If she kept moving, she could stay ahead of her pain.
She did that for nearly ten years before she met Joe Lane, a carpenter in Big Cloud, Wyoming, where she’d come to write a travel story for the Boston Globe. They’d met at a diner, had a beer at a bar and a month later she found a reason to return. Emma was taken by Joe’s strong gentle way, and the bittersweet sadness in his eyes. His mother had died when he was nine. His father, an electrician with the state, had died of a heart attack just the previous winter.
Joe was a loner.
But being with him made her feel like she was in the place she needed to be. They got married and Emma, who’d minored in education at college, got a job as a teacher.
She loved her new life in Big Cloud.
It was as if she’d been reborn.
Joe was her rock and Tyler was their gift.
But now Joe is dead and Tyler is gone.
“No!”
Emma pulled her fingers into a fist and pounded the stand at her bedside, toppling the tray. The water jug splashed to the floor. She brought her fist down again, and the stand crashed against the wall and equipment cart.
Nooooo.
Emma’s heart rate soared, the monitor beeped. Alarmed nurses rushed into her room.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “it’s my fault!” Her hands flew up to her mouth. “I’m the one who said we should drive to the river for a picnic. It’s my fault!”
“No, it’s okay, Emma.” The nurses lowered her head back. “It’s okay.”
The next sedative put her down for hours.
Emma woke in dim light to several silhouettes.
Her aunt Marsha, her uncle Ned, Dr. Kendrix, a nurse and several other people were gathered in her room.
She heard the soft chink of keys, the leathery squeak of a utility belt then the whiz of a nylon club jacket and nervous throat clearing.
“Emma,” Kendrix said, “you know Lyle and Darnell.”
As her eyes adjusted, she recognized Lyle Spencer with the Big Cloud County Fire amp; Emergency Services and Darnell Horn, a deputy with the county sheriff’s office. Both had made safety presentations at her school many times. She knew their wives, their children.
“Yes.”
“They were both at the scene, do you remember?”
“No.”
“We’re so damned sorry,” Lyle said. “Most of the guys at the department knew Joe. They’re taking up a collection.”
“Ruthie sends her love,” Darnell said. “If there’s anything we can do.”
“What have you done with my son?”
Keys chimed. Darnell shifted his weight as he braced to explain.
“Emma, I’m so sorry but he didn’t make it. Tyler and Joe didn’t make it.”
“You’re a liar!”
“We were called to the scene.” Darnell cleared his throat. “We helped the highway patrol. Joe lost control. The guys at Joe’s site said he’d been putting in long hours, we figured he drifted off.”
“No! Someone swerved into our lane!”
“There were no other witnesses, no skid marks. The people that stopped afterward to help you did not report seeing anyone.”
“I’m your witness! A car was coming at us and Joe swerved.”
“Do you remember the color? The make?”
“No, dammit, it was all too fast!”
“Emma, some of the guys at Joe’s job site said that in the past few days he would sleep at lunch or fall asleep in his truck before heading home.”
“No.”
“He was working god-awful long hours.”
“Don’t you dare blame him! You can’t blame him, I was there!”
“Emma,” Lyle said. “The doctors said you had a concussion.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“We’re trying to help you.”
“You’re all lying! Is it because of Tyler? Where is he?”
“Emma, sweetheart,” her aunt said. “Everyone understands this is a horrible time. They’re only trying to help.”
“What did they do with my son? I saw someone rescue my son!”
Kendrix sat in the chair beside her and positioned it nearer.
“Sometimes,” he started, “Emma, sometimes the mind will create-fabricate-scenarios, such as rescue scenarios. It’s a psychological defense mechanism, a means of coping with the unbearable. Perhaps your rescue scenario is representative of angels pulling Tyler free from being consumed by the fire, to give you solace.”
“No, no.”
Kendrix nodded at Darnell.
“Emma,” Darnell said, “you were thrown from your vehicle. Joe was partially ejected, then thrown clear by the explosion and fire. But Tyler-” Darnell glanced at the others, and Kendrix urged him on “-Tyler remained inside.”
She started shaking her head.
“Why are you doing this, Darnell? Why, Lyle? You knew Joe. You’re both fathers. I know your children. I know Joe died. I felt him die. But why are you lying to me about Tyler?”
“No one is lying,” Lyle said. “This is the hardest thing I’m going to have to tell you. The fire was intense.” Lyle paused. “It consumed Tyler. The heat was so ferocious he was incinerated. I’m so sorry, there was nothing left.”
“Nothing left?”
Lyle brought out a small brown paper bag from his pocket and placed it in her lap.
“This is all we recovered.”
Emma stared at it.
It weighed nothing. It was a new lunch bag. She wondered if Lyle brought it from his home. When she opened it, it crackled, exhaling a whiff of smoky air as she peered inside at two small shoes.
Tyler’s little sneakers.
Charred.
“It’s proof, Emma,” Kendrix said.
She touched them to her face, and her tears streaked over the toes, making tracks along the scorched canvas.
12
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
Frank Archer was pacing with his cell phone against his ear when the Rio police returned Gannon to the bureau.
“He just walked in. We’ll set it up in two minutes.” Archer turned to Luiz. “Go ahead, set up the call.”
Archer tossed his cell phone on his desk and put his hands on his hips.
“Dammit, Gannon. What the hell’s going on?”
“It was a misunderstanding with police.”
“They arrested you.”
“They wanted to talk to me-it’s been cleared up.”
“Good. Do you have your passport? Luiz is booking you a flight back to New York. George agrees, having you down here is a liability.”
“Wait, Frank-I think I’ve got some leads.”
“What leads?”
“It might not be a narco hit. There’s a disgruntled employee who made threats, and there’s also a chance the bombing is linked to financial troubles the cafe was having. And there’s the mystery woman Gabriela was supposed to meet.”
“We’ve been through those theories. Our contacts say this was an act of narco terrorism.”
“Have you confirmed Gabriela’s source?”
“Gabriela’s anonymous source never showed. According to what Porter and Sally got from their police contacts, Gabriela was alone at her table.”
“The sense I get is that the lead investigators have not exactly confirmed that Gabriela was alone. They’ve got conflicting reports that a woman may have been with her.”
“Are you kidding me, Jack? Collectively, Hugh, Sally and I have worked in South America covering coups, earthquakes, drug wars, for nearly twenty years. You’ve been here about twenty minutes and you’re going to tell me you have better inside police information?”
“Call’s ready,” Luiz said from the meeting table nearby where he’d entered the required codes on the telephone console for an urgent WPA teleconference call. The phone’s speaker hissed with static.
George Wilson was on his cell phone at Sao Paulo’s airport about to make his connection for Marcelo’s service. Melody Lyon was in Miami for Gabriela’s funeral and was calling from her hotel room.
“It’s Luiz in Rio. Everybody’s ready?”
“Is Gannon there with you, Frank?” Wilson asked.
“I’m here,” Gannon said.
“Not for long,” Wilson shot back. “Frank, give Melody an update.”
“We no longer need Jack’s help. Sally, Hugh, the stringers and I have got this covered. We appreciate that Jack rushed down here, but we’re good.”