"Why? Someone pick your pock—hey, wait. Are you out near the airport?"

"Very."

"Are you okay?"

"No."

"Wait—your father was coming in today. Was he—?"

"Yeah."

"Gevalt! He's not…?"

"Yeah, Abe. He's gone."

"What?"

"Gone."

Silence on the other end. Finally Abe spoke, his voice thick.

"Jack… Jack, I'm so sorry. What can I do? Anything. Just tell me."

"Come get me, Abe. Check the underpasses near the airport exit ramp. I'm under one of them. Wish I could tell you which one but…"

"I'll take the truck."

"Hurry."

9

Hours later Jack sat slumped in a funk on Gia's couch while she huddled against him. Vicky was upstairs doing her homework. Gia had told her that Jack's father had died and left it at that. Knowing that he'd been slaughtered in what the media were now calling the "Flight 715 Massacre" would only frighten her. Better for now to let her think he was an old man who'd died of natural causes—whatever those were.

They stared at the old TV, watching the same shots of La Guardia's Central Terminal, hearing the same clips of the mayor, the police commissioner, the head of Homeland Security, and the president himself. No new news, just repetitions of what little had been gleaned from witnesses who had been close enough to see the massacre, but far enough away to stay clear:

Two gunmen wearing airport coveralls, ski masks, and Arab headdress—described as "the kind of thing Arafat wore"—had entered baggage claim through an employees-only doorway and opened up on the passengers of American Airlines flight 715. The result was one hundred and fifty-two dead—men, women, children, passengers, relatives, limo drivers, security guards—everyone who'd been anywhere near the carousel.

Among the dead were forty-seven members of the ultra-orthodox Satmar Hasidic sect returning to Crown Heights from a gathering in Miami. Since the killers did not attack any of the other nearby carousels, the news heads speculated that the presence of such a sizable group of Hasidim might have been why that particular flight was targeted.

After finishing their bloody work, the killers had fled through the same doorway. In the hallway beyond they'd discarded their coveralls, their masks and kufiyas, as well as their assault pistols. Word had leaked that both pistols were Tavor-2 models, manufactured in Israel. That started speculation that the choice of weapon might have been a way of adding insult to injury. Jews slaughtered by Israeli-made weapons.

But the question most asked by the news heads to their endless parade of experts on terrorism and Arabs and Islam, singly or on panels, was why there were no wounded. How could every wound be fatal? Finally someone offered the possibility that the terrorists might have used cyanide-filled hollow-point rounds.

"Oh, my God!" Gia said. "How could they?" Then she shook her head. "Sorry. Stupid question."

"I figured it might be something like that."

"Why? How?"

As he'd knelt next to his dead father, Jack's reeling mind hadn't been able to process all the surrounding sights and sounds. But as he'd waited in the cold darkness for Abe, he'd slowed and corralled his chaotic thoughts, and painstakingly pieced together what he had seen.

Dad hadn't been lying in a pool of blood—he'd been lying next to one that seemed to have come from the uniformed woman beside him. His body wasn't bullet riddled; in fact Jack had seen only one wound, a bloody hole near the left buttock, but not much bleeding from that.

"My father's wound—at least the one I could see—seemed to be a flesh wound. Of course the bullet could have ricocheted off a bone and cut through a major artery. But after I heard there were no wounded, that everyone who'd been shot was dead, I began to suspect cyanide."

None of this had been confirmed, but Jack was pretty sure it would turn out to be something along those lines.

Gia shivered against him. "I've never heard of—I mean, what hideous sort of mind dreams up these things?"

"Cyanide bullets aren't new. They're a terrorist favorite, but usually when they're out to assassinate a specific target. The poison guarantees that an otherwise nonlethal wound will be fatal. First I ever heard of them was back when we were kids—when those Symbionese Liberation Army nuts used cyanide-tipped bullets to kill that school superintendent. But for mass murder? Never heard of them being used for that. At least until now."

Gia closed her eyes as a tear slid from each. "So if they'd used regular bullets your father could have lived… if he'd laid still and played dead, he might have survived, and we'd be standing around his hospital bed now talking about how lucky he was."

Thinking about what could have been and might have been never worked for Jack. Seemed like self-torture, and he felt tortured enough right now.

"I doubt it."

Gia opened her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I saw a smear of blood about the length of his leg on the floor beside him. His hand was on the holster of a dead security guard. I think—no, I'm sure he was going after her gun. Dad wasn't the type to sit and wait to be killed. He was an excellent shot. If he'd reached the gun… who knows? I doubt he could have taken down both of them, but maybe he could have hit one of them, and that might have scared off the other."

Could have … might have…

Useless.

Just as useless as the rerun of his fantasy of teaming up with Dad to take out the killers.

Gia said, "He would have been a hero."

"Most likely they'd have cut him to ribbons as soon as he fired his first shot."

"At least you got to see him again. If this had happened down in Miami, you, well… you're now the last one to see him alive."

Jack knew he couldn't claim that blessing for himself.

"No, the killers were."

"I mean in his family—oh, God! Family! Did you call your brother?"

Shit!

"No. I didn't even think…"

Truth was, thoughts of his brother rarely if ever crossed Jack's mind. He'd never considered Tom a real brother, just someone who shared some of his genes and, for the first eight years of Jack's life, the same house. Ten years older than Jack, Tom hadn't been a presence even before he'd gone off to college, and after that he'd faded to a wraith who'd float in and out over the holidays and breaks.

Jack had his number somewhere. He'd had to call him a few times last September to update him on Dad's coma, but not often enough to remember.

"You've got to call him."

Yeah, he did. But how much would Tom care?

Jack caught himself. Not fair. Maybe Tom hadn't gone to visit Dad in Florida when he'd been hurt, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be devastated to learn he was a victim of the flight 715 massacre. Back then he'd said he was tied up with "judicial matters," whatever that meant. Yeah, he was a judge in Philadelphia and maybe he couldn't leave in the middle of hearing a case, but still… if your father's in a coma and no one knows whether or not he's going to come out of it, hell, you find a way.

"Tom's number is back at my apartment. So's Ron's."

His sister's kids needed to know about their grandfather.

He kissed Gia on the top of her head. "Got to get home and make those calls."

Gia looked up at him. "Can't you call information?"

"For Ron, yeah, I suppose. But I know Tom's is unlisted, him being a judge and all."

She grabbed his hand. "You're going to come back, aren't you?"

"Sure, I guess."

"Jack, you shouldn't be alone tonight. This is something that needs to be shared. Vicky and I can help you through this, but you've got to let us. I know you, Jack. You're like an injured wolf that goes off to lick its wounds alone. You can't keep this bottled up. You've got to let it out. I'm—we're here for you, Jack. Please don't shut us out."