Black Friday

CHAPTER 40

Maggie found a Pepsi machine and ice maker off the crowded lobby. Wurth had managed to get them hotel rooms. Even had her bag delivered from the back of the SUV. She got the impression that once you earned Charlie Wurth's respect he took good care of you. Not something she was used to, especially lately with A.D. Kunze.

As the last of the injured were cared for, the hotel's ballroom, reception area and lobby slowly transformed into an information center for families to reconnect and to find out about loved ones. Screams and cries—some out of sadness, some out of relief—mixed with greetings and a litany of instructions. The front revolving doors swirled continuously, bringing in a constant stream of cold air and a new wave of victims, their families or responders.

Maggie gently eased her way through the crowded lobby, nudging and excusing herself. The constant press of bodies and steady hum of voices made it feel like forever to get across to the bank of elevators.

The hotel was large, an eight-story convention center, but the holidays and its proximity to Mall of America ensured it was packed with regular customers. This overflow of injured and worried families created an additional energy and caused a commotion of its own. In the midst of all of it, Maggie had noticed the disjointed line of guests dragging their suitcases and waiting to check out. A good deal of frightened guests—concerned about the bombings not being over or confined to the mall—wanted to be gone, leaving rooms available for law enforcement and medical personnel. Maggie didn't realize how grateful she was that Wurth had snatched up several of those rooms until she closed the door to her own. Now as she tried to make her way back there with her Diet Pepsi and bucket of ice, she realized how dead tired she was.

Once inside the elevator the noise disappeared, like turning off the volume of a loudspeaker. The cries and shouts and mumblings were replaced by Christmas music. At first, Maggie only noticed the change because of the drastic difference. As she left the elevator and started for her room, the music followed her down the hallway. Then she recognized it as a nice change. A soothing change.

She usually survived the Christmas season by ignoring it as best as possible but there were certain elements that reminded her of a pleasant time in her childhood, what she called the prefire days. Music of the season was one of those things that she took heart in.

Maggie was twelve when her father was killed, a firefighter running back into a flaming house to save the occupants. People told her she should be proud her father died a hero. As a child Maggie thought that was a ridiculous thing to tell her because, of course, she would rather have a live father than a dead hero.

Christmases after his death were usually as unpredictable as they were untenable. It depended on how early in the day—or the evening before—her mother decided to start the festivities and who the guests would be—Jim Beam, José Cuervo or Jack Daniel. If the year had been especially successful, Johnnie Walker might replace all the others.

As an adult, Maggie had tried—in the beginning, at least—to start some new holiday traditions with her now ex-husband, Greg. But as a young and rising star in a prestigious law firm, Greg had always been more concerned with being seen at the right holiday parties and leaving lasting impressions with expensive gifts that he'd later grumble about not being able to afford. There were no quiet moments putting up a tree, no midnight masses with inspiring messages of hope, no family feasts around a crowded table. After a while the Christmas season became something Maggie just got through.

But every once in a while something would remind her of Christmases before the fire—happy, wonderful times that now after twenty years seemed almost a figment of her imagination. Earlier she thought she had seen someone who looked like her father—down in the crowded lobby—so he was already on her mind.

As she placed her key card into her hotel room's door the next song began: "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." Without warning she remembered her father singing the same words and that Christmas came back to her in a flood of memories so vivid they couldn't possibly be made up by her imagination.

The three of them—her mother and father and Maggie—had spent the afternoon trudging through the snow at a Wisconsin tree farm. Their mission to find and cut down "the most magical Christmas tree in the field."

"How will we know it's magical?" She wanted to know but her father just kept shaking his head and saying, "We'll recognize it when we see it."

Maggie had been eleven that Christmas. She was too old to believe in Santa or magic. When her father finally stopped and pointed to the tree he wanted, she thought it looked suspiciously like all the others they had declined. But her father loved to make a special event out of their outings and she and her mother played along. That night they decorated the tree, sipping hot chocolate and singing Christmas carols. At the time they had no idea it was to be their last Christmas together. Perhaps that alone was what ended up being magical about it.

Inside the room, Maggie checked the time. She set aside the ice bucket. The ice was for her bruises, not the soda. She guzzled half the Diet Pepsi while she started pulling off her dirty clothes. Her suitcase lay open on one of the double beds. She wished she had time for a shower before their press conference, but she'd settle for a change of clothes. She turned on the TV only to fill the quiet, glancing briefly. Then she stopped completely.

The scene being played out looked like an episode of the reality show,

Cops

It was, in fact, the local news. The camera had captured her chase of the young Sudanese boy. It wasn't the first time the channel was playing it. The anchors were commenting as though they had seen it over and over and were now doing an instant replay analysis.

"Here it is," the woman said just as Maggie watched herself jump up onto the hood of the compact car.

"Whoa," the two anchors joined together.

"That had to hurt," the woman added but she said it like she was a proud mother. "We've just learned that agent, Special Agent Margaret O'Dell, is a profiler from Quantico who is here at the request of Governor Williams."

A professional photo of Maggie appeared in the corner of the television screen.

The anchor continued, "Special Agent O'Dell was able to assist and tell local law enforcement that this teenaged boy was not one of the bombers simply by the profile she has already come up with for the homicide bombers. The boy—"

Maggie's cell phone started ringing.

On the television screen a photo of the boy was added alongside Maggie's.

"This is Maggie O'Dell."

"Some good news and some bad news," Charlie Wurth announced without a greeting.

"What's the good news?"

"You don't have to do the press conference. I'll join Chief Merrick and his home team for this one."

"Let me guess. A.D. Kunze doesn't want to exploit my escapade."

"Aw, so you're watching."

"Just turned on the TV. Looks like the local station caught it."

"Au contraire, cheri," he said giving his voice a pretty good New Orleans Cajun spin, "Networks just picked it up. CNN and FOX have it, too. You're a star."

"So I'm guessing that's the bad news."

"No, no. That's not it. Remember how disappointed your supervisor was about a half hour ago? Well, now he's fit to be tied. He did want me to tell you that we're all meeting down in the command center, ground level, room 119. Your presence is greatly appreciated. Why don't you wait and come down in about thirty minutes. I should be finished with the media by then and I'll do my best to play interference."

He was gone before she could thank him. She found the remote and clicked through the channels. Sure enough, there was the chase in various stages on different channels.

Her phone started ringing again. What had Wurth forgotten to tell her?

"This is Maggie O'Dell."

"Hey, it's Nick. What are you doing right now?" He sounded as casual as if he were asking her on a date. Obviously he hadn't seen a television yet.

"Having my nails done, followed by a spa treatment."

He laughed long and hard. Like someone who hadn't laughed in quite some time and didn't expect to right this moment. So long, in fact, that she had to wait for him. It made her smile.

Then he was serious, again. "We heard the fourth bomber was a false alarm. Are you okay?"

"A few bruises. I'm fine."

"Listen, Jerry and I just learned a few interesting things. I know we're all meeting over at the command center in a little bit, but I thought you might like a heads-up."

"So what did you learn?"

He told her about the bomb expert's findings. It only confirmed her suspicions, that the young men carrying the backpacks had no clue what was to happen today.

He told her that Jerry was downloading the best shots they had found of the five suspects and ended by asking if there was anything else she wanted them to bring.

"How 'bout a burger and fries," she said.

"I'll see what I can do."

He hung up before she could tell if he knew she was joking. With Morrelli it was hard to decipher. There had always been chemistry between them but otherwise they seemed out of sync with no common ground to rely on. Maybe she'd simply given up trying to figure it out.

She finished peeling off the rest of her clothes. Ironically the chase had been good for her, mentally as well as physically. A month ago she wasn't sure her body would hold up to those sorts of challenges ever again. She had felt weak and nauseated. A fever and nosebleeds sent her into a tailspin of panic, constantly wondering if the virus she had been exposed to might be replicating itself inside her body. At times she believed she could feel it exploding her blood cells. But she'd been lucky. She'd gone past the incubation stage and still showed no signs of the virus. Yes, she'd dodged yet another bullet, unlike Cunningham.

Now as she examined her injured right side she could see it had already started to turn blue and purple. Next to the scars on her torso, the bruises looked mild. No big deal. She'd accepted the fact that her body was becoming a road map of past cases. Told herself it came with the territory. When you tracked killers for a living, sometimes it got rough. Most of those memories had been safely compartmentalized. Eventually the fear and panic of the exposure would find its own compartment. Now if only she could do the same with her personal life.

Her friend Gwen Patterson, the professional psychologist whose past client list included killers as well as five-star generals, didn't believe in compartments. She oftentimes reminded Maggie that stuffing everything behind doors and into convenient little compartments of the mind sometimes had a way of backfiring.

"One of these days a few walls may crumble. Then what?"

She suggested Maggie find a way to sift through the good and bad. Learn how to hang onto the good stuff. But what if the good—those memories of her father—only reminded her of what's missing in her life? Maybe that's what Nick Morrelli was reminding her of, again. Too many things missing.

Maggie checked the time. A five-minute shower would definitely do her wonders. And then she needed to learn some things on her own. She pulled out her laptop and plugged it in on her way to the shower.