CHAPTER 28
Jacob Hendrix’s Apartment, Greenwich Village, New York City, May 24, 10:57 p.m.
It was almost eleven o’clock that evening by the time Skylar walked up the two flights of stairs to Jacob’s apartment on Bleecker Street. It had been several days since she’d done any Pilates, and her body was craving some exercise. These stairs weren’t much, but they would have to do for the moment.
When Skylar reached the third floor, she was surprised to find a weathered man in a wrinkled suit standing outside Jacob’s door. He was sticking his business card in the crack by the lock. He was in his late thirties, but looked more like fifty. “Can I help you?”
He turned to face her. “Is this Jacob Hendrix’s apartment?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Who wants to know?”
He removed his business card from the door and offered it to her. “I’m Detective Butler McHenry, NYPD.”
She studied his card, then took out her keys. “Yes, this is Jacob’s apartment. For the moment, it’s mine, too. What’s going on?”
“Could I see some identification, please?”
She nervously took out her wallet and handed him her Massachusetts driver’s license. “What’s this all about?”
“Ms. Drummond, this says you live in Cambridge.”
“I just moved. I haven’t had time to change it yet.” Her pulse quickened as she became nervous. “What’s going on?”
He handed her back her license. “May I come inside for a moment?”
She hesitated. “I guess so.” She led Detective McHenry into the apartment. Inside, McHenry noted the many photographs featuring Jacob and Skylar.
“You’re kind of freaking me out, Detective. Would you tell me what’s going on?”
“I think you might want to have a seat.”
“I don’t want to sit.” She started to panic. “Did something happen to Jacob?” McHenry took a deep breath and looked at her sadly. “He’s okay, isn’t he?”
His eyes told her everything, and then he confirmed it. “No.”
“Oh my God.” She sat down at the kitchen table, practically collapsing in the chair. Her hands were shaking.
McHenry sat down across from her, swallowing hard as he struggled to say the words properly. “Jacob Hendrix is gone.”
She wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. She couldn’t have. Her words came out rapidly. “What do you mean, ‘gone’? What kind of gone?”
McHenry stared at the table, then slowly raised his gaze to Skylar. “Jacob is dead.”
“What?” She didn’t believe it. She couldn’t. It was too much to process. She started to feel light-headed.
He paused to let her catch her breath. “There was a terrorist incident in the Sheridan Square subway station.”
All she could think was to blame herself for not listening to the radio on her way home. For not wondering why so many streets had been blocked off nearby, making it nearly impossible to get home. She should have put two and two together. Dammit! “What happened?”
“It appears to have been some kind of gas attack. We’re not sure.”
“How many people died?”
“We don’t know yet. A lot of people are being treated in area hospitals. Mr. Hendrix is one of two confirmed fatalities so far. It appears he tripped or was pushed in all the commotion. It’s too early to know for sure. But, somehow, he ended up on the tracks in front of an oncoming train.” He said it as gently as he could, but it still came out like a diesel-powered sledgehammer.
Tears streamed down Skylar’s face as her mind went reeling. She refused to believe it. “How can this . . . I was just talking to him as he was walking into the station. We got cut off.”
“We’re still interviewing witnesses, trying to determine exactly what happened.”
The blood drained from Skylar’s tear-soaked face. She went numb, trying to remember their last conversation. What was the last thing she said to him? What was the last thing Jacob heard from her? It was all jumbled. In this moment, she could only remember bits and pieces.
Detective McHenry continued. “All we know at this point is that there were two students with him. One was pretty badly shaken up.”
Skylar stared vacantly at the surface of the table. Her voice was distant. “Only one of them was his student.”
McHenry looked at her. “Excuse me?”
“Only one was his student.” She sounded a thousand miles away.
“How do you know?”
“Jacob told me on the phone.”
McHenry nodded. “Ms. Drummond, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s doctor. Dr. Drummond.” She turned and looked him directly in the eyes. “I’m such an asshole.” She sobbed heavily as guilt, sadness, and regret began to overwhelm her. There was so much she hadn’t said. So much she hadn’t done. Jacob was devoted, loving, intelligent, sexy, and fun. Everything. All he had wanted was to make her happy. All he had asked for was a modest commitment in return. What is wrong with me? she wondered. What the hell is wrong with me?!
McHenry knew not to say anything. Almost everyone regretted not saying or doing something after a loved one died. It was only natural.
“Do you know if he died right away?”
McHenry nodded. “I can assure you he didn’t suffer.”
Skylar stared at him vacantly, barely able to process what she was hearing. “I can’t believe this.”
“I can only imagine how hard this must be.” He stood, pointing to his business card on the kitchen table. “This has all my numbers. You can reach me anytime, day or night.”
She nodded mechanically. She couldn’t imagine why she would ever call him.
“May I have a phone number in case I need to reach you?”
“Why would you need to reach me?”
“You never know if you might be able to help us with the investigation.”
She jotted down her number on the back of an envelope and handed it to him.
He pocketed the envelope. “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
It was only after he closed the door that she really allowed herself to feel what had just happened. Skylar burst into tears and cried like she hadn’t cried since her younger brother died, over ten years ago.
CHAPTER 29
American Heritage Foundation, Alexandria, Virginia, May 25, 7:21 a.m.
Early the next morning, Bob Stenson walked briskly toward the conference room inside the American Heritage Foundation. He carried three newspapers, all of which featured multiple stories about the apparent terrorist attack in the New York City subway station. The New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and the Washington Post all had extensive coverage, with wide-ranging theories, but nothing conclusive. The incident was too fresh. The investigation too new.
Stenson had three lieutenants who reported directly to him: Caitlin McCloskey, Daryl Trotter, and Jason Greers. McCloskey was the eldest daughter of one of the Foundation’s original partners. She wasn’t the visionary her father had been, but Caitlin was both extremely sharp and completely committed. She was also damn good in a crunch. The woman shined in a crisis. There was never any question she would be a Foundation lifer.
Trotter was the deep thinker of the three. He was a chess player who had achieved a FIDE rating over 2600 and the rank of Grandmaster by the age of nineteen, which only 123 other people in the world had ever accomplished. Had he not found a much better game to devote his considerable faculties to, he almost certainly would have gone on to reach the status of a Garry Kasparov or Magnus Carlsen. But from the first moment he got to play with real pawns and real rooks in the real world, from inside the confines of the American Heritage Foundation, Trotter knew he’d found his game. He never played competitive chess again.
Jason Greers was the most well rounded of the three. He was also the most ambitious. There was never much question as to which of them would get Stenson’s office when he decided to retire. The other two seemed to have accepted it—a good thing, because a fluid transition would be important when the time came.
All three were already seated at the conference table, waiting for Stenson, as he entered the room and tossed the three newspapers on the table. “Talk to me.”