Judge & Jury - James Patterson [37]
Chapter 41
IT FELT AS THOUGH my heart didn’t move a beat. I just stood there listening, praying. Somebody say something back to me. Shout! Scream for help!
All I heard was the crackle of flames, and all I saw was the dark gray smoke mushrooming through the bus. The scene was as still and desolate as a bloody battlefield after the fighting was done.
I covered my face with my hand and pushed my way down the aisle. Madness, but I had to do it. It was impossible to see. Somebody, a small woman, had been hurled against a side window and was twisted into a grotesque position. Others had died right in their seats. Clothing was burned off.
I recognized some of the faces. The writer was dead. So was the kindly-looking Hispanic woman who always knitted. Both had been roasted in their seats. Then I saw the red-haired guy who worked for Verizon, O’Flynn.
“Can anyone hear me?” I shouted. Only silence came back from the passengers.
I heard sirens outside. Emergency vehicles had arrived on the scene. Someone else, a policeman, stepped onboard. “Jesus, God.” He winced. “Is anyone alive?”
“I don’t think so.”
I tripped over some kind of mound. It turned out to be the body of the Jamaican mechanic, his clothes charred, his body crisp.
The thick, acrid smoke was starting to get to me. I coughed, pulled up my shirt, and covered my nose and mouth with folds of cloth.
“We better wait for the emergency people,” the cop called to me. He was right. There were noxious fumes and fire everywhere. The damned thing could go up at any time. I tried to see the back of the bus. There were no signs of life there either.
Then I heard something. A groan—more like a whimper. Someone alive?
“FBI,” I shouted, fighting against the fumes. The smoke was blinding. “Where are you? Are you all right?”
I heard the voice again, just a murmur.
“I’m coming.”
Then I saw him. On the floor. It was the boy! He was in the fetal position underneath a seat. “Jarrod!” I bent down—I remembered his name. “Jarrod!”
I put my face down to his, as close as I could get. The floor was hot, steaming.
My stomach fell. The little boy was dead. His pink skin was black with horrible burns. I wanted to retch. I couldn’t help bringing up the image of his face just seconds before in the window as his mother waved to me. “I’m sorry, little guy.”
Then I heard it again. The whimper, soft and faint. Someone was alive.
I pushed over twisted metal and bodies to the very back of the bus. Vinyl seats and plastic panels were melting in flaming strips. The smoke clung to my skin, like scalding rubber.
I heard it close. “Jarrod . . . Jarrod.”
It was Andie DeGrasse. She was pinned beneath a metal support beam. Her hair was black. Her face was covered with blood. Her lips quivered. “Jarrod . . . Jarrod.” She kept calling for her son.
“Help is here,” I said, bending to her.
She was the only one alive.
Chapter 42
RICHARD NORDESHENKO HEARD the tremendous blast. At precisely 2:03 p.m., from three blocks away. He felt the ground beneath him shudder, the earth slide. It was done.
He had instructed his limo to wait while he went inside an electronics store and purchased a gift for his son. World Championship Poker.
Nordeshenko had heard similar explosions before. The double concussion. The ground shaking. Like an earthquake, actually. The store clerk looked confused. Nordeshenko knew what had happened. Nezzi had taken no chances. There was enough C-4 in that van to do the job three times over.
Nordeshenko tucked the package under his arm and left the store. He looked forward to getting home. He had a few gifts for his son: an iPod and the new computer poker program that he knew would delight the boy. And earrings for his wife from New York’s Diamond District.
His work here was over, and it couldn’t have gone any better.
He had already received a message about his Swiss account. More than two million dollars. There were still a few more payments that had to be made. But he had earned every penny. He would take it easy for a while when he returned home.
“What the