ERICA WALKS INTO MARK’S ROOM at Beth Israel to find him asleep. He looks better—the bandage around his skull is smaller, his bruising is less livid, and he has come out of his coma. Erica gently touches his hand. His eyes slowly open. It takes him a few beats to register where he is. Then he focuses on Erica and a small smile forms. He looks beautiful in that moment.
“Hey, buddy,” Erica says.
Mark opens his mouth and struggles to speak. He finally chokes out a barely audible “H-hi there.”
“You look so much better, my friend.” That sweet smile again. “How are you feeling?” He thinks about it for a moment and then nods. “Dr. Kaminer tells me you’re going to be moving to rehab in a couple of days. That’s great news. He said your progress is slow and steady, which is the best kind.”
Mark looks as if he has suddenly remembered something. His brow furrows, he seems to grow agitated. He opens his mouth and struggles to speak, but he can’t form the words.
“Mark, what is it?”
He’s working so hard to talk, and the inability is frustrating him. He looks like he might start crying.
“Take it easy, take it easy, my friend.” With his eyes he implores Erica to come closer. She leans down. “What is it? Do you want to tell me something about the ferry crash?”
His eyes open wide and he nods his head. Again he opens his mouth but can’t find speech. Then finally he manages a few slurred words that sound like “nice till.” He repeats it, only this time it sounds like “nasal.” What sense does that make?
Mark shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, marshals his strength, and slowly, unmistakably articulates, “Not ISIL.”
“Not ISIL? The ferry crash wasn’t the work of ISIL?”
Mark nods. Then he sighs, exhausted from saying the two words, closes his eyes, and falls back on the pillow.
On the sidewalk outside the hospital Erica calls Detective George Samuels.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
“Have you made any progress on the attack on Mark Benton?”
“We have a person of interest. The surveillance camera at the Sheridan Square subway station recorded a man entering the station at 5:41 that morning, which is consistent with the time of the attack. He was wearing a cap that obscured his face, but he was definitely furtive and in a hurry, and he was carrying a computer case that matches Benton’s.”
“How do we find him?”
“We’re in the process of enlarging and enhancing the camera footage. When we can see his face more clearly, we’ll have an artist draw a full rendering and then we can start publicizing it and looking for a match in our databases.”
“Keep me posted.”
“I have a question for you. Do you know why anyone would want to attack Benton?”
“He was helping me investigate the Staten Island ferry crash. He was tracing the source of the hackers who froze the ferry’s computers.”
“The ferry investigation was over when he was attacked. ISIL claimed responsibility and we took out their capability.”
“They claimed responsibility. It hasn’t been proven. Mark told me today that ISIL didn’t do it.”
“What, does he have magic powers?”
“No, but he understands hacking.”
“So does my ten-year-old son.”
“Mark Benton not only understands it, he can do it. There’s a big difference. Look, I’m handing you the motive and you’re giving me a hard time.”
“Ms. Sparks, I’m paid to be skeptical.”
“So am I. So let’s work together. Mark called me the night before he was attacked—he’d found something out and he didn’t want to tell me on the phone. He asked me to meet him at Starbucks the next morning. He didn’t show up. Put it together. And call me Erica.”
There’s a pause. “It’s certainly the strongest theory we’ve got. This was definitely not a random attack. So it was carried out, or at least ordered, by whoever did sabotage the ferry. Does Benton have any theories on who that might be?”
“He has more information. But speech is very difficult for him. He’s getting a little stronger every day. Listen, is there any chance we could get a police guard stationed outside his room?”
“As of now, this is just a mugging. There’s no way the department is going to pay for a guard. I’ll go see him tomorrow.”
“Let me know if you learn anything. And please light a fire under the folks who are enhancing the subway footage.”
Erica hangs up and steps off the curb to hail a cab. The traffic is fierce but flowing, there are surges of people on the sidewalks, in the crosswalks, there is music and honking and yelling, the smell of asphalt and exhaust and tacos from a nearby food truck—the city feels like one great wave racing toward the future, and she’s riding the wave—riding it toward the truth.