Mar 132019
 

 

Hopper's Nighthawks

NIGHTHAWKS by Edward Hopper, Art Institute of Chicago

Two in the morning. Morning, what a laugh; it’s still the middle of the night. There’s no one around at this hour: not a car, or a person, not even a dog. Silent as snow over here.

Just one block away, the place is jumping. The cabarets, clubs and outdoor cafes cater to the wide-awake crowd. Over there, the neon lights blaze like a midday sun and the sidewalks overflow with all manner of humanity; soldiers on leave out with their best girls, or making time with the ladies of the night; hustlers on the hunt for chumps and suckers looking to score. A fair number of ordinary schmoes inhabit the night: vendors, waiters, bartenders, musicians, and even a certain subset of panhandlers, the ones who aren’t slumped in alleys and doorways. It’s a swinging scene alright, but hey, this is the city that never sleeps, right?

On this street, the vibe’s different. It’s quiet, deserted as a schoolhouse in the summertime, except for the diner glowing like a meteorite in the middle of the block. The joint is lit up like Macy’s at Christmas, thanks to the newly installed fluorescents that bathe everything they touch in an icy blue haze. Old Man Wooster would be blowing a fuse if he didn’t close his haberdashery strictly by 5:00 p.m. and even earlier in the winter. Who’d want to peddle high-class fedoras by the light of that moon?

The soft-edged, many-windowed eatery puts everything inside is on full-display.  It’s like watching a play presented within a circular sweep of tile and glass Anyone can see what’s going on from every angle, can take in the swank cherry wood counters, the bare walls. Otherwise, it’s a no-frills kind of place, but they serve a good cup of java.

Inside the four main actors go about their business, three at the counter and one guy behind it who looks to be barely out of his teens. The babe in the red blouse is out late, sure, but she’s no dolly. Her outfit says secretary or maybe shop girl, but she holds herself like she’s class act. She’s making a show of minding her own business, though she tossed the kid behind the counter a million dollar smile. Could be she’s a regular, resting her tired dogs after an evening of waitressing. How else to explain a dame like her on a deserted street like this at two in the a.m., no escort in sight? Not what you’d call hot but she’s got a certain style, especially with her auburn hair down around her shoulders.

Next to her sits a guy in a sharp-looking suit. He and the good-looking gal are perched closer than two jays on a telephone wire, but she’s turned away from him. What’s that all about? Could be he made a move and she put the kibosh on it, told him to take a powder. Or they had a lovers spat, and now she’s giving the jerk the cold shoulder. Maybe they know each other—their hands on the counter are just shy of touching—but they have their own reasons for pretending different. One thing’s for sure: he hasn’t changed his seat, though there are plenty of other stools along the counter for the taking. Maybe he’s daydreaming. He’s pushed his cup aside. Even his cigarette’s got a head of ash on it. Could be he’s just another denizen of the night, lost in his own thoughts, asking himself how the hell he ended up wherever he is. Who doesn’t from time to time?

Now the fellow several seats down, the one with his back to the window? He looks a little cagey. Another suit hunched over himself; hasn’t touched his coffee. In fact, nobody seems to be drinking much, even though it’s not exactly swill they’re serving. Back to the mystery man: what’s his deal? Is he running from a secret too big to face? Is he just on the outs with the missus and holed up here because he’s got nowhere else to go? Maybe he’s just another schmo with a dead-end job, a traveling salesman peddling anything from insurance policies to vacuum cleaners. Sets his case down on the floor by his side while he grabs a bite. Traveling salesman, that’s a tough life.

The empty storefronts across the street catch the ambient glow from the diner lights. The fluorescents always manage to create their antithesis: deep pitch-black voids that seem to swallow buildings and people indiscriminately. Nothing penetrates those shadows: no life, no history, no tall tales or terrifying truths. Whatever stories the night has to yield are going to come from the violet-tinged tableau inside the all-night diner.

He sits in a black-and-white parked inconspicuously just outside the circle of light. His task is to keep an eye on the shadows, to pick out what might otherwise stay out of sight. The job is boring and maybe even a little lonely. The running narrative in his head, well, that’s just his way of passing the time. Sometimes he thinks he’s a sap for choosing law enforcement instead of a cushy office job. On long nights like this, he yearns for his warm bed and the comfort of his young wife’s embrace. Still, it’s gotta be a damn sight better than a stint abroad fighting Japs or Krauts, although he’d go if he was called up; hell yeah, he would.

He takes a sip of coffee. It’s hot and it’s good, much better than the mud they serve at the precinct. Reaching for the glazed donut on the seat beside him, he takes a bite. It could be worse, he thinks, and raises his cup in a half-salute to the diner and its motionless occupants.

The two-way crackles, startling him so he almost spills his brew. Almost. He’s young, with quick reflexes, so he’s able to spare his uniform and stifle the expletive that comes to mind. He’s trying to curse less, out of respect for the bride.

“Dispatch calling Car 201. Nighthawk, you there?”
“I’m here, Sarge.”
“Anything happening?”
“Nope, quiet as a morgue.”

The desk sergeant responds with a high-pitched laugh that whistles through the wires like a dry desert wind.

“Not the most interesting beat, Ace; I got that. You could see action yet, though, so be awake and ready to move. We got an altercation a couple blocks south of you. May need you to scoot over there if things get too hot for Ranger to handle.”
“Roger that, Sarge.”
“Now go back to your daydreaming.”

Again, the raspy laugh rolls like tumbleweed out the receiver and through the sedan.

He starts to respond, but the sergeant has clicked off. He’s old school, that one; doesn’t like the new radios. Probably wishes he could go back to the Pony Express.

The young cop takes another bite of the donut and settles back into the gloom, nothing more than a shadow himself. He trains his eyes on the diner and on the four figures thrown by his watchful presence into eternal sharp relief.

Jan 142019
 

“Oh my God, Dad. This guy looks like you!”

man with glasses and capJack Gill allowed himself a quick glance at his fourteen-year old son. Just shy of six feet, the boy tended to drape himself across the nearest available surface, in this case the kitchen island where they took all their meals since Marie died.

Jack looked back at the sauté pan, executed a neat flip and allowed himself a small smile. Marie would have been impressed.

“Close the tablet and wash your hands, Paul. What else do you want in your omelet? Amy, please, I asked you to set the table.”

His daughter gave a theatrical sigh, her eyes on her phone.

“Why do you always ask me instead of Paul? It’s so sexist.”

Damn it, I added mushrooms, Jack thought. Amy will have to eat around them.

“I ask you, Amy, because you’re more almost two years older and presumably more responsible than your younger brother.”

Paul ignored his father. “Ames, look at this guy.” He thrust the tablet at his older sister. “Couldn’t this be Dad?”

Another sigh as Amy took the pad and enlarged the image.

“Jesus, Dad, this guy does look like you. That’s not good. I mean, given this article claims he’s a terrorist.”

“Suspected terrorist,” Paul insisted.

“Amy, language,” Jack said automatically. He hated to scold his children. Not because discipline had been Marie’s job, although she’d been so much more effective at it.  Because they were still vulnerable, walking hormones still bent under the weight of their grief. He heard his wife’s voice remind him to be patient.

He grabbed three plates and some silverware and put them on the countertop.

“Clear your stuff away, kids. Amy, at least try the mushrooms. Paul, technology off.”

“But, Dad—”

“I’ll look after supper, okay?”

They ate quickly and silently. Dinner had devolved with their retreat into the kitchen. No one had anything to say to anyone else. They put food in their mouths or, in Amy’s case, pushed it around the plate, then went back to their virtual friends. At least they stayed in one room.

Paul finished first and cleared his plate, a sign Jack viewed with triumph until he realized his son had pulled out his tablet.

“Take a look, Dad. You promised.”

Jack glanced first at the headline that blared, “First look at Indianapolis ER Bomber” then at the masthead. “2 Tell the Truth” was the worst kind of sensationalist tabloid, one that routinely published a mix of gossip, speculation, and “what if” guesswork masquerading as information.

He scanned the article. The city had been rocked in recent weeks by explosions at two area hospital emergency rooms. No one knew who the bomber was or why the person targeted ERs. There were no declarations or manifestos. Some suspected an angry patient, others a disgruntled staff member. While no one had died, dozens had been injured, many seriously and the areas sustained considerable physical damage. The closed ERs overburdened the remaining hospitals and put the entire healthcare service infrastructure at risk.

The image accompanying the article showed a man pushing through a crowd outside what appeared to be a hospital. For added drama, the editor had circled the image in red and blurred out the other faces. The caption indicated the photo had been snapped at the site of the latest explosion. Maybe, maybe not. Impossible to tell.

The man in the picture wore an unadorned blue baseball cap that failed to completely obscure his face. He appeared to be in his late thirties, Caucasian, with a sharply angled jawline, aquiline nose, dark hair, black-framed glasses and a distinctive scar on his chin. Jack put a hand to his old wound; his stomach clenched.

He handed the tablet to his son with a shrug. “We’ve talked about fake news, Paul. It’s not information you don’t like or agree with. It’s a story put forward as true without factual support. In place of evidence, you have innuendo or worse, lies pretending to be truth. Do you think everything you see on the internet is true?”

Paul fidgeted with his watch. “No,” he admitted.

“Okay, so don’t fall for this BS. A guy in a common-looking cap in a picture that could have been shot anywhere is ‘identified’ as a possible bomber.” He waggled his eyebrows at his son. “Unless you think your dad is a bomber.”

“No!”

“All right,” Jack replied with a grin. “The article quotes unnamed sources as ‘suggesting’ the FBI was zeroing in on a suspect. Who seems to be my doppelgänger from a distance. Maybe not close up, though.”

“What’s a doppelgänger?”

Amy rolled her eyes. “Someone who looks just like someone else but obviously isn’t,” she said. “Jeeze, Paul, what do you do in school all day, except stare at Becky Wells?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paul countered.

Jack let their bickering play out. At least it got them off the subject of the man in the cap. As much as Jack wanted to believe the story would die a quick death, he wasn’t so sure.

The next day, the hashtag #IndieERBomber trended on social media, or so Amy pointed out to her father as the kids headed out the door.

“Fake news travels fast,” she noted cryptically.

Jack decided to skip his shave that morning. He swapped his black-framed glasses for an older pair that made him look owlish. For good measure, he combed his hair straight back, a style he normally avoided. Then he headed to his architecture firm downtown, in an area known as Mile Square.

RDK was a reputable mid-sized Indianapolis firm that specialized in designing medical and research facilities, along with some mixed-use and corporate office projects. Jack, a senior project architect, worked primarily on healthcare jobs. He’d recently managed a redesign project for one of the three hospitals that had been hit by the bomber.

A bomber that looks like you, he thought. The irony was not lost on him.

A time-sensitive change-order on one of his smaller projects kept him busy all morning. When he logged on before lunch, he saw the speculative story about the bomber had been picked up by several news wire services. Each report was careful to emphasize the source as dubious. Who saw the man in the cap, one asked? When and where were the pictures taken, asked another? The idea that legitimate media questioned the story origins should have reassured Jack. It didn’t.

“What do you think of the ER bomber picture?” Marcus Tanner asked at lunch. “That should move the case along, right?”

Tanner, another architect at the firm, joined Jack in pickup basketball on weekends. Before Marie’s death last year, the men and their wives went out socially a few times a month. Now Jack begged off, citing family obligations. In reality, he didn’t want to become someone else’s charity case. He still considered the other man a good friend.

“I think it’s probably a hoax.” Jack kept his eyes on his sandwich.

“Maybe, but a lot of people are buying it.” Marcus punched at his phone screen and held it out. “Did you see the picture, Jack? If this isn’t you, it’s your long-lost twin.” He peered at his friend. “With different glasses.”

“Well, it’s not me and it’s not my non-existent twin.” Jack forced himself to smile. “Case closed.”

He didn’t yet know how wrong he was. While he worked in his office that afternoon, the Internet, aided by willing and gullible participants, continued to spin its own narrative.

Jack went a second day without shaving. He knew with a single glance at the headlines on his phone that the story about the “suspect’ had gained traction. He rushed the kids off to school without allowing for discussion.

“We have to talk, Dad,” his daughter insisted and he promised.

He fought off a headache at work, brought on by stress or by the out-of-date eyeglass prescription; he didn’t know which. At ten, he went down the hall to get coffee and noticed a couple of junior designers staring at him. He took his coffee back to his office and logged onto his desktop.

The Herald News, a suburban daily, featured the by-now-familiar image on its homepage. According to the accompanying article, the FBI deemed the man in the cap as a “person of interest,” although the local reporter admitted the Bureau hadn’t actually said as much.

Jack had lunch at his desk and remained in his office the rest of the day. Nearly every caller made mention of the image. He stopped picking up his phone.

Amy refused dinner until Jack logged on. Sure enough, the story had made the major media outlets. The NY Times kept a rein on its headline (“FBI Seeks Person of Interest in ER Bombings”). USA Today did not (“Bombing Suspect Sought for Questioning”). The Indianapolis Star offered readers a secure line into which they could call with a “possible ID.” One tabloid offered a cash reward for information leading to an identification.

The live coverage, especially on cable, somehow made it more immediate.

Paul looked worried. “What if someone decides it’s you?”

“Not gonna happen, Paul.”

That evening, after the kids had gone to bed, Jack located information for the lawyer he’d used after Marie’s death last year. Colin Greeley. Just in case, he told himself.

The next day, he called in sick and worked from home. He spent a little time in his workshop and attended to long-neglected household chores. He made a point of avoiding any news or social media outlets. He went back into the workshop that evening Just before bed, he shot off a quick text to Greeley.

Day Four. Major outlets announced the man in the photo had been identified. No name yet but the day was young. Jack checked his messages—he had a text from Greeley that said “call ASAP”—and slid out of the house before his children woke up. He stopped off for a pair of drugstore glasses, left a voice message for Greeley and made it to work before his boss. He had a client meeting at 10.

At 8:30 a.m., Daniel Ross, the affable gray-haired forty-seven-year-old CEO of RKD, called him into the office. With him were RKD’s two other founding partners.  Ben Krakow, a rumpled-looking man in thick glasses, and Sarah Fletcher, a tall, put-together red-head. To one side stood a dour-looking man and a grim-faced woman, both dressed in navy blue suits that could have come from the same store.

“Jack, come in,” Ross said with a cheery wave. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Sorry to roust you so early in the day. We have unexpected visitors from the FBI with some questions. Meet Agents John Flanigan and Tracy Royce. Apparently, there’s a picture of a man they’ve connected to the bombings who resembles—”

“I read the news, Dan.” Jack turned to the suits. “I’m a senior project manager with eleven years at this firm, Agents. I’m also an adult, not a high school student. We don’t need to waste my employers’ time when I have a perfectly good office and an administrative assistant who can make you an appointment.”

“Mr. Gill, we’re trying to be as efficient as possible in order not to waste anyone’s time,” Agent Flanigan replied. His efforts to sound relaxed and easy-going failed utterly. Agent Royce didn’t even try.

“You look like the man in the picture, Mr. Gill,” she cut in. “Undoubtedly, you’ve noticed that. Or maybe it’s a coincidence you’re not shaving.” She cast a disapproving eye over Jack’s new beard.

Stay calm, Jack reminded himself.

“As I recall, that image was introduced via social media by a disreputable tabloid-style Internet site, Agent Royce. Is that how the FBI gathers intel these days? Because your methods don’t inspire confidence.”

Agent Flanigan tried again. “We had a caller, no, two callers. People who remember you from your previous visits to the ERs where the bombs went off.  Who remember the glasses and the cap. Who seem to believe you might be the person in the picture.”

Jack was getting tired of the sort of good, trying-to-be bad cop routine.

“I oversaw the renovation at St. Mary’s, as I’m sure you know. The project was completed two years ago. Everyone seemed pleased with our work. No complaints on either side and certainly no reason for anyone to set off a bomb.”

Dan jumped in. “I’m sure it’s just a case of mistaken—”

“Forget the renovation, Mr. Gill,” Royce said. “Wasn’t your wife brought to Star Medical Center last year after St. Mary’s turned her away? Where she died?”

For a long moment, no one seemed to breathe Then Ben cleared his throat. “Agent Royce, if you’re implying—”

“It’s okay, Ben.”  Jack cut in. “Agent, Royce, when a hit and run driver slammed into my wife, I had every reason to believe she’d go to St. Mary’s. It’s a superior trauma ER. We took out private insurance on our family that allows us to stipulate which hospitals we prefer. In fact, it shouldn’t have been an issue because St. Mary’s was also the closest ER to the scene of the accident. Yet someone—dispatcher, ambulance driver—got his or her signals crossed and Marie was transported through high-density traffic to SMC. The ride took twenty minutes instead of eight. Worse, the emergency room was already struggling that day with missing staff and an unexpected cluster of gunshot victims.”

He swallowed. “The delayed arrival time coupled with the chaos at SMC’s ER likely played into my wife’s death. My lawyer and I are discussing a lawsuit against the ambulance company. Not—” he put up a warning finger— “against either of the hospitals in question.”

“So, you don’t harbor any grudges, Mr. Gill?” Royce pressed. “Because in your shoes—”

“Are you charging me with anything, Agent Royce? Agent Flanigan? I can call my lawyer and we can meet at your offices.”

Flanigan smiled. White teeth, prominent incisors. A wolf in a suit.

“We’re talking to a number of people, Mr. Gill. I presume you’re not planning a vacation.”

Jack kept his expression neutral. “I have a family to raise and a job to do.” He turned to Dan. “That hasn’t changed, has it?”

Dan looked shocked. “Of course not. You haven’t been charged or even detained—has he?”

And there’s the line, Jack thought.

“Thank you all for your time,” Agent Royce said abruptly. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Gill.”

When the agents left, Jack turned to the three partners. “Does my presence here cause a problem?”

“Of course not,” Ben protested. The objection sounded thin.

“Okay, I have a meeting at 10 out of the office. If I leave now, I can just make it. Then I think I’ll work from home this afternoon.”

Sarah glanced at her colleagues, then stood to face Jack. “That’s fine, Jack. We’ll stay on top of this. Just in case, if we need to, ah, get in touch with your clients or with our legal team, we’ll loop you in, okay?”

“Sure.”

On the way home, Jack contacted several of his clients. Most were shocked at the insinuations and swore fealty. To him or to the firm, he wondered, though he knew the answer. He also called Colin Greeley’s office.

“Did you bomb the ERs, Jack?” The older man asked bluntly.

Jack was too surprised to object. “Hell, no.”

“I didn’t think so. One more question: Could that be you in the picture?”

This time Jack hesitated. “The guy looks as if it could be me, right down to the glasses and the scar. But it isn’t, I swear. I don’t know who that guy is. Or who took the picture.”

“I believe you. Unfortunately, you may get tried in the court of public opinion. Now law enforcement is looking for evidence—real evidence—but social media exerts a lot of pressure. I’m not worried you’ll be convicted; I’m worried about your reputation.”

“I don’t care about—”

“You should. You should care about your standing and your job and the effect this will have on your teenagers, kids who are already suffering the loss of their mother. You know as well as I do how hard it is to counter a lie once it spreads. We need to smash the story to pieces before you’re publicly identified as the bomber. Sure, we can spend the rest of your life and your bank account in court fighting the stories but we’ve both got better things to do.”

Jack felt deflated. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want a detailed account of where you were and what you were doing the time of each of the bombings. Physical receipts, digital footprints, photos, witnesses, anything. It’s only been ten days. I can send over our private detective—”

“Not necessary. I can get you what you want.”

“Good. Send everything to me; I’ll give you a private email address. Don’t use your laptop to send anything to me, though. In fact, don’t turn it on until I get a tech to look at it. Find an Internet coffee shop near you, if those things still exist. Or use a burner phone.”

“Jesus.”

“You’ve got two hours, Jack. I want everything by lunchtime.”

Jack stopped at a drugstore and bought a throwaway phone with the biggest screen he could find. He went home, sat down with a pad of paper and wrote down everything he could remember about what he was doing when the bombs went off over the course of a single week. He was in the office during one incident (and he suspected the FBI agents knew it), and at lunch during another. He kept receipts, no problem. At the time of the third bombing, he was in his car but likely on the phone, which meant a digital record of his calls.

He pulled everything into a folder, sent it to Greeley via his burner. Then he went into his studio out back and spent the afternoon working out his frustrations.

After a long, hot shower, he cooked a casserole the kids liked. The dish was his wife’s creation but he had the time and the inclination. Greeley called at three with a press release he had ready to go “if we need to pull the trigger.”

“What does that mean?”

“One of the injured bombing victims died an hour ago. The police are now as invested as the Bureau, maybe more so. My sources in the mayor’s office says they are close to making an arrest. We need to make sure it’s not you. I’m headed down there now. Stay calm and stay away from the news.”

Amy arrived home at five, her eyes full of questions. “Not one word about bombings or look-alikes until we eat,” Jack announced. Paul and Amy complied. They devoured the casserole for which they expressed unqualified enthusiasm and filled every pause with mindless chatter. Jack didn’t know whether to feel guilty or lucky.

The doorbell rang as they were cleaning up. At the front door, a man and a woman identified themselves as Detectives Jason Leeds and Rea Gonzalez. Short and broad-shouldered, with olive skin, dark eyes, and walnut-brown hair, they could have been cousins. In the thickening gloom, Jack made out three uniforms behind them, along with a swirl of red and blue lights.

“Sorry to bother you at dinner, Mr. Gill,” Leeds said without a trace of apology. “We’re just following up on a few items related to the ER bombings. I guess you’ve heard it’s a homicide investigation now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Detective. I’m not sure why you’re here, though.” He tapped out a quick text and held up his phone. “Shall I contact my lawyer?”

“By all means, Mr. Gill. Although we have a warrant to search your house.”

Jack held out his hand. “May I see it?”  He took his time, looking over the paper as carefully as possible. Though he had no legal training, he was an intelligent man and on high alert.

“This warrant was issued based on what evidence?” he asked “Besides a look-alike photo originally circulated by a dubious website?”

“We can certainly go over that with you when your lawyer arrives,” Baez said.

“We can certainly wait until he does,” Jack responded, his arms folded.

“Sir, that’s not how this works—”

“Dad, what’s going on?” Amy, from the landing, Paul on her heels.

“Detectives?” One of the uniforms came to the door. “There’s a shed of some kind around the back you’ll want to see. It’s padlocked.”

“Excuse us,” Leeds said. He pivoted on his heel and headed back out the door. Jack, Amy, and Paul were right behind. They caught up with the officers grouped around the locked shed.

Jack’s cell phone pinged. A text from Greeley. “Do not engage.” As if he were a foot soldier in a larger war.

Like hell I won’t.

“You can’t go in there.”

Baez turned to him. “I assume you have the key?”

“You have no right—”

“We have every right,” Leeds interjected. “The warrant includes any and every part of your property. Besides which, we’ve had reports of suspicious activity…”

“Who—?”

“Will you unlock this door or will we break the padlock?”  Baez asked.

“Do not touch that,” Jack said, his voice choking. He stepped forward; a policeman put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Daddy, do it!” Jack’s heart constricted at the fear in his daughter’s voice.

Another ping. A text, but not for Jack.

“Hang on, Baez,” Leeds said. “It’s from the chief.”

“I heard something,” Baez insisted. “Sounds like someone in there.”

“Bullshit,” Jack said.

“Probable cause. Bust it.”

Leeds was talking urgently on his phone. “Baez, wait! We got a hit—”

Baez and three officers pushed through the door, weapons drawn. Baez flipped a wall switch; the space was bathed in ambient light from a mix of utilitarian overhead fixtures and a couple of well-placed floor lamps. “What the ever-loving hell?” she exclaimed.

They’d entered a simple room, really just four walls of corrugated material with a single entrance, a single window, and a pressed wood floor. A tool-laden workbench stood to their left. In the far corner dozens of boxes were piled almost haphazardly. Floor to ceiling shelving lined the other three walls.

The shelves were filled with toys: action figures, stuffed animals, music boxes, squirt guns, jump ropes, building blocks, and dolls of every shape and style. The boxes in the corner held playthings in various stages of disrepair. A one-eyed Teddy bear sat rakishly on the edge of the table, which also held paint brushes and what appeared to be a sewing kit.

“What is this, Santa’s workshop?” muttered an officer.

“Holy crap, Dad, this is what you do to relax?” Paul demanded.

“Yeah, it is. Since your mother died. I collect old toys, restore them and get them to daycare centers and a couple of schools and yes, area hospitals. I enjoy the work, I’m good at it and I prefer to stay anonymous.” He turned to Baez. “Guess you took care of that.”

“Baez, dammit, I’ve been trying to tell you—” Leeds rushed in, looked around and whistled. “Did we just bust Santa?”

Baez set her mouth in a grim line. “Look around, see if there are any hidden doors or stairs.”

“Baez, stop. First of all, it’s a freaking shed. There’s no hidden anything. Second, I just got a text from the captain. They’ve got the bomber.”

“What?”

“Guy was fired last year from Star. He lost his apartment, moved in with his mother, worked secretly for months on the bombs. She persuaded him to turn himself in. Everything lines up. He’s even got a scar on his chin, same as our Mr. Gill.”

Amy got up in Leeds’s face. “’Our’ Mr. Gill?” she yelled. “You hassled my father, scared us half to death and broke into his shed for nothing?”

“Miss Gill—”

“Amy.” Jack put an arm around each of his kids and faced the detectives. “I assume your search warrant is vacated. I’d like you to leave. Now.”

Baez disappeared without a word. The three uniforms followed her.

Leeds cleared his throat. “About my partner. She gets—well, she’s pretty dedicated to her job. Look, I’m sure if you approach the department, they’ll cover whatever damage done to your door.”

Jack said nothing, only pulled his children closer to him.

Leeds turned to leave, then turned back. “I’m sorry about all of this, Mr. Gill. And I’m sorry about your wife. I hope they catch the son of a bitch who drove the car. At least we got a name. Gavin Sorensky. Now we just have to find the man. It’s been almost a year.” He shook his head.

Jack nodded but kept silent.

The family followed the detective and watched him exchange a few angry words with his partner. Five officers piled into two cars and left. The small knot of curious neighbors remained.   two cars drove away.

“Let’s handle this now,” he told his children and walked up to the gathering. “The police thought I was the ER bomber,” he announced. “Can you believe that? They were about to take the house apart when they got a call. They caught the real one. Luck break, right?” He said nothing about the workshop; he even managed a chuckle.

“They did?” asked one as the rest dove for their phones to pull up news reports. Relief spread through the group like wildfire. There followed predictable expressions of sympathy mixed with outrage. Words and phrases tumbled over each other, something about excessive force, invasion of privacy, how hard it must have been on the kids, and the excitement of being in close proximity to an event that couldn’t hurt them.

Later, Jack sat Amy and Paul down and outlined what they could and could not say on social media. “Guys, what I’m about to ask is hard. Don’t talk about what happened on social media.” Amy flinched while Paul tried for an innocent expression. “Ideally, I’d ask for a total blackout, but you’re only human. One or both of you will tell a friend.”

He held up a hand against their protests. “Do me a favor, though,” he continued. “Don’t exaggerate. Don’t dramatize. Don’t go on about police brutality. No one was injured and nothing was touched except a padlock. And please do NOT mention the workshop.”

“You’re not going to sue the police?” Amy sounded incredulous.

“Amy, do you remember the diary you kept when you were eleven?”

“Why?”

“It was private, wasn’t it? For your eyes only. Nothing you shared with anyone. Well, my workshop is my diary. Honestly, I feel kind of violated that anyone saw it. Like someone went into my underwear drawer. So, no, I don’t want to make this a public thing. Okay?”

They agreed. Jack knew it was a lot to ask of his teenagers. On the other hand, he loved and trusted his children.

The next day, Jack shaved, put on his favorite glasses, cooked breakfast for his family and went into work. He checked online to read about the bomber. The man looked nothing like Jack. He was shorter, stockier and younger by a decade. They shared only the dark glass frames and the chin scar in common.

Jack put up with a fair amount of backslapping and covert grinning at the office. Lots of implied “attaboys” and “we always had your back,” neither of which he believed for a minute. He didn’t take it personally; he didn’t need to.

He came home to an empty house—Amy and Paul had parent-approved plans—fixed a sandwich, grabbed a bottle of water and went straight to the workshop. He repaired the splintered door and replaced the padlock. After about an hour, he walked out and behind the shed to an industrial trashcan. With a grunt, he rolled the receptacle to reveal twin doors beneath that led to an old root cellar. Also padlocked.

He got the doors open easily enough; he’d installed new hinges last year. Holding the sandwich and the water in one hand and a flashlight in the other, he carefully descended a short ladder to a dank cellar, really little more than an unfinished hole. He pulled on the overhead bulb. The dirt floor was covered with a filthy mat. In one corner stood an overflowing bucket, in the other, huddled under a threadbare blanket, a skeletal form. The stench, a mélange of waste, mildew, fear, and despair, was overwhelming. Jack was used to it.

He threw the sandwich and the bottle at the blanketed shape and watched the hand and arm that emerged. Little more than skin and bones, really. Jack continued to be amazed at how resilient humans could be. And how patient. He almost smiled.

He pulled a small book from his pocket and thumbed to a well-worn page.

“Eat up, Mr. Sorensky,” he commanded the man who’d taken his wife’s life. “Then we’ll go over today’s lesson on rules of the road. Maybe we’ll make a responsible driver of you yet.”

Oct 022018
 

Dear friends: I love meeting readers. One of the best ways to do that is through book clubs. I’ve appeared before several since the release of The Former Assassin. I’ve interacted with members in person or via Skype. The experience keeps me on my toes; it’s also great fun.

I want to celebrate book clubs this month in several ways. I’ve interviewed a good friend who is a dedicated clubber. Her curiosity and enthusiasm for reading are contagious. She loves to read. In other words, she is an author’s dream!

I’m also running a month-long book club special that include deep discounts on ten or more print orders along with a free Skype or (if possible) in person appearance (“meet the author”) as well as an Amazon Kindle giveaway beginning October 14th.

Meanwhile, enjoy the interview with book clubber extraordinaire Sue Phillips.

Sue Phillips1. How did you become a book clubber?
I’ve always loved reading. My mom, a voracious reader, always said that one could never be truly lonely if there was a book to read (she also always said if you could read, you could cook, but that one hasn’t always worked for me!) I’ve moved around a lot (New York, Denver, San Francisco Bay Area, Missouri, now back on the East Coast), and book clubs have always helped me meet people and get involved in a new area.

When we first moved to Princeton, NJ, we didn’t know anyone. Learning that there was not a book club I could join in our community, I decided to start one. I put it in our Community newsletter, selected The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah and 12 people showed up! We’ve been meeting for almost three years and not only has the group filled my need for book discussions, it’s given me friendships and a sense of belonging.

2. Tell us about your first club.
It began with a group of friends who started reading the same books and thought, why not get together to discuss them? It was part social, part discussion and always fun! Over the years, members left, new members joined, but being a part of that group always remained a constant.

3. What books did you read in that first club?
I remember The Birth Order Book by Dr. Kevin Leman (1998 Baker Publishing Group), where the discussion was much more of a personal nature to The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory (2001, Scribner), where we wore tiaras and drank champagne—how courtly.

4. What do you get out of book clubs?
I love getting exposed to different authors and different genres of books. It takes me out of my comfort zone. It has also made me more aware of how many good books there are out there and please give me enough time to read them!

5. What’s the most interesting observation you’ve made about belonging to book clubs?
I’m always amazed when someone has a totally different perspective on a book. Usually it will be varying degrees of like/love or dislike; but sometimes someone comes up with a totally different way of looking at a character or a theme, and there’s an epiphany! Wow! I may never think or look at “that” the same way again! That to me is fascinating.

6. Do you ever get to meet the author?
Besides the wonderful Nikki Stern, who enthralled our book club, there were 2 writers who visited a book club I was in several years ago. One gave us the historical background of the area we were living in, the other the beginning steps on how to get published. Very different but also interesting.

7. Does your book club have a designated discussion leader?
Not really. I am the one that usually does all the correspondence: reminder of meetings, the book selections we have made, getting the meeting started, etc. but I like to defer to whoever recommended the book to start the discussion.

8. Do you (or does your leader) predetermine discussion themes or are your discussions more free-wheeling?
Our discussions are much more free-wheeling but it depends on the book. When this book club first started, we relied more on Book Club discussion questions and reviews, but now we are comfortable just discussing the book. We also try to balance heavy themed books with lighter ones. While gives us a nice balance, it also means that some meetings can get very intense while others are lighter and a bit more social.

9. Who would you recommend join a book club?
I would recommend a book club to anyone who wants to broaden their interests and is open to new things. Reading is wonderful, but being able to share your thoughts with others, enriches the experience. Discussing ideas and characters, listening to different perspectives, looking at topics and situations from someone else’s viewpoint, these all make me feel more connected.