DeBorn nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”
The suddenness of the assault had blindsided the protesters. The combatants — three hundred members of New York’s highly trained Emergency Service Unit (ESU), all wearing hooded gas masks and Homeland Security apparel, had stormed the plaza in one expedient, overwhelming wave. Working in teams, the troops had quickly subdued the crowd, binding their wrists behind their backs using trifold, single-use restraints before laying them out in organized rows along the cold concrete expanse.
Having taken out the mob, they turned on the media.
With little regard for camera equipment or Constitutional rights, the assault team physically herded the stunned reporters and their television crews to another section of the plaza, where they, too, were placed in restraints.
“This is America! You can’t restrain the press!”
“Hey, asshole, ever hear of the First Amendment?”
What the members of the media never saw was that the police officers who had been forming a gauntlet against the protesters were also being sequestered, their weapons tagged and confiscated. After being told by health officials that their actions were merely a minor precaution against a possible swine flu outbreak, the law-enforcement detail was led inside a triage center, one of four mobile Army tents now occupying the plaza. Isolated in small, plastic-curtained compartments, the unnerved police officers were reassured that everything was fine, even as medical teams in white Racal suits moved from one cop to the next, performing a thorough physical examination.
“He’s clean. Escort him to the observation tent.”
“This one’s fine.”
“This one’s running a slight fever.”
“My kids have the flu… it’s nothing.”
“Treatment tent. Run full blood and hair analysis, then start him on antibiotics.”
“Doctor, you’d better take a look at this one.”
Officer Gary Beck was seated on the linoleum floor, his riot gear by his side. He was sweating profusely, his complexion a pasty gray… and he was coughing up blood.
“Isolation tent, STAT! Alert Captain Zwawa. I want full blood and hair analysis in ten minutes, followed by—”
The officer dropped to all fours and retched.
“Seal the compartment!”
“Triage-3 to base. We need a mobile isolation unit and a cleanup detail, STAT.”
Leigh Nelson led her semiconscious patient inside the private room on the sixth floor. “Not too shabby, huh? Partial view of Manhattan, private bathroom—”
She watched Patrick Shepherd stumble in a Xanax-induced stupor around the room. He looked beneath the bed and between the mattresses. He searched inside the bed-table drawers and the closet… even behind the toilet.
“Baby doll, it’s safe. And it’s all yours. Now be a good boy and lie down, you’re making me a nervous wreck.”
The warm numbness was spreading, calming the waves of anxiety, weakening his resolve. He sat down on the bed, his body sinking into liquid lead. “Leigh, listen to me… are you listening?”
“Yes, baby doll, I’m listening.”
“Do you know what true love is?”
“Tell me.”
He looked up at her, his dilated eyes swimming in tears. “Boundless emptiness.”
Leigh swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “Shep, you need to talk with somebody… someone who can help you cope with what you’re feeling. DeBorn’s sending over a specialist. Before you speak with Bea, I think it’s important you talk with him.”
“Why? So he can tell me to move on? To let her go?”
“No, sweetie. So you can get some clarity. Put your life in perspective.”
He motioned to the box of personal belongings sitting on the desk. “Bea’s book… get it for me.”
She sorted through the cardboard container, retrieving the copy of Dante’s Inferno.
“Read the opening canto… the first few lines.”
She opened the book to the Divine Comedy’s first stanza and read aloud: “About halfway through the course of my pathetic life, I woke up and found myself in a stupor in some dark place. I’m not sure how I ended up there, I guess I had taken… a few wrong turns.” She glanced at Patrick. “Is this supposed to be you?”
He pointed to a framed painting of a beach house, the tropical scene providing the only color in the room. “That was supposed to be me.” He closed his eyes, fading fast. “Now this is all I have to show for my pathetic life… trapped in purgatory. Hell awaits.”
“I don’t believe in Hell.”
“That’s because you’ve never been there. I have.” He lay back on the bed. “Been there four times. Every time I close my eyes to sleep, it drags me back again. It soils you. It stains the soul. I won’t let it stain my family.” His words began to slur. “DeBorn… Tell him no. Tell him ta go fuh…”
The eyeballs flitted beneath the lids, his larynx rumbling into a soothing snore.
The beach house is open and airy, the A-frame living room’s ceiling paneled in wood. Fifteen-foot-high bay windows reveal a deck and pool out back, and just beyond that the Atlantic Ocean.
The Realtor opens the French doors, filling the house with a salty breeze and the soothing sound of crashing waves. "Atlantic Beach is a quaint little seaside village, you'll love it here. The house is Mediterranean, five bedrooms, six baths, plus the guest house. It's an absolute steal at $2.1 million.”
Patrick turns to his better half. “So?”
The blonde-haired beauty balances their two-year-old daughter on her right hip. “Shep, we don’t need all this.”
“Who cares about need? I’m a big-league pitcher now.”
“You pitched two games.”
“But my agent says the endorsement deals he’s working on will pay for three beach houses.”
“It’s so far from the city.”
“Babe, this’ll be our summer home. We’ll still have our condo in the city.”
“Boston or New York?”
“I dunno. Maybe both.”
She shakes her head. “You’re insane.”
“No, no, your husband’s right.” The Realtor flashes a reassuring smile. “Real estate remains the best investment around, property values can only go up. There’s no way you can go wrong.”
“That’s great to know.” She switches the curly-haired toddler to her other hip. “Can my husband and I have a moment to talk in private?”
“Of course. But I have another buyer looking at the house in twenty minutes, so don’t be too long.” She heads out to the pool deck, leaving the door open so she can eavesdrop.
The blonde slams it shut.
Shep smiles defensively. “Husband. I love that.”
“Let’s be clear. We’re not married yet, and we won’t be if I catch you flirting with any more cheerleaders.”
“They weren’t cheerleaders, and I told you, I wasn’t flirting. It was just a photo shoot for Hooters.”