Ashes (4 page)

The only one? Surely that couldn’t be right. “I didn’t...”

“How does it feel?” she asked again. “What’s it like knowing you made it when everyone else didn’t? You just love posing for those cameras, don’t you? You've got that noble-and-tragic pose down. Thought about who’ll play you in the movie?”

“Your husband helped me, he told me to get out and then he went back to help.”

“Why didn’t you go with him?”

Jennifer had no answer. She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

Madeline Danvers leaned close to her. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, but the words stung. “I know why. You saved your own hide. My husband stayed to help, and he’s dead. That man who helped you down the stairs, he’s dead too. What makes you better than them? How come you’re here and they’re not?”

Jennifer turned and ran, not caring where. She ran until she found herself on a downtown street blocks away from the bombing site. She leaned against a phone pole, lungs burning, a stitch jabbing into her side. For a moment she feared she would throw up, then the feeling passed. A cab drew near and she hailed it, got in.

* * *

“J
en?” Cindy’s voice at the bathroom door. “You have an OK day?”

Jennifer took her face out of the towel she had been crying into. It was wet with tears and mucus. “Yeah,” she replied, praying that her voice sounded normal. “Not bad.”

“It’s my last night, you know? Want to go get some dinner?”

“Sure.”

“You sure you’re all right? Did something happen today?”

“No, no. Everything’s fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

In the bathroom, shower curtain pulled around the tub, blinds pulled against the light. Jennifer dropped the towel to the floor, turned over, immersed her face in the water and screamed, the sound rushing past her ears in muted bubbles. She raised her head, took a breath, and howled into the water again. And again.

It was not what Madeline Danvers said that made her scream.

She screamed because she had been saying the same things to herself ever since the bombing.

T
hursday mornings were slow at the Gulf Coast Gun Range. The owner, last name of Peake, was playing solitaire when the first customer came in. Peake swept the cards into a pile — he was losing, anyway — and sighed inwardly. The customer was no doubt some accountant on his day off, deep in the throes of mid-life crisis. Peake’s least favorite type. They never knew the rules and regulations, never knew how to properly store their guns, usually had to be shown how to load, and couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. They always walked out arrogantly, as though a half hour on the range had given them a fresh jolt of manhood; Peake thought that you didn’t have to be Freud to figure that one out.

Worst of all, they were rude.

He was surprised when the accountant type gave him a quiet but perfectly sincere, “Good morning. Have any lanes open?”

“Take your pick. You’re the first one in today.”

Without Peake asking, the customer laid the case containing his weapon on the table for Peake’s inspection. Inside the case was a nine-millimeter Sig Sauer P210, and Peake felt both admiration and mild dread. It was an excellent gun, but not cheap, and Peake had seen more than his share of people who owned the P210 just because it was expensive and hadn’t realized that it was a European design, one you couldn’t learn how to load and take down from watching the movies. But maybe this fellow was different; he had four magazines, so he was primed to do some serious shooting.

“Looks in good shape,” said Peake. “Need anything?”

“Three boxes of rounds and some targets.”

“Getting serious this morning?”

“You could say so.” The accountant type smiled. It was a mild smile, nothing unusual about it, but Peake felt something strange. A vibe, he would have said back in his college days, that this man was not getting serious. He
was
serious, through and through.

Peake watched while the customer, who was most certainly not an accountant, walked to a nearby lane and began preparations. He worked swiftly, smoothly, without any hesitation or need to get his bearings. He had all four magazines loaded and the gun ready to go in half the time it would have taken Peake to do it himself, stood with safety glasses and hearing protectors on, the target at twenty yards.

He began firing.

Peake thought that if any of his usual Thursday morning customers could see this, they might well flee the range.

Eight rounds fired, eight holes punched in the black of the target. Empty magazine out, full one in, another eight rounds fired in rapid succession. Unload, reload. When all four magazines were empty he replaced the target with a fresh one, this one at twenty-five yards. The ritual — Peake could think of nothing else to call it — was repeated, and repeated again at thirty yards.

When it was done, silence fell on the range, eerie in the wake of gunfire’s roar. Peake saw that only once — at thirty yards — had the shooter hit anywhere but the black center of the target.

“I knew I was looking at a professional,” Peake told his wife that night.

“You mean a cop?” she asked.

“No. A professional.”

What Peake thought, as he watched the man pack up his gear:
God help whoever ends up on the other side of this guy’s gun, because nothing else will.

And yet the shooter gave Peake a nice smile, wished him good day, and was out the door. Peake watched as the shooter got into his car, a generic sedan. There was a curious expression on the shooter’s face; resolute, anticipatory, strangely gentle.

* * *

S
ean turned on the television when he arrived back at the house, put it on the 24-hour news channel. He lowered the volume to a dull murmur, trusting selective perception to call his attention to the television at the right moment.

It was most unlike him. Under normal circumstances his television was little more than a glorified monitor for his DVD player; he had watched a lot of movies over the last four years, and his home theater system was the one luxury in an otherwise spartan house. Under normal circumstances he paid little attention to TV or print news; he knew too much about the way things really worked to trust the media’s account of world events.

But these were not normal circumstances, had not been since that day now nearly three weeks ago when he’d watched the firefighter carry the girl away from the bombed building. Sean had sat in front of his television, touching the screen as if he could reach through time and space and offer something — a word of comfort, a soothing touch. Anything. The cameras followed the girl and the firefighter as he carried her to the rescue area, followed her as she was put on a stretcher and carried to one of the vans taking the less seriously injured to the hospitals. That was the last the world saw of her, for a while.

He’d forsworn his movies, and kept the TV tuned to the cable news channel in hope of learning more about her. Instead of merely subscribing to the paper to preserve the illusion that he was an ordinary suburbanite, he actually read it, or at least skimmed through it. Eventually, buried like rough jewels in the mass of wild speculations and human interest drivel, Sean found the details he needed. Jennifer Thomson, twenty-eight, a receptionist in the grants department, the only survivor of that department.

There had been one glimpse of her since then. Nine days after the incident, a TV camera caught her as she stood talking with a pregnant Hispanic woman. Caught Jennifer as she and the pregnant woman embraced, and he burned her image into his mind. Hair that dishwater shade between brown and blonde, eyes blue. Thinner now, if she didn’t start eating something soon she’d be a scarecrow. Stunned, still, by everything.

She had no idea that the whole world had been watching; that was clear when the reporter walked up to her and spoke her name. There was no mistaking the confusion in her eyes, the realization that she was no longer a person but a symbol.

Sean wondered how much Jennifer knew, not just about the photo of herself but the number of people who’d died. When he saw the other woman — they had the same eyes, perhaps they were sisters — gently guide her away he knew that Jennifer had, rightly or wrongly, been shielded from the worst of the knowledge. But that shield could not last forever. He had some knowledge of what it was like to be a survivor, to be Ishmael, alone to tell you all. He knew that when she finally understood and felt everything it was going to hurt her like a bandage ripped from a fresh wound.

But maybe he could ease the pain for her.

* * *

M
onday morning. Three weeks after the incident in Los Angeles. Sean could not wait any longer, had to do something. Anything.

The train to Washington, D.C., slowed, came to a stop, disgorged its load of passengers. Businessmen mostly, a few tourists, a school group up to observe democracy in inaction. He was carried along in their flow, appearing to all eyes a businessman here for a conference or merger meeting. Gray suit, tie a year or two out of date, shoes with a bit of scuff to them. The gun lay concealed under his jacket.

Sean hailed a cab and took it to a hotel where he had never stayed before, nor would ever stay again. He checked in, respectfully declined the amenities of morning newspaper and nightly turndown. For a moment he stood, gazing out the window, wondering if he should call Monique. They could get together, if only for lunch. No, better to wait, he decided, and left the hotel, making his way to a strip mall four blocks away.

The pay phone was at the end of the strip mall. Last time he had used this phone, it had been outside a convenience market. The market had been replaced by a video game store that did not seem long for this world; the posters in the window were sun-faded, the store bereft of customers. Sean picked up the phone, deposited his change, and dialed a number.

He hadn’t made the call in four years, but the number still worked. The code he gave worked too, and a smooth female voice asked him to please hold. He waited, outwardly calm but inside him doubt gnawed. Because while there were few rules in his line of work, there was one that always stood, unchangeable.

You did not go to them. They came to you. You waited for the call. They gave you the task you were to perform. You did not ask for an assignment.

But it had been three weeks with no call. It surprised him, that he could be so worried. After all, he’d known that the chances of them calling him again were slim. Halsey had made that clear. Sean had not realized just how badly he wanted back in, to go after these bastards. To help Jennifer Thomson. He had thought himself past such feelings. Past caring.

Apparently not.

The female voice was back on the line. She gave him an address and a time. Tomorrow morning.

It felt very good to be getting back to work.

* * *

T
he meeting was at a coffee shop near the airport. He didn’t know if that was good or bad, that it was here instead of HQ. But Halsey was already there when he arrived, and perhaps that was a good sign, that Halsey had come rather than send some flunky.

Halsey sat in a booth near the back, an untouched glass of grapefruit juice in front of him. His eyes were paler than usual in the restaurant’s fluorescent light, but otherwise Halsey appeared much the same as he had four years ago. He’d been across a mahogany desk then, making an offer of early retirement.

Except it hadn’t an offer. There were no offers, only orders.

“Halsey. Been a while,” Sean said as he sat.

Halsey nodded, flagged down the waitress.

Sean ordered coffee and waited for Halsey’s words of welcome. There were none yet, just the frosty gaze and the face, tight-mouthed and unmoving. That wasn’t surprising — Halsey had never been known for his charm. Finally Halsey said, “How is Florida?”

Sean felt his disquiet ratchet up a notch at Halsey’s use of the present tense. He let none of it show, only replied, “Florida’s fine.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.” Halsey picked up the juice glass, set it down without drinking any, said nothing more.

The bastard was going to make him say it. Fine. “You probably know why I’m here.”

Silence his only reply.

“The recent unpleasantness in Los Angeles. I want to help on this one. I want back in.”

The waitress walked past. Halsey waited until she was gone, then said, “You remember our procedure, don’t you?”

He kept his face calm, even as he felt his disquiet turn sour, turn to something else. “Yes.”

“Did you get a call from us?”

“No.”

“And this means...”

Damn schoolteacher act. Sean hadn’t liked it then and he liked it less now. “You do not need my services.”

“Good. Next time try to remember that and save us both some trouble.” Halsey glanced at his watch.

Sean wouldn’t beg — not out of pride but because begging didn’t work with Halsey, only favors and money did. Forget that. He’d try reason. “I want back in. Just for this mission. I can go deep and get to the people who did this. And not just the ones who set it. The top ones, the big guys. You know I can do this.”

“No.”

Before he could ask why, Halsey sighed, settled back a bit in his seat. “I have places to be, so I’ll be brief. Your methods are not what we need now.”

He did not bother to keep the anger out of his voice. “Really? And why is that?”

Halsey thrust his head forward, going into speech-making mode. “Your way takes too long. We need results, and we need them fast. The people want satellite pictures showing them where things are happening. The press has to feel like they’re in on it. Things need to be quick. Which means the administration can’t afford to wait. And there’s the budget to consider, of course.”

“I see.” He did. And Sean could no longer be bothered to check his tongue. “So you’d rather let the bastards get away with it than risk making some low-level bureaucrat mad. You’ll spend a hundred times what you would have paid me or Robert or Beatty on space junk that won’t work when there’s sunspots just so the voters can get off on the technology and some company the president’s in bed with can sponge off the funding. And you’re forgetting—”