truck, but Martinez headed the wrong way. That road didn’t lead to David’s Island, and Kirk was positive he had delivered a load there on Friday morning.

  He watched as the tr
uck pulled onto a dirt road that led to an old abandoned sawmill. The parking lot was overgrown with weeds, and one side of the building looked like it had collapsed.

  “Can we get a shot behind that mill? I can’t see the truck.” He tried to sound nicer, even though his body heat was rising. He’d never liked computers, and now he was at the mercy of a hacker devoid of scruples.

  “I can get a partial, but the mill is blocking the line of sight.”

  He could hear Mooch typing and munching on what sounded like potato chips. This only added to his stress level. The truck was now out of sight, with the exception of the rear bumper, but remaining in the same spot with each time-stamped photo. Then he saw a shadow beside the vehicle.

  “There. Go back one. Yes, that one. Can you zoom in on the shadow of the truck?”

  The picture zoomed in closer. It was clear now. There were two trucks. Somehow, he didn’t think this was an accident.

  “What’s that? Another person?”

  “On it. I see her.”

  “Her?” Kirk strained his eyes. The picture zoomed in on the second shadow. He could see long, dark hair blowing in the wind. It was a her. “Okay, Mooch. Let’s see if we can get a look at this chick.”

  Sitting back in his chair, he took another sip of his coffee and watched the screen. His hunch was right. Martinez had been up to something, and now he had proof.

  But picture after picture revealed nothing new.

  The woman stayed in the shadows. It was as if she knew exactly where to stand in order to prevent a clear camera view of her. As the stills flashed by, he saw someone who looked like Martinez unloading the boxes from his truck and loading new ones from the mystery woman’s truck onto his.

  “Mooch, where is this spot? Give me an address.” He needed to check out this drop-off site firsthand.

  “Uh, oh! Pull the plug, man! They got us!” Mooch screamed like a girl in Kirk’s ear. He jerked and dropped his coffee on the floor. A red warning sign flashed on his screen. He dropped his phone, grabbed the laptop, flipped it over and yanked the battery out. He didn’t know if it would do any good, but it was the only thing he could think of at the time.

  He picked up the phone. “Okay, Mooch. I’m out.” He took a breath, as winded as if he’d been chasing a perp. “Did they see us?”

  “Nope, but holy cow, that was close. Good thing I have a breaker switch on my desk, for just such an occasion.” His voice sounded like he’d just won a Super Bowl game, and his breathing came in short bursts.

  Kirk wondered if the poor kid ever got out in the real world for some real time, real life exercise. “I need you to make copies of those photos of the mystery woman and those trucks. E-mail them to me as soon as you can, and find out anything you can on where that other truck went. Oh, and by the way, if you do this for me, I won’t tell the FBI it was you they almost caught a minute ago.”

  “Awww, thanks man. You’re a saint.”

  “Just do it, Mooch. I’ll even get you an FBI T-shirt.”

  Mooch cursed.

  Kirk laughed. There was nothing in the world Mooch hated more than the feds. He packed up his laptop, stepped over the spilled coffee, and slipped out the back door of the coffee shop.

  He looked at the address Mooch had given him, then shook his head. He would have to wait until morning. He needed to get some sleep. Plus, he was getting hungry and irritable.

  He crawled into the car, his leg throbbing. It felt better than yesterday, but was still plenty sore. For a moment, he sat in the driver’s seat staring out the window. The woman bothered him. Who was she? What did she have to do with the prison massacre?

  Finally, he checked his phone and saw he’d missed two calls, both from his boss. He started the engine. The case might cost him his job, but it was too late now. He knew how it would work. Return home with a win and save his job. But go home with nothing, and it would be hello early retirement.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE THREE-STORY RED brick police station was fronted with a wide parking lot littered with police cruisers. Near the front door, Mark saw what looked like a SWAT team truck, a van painted white with a blue stripe down the side lettered NYPD.

  He took a deep lungful of the morning breeze, which warmed his face and tossed the flag that fluttered high atop a pole in front of the building, trying to prepare himself for the upcoming ordeal. The last thing he wanted to do was relive the day his family was stolen from him, but there was not much luck he’d avoid it this morning.

  Double doors led to a front desk area, where everyone seemed to be in a hurry. He dodged an officer taking a reluctant prisoner, then approached the front desk to get clearance and directions to Detective Owens’ office. “Hello. I’m here to meet with Detective Owens. He’s expecting me.”

  A petite, pretty, blonde receptionist looked up at him with bright, sunny blue eyes and a big smile which lit up her face. She checked her computer. “What’s your name?”

  “Mark Appleton.”

  “Yes. He’s in the big conference room down the hall and to the left. It will be—oh, never mind. I’ll show you. I give terrible directions.”

  She giggled and jumped out of her chair. Walking around her desk, she almost skipped down the hall. She was bubbly, which made him wonder where she was from. New Yorkers had never been known for being particularly friendly, and members of the NYPD were rarely accommodating, or even helpful. Maybe she was new or had had one too many gun shot wounds to the head, making her a little loopy. She chatted as they walked past a big, open room filled with dozens of officers behind rows of desks. The place was busy. But then, it was a big city.

  “Here you go, Mr. Appleton.” She shook his hand with vigor, then bounced off back to her desk.

  He was annoyed when he opened the door to the room she’d led him to. The place was so packed he had to squeeze in the back to the final, remaining chair. The mood was somber. People talked in hushed tones, whispering and looking around. He guessed there were about three hundred in the room.

  A slender man with a stack of papers in his hand strode in a side door. He reminded Mark of Shaggy from Scooby Doo. He had wavy blond hair and a polo shirt that looked like it was blue at one time but had faded so much it looked almost white. He stopped at a small table with a laptop on it.

  “Good mornin’, everyone. For those of you I haven’t met, I’m Detective Bruce Owens. Because many of you contacted me about this tragic event, I decided to call a meeting. It’s better y’all hear it at one time and not from the media. I’ve never been good at this stuff, but here it is.”

  “Before I start, I want to say I’m very sorry for y’all’s loss. There is nothin’ to prepare yourself for this kind of tragedy. I want to help y’all get through this, and I’ll tell you everythin’ I know up to this point. Afterwards, if any of you folks have questions, I’ll try to answer them the best I can.”

  The screen behind him came to life as he worked the laptop’s remote. The first slide showed an aerial view of what was left of the store. A gasp rippled through the room. It looked like a war zone picture instead of what used to be a popular New York shopping center.

  Detective Owens glanced around the room. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard to see. It’s okay to leave the room if this is more than you’re able to take in right now.”

  One couple got up to leave, the man’s arm around a sobbing woman.

  Owens said, “Thanks for coming,” and turned back to the screen. “As you’ve already figured out, what you folks are lookin’ at is what used to be the Super Mart. We’ve had a group of experts workin’ at the scene night and day since the explosion Saturday mornin’. We still don’t know how many people were killed, but so far we’ve recovered two hundred and thirteen bodies.”

  The sound of soft sobs floated through the room. Mark clenched his fists and choked back one himself. He had to keep it together and be strong for K and Sam.

  The detective’s slow drawl continued. “Here’s what we know so far
. This incident has been ruled out as a terrorist attack. We haven’t found any traces of a bomb, or anythin’ that would suggest foul play. The nearest we can tell is that an underground gas line ruptured, then exploded.”

  Whispers rustled through the room. Mark frowned. The picture looked like a bomb had gone off. A big one. Not that he was an expert, but come on. There had to be more to it than a ruptured gas line.

  The tall detective went on. “The gas line was part of a main feed that ran from a nearby apartment complex, then tied in with the Super Mart before connectin’ with the city gas line in the street. The line was old, and the city was in the process of replacin’ it, but they hadn’t got that far down the line yet. Are there any questions so far?”

  An older man in the front row raised his hand. “How do you know it wasn’t a terrorist who did this? It sure looks like a bomb from that picture.” He pointed at the screen behind Owens.

  “Well, sir, we would have found traces of C-4 or other high explosives, and parts of the bomb. There would be traces of it everywhere. Everythin’ in this darn accident that we’ve found is consistent with a gas-based substance.” He picked through his stack of papers, pulled out a single sheet, and started to read.

  “Traces of natural gas and fossil fuel were found. Based on the saturation level in the boiler room, we have reason to believe the gas leak started there, and the boiler ignited. The explosion then caused a chain reaction, setting off the entire underground gas line. If it weren’t for the automatic shut-off valves, the explosion could have extended farther down the line.”

  A few more questions were posed and answered, though a feeling of despair and grief seemed to fill the room. Mark thought about how pointless and unfair it was. If it had been an act of terror, he and the others could at least direct their anger and emotions at the killers. They could have some closure when the instigators were brought to justice. But this? Who could they blame? The city was trying to fix the problem. They just didn’t make it in time.

  When Owens finished with the last slide and the last question, Mark followed the crowd as the families of the missing and deceased quietly filed out of the room. He wanted to talk with Detective Owens, but his mind was blank, like he’d fallen into a trance. Though he remembered the day it all happened, it seemed so long ago, almost as if it was in another lifetime.