CHAPTER
4
Mall of America
Patrick Murphy was on the escalator going down when the first explosion rocked the steps beneath him. Shoppers clutched the handrails and looked around, startled and curious, but no one panicked. After all, Santa had been due at any moment. Maybe the mall had some theatrical entrance planned that included fireworks. The place was certainly big enough. Patrick had never been in a four-story mall that had its own amusement park, theater and aquarium. The place was amazing.
No, the first blast went off without any panic. Only curious looks and turns on the escalator. No one panicked. Not until the second blast. Then there was no mistaking, something was wrong.
Without thinking Patrick twisted around. Instinct drove him in the opposite direction. He tried to fight his way up the down escalator, shouldering past shoppers, three thick, who were frantically headed down, shoving their way, using heavy shopping bags to pry through. Patrick tried to climb, pressing forward. He grabbed onto the handrail, almost losing his balance. The handrail was moving in the opposite direction, too. He tried to use his body to push against the crowd. He had a swimmer's build, strong broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs and a stamina and patience that came from physical discipline. But this was impossible, like swimming against a current, being caught up in a rip tide.
A linebacker of a man dressed in a parka told Patrick to get the hell out of the way while he stiff-armed him in the ribs. A teenaged girl screamed in his face, paralyzed and clutching the handrail, not allowing Patrick to pass.
The third blast was closer, its vibration almost rippling the steps of the escalator. That's when Patrick gave in. He turned back around and allowed the mob to carry him down the escalator. But as soon as they reached the bottom Patrick forced his way to the up escalator, grateful to find it practically empty. He raced up the moving steps. By now he could smell sulfur and smoke but continued to climb. Maybe his training actually had made a difference, taken hold of him without notice. It wouldn't be the first time he relied on gut instinct. Usually he trusted it. Lately he wasn't so sure.
Within the last year he had changed majors and with it his entire future. Not a good idea your senior year of college. It was an expensive undertaking for a guy working and scraping for every credit hour dollar. What started as a vocation and change of major had actually turned into a passion. All thanks to a father he'd never met. But Patrick knew it wasn't the extra classes in Fire Science that now made him race toward smoke. It probably wasn't even all those volunteer hours at the fire department that kicked him into full-throttle instinct, although firefighters were trained to push their way into burning buildings when everyone is clamoring to get out.
But this drive, this urgency, this gut instinct that had taken control of him and propelled him toward the explosions, had little to do with his new training and everything to do with Rebecca. He had left her back on the third floor at the food court, back where it sounded like the explosions had come from. He couldn't leave without her. Had to make sure she was okay. How many times had she checked on him? Made sure he was okay? All those nights working at Champs.
"You don't look so good," she'd say in between orders and refills. Then at the end of the evening after they were finished cleaning up, both tired, dead on their feet and needing to get back to study, she'd hop up onto a bar stool in front of him and say to him, "So tell me what's going on." And she'd sit quietly and listen, really listen, eyes intent and sympathetic. She'd listen like no one else ever had.
Patrick started to feel the spray from the sprinklers above and yet the smoke still stung his eyes. He pulled out his sunglasses then he yanked the hem of his T-shirt up over his nose. He stayed close to the wall. Let a rush of hysterical shoppers race by. Then he pressed forward again, slowly, taking in everything through the gray haze of his sunglasses. He tried not to trip over the debris, some from the explosion, other stuff that people had dropped or left behind: half-eaten food and spilled shopping bags. That's when Patrick thought about the backpacks.
He couldn't forget the bad feeling he had listening to Dixon Lee talk about their innocent prank. The whole time Dixon explained their scheme to send wireless static, some sort of interference that would play havoc with the retail shops' computer systems, Patrick kept thinking something didn't sound right. He should have listened to his gut instinct.
Why would anyone put a padlock on a backpack just to carry it around the mall and mess up a few computers?