God's artwork.
“Beautiful.” Reynolds was leaning forward, watching the sunset.
“Yep. Only God can paint a sky.”
Reynolds settled back in his seat. “You a believer?”
“Longtime believer.” Clay sat back too. Funny, but the two had never talked about God before. “What about you?”
“Pretty much.” Reynolds stroked his chin and his eyes grew soft. “Not like I used to be.”
Clay let that sit. After a few seconds he leaned against the window and looked at Reynolds. “I got a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Why New York?”
The shadows that fell over his friend's eyes told him he'd hit a nerve. Reynolds looked past Clay to the sunset. Lines appeared at the corners of his eyes. “You wouldn't believe it if I told you.”
So there
was
a reason. Clay kept his voice low. “Try me.” He thought about his brother, Eric. “I've seen some pretty strange things.”
At first it didn't look like Reynolds would talk, but maybe because they were suspended between two cities, thirty thousand feet above the ground, he gave in. Reynolds made his lips into a tight straight line and began to tell his story.
“Her name's Wanda. She's the girl in the picture on my desk.” He sucked in a breath and held it before letting it ease through his nose. “I was crazy in love with her from the moment I met her—our senior year of high school.”
Clay knew Reynolds tended to spit out details in starts and fits, so he waited.
“After high school, I joined the service so I'd have a way through college.” He stroked his chin again. “Wanda went with me, lived with me on the base. A year later she had Jimmy and everything, well—” He let out a little laugh, one that lacked humor. “Everything was great until the Gulf War.”
“You fought?” Another surprise.
“Yeah, I fought. I was in the first wave, the ground attack.” The muscles in his jaw flexed. “It was crazy.” His tone was soft, but intense. “That sissy guy you shot the other day? That was nothing to the Gulf War, man. Nothing.”
“How long?”
“I was there the better part of three years.” He made a sharp sniff. “Came home and found Wanda and Jimmy having dinner at the cafeteria with one of the commanders.” He looked out the window again. “I came unglued. Stormed out of there, straight to our apartment.”
“Did she see you?” Clay had no trouble picturing Reynolds angry; that's how he worked. Angry and focused.
“Yeah, she saw me. Flew after me with Jimmy running behind her. I heard her, heard both of 'em. Wanda calling my name, Jimmy shouting for his daddy.” Reynolds shook his head. “I was so mad, I wouldn't stop, wouldn't turn around for nothing. Not even my little boy.”
Clay felt the tension in his friend's voice. Whatever was coming, it wasn't good.
“A road ran through the base, and I crossed it no trouble. Wanda … she was twenty yards behind me, running like crazy. She got to the road just as some crazy drunk came flying up the hill.” He looked up at the airplane's vents and shook his head.
“Hey, it's okay, man.” Clay's stomach tightened. He never would've asked about New York if he'd thought it would lead to this.
“No.” Reynolds looked at him again. “I'll finish.” He searched Clay's eyes. “Wanda saw the car and stopped in time, but Jimmy—” His voice broke, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. His words were barely audible over the sound of the jet engines. “He called my name one more time, and that's when I heard the thud.” Reynolds dropped his hand back to his lap. Gone was the invincible look that made him a hero at the police department. His eyes were red and full of pain. “He was dead before he hit the ground.”
Clay's stomach sank. No wonder there were no updated pictures of the boy on Reynolds's desk.
“Watching that boy hit the ground … seeing Wanda kneel next to him, screaming for him to be okay … seeing that drunk stumble out of the car …” He bit his lip. “I still have nightmares about it.”
Clay wanted the rest of the story. What happened to Wanda? And how come they weren't together any more? But he wasn't going to push. He looked at his hands for a minute and then back at Reynolds. “I'm sorry.”
“It was an accident, I know that.” He crossed his arms. “But it was my fault. And you know what?”
“What?”
“Turns out the commander wasn't seeing Wanda at all. He was asking her if we wanted an upgrade in our living quarters.”
Clay dug his elbow into his thigh and let his forehead rest on his knuckles. Reynolds was right; he never would've believed a story like that one, never would've thought a man as bulletproof as Joe Reynolds would've suffered such a loss.
“Guess we all have a story.”
The captain's voice came over the speakers then, advising them of weather conditions in LaGuardia. Cold with a storm moving in.
Clay lowered his hands and looked at his friend again. He had to ask. “What happened to Wanda?”
“She couldn't look at me, couldn't talk to me.” He hesitated. “I mean, Michaels, she was crazy with grief. Absolutely crazy. Her baby was dead and it was my fault.” A sad smile hung on the corners of his mouth. “We had a strong faith back then; everyone at church tried to help us. After the service we got counseling, and the army gave me a paid leave.” He knit his mouth together and shook his head. “Wanda wanted none of it. A week later we found out the guy who hit Jimmy, he was a child molester out early for good behavior. Got himself drunk and crashed through the gate at the base.” Reynolds fired the words like bullets. “Never shoulda been out of prison in the first place.”
“I hate that.”
“Yeah.” He made a sarcastic sound that wasn't even close to a laugh. “Talk about having an incentive to get to work.”
Now Clay understood something else. When Reynolds showed up on the scene, a minute after Clay had shot the carjacker the other day, his words had been something of a surprise.
You did us all a favor
. Wasn't that it? Yes, that was what he'd said.
You did us all a favor
. Reynolds worked by the books, arresting criminals, forming cases against them, testifying in court. But when a killer made a fatal move in a gun battle with a cop, Reynolds wasn't going to lose any sleep over it.
“For three months we kept trying, me and Wanda. She was hurting so bad, and there was—” he gave a sharp shake of his head—“there was nothing I could do to help her. Finally one day I asked her if she wanted me to leave.”
Clay already knew what Reynolds was going to say and it made him sick. Two people who loved each other so much, who shared a faith in God, torn apart when they were both hurting the most.
“She said yes. Seeing me every day, remembering what happened, it was too hard for her.” Reynolds's eyes were distant again. “I told her I felt the same way; if she wasn't going to let me help her, I wanted out too.” He shrugged. “So I finished my service in California and she moved to Queens. Soon as I had the chance I started college classes and I didn't look back until I had my law degree. Figured I'd fight the bad guys in courtrooms, where I could lock 'em up longer than the jerk who killed my boy.”
“Didn't work out that way, huh?”
Reynolds chuckled, and the hurt in his eyes dimmed. “Not for a minute. The whole thing was a game, Michaels. Just one big stinking game.” He straightened himself and buckled his seat belt. “I like it better in uniform. At least we get 'em off the streets for a while.”
A flight attendant came on this time, telling them to prepare for landing. Clay let the details of his friend's story play again in his mind. “You and Wanda? You've kept in touch?”
“For a little while.” He looked at Clay. “She married a firefighter, FDNY. Guy wasn't around much, at least that's what Wanda's mother said. She told me Wanda never stopped loving me; she just didn't know how to show me after Jimmy died.”
Clay frowned. “Her husband was FDNY?”
“Yeah.” Something more serious crossed his expression. “After the terrorist attacks, I had to know if the guy was one of 'em.” He paused. “He was. Lost right up there in the South Tower. Every day since then I've wanted to call Wanda, just to tell her I'm sorry. Sorry about doubting her, sorry about running that day when I came home, sorry about Jimmy. Sorry about her husband.” His voice was shakier than before, broken. “Sorry about all of it. But I never made the call.”
“Instead you're going to see her in person, is that it?”
The plane was coming in for a landing. Reynolds glanced out the window at the skyline of Manhattan. “I'm not sure.” He looked at Clay again. “You're a praying man, is that right?”
“I am.”
“Then pray for me. So I'll know if I should look her up, or if seeing me again would only make things harder for her.”
They didn't say anything else until they touched down and the pilot welcomed them to New York City. That's when the idea hit him. He turned to Reynolds as he pulled his travel bag from the floor beneath the seat in front of him.
“Hey, we're off tomorrow morning, right?”
“Right. Orientation begins at four o'clock. I guess a few of our shifts will be with the night crew.”
“Right, so I have an idea for the morning.”
“Okay.” Reynolds looked like he was back to himself again, with one small change for the better. His guard was down. “What's your idea?”
“Ground Zero.”
Reynolds hesitated. “Hmmm.” He gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Might be a good place to pray.”
“That's what I was thinking. We could take the ferry over early.”
“Hey, I just remembered. One of the guys from the downtown precinct was telling me there's this little chapel there, right across the street from where the towers stood. St. Peter's, something like that. All sorts of letters and pictures from the attacks.”
“Now that—” Clay patted his friend's back as they stood to make their way off the plane—“would be a good place to pray.”
E
LEVEN
Jamie was looking forward to seeing Aaron on Monday.
She boarded the ferry at nine o'clock and took a seat inside. A storm had kicked up the night before and it was still sprinkling. The forecast included snow later in the week, and Jamie thought they might be wrong. With the weather outside, it might snow before lunchtime.
The inside of the ferry had two levels. Jamie took the first, which was practically empty; few tourists were willing to brave a day like this. Jamie settled into a corner seat and held her bag to her waist. Whitecaps covered the harbor, evidence the ride would be rougher than usual.
For the tourists' sake—if there were any—the captain was saying something about the sights, the part about the Statue of Liberty welcoming the masses, and Liberty Island being a symbol of freedom. Funny how she'd never really listened to the spiel before Jake died. When the two of them crossed the harbor, they were too caught up in their own conversation to notice much else.
Now she knew it by heart.
The ferry rocked and rolled, but Jamie wasn't worried. She'd crossed over in far worse conditions.
She looked around at the other people on the first level. Across the way were two guys—one blond, one black. They were good-looking, tall and well built. Jamie wondered if they were coaches, maybe, or tourists meeting up with their wives.
Not far from her, three guys in their early twenties sat in a circle. They might've been college kids, but they looked a little shady. Probably actors. Lots of Broadway dreamers lived in Staten Island and commuted to Manhattan for a shot at a role. Now that she'd noticed them, though, she saw something else. Every now and then, one of them would smile at her or do something to catch her attention, and then whisper to his buddies.
Strange…
Did she spill something? Was her zipper undone? She glanced down at her white turtleneck sweater and dark jeans. No, everything looked fine. Just as she was about to look up she felt someone standing near her table.
“Excuse me.” The guy couldn't have been even twenty-one. He had a baby face with freckles and a crew cut—but there was something hard about his eyes. “Are you on vacation?”
“Me?” Jamie looked around to make sure he was talking to her. Maybe it was some sort of practical joke.
“Yeah.” He glanced back at his buddies. Both of them were smiling at him, egging him on. “We're here with our history class, headed for the Statue of Liberty.” He grinned, and two dimples cut into his face. “We, well, we wondered if you were a tourist. You know, by yourself. Maybe you might want to join us.”
Jamie resisted the urge to laugh out loud. It wasn't a practical joke at all. This college kid was hitting on her! Her face grow hot. “You're serious?”
“Sure.” The guy looked toward the bathrooms. “You're by yourself, right?”
“Yes.” Jamie wasn't offended. If anything, it made her feel good.
But before she could say anything else, the guy pushed into the spot beside her and put his arm around her. “Don't say a word, got it?”
At his low, hissed words, Jamie's heart slammed into double time. How could she have been so stupid? She never should have said she was alone. She should've gotten up as soon as he started talking to her.