Vanished (17 page)

"Are you crazy? You'd rather keep to the code than turn
in a terrorist?"

Cannon raised his hands. "Just sayin' we got to play this
smart. You got that, Mad Dog? Luther never came here. I
don't know him, you don't know him. You just heard this
from some other kids. OK?"

She nodded, eyes wide.

"Stay inside, OK? Until Mama gets back."

"Or you guys. Right?" She looked to her brother, and then to
Ben. "Tapley's not far. You'll be right back."

Ben smiled. "Yeah. We'll be back before you know it."

HEN LOGAN AND PAPPAS WERE A COUPLE BLOCKS
from the Tower, Hilary ran out of the crowd and
into Logan's arms.

"Oh, Jae," Hilary said. "I'm so scared."

For a long moment, all he could do was hold her and
surrender to the vibrant memories her scent aroused.

Their first date, hot dogs and beer in the bleachers at Fenway
Park. At nineteen, Hilary Sousa was sick of college boys and
eager to be with a real man. At twenty-two, Jason Logan had
already served as a marine in Bosnia, aced the police academy,
put a down payment on a two-family house, learned plumbing
and carpentry, and taken night courses in criminal justice.

Excelling in all the things real men did.

From a hardworking Portuguese family, Hilary was sick of
slackers, irked by posers, and bored with football players whose
only brush with danger came on Saturday mornings in pads
and helmets. She was no adrenaline junkie, but she said something about him in his patrolman uniform made her feel safe.

Hilary liked to feel safe.

Logan told himself to break out of her arms-there was work
to be done, people to help, a bomber to track. But as long as her
body fit his so perfectly, he held on.

On their wedding day, he breathed in the lilies of the valley
in her hair as he spoke his vows. Her voice wavered as she
promised to remain faithful forever.

The morning of her first day at a real job, she smelled of
cinnamon mouthwash. He kissed the tremor in the soft spot
below her lower lip, as if he could take away her fear while
leaving her sweetness.

Studying for the sergeant's exam, it was months of coffee for
him and Diet Coke for her. They celebrated when he passed, a
night with too much champagne and no birth control because
it was time for a baby anyway. Nothing happened, and then the
world skidded to a stop. Two days after September 11, Logan
was called back into the Marine reserves for four months of
duty in New York City. Hard, brutal work, but he was a good fit
for it because he was both soldier and cop. A couple quick trips
back to Massachusetts meant a positive pregnancy test in his
Christmas stocking.

Then two months of ginger ale and saltines and Hilary
pushing him away because she didn't want him to smell the
vomit on her breath. His only regret was having to hide his
giddy joy while she was so miserably nauseated.

The sweet scent of lotion during her labor as he rubbed her
belly and back. Kimmie born six weeks early but at a healthy
seven pounds, three ounces.

Holding his breath and the sour taste in his mouth when
Ma held her granddaughter for the first time. She didn't utter
a word of doubt about how a Korean man could father such
a fair-haired infant.

Mary Logan sang a Polish lullaby and clucked over
Kimmie as if she had her father's eyes. And she did, Logan
knew, though he never said a word because he adored his
daughter and loved his wife.

And so he forgave Hilary the worst of betrayals.

They agreed she would quit the job as Carlton Reynolds's
fund analyst to be a full-time mother. It meant giving up one
of the cars and not moving out of the two-family as they had
planned, but parents sacrificed for their children, didn't they? For the first four years, they managed the ruse and squeezed
out happiness. Each time he saw Kimmie's blue eyes and blonde
hair, he only saw joy and only gave love.

In the past year Hilary had changed, finding fault with his
work hours, his family, and finally his lovemaking. When Hilary
asked for a separation, he wasn't surprised. Sandra Reynolds
had died the month before.

It grieved him when Hilary filed for divorce.

But when she asked for a paternity test, he was shocked to
his bones, and furious. To rock his and his daughter's world
was so cruel and heartless. So wrong.

Just as she was so wrong now to cling to him as if he still
mattered. He pushed her away. "Where's Kimmie? Why aren't
you at the house with her?"

"I'm trying to get there, Jae. My car won't start."

"So walk up the hill. She shouldn't be alone right now."

"Can't you give me a ride?"

"We haven't found a car yet that's working."

"Even your cruiser?"

He shook his head.

"This is serious, isn't it?"

"It might be."

She clutched him, her tears dampening his shoulder. The
bulletproof vest beneath his shirt was no protection against
the memory of the last time she cried in his arms. She had
stunk of Carlton Reynolds's cologne and cigar smoke. "Why
can't you understand?" she had said. "It will better for Kimmie
if her mommy is happy and fulfilled."

Pappas barked at him. "Logan, we can't wait any longer.
Let's go."

"Hil, why don't you head over to Grace Church and wait
for me there? As soon as I take care of business, I'll take you
up to Walden."

She wrapped her arms around herself. "When would you
expect that to be?"

"As soon as humanly possible, Hilary. As soon as help
arrives.

HAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU CAN'T GET TO IT?" Maya
said. "Was there another bomb or something?"

She had sent Johnny Beck down to Rose of
Sharon nursing home to ask if they could take some patients.
He had come back a half-hour later, a stunned look on his face.

"I couldn't... " He dragged his hand over his face.

"Couldn't what?"

"I couldn't get past the ... what's in the sky. Except it comes
down to the ground over on Fourth and Lunenburg. I tried
going down the block and taking Fifth over, but ... it's too thick
to see into. Like a solid wall, but not really because you can see
stuff beyond, but it's stuff that's not supposed to be there."

"Johnny... "

"I know, it sounds nuts. It was like a million little strobe
lights. But if you just focus, you see, like, trees and grass,
but not our trees and grass. I decided just to suck it up and
go into the stuff. I bent down, kept my hand on the curbing
and tried to follow it in. But as soon as I got into that fog, the
sidewalk just ... seemed to disappear."

"I don't understand," Kaya said.

"I don't either. I saw some weird things back in 'Nam, but
nothing like this. What if it's a chemical attack or something
messing with our heads?"

Kaya couldn't think of that possibility, not now. Too much
to do. "Thanks for trying, Johnny. We'll keep Grace our base
of operations, do our best until help arrives."

"I'll get back to my shop and round up food to feed your
volunteers," he said.

"Awesome. That would be a big help."

Kaya got back to work, praying for the moment she heard the
sirens. She had sent volunteers out to canvass the streets, see
if they could find a physician. For now, the responsibility for
delivering high-level care rested squarely on her shoulders.

Word had gotten out that injured were being treated in the
basement of Grace Community Church. People came from
up and down University demanding to have their lacerations
stitched, their bruises iced, and their fears soothed. Kaya
refused to treat anything as inconsequential as a turned ankle
or scraped knee and was already taking heat for it. Too many
seriously injured to stop and put a Band-Aid on a cut.

Most of the serious injuries were from flying glass or the
various car crashes. Kaya had splinted two broken wrists,
hopeful that Tylenol with codeine and a quiet place to sit
would tide these patients over until real help came. Some
residents of Lindenwood Road had taken it upon themselves
to haul their mattresses to Grace so the badly injured didn't
have to lie on the floor.

She had two open fractures-one ankle and one tibia-that
could rapidly devolve into trouble without the ministrations
of an orthopedic surgeon. The best Kaya could do was wash
the skin where the bone protruded, isolate the patients so they
wouldn't move, and dope them up so they wouldn't care.

Though she had antibiotics, she hesitated to administer them.
She was not equipped to deal with a severe allergic reaction.
The elderly woman with the broken ankle was frightened and
unable to assist in her care. The girl with the fractured leg was
only fifteen and didn't know her own medical history. If help
didn't arrive soon, Kaya would have to start both women on a
broad-spectrum antibiotic and hope for the best.

Antibiotics wouldn't help the middle-aged plumber with
internal injuries. His blood pressure inched steadily downward.
A male college student had a pneumothorax in the left lung. If
the other lung went, she'd have to try to insert a chest tube.

One man had a badly torn bicep. Kaya had had to pull the
shard of glass from the man's arm and dress it with a pressure
bandage. If he didn't start intravenous antibiotics in the next
few hours, he'd also be in danger of sepsis.

Why was she thinking like that? These people would be at St.
Vincent's or UMASS Medical by nightfall.

Chet Babin had come through big-time. His son guarded
their pharmacy, shotgun across his lap, while Chet delivered
medical supplies to Grace. In addition to betadine, sterile
water, painkillers, and ice packs, he had also brought a full
bottle of Valium. Kaya had administered the tranquilizers as
appropriate.

People were starting to get scared. They turned to her for
reassuring words, a gentle touch, and her clinical skills.

Where were all these people two months ago? During the
whole debacle with the lawsuit, the city council, and the media,
even clinic patients couldn't string her up fast enough. Very few
came forward to speak on her behalf. Jason Logan was one, but
he was just a cop-what did he know about civil liability and
media relations, the council's attorney said.

All because of a lollipop.

The day it happened was well-baby clinic. Kaya checked ears,
listened to hearts, and gave inoculations, too busy to notice
when a mom gave a Tootsie Pop to her crying four-year-old.

The rush of sugar sent Matthew Lowe running around the
waiting room. He tripped, driving the hard ball deep into his
throat.

Kaya called 911 immediately, then dug for the candy. When
Matthew fell, he had bitten the stick off. She could see the
cherry-red ball, but it was slick and jammed in like a rock.

The seconds ticked by, the boy thrashing in panic while
she tried to extract the candy. At one minute, he turned blue.
At ninety seconds, he slipped into unconsciousness, his heart
rate dangerously low.

At two minutes, her receptionist said dispatch had called
back-the ambulance had been caught in a traffic jam, took to
sidewalks until it got free, but was still at least a minute away.
And then another four minutes to St. Vincent's. Matthew would
be brain damaged in that minute, dead by the additional four.

Kaya performed an emergency tracheotomy-a procedure she
wasn't licensed to do. The story made the local news, called in by
a neighbor who saw the little boy carried on a stretcher. As paramedics bagged him, Michelle Lowe screamed at Kaya for cutting
her son's throat. An unscrupulous lawyer persuaded the boy's
mother that the city of Barcester owed her millions of dollars for
what he called her son's disfigurement-the scar on the front of
his throat where Kaya had trached him to save his life.

Spurred on by the insurance company, the Barcester city
council settled the suit and closed the clinic. The bitterest pill
had been the lack of support for Kaya from her patients. Some
had called or sent cards, but most just faded away without
giving her a second thought.