The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (47 page)

Pruitt Farm Four Months Later

W
hen Morgan got back to the States, he needed an operation for his neck wound and another for his shoulder; he refused plastic surgery for the scars on his back. Those medals he would keep. Through it all he refused narcotics. Vowing to never enter that dark place again, he grimaced from time to time, but nothing more.

Every morning, he examined his incisions in the mirror while the nurse changed his dressings. They looked damned good and were healing well. His bruises inside, however, were not.

Jon Pruitt had made certain a psychiatrist monitored Morgan during the CIA debriefings. Through a one-way window, the physician watched him in the reclining chair as he perspired, repetitively flitted his gaze toward the door, then the doctor, then the ceiling.

As Morgan told his story, his interviewers would later marvel in private about his disciplined ability to learn and train for a task considered impossible. With each subsequent session however, the evidence of Morgan’s torment compounded until the psychiatrist medicated him to reduce his stress. For a time the nightmares still broke through. Eventually Morgan’s traumatic anxieties softened. Able to be managed as an outpatient, he was discharged. Jon brought him to the farm.

The Pruitts paid for everything.

Every dawn Morgan stretched with a yoga master on a hidden knoll away from the house. After breakfast, while he met with his therapist, Connie placed fresh flowers in his room and made his bed. Morgan would often sit on the porch rocker and read—sometimes it was the Bible or the Koran they discovered in his pant’s pocket. He meditated often, and started running again. Slowly, his crippled mind began to heal. He was no longer feeling rudderless.

Then his therapist suggested he care for Caroline’s horse, Goethe.

For a week Morgan struggled with the proposal. He finally asked Jon to take him to the stables.

His reunion with Goethe was bittersweet. As he stroked the horse’s forehead, he whispered into an ear, “Sorry, buddy…just going be just me now.”

His fingers ran along the bridle hanging nearby on the wall. The rich hand-stained leather with raised stitching and brass nameplate was a present he had given Caroline on Goethe’s birthday.

Intentionally clearing his throat to emphasize an expanding grin, Jon said, “I remember what happened the day you gave that to her.”

Morgan nodded with a much-needed smile.

One month later

Goethe had already trotted in from the pasture and was waiting along the corral’s rail. He whinnied as Morgan climbed over the fence.

“What a mess!” Morgan said. “Goethe, what you been up to with that tail? Spanking the mare?”

He shook his head in mock annoyance.

Goethe swished his flaxen tail wide as the chestnut gelding snorted. A treat was coming.

Morgan opened his hand. “It’s the peppermint you like.”

A pair of red-and-white-striped sticks crunched and was gone. The horse bounced his head up and down, giving tentative thanks.

“Not to worry,” Morgan said, using his fingers to untangle the horse’s mane. “You won’t get cavities. They’re still sugar free, just as your mistress always insisted.” He gave a slight thump on the horse’s hip. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up. Jon and I are riding later.”

They walked together into the stables.

“Care for nail polish today?” Morgan asked.

Goethe snorted and clomped into his stall.

After Morgan picked through one of the front hooves, Goethe pushed his nose into Morgan’s bent rear, signaling the time to switch. When he finished the last back hoof, Goethe’s tail splashed his face in thanks.

“You’re welcome,” Morgan said with a gentle pat on his flank. The tail swished again. “Remind me tomorrow to trim that thing.”

Goethe nickered. The best part was coming. The horse loved the currycomb.

With each circle of the short plastic teeth across the barrel hairs, little clouds of dirt and clay splashed the sunlight.

“You can only get this filthy if you’re rolling around, scratching your back!”

Goethe’s ears turned toward Morgan as he spoke. He stopped brushing and came to the horse’s face.

“Don’t think for a second I don’t know that’s what you’re doing,” he said sternly.

Their conversation weaving wherever it went, Morgan finished with the right side and started on the left. Goethe’s ears turned away, but Morgan paid no attention. A front hoof stomped a few seconds later.

“Magnificent animal,” said a voice.

Morgan didn’t look and kept brushing. “Yes,” he mumbled.

“Got a minute, Wes?”

Morgan’s stomach muscles tightened as he glanced at the door, where a man stood dressed in a suit. A few feet behind, a bald head in a darker suit had a curly wire coming from the ear.

“Jon said you’d be down here with Goethe.”

“Every day,” Morgan replied.

The president moved closer.

“I remember when Cay first got him,” Reeves said. “Her father wasn’t sure about the name, but long before, Jon had learned never to argue with his daughter…so
Goethe
it was.”

Each time the gelding heard his name, he whinnied.

“Frozen music,” Morgan said.

“Pardon me?” asked Reeves.

“Architecture is frozen music,” Morgan replied. “It was Cay’s favorite saying. Johann Goethe coined it—she named him in his honor.”

“I didn’t know.”

The president tipped his head toward the Secret Service agent who stepped back and left the barn. The sincerity in Reeves’s face grew.

“Cay was my goddaughter,” the president said. “I wanted to come by…to see how you’re doing, but I know you needed time. I waited until Jon gave me the okay.” Reeves lowered his voice even more. “So…how
are
you doing?”

“I’m improving,” answered Morgan.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

They stood an arm’s length apart.

“Wes…I’m so sorry. You were both lucky to have each other, even if it was tragically too short. Jon and Connie were blessed too.” His tone stayed somber. “They’re still lucky…with a man like you.”

Morgan said nothing.

“Cay would have been proud of you.”

Morgan shrugged.

“What you did was impossible…to say the least.”

“Had to do something,” Morgan said.

Reeves gave a suppressed chuckle. “That’s a hell of an understatement.”

“I hope you get him someday,” said Morgan.

“We will.” Reeves paused. “Wes…there’s more I came here to say.”

The president held out his hand.

“Along with my personal gratitude…On behalf of the citizens of the United States, I thank you for your service to our country.”

Morgan reached to shake the president’s hand until he realized he was still holding the currycomb. When he stopped his arm, both men looked down and smiled as Morgan pulled it off. Reeves tried again—successfully.

“If there’s ever anything I can do for you…Jon and I are old friends.” Reeves produced a thoughtful smile. “I guess that’s…very old friends. Just tell him.”

“Thanks…”

“Going to go give Connie a hug and get out of here before I blow Jon’s privacy. Had to sneak away. Press, you know.” The president turned to leave and paused. “Anything, anytime, Wes.”

And he was gone.

Jon Pruitt flew to Chicago to meet with the Merrimacs and Janie Bonwitt. Seated in the fourth-floor lounge of the Four Seasons Hotel overlooking Michigan Avenue, Janie teared before they even ordered cocktails. Shaking his head, Pruitt handed her his handkerchief. When the waiter came to take their drink orders, Ross Merrimac asked for a margarita instead of following his wife’s lead of iced tea.

Shandra scowled.

“Queen,” Ross said, “I don’t drink much…but I’m going to have one today.”

Janie blew her nose again.

“I wanted to ask you face to face,” said Jon. “Wes told me he couldn’t bear to come back to the city, at least not yet. It was too soon…Too many memories…We talked about it. Because you were so much a part of their lives, he hoped you would join us in New York.”

They quickly agreed.

“Is anyone else joining us?” asked Janie.

“What do you mean?” Pruitt asked.

“Didn’t you mention a woman was involved in his rescue?”

Pruitt reflected for a moment.

“Well…Yes…I told Wes a few weeks back, he had a guardian angel who helped him get home—that she had called to tell us he’d been rescued.”

“Did you ever meet her?” Janie asked.

“Connie and I had her over for dinner to thank her.”

Quick white lies were a skill he had perfected over the years.

Janie began to smile. “Is she pretty?”

Not understanding her curiosity, Jon scratched his head. Merrimac exploded in laughter, shocking his wife even more by taking a gulp of his margarita.

“Janie,” Ross said, “there you go again!”

Another long sip followed.

“So, Jon…” Janie pestered. “This girl who helped him…She’s pretty?”

“She’s a very beautiful redhead...and equally as smart.”

Ross Merrimac laughed again while Pruitt appeared only more confused.

“Jon! What are you waiting for?” Bonwitt’s smile grew huge. “Introduce her to Wes! You’ve got her phone number, I hope!”

T
he North Tower site was busy. Dump trucks, cranes, and bulldozers never stopped moving debris. Morgan was at the bottom, below the street noise, walking, looking up and down at the four sides that rose around him. Ahead, a cement mixer and its operators waited. Wearing hardhats, the Pruitts, Merrimacs, and Bonwitt walked with Morgan, followed at a respectful distance by a swelling number of ground crew.

“Thank you for letting me do this,” Morgan said when he reached the pit.

“Our honor, Dr. Morgan,” replied the foreman.

Concrete poured in the hole as Morgan knelt on one knee and dropped in the engagement ring.

The next morning, before the September 11 anniversary ceremony, Morgan and Jon Pruitt stood at the small pool at Ground Zero and together raised the snifters filled with the remaining Macallan. After a taste they placed the crystal on the ledge and gently lowered blue orchids in the water. Red roses joined them. Pruitt put his hand lovingly but firmly on Morgan’s shoulder.

“Wes, time to go.”

Morgan gripped the railing as he stepped to the dais, unsure of the emotions he was about to face.

Caroline’s name came last. The tears were impossible to hold back. His world changed the first time she kissed him, offering her love without condition, her blue eyes penetrating deep into his soul. Even in her final moment of life, she filled him with joy and hope. Yet Caroline would never succumb to the uninvited will of others and she chose to die on her terms—so she jumped.

It was now time for Morgan to say goodbye.

“Caroline Alora Pruitt,” he said proudly. “My beautiful Cay…”

He looked beyond the collective sadness to the holy place where she was entombed, where the day before he finally gave her the ring.

“My darling Cay, I love you…and will forever.”