The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (48 page)

T
he ceremony ended. Jon, Connie, Ross, Shandra, and Janie surrounded him with their hands linked together. Shandra offered a prayer. Arm in arm, they cried.

When their emotions settled, Jon said, “How ‘bout we stretch our legs a bit?”

Bathed in muted glory, New York City was emerging from the paralysis of that morning. Strolling along, talking about things they’d never remember, they paused frequently while the women window-shopped. It was carefree and that was good. The last several hours had been a strain on them.

When they got to a stoplight, Janie said, “Ladies, I know some really great places uptown where we can shop!”

Merrimac shook his head and said, “No…I think I’d rather get some coffee and meet up with you girls later.”

Jon agreed.

“Abandoning us! Ooo! You’re no fun!” said Janie, looking at Jon and Ross. “Well, boys…then be dearies and get us cab, will you? Pretty please, with sugar?”

Jon Pruitt pointed across the street to a Starbucks. “Wes, go grab a table and we’ll find you.”

Morgan nodded.

With a mug of green tea, Morgan sat on a stool at the window and picked up an abandoned
New York Times
. Thinking he might read it, he put it in his lap and first looked out the window. The women were gone. Taking a sip of the hot liquid, he scanned the newspaper’s headlines. His eyes returned to the date.

September 11, 2004.

Three years and a lifetime had passed.

Morgan looked around the room for Jon and Ross. They still hadn’t arrived. He began reading the only story in the paper that was important.

“Is anyone sitting here?”

Her voice startled him.

“Not yet,” he responded. Glancing her way, he offered the adjacent seat with an open hand.

“Thanks. I’ve been standing for hours in these heels. My feet have had it.”

This time Morgan looked at her longer.

She was breathtaking and impeccably dressed. Invisible hose climbed into an olive gabardine skirt, its waistband sealed by a tailored jacket, while a brilliant gold and teal scarf looped over her crisp white blouse. Orbiting outside fresh lipstick, lush red hair cut in a long bob swirled about her face. There was no coffee cup in sight.

“A special day,” she said.

He nodded, ill prepared for conversation.

“To some,” was his reply.

“Were you there this morning?” she asked.

Morgan nodded again, his lips fixed.

The woman looked at his damp eyes. His hair was streaked salt and pepper, scattered by the morning’s breeze. His suit coat drooped as though it had been stitched with elastic thread, the weight of one spirit plus thousands more pulling down his shoulders.

She wanted to hug him, caress his hair with her fingers, and whisper, “
It’s okay…It will be okay.
”

“If you can imagine,” she said gently, resting her handbag on the counter and sitting down facing him, “I heard a man on the subway say he couldn’t remember what the Towers looked like.”

“I’ll never forget,” said Morgan, shaking his head.

“Oh, forgive me!” The woman seemed to panic and stood hurriedly. “I’m being rude. I should introduce myself.”

Extending her hand, her bracelet knocked over his tea. It ran like a quick river onto the newspaper and splattered to the floor.

Embarrassed, she said, “I’m so sorry,” fumbling for his napkin, dabbing what she could.

“Don’t worry about it.” He gave a placid smile. “Gravity happens.”

Her right hand and fingers were damp and sticky. She wiped them on her skirt.

Morgan glanced around the room. His friends were nowhere to be seen. A person long ago had taught him about coincidences.

“Can I start over?” she asked cautiously.

He chuckled. “Do I need to get more tea for that?” he inquired.

She blushed, bashfully offering her hand again. Their palms slipped together and held. Her grip was confident and firm, but she still seemed out of her element.

“Hi. I’m Elaine Jericho,” she said, “but my friends call me
Lainey
.”

He smelled perfume.

“Name’s Wesley Morgan.” He smiled. “But please…Call me
Wes
.”

T
his novel would not have been possible without the encouragement, patience, and inestimable love of my wife, Diane. In addition, I will forever give credit to my wonderful family and friends, who inspired me with storyline ideas, editing and encouragement ad infinitum. I also thank my formal editors, Leigh and Julia. Finally, this loving brother gives special gratitude to his only sister who during a hike in Rocky Mountain National Park in 2007 told him that this would make a really good story.

Betsy, I have finished. May you rest in peace.

A physician himself, T.W. Ainsworth, like most Americans, couldn’t get the horrific events of September 11, 2001 out of his mind. But rather than simply dwell on it, he chose to write about it. Using the cathartic expression of fiction,
The Architect of Revenge
grapples with the common feeling of the day—the desire for revenge—and follows one man’s journey not only into the heart of al-Qaeda but also into his own. The author lives in both New Mexico and Florida and has learned much about faith, friendship and forgiveness from the writing of this story.

Contact:
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Twitter: @Ainsworth_TW