every memory, sensation and detail.
Upon stepping into the lobby, Lisa’s skin tingled and the small hairs at the back of her neck prickled. The scene was otherworldly. Nearly two dozen casually dressed men and women were at the ATMs, or looking at the big map, or in the store, or the lobby. She recognized Detective Percy Quinn and Anita Rowan with the Ramapo P.D.
There was an eerie, deceiving quiet; a funereal air. There was activity, yet it was as if the service center were a mausoleum, empty of life.
As if she were watching ghosts.
Sullivan was beside her, gently urging her to report details.
“Don’t hold back, Lisa,” she whispered.
Lisa swallowed.
“I remember I needed to pee then get some magazines and a snack … The air-conditioning felt good, people were at the ATMs…people were in the store… I went to the store, picked up snacks and magazines. I got in line to pay and remember it was taking a long time…”
As she went through the chronology of events, recalling how the lights went off then on again, how she paid for her items, how she started back across the lobby, she glimpsed Roberts talk into his walkie-talkie and soon two men entered with a cart and bags.
The guards.
Lisa froze.
Through the window she saw the white van doubling as American Centurion’s armored car. Then she heard the motorcycles, saw men in racing suits and helmets with dark visors enter, extend their arms, shape their hands, their forefingers, as if holding a gun.
Lisa flinched as the ghost killers shouted the firing sounds. Her heart beat faster as she detailed events, moment by moment.
Even the scene outside was replayed.
Inside, the killers barked commands. Lisa went numb. Her legs crumpled and she was on the floor—
A man was on the floor beside her, facing her, about the same age as the agent, and he started saying, “I’m a cop…my gun’s on my hip under my shirt…slide closer, lift it out…tuck it under me…I can get off shots…”
Lisa’s thought process spun into a whirlwind of what was remembered, what was re-created and what was real.
Everything went blue.
Lisa recounts every detail, when she is overcome.
“NO. GOD, NO! DON’T KILL HIM!”
But the gunman shouted.
Lisa spasmed as her memory replayed the hot splatter of blood—the explosion.
The killer moved to her.
In that instant, as the killer’s finger pushed violently against Lisa’s skull, it happened. In the terrifying moment between one death and her life, it happened. Her heart skipped.
Time stopped.
With the unbearable pressure mounting on her skull, the horrifying images rewound to the shooter placing his gun against Agent Gregory Scott Dutton’s head. His last words—“Jennifer, I love you”—roared in Lisa’s ears and memory rewound a bit more to that sickening instant when the killer extended his arm and the cuff of his racing suit slipped back and in a searing telltale flash Lisa sees…
SHE SEES IT!
Lisa grabbed the shooter’s arm, clamped it in a viselike grip.
“A tattoo!” she shouts from the floor. “He’s got a tattoo!”
Morrow’s eyes widen. Jerked into action, he pulled out his notepad.
“Help her up! Quick!” Morrow said. “Lisa, please, can you sketch it now!”
Lisa was sobbing convulsively as Sullivan helped her to a sitting position, passed her the pad and sat on the floor with her.
“It was like a snake caught in ropes,” Lisa managed to say through her tears, struggling to steady her hand as she drew. “The snake’s head was up like it was going to bite, its mouth open, showing fangs, and the ropes and things were kind of braided.”
After several moments, Lisa passed her sketch to Morrow.
“Please, don’t ask me to do any more today. Please.”
“No, Lisa. We’re done for today. You did very well. Everyone did very well,” Morrow said, then huddled around her drawing with other investigators.
Sullivan comforted Lisa, praising her amid her quiet sniffles. They sat that way for a long time. Someone brought Lisa a Coke while Morrow and the others absorbed the break, quietly sending emails and making calls. Morrow approached Lisa, apologetic. There was one more thing. He asked Lisa to allow an NYPD sketch artist to work with her at fine-tuning the tattoo image when she returned to the hotel.
“It won’t take long. It’s important,” Morrow said.
Lisa agreed.
Off to the side, Agent Roberts was on the phone to Agents Vicky Chan and Eve Watson. He was arranging to drive Lisa back to the hotel in Manhattan so she could work in the room with the sketch artist before collecting Ethan and Taylor and going home to Queens.
Then Agent Roberts, another agent and Dr. Sullivan prepared to leave the service center with Lisa. They were outside the entrance when Morrow caught up to them.
“Lisa.” He took her hands. “Thank you. I know this was painful.”
“Catch them, Frank.”
“We will. I’ve taken care of whatever you may need at your house while we continue investigating. From surveillance to having someone stay with you, if you want.”
“Well, our lives have already been turned upside down.”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with. Think it over and let us know.”
“Okay.” She tried to smile before noticing someone approaching.
“Excuse me, Agent Morrow?”
Everyone’s attention shifted.
“Jack Gannon, World Press Alliance. Sorry for interrupting, but I was wondering if you could update your progress on the investigation?”
Morrow was quick to respond.
“The investigation continues. We have no further comment at this time. We’ll update the press when we have something.”
“And here?” Gannon looked at Lisa and assessed that she was not a cop. In fact, she looked familiar.
“I—I—” Lisa shot a look to Morrow. “I’m not sure I can—”
Morrow’s jaw tightened.
“She has no comment at this time.” Morrow positioned himself between Gannon and Lisa. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, please.”
