From the Indie Side (38 page)

Kareem breathed deeply, sighing, thankful she
didn’t need any kind of justification or alibi from him. It felt
good to be instinctively trusted by her.

Deb sniffed at his sweater.

“You were there. You were at the museum.”

Her words were an observation, not judgment.
Kareem nodded. She must have been able to smell the smoke on his
clothes.

Deb was silent, giving him time to compose
his thoughts.

“I remembered the attack, Deb. I don’t know
how, but I remembered it before it happened. I know it sounds
absurd, and I don’t know that I’d call it dejà vu, but I remembered
it like I remember going to Florida last year on vacation.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Deb replied.
She had to remember their text messages from earlier that morning.
Kareem was sure he’d mentioned the blast before it happened. She
must have sensed that, as she frowned, looking intently at him as
she spoke. “You remember the past, not the future.”

“I know,” Kareem said. “Believe me, I know
how crazy this sounds.”

He paused, turning toward her and looking
deep into her eyes.

“I can’t explain it. I can’t control it. I
just remember.”

Deb was quiet. Her eyes dropped, and he
wondered if she was having a hard time believing him. If he were in
her place, he would think she was crazy.

“I remembered the blast like I remember what
I had for lunch yesterday.”

Deb pursed her lips. She was on the verge of
saying something, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

“I can prove it,” he said, pointing at the
television screens above the serving area. One TV showed news
coverage of the bombing, the other was an in-restaurant feed,
scrolling through menu items. At the bottom of that screen was a
banner revealing the latest instant lottery results.

“Have you got a pen?” he asked.

Deb rummaged around in her purse and pulled
out a pen, grabbing a napkin from the table.

Kareem closed his eyes. He waited for a
moment, clearing his mind, wanting to move past the anxiety welling
up inside.
Trying
to remember was next to impossible; he’d
have a thought on the edge of his mind, just out of reach. But if
he relaxed and just let the thought come to him, it was easy. After
all, he didn’t have to do anything, just remember.

“20... 4... 56... 17… and the Powerball will
be a 5.”

That was the strange thing about remembering,
he thought. There was really nothing to it. If it was in your head,
you could recall it. There was no magic, no trick. The harder he
tried, the more elusive that fragile thought became, but if he
cleared his mind, memories drifted gently to the surface.

Kareem opened his eyes and watched as the
fifteen-minute lottery cycle ticked over from one draw to another.
Slowly the numbers 20, 4, 56, 17 and 5 scrolled along the bottom of
the screen.

“Okay, that’s creepy,” Deb said, looking at
the numbers she’d written on her napkin and comparing them with the
ones on the screen. “Is this some kind of trick?”

Kareem laughed.

“I wish it was.”

It felt good to laugh. All the pent-up
emotion inside him melted away. Sitting there with her, life felt
simple. For a moment, he could forget the insanity of the
morning.

“You knew that ahead of time?” she asked,
curious. She looked at him sideways with her beautiful brown eyes.
He’d never told her what he thought of her. One day he hoped he’d
have the courage to talk with her in something other than a
professional capacity and tell her how beautiful she was. To him,
her beauty was more than physical; it was a combination of looks,
intelligence, character, wit, and a playful persona.

“I remembered that. I’ve always had kind of a
photographic memory, always been good with license plates and maps,
phone numbers and addresses.”

“But you can’t remember something that hasn’t
happened.”

“I thought so too, until today,” he
replied.

“So this isn’t some party trick?”

“Deb,” he said. “This is your lucky day: 4,
17, 22, 33 and the Powerball will be a 7... no, an 8.”

Deb scrawled the additional numbers farther
down her napkin.

“Go,” he said. “Get a ticket!”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I dunno,” she replied sheepishly, “It feels
like cheating.”

“Maybe it is,” he said. “But who cares?”

Deb scooted sideways, pulling herself out of
the booth.

“You know I don’t gamble.”

Kareem shrugged his shoulders. Whether she
did or didn’t made no difference to him.

“Gambling is a tax on our hopes and dreams,”
she added.

“Sometimes dreams come true,” he replied.

“If you’re yanking my chain, I’m going to be
pissed.”

Kareem just smiled.

“Do you want some more coffee?”

“I’m good,” he replied, loving the way she
switched seamlessly between thoughts, accepting and trusting him on
one hand, and then asking after him on the other.

He watched as Deb went over to the waiter
behind the counter and placed her bet. With all he was going
through, it felt good to think she’d get something positive out of
this. She turned and looked over toward him, pointing at something
in the display cabinet and mouthing the word “Cake?”

He waved no, but she brought back two slices
anyway. Instead of slipping in beside him as she had previously,
she sat opposite him in the booth. From her body language, he could
see she wanted to look him square in the eye. For Deb, eye contact
must have been as important as touch. He felt as though she could
look past his eyes into the depths of his soul.

“Chocolate mud cake,” she said, just as he
was expecting her to say something deeply profound. He smiled. He
knew what the cake was, it was obvious to see, but she had a
childlike innocence in her excitement at something as simple as a
moist slice of cake.

The waitress came over with Deb’s coffee.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling as the waitress
put the cup before her.

“Yum,” Kareem said, taking a bite of
cake.

“So, how does it work? Did you remember
that?”

“What?”

“The cake? Did you know I’d bring some over
anyway?”

“No, it’s funny,” he replied, sipping his
coffee. “Some memories flash up out of nowhere, others hide in the
background, and some just aren’t there at all. Sometimes it’s like
there’s nothing to be remembered.”

“You took one hell of a knock to the head
yesterday,” she said, talking with her mouth full. “You think that
caused it?”

“I don’t know. That’s the strange thing. I
remember today, but not yesterday. I have no idea what happened to
me or how I got home last night.”

“You were over by the stage at Battery Park,”
she said. “Taking the early shift. I was supposed to replace you
after lunch, but that plan went out the door pretty quick.

“The blast happened about 11:30, just as the
Vets were preparing for their march. I heard about it on the news
before I got the call. I was already halfway to the hospital when I
got a text calling me in. At first I assumed you were one of the
early responders. It never even occurred to me that you were caught
in the blast.”

Kareem was fascinated. Deb was recalling
details in much the same way he remembered the future. There was no
stress or strain: her mind simply retrieved the information she
needed as she walked herself through the sequence of events. She
remembered just as he did, only she remembered the past, while he
remembered the future.

“It took about eight hours before we cleared
the site. I was clocking off when I saw you wandering along one of
the halls near the ER. You were in a daze, pushing an IV on a
stand, with a bloody bandage wrapped around your head. You were
lost. You were trying to find the main entrance to get out of
there. When I couldn’t talk you into staying, I hailed a cab and
gave the driver fifty bucks.”

Kareem finished his slice of cake. He hadn’t
eaten breakfast, and after his run through the park he was
famished. Listening to Deb speak had been like listening to someone
tell a story about a friend. He couldn’t relate personally to
anything she’d described.

Another customer approached the waitress,
asking her to turn up the television. Kareem and Deb watched as a
news bulletin reported the bombing at the museum.

“—our reporter on the scene, Wendy
Arthouse.”

“There’s chaos here, John. At this point, the
death toll stands at twelve, but the police have warned this figure
is likely to be revised upward once they can gain access to the
upper floors within the museum.

“As you can see behind me, the fire
department is struggling to contain the blaze that erupted
following the bombing. From what the fire chief is saying, the
mezzanine level has collapsed, along with sections of the second
floor.”

“Oh, Kareem,” Deb said, reaching out and
holding onto his arm.

The reporter continued, saying “Amateur
footage of the blast shows one of the terrorists entering the foyer
moments before the explosion. Although the footage is grainy, you
can see him disarming the guard.”

“Tell me that wasn’t you,” Deb whispered.

Kareem was silent. How could he possibly
explain himself to her? His actions seemed crazy even to him.

The image switched to a police officer
standing in the park opposite the museum, speaking to a phalanx of
cameras and reporters. “We’re seeing a growing level of
sophistication in these attacks. In Seattle and Chicago, the
attacks were isolated incidents. Here, though, the perpetrators
have mounted a second attack within twenty-four hours, which
suggests a level of planning and coordination we haven’t witnessed
before.”

A barrage of questions erupted from the
reporters, but the senior officer, with his formal parade dress and
silver-grey hair, held out his hands, visually imploring them to
let him speak.

“The attack on the museum may not be by the
same group, as the method of operation is unlike anything we’ve
seen elsewhere. This is the first time a member of the terrorist
cell has remained on the scene to ensure the detonation of the
device.”

Again, questions burst forth from the media
pack. Most of them were crying out for leads or suspects.

“We have identified one of the bombers,” the
officer continued. “The bomb threat was phoned through to our
investigation hotline this morning by one of the cell members,
identified as Kareem Hadee Rafid.”

Deb gasped. Kareem struggled to swallow the
lump in his throat as the photo from his driver’s license appeared
on the screen.

“So,” one of the reporters yelled over the
media cacophony, “you had advance warning?”

“I wouldn’t call it a warning so much as an
invitation to a trap,” the officer replied. “We were given just
enough information to ensure we arrived on the scene at the point
the detonation occurred. Seven officers were caught in the blast.
Three of them are in critical condition. Make no mistake. The NYPD,
in association with the FBI, will hunt down these criminals and
bring them to justice.”

Deb turned to Kareem.

His hands were shaking. He could barely
speak. His lips twitched and quivered with emotion.

“I didn’t do it,” he said softly, desperate
to get those few words out.

Deb was silent. She held his hand.

“I believe you,” she said. “I believe you
because I’ve worked with you. I know you. I know you could never do
something like this. But I don’t understand how you could have
known about this attack before it happened.”

“Me neither,” he confessed through lips that
trembled uncontrollably. It was crazy. How could he remember
something that hadn’t happened? He had no explanation, only that he
did.

“I couldn’t change it.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I thought if I could get there, I could stop
them, stop the bomb, or at least prevent so many people from dying,
but I couldn’t. I can see the future, but I can’t change it.”

“How many?” she asked. Her voice broke as she
spoke. Like Kareem, Deb was struggling under the emotional weight
of all they were dealing with, but he knew what she was asking.
What was the final body count from the museum?

“Fifteen.”

That word sounded cold, so harsh and sterile.
Fifteen was just a number, and not a fair representation of those
fallen lives. Fifteen didn’t do justice to the loss. Fifteen seemed
to cheapen the tragedy.

“What are you going to do?” she asked,
squeezing his fingers from across the table, the concern carrying
in her voice. “You have to give yourself up.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to. You’ve got to clear your
name.”

“My father,” Kareem started. A slight ripple
of bitter laughter crossed his lips at the irony. “My father was a
member of the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt. How long do you think it
will take the media to figure that out?”

Deb was silent, allowing him to go on.

“That was twenty years ago, before he brought
us to America, but that won’t matter. They’ll make it sound like it
was yesterday. They’ll frame me, frame my twin brother, defame our
family.”

Kareem watched as Deb’s lips tightened. Her
face hardened.

“How fair do you think the trial will be? How
much of a defense do you think I’ll have? Do you think they’ll
believe I just
remembered
today? Ha. I’m not sure even
I
believe me.”

“You can’t run,” Deb said softly. “You’ll
only make things worse. You’ve got to tell them something,
anything. I’ll stand by you. I’ll tell them how you’ve served this
community over the past few years.”

“You really think that will make a difference
in the court of public opinion?” he asked. “Look at me. I’m a
twenty-eight-year-old Muslim. I’m the archetype of a terrorist. No
one’s going to believe any different.”