“You’re the detective?” he asked lazily. “Driscoll,” Harry said, flashing his badge. “I’m on the case with a body being delivered right now.” “Jason Keane,” said the other. “Can we help with something? I mean, besides the obvious.” “I just want to have that body examined as soon as possible. Like, immediately,” Harry underscored, a little dubious of the mop-headed kid’s attention span. “Can you start now?”
Keane shook his head. “I’m not the guy. Just the assistant. The coroner left early because it was slow.”
“And the morning guy—”
“Called in late,” Keane said. “’S why I’m stuck here at almost quarter after.”
Driscoll frowned. “Sounds like government work to me. Who’s his supervisor?”
Marwan al-Hassan had finished the morning salaat and was sipping tea in his brother’s breakfast nook. His left arm hurt, but he didn’t care. The day he had committed himself to was now at hand, by the will of Allah. Not only would the pain in his arm vanish, but he would be gathered into paradise. And he would strike a blow against the infidels. Such a blow! Perhaps not the greatest blow, but a decisive one, like the stab of a dagger that leaves no great hole, but penetrates deep.
Yasin had explained to him the importance of the blow, especially to deal it here, on American soil. The fear it would cause, the chasms it would create between their enemies, would be significant. Marwan would be a hero, and his name would be praised.
Marwan decided to make another cup of tea.
Jack hadn’t felt this tired in a long time. There was a part of him that wanted to be pissed off at Christopher Henderson, or Ryan Chappelle, or both, for not providing him the backup he needed up at Castaic. Where had the surveillance been? Where was the cavalry?
These were legitimate questions, but Jack knew the answers would not satisfy him. CTU was an infant, disorganized, with unclear lines of communication. When Jack had gone after Dog Smithies, it had been with the help of Harry Driscoll and the LAPD. The Dean thing had been done strictly through CTU, and CTU definitely did not have its act together yet.
But Jack was too tired to chew anyone out, so when he staggered in the door and saw Christopher Henderson, he just shook his head reproachfully and took a seat in the conference room. He didn’t know if there was going to be a debrief and he didn’t care. He hadn’t slept in a while, and since yesterday evening he had nearly been blown up twice and shot at twice. The phrase “third time’s a charm” drifted through his mind in a very unsettling way.
There was some activity around Jack while he sat. Someone put a bagel and some coffee in front of him. Jamey Farrell had taken charge of the stack of C–4 and was examining it. Christopher Henderson was on the phone with the Santa Clarita police and the
L.A. Sheriff, talking through the firefight and explosion that had left more than a half-dozen people dead near Castaic Dam.
Jack had lost his cell phone, so he dialed home from one of CTU’s landlines. Teri answered on the first ring.
“Jack?” she asked worriedly.
“Hi, it’s me,” he said.
“Were you home at all last night?” Teri said. “Or did you leave early?”
“Not home. I’m sorry,” he said. Hearing Teri’s voice was like a tonic that relaxed his muscles. But the effect was not beneficent. As he relaxed, his guard dropped, and the fatigue seemed to sink into the marrow of his bones. “You wouldn’t believe the night I’ve had. It was like being in Delta again.”
“I thought that kind of night ended with Delta,” she replied. The reproach in her voice made Jack wince. “Is it over now?”
In his mind’s eye, Jack saw Dean engulfed in a fireball. “Should be.”
“Do you want to come home and have breakfast?”
Food, Jack thought. Food sounds good. How long’s it been since I’ve eaten anything? “I’ll be right there.”
Driscoll listened to the woman on the phone talking. “…I’m not annoyed at the early hour, Detective Driscoll. I’m annoyed that you won’t listen to the facts.”
“I’ve listened to your facts, ma’am,” Driscoll argued into the receiver. “You won’t listen to mine.”
“You don’t have any,” the woman said gently.
Driscoll had to admit that he was most annoyed at her calm and rationality. She — her name was Patricia Siegman — was clearly accustomed to dealing with anxious investigators eager to receive data on their cases. She was currently handling Harry with an aplomb he would have admired, if only she were using it on someone else.
“You have a witness who was shot. I understand that, but something like sixty percent of the criminal forensics we conduct are shootings. We have a backlog, and I have two coroners out.”
“But this is important—” “—and I’ll get to it today, Detective. I’ll get to it by noon. I can’t do any better than that.”
Driscoll checked his watch. She was doing him a favor, he knew. A five-hour turnaround was ridiculously efficient. But somehow it wasn’t enough for him. Get the body! The phrase haunted him, and maybe it was just his time around Jack Bauer, but he had a gut feeling that the explanation for that phrase was urgent.
Jamey Farrell hadn’t performed integral calculus since college, but she found herself dusting off her equations as she measured the bricks of C–4 that Jack Bauer had brought in. As soon as she’d measured the bricks, she took their average and scribbled it on a sheet of scratch paper.
Then she went down to the closet that currently passed as CTU’s evidence locker. The crate they’d confiscated from Sweetzer Avenue was easy to find— it was just about the only item in the closet. Huffing and griping to herself, Jamey loaded it onto a small mover’s cart and pushed it back up to the computer bay she’d commandeered as a work space. The crate still contained the C–4 they’d found. Looking at the real deal, Jamey was struck by how obvious it was that some of the plastic explosive had been missing. In real life the box looked much emptier than it had on video. Just eyeballing the crate told her that one could fit much more C–4 inside.
She frowned but continued working. Her next job would be to measure the volume of the C–4 Bauer had brought in, and then estimate how much (if any) was missing. She had a sinking feeling that no one was going to like the answer she came up with.
Jack pulled into his own driveway and parked his car. He flipped down the vanity mirror and took a good look at himself. He’d splashed water on his face at CTU, but he still looked dirty, sweaty, and bruised. There were circles under his eyes the size of gym bags.
I should have taken more time, he thought. Cleaned up more. Borrowed a shirt. This will be a conversation.
Jack didn’t relish the idea of keeping secrets from Teri. Given free rein, he’d have explained to her every cut and bruise. But much of the information about his job was classified, and though he told her everything he could, the result still left holes, and those holes became gaps in their relationship. Better to come home clean and happy, and avoid the need for stories altogether.