'You're right. Someone certainly proved it. Someone with his own agenda. Those boys didn't have anything to do with this.'
'You know the boys involved?'
'They were friends of my grandson. Chad, Tyler and Dixon got hoodwinked into carrying those backpacks. And Patrick?they shouldn't even have his picture. He didn't have anything to do with this. Patrick and Becca just went to the mall to be with Dixon.'
'You know Patrick Murphy?'
'Patrick and Becca celebrated Thanksgiving at my home yesterday, spent the last two nights with us. They go to University of New Haven with Dixon. Came from Connecticut all together. Drove two days. Good kids. Good, decent kids.'
He was shaking his head and didn't notice Maggie swallowing hard.
Patrick had been telling the truth. He didn't have anything to do with the bombing. She shouldn't have been so hard on him, should have trusted him instead of asking him to trust her. Now she was sitting with the man who Patrick had spent Thanksgiving with and he seemed to know more about her brother's character than she did. Suddenly her stomach did a flip as she realized something.
'Was Patrick with Dixon when he was taken?'
'No, neither was Becca.'
The relief was hard to contain but Henry Lee didn't seem to notice as he stared at his hands again.
'Dixon said he left the backpack with them. Are Patrick and Becca alive?'
Maggie saw the realization in his eyes. He hadn't thought of it until now, that Dixon's friends may have been killed in the blast.
'Patrick is alive. I don't know about Becca.'
Henry Lee shook his head. 'Dixon was here at the hospital with me,' he told her. 'I was so relieved that he was safe. Then those bastards took him from here. That's how I know they must be watching.'
He stopped, took a couple of deep breaths to steer himself away from the anger. 'Dixon was worried about his friends. He borrowed my smartphone. He was talking to them.' He paused and squinted, looking for the right term. 'Texting them, making sure they were okay. That's how those bastards are making me keep in touch, controlling how I keep in touch. With my own goddamn phone.'
'Who exactly are
'The one in charge calls himself the Project Manager.' He looked away. Took several more deep breaths as if steeling himself for what came next. 'And he's getting ready to make another attack on Sunday.'
CHAPTER 55
Just Patrick's luck. Looked like security guard Frank used this laundry room as his break room.
Patrick climbed into and folded himself inside one of the large commercial dryers, barely clicking the door shut before the giant sauntered in. He pressed himself against the metal drum, hoping anything that showed through the round window would only look like a pile of clothes waiting to be sorted. He could see just a sliver of Frank and what looked like a three-day supply of vending machine snacks. The security guard sat down at one of the tables, popped a can of soda, ripped open a bag of chips and propped up a paperback novel.
Great. A nice, long break.
Patrick tried to ignore the cramp in his legs. One leg twisted up under the other. He'd better get used to it. Frank was settling in. The dryer next door rattled and vibrated with the towels and his clothes, thumping his own high-tops against the back of Patrick's head. He might get away with some movement. The sound would get lost in the hum of the other dryer, but he couldn't chance setting his own creaking or whining.
Then he remembered his cell phone. He hadn't shut it off. He hoped Becca wouldn't choose now to call him. Or Maggie.
It reminded him that Becca hadn't called him. He couldn't call her. He didn't have Dixon's phone number. But she had his number. Why hadn't she called? Now that she was safe with Dixon, why wasn't she at least checking to make sure he was okay? When she escaped from the triage area had she intended to escape from him, too?
The thumping already gave him a headache. He chanced another peek. Frank had barely made a dent in his junk food stash.
Patrick's leg cramped, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. He leaned back, tried to stretch. The metal drum groaned and he froze. He braced himself and tried to listen over the vibration of the next-door dryer. No footsteps. He didn't see a chunk of blue uniform. Maybe the groan had sounded louder inside than outside.
This was crazy. All through high school and college he worked hard, kept to himself, tried to do the right thing, stayed out of trouble. Didn't date, didn't do drugs, didn't binge drink, didn't go looking for a fight. Or at least he didn't make a habit out of any one of those things. It'd been hard enough taking care of himself. Paying for college. Making enough extra money to eat, buy gas for his car and pay the rent. How the hell did he end up with his picture plastered all over the network and cable news? How did he end up alone, on the run? In a fucking dryer?
He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw against the thumping. It was exhausting having only yourself to depend on. He thought maybe Becca had felt the same way. He didn't want to admit how disappointed he was that she left without a word to him, that she didn't call or text. If he admitted that he was disappointed then he'd have to admit that she mattered. He had trusted that she was his friend. Didn't friends look out for each other?
Maggie said he needed to trust her.
He remembered when she called and invited him to her home for Thanksgiving. She offered to pay for his flight or train ticket. Said he could spend the weekend if he wanted. She had a big house with a huge backyard. She was anxious to introduce him to her white Lab, Harvey. In the last two years since they'd discovered each other, Patrick could count on one hand the times they had seen or talked to each other. He didn't know this woman who was trying to suddenly be his big sister.
Then it occurred to him that she, at least, was trying. What had he done? Not much of anything.
From what little he knew about Maggie, he realized she had worked hard to get where she was, working her way through college, earning a forensic fellowship at Quantico. And it sounded like her life hadn't been much easier than his after their father died. She had only hinted about her mother's alcoholism, but Patrick had worked in Champs long enough to recognize the difference between someone who chose to stay away from alcohol and someone who had to stay away.
The first time he met Maggie she had come to Champs in the hope of seeing him when he was working. Only she had no idea what he looked like. He remembered watching this lady sitting by the bar as she glanced around like she was searching for someone. It was a college bar. She looked out of place. Not because she was older but because she was too classy for Champs. Then to make matters worse?to prove even further that she didn't belong?she ordered a Diet Pepsi.
The memory brought a smile just as the next-door dryer came to a sudden stop. No more vibration. No more thumping.
Patrick stayed pressed against the drum, not daring to move. The quiet was worse than the thumping. He risked a glance, moving only his head and keeping the drum from groaning again. The table was empty. No snack food, no paperback novel.
He craned his neck. No Frank. Was it possible he was gone?
Patrick dared to eased himself up on his elbows, creaking the drum just enough so he could see the rest of the room. Empty. Finally he could get out. If only he could twist himself out of this pretzel.
He pushed the door of the dryer. It didn't open. He put his shoulder to it and began to shove his weight against it.
The door didn't budge.
