Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [73]
Al recommended this coffee shop. He said he stops here every day on his way to the church. He reaches the street, and I see him looking this way, maybe searching for us through the shop’s dirty window. Al steps from the curb between two parked cars and starts to cross. I offer a small wave, and he sees it. He waves back.
Then the world outside the window disintegrates in a mix of light and deafening sound. Before Espy and I can react, the window ruptures, spraying us with glass. Instinct kicks in and I turn my head to avoid the worst of the shower as I throw myself to the floor. Espy does the same, coming down hard a few feet away from me. I’m at her side almost before the last bits of glass land.
“I’m fine,” she says, rising on one arm.
I ignore her words and do a battlefield check, but she’s right; I can’t see that she has been injured. I spare a few seconds to determine that I have fared almost as well, save a single, albeit large, piece of glass stuck in my left shoulder. I pull the glass from my skin and toss it to the floor. The shopkeeper chooses that moment to rise from behind the counter, his eyes wide. He looks at Espy and me, and I give him a wave to assure him we’re all right. His eyes move to take in the scene outside.
With the same idea, I pull myself up, using the table for support, then to steady myself as I take in what has happened. It looks like one of those war zones one sees when watching CNN. Smoke fills the air, with debris scattered about in the street. People are running to and fro, and there’s a car—one of the cars that Al was walking by—that’s in flames. Only a crater remains of the other vehicle. I don’t understand why, but the sounds break through only after the images have made their mark. The first noise that cuts through is that of distant sirens. I hear people crying, screaming; the crackle of flames.
I don’t see a body but I have no doubt that Al is dead.
Smoke is drifting into the coffee shop and I begin to cough. Tears start to form, and I can blame these on the smoke, too. I take Espy’s hand, and together we head outside.
On the street, an atmosphere of chaos reigns. I watch as a young man, dazed, wanders toward the flame-engulfed car. I run to him and guide him in the other direction and get him to sit down on the other side of the street.
Then I force myself to stop. There’s a hollow feeling in my stomach, as well as a larger portion of guilt than Alem’nesh carried. Even this close to the event, I have no doubt that Al was targeted, for the detonation was too well timed, too precise, to have been anything but a hit. Which means that whoever detonated the bomb might be watching me right now, and that means Espy and I must leave immediately.
CHAPTER 15
The smells of salt and fish ride the wind that spills through the cab’s open window. The wind passes over the harbor to collect the sea, to deposit it in odor and moisture on a city of almost four million, as reminders of the industry by which it was built. Tourism has long usurped fishing as Sydney’s chief domestic product, but to me the place’s chief identity is that of a sea town. A very large sea town. At almost sixteen hundred square kilometers, Sydney’s sprawl matches that of London, covering twice as much territory as New York City.
“I’m cold.” Esperanza shivers and pulls her sweater tighter around her shoulders.
Actually, the weather’s perfect. When we got off the plane, the display at the airport said 23º Celsius, which translates to around 73º Fahrenheit. It’s the sort of temperature that would have one walking into any public place and spotting people wearing light sweaters, right next to others