Black Friday (19 page)

Saint Mary’s Hospital
Minneapolis, Minnesota

S
till in scrubs, Maggie climbed into Ceimo’s SUV. He’d been waiting in the emergency room parking lot, at the emergency room entrance, the only way to enter or leave the hospital after midnight. Thankfully he had the vehicle’s heater turned up. She reached over and clicked the button for her seat to heat up, too. It’d take more than this, however, to get rid of the chill that Henry Lee had left her with.

Before she had time to get comfortable Ceimo told her, “Kunze and Wurth have called. I had to tell him we were following up on a lead. But that’s all I told them.”

She nodded, grateful.

She had confessed to David Ceimo as soon as she asked for his help that she wouldn’t be telling anyone else but him, not until after she had talked to Henry Lee. She knew A.D. Kunze wouldn’t have allowed her to go. This was one of those times she would have to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.

Yes, she bent the rules every once in a while, but not without caution. At least, she had learned that lesson. Okay, so her version of “caution” didn’t always coincide with her superiors’. There was a time or two that even Cunningham had not been pleased with her. When lives are concerned and time is ticking away, following the rules just to be following the rules, didn’t make sense. A.D. Kunze wouldn’t agree. That’s why earlier, as soon as Maggie had entered the hospital, she turned off her phone, clicking it on temporarily only for Henry Lee to download the list.

“So,” Ceimo asked. “Were you able to find out anything at all?”

“Sunday,” she said. “There’s another attack planned on Sunday.”

“Sunday as in this Sunday? As in tomorrow?”

She glanced at the vehicle’s green-lighted dials and searched for the clock. She’d lost track of time. Of course, he was right. It was already Saturday morning. They had less than twenty-four hours.

“Yes, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the second busiest day for airline travel.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“I have a list of possible airports. Seven of them. We don’t know which one’s been targeted.”

“Minneapolis?”

“Not on the list.”

She heard him let out a sigh of relief. “Sorry,” he said, catching himself. “No need to apologize.”

She watched out the side window. Snow covered everything: bus stop benches, light poles, newspaper dispensers. The wind swirled it around and made it dance in the headlights. The white lights on trees already decorated for the holidays, twinkled on frosted branches. It looked like a winter wonderland.

“What can I do?” He wanted to know.

She chose carefully what to ask for and even more carefully what to tell David Ceimo, deciding it was best to leave any speculation out. She gave him as many facts and details as she could about Dixon Lee’s abduction. That was the promise she would need help in delivering, though at the moment it seemed impossible with the little information they had.

Ceimo assured her that the governor would be willing to do whatever was necessary. Henry Lee and his empire of Fortune 500 businesses were important to the state of Minnesota. They employed over 6,000 people and brought in irreplaceable state tax revenues. Ceimo agreed that they’d need to work quickly and secretly. The fewer people involved the better chances they had to find Dixon Lee still alive.

However, she mentioned nothing to Ceimo about the outrageous supposition that the Project Manager, the man responsible for the mall bombing, could be the infamous John Doe #2, the so-called third terrorist who was rumored to have assisted—or according to some conspiracy theorists, guided—Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols in the Oklahoma City bombing. The idea was crazy. Or was it?

By the time Ceimo dropped Maggie off at the hotel, the crowds had dissipated. This time when she took a detour for her ice and Diet Pepsi, there were, thankfully, no lines to elbow and nudge her way through. Several blue-blazered hotel clerks smiled at her. One told her where there were still some refreshments. Another asked if there was anything else they could do for her. It wasn’t until she got into the elevators and caught a glance of herself in the mirrored walls that she realized why they had paid so much attention to her. She was still in hospital scrubs and the white lab coat.

This time she tried to block out the Christmas music that followed her from the elevator to her room. There was nothing soothing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. She was exhausted. Her bruised side ached where the Sudanese boy had shoved her against a car grill. Her stomach reminded her it was still empty. And her shoulders felt a tremendous new weight, a burden put there by Henry Lee’s revelation.

As soon as she got inside her room she popped the Diet Pepsi open and began sipping. Then she pulled out her phone and started dialing what would be the first of several calls.

She steeled herself. It was time to call A.D. Kunze and Charlie Wurth. She’d need to tell them everything. Earlier she’d made a judgment call to not ask for Kunze’s permission but now it was time to ask forgiveness.

P
atrick struggled to breathe. There were ventilation traps in these things, weren’t there? He was sure of it. There had to be. He told himself it wasn’t like being underwater or stuffed in an airtight compartment. He couldn’t suck up all the air. There’d be enough. He needed to settle down. He needed to just breathe.

He told himself that firefighters oftentimes found themselves in tight squeezes. Didn’t they? What had he read? What had they taught him in any of his Fire Science classes? Could he access some information, some advice, some trick? Some “what if” you’re caught without your pickax? Pickax? He didn’t even have a screwdriver.

Who was he fooling? No professional firefighter would climb inside a commercial dryer and shut the door.

Sweat trickled down his back and down his face. He had to constantly wipe it out of his eyes. The overalls stuck to him. It was crazy hot inside the dryer. How long had it been? It felt like hours, but he knew that it hadn’t been long. Twenty minutes? Forty? Maybe an hour.

He’d exhausted himself with the initial panic. His shoulder ached where he had slammed it over and over against the immovable door. The only thing that stopped him from yelling for help was explaining to Frank’s meaty face why he was stuck in a dryer.

He concentrated on peeling and plucking out the rubber seal around the door. The last piece, finally. Only it didn’t make a difference. Not even a slight bit looser. The sucker still wouldn’t budge. Now his fingertips hurt from squeezing them between the metal, hoping to bend or pry open the door. His injured palm hadn’t started bleeding again but it was throbbing. He was running out of ideas. And eventually out of air, despite his theory about the vents.

Okay, so this was bad but at least it wasn’t a freezer.

That first time he’d met Maggie she was working a case in Connecticut. The killer ended up making national headlines—a psycho who cut the diseased body parts from his victims, collecting his specimens in Mason jars then stuffing the bodies in fifty-five-gallon drums hidden in an abandoned rock quarry. The guy managed to throw Maggie into a chest freezer and left her there to die. By the time anyone found her, hypothermia had set in. Hypothermia so bad the doctors had to drain all her blood out of her body, warm it up and put it back in. Amazing what they could do. Amazing that she had survived. Actually Maggie was pretty amazing. Why was he only now realizing that?

Back then she had been a total stranger to Patrick. He felt bad for her but not much else. Still, he came to see her, sat at her hospital bed a few times and kept her company. But what else could he do? Besides, that fall he had plenty of other things that required his attention.

After that, he and Maggie had gotten together for lunch or dinner a few times. He liked hearing the stories about their dad, but, like Maggie, Thomas O’Dell was a stranger to Patrick, too. There was nothing tangible to connect to. No memories. No photos. Nothing handed down. Patrick didn’t even get the man’s surname.

To make matters worse, his mother told him the subject of his father was “off limits.” She wouldn’t discuss it and insisted he respect her wishes. She said she knew she could count on him to not make this issue a problem. How could she not see that refusing to talk about “the subject,” “this issue,” actually prevented Patrick from knowing about
himself?
As a result, he had opted to spend Thanksgiving with friends who thought they knew him so well they could leave him to fend on his own, instead of spending the holiday with family who didn’t know him at all.

They all thought he was the mature, independent twenty-three-year-old who could handle anything and everything thrown his way because he’d taken care of himself so well for so long. Maybe he was sick and tired of taking care of himself. Maybe he wanted to lean on someone else for a change.

The heat continued to soar inside the dryer. He laid his head back against the drum. Not exactly the right time to count on someone else. If everyone thought he was so capable then certainly he should be able to get the fuck out of this dryer. Maybe he just needed to sit back and look at things differently.

He couldn’t remember where the hinges were. What side? Had there been a handle that he had to pull up on? He’d been in such a panic he just climbed in and swung the door closed behind him. Was it possible he was knocking his shoulder against the hinged side?

Maybe he needed to take a different approach. Patrick twisted and turned his body, making the metal drum whine. He slid and shoved himself so that his back leaned against the back of the dryer. His knees splayed out to each side of him in order for him to plant his bare feet on the door. He didn’t care if he broke the round glass and cut his feet. He needed to breathe. He needed out of here. He pulled back his legs and kicked both heels against the door as hard as he could.

The door popped open.

N
ick had been punching buttons back in the video surveillance room, trying to follow the sequence Jerry Yarden had taught him, when he got Maggie’s call. Moments earlier he’d finally convinced Yarden to go home, be with his family, get some rest, although Nick imagined home for Yarden was a small studio apartment and his family probably a cat, maybe two cats. He tried to hide his surprise when Yarden—humble but proud—opened his wallet to show Nick his family: a beautiful brunette, three handsome boys and a small white fluff-ball of a dog on his wife’s lap. Nick hadn’t even been right about the cat.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Yarden’s parting words, accompanied by a glance at the panel of keyboards and monitors. Nick wondered if Yarden worried about leaving Nick alone or leaving his surveillance equipment alone with Nick.

“I’ll be fine. Go hug your wife and kids, Jerry. You did good, real good. If I need you, I’ll call.”

Nick had been feeling like there wasn’t much more he could do. He was exhausted but he avoided going to his hotel room. Before he arrived in Minnesota he’d reserved a room at the same hotel that was now the command center, but he hadn’t had a chance to get back there and even open his suitcase. He kept checking his watch. He had called his boss, Al Banoff, to give him an update. It was too late, or rather too early in the morning, to call Christine and check on his father.

So instead of his hotel room, Nick had gone back to the mall. He went back to the video surveillance room and started cueing up video segment after segment of the third bomber. He had the image of Patrick Murphy stamped into his mind now and he wanted to see if the third bomber, or the bomber’s friend, could be Murphy. But in all the segments they had found, as soon as the two young men and woman got off the escalators onto the third floor, they disappeared into the food court and disappeared out of surveillance range.

Then Maggie called.

Okay, it was silly but he felt a new surge of adrenaline just hearing her voice. Having her ask for his help was a bonus. Inviting him to her hotel room… It was a case, he reprimanded himself. They were working a case—a horrendous, sad, scary case. So why did his heart start pounding a little faster? Why did the gusts of wind that bit and pulled at his coattail not chill him? As he entered the hotel lobby, after walking all the way from the mall, he stripped off his leather gloves to find his palms sweating. He actually had sweaty palms. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.

He stopped at his own room to pick up his laptop computer, the one request Maggie had made of him. Once in his room, he shed his coat, took one look at himself in the mirror and continued to pull off his shoes and socks, trousers, shirt and tie. He would be a few minutes late, but he needed something to revive him. He needed a shower.

H
enry Lee stared at the wall clock in the ICC waiting room. He’d been here for a good fifteen minutes, watching the hands of the clock crawl. The wait strained his already frayed nerves. Just five more minutes and he could make his next call to Dixon.

Someone had left the Saturday
Tribune
on the unmanned and empty registration desk. Headlines and colored photos of the bombing dominated the front page. He didn’t want to see any of it. Couldn’t even look at it.

He tried to keep still. He’d bitten half his fingernails to the quick—just like his grandson. It had been an old habit he thought he’d replaced with single malt Scotch, but he hadn’t been able to have a drink since Thanksgiving. Now here it was Saturday morning.

In twenty-four hours there’d be another attack.

He shook his head. No one could stop the attack. He didn’t have much faith that Special Agent Margaret O’Dell would be able to do anything. Maybe warn the airports and Homeland Security. He’d done his part, done what he could.

Henry wanted to believe that the young FBI agent would find a way to save Dixon but deep down he knew he’d forced her to make a promise she had no way of keeping. It’d be up to Henry to take control. If he expected to see Dixon again he’d need to bargain with them this time. Put away his anger and negotiate a deal.

The people who had Dixon were hired mercenaries, minions of the Project Manager. They could be bought. That’s what he convinced himself. He didn’t care how much money they wanted, he’d get it. In his mind he’d already started accessing accounts and determining which one had liquid assets. The holiday weekend would make it tricky but not impossible.

Finally.
It was time. He could call.

His hands resumed their annoying tremble, making it an effort to punch in the correct numbers on the waiting room’s desk phone.

He counted the rings…three, four… They had to pick up. He’d waited the allotted five hours they told him to wait. But instead of an answer there was a click and his own voice instructed him to leave a message.

“No.” He slammed down the receiver.

His cell phone was still on. It wouldn’t ring five times if they’d shut it off or if the battery had run down. Why would they ignore it? Besides, they had to talk to him. How would they get any ransom if they didn’t talk to him? Isn’t that what they wanted? Yes, they had to talk to him. It was in their best interest to talk to him.

He dialed again, punching in the numbers quickly as if he might trick his fingers from shaking. He took a deep breath, ignored the acid backing up into his throat. The phone rang and rang until yet another click, then, “This is Henry Lee, please leave a message at the tone.”