CHAPTER 5

 

MARK TRIED TO OPEN his eyes. They felt heavy, like they had weights on them. Finally, he forced one eyelid open, but instantly closed it against the painful, blinding light.

Head throbbing, he waited a moment before squinting through both eyes. He was lying on a bed in a medium-sized room with a television mounted on the opposite wall. A man on the screen wearing a suit, apparently a weatherman, pointed at clouds rushing over a satellite picture of the United States, talking rapidly. But all he could hear was a monotonous beeping sound.

Mark turned his head. The sound seemed to come from the machine beside the bed. He heard rustling and saw someone in scrubs pass his door. So I’m in a hospital, was his first thought. His second was, Why?

He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through his side and knocked him back to his pillow. But it wasn’t just his side. His whole body ached. Eyes wide, he stared at his torso, which was swathed in bandages, and at the tubes that protruded between the strips. Had he been in a car accident? Had he fallen? Had he—?

Then he remembered. And his heart shattered. He shuddered, recalling the horror of watching his family walk into the grocery store just as a frantic man dashed out. He relived the explosion. Saw the ball of fire flashing toward him.

“Nurse! Nurse!” he called. “I need help! Someone help me!” Despite the bandages on his hands, he frantically felt the bed for the call button but couldn’t find it.

A nurse rushed into the room. “Mr. Appleton, are you in pain?” She glanced at his chart then reached for his wrist. “I’m glad to see you awake.”

“Please,” he croaked as she took his pulse. His mouth was so dry, he could barely speak. “My wife. My daughter. Where are they? They were in the grocery store. Have you seen them? Please…” He gripped her hand and stared into her face.

She took his hand in both of hers. “Mr. Appleton, I am so sorry…” She swallowed. “Everyone inside the supermarket died in the explosion. Only four survivors were found outside the building, including you. I am so sorry about your family.” Tears filled her eyes. “I wish I could give you hope, but I can’t.”

“No, it can’t be!” He pushed himself upright. “Tell me it isn’t true!”

She shook her head, tears now pouring down her cheeks.

His heart exploded into a million pieces, like the windows of his car. He covered his face with his hands and began to rock as he wept. He had to think, but he couldn’t marshal his thoughts. He could barely breathe. How could he live without his family? K and Samantha were his life, his everything. The nurse patted his back and asked him if he wanted anything.

He shook his head.

She offered him water.

Again, he shook his head. Though his throat was parched, he couldn’t drink, not with Sam and K dead.

She told him she was going to find the doctor and hurried out of the room.

Still rocking, he wrapped his arms around his sore ribs. He should have gone into the store with them, should have protected them from ... from whatever it was. Or died with his family.

Finally, he dropped onto his pillow and stared at the ceiling, wishing he could sleep, then feeling guilty for wanting to escape the pain.

The doctor came in, looked him over and checked his charts. He offered his condolences, asked how he felt, but Mark didn’t respond. Instead, he asked what caused the explosion. The doctor told him no one knew, but the authorities were already investigating.

Later that evening, Bill and Holly visited. His mother-in-law’s eyes were red and puffy. Bill looked like he was about to pass out. Without even a hello, Mark turned his back to them. It was selfish, he knew. They had lost their daughter and granddaughter, but he could not feel anything beyond his own deep, dark grief. He couldn’t shoulder their grief, too.

He refused to eat, so the nurse added something to his IV. He really didn’t care what she did. The only reason to get well was to find out what happened, find out what had incinerated his family. Even if it was an accident, he would find the negligent person responsible for killing his family and... He wasn’t sure what he would do. But if the explosion was intentional, the bomber would pay—and pay dearly.

* * *

“YOU, MR. WESTON, ARE off the case!” Captain Jacobson jabbed a long, bony finger at Kirk’s nose. “The last thing I need is a rogue cop running around my city. All you had to do was interview the families in your file. Was that so hard? Now we’ve got a dead witness and miles of rubble I’ve got to explain to the media. Who do you think is going to pay for all the damage?”

Kirk shrugged his shoulders. “I was just doing my job—following a lead.”

Jacobson’s face darkened. “I want you on the next plane back to Detroit,” he hissed. “Your superiors are expecting you.” He plopped into the chair behind his desk and motioned for Kirk to leave.

Kirk stood, pulled the purchase order from his jacket and tossed it onto the desk. “You might want to look into this.” He cursed and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Interviewing the inmates’ families was a joke. This was a well-planned job, and he had a feeling the FBI had a good idea who did it. Maybe they could have stopped it. But then again, who gave a crap about a bunch of dead cons? Their massacre would save the taxpayers money.

He flagged a cab outside the FBI building. “Hill View Hotel.” He slumped into the backseat and closed the door, his bandaged leg aching from the short walk. Rubbing his chin, he thought about what his next move should be and decided to check into a different hotel. If that bottled-capped captain thought he was going to send him packing, he had another thing coming.

His cell phone rang. He pulled it from his belt and looked at the number. It was his boss, who was sure to have a few choice words of his own for him. He silenced the ringer. “This one, I’m doing on my own.”

The cab stopped in front of the hotel. Kirk dug in his wallet and tossed the driver a fifty. “Keep the change.”

Hill View was a simple hotel in the midst of other cheap hotels. The lobby stank of cigar smoke and stale coffee. He didn’t bother to look at the scabby rail of a man behind the short counter they called a front desk.

He packed his clothes, which were thrown all over the floor, making sure to grab one of the fluffy, white robes as a gift to himself. “Thanks. I needed one of these.”

He stuffed the robe into his Under Armor athletic bag and zipped it shut, thinking how strange it was that a dump like the Hill View had robes. Let them charge me.

Outside the hotel, he slung the bag over his shoulder, put on his sunglasses and headed for the Avis car rental agency several blocks away, though walking was painful. He gritted his teeth each time he added weight to his sore leg. The only comfort was the knowledge he’d sent the goon that shot him to the morgue.

He had to flash his badge to get the woman behind the counter moving. Noting in the computer that he’d smashed his previous rental car didn’t help her uncooperative mood, but he promised her the FBI would take care of it.

Once he was behind the wheel again, he felt much better. He’d requested a Dodge Charger, and they happened to have one left. He was especially pleased that it was black.

He sat for a moment in the agency’s parking lot, contemplating his next move. He couldn’t get Martinez’s words out of his mind. They said. Who was they? He needed more info. What he needed was a hacker. He needed Mooch.

He’d picked up Mooch a few years back for hacking into the eBay website and changing every auction to “Buy it Now for One Dollar”. EBay officers had ended up in a lawsuit for the billions lost in that one day.

But Kirk didn’t arrest Mooch. Instead, a working relationship was forged between the two. It was always good to have a computer whiz owe one a favor. In this case, it was a big one.

“It’s time to pay up, kid.” He dialed his cell as he drove, weaving in and out of traffic, only to be stuck behind three Yellow Cabs.

“Pick up,” Kirk muttered.

The other end of the line crackled and a young voice came on the line.

“Hey, Mooch, I need that favor you owe me. I’ll be online in ten minutes. Stay close to your phone.” He pushed the End button before Mooch could say anything more than hello.

Slipping his phone into his pocket, he turned down Fourth Street, looking for a coffee shop. He needed some caffeine. If he was cut off in traffic one more time, he would no doubt lose it.

He spotted a small coffee shop at the next corner with a Mean Bean sign above the window, pulled down the alley behind the brick building and parked in back. Grabbing his laptop from the front seat, he locked the doors and strode in the back door as if he owned the place.

The walls of the Mean Bean were painted mocha brown and black and decorated with burlap sacks, along with pictures of coffee beans and newspaper clippings of the shop’s ribbon-cutting ceremony, which made at least one local paper.

He ordered a plain, black coffee from the pretty, brown-eyed brunette at the counter. On a different day, he might have flirted with her, but “thanks” was all he offered today. He headed toward a booth at the back and slid across the vinyl seat.

As his laptop booted up, he glanced around the nearly empty place. One guy with a woven cap on his head was hunched in an easy chair reading a book, and a couple of ladies were laughing and talking in hushed tones over what looked like scones and tea.

When he heard twenty-year-old Mooch’s voice answer his call, he jumped right in. “Mooch, bring up the Transportation Department.”

* * *

MARK WAS RELEASED FROM the hospital the next day, though he was a long way from healed. The doctor told him he had to take it easy for a month, so his ribs could heal properly. He had three broken ribs, lacerations over his arms, legs and back, and his hands were swollen and bruised.

However, considering what he had been through, the doctor said he was lucky to be alive. He didn’t feel lucky. Lucky people don’t watch their families die and lose all that matters to them in an instant.

He took a cab home, even though Bill and Holly had offered to drive him. He wanted to walk through the front door alone. He didn’t know how he would react when he returned to an empty house.

He stopped in the foyer, where K’s scent lingered, and closed his eyes. He had to get through this. There was no one to hold his hand and do it with him or for him. He walked upstairs, looking at all the family photos that hung on the wall. How could this have happened? Just yesterday, he’d awakened in the hotel after an incredible night with K. Just yesterday, he’d hugged little Sam and felt her squirm with energy and excitement as she showed him her new toy puppy dog she’d named Woofie.

K smiled at him from the bathroom. He could see her putting on makeup, brushing her hair. He smelled her perfume, ran his fingers over her clothes in the closet.

He stumbled back to the bedroom. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go on without K and Sam. This house, this home they’d made together wasn’t a home anymore. It was just another house on a street where other families lived, played, and loved each other.

A wave of emotion racked his body. He fell onto the carpet, weeping bitterly. What would he do without them? He could not live in this house filled with memories, memories that would increase the pain of his overwhelming loss. He wanted to remember K and Sam, but knew he could not live surrounded with the life he’d had with them. He had to leave.

The phone on the nightstand beside the bed rang. Startled from his grief, he crawled to his feet and checked the caller ID. It was Hank, calling from his cell phone.

He hesitated. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but Hank was his boss, a boss who’d been close to his family. He dried his eyes on his shirtsleeve and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

Hank’s voice was soft. “I’m so sorry, Mark.” He paused. “I, I don’t know what to say. The explosion was a horrendous thing, but knowing K and Sam were in that store…” It sounded like he choked back a sob. “Everyone here is in shock. They’re all thinking of you and praying for you.”

He swallowed, the sound audible on the phone. “The next few weeks and months are going to be rough. Take as much time as you need to get through this. We’ll cover for you. I’ll help however I can—line up meals, funeral arrangements, legal matters. A shoulder to cry on. Whatever. Just let me know.”

Mark sniffed and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “Thanks, Hank. K’s parents are taking care of most of the funeral arrangements. They scheduled it for Wednesday morning.” Just the thought of attending K’s and Sam’s funerals made him want to throw up.

He took a breath. “I think after that, I’m just going to get out of town for a bit…” His voice drifted off. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Okay, buddy. Call me if you need anything. I mean it.”

Mark hung up the phone and sat on the side of the bed. He looked around their bedroom, memories threatening to overwhelm him. Endless nights of lovemaking. K in the morning, her hair spread across her pillow. Sam cuddled between them, kissing first one parent, then the other. He couldn’t spend one more night in his house, a house that was once a home.

But he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Maybe he should get something closer to work. The only reason they’d lived outside the city was for Sam’s sake, but now… He shook his head and lifted a picture from the nightstand of him and K standing in front of their house. K’s beautiful smile radiated as she beamed at her newborn daughter sleeping in her arms. He took the photo out of the frame and held it to his chest.

Finally, he forced his feet to go to the garage, where he gathered empty boxes and took them into the house to pack the few things he couldn’t live without. Family photo albums. Samantha’s teddy bear. K’s Bible.

He packed two suitcases worth of clothing, looked around the house one last time, then loaded the boxes and suitcases into the silver BMW Hank had had delivered to replace his destroyed Honda.

He stopped by K’s parents place to ask them to watch the house until he decided what to do with it. Handing them the key, he said, “I’ve got everything I want out of it. Take anything you want.”

“We can’t do that!” Holly exclaimed.

“I left K’s jewelry and clothing. Maybe you’d like a memento or two. Or one of Sam’s stuffed toys. The rest—furniture, kitchen stuff, all if it—can go to the Salvation Army or the Rescue Mission. However you want to dispose of it. I’m not going back.”

His mother-in-law pulled him close, holding him for a long moment. “I’m so sorry this has happened, Mark, but please don’t leave us. You’re like a son to us.”

He sniffed, fighting for control. “I’ll keep in touch.” He turned and walked away, knowing he was leaving his old life behind, forever.

Finding an apartment turned out to be easier then he’d expected. After a few calls to apartment buildings his company had designed, he located an upscale, fully furnished apartment he could move into immediately.

When the leasing agent left with the signed lease and his deposit in hand, Mark dropped onto the overstuffed sofa, his hand over his eyes, his mind in a fog. What day was it? Sunday? “Yeah, it’s Sunday.”

He grabbed the remote on the coffee table and clicked on the news channel.

“Yesterday was a busy day here in New York.” The anchorwoman looked grim. “A car chase in the Northeastern Industrial Park area resulted in a shootout that left one man dead and a Detroit detective wounded.”

He only half-listened as he bit into a ripe apple from the gift basket on the coffee table. Had she already talked about the supermarket explosion? Did he tune in too late?

“The shootout left over three hundred thousand dollars in collateral damage. At this time, we have no comment from NYPD, other than that the situation is under investigation. In other news, we still have no information as to the cause of the explosion at the Super Mart yesterday. Sources say a ruptured underground gas line may have been the culprit. The blast killed more than two hundred people and destroyed the entire building. We now go live to Andrea Kilpatrick, who is at the scene, where investigators are still trying to pinpoint exactly what happened. Andrea?”

“Yes, Susan. I’m standing in front of where Super Mart once was. As you can see, there isn’t much left here.” The camera panned the rubble.

Mark’s stomach lurched.

“The police say they are not ruling out foul play, but so far they have not found anything to lead them to believe this was more than a very tragic accident.”

“Andrea, is this something that might have been caused by faulty wiring or a gas line that needed to be repaired? Could the store have prevented this?”

“The investigators have not released a statement. In fact, they say it could take months to get to the bottom of this. We will let you know as soon as we hear something from the local authorities.”

“Thank you, Andrea. A relief fund has been set up for—”

He shut off the TV and walked over to the kitchen counter, where he’d left his cell phone. He dialed the police station. He needed answers, and his gut told him the explosion was not an accident. The image of the terrified man rushing from the building right before it exploded burned in his mind.

“Yes. Hello. This is Mark Appleton. I need to speak to whoever is in charge of the Super Mart investigation.”

The dispatcher connected him to a Detective Bruce Owens, who answered in a deep voice, “What can I do you for?”

“Hello, Detective. My name is Mark Appleton. My wife and daughter were killed at the Super Mart yesterday.” His voice broke. Just saying it aloud made him want to weep, but he choked his grief back and went on. “I was told you’re the one overseeing the investigation.” He tried to sound firm, in control of his emotions, but his voice cracked anyway.

“Yes, Mr. Appleton. I’m the one in charge of the investigation. I’ve been meanin’ to call you, but I didn’t want to push too hard, with what you’ve been through—”

Mark interrupted. “Can we meet tomorrow? I just got out of the hospital.” He wanted to get it over with, find out if they had anything besides the crap the media was reporting.

“If you can be here around ten o’clock, I’ll make sure I’m in the office. The officers at the front desk will show you to my office.”

Mark thanked him and hung up the phone. Bruce sounded like a good-enough guy. He hoped he wasn’t a hardened detective whose main concern in life was finding out what time the donut shop opened.

* * *

AS THE LAPTOP DOWNLOADED the patch Mooch was sending over, Kirk thought about how little he knew about the internet, which usually caused him more problems than solutions.

His laptop hummed quietly.

“Mooch, what’s taking so long?” He hated to wait for anything or anyone, especially a low-life hacker or fast food.

“Well, excuse me. I’m only trying to hack into a government website and still keep us out of jail. If they see us, we’re screwed!”

Kirk could hear him tapping keys.

“This is hard enough over the phone, getting you a link and—”

“Fine, Mooch, fine. Just get me to last Friday. The address is Five Sixty-Four West Fuller Avenue. Simco Foods. Do you have cameras around that area?”

Mooch’s voice cracked like a teenager. “Yeah. I can see almost anywhere in the world. I hack into the street cameras, into the Crimson Satellite that isn’t running, so they say.”

“Not running?” Leaning on his elbows, Kirk peered at the coffee beans beneath the glass that topped the small wooden table where he sat and took a sip of his coffee.

“Been broken for years, too expensive to fix, but I can still use it for looking around. Me and my buddy Chucko—do you know Chucko? Anyway, we rigged it to take snapshots, just not live action stuff.”

Kirk shook his head. “You get off on this stuff, don’t you?” He saw something come up on his computer screen, an aerial view of the Simco warehouse. “What day was this taken?”

“It’s the day you wanted, Friday. Hold on. Here’s the video from the loading dock cameras.”

“Run it from about eight a.m. in fast forward.”

The video showed semi-trucks pulling up, loading, and driving off. He looked for Martinez’s face among the drivers but didn’t see him. He watched the clock at the bottom of the screen spin by.

“Wait! Back up a sec. I think that’s it. Stop it there.” Kirk cursed as he looked at what was plain to see—Martinez loading his truck with boxes.

“What are we trying to find here?”

“I’m not sure. Can you follow that truck? Can you go in real time?” Putting his coffee down, Kirk scooted his chair closer to the table.

“We better make this quick. We’ll be spotted if we stay on too long. I’m running a Radian Jammer, but it’ll only work for about five minutes.”

“Just do it. We won’t get caught.” And if they did, he’d have no problem throwing Mooch to the wolves.

The truck left the warehouse, headed toward the interstate, then disappeared. “Where’d he go?” Kirk frantically punched buttons on his laptop and almost spilled his coffee all over it.

“Man, you’re jumpy. Hold on. He’s out of range. I’ll have to switch back to Crimson. But it will be in stills, so don’t blow a gasket.”

The screen showed snapshots of the loaded truck, but Martinez headed the wrong way. That road didn’t lead to David’s Island, and Kirk was positive he had delivered a load there on Friday morning.

He watched as the truck pulled onto a dirt road that led to an old abandoned sawmill. The parking lot was overgrown with weeds, and one side of the building looked like it had collapsed.

“Can we get a shot behind that mill? I can’t see the truck.” He tried to sound nicer, even though his body heat was rising. He’d never liked computers, and now he was at the mercy of a hacker devoid of scruples.

“I can get a partial, but the mill is blocking the line of sight.”

He could hear Mooch typing and munching on what sounded like potato chips. This only added to his stress level. The truck was now out of sight, with the exception of the rear bumper, but remaining in the same spot with each time-stamped photo. Then he saw a shadow beside the vehicle.

“There. Go back one. Yes, that one. Can you zoom in on the shadow of the truck?”

The picture zoomed in closer. It was clear now. There were two trucks. Somehow, he didn’t think this was an accident.

“What’s that? Another person?”

“On it. I see her.”

“Her?” Kirk strained his eyes. The picture zoomed in on the second shadow. He could see long, dark hair blowing in the wind. It was a her. “Okay, Mooch. Let’s see if we can get a look at this chick.”

Sitting back in his chair, he took another sip of his coffee and watched the screen. His hunch was right. Martinez had been up to something, and now he had proof.

But picture after picture revealed nothing new.

The woman stayed in the shadows. It was as if she knew exactly where to stand in order to prevent a clear camera view of her. As the stills flashed by, he saw someone who looked like Martinez unloading the boxes from his truck and loading new ones from the mystery woman’s truck onto his.

“Mooch, where is this spot? Give me an address.” He needed to check out this drop-off site firsthand.

“Uh, oh! Pull the plug, man! They got us!” Mooch screamed like a girl in Kirk’s ear. He jerked and dropped his coffee on the floor. A red warning sign flashed on his screen. He dropped his phone, grabbed the laptop, flipped it over and yanked the battery out. He didn’t know if it would do any good, but it was the only thing he could think of at the time.

He picked up the phone. “Okay, Mooch. I’m out.” He took a breath, as winded as if he’d been chasing a perp. “Did they see us?”

“Nope, but holy cow, that was close. Good thing I have a breaker switch on my desk, for just such an occasion.” His voice sounded like he’d just won a Super Bowl game, and his breathing came in short bursts.

Kirk wondered if the poor kid ever got out in the real world for some real time, real life exercise. “I need you to make copies of those photos of the mystery woman and those trucks. E-mail them to me as soon as you can, and find out anything you can on where that other truck went. Oh, and by the way, if you do this for me, I won’t tell the FBI it was you they almost caught a minute ago.”

“Awww, thanks man. You’re a saint.”

“Just do it, Mooch. I’ll even get you an FBI T-shirt.”

Mooch cursed.

Kirk laughed. There was nothing in the world Mooch hated more than the feds. He packed up his laptop, stepped over the spilled coffee, and slipped out the back door of the coffee shop.

He looked at the address Mooch had given him, then shook his head. He would have to wait until morning. He needed to get some sleep. Plus, he was getting hungry and irritable.

He crawled into the car, his leg throbbing. It felt better than yesterday, but was still plenty sore. For a moment, he sat in the driver’s seat staring out the window. The woman bothered him. Who was she? What did she have to do with the prison massacre?

Finally, he checked his phone and saw he’d missed two calls, both from his boss. He started the engine. The case might cost him his job, but it was too late now. He knew how it would work. Return home with a win and save his job. But go home with nothing, and it would be hello early retirement.