ask, checking the ID.
I’m fine.
No, don’t say anything. Just smile and nod. Act like you belong.
Carter’s was on the corner of Seventy-ninth and Third. A banner hung from the canopy advertising “Our 75th Year!” Good a time as any for revenge. The exterior of the restaurant was wood paneled, with glass swing doors that led to a dark hallway. No one was inside. The place had closed down hours earlier.
Mike pulled the truck to a stop on the corner. Put it in park. He figured it would take about two minutes for someone to come out of one of the bars and notice the damn thing and call the cops. Another seven or eight minutes for the cops to get there and check it out. If it hadn’t been two in the morning, even less time.
That would give Mike about ten minutes to get some space between him and the truck. Doable. Might even get to suck a pint down before pressing the old button.
They had to learn. Family was the most important thing. Payback started now.
Fuck it, just get the hell out of there. He stepped down from the cab of the truck and crossed the street. He didn’t hurry. He walked. He looked like he belonged. Like Mike Garibell was supposed to be there.
He made his way up to Eightieth and turned left. There was an Irish pub on the corner, and he stopped in. The place was nearly empty. Five more minutes and the fuzz would be swarming around the big yellow truck.
When the bartender put a glass full of Smithwick’s in front of him, Mike decided it was time. He didn’t know how the fucking Arabs did it, sat in the car and pressed the button. Let themselves go with the truck. It didn’t make sense.
Even now, a block and a half away, he felt a moment of regret as he reached into his pocket.
Finding the remote, he pressed the button. A moment of hesitation, then an eruption of light and sound rattled the glasses. The bartender swore and hit the ground.
Mike finished the pint in two gulps, dropped a five on the bar, and left.
He was six blocks north when his ears finally stopped ringing.
Donne’s sister called when he was on Valley Road in Wayne, which, he was pretty sure, was the worst place to call anyone with Verizon in New Jersey. The phone buzzed once and then dropped out, sending it right to voice mail. He hoped she thought he was avoiding her.
He made a left onto Berdan and saw Grove Estates just up the street. It looked like a bed-and-breakfast. A house that reached back probably an acre, with a porch at the front door. Its roof pointed toward the sun, and its aluminum siding was pink. It looked comfortable and welcoming, as it was supposed to.
Inside, the reception area looked like the lobby of a hotel. A few senior citizens sat around a fountain, reading or talking with one another. Soft Tony Bennett played over the loudspeakers, and receptionists dressed like nurses smiled at everyone.
He stopped at the welcome desk. A woman with dark hair pulled back in a bun smiled at him.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes,” Donne said. “My name’s Jackson Donne.”
“You’re Isabelle’s son? She talks about you all the time. We were wondering when you were going to come visit.”
He felt a wave of guilt and tried to let it pass without showing it to everyone in the room.
“I’ve been busy,” he muttered.
“She’s in room three oh eight.” The way she spoke, Donne wondered if there was a poster in the break room reminding the employees to answer the phone with a smile.
She pointed to Donne’s right. Closed double doors with a combination keypad.
“Through there. Third door on the right. The code is one, five, seven. When you go through, make sure you pull the door closed. There is a pad on the other side for when you leave. Same code.”
“Why the security?” he asked.
“We don’t want any of the residents in that wing to get out. We have a staff that’s outnumbered by residents twenty to one. If the door is left open, one of the residents could wander unsupervised and injure either another resident or themselves.”
“Do I have to go in armed?” He smiled.
She didn’t. “We change the code every week or so, so be sure to ask. Sometimes the residents find the combination out and sneak through. Have a good day, Mr. Donne.”
He pressed the code and opened the door. He stepped into another room, much like the lobby. A large TV played the news—a picture of something that looked like a war zone—and a few people sat on a couch, staring at the screen blankly. A woman in a wheelchair cried. Another in an easy chair seemed comatose. A man screamed that he wanted to see his father. The man had to be nearing eighty.
Four closed doors down a pale, plain hallway, he found room 308. He knocked gently and pushed the door open. A small square room with a twin bed in the middle, his mother lying asleep in it. A dresser with a mirror above it and a small TV across from the bed next to a desk and chair. A long window with drawn curtains let sunlight seep through. He stood in the doorway and watched his mother’s chest rise and fall slowly.
Stepping closer, he saw how white her hair had gotten. The last time he’d seen her it had been a light blond, but now it nearly matched the pillowcase. Even as she rested there were wrinkles around her lips, eyes, and nose that hadn’t been there before. His mother had had her kids late, but she’d always acted young. Always looked young. Until now. He put his hands in his pockets, closed his eyes, and took a long, slow breath.
Donne’s cell phone buzzed and he stepped out of the room. The caller ID informed him it was his sister again. Flicking open the phone, he wasn’t even able to say hello before he heard her crying.
“Susan,” he said, “are you okay?”
“Jackson, I—Have you seen the news?”
“No. I just got to the nursing home. What’s wrong?”
“Franklin . . . the restaurant. I don’t know.” She couldn’t control herself, and the sobs continued, harder now. He was surprised she was able to hold the phone.
“Okay. Calm down. Just tell me what happened. Take a deep breath and go through it from the beginning.”
As Donne spoke, he looked up at the TV again. He knew what she was going to say before she said it.
“Franklin’s restaurant in New York. Terrorists or something, they don’t know. But it’s gone. They blew it up.”
The war zone on the TV screen wasn’t a foreign country. It was New York City.
“Jesus Christ. How many people were hurt?”
“No one is sure what’s going on. They haven’t found any bodies—Oh God.”
“All
