Fire Will Fall (27 page)

Their school ID photos flashed up. They looked like juvenile delinquent hoods, and I stared long at the image of Shahzad Hamdani, as I now had a face to go with the Kid's name.

"Nobody looks good in those photos," Rain said angrily. "Couldn't they find some cute family photos?"

It got worse. "Police are investigating the possibility of a suicide pact between the two youths. Ping spent five days in the psychiatry unit of Beth Israel Medical Center in March, just before his mother was arrested, though the reasons remain confidential. Hamdani arrived from Pakistan in March and had been living with Ping after his aunt, a middle school principal, asked him to leave her home, where he had been residing, due to disrespect for authority. Apparently, both boys quit Island Trees high school in March, and drugs were found in the home."

We watched in horror as the news changed to a plane crash near Midway Airport in Chicago, and Rain screamed with her hand over her mouth.

"That's it?" she cried. "That can't be all they have to say! Daddy!"

She went stumbling out of the room, me trailing behind her. Her dad hadn't gone home yet. We found him sitting on the bottom step of the stairs like he was waiting for something or someone.

When she recited the horrible newscast, he said, "USIC has not spoken on the subject yet. That's entirely the police, firemen, and local media putting things together."

"Will USIC announce them as heroes?" Rain asked. "They ought to get, like, the Purple Heart or something."

"Yes, they ought to be named Agents of the Year," he said. I noticed for the first time how much gray hair Mr. Steckerman had. When all of this started, it had only been gray at the temples. In two months, the gray had taken over most of his head. "But they probably won't. I'm just hoping James Imperial will come clean and say
all
that USIC knows about them, not just that they were WMD victims. Nothing about them needs to remain classified now that they're dead—that's my humble opinion. I've got a suggestion for you. Why don't you guys watch movies on VHS until all of this passes? I know that broadcast seems grossly unfair, but Hodji told us to accept it. Before putting together a statement, USIC will sift through all it can say and all that would not violate national security. It could be a day or two, and because Tyler's mother is now infamous, it'll be more of the same on TV in the meantime. Just don't look at it."

He only wanted Rain to be as normal as possible. He didn't want her to have to look at something that would upset normal people. But the unfairness of this was astonishing. At a loss for words, I was suddenly ready to end this day quickly. We simply turned to go upstairs to sleep. Rain said nothing. Neither of us had any energy.

CORA HOLMAN
SUNDAY, MAY 5, 2002
7
A.M.
KELLERTON HOUSE

M
ARG HAD SLEPT OUTSIDE SCOTT'S DOOR
on a cot, and when I awoke around seven, the cot was already folded and pushed off to the side of the corridor. I stood with my ear against his door, my hand on the knob for about five minutes, but I was afraid to turn it and find the bed empty. His seemingly prophetic words,
You'd be fine without me,
still buzzed in my ears, though I knew we would be told immediately if he started to crash and bleed out. That was terminology which I'd only learned via overhearing the medics at St. Ann's, and I found it crude beyond comprehension. However, an ambulance might have pulled up here in the night, and with our non-creaking stairs, they might have been able to transport him out of here while I was in the throes of my strange, deep dreams.

Finally, I heard him clear his throat, and I sank into the wall, my hand flying to my eyes in relief. A groan of pain followed, and I finally wrenched myself away.

I sat alone in the dining room. Rain and Owen were still sleeping. I heard Marg on the phone with Dr. Godfrey.

"...because it's gone on so long. Their headaches generally last four hours or so, and the nosebleed concerns me greatly. Should I force a transport on him?" She went on after a pause. "He says he'll know if it bursts, and the only thing he cares about is that his brother isn't standing right there."

Nosebleed ...
Our mothers died with nosebleeds. The teaspoon clattered against the cup as I forced myself to stir my tea.

Marg served me breakfast and tried to make pleasant small talk, which let me know Dr. Godfrey's response must have been to respect Scott's wishes and leave him be. After a few bites of fruit and whatever pills Marg dropped in front of me, I simply forced my legs into action—simple, everyday actions of making my bed, brushing my teeth, picking out a necklace that went with the neckline of my T-shirt, unboxing my books and putting them on the empty shelf. It felt meaningless but sane. I decided I ought to begin to develop the film I had taken in Griffith's Landing.

Mr. Steckerman arrived by seven thirty and was talking to Marg quietly in the dining room as I passed by to go outside. And when I returned from our hiding place with the film and flipped on the red lights down in the old photo lab, I heard Mr. Tiger's car engine purring beside the house. It was difficult to concentrate.

I didn't know what I would say to Mr. Steckerman and tried not to worry about it. I focused on improving my technique, and the finished product of picture number one met with my satisfaction after only three prints. And after only developing two images of the Griffith's Landing Convention Center, I found myself gazing through negatives until I located the ones of the strange men turning quickly away from me. Taking those photos of what my instincts told me were dangerous men had been a crazed, unexplainable impulse, like sticking your hand in a fire.

"
Only, you didn't get burned.
" I heard it as clearly as you rehear a line from a favorite television show, only I wasn't sure if the source was Aleese or myself. Trying to ignore it, I developed six of the images, and staring at so many sets of ominous eyes left my flesh crawling until I could take no more. I developed maybe twenty others—the children laughing on the duckie ride, people splashing in the water park. I was hanging the photos up to dry with clothespins on a wire that Henry had strung across the room. I had sent the first photos way down to the far end. The photos of the children and even the spectators in front of the convention center brought me around to a calmer state.

However, a knock at the door made me jump. I grabbed my chest, remembering the annoying truth about how the floors somehow didn't creak in this house.

"Yes?" I half hoped it was Henry having come over a bit early to show me the trails, though he would find it odd that I couldn't show him my work.

"Can I come in? I don't want to ruin your film."

It was Mr. Tiger.
Time to face the music.

"Just a minute..." I stalled so I'd have time to think. "
Keep it simple,
" Scott had said a lot recently, since medications and circumstances made even simple decisions seem like climbing mountains. I simply went and opened the door and offered no speeches.

"Alan wants to talk to you upstairs, but there's no rush. He'll be here for a while."

"I'm just cleaning up. Come in."

He walked around, surveying my beginner techniques, and I felt dizzy, realizing what I had. Mr. Tiger was a nice man. Mr. Steckerman was nicer. I believed they were doing the best job they could, but the deaths of Shahzad and Tyler weighed against that, as did the love of my life lying in a bed upstairs with a mystery nosebleed. I supposed Mr. Tiger could simply take what photos he wanted, and I was prepared to give one- and two-word answers until I could hear from Scott.

He seemed neither surprised nor disapproving. I supposed these men had learned to let nothing surprise them, and they knew from the fax I'd handed to Mr. Steckerman the night before that I had somehow gotten deep into it. I took off my surgical gloves, washed my hands up to my elbows, and moved beside him again. I still had a mask on, which I hoped hid most of my blushing.

He stopped in front of the strolling man whom I had startled and looked at it for a long time. "Who's
that
guy?"

His words jolted me, though they weren't either judgmental or surprised. In fact, he sounded so casual that I doubted his sincerity.

"The first man who turned quickly away from my lens," I said. "There were maybe ... six men who reacted that way when I put a camera to my face."

"Let's see if we can pick out all the ones who reacted so badly," he suggested nicely, like we were playing a game.

"I could do that better looking at the proof sheets," I said. "I was using a motor drive, which means the camera takes four photos in one-point-two seconds. I only developed one or two of each."

"Motor drive?" He sounded interested.

"Yes. We can see who turned away quickly by studying the four frames. Maybe we'll find ones I didn't see."

It was harder looking at the proof sheets, but I was able to point out six men who turned quickly from the camera. None of them were standing together. It would seem almost like they were posted in various points or were guarding something. Even with us taking turns using the magnifier, it hurt my eyes, and I was glad when I couldn't find any more.

"Mind if I take these?" He wanted the prints that matched up with the faces. I helped him pull down the right ones, and he circled the correct faces with a red Sharpie.

I put my hand on the counter to steady myself. Symptoms like chills and dizziness could come out of the dark, so my insides suddenly blasting with heat was nothing new. But for some reason, I didn't want him to think of me as weak.

"I hope, um..." I stammered. "I hope we didn't cause you any problems."

The tail end of it got lost in my trembling voice, and I wasn't sure he caught my meaning. He was staring into the magnifying cup and had been looking at one image for a long time. He finally straightened up and said, "No, you may have actually done us a favor. We didn't have clearance from Washington to get new agents in that city yesterday. We only have one agent down this way working undercover—in other words, who has not been ID'ed by ShadowStrike operatives—and that agent was detained with more pressing matters. Sending any of the agents they've already ID'ed would tip them off that we're on to them. We would have waited until tomorrow, probably, and who knows if they'd have been doing the same thing."

"What were they doing?" I asked.

I guess he noticed the trembling of my voice. He touched my arm and said, "Look, these people might not be anyone at all. They may be people who, coincidentally, turned away when you shot pictures. If you and Scott wanted to go for a walk in the sun, we had no reason to believe you shouldn't do that yesterday. Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise."

I let a laugh roll out of me. It wasn't that I was all so cynical about his pledges of security, I was simply amazed at my logic breaches. Owen had said once—and Scott told him to shut up and never say it again—that we could all be fine at noon and be on a slab in the morgue at four in the afternoon. Owen could strike into certain truths that Scott shied away from and that I did, too. But the concept backed up on me once in a while. I wondered what made me afraid of terrorists when my own health could put me on a slab in six hours.

"Can you get me the images you didn't print?" Mr. Tiger asked, obviously looking to direct my mind to a job as opposed to my fears.

"Sure."

"You're feeling up to it?"

"I think so. I have a friend, Henry, who—"

He put up a warning finger. "This is classified material. You absolutely, positively can tell no one outside this house. Can you do that?"

"Of course," I said, reeling from my error but feeling a tinge of regret. I would keep it from Henry, but I suddenly wanted to be with him—and away from all this dark talk.

My worsening weak spell wasn't getting past Mr. Tiger. He wrapped his fingers around my upper arm, holding a pile of photos in the other hand, and moved me toward the door.

"Well, maybe you should get away from these chemicals for a while. Though I'll take copies at your earliest convenience. We don't have a film guy anymore, what with doing everything digital, but I'm sure I can dig one up if you don't think you can—"

I considered these prints Scott's possessions as much as my own. "It'll give me something to do later this afternoon. It's fine."

He led me to the stairs. "We'll have to put some lights down here, outside of what's already been added for the darkroom, so you don't break your neck. I'll call an electrician right away."

"That would be nice, thanks." I climbed the stairs ahead of him, removing my mask, and enjoyed a blast of breeze that hit my face.

"Can you sit with me for a few minutes?" he asked, encouraging me toward the parlor. "I need to talk to you about something else."

I followed him and sat down on the couch. He sat down beside me. A moment of anxious silence passed before he finally said, "Scott, um, has had a recurring bloody nose all night."

I'd heard Marg mention a nosebleed, but I hadn't heard her say it went on all night.

"I just want you to know the truth. This might not be good."

I forced my thoughts back to how Rain had come to the emergency room with a bloody ear shortly before we were diagnosed in March. It turned out to be a localized ulcer, and I prayed it could be something like that. But his final words last night rang in my head until I held my ears: "
If I can't do that here? I'll wait for them in hell.
" And then there had been my own poorly chosen words—

"
Damn
it!" My words sailed out like fireworks, directed mostly at Aleese, who I felt was aligned with Mrs. Kellerton behind me, or maybe it was Aleese cursing and she was inside me again. I could hear her all over the place. "
Pull a bitch routine, Cora. Now is the time.
"

I simply couldn't. I took the words I wanted to scream out and found some miraculous means to deliver them in icy calmness. "If he dies, I will hold you and Mr. Steckerman personally responsible. Sometimes work helps people get better. Whatever secrets you hold so sacredly, I think you overestimate your own sense of importance."