He pulled out his knife and flipped it open. A sin to use a Spyderco Endura as a digging tool, but…
At least the ground was still soft. Though cold, winter was a couple weeks off, and the ground hadn't frozen yet.
He began to dig, loosening the dirt with the knife blade and scooping it out with his free hand…
8
Jack crouched in the shadows under an overpass. He punched Abe's number into his phone and prayed he was still at the store. He released a breath when he heard him pick up.
"Abe? It's me."
"Hello, Me. I don't recall ever meeting a Me. I should know you?"
"Hold the jokes, okay. I need a favor."
"Always with the favors."
"This is serious."
Abe must have picked up on his tone. "Serious how?"
"I need a ride."
"You call that serious?"
"Abe, I'm stranded on the Grand Central. Can you pick me up?"
"I should drive all the way out to Queens when you can take a cab?"
"I can't take a cab."
"Why? Someone pick your pock—hey, wait. Are you out near the airport?"
"Very."
"Are you okay?"
"No."
"Wait—your father was coming in today. Was he—?"
"Yeah."
"
"Jack… Jack, I'm so sorry. What can I do? Anything. Just tell me."
"Come get me, Abe. Check the underpasses near the airport exit ramp. I'm under one of them. Wish I could tell you which one but…"
"I'll take the truck."
"Hurry."
9
Hours later Jack sat slumped in a funk on Gia's couch while she huddled against him. Vicky was upstairs doing her homework. Gia had told her that Jack's father had died and left it at that. Knowing that he'd been slaughtered in what the media were now calling the "Flight 715 Massacre" would only frighten her. Better for now to let her think he was an old man who'd died of natural causes—whatever those were.
They stared at the old TV, watching the same shots of La Guardia's Central Terminal, hearing the same clips of the mayor, the police commissioner, the head of Homeland Security, and the president himself. No new news, just repetitions of what little had been gleaned from witnesses who had been close enough to see the massacre, but far enough away to stay clear:
Two gunmen wearing airport coveralls, ski masks, and Arab headdress—described as "the kind of thing Arafat wore"—had entered baggage claim through an employees-only doorway and opened up on the passengers of American Airlines flight 715. The result was one hundred and fifty-two dead—men, women, children, passengers, relatives, limo drivers, security guards—everyone who'd been anywhere near the carousel.
Among the dead were forty-seven members of the ultra-orthodox Satmar Hasidic sect returning to Crown Heights from a gathering in Miami. Since the killers did not attack any of the other nearby carousels, the news heads speculated that the presence of such a sizable group of Hasidim might have been why that particular flight was targeted.
After finishing their bloody work, the killers had fled through the same doorway. In the hallway beyond they'd discarded their coveralls, their masks and
But the question most asked by the news heads to their endless parade of experts on terrorism and Arabs and Islam, singly or on panels, was why there were no wounded. How could every wound be fatal? Finally someone offered the possibility that the terrorists might have used cyanide-filled hollow-point rounds.
"Oh, my God!" Gia said. "How could they?" Then she shook her head. "Sorry. Stupid question."
"I figured it might be something like that."
"Why? How?"
As he'd knelt next to his dead father, Jack's reeling mind hadn't been able to process all the surrounding sights and sounds. But as he'd waited in the cold darkness for Abe, he'd slowed and corralled his chaotic thoughts, and painstakingly pieced together what he had seen.
Dad hadn't been lying in a pool of blood—he'd been lying
None of this had been confirmed, but Jack was pretty sure it would turn out to be something along those lines.
Gia shivered against him. "I've never heard of—I mean, what hideous sort of mind dreams up these things?"
"Cyanide bullets aren't new. They're a terrorist favorite, but usually when they're out to assassinate a specific target. The poison guarantees that an otherwise nonlethal wound will be fatal. First I ever heard of them was back when we were kids—when those Symbionese Liberation Army nuts used cyanide-tipped bullets to kill that school superintendent. But for mass murder? Never heard of them being used for that. At least until now."
Gia closed her eyes as a tear slid from each. "So if they'd used regular bullets your father could have lived… if he'd laid still and played dead, he might have survived, and we'd be standing around his hospital bed now talking about how lucky he was."
Thinking about what could have been and might have been never worked for Jack. Seemed like self-torture, and he felt tortured enough right now.
"I doubt it."
Gia opened her eyes. "What do you mean?"
"I saw a smear of blood about the length of his leg on the floor beside him. His hand was on the holster of a dead security guard. I think—no, I'm sure he was going after her gun. Dad wasn't the type to sit and wait to be killed. He was an excellent shot. If he'd reached the gun… who knows? I doubt he could have taken down both of them, but maybe he could have hit one of them, and that might have scared off the other."
Gia said, "He would have been a hero."
"Most likely they'd have cut him to ribbons as soon as he fired his first shot."
"At least you got to see him again. If this had happened down in Miami, you, well… you're now the last one to see him alive."
Jack knew he couldn't claim that blessing for himself.
"No, the killers were."
"I mean in his family—oh, God! Family! Did you call your brother?"
Shit!
"No. I didn't even think…"
Truth was, thoughts of his brother rarely if ever crossed Jack's mind. He'd never considered Tom a real brother, just someone who shared some of his genes and, for the first eight years of Jack's life, the same house. Ten years older than Jack, Tom hadn't been a presence even before he'd gone off to college, and after that he'd faded to a wraith who'd float in and out over the holidays and breaks.
Jack had his number somewhere. He'd had to call him a few times last September to update him on Dad's coma, but not often enough to remember.
"You've got to call him."
Yeah, he did. But how much would Tom care?
Jack caught himself. Not fair. Maybe Tom hadn't gone to visit Dad in Florida when he'd been hurt, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be devastated to learn he was a victim of the flight 715 massacre. Back then he'd said he was tied up with "judicial matters," whatever that meant. Yeah, he was a judge in Philadelphia and maybe he couldn't leave in the middle of hearing a case, but still… if your father's in a coma and no one knows whether or not he's going to come out of it, hell, you find a way.
"Tom's number is back at my apartment. So's Ron's."
His sister's kids needed to know about their grandfather.
He kissed Gia on the top of her head. "Got to get home and make those calls."
Gia looked up at him. "Can't you call information?"
"For Ron, yeah, I suppose. But I know Tom's is unlisted, him being a judge and all."
She grabbed his hand. "You're going to come back, aren't you?"
"Sure, I guess."
"Jack, you shouldn't be alone tonight. This is something that needs to be shared. Vicky and I can help you through this, but you've got to let us. I know you, Jack. You're like an injured wolf that goes off to lick its wounds alone. You can't keep this bottled up. You've got to let it out. I'm—
The one-hundred-and-fifteenth precinct came first. A woman there told him they didn't have any information yet on how relatives could claim the bodies of the deceased. The victims were being IDed and examined, and then they'd be released.
"Was your loved one with the Hasidic group?" she said.
"No. Why?"
"Well, there's a lot of religious concerns on their part."
"Like what?"
"Like burying the body before sundown and—"
"That's long past."
"I know, but there are issues about icing the bodies down and—well, it's been very trying to say the least."
"I'll bet."
"We've got assemblymen and congressmen and city council members calling, pushing to expedite matters and—"
"What? Their dead are more important than my father?" Jack could feel a quick burn accelerating. His rage wanted a target—any target. "Like hell!"
"I'm sorry, sir. Please call tomorrow morning. The post mortems should be completed and we'll have a procedure in place by then. Thank you. Good-bye."
Jack found himself holding a dead phone.
After taking a few moments to cool, he called Kate's ex, praying Ron would answer instead of one of the kids. Jack had never met his niece and nephew, never even spoken to them, and didn't want to start now. Kevin and Lizzie had lost their mother earlier this year; he hated being the one to tell them their grandfather was gone too.
Jack freely copped to cowardice in this.
Ron answered. It took Jack's ex-brother-in-law a moment to figure out who he was. He took it hard, asking over and over how he was going to tell Lizzie. Jack promised to get back to him with the funeral arrangements.
"Oh?" his brother-in-law said in an acid-etched tone. "You're going to show up this time?"
Jack hadn't been able to attend his sister Kate's funeral. Forced to stay away for reasons he couldn't explain to them.
"Ron," Jack said, feeling a lead weight in his chest, "you don't know me, so I'll let that pass. But if you had any idea of how much I loved Kate, you'd know that I would have been there if at all possible. Talk to you soon."
And then he'd hung up.
God. Two tough calls. And now the last and possibly least: big brother Tom.
After half a dozen rings and no pickup or answering machine, Jack was about to hang up when a slurred voice came on.
"Tom?"
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"Your brother Jack."
"Oh-ho! Jackie, the prodigal brother. And to what do I owe this honor?"
"You been drinking?"
"What business of it is yours?"
Yep, he'd been drinking. Probably not a bad thing, considering what he was about to hear.
"None. You sitting down?"
"I'm lying down—you woke me up. I hope this is fucking important."
"Dad's dead."
A good ten, fifteen seconds of silence, then, "You're not bullshitting me?"
"You know better than to ask that."
"Jesus, when? What? Heart attack? Hit by another car?
Whatever it was, this was more important. He had to put everything else aside for a few days and tend to this.
Jack so wished he could handle this, but that was impossible. He needed Tom.
And he hated needing Tom.
"You're not coming back?"
"I don't think so."
"Oh, Jack…"
The hurt and worry in her voice scalded him.
"I'm sorry. It's just—"
"But we discussed this. You shouldn't be alone tonight."
"Yeah, I should."
"Jack—"
"Really, Gia, I'm okay. I'm just better off alone with this. I'm edgy and the truth is, I don't think I can sit still. I need to be up and about… need to move around."
"Move around how?"
"Take a walk, maybe a jog. Something to burn off this…"
He didn't have a name for it.
"Don't shut me out, Jack."
"I'm not. I swear I'm not. I'll be there early tomorrow. I'll spend the whole day with you. But tonight… I need to move."
"All right. I don't think it's a good idea, but I can tell I'm not going to change your mind. Be careful. Please?"
"I will. I promise."
"I love you, Jack."
"Love you too, Gi."
praying
But something about him must have sent out warning signals, because no one bothered him. No one even spoke to him.
Figured. You could never find a dirtbag when you needed one.
So be it. Abe would survive.
He walked toward the rear.
If Set, the Egyptian God of Chaos, had been a sports nut, his temples would have resembled Abe's shop. Every size and shape ball imaginable plus the various instruments used to strike them, every wheeled contraption that could be sat or stood upon, plus a wide array of cocooning safety gear necessary to protect the users from grievous bodily harm during their pursuit of "fun," all tossed with utter disregard for coherence or continuity onto rows of eight-foot shelves teetering over narrow winding aisles laid out in a pattern to rival the Wiltshire hedge maze.
The man responsible, Jack's best and oldest friend, sat in his usual spot behind the scarred wooden counter near the rear. A few years shy of sixty, Abe Grossman had a Humpty-Dumpty shape and a balding crown. He was dressed in the Abe uniform of white—except for the food stains—half-sleeve shirt and black pants. And as usual, the morning editions of every daily newspaper in the city lay spread out on his counter.
He looked up, saw Jack coming, and quickly began shuffling the papers into a pile. He was shoving them under the counter when Jack arrived.
"It's okay, Abe. I've seen them—the front pages at least."
How could he have missed them? Every newsstand he'd passed on the walk over from his apartment had the screaming headlines on display. The radio and TV weren't talking about anything else. He'd listened briefly this morning for new developments, but heard only the same old speculations. If the cops and FBI had learned anything new, they weren't sharing it.
Abe stashed them out of sight anyway.
"A terrible, terrible thing, Jack. I feel so bad for you. I feel worse for your father, of course, but you… how are you doing?"
"Still in shock… in rage. But no grief. Kind of worries me. Think there's something wrong with me?"
"With you? Something wrong? Not a chance."
He knew Abe was trying to lighten his mood, but Jack wasn't looking for that. And he hadn't been kidding about being worried. He'd broken down and cried when Kate died. Why hadn't he cried for Dad?
"I'm serious, Abe. I don't feel like moping or crying, I just want to break things. Or people."
"Grief will come in its time. We all have our own way of living through something like this." He shook his head. "Listen to me. Like a living, breathing cliche."
Jack reached across the counter and patted Abe's beefy arm.
"It's okay. At least you didn't say he's in a better place. I swear I'll do some damage if someone tells me that."
"That's not an 'if,' it's a 'when.' You know it is."
"The thing is, we'd just found each other. After all these years, we'd made real contact and discovered we liked each other. And then…"
There—a lump in his throat, cutting off his voice. It felt… good.
Parabellum, Abe's little blue parakeet, hopped over and stopped between Jack and Abe. He cocked his head and looked up at Jack as if to say, Where's my food? He usually served as the cleanup crew, policing the countertop for spilled bits of whatever Jack had brought. With the way his master ate, crumbs were never in short supply. But today he'd have to settle for birdseed.