Quake (6 page)

From the intersection of Broadway and Canal Street looking east, it appeared to Nick as though every building was ablaze. The collective heat coming off the burning structures was so intense that it nearly drove him and Mendoza back down into the subway station.

As Mendoza again crossed himself, Nick watched people materialize in the middle of Canal Street, fleeing in their direction, then past them toward Tribeca.

“Excuse me,” Nick yelled as the survivors ran past him. “
Please stop
. Just for a second.”

Aside from Mendoza and the old vagrant on the train, these were the first survivors Nick had encountered and he was desperate to speak with one to ask for news, but everyone was too panicked to stop and talk. As frustrating as it was, Nick couldn't blame them. But finally, a young woman appeared heading toward them, moving slowly because of the toddler she held in her arms.

Nick darted forward to meet her in the middle of the intersection, fearing she'd turn right or left onto Broadway.

“
Miss
,” he cried out. The young woman was Asian, most likely Chinese, and for a moment Nick worried that there would be a language barrier. But the young woman stopped right in front of him, and Nick held out his arms to take the toddler. He held the young boy to his chest and placed a light kiss on the child's forehead.

“My name's Nick,” he said to the woman.

Panting, the young woman opened her lips but no words escaped until she finally bent over, gripping her knees, coughing like a victim of advanced emphysema.

“My name is Maylin,” she finally croaked. “You're holding my son, Bo.”

“Maylin, have you spoken to anyone?” Nick said urgently. “Have you heard any news? Any news at all about what happened?”

“Just speculation,” she said. “A man from my building . . . I lost him back there in the smoke. I think he went into another building looking for his ex-wife. . . . He said—”

An explosion sounded from two or three blocks in the distance, and he and Maylin looked up just in time to see a fireball blast through the smoke and light up the sky over Chinatown.

Nick turned back to Maylin. “The man from your building,” Nick said, “what did he tell you?”

“He said it was an earthquake. He said that just moments before the first quake hit, an emergency broadcast came over the television. They said something about seismic activity occurring somewhere here in the city.”

“Where?” Nick said breathlessly. “Did he say where it started?”

“They said something about a fault line running under Third Avenue, I think. That's all he heard. That's all he told me.”

Third Avenue
, Nick thought. Third Avenue ran north and south on the east side of the city. He pictured a map of Manhattan. After Third came Lexington and Park and Madison, then Fifth Avenue. Moving west from Fifth Avenue was Central Park, but Central Park only ran from 59th to 110th Street. Columbia University was farther north at 116th Street, adjacent to Harlem.

All right
, he thought. If the epicenter of the quake was on the east side there was a good chance Lauren was safe. Even if the epicenter was on the
Upper
East Side, she still had a chance. But if the epicenter
was
on the Upper East Side and the earthquake did as much damage as it had all the way south to City Hall, what was the chance Columbia University had been spared?

“Thank you,” Nick said, handing Maylin her child. “Thank you so much.” He paused, looked around for Mendoza and found the agent resting against the gate closing off the subway. He turned back to Maylin and asked, “Where are you heading?”

“The Holland Tunnel,” she said. “I don't know what we'll find when we get there, but I want to get Bo off the island as fast as I possibly can.”

Nick placed a hand on the child's head, looked into Maylin's frightened eyes, and said, “Good luck. And again, thank you. Thank you so much for stopping to speak to me.”

Maylin nodded, tucked her son in as close to her chest as she could, and hurried past him.

“Frank,” Nick said, “let's get moving. We can head west along Canal to Sixth Ave and walk north from there.”

Mendoza gave a tired nod.

As they started, Nick stole one last glance at Chinatown as the neighborhood burned. He and Lauren had come down to Chinatown fairly often, especially during Lauren's Chinese food phase that began roughly when she hit twelve. But they hadn't just visited Chinatown for the food. They'd visited the art galleries, browsed the antique stores and curio shops, and celebrated at festivals such as the Chinese New Year.

Everything I told her has been a lie
, Nick thought.
All those reassurances that we were safe, that no one could touch us, that nothing could take us away from each other—it was all fantasy. Every word was pure bullshit. What would she say if she saw this? How could I make her feel safe after she watched Chinatown burn to the ground?

The thought caused him to search the skies for news choppers, but there were none in sight. With zero visibility, he shouldn't have been surprised. Yet somehow Nick would have felt better had the media vultures been circling. Nothing could have felt more normal than the twenty-four-hour news networks exploiting another New York City tragedy. Especially one so close to the twelve-year anniversary of 9/11.

But the world's busiest air corridor was empty.

Lauren Dykstra's eyes fluttered open and all she saw was blackness. She swallowed a scream and immediately tried to control her breathing. But maybe it was too late; she sounded and felt like she was hyperventilating.

Dad?
she thought and almost shouted.

But no, she wasn't at home, was she? The last thing she remembered was walking the aisles of Butler Library with that cute guy in the black-framed glasses. Ray something or other.

She remembered now that a book had struck her. Struck her in the head. And not just one but two or three. Then . . .

Oh, my God, no. Was it a terrorist attack?

Warm tears immediately welled in her eyes, spilling over and down the sides of her head and dripping onto her ears as she lay flat on her back, a monstrous bookcase pinning her down just above the knees. Should she scream for help? What if it had been a bomb and there were terrorists roaming the aisles with assault rifles, ready to shred to pieces any survivors?

“You're safe, honey,”
her father had repeatedly told her.
“This is our city. Not theirs. Not the terrorists'.”

A rush of anger flooded her gut. She shouldn't have been here at Columbia today. She should've been at school or at home riffling through her Stanford brochures and filling out private student loan applications. She'd made her decision, hadn't she? She knew Stanford was where she wanted to spend the next four years. But Dad . . .

She felt her face glow red with rage. Her dad wanted her here in the city. Here with him because he was lonely. He'd spent the past dozen years trying to convince her that New York City was safe when it wasn't. The Big Apple was a target. The World Trade Center had been a target in 1993, and it sure as hell had been a target in 2001. This city had taken her mother. Swallowed her whole, and yet Dad couldn't understand why Lauren would want to leave New York, leave the entire East Coast. And now look at her, wounded and helpless on Columbia's campus. Oh, God, as much as she loved books she didn't want to die in a library, at least not for another sixty or seventy years.

She listened intently for voices. Heard only the thumping of her own heart. Her ribs hurt and she was having difficulty breathing.

Oh, shit. What if I'm bleeding internally?

She tried to move and when she did a searing pain shot up both legs. This time it was futile to try to prevent her scream. She let out a terrified cry that echoed in the bookcases all around her. Tears now fell freely and she felt as desperate and as lonely as she had felt when she was five, when she learned her mother was never coming home again because people had intentionally flown airplanes into the tall buildings where her mom worked.

Lauren listened, wondering whether her scream was heard by anyone. Was anyone in Butler Library even alive? She had no way of knowing. She had no way of knowing how long she'd been unconscious. And she had no way of knowing whether help was on its way or whether someone would eventually find her and whether it would be too late when they did. If she'd suffered internal injuries she might not have much time.

She screamed again, this time intentionally, this time at the top of her lungs.

No one can hear me,
she thought.
Everyone in the library was killed. And I'm going to die, too. Because no one will find me. No one even knows to look for me, except maybe the director of admissions. Oh, what was her name? Caroline, it was Caroline. Caroline Reignier. Yeah, Caroline knows where I am.

But then, maybe Caroline was dead. If so, Lauren had no hope. She was going to die here in Butler Library. Of internal bleeding or dehydration or asphyxiation. She tried to control her breathing, but it was impossible.

She thought:
I'm going into shock.

She thought:
If I do go into shock, I'm dead; there will be no coming back.

She thought:
Calm down. You need to calm yourself down.

She thought:
How the hell can I calm down? I'm fucking buried alive.

 

 

She woke again hours later. Opened her eyes and saw nothing but blackness. Still. She listened for outside sounds but heard as little as she could see. Which was nothing at all. Only the increasingly ragged sound of her breathing was audible. A grim thought crossed her mind:
Breathing won't be a problem much longer.

What if she died?

She pictured her dad at her mom's funeral twelve years ago. How he had broken down and cried during the service. As soon as she'd seen that, she'd fallen apart, too. Daddy was so strong, so courageous; if
he
was crying it just might be the end of the world, after all.

She suddenly felt guilty over her earlier thoughts. No one had heard them—they were just in her head. But, still. How could she have turned on him like that?

I was scared.

Nothing in the universe could justify those thoughts. Her dad had sacrificed
everything
for Lauren. He never went out, never got drinks, never dated. Never got laid. All right, that was none of her business. But it was true. He'd given himself
fully
to his only daughter over the past twelve years. Other dads watched football on Sunday, not the first season of
Girls
on DVD. They went out with the guys one or two nights a week. Instead, her father took her on daddy-daughter dinner dates. And always let
her
pick the restaurant. Even if she insisted on going to the same restaurant in Chinatown for eleven months straight, like she did back when she was a kid.

He's safe, isn't he?

Of course, he was. Whatever happened, it happened here on the Upper West Side, not downtown by the courthouses. And that's where Dad was, making opening statements in the high-profile trial against—

That terrorist, could he be behind this?

If so, her dad wasn't safe at all. She shivered. She didn't know what she would do if she lost him. It was too horrible an idea to even contemplate.

How could I have even considered leaving him for the next four years?

The debate that had gone on in her head for the better part of the past year was a farce. Why didn't she see this until now? It took a bookcase falling on top of her and crushing her legs and trapping her for her to figure this all out?

She felt ashamed.

Guilty.

What must my dad think of me for wanting so badly to leave?

Her father must have thought she was a selfish, ungrateful brat. My God, what had she put him through these past twelve months? He'd lost his wife, and for the past year he thought he was losing his only daughter? What kind of a person was she to put him through all that?

He's got to be safe. He's just got to be.

If he was, she hoped he wasn't worrying. She could just imagine his reaction if he heard there had been a terrorist bombing at Columbia University this morning. And what did that tell her about her situation?

If he could have been here he would have by now.

How deeply was she buried? Had the entire building collapsed the way the Twin Towers had? Was the bookcase providing her with a pocket of air? If so, how much of that air could possibly remain? How long did she have? Was she under so much rubble that she'd be a skeleton by the time she was found?

They were pulling bodies out of Ground Zero even months after 9/11. The sifting just ended in 2010, and they're
still
finding human remains.

How could she have blamed her father for this predicament she was in? Ludicrous. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't Lauren's either. She was here at Columbia University for a completely legitimate and useful purpose. To tour the campus. To consider whether she wanted to call it home for the next four years. Because she hadn't yet made up her mind about Stanford.

Hadn't she though? Hadn't she made up her mind in Butler Library before the sky came falling down?

She had.

She'd decided.

She'd chosen Columbia University.

She'd chosen to stay close to Dad.

She'd chosen to stay close to home.

In the lockup adjacent to Justice Gaydos's courtroom at 500 Pearl Street, U.S. Marshal Darren Shaw regained consciousness and lifted himself off the gray concrete floor. A fog of dust hung in the air like poison gas. Shaw rubbed at his eyes, summoned as much saliva as he could (barely a drop), and spat on the ground. His body was weak, his throat raw. He twisted his head to look around but saw nothing but rubble. Where were his fellow marshals? And just as important, where was his prisoner, Feroz Saeed Alivi?

He could practically hear his wife, Tamron, in his ear. “Don't you worry about that goddamn terrorist. You get yourself the hell out of that courthouse and get yourself home. Your three children need their daddy, and I need my husband.”

Darren Shaw still had no clue as to what had happened. But even assuming the worst—a natural disaster that devastated the entire island of Manhattan—he didn't think its effects would be felt as far as his family home across the Hudson River in Jersey City.

First time in my adult life I'm glad we moved to New Jersey near Tamron's mother instead of Battery Park like I'd wanted.

Shaw took two small steps forward, testing first his right leg, then his left. Sore, but nothing broken. Nothing dislocated, as far as he could tell. He flexed his arms, wriggled his fingers and toes.

Everything still there,
he mused, though looking around he was certain that not everyone was so lucky.

Maybe the prisoner Feroz Saeed Alivi was dead. Maybe. But without a body, Shaw had no choice but to start looking. Not just to save his job, but because he loved his country. Shaw wasn't going to let his nation experience another 9/11 because he had allowed his prisoner to escape in the chaos.

The path back to the courtroom was blocked, so there was only one way for Shaw to go—deeper into the lockup. From what he could see, the power had been knocked out. Which meant the electronic doors were useless at confining anyone. Not that Shaw or his colleagues had had time to secure Alivi. Just as he and the others entered the lockup, the ceiling started falling. The last he'd seen the prisoner, Alivi was heading in the direction Shaw was heading in now.

Darren Shaw wasn't necessarily afraid of the dark, but this was ridiculous. He couldn't see two feet ahead of him. He walked with his arms out in front of him, like a blind man without a dog or a cane.

“Daddy, I don't like the dark. Can you put on my light-night?”

“Night-light, honey.”

“That's what I said! Light-night.”

That was his youngest, Denise. Denise was two going on twenty-two. That's how it was when a girl had two older sisters. Denise was growing up faster than any of them. Which wasn't so much of a concern for Shaw now. But in ten or fifteen years? He knew he'd be singing a different tune if Denise grew up before her time. All children should have a chance to be kids. No need to grow up fast; nothing waiting for them that won't be there when they're old enough to appreciate it.

Shaw felt to his right, searching for the metal door that opened into the private stairwell used just by the marshals to bring prisoners up to the courtrooms. Cell, wall, cell, wall, do—

No door, just open air and Shaw stumbled through the doorframe and nearly tumbled down the stairs. He turned back, felt around but the door wasn't open; it just wasn't there. The door had come off in the—

In the what?
Shaw thought. The explosion? The earthquake?

Does it matter?

No, whatever happened, Shaw's duty remained the same.

He reached out in search of the railing. When his fingers finally found it, he grasped it like a lifeline and took the first step down. Wishing the whole while that he could reach out to Tamron, let her know he was all right. She'd be worried. His oldest daughter, Isis, she'd be nervous, too. She was only twelve but already felt she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. Growing up as she was in this post-9/11 world, he shouldn't have been surprised. He and Tamron had tried to shield her as much as possible in the first few years of her life, but once she started school, it became more and more difficult. Now, she was on the Internet for hours on end each day. She went to sites like WebMD and worried herself senseless about cancer and exotic diseases like SARS. Her counselor at school even had a name for that—cyberchondria. But she wasn't just a hypochondriac; she was terrified of just about everything. Terrorism, crime, poverty—that's right, she was even worried about the global economy. And she didn't like what her daddy did for a living at all. “What if some of your prisoner's friends decide to help him escape? What if they bring guns? What if they set up one of those IEDs along the road like in Iraq?”

“This isn't Iraq, sweetheart,” he'd told her more than once. But it did little good. Even when he succeeded in comforting her, her fears blew right back through the window the moment he left for work.

Shaw found the landing and took several deep breaths.

Halfway there,
he thought.

And then what?

Well, that depended entirely on what he found down there, didn't it?

He started down the next flight of stairs same as he did the first. Thinking of his middle child, Tiana. She was the quiet one. Seven years old and hardly ever made a peep. Oh, Tiana was smart, he knew that. She made straight A's in school and excelled at standardized tests. She just didn't say much. Shaw often called her an
observer
. She watched everything and everyone and though she didn't offer an analysis afterward, Shaw could tell she was constantly analyzing, reading the situation, adapting....

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Shaw heard a movement deep in the shadows. He fought the urge to call out. Instead, he stood stock-still and listened. He heard what sounded like heavy breathing. Heavy breathing followed by a whimper.

Cautiously, Shaw approached the sound. He kept low, one arm out of front of him to guide him through the darkness. Suddenly, he heard:

“Who's there?”

Shaw jumped slightly at the sound but quickly recognized the strained voice of his colleague, Marshal Randall Trocano.

“Randy?” Shaw said.

“Darren, is that you?”

Shaw hurried over to the voice, which seemed to be emanating from the floor. In the pitch blackness, he could finally make out the shape of Randy Trocano.

“You hurt?” Shaw said.

But Randy didn't have to say a word. Shaw's hands were already on the marshal's chest and already covered with a dark liquid that smelled like blood.

“Oh, man, Randy, what happened?” Shaw felt around for Randy's skull. “Something fall on your head? We've got to stop the bleeding.”

Randy placed his hands over Darren Shaw's and guided them downward. Placed them squarely on Randy's chest. Shaw instantly felt the hole.

“Oh, no, man.” Shaw tried to remove the urgency from his voice; his panicking wouldn't help his friend. “It's all right. You're going to be all right.”

“No.” Randy's voice sounded thick and wet. “It was . . . It was Alivi. . . .”

As Randy's words trailed off, Shaw lifted his head and peered into the darkness. Randy's wound was fresh, which meant that he had been wounded not too long ago.

Which meant Feroz Saeed Alivi could still be in the room.

In the room with a weapon. Ready to do to Shaw what he'd already done to Randy.