Splintered state, p.27
Splintered State, page 27
And then, in a flash, the strange vision was gone.
She was gone.
Chapter 35
They say out of all feelings possible to mankind, agony is the purest. Not physical pain. Something deeper, emotional agony. The kind that cuts to your soul. When it does, all else is driven out of conscious thought. We become one with pain. We’re focused, our thoughts sharpened and direct.
And in that moment, Franklin knew it was true. He felt it. Pure pain. The agony of a heart ripping, every cell tearing in two as he stared at the body of his ex-wife, a woman he only now admitted he still loved. The only woman he ever had. She was gone, her life snatched away, cruelly stolen from the supposed safety of his arms, leaving behind just a shell.
“I’m sorry, son.”
Franklin’s trance broke and he looked up to see Director Sloan. For the first time, Franklin was aware of his surroundings. Everything seemed a half shade darker, as though a shadow had been cast over them despite the cloudless sky.
A few feet away Nathan Hook lay facedown, his arms twisted behind his back and cuffed. In the chaos, Franklin had missed a second shot from Director Sloan; he’d doubled back and saved Franklin’s life. A second too late to save Joanna.
The Director crouched, placed one knee in the dirt, and laid a firm hand on Franklin’s shoulder.
“She was a good agent.”
“She was a good person,” Franklin mumbled. Then louder, “A good person.”
The Director nodded, but didn’t say anything. For that, Franklin was glad.
The two of them remained there, silent and still but for Franklin’s quiet tears, for what was only a few seconds, but also an eternity. Until it was broken by the abrupt squawk of the Director’s walkie-talkie, pinned to his shoulder.
“You better get back here,” Shannon’s voice crackled over the radio. “Dominic and I found something. Smuggled in the back of the speakers.”
“What is it, Faye?”
“It’s—well, it’s a bomb. Actually, two of them. One on each side of the stage.”
Sloan was on his feet in a heartbeat. Franklin wasn’t sure how he did it, but he managed to stumble upright as well, Joanna’s body limp in his arms. He wasn’t going to leave her behind.
The two men crossed the street back to the monument, Sloan tearing a war path across traffic, half-dragging the cuffed Agent Hook, and Franklin staggering behind.
Tears muddied Franklin’s vision; everything was a blur. But it was more than a physical fog of tears. He was vaguely aware of car horns blaring, but they sounded distant and muffled, as though echoing down a long tunnel. The race to the monument had to have taken close to sixty seconds, but it was as though he blinked and they’d arrived.
“Clear everyone out of here,” Sloan’s baritone directive cut through the mental haze. Shannon and her partner, Dominic, stood by the stage. As Franklin joined them, the Director knelt next the speaker and leaned in to peer at the contraption.
“The Secret Service is already on it,” Shannon declared, her gaze fixed downward on the explosive.
“And the politicians? The VP? Where are they?” Sloan asked.
Franklin glanced at his watch. The ceremony was scheduled to start any minute now.
“All VIP cars were alerted and redirected. No one’s on site.”
“Go help the Service,” Sloan commanded. “I need to focus.”
“On it,” she nodded, then looked up. Worry lines were etched deep into her forehead, but as she noticed Franklin, her countenance blanked. The muscles in her face slackened and her jaw dropped.
Shannon blinked a few times, her gaze fixed on Joanna, limp in Franklin’s arms. Seeing her friend dead—empty—seemed to short-circuit her for a second, but she quickly composed herself. She was a professional.
Back in agent-mode, she nodded to Dominic and the two turned to help the Secret Service agents.
Most spectators had already been moved away from the stage by now, but a handful remained, curious and stubborn. And the rest still lingered on the periphery…too close. Dominic shouted further instructions to the crowd, trying to make himself heard over the tumult.
“Can you—” Franklin ignored the migrating crowd and gulped, forcing back tears. One of Joanna’s last words were telling him to fight and he was going to do just that. This wasn’t over yet. He fell to his knees next to the Director, Joanna still in his arms. Try as he might, though, his mind wouldn’t focus.
“Don’t panic,” Sloan ordered. “I’ll tell you if it’s time to panic. Now isn’t it. Not yet.”
A large, black-suit-clad Secret Service agent edged in behind them. “Can you disarm it?” he begged.
Sloan only grunted as he eyed the oddly-shaped package tucked neatly inside the speaker. Someone had unscrewed and removed the back panel, but the bomb was still contained in some sort of clear box, probably a plastic or glass that would shatter upon detonation.
Inside, a variety of wires were twisted, all centered on a block, maybe twice the size of a stick of butter. Around the block wrapped plastic tubes, with wires inside them as well. And stuck to the inside of the lid, a small circular device.
“What is that?” Franklin asked, pointing at the block in the middle.
“Semtex. It’s a plastic, industrial explosive.”
“Industrial?”
“It’s normally used in demolitions, but it’s popular on the black market because it’s so hard to detect and track. It’s the same explosive that brought down the Pan Am flight in ‘88. We’ve seen it used by groups from the Middle East to Northern Ireland.”
“How do you know so much?”
Sloan looked at him pointedly, but didn’t answer. Something in his eyes told Franklin the knowledge wasn’t merely from books.
“Well, can you stop it?” Franklin asked. “Deactivate it, I mean?”
“See these wires?” Sloan pointed to two wires in particular. They snaked from the Semtex block upward and disappeared into the metal joint where the top of the box met the side.
Franklin nodded.
“They’re screw triggers. Any attempt to open the box will complete a spring-loaded circuit switch right below the screws. Without a glass cutter, we’ll never remove it.”
“Can we get a glass cutter here?”
“Not in time. This—” He pointed to the circular device glued to the top of the box. “This is a timer trigger.”
“A timer? But I don’t see any flashing red numbers.”
“That’s just in the movies. But if you look closely, you can see it ticking—millimeter by millimeter—around. It’ll blow when that it completes its rotation. Best guess…maybe a minute. Could be less.”
Franklin gulped and clambered to his feet. “I—well—can we move it? Throw it in the river, maybe?”
“I don’t think so. Those pipes at the bottom remind me of a device I used to—” Sloan coughed. “A device I’ve seen before. Tilt trigger.”
“A what?”
“They line the tube with foil and hang a metal contact inside. If jostled, the contact will touch the foil and complete the electric circuit. It’d blow immediately.”
“So…what do we do?”
“Nothing. Especially not when there’s another wired speaker on the other side of the stage too,” Sloan sighed as he hefted his weight upright. “Let’s move.” He gestured to the agents and they moved away. One tapped his ear and began talking to an unseen boss through his headset, informing him of the situation.
“What?” Franklin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The Director grabbed him by the arm to pull him away. “But—what—? Are we—?”
“We’ll be fine. It’s a small device, meant to target those on stage. Just move.”
Franklin shook away from the Director’s grasp, staggering as he struggled with the weight of Joanna’s limp body. He gathered his balance, cradling her tight in his arms. He turned and stumbled after Director Sloan in the direction of Shannon. She and the agents had managed to clear everyone a safe distance away.
A few seconds later, Sloan’s prediction came true. They hadn’t had time. A loud bang erupted from behind Franklin as he ran away.
A split second later, the shock wave hit him, knocking him off balance. He tumbled to the ground and landed on top of Joanna. Instinctively, he moved to cover her body with his own as shards of wood and dust fell around them.
A moment later, another identical blast from the other side of the stage erupted, launching a new shower of debris into the air.
Another round of screams and gasps reverberated from the crowd, but thankfully no one had been close enough to be hurt. After what felt like forever—when the majority of the debris had settled—the Director returned to Franklin’s side and knelt beside him and Joanna.
“You okay?” Director Sloan’s gruff voice took on a softer note. “Are you hurt?”
Franklin tried to answer, but emotion overtook him as he lay on top of his ex-wife’s body. He nodded, but the motion dissolved into a convulsion of tears.
“I’m sorry, son.” Sloan patted his back, then offered Franklin a hand to lift him upright. Franklin ignored it, but did rise to his knees and turned to look at the stage.
Each corner speaker had blasted backward in an explosive fireball, shredding the wood supports to slivers and causing extensive damage to the Lincoln Memorial steps.
The marble was blackened and large chunks lay dislodged by the blast; it seemed the blast had been directed to take out the dignitaries on stage, not the crowd. Anyone in the chairs on stage—now mangled and hurled well up the steps would never have survived.
Franklin could hardly breathe. He needed to get out of there, but couldn’t leave Joanna.
Finally, he took the Director’s hand and pulled himself upright. His legs trembled and he struggled to stay erect. He watched as District police and Secret Service scampered around, guns drawn.
A buzz in his pocket startled him and he pulled out his cell. It was a text. Dad.
Franklin wasn’t in the mood to talk, but he couldn’t help but manage a tiny smile at the timing. His father could always sense when he was upset; he had a knack for calling immediately after something had gone wrong.
It hadn’t been fifteen minutes after Joanna had told him she wanted a divorce when Franklin’s phone had rung. Ten minutes after his date for the college freshman banquet stood him up. Twenty minutes after the funeral of his childhood friend, who’d died in a car accident at the age of 24.
And now, less than ten minutes after Joanna…
Franklin shook his head. He didn’t finish that last thought; couldn’t bear it.
He tapped the message to open it.
Jelp
Jelp? What was that supposed to mean? Franklin frowned, and tapped the green phone icon. Was it a typo? Probably a pocket text. He’d better make sure though.
“Hi Franklin,” his father answered after a few rings.
“Hi Dad,” Franklin sighed, a lump growing heavy in his throat. “Did you mean to text me? You sent the word, ‘Jelp’?”
“Wasn’t me. Must’ve been a wrong number.” His father spoke in staccato bursts.
A what? It was from HIS number…
“Uh, okay…listen, Dad, do you have a minute? I—I have something to tell you.”
“Franklin, not now.” His father spoke over the end of Franklin’s sentence, ignoring it completely. “We’ll talk later.”
“Well, I guess—ok,” Franklin stuttered. This wasn’t like Dad. Their relationship had never been super close, but his father always had time to talk if asked. “But—”
“Later, Franklin,” his dad insisted. This time, a hint of urgency caught Franklin’s attention. His father wasn’t one to interrupt. “I’m with your brother.”
“Jeremiah? Is he alright?”
“I love you, son.” Click. His father hung up.
Franklin stared at his phone in confusion, blinking away tears. His father sounded stressed, at least as much as he ever did. And he never used the words, ‘I love you,’ not to anyone. Definitely not to his sons. Franklin couldn’t remember him ever saying it, actually.
Was he in trouble? What about his brother? His father could take care of himself, but Jeremiah couldn’t. He was a college professor. Taught political science. He was the stereotype of a professor too. A bit awkward and nerdy, tweed coat, elbow patches, glasses, mismatched socks, mussed hair. Maybe he should just go by the store to talk to his dad in person.
He looked at the Director, who nodded.
“I—I should go…” Franklin stammered, his gaze flicking back and forth between Sloan and Joanna, quiet on the ground as though asleep. “Something’s not right.”
“Go,” Sloan responded. “I’ll take good care of her. I promise.”
Chapter 36
Franklin considered taking the metro to Joanna’s house to retrieve his truck, but on a weekend in DC, who knew how long that would take. So he flagged down a taxi instead.
His father’s bookstore was approximately twelve minutes away, but he offered the cab driver—a pleasant Middle Eastern man—a twenty if he made it in eight. The man shifted the car into Drive and pressed the gas pedal hard, the tires squealing as he took off.
In their phone call, his father had sounded stressed, like he was in trouble. Or, more likely, given his father’s ability to take care of himself, Jeremiah was in trouble.
As the driver, who introduced himself as Abed, navigated onto the highway, Franklin thought back to the last time he’d seen his brother. He hadn’t told his father the whole story and was confident Jeremiah never had either. As far as Dad knew, the last time the brothers had communicated was their mother’s funeral, two years ago this month.
She’d died early in the morning on Valentine’s Day, her funeral the following weekend. The last time the whole family had been together, dad and both sons.
But Franklin and Jeremiah had seen each other since then. Not long after the funeral, in fact.
“Unca Frank! Unca Frank!” Little KJ Holt screamed as he scampered over to Franklin.
The boy collided with his uncle’s legs at as full-speed as a five-year-old boy could muster. Franklin smothered a yelp as the growing boy’s head was now the same height as the wound on his thigh. It had never healed—not fully—after the doctors were forced to leave shards of shrapnel behind.
The boy gazed up at him with gray eyes. Not the dull gray of concrete or a dreary sky in winter, though. More like the gray in the ashes of a recently-extinguished bonfire, full of life, dancing with a youthful energy that, if only for a few seconds, made Franklin forget everything wrong in the world and feel childlike again.
“Hey, buddy.” Franklin knelt to give his nephew a hug. The boy threw two pudgy arms around his neck and Franklin couldn’t help but smile. He loved this kid so much. “I hear it’s someone’s birthday today.”
“It’s my birthday!” KJ cheered. “I’m having a party!”
“You are?” Franklin laughed. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m here then. Have you opened presents yet?”
“Not yet!” KJ bubbled. “But soon! I think Mommy and Daddy got me a pony!”
“A pony?” Franklin glanced up at his brother, who rolled his eyes and shook his head. KJ had been obsessed with horses ever since seeing a police horse on their vacation to New York City a few months ago. And his mother had made the mistake of pointing out the horse was too big for him…that he was more “pony-sized.” And KJ had fixated on the idea of a pony ever since. “Do you have a name for the pony?” he asked. “If you get one, I mean.”
The boy paused, then shook his head.
“Hmm…how about Norman?” Franklin suggested. Their mother had loved Sue Thompson, playing her 1960s hit song all the time when the two boys were young. Something about being with his brother always reminded him of that tune. “Norman’s a great name for a pony.”
“Norman?” KJ’s little nose wrinkled in confusion. “The other ponies would make fun of him.”
“Other ponies?” Franklin again shot a look at Jeremiah, who’d stopped paying attention. “More than one?”
“Uh huh…” KJ placed a small hand inside Franklin’s and tugged with all his might. He led the way into the dining room just off the foyer. “Now hurry! We’re ‘bout to have cake!” Franklin laughed and allowed himself to be dragged forward.
The two rounded the corner. The first thing to catch Franklin’s eye was a large wooden cross on the wall, a Bible verse stenciled above it—Proverbs 16:9—and Franklin cringed. Religion had been a point of contention between the brothers since Jeremiah had joined a Christian group on campus in Knoxville. It’d pleased their parents—especially Mom—but had driven a wedge between the siblings. Jeremiah became the theologian of the family, whereas Franklin was the black sheep in a family of believers.
Jeremiah had tried to convert Franklin many times since, but eventually stopped pushing a couple years ago. Franklin knew his sibling didn’t mean any harm by it. He loved him—just trying to get his kid brother into heaven and all that. He believed faith in Jesus was the answer to all of Franklin’s problems; he was trying to help. But those discussions had a tendency to dissolve into fights more often than not. Religion just wasn’t Franklin’s thing. He preferred to try to solve his own problems.
A little further around the corner, the party came into view. Ten to twelve children sat around a table covered with a large tablecloth. Cowboy-themed, KJ’s favorite. Tara, Jeremiah’s wife, stood at one end, knife buried in a delicious-looking cake. She glanced up when he walked in, beamed, and waved. KJ ran over to an empty seat at her right side and hopped into the chair.
“So you made it.” His brother had followed them into the room and took up a spot next to Franklin. He leaned back and propped one leg against the wall.
“Hi Jay.” His brother preferred to be called Jeremiah, but when they were children, Franklin had been unable to string that many syllables together, so just called him Jay. To this day, he was the only one allowed to get away with it. “You doing alright?”
