From the Indie Side (36 page)

His coffee was cold so he dumped it out and
poured another fresh cup from his coffee machine. The TV was still
cycling through news stories about the string of terrorist attacks
that had rocked the country. The clip of President Addison
repeated. His defiance seemed even more impressive the second time
around.

“Come on,” Kareem said to himself. “What
about Manhattan? What about Central Park? Is it safe to go
out?”

Is it safe, he repeated mentally to himself.
Terrorist attacks were sensational, but he knew more people would
die on the roads that one day than had died in any of the attacks.
Probably several times more, and yet he understood society had
accepted road accidents as normal. Fatalities from car accidents
were nothing compared to a terrorist attack, or so the news told
him. Huh, he thought, realizing he was in more danger from his gas
stove or while crossing the street than he ever was from a
terrorist. And given his injuries, he’d apparently come close to
dying while jaywalking or something.

How many had died in the Seattle attack? He
struggled to recall the number, but it was somewhere in the
fifties. There had been hundreds injured but only fifty or sixty
killed. Only. What a cruel word, he decided. And at the Museum of
Natural History, just a few blocks away from his apartment, how
many had died there? His memory was hazy, but he was sure it was
only fourteen or fifteen people. And there it was again: only.
Kareem decided he hated that word.

How many people died on the roads each year?
He should know this. He tended to enough motor vehicle accidents.
From memory, he thought it hovered somewhere between thirty to
forty thousand, so that had to be, what? A hundred a day, he
figured, if his math wasn’t wrong. Damn, he’d come close to being
part of that horrifying statistic.

Kareem picked up his smartphone and sent a
text to his work buddy, Deb Drysdale.

Morning.

Almost instantly, Deb replied. She must have
been online already.

Hey, how are you doing? Are you feeling
OK?

Yeah
, Kareem replied, slowly typing
out each letter, trying not to invoke the fury of autocorrect.
I’m a little groggy, but I’m OK. What the hell happened?

You don’t remember?
came the reply.
How did she reply so quickly? Damn, she was fast with her fingers,
Kareem thought.

No
, he replied.

Dude. You were caught in the
blast.

Kareem sat there on the bed, stunned,
watching as more messages rolled in.

You’re lucky to be arrive.

Alive, alive - damn autocarrot!

You were on standby when the bomb went
off.

Standby for what?
Kareem asked, unable
to recall even the most basic details about yesterday.

Vets for Freedom March.
They
were supposed to leave from Battery Park.

Kareem typed two words in response, his
fingers moving somewhat autonomously as his mind struggled with
Deb’s comments.

Battery Park?

Yeah. Do you remember?

No, Kareem replied.

What a fucking mess, Deb typed. 47 dead.
600+ injured. And you, you dumb fuck! You were thrown across the
road by the blast.

Me?
Kareem replied.

Wrong place. Wrong time, dude.

You wouldn’t stay in the hospital
overnight.

You kept saying you were fine.

Kareem sat there watching the messages roll
in, hoping they’d trigger something in his memory, but his mind was
blank.

You said you didn’t want to take up an
extra bed.

You goddamn martyr. Ha ha!

Kareem remembered the blast by Central Park,
the blast he’d been waiting to hear about on the news. For the life
of him, he couldn’t understand why they’d only cover the blast in
Battery Park.

What about the museum? How many were
killed?

Museum?
Deb replied.

Yeah, the M of Natural History by Central
Park.

There was no reply. Deb had lightning-fast
fingers when it came to working with her smartphone, so a few
seconds felt like an eternity. Finally, a response appeared on
Kareem’s phone.

There was only one attack.

At Battery Park.

But Kareem could remember the first attack
vividly.

Are you OK?

Do you want me to come over?

Kareem shook his head, typing,
I’m
fine.

How about breakfast at
O’Malley's?

Not hungry,
Kareem replied.
But
will come for intravenous coffee.

Ha ha. Good man. C U at 9.

Bye
, Kareem replied, switching off his
mobile phone and sitting it on the bed next to him. His
recollection of the blast at the museum was surprisingly vivid, and
yet it came in fragments. He must have been there, but Deb was
describing a different attack, the one on the news. Kareem was
confused.

Closing his eyes, he allowed memories to
bubble to the surface of his mind. He could picture what had
happened. He had crossed from Central Park. He was jaywalking,
never a smart thing to do in New York. Had that been when he was
hit by a car? Although Deb said he’d been caught in the blast in
Battery Park, his mind still associated his injuries with a vehicle
accident. He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d been hit by one of the
yellow taxis that raced through the city.

A delivery van had parked outside the museum;
he remembered that detail vividly. He’d made eye contact with the
driver as he crossed the road. That face! Kareem’s eyes flashed
open, catching the same face on the TV screen in front of him. That
face was the same one as the police artist sketch, he was sure of
it. Only the cheeks were slightly narrower, and the nose was more
square, but the eyes, they were identical. He’d seen one of the
bombers!

“Police are urging anyone with any
information on the identity or whereabouts of either of these men
to come forward. They are considered armed and dangerous and should
not be approached. An information hotline has been set up by the
NYPD.”

Kareem already had his phone out and was
dialing the number on the screen. The call was answered
immediately, but he was met with an automated response.

“This is the New York Police Department. You
have reached the information hotline for the investigation into the
bombing at Battery Park. Please hold, an operator will be with you
shortly.”

Music began playing.

“Your call is important to us and will be
answered by the next available operator.”

“Son of a...” he cried as a pleasant jingle
sounded from the phone.

His phone began beeping, signaling imminent
battery failure.

“Shit!”

Kareem kept the phone to his ear as he
rummaged through his dresser, looking for his power cord.

“Your call is important to us and may be
recorded for training—”

“Just get on with it,” he snapped, finding a
cord to recharge the phone and plugging it into the wall. The cord
was short, forcing him to crouch down next to the power outlet.
Kareem went to switch the phone to speaker when a woman’s voice
answered.

“New York Police Department. You’re talking
with Officer Kransky.”

“I saw him,” Kareem blurted out, forgetting
about the growing cramp in his leg for a moment. Adrenaline surged
through his veins.

“I’m sorry, sir. You’re going to have to be
more specific.”

“I saw him. The bomber.”

“Sir, I need to make you aware that the New
York Police Department is assisting the FBI investigation into the
bombing at Battery Park. Misleading an officer investigating this
incident is a federal offense. Fraudulent claims constitute a
serious crime and may be punishable by fines of up to ten thousand
dollars and a prison term of up to five years. Do you understand
that?”

“Yes, yes. I saw him before the bombing. The
one on the right, on the TV, he was driving a delivery truck. The
old sort, with a box cabin and the sliding side door.”

“What can you tell me about the van? Did you
get the license plate?”

“No.” This was good. Talking with the officer
was helping him to recall more detail.

“Was there anything unusual about the van,
perhaps a bumper sticker or a distinct dent?”

“The logo was crooked!”

Kareem was excited. He was remembering. He
could see the logo in his mind’s eye.

“What did the logo say?” the officer asked.
“Was this a Fed Ex truck or UPS?”

“No,” Kareem replied confidently. “It looked
like a UPS truck, with a copper logo set on a dark brown
background, but it wasn’t UPS. The initials were...”

The officer waited. Kareem relaxed. The
letters were right on the tip of his tongue. He was on the verge of
remembering. Suddenly, it came to him.

“HSF.”

“HSF?” Officer Kransky replied.

“Yes. I remember it clearly.”

“Do you remember what time you saw this
truck? Had you looked at your phone recently or seen the time on a
clock?”

“Yes, there was a clock above the entrance,
an old clock with big arms.”

“What was the time on the clock?” the officer
asked.

Kareem could picture the arms of the clock.
He could see the angle they formed.

“Just after 8:30, maybe 8:33.”

He was trying to be helpful, not sure what
detail would be important to the police.

“Okay,” Officer Kransky replied. “So this was
just over three hours before the blast.”

“Oh, no,” Kareem replied. “The explosion
happened just a few minutes later.”

There was silence on the other end of the
phone.

“How sure are you about the time you saw?”
the officer asked.

“Positive,” Kareem replied. “I could see the
clock in the entrance to the museum, right behind the truck.”

“Museum?”

“Yes, the American Museum of Natural
History.”

“American” never sounded right when Kareem
said it. Being of Egyptian descent, Kareem tended to articulate his
words rather than slur them and “American” never sounded American
to his mind. 

The woman’s voice stiffened.

“Can I confirm that I’m talking with Kareem
Hadee Rafid, 12 East 78th Street, apartment 4A?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re calling from your residence?”

“Yes.”

“Please stay where you are.”

“Okay,” Kareem replied innocently, hearing
some noise in the background. There was a commotion, but Kareem
couldn’t figure out what. To him, it sounded as though the officer
was in the middle of a busy office.

“A police officer will be over to talk to you
shortly.”

“Fuck!”

Kareem hadn’t meant to swear aloud, but he
couldn’t help himself. There was something in the officer’s tone of
voice, in the way she articulated the word “talk.” He could hear
her getting someone’s attention; she must have had her hand over
the microphone instead of using mute.

“Can you describe the bomb?”

Kareem understood what was happening. Officer
Kransky thought she had the bomber on the line!

“What time is it set to go off?”

Kareem was silent.

“Is it easily recognizable?”

Kareem noticed she no longer referred to the
bomb directly, softening her language and referring only to
“it.”

“Did you carry it there yourself? What does
it look like?”

Kareem panicked. He jumped up, leaving his
phone sitting on the floor. Officer Kransky was still asking
questions, but he couldn’t make out any distinct words, just a
jumble of sounds. He crept out of his apartment, shutting the door
silently behind him.

Kareem ran a few blocks to Central Park. He
wasn’t sure what the time was, but it had been just after eight
when he’d called the police.

Leaves swirled in the autumn breeze, blowing
up against the low-lying fences on either side of the path. Joggers
ran along, earbuds playing music as they exercised. Kareem ran past
them, failing to pace himself. Concrete paths wound through the
park, following the curves and contours of the land, frustrating
his desire to run straight and hard. He ran across a road cutting
through the park without even looking for traffic. With only a
vague notion of direction, Kareem took whatever path continued on
over to the far side of the park.

He ran up a steep rise, surprising himself
with how out of shape he was and how the hill was sapping his
strength. His lungs were burning in the cool air.

Ducks floated calmly on a pond to one side,
oblivious to his concern as he sprinted past. A cyclist rode past
him and he seriously considered stealing his bike from beneath him,
but the moment passed and the cyclist was gone.

Kareem came to a T-junction and freaked out.
Which way? Lives were in danger. He wanted to run straight ahead,
through the bushes, but that would slow him down and he knew
it.

“Fuck!” he cried, resting for a moment and
catching his breath. He didn’t remember this. He remembered being
by the museum when the bomb went off, but he couldn’t remember how
he got there. The irony tormented him. He could remember the
future! He could remember things that hadn’t happened yet! That
revelation was astonishing, electrifying his mind, and yet there
were blind spots, aspects he couldn’t grasp for some reason, and
that frustrated him. He didn’t have time for this. He had to get to
the museum if he was to prevent the bomb from going off.

Kareem looked up at a sign: The Rambles. He’d
run into a section of the park intentionally designed to be chaotic
and confusing. Some people must enjoy getting lost in the maze-like
paths, but he didn’t. He scanned the map on the sign, trying to
figure out how to get out onto one of the running paths, and then
set off again.