Джеймс Паттерсон - Killer Instinct

BOOM!

Chapter 8

I FRANTICALLY tried again to reach Tracy on his cell. There was still no service.

Pacing back and forth alone in the apartment just made the pain worse. I had to do something, and the worst part was that I knew exactly what I had to do.

Still, I stalled. I turned on the TV to watch the news coverage as if, what? I forgot where Times Square was?

Wait. Hold on. A second-wave attack? When? How? Christ…

The image of Lobby Bobby downstairs came flooding back to me in an instant. I had spoken over him in my haste to get answers. I couldn’t help it—I was so desperate to know where Tracy and Annabelle were.

Before the first, he’d said before I cut him off. Before the first attack, he’d been trying to tell me.

There was no thinking as I turned away from the TV. One step, then another toward the door. Down the hall. Into the elevator.

If I’d been thinking, I would’ve known that going to Times Square, or however close I could get to it, wouldn’t change anything. I’d be no closer to knowing if Tracy and Annabelle were okay. I’d just be closer to the actual place they might have perished.

The elevator door opened to the lobby. I was looking down, before my head immediately shot up—all because of the most beautiful, wonderful, amazing word I’d ever heard spoken in my entire life.

“Da-da!”

It was Annabelle. She was in her stroller with Tracy behind her. Our little girl was smiling, her baby teeth looking like little white Tic Tacs. I was overcome.

“Anna-banana!”

I took one step out of the elevator and dropped to my knees so I could kiss her and kiss her some more. Then I popped up to hug Tracy. I mean, a real bear hug. God knows the scene I was making, not that anyone could see us around the corner in the elevator bank.

“Where were you two?” I asked. But all that really mattered was where they weren’t.

I was so relieved to see them alive that I hadn’t taken a good look at Tracy. As much as he was happy to see me, there was something not quite right. He seemed to be in a daze. As it turned out, he was still shaken up.

“We were supposed to be there,” he said. “We would’ve been right in Times Square at the moment those bombs went off.”

“What happened?” I asked.

Tracy shook his head. He still couldn’t believe it himself. “I forgot my wallet.”

He said it so softly I wasn’t sure I heard him right. “Your wallet?”

“We took an Uber and were almost at the Disney Store when I realized I’d left it in the apartment.” He peeked over the hood of the stroller to glance at Annabelle digging into her little baggie of Cheerios. “And you just know you can’t escape a Disney Store without buying something. So I told the driver to turn around. A few minutes later, probably right when we would’ve been walking into the store, we heard the explosions. I’m still in shock.”

He looked it, all right. “You went to the Needle, didn’t you?”

That’s where Tracy always goes to clear his head—the obelisk in Central Park, otherwise known as Cleopatra’s Needle. By staring up at the city’s oldest outdoor monument, originally built in ancient Egypt, he’s able to remind himself that whatever’s bothering him, this is just a blip in time. Or, as a Persian Sufi poet once wrote, this too shall pass.

“Yeah, only this is the first time the Needle didn’t really do the trick,” said Tracy. “I’m still numb.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“I tried calling you,” he said.

“Me, too,” I said.

“All cell service was—”

“Shut down, I know. It still is.”

“I used that old pay phone at that Greek diner on 83rd and tried to reach you on campus. Someone in the psych department said you left as soon as you heard the news.”

“You’d told me that you and Annabelle were—”

“Going to the Disney Store,” he said. “I know.”

We both smiled. We used to make fun of couples who finished each other’s sentences. Now we were one of them. Again, I hugged him.

“What a day,” said Tracy. “What a horrible, scary day.”

“Tell me about it,” came a nearby voice.

We all knew who it was even before we turned to look. Even Annabelle knew. It was her favorite “aunt” in the world, although Annabelle was still working on her name. Actually, in that moment it sounded absolutely perfect.

“Liz-bet!”

Chapter 9

IT WAS the middle of the afternoon, but this was no time for coffee or tea. We never even entertained the thought of beers. Instead, we went straight to whiskey once we all got up to the apartment. Johnnie Black, heavy pours. Elizabeth, Tracy, and me.

As for Annabelle, it was sugar-free apple juice in her favorite sippy cup. Straight up.

“Guys, are you sure it’s okay?” asked Elizabeth as we settled in around the kitchen table. “My staying here?”

Gingerly didn’t even begin to describe how slowly she was moving. She was bandaged to the hilt on her arms and legs. They were cut up pretty badly, and she had some seriously bruised ribs. In fact, all of her was bruised.

“We’re more than sure it’s okay,” said Tracy. “Stay here as long as you like.”

To think, it wasn’t too long ago that Tracy questioned my feelings for Elizabeth. Now they’re BFFs.

“It should be only one news cycle, two at most,” she said. “Then they’ll move on and leave me alone.”

The terrorist attack—make that multiple attacks—on Times Square would be a story for weeks and months, as well as remembered forever. Elizabeth was referring to the video now making the rounds on the news and YouTube and everywhere else. Somehow a freelance cameraman captured her saving Evan Pritchard’s life. She was being branded a hero, and all the news networks suddenly wanted to shove a camera in her face.

“They were literally camped outside my apartment building, at least a half dozen satellite trucks,” Elizabeth said. “I told the cabbie to keep driving.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about the new job?” I asked.

“It literally just happened. Monday morning I was in Deacon’s office at City Hall; Monday afternoon I was officially part of the Task Force,” she said. “Apparently the mayor has some pull. Go figure.”

Elizabeth had been promoted to detective first grade after the Dealer case but Mayor Edward “Edso” Deacon knew he had to do more. For good measure, I’d been sure to remind him.

“He did promise to help you,” I said.

“And he kept his promise,” she said. “Go figure again.”

“Now Deacon’s going to exploit you like crazy, isn’t he?” asked Tracy. Although it was hardly a question. More like a given.

“Yeah, but at least I won’t be a campaign prop,” said Elizabeth.

Fortunately, Edso Deacon didn’t have another election any time soon. His days of running for mayor were over.

“Thank God for term limits,” I said, raising my whiskey.

We all leaned in to clink glasses. Elizabeth let out a moan. Moving only a little had her reaching for her ribs in pain.

“Here,” I said, pouring her a refill. “More medicine.”

“Do I look as bad as I feel?” she asked.

I was all ready to be the diplomat when Tracy couldn’t help himself. He always tells it like it is. Or maybe it was the whiskey kicking in.

“You look like s-h-i-t,” he told Elizabeth before glancing at Annabelle in her high chair. He always made sure to spell out curse words around our little girl. I was still forgetting to the point where Tracy was threatening me with a swear jar.

Meanwhile, Annabelle was blissfully still going to town on her apple juice. She looked so happy, and I was relieved that she wasn’t old enough to know what had happened today in her newly adopted hometown, so to speak.