Chaos

CHAPTER 21

I SCROLL THROUGH THE LATEST news feeds, and so far so good.

There’s no mention of the police or personnel from my office working a bicycle accident, an assault or anything else at the edge of the Harvard campus. I see nothing about a dead body in a Cambridge park or even the most vague allusion to the developing situation on the waterfront that the alleged Interpol investigator mentioned to Marino.

I come across nothing I consider a cause for concern except what Benton told me earlier about the elevated terror advisory. I skim an online article in the Washington Post about the bulletin published earlier today:

… The Secretary of Homeland Security has issued a National Terrorism Threat Advisory alert due to an imminent threat against transportation hubs, tourist hot spots, and the sites of major public events such as sporting competitions and concerts. Of specific concern are possible planned attacks in Washington, D.C., Boston and their neighboring communities. This is based on detailed chatter U.S. intelligence has intercepted on the Internet suggesting these potential targets, and that self-radicalized homegrown actor(s) could strike with little or no notice…

When the status has gone from elevated to imminent the threat is considered credible and impending, and that makes me wonder about airport security. It will have been beefed up-especially in Boston. That may be why my sister’s plane was delayed. It could explain why the TSA was overwhelmed in Fort Lauderdale, the line of passengers out the terminal and on the sidewalk “unless you’re first class like me,” as my sister informed Lucy, who then passed it along to the rest of us.

I don’t have any updates directly from Dorothy. She can’t be bothered to tell me she’s running late or that she’s on the plane. I had to get the information secondhand, and even so I don’t know what to expect. I guess it really doesn’t matter since I’m not the one picking her up anyway, and I feel a twinge I recognize as disappointment with a sprinkle of hurt for good measure.

A part of me expects more of my only sister. I always have, and for me to feel that way after all I’ve been through with her is not only baseless it’s irrational. It’s time to get over it. Dorothy has always been exactly who she is, and for me to hope for anything better reminds me of a quote attributed to Einstein: Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

Dorothy is predictable. She does the same thing repeatedly and expects not a different result but the same one she got the last time she did whatever she wants with little regard for anyone else. So maybe she’s the sane one, I think ruefully, and as I go through my messages and alerts I’m surprised that General John Briggs just tried to get hold of me. For some reason I missed a call from his home phone minutes ago.

I have a special ring tone for all of his numbers, and I make sure my ringer is turned on. It is. But it was silent, and I don’t know why because our electronic communications are excellent in here. They have to be. Lucy makes sure of it in all of our vehicles, utilizing range extenders, boosters, repeaters or whatever it takes. And I’m seriously beginning to wonder if there’s something wrong with my smartphone. It isn’t one you can buy in a store or online, is virtually hack-proof according to Lucy. But maybe she’s wrong. It depends on who’s doing the hacking.

She’s constantly developing special apps and encryption software that aren’t available on the open market, doing everything possible to make sure our computers, radios, phones and other devices are as secure as anything can be in this day and age. But nothing is infallible. I touch the PLAY arrow, expecting to hear the voice of the chief of the Armed Forces Medical Examiners, the head of U.S. medical intelligence, my friend and former mentor Briggs.

But it’s his wife who tried to reach me, and I know instantly that her news won’t be good. A classic military spouse from an earlier more traditional era, Ruthie has devoted her life to her formidable husband, moving with him whenever his newest orders have come in, running interference and enabling him while she prays he doesn’t get hurt, kidnapped or killed in the destabilized war-ravaged hellholes he frequents.

Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Turkey, Cameroon, Yemen, and she’s never really sure. Often she’s not told but lives the anguish of knowing that whenever he boards a military transport jet or lands on an aircraft carrier she may never see him again. Her life has been Briggs and nothing but Briggs, and if she doesn’t want someone to access him, that person won’t, including me. Depending on what’s at stake, if he doesn’t want to deal with me directly, it’s Ruthie I hear from.

So I’m accustomed to her mediation, her triangulation, and now and then it tests my patience. But she sounds unusually raw and emotional in the message she’s just left, and I can’t tell if she’s been crying, drinking, is sick or maybe all of the above. I play the voice mail again. Then again, pausing at intervals, listening carefully, trying to determine if something is wrong with her or if she’s simply feeling bad about the reason she’s calling. I’m pretty sure I know what it is. I’ve been expecting it.

“Kay? It’s Ruthie Briggs,” she begins in her slow Virginia drawl, and she sounds tired and congested. “I’m hoping you’ll pick up. Are you there?” she says stuffily. “Hello, Kay?” She clears her throat. “Are you there? I know how busy you are but please pick up. Well when you get this please call me. I want to make sure you’ve been told…”

But her voice is muffled, and then it’s as if she’s swallowed her words and I can scarcely hear her. It occurs to me that she might be holding something, perhaps tissues in front of her face, and that she’s turning away from the phone as she speaks.

“For the next little while I’m at this number, then… Well as you can imagine there’s a lot to do, and I just can’t believe…” Her voice quavers. “… Well please call me as soon as you can.” In her befuddlement she leaves her phone number as if I don’t have it.

And the voice mail abruptly ends.

IF WHAT I SUSPECT has come to pass, there’s no reason for Ruthie to be upset. It couldn’t be helped, and at least the cancellation isn’t as last minute as it could have been.

All along I’ve been primed for getting a call literally right before Briggs and I are supposed to be onstage at the Kennedy School. At least I’ve been given almost twenty-four hours’ notice, and it’s not like I haven’t been warned repeatedly. He’s told me from day one that he might not be able to appear with me tomorrow night. It all depends on the mood at the Pentagon and NASA, he’s said, and he’s apologized in advance for what’s probably just happened.

Most likely Ruthie tried to reach me to tell me I’m on my own tomorrow night. Briggs won’t be on the panel with me. So it’s not really a panel anymore because that leaves me alone onstage. But I’ll manage, and it occurs to me that were I to step outside the mobile command center I could see the imposing red-brick complex from here, tucked behind trees.

The Kennedy School backs up to the park, and I can’t help but think about how everything seems weirdly linked and familiar. It’s as if I’m traversing a landscape that’s turned out to be an intricate maze, and I don’t know how big it is, what it connects or how to get out.

I’m not going to learn anything further about why Briggs has had to cancel until I talk to him, assuming I can reach him. He also could have been deployed somewhere, and I know how much he hates to let anyone down, especially me. Big Army man that he is, he’ll duck a confrontation if it includes being the bearer of bad news. I redial his and Ruthie’s home number. No one answers, and I hear a peculiar clicking on the line.

“Ruthie, it’s Kay. I’m sorry I missed you,” I leave her a voice mail, and now I’m hearing an echo as if two of me are talking on top of each other. “For some reason my phone didn’t ring. I’m working an outdoor scene and may be in spots where the signal is bad or I can’t answer. But please keep trying me.”

Then I send a text to Harold and Rusty, making sure that one of our transport vans is on the way. It may have to wait awhile but let’s go ahead and get it here, I tell them.

10-4, Boss. Moving slow. Unavoidable. Stay cool ALAP, which is Rusty speak for as long as possible, and he includes a frowning, red-faced emoji.

On the right side of the trailer, beyond the galley, is a deep stairwell that leads outside. My Tyvek-covered shoes thud down the metal steps, and at the bottom I open the door. I emerge outside in the hot night and am blinded by blazing HID headlights. I hear the guttural rumble of a powerful engine. I smell high-octane gasoline exhaust that can’t be coming from the mobile command center’s auxiliary diesel generator. Then everything goes silent and black.

“Hello?” A thrill of fear touches the roots of my hair as I hear the swish of grass, of someone walking fast. “Who is it? Who’s there?”

A lean figure materializes in the night like a ghost rushing toward me.

“AUNT KAY, IT’S ME. Don’t be startled,” Lucy says, but it’s too late.

My adrenaline is out the gate. Flustered, I click on my tactical light then point it down so I don’t blind her. Just as quickly I turn off the bloody thing, feeling foolish, then angry.

“Dammit, Lucy!” My heart is flying, my thoughts scattered like a flock of crazed birds. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” My pulse pounds. “Jesus. It’s a good thing I don’t have a gun.”

“I don’t know if it’s a good thing. Especially now.”

“I could have shot you. I’m not joking.”

“There’s nothing to joke about, and I wasn’t sneaking.” She’s scanning all around us as if we’re not alone. “I just this second pulled up and saw you walking out. I was coming to find you.”

“Why?” I take a deep slow breath, and the hot air seems to barely fill my lungs.

“I’m glad you’re okay.” She looks at me, then back at the street, and up and around as if we’re about to be attacked.

“What do you mean especially now? What’s going on?” Something is, and she’s in high gear. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“You’ve been leaving me messages,” she says, and I detect the brittleness in her voice, the flinty aggression. “So here I am. Let’s go inside.”

I recognize her mood and probably know what it means. “I didn’t demand we talk in person. I have a simple question, and a phone call would have been fine. I was going to ask you to search a name for me-”

“It’s too hot out here,” she cuts me off, not seeming to listen.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t like what’s going on.” Her staring eyes are deep-set shadows, her mouth grim.

“Someone’s dead, and there’s nothing to like about that or a lot of things at the moment.” But I know that’s not what she means.

“I don’t like it,” she repeats, and her attention is everywhere again. “I’ve been trying to tell you. There are things you don’t know, and it’s fucked up.” Her low voice is fierce in the dark, and I get a feeling deep down, a mixture of emotions that I can’t easily describe.

Disappointment. Frustration. The numbness of homicidal rage turned stony and cold like something ancient that’s petrified. I’ve become increasingly desensitized, especially in recent years, and it’s true about crying wolf. Lucy may not do it audibly but I know when a certain subject is constantly on her mind.

She rarely comes across as excitable. She’s not the sort to go off the rails, to be impetuous, to act nervous or scared or raise her voice. But she can’t fool me. I can always sense when she’s about to fly apart the way she is right now. It won’t be pretty. It never is. When she gets like this I usually know why. Or better stated, I have a good idea who it’s about.

“What is it that’s fucked up, Lucy?” I brace myself for what’s next as my eyes adjust to the dark again.

I’m pretty sure I know what she’s going to say. I could have predicted her reaction after the 911 complaint that we now think was made with voice-altering software. If she knew about another bogus call a little while ago, this one supposedly from Interpol, she’d be only more convinced of her curdled worldview. Lucy accepts as unimpeachable her own version of original sin, which is that all horrors and humiliations come from the same malignant source.

As if there’s only one devil. Only one mortal enemy. Only one cancer. And if only that were true.

“Let’s go inside and get something to drink.” Her face is so close to mine I can smell cinnamon on her breath and the subtle spiciness of her Escada men’s cologne.

She’s acting as if we’re being watched. Maybe she worries she was followed here, and I stare past her at what’s parked behind the CFC truck. She jokingly considers her Ferrari FF a family car because it has a backseat and a boot for luggage.

I can’t make out the color in the dark. I know it’s a vivid shade of blue called Tour de France, and the interior is quilted cuoio or a racing-yellow Italian leather. But she could have thundered up in anything, an Aston Martin, a Maserati, a McLaren, a different Ferrari.

Lucy is a genius. I don’t use the word lightly or as a term of endearment. It’s not an adoring aunt’s hyperbole but an accurate description of someone who by the age of ten was programming software, building computers and acquiring patents for all sorts of inventions. Before Lucy was old enough to buy liquor or vote she’d earned an incomprehensible fortune from creating search engines and other technologies.

While still in her teens she landed on the young and filthy-rich list, she likes to quip, and began to indulge her passion for helicopters, motorcycles, speedboats, jets and other fast machines. She can pilot pretty much anything, and I focus my attention on her all-wheel-drive FF with its long sloping nose parked silently, darkly on the grass. She drove it to work this morning, and the reason I’m certain of this is because the Ferrari was picked up by the CFC security cameras while I was upstairs in my office, sitting at my desk with its multiple computer displays.

On one of them I watched Lucy drive her four-hundred-thousand-dollar so-called family car inside the bay where ambulances and other transport vehicles pick up and deliver bodies. Not even the cops can park in there, and I was unhappily reminded that often she tucks her expensive modes of transportation out of the dirt and grime, out of the weather. It’s rather selfish, and now and then some members of the staff make comments. But that’s not what has me thinking about this now. It’s the flight suit she has on.

When the cameras picked up Lucy this morning as she climbed out of her electric-blue 650 horsepower V-12 coupe, she was wearing ripped-up jeans, a baggy T-shirt and sneakers. I remember she was holding a large coffee, and slung over a shoulder was her tactical black backpack, roomy with lots of compartments, basically a portable office and armory.

Now that I’m thinking about it, the backpack is what she typically carries when she’s flying somewhere. Then at some point today she changed into one of her flame-resistant flight suits in lightweight khaki Nomex, the CFC crest embroidered in red and blue on the left chest pocket. It’s not uncommon for her to fly her twin-engine bird whenever and wherever she pleases.

But it’s late. It’s pitch dark. We’re in the middle of an extreme weather alert and a difficult death scene. Her mother is on a plane headed to Boston. I don’t understand.

“I’m wondering why you changed your clothes.” I bring it up tactfully, and she looks down at her flight suit as if she’s forgotten what she has on. “Are you flying somewhere? Or maybe you were earlier?”

But it wouldn’t make sense. At its most miserable today the temperature crept past a hundred degrees with more than 70 percent humidity. The hotter and more humid it is, the less efficient the helicopter, and Lucy is meticulous about weather conditions. She has to factor in payload, torque, engine temperatures, and I think back to how many times I was around her today.

At a staff meeting, on the elevator, and I ran into her in the break room when I was looking for Bryce. The last time I saw her probably was around four P.M. after I left the autopsy room with my assistant chief, Dr. Zenner, and we walked past the PIT.

Lucy was inside replacing several projectors, and we chatted with her for a while. She wasn’t in a flight suit then.