Black Friday (21 page)

M
aggie suggested they turn on the TV. She wanted some background noise as long as that noise didn’t include news alerts or footage of her chase scene or interviews with neighbors who knew Chad or Tyler. Nick handled the assignment by stopping at a channel that was playing Christmas movies all weekend to celebrate the beginning of the holiday season.

“One of my favorites,” he said, causing Maggie look up long enough to identify Ralphie in
A Christmas Story
. Why was she not surprised that a movie about a little boy wanting a Red Rider BB gun was Nick Morrelli’s favorite.

They had an hour until they met Kunze and Wurth downstairs. Maggie still hoped to find something, anything that might steer them in the right direction. While she and Nick sifted through court documents and FBI files online she kept trying to put some rhyme or reason to the Project Manager’s choice of airport.

Nick had made a good point about the impact of the attack. The number of casualties may not be his priority. Was he more interested in the effect on the American psyche? A crowded shopping center in the middle of the country the day after Thanksgiving. That was something everyone could relate to, making it even more frightening because of that. It wasn’t a ritzy resort, a five-star hotel, a nightclub or casino. A shopping center in the heartland struck at the very heart of every single American who would be thinking,
“That could have happened to me.”

Maggie brought up the list of airports on her computer screen, again. Was there something equally telling in which airport the Project Manager had chosen? The list—according to Henry Lee—hadn’t been written in any order:

McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas, Nevada

General Mitchell International Airport, Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Salt Lake City International Airport, Salt Lake City, Utah

Sky Harbor International Airport, Phoenix, Arizona

Cleveland-Hopkins International Airport, Cleveland, Ohio

Reagan Washington National Airport, Washington, D.C.

Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport, Detroit, Michigan

“Believe it or not, Las Vegas is the number one busiest airport for the Thanksgiving weekend.” Nick interrupted her thoughts, glancing over at her computer screen.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“It’d be a pretty big impact.”

She considered it then shook her head. “I don’t think he chose Vegas.”

“Gut instinct?” Nick asked.

“Think about how you prefaced it with ‘believe it or not.’ It might be a reality, but not everyone would relate to choosing a gambling casino over Grandma’s house for Thanksgiving. He’s hoping the impact here is the idea that it could happen to anyone.”

Nick pointed the remote at the TV and muted Ralphie right before he got a mouthful of Lava soap.

“What about another Midwest hit? Could he be looking for someplace close? Milwaukee’s about a five-or six-hour drive. Detroit’s a bit farther. Maybe ten hours.”

“Too difficult a drive in that snowstorm. My guess, he was at the airport and gone before they were putting the wounded in ambulances.”

“There were flight delays because of the snow,” Nick said. “Ceimo mentioned the state fire inspector was stuck in Chicago and Yarden’s supervisor was trying to get back from New Jersey.”

“How much in advance was this storm predicted?”

Nick furrowed his brow, giving it serious thought.

“They were talking about it early in the week,” Nick told her. “I only remember because I promised Christine I’d go with her to buy a Christmas tree on Friday. I was hoping the storm would make her cancel.” He shrugged.

“It’s a good day for college football.”

She nodded and smiled, remembering her own plans for Friday. Was that only yesterday?

“Anyway, the storm ended up missing Omaha. Do you think he factored in the snowstorm?”

Her turn to shrug.

“I’m looking at a logical process of elimination. How many of these airports are hubs for an airline?”

Nick leaned closer and took a look. Pointing with his index finger, he went over the list, one by one.

“Milwaukee is Midwest Airlines, Salt Lake City and Cleveland are Delta, Sky Harbor is Southwest and US Airways. Detroit was a limited hub for Northwest. Why? Are you thinking it might be a hub?”

“Actually I’m thinking the opposite. You said UAS has been trying to get airports to upgrade the arrival and departure areas, right? At an airport that’s a hub aren’t the majority of their passengers simply making a connecting flight?”

She caught the glint in his eyes as he followed her logic.

“So most passengers wouldn’t be going through the ticketing area or picking up baggage,” she continued.

“Not a big enough impact. And Reagan National on the Sunday after a holiday will be a good deal of politicians returning to Capitol Hill.”

“You just eliminated every airport on the list.”

“Both Las Vegas and Phoenix would be destination airports?” she asked, thinking out loud and not really expecting an answer from Nick. “Someplace where families would go for Thanksgiving for a treat to get away. Maybe get out of the winter cold.”

“I just remembered something,” he said. “Airports depend on state and federal revenues so we usually take that into consideration when we’re talking to them about upgrades. Phoenix is being considered for a chunk of federal dollars. Something to do with Homeland Security. The city’s number two in the world, second only to Mexico City, for kidnappings.”

Maggie remembered what Henry Lee said about his group influencing government policies.

“It has to be Phoenix.”

She hugged him, excited, relieved. She kissed his cheek, but his lips found hers. She let herself sink into him, maybe a moment too long. By the time she pulled away she was out of breath.

“Nick, this isn’t a good idea. We’re both exhausted.”

“I’m not that exhausted.”

He ran his hand over her shoulder, fingers caressing the back of her neck. His other hand wrapped around her waist, gently nudging her back against him, enough to show her he wasn’t too exhausted. His lips brushed her neck, her earlobe…maybe she wasn’t too exhausted either.

A knock at the door decided for them.

“Damn. Can’t we ignore it?” But he let her pull away. “Maybe it’s housekeeping?”

“Too early,” he said. “And room service doesn’t begin until 6:00 a.m. I checked.”

She crossed the room, instinctively reminding herself where she had left her Smith & Wesson.

When she checked the peephole she had to do a double take. She was exhausted. Was it possible her imagination was playing tricks on her?

She undid the locks and pulled the door wide open.

“Hi,” Patrick said, looking embarrassed and shy. His hair was tousled, clothes wrinkled.

“How in the world did you find me?” she asked him. “I used housekeeping’s direct line to the front desk. ‘Ms. O’Dell needs more towels. What room is she in?’” He said it with a convincing Spanish accent.

She didn’t say another word. Instead she followed her instinct this time and simply hugged him.

R
ebecca was sure Dixon was dead.

She couldn’t see him in the dark. There was no sliver of light this time from the sealed trapdoor. She listened for moans or breathing but heard only the rumble of the furnace.

She hunched over, paralyzed in the corner. With her hands bound behind her, there was nothing she could do for him if he was alive and hurt.

“Dixon?” she called for the second or third time. Her voice sounded foreign to her, strained and small.

There was no response.

She searched in the dark and found the jagged metal on the corner of the furnace. She stretched, made contact. It hurt to hold her arms at that high of an angle. She hooked the plastic between her wrists onto the metal and started rubbing it back and forth. Her wounded arm throbbed but she kept pulling and sawing the plastic tie against the sharp edge. She had no idea if she was making any progress.

By now her eyes had adjusted to the dark. It wasn’t pitch-black. She could make out Dixon’s body. Still no movement. She was too far away to see if he was breathing. Her nerves were raw. Every little sound made her catch her breath, stopping to listen. The silence above should have comforted her. Silence meant no one would be coming down to hurt her like they had Dixon. Instead, it set her on edge. Why would they just leave her to be found or to escape?

She kept sawing. God, her arm hurt. Her lungs felt on fire from the gasoline fumes. She wanted to scream and shout. Get angry because it was better than feeling afraid.

“What the hell did you get us into, Dixon Lee?” she yelled.

“Becca?”

She jumped, pulling her wrists down, and heard a pop. Her wrists were free.

“Dixon?”

“Where are you?”

She could see him move, a shadowed bulk still lying on the concrete floor.

“I’m here,” she told him as she felt her way over to him. On closer inspection she saw that his arms were bound behind him. He was struggling to sit up, twisting and rocking.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“I’m okay. Sore. Maybe a bum ankle. How ’bout you? Are you okay?”

She touched his shoulder, startling him.

“You got your wrists undone.”

“We’ll do yours, too. Let me just check and make sure nothing’s broken,” she told him as she ran her fingers over his arms.

“There’s no time, Becca. We’ve got to get out of here.”

He struggled to stand up and fell against her. She caught him by the waist as he slid to his knees. Her fingers were wet and sticky.

“Oh my God, Dixon, you’re bleeding.”

“Becca, we’ve got to get out. They’ve got the whole place rigged to blow.”

M
aggie braced herself for A.D. Kunze’s reaction. From Patrick’s initial telling she knew he might have information that could be helpful. She just wasn’t sure Kunze would see it that way. Charlie Wurth saved her again. He called Chief Merrick and asked him to send a police sketch artist instead of an arresting officer.

“It might not do any good,” she told them. “If the man Patrick saw is the Project Manager he’ll make sure that he looks different.”

“I won’t forget those eyes,” Patrick said. “Or the way he walked.”

“Unfortunately, he can change both.”

“He may not even be there if he uses another group of young people,” Kunze reminded them.

“I don’t think he’ll use cutaways this time,” Maggie said, cautiously watching for Kunze to disagree. He cocked his head to the side, encouraging her to continue. “He doesn’t have to go to the trouble. He’s already set the stage. Another bombing this soon. Everyone will be looking for young, white, college-aged males.”

It was just the five of them: Maggie, Patrick, Nick, Kunze and Wurth in the room set aside for the investigators. Ceimo was scheduled to join them. The sun was out today, streaming through the window, a welcome sight. Maggie couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the glittering snowy landscape was.

“So what are you predicting he will do?” Wurth asked.

When she turned away from the window and back to them, they were all watching her, waiting.

“The bomb expert,” Wurth continued. “She said the detonator he used was similar to the plans she saw for a dirty bomb. Should I be telling my people that’s what we might have here?”

Maggie crossed her arms over her chest. She had changed into trousers and a knit sweater but left her matching blazer in her room. Now she wished she had it. They were looking to her for instruction, for guidance. What if she was wrong? Even Kunze was waiting for her to give them some direction.

“I don’t think it’ll be a dirty bomb. He’s looking for psychological impact, not total carnage. He had the opportunity here at the mall. There could have easily been hundreds killed.” She stopped, expecting comments. There were none. “My best guess is that it will be a suitcase bomb. He’ll bring it in himself and leave it somewhere in the crowded ticket area or in baggage claim.”

“If he puts it on a baggage carousel there’s no way we’ll find it in time,” Wurth said, shoving his shirtsleeves up. “Christ almighty, this is not good.”

“That’s why we need to catch him as soon as he enters the airport.”

“But you said yourself, he’ll look different. Even if we have a sketch,” Kunze said.

“I know I’ll recognize him.” Patrick startled all of them. They had forgotten about him, waiting in the corner for the police sketch artist to arrive. “Just put me someplace where I can watch.”

“You’re not going to Phoenix with us,” Maggie said and immediately regretted that she sounded like an overprotective big sister.

She had already explained her rationale for Sky Harbor being the target. Wurth hadn’t disagreed with the logic, but said he was putting federal air marshals in every airport on the list.

“You said yourself,” Patrick argued, “that he thinks he doesn’t need to use anyone else now because they’ll be looking for young, white, college guys. So maybe he won’t walk differently. Maybe he won’t need to disguise himself. I’m telling you, I’ll never forget those eyes.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” Wurth said. “I say we bring the kid along.”

T
he trapdoor wouldn’t move. Rebecca tried to find something other than her hands to ram it with while Dixon tried to saw his plastic tie. At least she had found a light switch, although the single, low-wattage bulb set between the rafters lit only the area below it.

Dixon had told her not to worry about his bleeding. “Just a flesh wound,” he called it and Rebecca couldn’t help thinking he sounded like one of the heroes in the graphic novels he loved to read.

“How do you know they rigged the place?”

“They told me. They laughed about it.” He sounded out of breath. “It was right after they let my granddad’s phone ring and ring. They told him if he called back at a certain time he’d get to talk to me again. But they wouldn’t let me answer. It was still ringing when they threw the phone up on one of the shelves where I couldn’t reach it.”

He shook his head, then started sawing at the plastic again.

Then Rebecca smelled something besides gasoline. It was seeping down from the air vents.

“Dixon. Do you smell that?” He sniffed the air.

“Holy crap,” he said. “Smoke.” He tried to saw faster. Rebecca banged on the trapdoor, using her battered hands. What if the fire was already in the room above? They didn’t have to rig a bomb. With all the spilled gasoline, all they had to do was light a match. It’d explode once the flame reached the fumes down here. It was hopeless.

She heard Dixon’s plastic snap. He rushed over to help her. That’s when they heard someone yelling above. Boots stomped. Wood cracked. Maybe they had decided to come back and kill them before they left them to burn. Rebecca crouched with Dixon in the corner.

The trapdoor started to split and the metal point of an ax came through. The smell of smoke was stronger. The voices louder. More boots thumping. A bright light shined down as the last of the trapdoor came away.

“Dixon Lee,” someone shouted. “Are you down there?”

Rebecca held onto his arm as Dixon started to crawl forward. Above them, surrounding the hole where the trapdoor had been, were three men in SWAT team uniforms.