Absent Friends

He swiped at his eyes and looked away. Sally reached across the table, withdrew her hand without touching him. Silence as thick as the sunlight filled the room. Sally asked Marian, “Where do you think they are? Whatever's in them, these papers?”

“I don't know,” Marian answered. “But we need to find them—we need to find them—before that reporter does.”

Kevin's chair scraped across the floor as he pushed back from the table, reaching for his crutches.

“Kev?” Sally stood as he levered himself up. “Honey?”

Kevin shook his head and kept going. Sally took a step as though to follow but stopped herself. Marian didn't watch him go but she heard, she felt, the hard slam of his door.

PHIL'S STORY

Chapter 13

The Water Dreams

November 1, 2001

Early morning at the Y, but no game today, so Phil was running. Long rhythmic strides, faster than comfortable so it wouldn't get easy. Though this track, tenth of a mile, God he hated it. The same thing, past the same point, forty times, you have to be kidding. Before, even in bad weather, he ran outdoors. Down from his place, through the streets to a park. Either side of the island, up along the river. But now you couldn't run downtown. The ash, the rubble, the trucks. The nervous National Guardsmen. The smell. He couldn't breathe that air. Not like you breathed when you ran. Couldn't take it in, deep in his lungs. Couldn't make it part of him. He'd tried, early on. It had made him sick.

Sixteen. The track, braced on angles, circled the gym. Volleyball practice today, some league team. These guys were good. Long volleys, sharp smashes. Worthy distraction. But not a game Phil took to. You stayed in one place, any given play. Doomed it for him.

Twenty-four. Heart pounding. Runner's high starting. He lived for that. Since September 11, the only time, the only place, he ever felt there was a point: a run, a game. In court? For the clients, so he kept at it. For himself? No. Now, just here. What this point was? No idea. All brain chemicals. Sure, he knew. Supplied by evolution, thank you, ma'am. So you'd run across savannahs. Away from predators. Toward your prey.

Thirty. Could he talk to Sally? Kevin? And say what? Last night, with Kevin: to do that again? But suppose he knew? If he could know, prove it was true? McCaffery, what he did? Phil was the messenger. First urge, kill the messenger.

Thirty-two. Talk to Spano. This might work. With Kev. Take him, show him. Might work. High getting higher. Phil's favorite chemical, always came last, flooding his brain: kicking in hope.

Thirty-seven. Faster, the last three faster. Breath burning, heart hammering. Outrunning thought. Sally, cold voice on the phone. Kevin, back turned. Spano. Huge vast generous fresh breeze of hope. Outrun it all.

Thirty-eight. Pain everywhere, lungs desperate. Legs still pumping. Why? He couldn't remember. Maybe that's the reason.

Forty. Hallelujah.

Slow the pace.

Spano.

Heart pounding.

Find the truth.

Jog one.

For Sally. For Kevin.

Sweat dripping.

Walk one.

Enough.

LAURA'S STORY

Chapter 14

Sutter's Mill

November 1, 2001

Afterward, whenever Laura reviewed her tapes—and she'd had both recorders going, of course she had, and both recorders played back exactly the same sounds, told exactly the same story, of course they did (it was like watching the film of the second plane hitting, the footage looped endlessly on TV and you watched it over and over, helplessly hoping this time it would be different)—none of the early part, the interview when she'd been sitting alone with Eddie Spano, sounded familiar to her. It was as though she were listening to the sound track of a film she hadn't seen. It wasn't until the knock, the creaking open of the trailer door, the new voice, that the images started to come; and even then, they were spotty. Until the shouting started. This she remembered. This sprang into full view. The rest of the morning from that point on was clear and sharp to her, full of detail, unrolling in perfect sync with her tapes, and no matter what she did, she was sure—she was afraid—she would never be able to stop seeing it.

Here, at the beginning, on the tape, was Eddie Spano, just as she entered his office. (He'd been sitting behind his desk, a bald, pudgy man. Had he looked up? He must have. Had he stood? No, he hadn't.) Impatient growl: “What?”

Her own voice, words she'd said a million times but didn't now remember saying to Eddie Spano. “Laura Stone, New York Tribune.”

“Great.” A snort, caught for all time. “Go ahead, sit down. Or stand, I don't care. This isn't an interview. This is an order. Lay the fuck off.”

(A rustle on the tape. Laura sitting down?)

“Mr. Spano, my paper has information—”