Echo of War

21

Selmani Hekuran and Amelia Root were dead.

The explosion had strewn pieces of the shack a quarter mile in every direction and left a truck-sized crater in the ground. Vegetation and trees around the crater were charred and stripped bare.

So far all that had been found of Selmani was a blackened chunk of hip bone. Mrs. Root’s body, however, had been found floating in the inlet, mostly intact but burned beyond recognition. According to the medical examiner, the hood she’d been wearing was a rayon/polyester blend and the heat of the explosion had virtually melted it to her skull.

Oliver’s team was shell-shocked. Having come to rescue a woman they’d never met, they’d nonetheless invested everything they had in securing her safe release. She was dead. They’d failed. A husband had lost his wife.

McBride in particular was heartbroken. He’d been within arm’s reach of her. She’d been right there—scared, alone, listening to the voice of a stranger pleading for her life … Her husband is worried. If I could tell him I’d heard her voice …

Again and again, McBride replayed his encounter with Selmani, second-guessing his every word and gesture until the incident became a blur. He wanted to go home, hug Libby, call his sons. He wanted to be sure his world was still intact.

Not yet, he told himself. There was one more thing to do.

After showering, shaving, and changing clothes at Nester’s house, McBride drove to Lancaster, thirteen miles to the north. He found the county morgue on the corner of East King and South Broad, tucked between an Irish pub and a pizza parlor. McBride hated morgues. For him, they were places of failure. For him, coming here had always meant a mother, father, husband, or wife wasn’t coming home safely.

He found a parking space and got out just as Oliver pulled in. “Get any sleep?” Oliver asked.

“Couple hours,” McBride replied. “You?”

“Nah. Things like this … I don’t even try anymore. I spent most of the night at the scene.”

“Did they come up with anything?”

“The device. Ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel residue.”

“Fertilzer bomb.”

“A big one — it was overkill. Either Selmani underestimated, mismeasured, or just plain wanted to make damned sure. They also found a chunk of what looks like a cell phone.”

“What about the others, his partners?”

“That’s going to be tough. My guess is, there’ll be a task force. This is Jonathan Root we’re talking about. They’re going to chase these guys to the ends of the earth.”

“I’d like to be in on that.”

“Me, too, but I doubt it’ll happen. Nobody’s blaming us, but the truth is, we’re bad karma now. We’ll consult, get debriefed, but the group’s gonna be at assistant director level.”

McBride sighed. “I’m sorry, Collin. I keep playing it in my head. Maybe if—”

“You did everything right—we did everything right. Selmani panicked and pushed the button.”

“I guess.” McBride glanced at his watch. “How soon?”

“Anytime now. The governor’s picking him up personally and driving him over.” Upon hearing of his wife’s death, Jonathan Root had demanded to see the body. McBride and Oliver had done their best to dissuade the former DO, but the man had been adamant. “The ME’s done his best to make her presentable,” Oliver said, “but I don’t think Root realizes how bad it is. It just hasn’t registered yet.”

They sat in the waiting room sipping tepid coffee until Root arrived. Preceded by the governor and a ring of bodyguards, the former DCI stepped through the door and looked around. McBride and Oliver stood up. Root walked over.

He looks bewildered, McBride thought. His eyes were red-rimmed and vacant. It had taken every bit of strength he had to make it here, Joe realized.

“Good morning, Mr. Root,” Oliver said.

“Agent Oliver … Joe.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” McBride said.

“Thank you.”

“I wish it would have turned out better.”

“As do I. You did your best, both of you. I know that. I’m sure Amelia knew it, too.”

Oh God, McBride thought. “That’s kind of you to say.”

“May I see her now?”

The Lancaster ME stepped forward. “Yes, sir, of course, but as I said, it’s not necessary.”

“It is for me … for her, too.” Root lifted his chin, took a deep breath. “Please take me to her.”

McBride winced at his first sight of the sheet-draped corpse. What had once been a living, breathing human being was now a misshapen lump of … nothing. The ME had done his best, of course, but there was no hiding the ravages of the explosion and fire.

Root walked stiffly into the small, windowless viewing room. The walls were painted a soft cream. The only furniture was the stainless-steel gurney. Overhead, a fluorescent light hummed. McBride caught the scent of heavy disinfectant; beneath it, the faint odor of decay.

The ME said, “Mr. Root, it’s important you understand the nature of your wife’s injuries.”

“Pardon me? It was a fire—”

“Yes, but with an explosion … She’s largely intact, but the concussive force … damaged her. She was also wearing a hood, which melted under the heat—”

Root’s head dropped. McBride could see his eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m sorry,” the ME murmured. “We’ve done our best to—”

“I understand. Go ahead, please.”

The ME stepped up, grabbed the edge of the sheet, and drew it down the table.

Amelia Root was charred from head to foot, save a few patches of raw, weeping flesh. She lay curled in a fetal ball, her hands clenched into fists against her chest. Her legs were obviously broken, but the damage was unlike anything McBride had ever seen. The force of the explosion had pulverized the bones, tendons, and ligaments, leaving her legs flattened and tapered like a pair of deflated balloons. Her head was a patchwork of melted rayon and matted and singed hair. Her facial features were obliterated, either rendered smooth where the hood had melted or gnarled by the flames.

Root stared at the corpse for a long ten seconds, then let out a low moan and lowered his head.

The ME covered the body. “We recovered her wedding ring. It’s partially melted, but …” He held out a small glassine envelope containing a yellowish oval.

Root blinked at it, then took it. He cleared his throat. “Did she … Did she suffer?”

“No, sir. The explosion would have caused instant death. She never felt a thing. Of course, the autopsy will determine the precise cause of—”

“No,” Root said. “No autopsy. She’s been through enough.”

“Sir, it’s standard procedure in cases like this. We need to compare dental records—”

“I don’t want her put through any more.” Root pulled a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to the ME. “I’d like her transported to that funeral home. The director is expecting your call.”

“I’ll be happy to make the arrangements, but the law requires me to conduct an—”

The governor stepped forward. “You’re authorized to waive the autopsy and release the body. My authority. I trust you don’t have a problem with that?”

“Uh, no, sir. If you authorize it—”

“I do. Make the arrangements.” The governor cupped Root’s elbow and led him toward the door. Root paused at the threshold and turned back to McBride and Oliver. “Thank you both. I appreciate everything you did.”

Thirty minutes later, McBride and Oliver were through their second beer at the pub across the street. It was just past noon. Most of the stools were empty. McBride, surprised to find the jukebox well stocked with seventies tunes, had plugged it full of quarters. “Hey Jude” by the Beatles was playing.

“I love this song,” Oliver said, “but it always make me sad.”

McBride stared at his glass. “Yeah, but it’s a good sad.”

“I guess. So what do you think about the autopsy thing?”

“I don’t know. I might feel the same way if I were him.”

“Me, too.”

“What bothers me is … Ah, hell, never mind.”

“What?”

McBride took a sip. “I was watching Root’s face when the ME pulled back the sheet.”

“And?”

“Collin, I’ve seen dozens of loved ones go through the exact same thing. I’ve watched mothers who were just told their baby is dead; I’ve stood face-to-face with fathers suspected of brutalizing and murdering their daughters. If you look close enough — if you know what you’re seeing — their eyes will tell you everything.”

“What’s your point?”

“I saw something in Root’s eyes.”

“Me, too — shock, horror—”

“You were looking at his face. I was looking at his eyes.”

Oliver shifted uncomfortably. He took a gulp of beer. “What’d you see?”

“Relief,” McBride replied. “There was a part of him that was horrified, but there was another part — something I can’t pin down — that was … overjoyed.”