They reached the indoor garage on the corner of Charles and Conway at 5:06, exactly nine minutes before the chain of explosions rocked the convention center.
The attendants had parked Kealey’s Saab 9–3 Aero on the ground level, nosing it against the garage’s outer wall, and he needed only to inform them he wanted something out of the backseat to be waved along.
“Think I’ll freshen up my makeup while I have a chance,” Allison said as they approached the silver convertible. “I want to be at my spiffiest for Julie.”
Kealey got his remote key fob out of his pocket and pressed the button to unlock the doors. She sat in the passenger’s seat and flipped down the visor to use the mirror. He got his jacket and her shoes from the backseat.
“Allison, I still haven’t thanked you.”
“For what?” she asked after applying lipstick. “Dragging you to see my former teacher’s keynote speech at a nursing conference?”
“The Harpers are my friends, too,” Kealey said. “No, what we were talking about earlier. I was in a bad place when we met. You pulled me out of it.”
“A jellyfish isn’t a man, and a man isn’t a jellyfish. Anyway, you did most of the heavy lifting.”
He laughed. “If by that you mean after a couple of weeks I did more than grunt one-word answers to your questions, okay.”
She quickly brushed her hair, frowned, muttered, “Best I can do,” then slipped on her heels.
“You look aces,” he said.
“Yeah, thanks. Two minutes of humidity and I’m the Wicked Witch of the West.” She faced him in the hot, stuffy garage. “That process, emerging from a depressive emotional shutdown and post-traumatic stress, is one of the toughest climbs a patient can face. Tougher than most suicide attempts, who have already accepted their situation and want help. You were in some pretty serious situations in South Africa, with the security of our nation squarely on your shoulders. That’s what we euphemistically call ‘Deep Rubble’ in our business.”
“We have another word for it,” Kealey said.
“I know,” she said, shutting the door. “Those of us in wood-paneled offices try to have a little more class.”
“Whatever you call it, I’ve got a long way to go. But I couldn’t have gotten where I am without you,” he said. “I haven’t said that before, and wanted to.”
They looked at each other a little longer than client-patient propriety should allow. It was Kealey who turned, who locked the doors, who offered her his hand and started back toward the street.
They walked silently up the ramp toward sunlight.
“You’re thinking again,” she said.
“Tough habit to break,” he replied. “It’s all you do sometimes for hours on a stakeout. Look and think.”
“You’re not in Sarajevo or Cape Town. You’re going to a nice, boring dinner,” she reminded him.
“Right. Focus.”
“Tell me, is it a good thought or bad?”
“Somewhere in the middle,” he said. “I’ve told you about Maine, about the house where Katie Donovan and I lived in Cape Elizabeth.”
“A little.”
“There’s an old suspension bridge that runs into the state on I-Ninety-five,” Kealey said. “Katie’s parents lived outside Boston, and one day we went across that bridge during winter, when there were no leaves on the trees. Off on a hill we saw this old house with a FOR SALE sign out front, so we decided to check it out. The place was a shambles, built around eighteen-forty, abandoned for over a decade, completely run-down. But there was something special about it, and we were able to buy it for pocket change. We went up whenever we could, a couple times a year. I did all the stonework, some carpentry, and was convinced it was where I’d settle for the rest of my life.” He grew reflective. “I remember thinking at the time that it was probably tougher to restore a home than to build one. To look for all the leaks and cracks and rot and fix them without destroying the rest of the structure. But there was something rewarding about it, as well. I guess what I’m feeling now, my appreciation, is knowing that you’re doing what I did, getting in there and making something whole-”
The rest of the sentence was lost as the first blast pounded the air, pushing a concussive wave through the concrete structure.
Kealey’s first thought was that a cannon had been fired at historic Fort McHenry, which was situated nearby. But then there were two more blasts in rapid succession, each from very different places. He knew at once that it was not a celebration.
“My God, what’s going on?” Allison asked.
“Stay here,” Kealey snapped and ran.
Allison took off her heels and ran behind him. He didn’t have time to argue.
He reached the Saab and popped the trunk. It was mostly bare: a tire jack, a plastic jerrican, a first-aid kit, a couple of neatly folded blankets… and a padded black pistol bag about the size of a typical carryall.
Moments after telling him that he was going to a dinner, that he was not in a war zone, Allison watched Kealey arm himself with movements so precise, they were almost mechanical. He pulled off his jacket, then opening the bag, he took out a right-handed shoulder harness and put it on over his shirt. Then he produced a pistol rug containing a Sig P229R chambered for. 40 S amp;W rounds, a more powerful variant of the 9-millimeter variety that was standard issue for the U.S. Secret Service. Transferring the gun to his holster, he reached into the bag again for his backup-a Beretta 9mm. This one was a nine, lighter and with quicker action than the other.
“Did you ever learn to use one of these?” he asked Allison. “Take basic firearms training, anything like that while you were with the Bureau?”
She shook her head. “It was never intended that I shoot my patients.” She watched with rising alarm. “We were just attacked. Hit again.”
“Yeah.”
Kealey set the gun down in the trunk and reached back into the bag for his concealment holster. Sliding the Beretta into it, he tucked the holster into his pants behind his right hip and clipped it to his belt. Then he opened one of the bag’s side compartments and extracted a doubled-handled metal knife, a Filipino balisong. Kealey put the knife in his jacket pocket and reached into his bag one more time before finally dropping it back into the trunk. He removed a magazine pouch and nylon web harness, strapping it on so the magazine pouch rested snugly against his left side.
He shrugged into his jacket. “You really need to get out of here.”
“No. I’m coming. Open the door. I want my other shoes.”
“Listen, Allison,” he said. “I don’t know if this is over-”
“I don’t care, Ryan. I have medical training. That may be more important than a gun.”
He looked at her. He took a deep breath, exhaled, remotely popped the back-door lock, then slammed the lid of his trunk.
“All right,” he said. “In that case, stay close.”
They emerged in the humid air, made even stiller, more uncomfortable, by the dust that already hung in the air. Cars were screeching to a stop in the eastbound lanes approaching Charles Street or veering toward its central traffic island to avoid collisions. Kealey looked up, saw rolling clouds of dull white smoke, typical of urban demolition. Only this wasn’t a controlled blast. The smoke was coming from the direction of the convention center. Out on the sidewalk pedestrians had reacted to the explosions with shock and confusion, many of them becoming rooted where they stood, others scattering wildly across the sidewalk and roadway or trampling the traffic island’s manicured grass. Some were wriggling fingers in their ears, trying to clear hearing impacted by the blasts.