“Negative. Roadway and entrance.”
Rizzo boosts her speed from eighty miles an hour to ninety. I’m just a few yards behind her. Closer than I should be, but we both want to get to the scene as fast as possible.
By the time we get to the District via Route 50, Metro Police have set up detours, leaving Constitution Avenue NW relatively open as we get closer to the bombing site.
We roll past the National Museum of African American History and Culture and the Ellipse grounds.
Straight ahead, I can see a hazy cloud of smoke and reflections from flashing emergency lights. Rizzo slows down, and I match her pace. We make our way through two Metro Police checkpoints manned by grim-faced cops in ballistic helmets and body armor carrying M4 automatic rifles. Yellow police tape flutters in the breeze, and the street is cluttered with abandoned vehicles, police cruisers, and fire trucks.
Rizzo pulls onto a sidewalk near the intersection with Henry Bacon Drive. I pull up right behind her. We jump out of our vehicles, pop our trunks, and grab our go bags. As we trot down the sidewalk, I hear the grumble of parked emergency vehicles and sirens sounding in the distance.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
“Bad,” Rizzo replies.
“Of all places to attack …”
We both break into a run down the drive leading to the entrance to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. My fury builds with every stride. This is sacred ground to me. Six names on that wall belong to boys from my neighborhood who were shipped off to Vietnam—and never came back. Over the years, Alex and I have made rubbings of their names, left flowers, and said prayers to make sure they’re never forgotten.
It’s like yesterday’s scene—all around us I see shattered, charred cars, their windows broken and doors torn off. The smell of explosives and burned rubber is strong in the air. Trees are bent, broken, or blasted out by the roots.
I see first responders around a body nearby. He’s in jogging gear, arms spread out, his left leg gone below the knee. There’s a zigzag blood trail behind him. I put the scene together quickly.
Shit. Lost his leg in the blast, then died trying to crawl for help.
Along the entrance to the path leading to the memorial, food stands and souvenir kiosks have been blasted into splinters. Fire trucks and ambulances crowd the area. Firefighters are watering down a few vehicles still burning. I see yellow blankets scattered on the ground, presumably covering more bodies. EMTs are hard at work on the survivors. A woman sits on the edge of the sidewalk as two EMTs bandage her bloody head. She rocks back and forth, wailing at the top of her voice, “Jenny! Where are you? Mommy’s right here! Jenny!”
Rizzo puts her go bag down and squats beside it. “Jesus.”
I take a knee beside her. “Something here is different, Anna. See what’s missing?”
Rizzo scans the road, filled with broken glass and twisted metal. “No, John, I don’t.”
“Think about it. There are no buildings here. He wasn’t going after structures or offices. He didn’t even damage the wall itself. He was aiming for regular people, tourists and locals going about their morning routines.”
I see Rizzo’s jaw tighten. “What kind of monster does that?”
“I wish to hell I knew.”
The bleeding woman on the sidewalk is still calling out, “Jenny! Where are you, baby? Mommy’s right here!”
CHAPTER 31
Cross
ALEX CROSS LOOKS DOWN at the abandoned bicycle half covered by underbrush that Bree found. Then he picks up a stick and uses it to part the branches.
“It’s all in one piece,” he says. “Nothing looks bent or broken.” He stands up. “We need to be sure it’s Damon’s.”
“I think he sent some pictures of it a while back,” says Bree. She starts flicking through photos on her phone.
“We’ll also need fingerprints,” Alex continues. “What’s the weather been like? I don’t think it’s been rainy here, so nothing should’ve washed away.” He looks over at Bree, who’s still searching her photos. “Check with Melissa. She’ll know if it’s Damon’s bike.”
Bree nods, clicks out of the photo app, and opens her contacts. She dials Melissa’s number and leaves yet another message.
“Hi, Melissa. This is Bree Stone. Again. Damon’s dad and I are at the Pearson Trailhead, off Barbee Chapel Hill Road. Weneed you here.Now. If we don’t hear from you, we’re calling the police.”
Bree stabs the End Call button. Alex puts his hand on his wife’s shoulder. He can see the frustration on her face. “We can just take a photo of the bike and send it to Melissa,” he says.
