I looked back at the billows of rising smoke, and for the first time I felt tears running down the grime on my face.
I vaguely remember riding up the elevator with Alfred, who had a passkey, and I remember entering my apartment. After nearly two months away, it looked unfamiliar, and I stood there for a few seconds, trying to figure out why I was there, and what I should do next. Then I walked toward the balcony door because I could see the black smoke outside, and I was drawn to it because it was more familiar than my home.
As I passed through the living room, something on the couch—a blanket—caught my eye, and I walked over to it. I knelt beside Kate, who was sleeping, wrapped tightly in the blanket, which covered everything except her blackened face and one arm, which lay on her chest. In her hand was her cell phone.
I didn’t wake her, but watched her for a long time.
I left her sleeping on the couch and went out on the balcony, where I now stood, watching the smoke, which seemed endless.
The door slid open behind me, and I turned around. We looked at each other for a few seconds, then took a few tentative steps toward each other, then literally fell into each other’s arms, and wept.
We sat, half asleep in the two chairs on the balcony, and stared out at the darkness that shrouded Lower Manhattan, the harbor, and the Statue of Liberty. There were no planes flying, no phones ringing, no horns honking, and hardly a soul in the streets below.
It was difficult at this point to grasp the scope of the disaster, and neither of us had seen or heard any news because we’d been there where the news was happening, and aside from a few radios and too many rumors on the scene, we knew less than people living in Duluth.
Finally, though I knew the answer, I asked Kate, “How about Jill?”
Kate didn’t answer for a few seconds, then said, “I got to the Windows express elevator first, and decided to wait for her . . . she came into the lobby with Patrolman Alvarez and another officer . . . I put them on the elevator . . . then I decided to wait for you . . .”
I didn’t reply, and Kate didn’t continue. A few minutes later, she said, “Before I put Jill on the elevator, she said to me, ‘Should I wait here with you until John gets here?’ And I said to her, ‘No, you’re in good hands with those police officers. I’ll be up in a few minutes.’” Kate said to me, “I’m sorry . . .”
I said, “No, don’t be sorry.”
I wondered, of course, who else had gotten up to the 107th floor before the plane hit. What I knew for sure, because I had asked a hundred cops and firemen, was that almost no one on the upper floors had gotten down before the North Tower collapsed at 10:30.
Kate said, “I stayed in the lobby to help, then the firemen ordered us out, and I looked for you . . . then the building collapsed . . . I remember running . . . then I must have passed out from the smoke . . . I woke up in an aid station . . . about midnight, I went back to look for you, but I’d lost my creds, and they wouldn’t let me through the cordon.” She wiped her eyes and said, “I checked the hospitals and aid stations . . . I kept calling your phone, and the apartment . . . then I walked home, and you weren’t here . . .” She sobbed and said, “I thought you were dead.”
I took her blackened hand in mine and said, “I thought you were . . . in there . . .”
I closed my eyes, and I could see that huge jetliner coming down Broadway, and I realized now that it must have passed right between the Federal Building at 290 Broadway and our offices across the street at 26 Federal Plaza. Everyone in those offices must have seen it, and I wondered if they understood that they were seeing the first shot in what was going to be a long war that would change us forever.
Kate asked me, “Are you going back?”
I nodded.
She said, “Me, too.”
We both stood, and I said, “You shower first.”
She brushed my new shirt with her fingers, and said, “I’ll try to get that clean for you.”
She went through the door and into the living room, and I watched her as she walked, almost in a trance, into the bedroom.
I turned again and looked at the empty skyline, and I thought of Jill Winslow, and my friend and partner Dom Fanelli, Patrolman Alvarez, and the other police officers with them. I thought, too, of Ted Nash, truly dead this time though not how I would have chosen his death, and David Stein, Jack Koenig, Liam Griffith, Bud Mitchell, and whoever else had been up there. I thought, too, of all the people I knew who worked there, and those I didn’t know who had been there yesterday morning. I grasped the rail of the balcony and for the first time, I felt the anger. “You bastards.”
It wasn’t until Friday that I returned to the Plaza Hotel to pick up our things in the suite, and to have the safe opened to claim Mrs. Winslow’s package.
The assistant manager was accommodating, but informed me that there was nothing of Mrs. Winslow’s in the safe.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I want to thank Sandy Dillingham, to whom this book is dedicated, for her encouragement, enthusiasm, patience, and unconditional love.
This book truly could not have been written with verisimilitude without the assistance of Kenny Hieb, retired NYPD Joint Terrorist Task Force Detective. I thank Detective Hieb for sharing with me his firsthand knowledge and experience in an area of sensitive information.
On that note, there are a number of individuals—law enforcement people and eyewitnesses to the crash—who, because of the nature of the information they’ve shared with me, wish to remain anonymous. I respect their requests for anonymity, but thank them nonetheless.
As in past novels, I would like to thank Thomas Block, childhood friend, US Airways captain (retired), contributing editor, and columnist to many aviation magazines, co-author with me of Mayday, and author of six other novels, for his invaluable assistance with technical details and his editorial suggestions. Where art and technology converge, you will find Thomas Block walking in the footsteps of Leonardo da Vinci.
I also thank Tom Block for his wife, Sharon Block, former Braniff International and US Airways flight attendant. Sharon was an early and careful reader of the manuscript, and never missed a misspelled word or an inappropriate punctuation mark.
As in my last three novels, Plum Island, The Lion’s Game, and Up Country, I’d like to thank my longtime friend John Kennedy, Deputy Police Commissioner, Nassau County Police Department (retired), labor arbitrator, and member of the New York State Bar, for sharing with me his expert knowledge of police procedures and for his pro bono legal advice.
I’d also like to thank Phil Keith, writer, Vietnam veteran, East Ender, Professor of Business at Southampton College (Long Island University), and good friend, for his help in researching some of the eyewitness accounts of the TWA 800 tragedy, and his digging and sleuthing into other aspects of this tragedy.
Many thanks go to Jamie Raab, publisher of Warner Books and editor of my last novel, Up Country. Everything we learned together while traveling up country made this journey into Night Fall much lighter for both of us.
I write my novels long hand (I can’t type), but someone has to type from my chicken scratch before the manuscript goes to the publisher. I’m blessed with two women who can read my handwriting (and my mind), and who know how to spell and punctuate, research, and provide editorial comments. They are my two excellent assistants, Dianne Francis and Patricia Chichester, both of whom make my life immeasurably less stressful. Many thanks.
Also, many thanks to my good friend Bob Whiting, Police Commissioner of Old Brookville, for briefing me on the workings of his village police force.
I’m also grateful to Stanley M. Ulanoff, Brigadier General, U.S. Army (retired), for providing me with numerous articles and original research concerning the crash of TWA 800.
Many thanks, too, to Marcus Wilhelm, Chief Executive Officer of Bookspan, for his advice and support over the years. Our friendship transcended our business relationship from the time we first met.
And last, but never least, I’d like to thank my son, Alex DeMille. When I began writing in 1977, Alex couldn’t read, mostly because he wasn’t born, but he’s made up for lost time, and now gives me creative advice. It was Alex who came up with the perfect ending to this book, helping me out of the corner into which I’d painted myself. Alex, with the energy of a twenty-four-year-old, is writing his own novel, writing screenplays, editing film, making movies, and working in film production. I wish him luck, happiness, and much success in all his creative endeavors.
The following people have made generous contributions to charities in return for having their names used for some of the characters in this novel. If you were wondering why there were so many Italian female names in this novel, here is the answer: Susan Corva, who contributed to Long Island Lutheran Middle & High School; Marie Gubitosi—Long Island Philharmonic; Jennifer Lupo—Touro Law Center; Roxanne Scarangello—Muscular Dystrophy Association, in memory of her friend, Mike Beier, who died of ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease). Also, thanks to Dick and Mo Kearns, who contributed to Chaminade High School; Liam Griffith—Garden City Community Fund-Family Relief Fund for victims of the World Trade Center attack, donated by Robert Griffith; Leslie Rosenthal—Cantor Fitzgerald Relief Fund for the families of victims of the World Trade Center attack; Sidney R. Siben—Long Island Children’s Museum, donated in his memory by the Siben Family; Tom Spruck—various charities and good deeds for others; and Isabel Celeste Wilson—Roslyn Trinity Cooperative Day School.
Many thanks to these caring and public-spirited men and women. I hope you’ve enjoyed your alter egos and that you continue to support worthwhile causes.
Contents
Author’s Note
BOOK ONE
July 17, 1996
CHAPTER ONE
BOOK TWO
Five Years Later
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
BOOK THREE
September
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Acknowledgments
Night Fall Page 44
