PART VII
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Bellevue. I'm gonna miss this place.
I'd brought Kate some clothes that she'd asked for, plus makeup and whatever so she'd look good when they wheeled her into an ambulette the next day, and good when she walked through the lobby of our building.
Kate, however, was exhibiting the classic symptoms of short-timer anxiety-like, something is going to go wrong, I'm not really getting out of here, and so forth.
I reminded her, "You have a gun. We'll get you out."
She asked me, "Anything new?"
Well, yes, our apartment building has been under round-the-clock surveillance by terrorists for maybe three weeks. But that might send her into a tailspin, so I replied, "Nope."
She asked me, "Have you spoken to Tom or Vince?"
"Nope."
She moved on to family matters. "My parents were going to call you today."
"They did. Didn't I mention that? Your father wants to know why I didn't shoot the terrorist who attacked you."
She seemed a little embarrassed and said, "I explained that to him."
"I'll explain it again." Or, with luck, I'll cut off the terrorist's head before our flight and bring it to him in my overnight bag. "Here he is, Mr. Mayfield. He won't be cutting any more throats. This calls for a drink."
Kate said, "Your mother told me she was going to call you."
"She did."
"What did she say?"
"Eat more fish."
"She asked me why I'm not pregnant yet."
"Eat more fish."
Kate and I watched some TV-a History Channel documentary about the earth being wiped out by a meteorite, which, if it happened tonight, would put the Minnesota trip on hold for a while. God?
Visiting hours ended at 9 P.M., and Kate and I kissed good-bye, and she said, "I'll see you tomorrow. Get here an hour early and get me checked out." She added, "This is the last time we have to say good-bye here."
"Get some recipes before you go."
Officer Mindy Jacobs was on duty outside Kate's door, and I said to her, "Kate's being discharged tomorrow."
"That's good news."
"Right. So if you're superstitious-"
"I hear you." She assured me, "If I don't recognize a nurse, a doctor, or an orderly, I get someone I know to ID them before they get past me."
"Good."
I wished her a nice quiet evening and left the ward.
My FBI driver was still Preston Tyler, who was putting in a long day. He informed me that there would be no driver on duty until morning, but he assured me, "Your surveillance and protective detail is still in place."
"Terrific."
There were no messages on my home phone, no e-mail, and my cell phone was silent. Maybe everyone was dead from anthrax. Nerve gas?
I thought about calling Boris again, but then I thought about just sneaking out of here and making another unannounced visit to Svetlana. Maybe I'd spend the night on Boris's couch and see if Khalil turned up. But maybe Khalil would come for me here, and I didn't want to miss him.
I decided to wait a half hour, and if nothing happened here, then I'd go see Boris.
At 10:15, as I was watching another History Channel documentary about possible doomsday scenarios-earthquakes, supervol-canoes, meteors again, gamma-ray bursts, and an avalanche of fourth-class junk mail that could bury entire cities-my cell phone vibrated.
It was a text from Paresi that said: Urgent and confidential. Meet at WTC site, PA trailer. ASAP.
I stared at the text. Was this the break I'd been waiting for?
I wasn't sure what Paresi meant by confidential, and he wasn't going to say in his text, "This is cop-to-cop," but that was the implication. Maybe he was finally getting his head on straight.
I texted him: 20 minutes.
I called down to the parking garage and was happy to get Gomp on the phone. I said, "Gomp, this is Tom Walsh."
"Hey, Tom, how ya doin'?"
"Swell. I need a ride down to Sixty-eighth and Lex again."
"Sure thing."
"I need you to meet me at the freight elevator."
"Freight elevator?"
"Right. Two minutes. And mum's the word." I added, "Fifty bucks."
"Sure thing."
I hung up and strapped on my gun belt and hip holster. On the belt, in a sheath, was Uncle Ernie's K-bar knife that I'd taken with me on all my walks in the park. I put on a blue windbreaker and left my apartment.
As I was speed walking toward the freight elevator, I realized my vest was packed in my luggage. I don't normally wear a vest, so it's not second nature, like my gun, or my shield, or leaving the toilet seat up. I hesitated and looked at my watch. The hell with it. I got in the freight elevator, hit the garage button, and down I went.
The elevator doors opened, and there was Gomp sitting in a nice BMW SUV. I was glad he hadn't stolen my green Jeep.
I came around the car and said to him, "I need help with something in the elevator."
"Sure thing."
He got out of the BMW and moved toward the freight elevator as I jumped in the driver's seat.
Gomp shouted, "Hey! Tom! Where you-?"
I hit the accelerator, drove up the ramp, and turned right onto 72nd Street. I caught the green light at Third Avenue and continued on.
I looked in the rearview mirror. There wasn't much traffic at this hour on a drizzly Sunday night, and I didn't see any headlights trying to keep up with me. That was easy.
Subways are faster than cars in Manhattan, but the closest station to the World Trade Center has been damaged and closed since 9/11, and the other stations in the area were a five- or ten-minute walk to Liberty Street where I had to meet Paresi at the Port Authority trailer. Also, subway service to that devastated part of the city was subject to changes, meaning delays. So I'd drive. It was a nice car.
Crosstown traffic wasn't too bad on this Sunday night, and I drove through Central Park at the 65th Street Transverse Road, then got over to the West Side Highway and headed south along the Hudson River. Traffic was moving and within fifteen minutes I was on West Street driving between the dark, devastated sites of the World Financial Center and World Trade Center.
Pre-9/11, a footbridge spanned West Street at Liberty, and I saw the remnants of the structure and turned left. I parked the BMW near the chain-link gates and got out.
I'd expected to see a few unmarked cars or cruisers here, but the only vehicle around was the Port Authority cruiser parked near the fence.
I walked quickly to the gates and saw that the heavy chain and lock were in place, but there was a lot of slack in the chain and I squeezed through and walked quickly to the trailer.
I knocked on the door, then tried the handle. The door was unlocked, so I took my creds out, opened the door, and called inside, "Federal agent! Hello? Coming in."
I stepped up into the trailer and saw that the front area-an office with two desks, a radio, and maps-was empty. An electric coffee maker was on in the galley kitchen, but the TV on the counter was turned off.
There was a narrow hallway that led to a bathroom and a bunk room where the PA cops could catch a few winks or whatever, and I called out, "Anybody home?" but no one answered.
My cell phone buzzed. I looked at the text message, which was from Paresi: We're down in the pit. Where are you?
I replied: PA trailer. 1 minute.
I left the trailer and started down the long, wide earthen ramp that went into the deep pit.
The excavation site was huge, covering sixteen acres, and it would have been pitch-dark except for some lights strung along the remains of the deep concrete foundation, and a dozen or so stanchion-mounted stadium lights that illuminated some of the desolate acreage.
There were pieces of equipment scattered around-mostly earthmoving equipment and dump trucks, plus a few cranes. I also saw some construction office trailers, and one big tractor-trailer parked near the center of the site.