Jason Greers spoke first. “It’s peculiar.”
“Why?” Stenson knew why, of course, but wanted to hear what they were thinking, just like his mentor, Walters, used to do with him.
McCloskey spoke matter-of-factly. “It was a well-coordinated strike. Well planned. Well executed. This was not the work of an amateur.”
“If it was a professional, everyone in that station would be dead.”
Trotter jumped in. “Suicide bombers are not professionals.” His thoughts were often so far ahead of what he was saying he would forget to complete a statement.
“This was not a suicide bomb.”
Trotter snapped himself back to the present. “No, it wasn’t. Which means we can rule out an amateur.”
Greers helped connect the dots that Trotter was leaving out. “Whoever the guy is, he’s good. Undoubtedly, someone we know knows him. The question we should be asking is why a professional would go through all this trouble for such a nominal result.”
Bob Stenson stated the obvious: “You’re assuming he achieved his objective. He may not have.”
“He accomplished exactly what he set out to,” McCloskey said with a degree of admiration.
“What makes you so sure?”
“There wasn’t a single useful witness description of him, and not one clean image on any surveillance camera. You have to admit that’s impressive.”
Stenson nodded. It was.
Trotter continued. “We’ve found nothing to suggest that anything went wrong. Therefore, whatever was achieved was his objective, as nominal as it might seem.”
The boss was perplexed, which was rare. “What was achieved?”
Greers smirked. “He got everyone’s attention.”
“Which could mean this was a preamble.”
Trotter shook his head. “No. Someone with this skill set acts, and then disappears. They do not draw attention to themselves before a major play. It takes away the element of surprise.”
“So if this was a one-off, what could the objective possibly have been?”
“To show that he can,” McCloskey replied. The room went quiet, because her reasoning was sound. McCloskey sat up a little straighter.
Stenson considered the thought. “You think this was a demonstration?”
“I’m saying it could have been. We don’t have enough information to know what it was. But we certainly cannot rule it out.”
Stenson nodded in agreement. One of them always came up with something he hadn’t considered. “Keep it back burner. Something’s going to turn up that will make it all make sense. It always does. Until then, focus elsewhere.”
CHAPTER 30
Jacob Hendrix’s Apartment, Greenwich Village, New York City, May 27, 7:55 a.m.
Skylar didn’t leave the apartment for over forty-eight hours. She watched the developing news coverage of the subway gas attack in mind-numbing repetition. No legitimate terrorist organization was stepping forward to claim responsibility. The determination that the gas released in the subway was not lethal sarin or VX or ricin, but only common tear gas, explained why. The news was a relief, but also infuriating. Jacob didn’t die because some group of extremists was attempting to wage war on the United States. He died because some crazy asshole in need of attention decided he didn’t care who got hurt in the process. Selfish bastard.
Eventually, she turned off the television. Nothing new was being reported. The police still had no leads, and it didn’t look like they would anytime soon. Skylar already knew all she needed to know. Jacob was gone. She would never have the opportunity to make things right with him. She would never be able to reassure him like she knew he wanted her to. She would never be able to say yes, that deep inside, she wanted the same things he did, but was just too damn afraid.
She would never be able to admit to him her deepest fears. The ones that kept her away from him and everyone else. She couldn’t tell him that it was her, and not him. She loved him; she really did. At least, as best she could.
She wanted him to know that she never meant to keep him at arm’s length—she really didn’t—but that she didn’t know how to overcome the barriers she had erected so long ago. She didn’t know how to fill the void that had always been there inside her. He had deserved better, and she wished she could have given it to him.
She would have to spend the rest of her life knowing that she hadn’t.
Skylar didn’t sleep at all that first night. She called Fenton’s office about the time she would have normally arrived at Harmony House to tell him she would not be coming in for work the rest of the week.
At the news of Jacob’s death, Fenton sounded empathetic. “My God, you poor dear. Is there anything I can do to help?”
She said there wasn’t, and that she’d be back to work next week.
“Take all the time you need.”
Skylar started to plan Jacob’s funeral, but didn’t get far. It was too soon. Thinking about him lying dead in a casket was too much. His bloodless face. His lifeless eyes. She kept breaking down. Jacob’s parents wanted to make the arrangements, anyway. They were giving him the burial plot they’d been saving for themselves. The funeral was still three weeks away, to give family members time to make their travel arrangements. Skylar thanked them for their help. His mother asked Skylar if she wanted company in Jacob’s apartment, but Skylar declined the offer. She wanted to be alone.
By Saturday morning, the walls were closing in. She needed to get out, but didn’t know where to go. Shu Han Ju? She couldn’t. And it was too bright and sunny outside to go to Central Park. She didn’t want to be around all those cheerful, happy people. She even thought about going to the Met, but didn’t want to break down in front of a bunch of stuffy art lovers and tourists. Maybe a vacation would do her good. Mexico? Italy? Paris? None of it sounded remotely bearable.
That left Harmony House. When all else fails, work. She couldn’t stand the thought of sitting in her office with the one photograph of her and Jacob on the shelf, but she could at least bury herself in another box of materials on Eddie. His files were the only things she thought she could focus on.
She arrived at the Harmony House driveway gate later that morning and showed the guard her ID. She parked in the lot, taking a moment to collect herself. The beige Impala was parked in its usual spot, but there was no sign of the mystery man. Upon entering the building, Skylar veered toward Fenton’s office before heading to her own. She thought it would be a good idea to check in with the boss before retreating to her office. To let him know she was okay. That this wouldn’t interfere with her work. In fact, all she wanted to do was disappear into it. Nineteen hours a day, seven days a week, for the next ten years. Maybe then she would be ready to move on.
She found it curious that Stephen Millard, Dr. Fenton’s faithful secretary, was not at his desk, when it suddenly occurred to her that it was Saturday. Only a skeleton support staff worked on the weekends. Fenton probably wouldn’t be there, either. She turned to exit, when she heard a voice from inside Fenton’s office. It was not the old man’s. It was Eddie’s. He had recognized her from the sound of her footsteps. “Skylar, come here. I’m in Dr. Fenton’s office.”
She entered to find Eddie sitting exactly as he had been the last time he was in here. The echo box sat on Fenton’s coffee table, connected to Eddie’s laptop. The eight one-inch satellite microphones were moving in perfect unison as they pointed around the room.
“Hi, Eddie.” She tried to sound as cheerful as she could, hoping to conceal the incredible sadness overwhelming her from Eddie, as well as from herself.
“Dr. Fenton isn’t here today, because today is Saturday and he doesn’t usually work on Saturdays. At least, not anymore. He used to, but after his wife died, he started to garden because that is what his wife liked to do, and Dr. Fenton says gardening reminds him of her. Her name was Ruth. They were married a long time.” Eddie never once looked at Skylar. His eyes were glued to his laptop screen.
“Are you sure it’s okay for you to be in here?”
“Dr. Fenton gave me permission to come into his office anytime I thought it was really important, and I thought it was really important.”