The Panic Zone Read online

  If she kept moving, she could stay ahead of her pain.

  She did that for nearly ten years before she met Joe Lane, a carpenter in Big Cloud, Wyoming, where she’d come to write a travel story for the Boston Globe. They’d met at a diner, had a beer at a bar and a month later she found a reason to return. Emma was taken by Joe’s strong gentle way, and the bittersweet sadness in his eyes. His mother had died when he was nine. His father, an electrician with the state, had died of a heart attack just the previous winter.

  Joe was a loner.

  But being with him made her feel like she was in the place she needed to be. They got married and Emma, who’d minored in education at college, got a job as a teacher.

  She loved her new life in Big Cloud.

  It was as if she’d been reborn.

  Joe was her rock and Tyler was their gift.

  But now Joe is dead and Tyler is gone.

  “No!”

  Emma pulled her fingers into a fist and pounded the stand at her bedside, toppling the tray. The water jug splashed to the floor. She brought her fist down again, and the stand crashed against the wall and equipment cart.

  Nooooo.

  Emma’s heart rate soared, the monitor beeped. Alarmed nurses rushed into her room.

  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “it’s my fault!” Her hands flew up to her mouth. “I’m the one who said we should drive to the river for a picnic. It’s my fault!”

  “No, it’s okay, Emma.” The nurses lowered her head back. “It’s okay.”

  The next sedative put her down for hours.

  Emma woke in dim light to several silhouettes.

  Her aunt Marsha, her uncle Ned, Dr. Kendrix, a nurse and several other people were gathered in her room.

  She heard the soft chink of keys, the leathery squeak of a utility belt then the whiz of a nylon club jacket and nervous throat clearing.

  “Emma,” Kendrix said, “you know Lyle and Darnell.”

  As her eyes adjusted, she recognized Lyle Spencer with the Big Cloud County Fire & Emergency Services and Darnell Horn, a deputy with the county sheriff’s office. Both had made safety presentations at her school many times. She knew their wives, their children.

  “Yes.”

  “They were both at the scene, do you remember?”

  “No.”

  “We’re so damned sorry,” Lyle said. “Most of the guys at the department knew Joe. They’re taking up a collection.”

  “Ruthie sends her love,” Darnell said. “If there’s anything we can do.”

  “What have you done with my son?”

  Keys chimed. Darnell shifted his weight as he braced to explain.

  “Emma, I’m so sorry but he didn’t make it. Tyler and Joe didn’t make it.”

  “You’re a liar!”

  “We were called to the scene.” Darnell cleared his throat. “We helped the highway patrol. Joe lost control. The guys at Joe’s site said he’d been putting in long hours, we figured he drifted off.”

  “No! Someone swerved into our lane!”

  “There were no other witnesses, no skid marks. The people that stopped afterward to help you did not report seeing anyone.”

  “I’m your witness! A car was coming at us and Joe swerved.”

  “Do you remember the color? The make?”

  “No, dammit, it was all too fast!”

  “Emma, some of the guys at Joe’s job site said that in the past few days he would sleep at lunch or fall asleep in his truck before heading home.”

  “No.”

  “He was working god-awful long hours.”

  “Don’t you dare blame him! You can’t blame him, I was there!”

  “Emma,” Lyle said. “The doctors said you had a concussion.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “We’re trying to help you.”

  “You’re all lying! Is it because of Tyler? Where is he?”

  “Emma, sweetheart,” her aunt said. “Everyone understands this is a horrible time. They’re only trying to help.”

  “What did they do with my son? I saw someone rescue my son!”

  Kendrix sat in the chair beside her and positioned it nearer.

  “Sometimes,” he started, “Emma, sometimes the mind will create—fabricate—scenarios, such as rescue scenarios. It’s a psychological defense mechanism, a means of coping with the unbearable. Perhaps your rescue scenario is representative of angels pulling Tyler free from being consumed by the fire, to give you solace.”

  “No, no.”

  Kendrix nodded at Darnell.

  “Emma,” Darnell said, “you were thrown from your vehicle. Joe was partially ejected, then thrown clear by the explosion and fire. But Tyler—” Darnell glanced at the others, and Kendrix urged him on “—Tyler remained inside.”

  She started shaking her head.

  “Why are you doing this, Darnell? Why, Lyle? You knew Joe. You’re both fathers. I know your children. I know Joe died. I felt him die. But why are you lying to me about Tyler?”

  “No one is lying,” Lyle said. “This is the hardest thing I’m going to have to tell you. The fire was intense.” Lyle paused. “It consumed Tyler. The heat was so ferocious he was incinerated. I’m so sorry, there was nothing left.”

  “Nothing left?”

  Lyle brought out a small brown paper bag from his pocket and placed it in her lap.

  “This is all we recovered.”

  Emma stared at it.

  It weighed nothing. It was a new lunch bag. She wondered if Lyle brought it from his home. When she opened it, it crackled, exhaling a whiff of smoky air as she peered inside at two small shoes.

  Tyler’s little sneakers.

  Charred.

  “It’s proof, Emma,” Kendrix said.

  She touched them to her face, and her tears streaked over the toes, making tracks along the scorched canvas.

  12

  Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

  Frank Archer was pacing with his cell phone against his ear when the Rio police returned Gannon to the bureau.

  “He just walked in. We’ll set it up in two minutes.” Archer turned to Luiz. “Go ahead, set up the call.”

  Archer tossed his cell phone on his desk and put his hands on his hips.

  “Dammit, Gannon. What the hell’s going on?”

  “It was a misunderstanding with police.”

  “They arrested you.”

  “They wanted to talk to me—it’s been cleared up.”

  “Good. Do you have your passport? Luiz is booking you a flight back to New York. George agrees, having you down here is a liability.”

  “Wait, Frank—I think I’ve got some leads.”

  “What leads?”

  “It might not be a narco hit. There’s a disgruntled employee who made threats, and there’s also a chance the bombing is linked to financial troubles the café was having. And there’s the mystery woman Gabriela was supposed to meet.”

  “We’ve been through those theories. Our contacts say this was an act of narco terrorism.”

  “Have you confirmed Gabriela’s source?”

  “Gabriela’s anonymous source never showed. According to what Porter and Sally got from their police contacts, Gabriela was alone at her table.”

  “The sense I get is that the lead investigators have not exactly confirmed that Gabriela was alone. They’ve got conflicting reports that a woman may have been with her.”

  “Are you kidding me, Jack? Collectively, Hugh, Sally and I have worked in South America covering coups, earthquakes, drug wars, for nearly twenty years. You’ve been here about twenty minutes and you’re going to tell me you have better inside police information?”

  “Call’s ready,” Luiz said from the meeting table nearby where he’d entered the required codes on the telephone console for an urgent WPA teleconference call. The phone’s speaker hissed with static.

  George Wilson was on his cell phone at São Paulo’s airport about to make his connection for M
arcelo’s service. Melody Lyon was in Miami for Gabriela’s funeral and was calling from her hotel room.

  “It’s Luiz in Rio. Everybody’s ready?”

  “Is Gannon there with you, Frank?” Wilson asked.

  “I’m here,” Gannon said.

  “Not for long,” Wilson shot back. “Frank, give Melody an update.”

  “We no longer need Jack’s help. Sally, Hugh, the stringers and I have got this covered. We appreciate that Jack rushed down here, but we’re good.”

  “Don’t sugarcoat this, Frank,” Wilson said. “Mel, I don’t want to say I told you so, but Gannon’s screwed up royally.”

  “Jack,” Lyon said, “I heard you got into trouble. What happened?”

  “There was a misunderstanding with police and it’s been cleared. Now, I have a few leads on tracking down who might be behind this.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Wilson said. “Gannon, admit you messed up. You get yourself on Brazilian TV, get your picture in the papers, then you get arrested for tampering with evidence at the crime scene.”

  “I did not tamper with evidence. I was outside the scene. I just got back after talking to one of the detectives on the case. He’s fine, he let me go.”

  “You’re embarrassing the WPA at a difficult time,” Wilson said. “Mel, I want him out of there.”

  “Wait, George,” Lyon said. “Jack, how solid are your leads?”

  Gannon thought of the document in his back pocket, the diagram of where the café victims were seated at the time of the blast. Estralla agreed to share it with him in confidence.

  “They’re good leads.”

  “Mel, send him back to New York. He needs more experience on the national desk,” Wilson said. “This was a narco hit and our people were caught in the crossfire.”

  “Give me a few more days,” Gannon said.

  “Frank—” Melody came on the line “—are you, Sally and Porter attending any of the services? We hear the Rio Press Club has arranged something there?”

  “Yes, we’re going to a memorial today. Then I’m flying to Miami tonight. John asked me to go with him. Sally and Porter are going to meet George for Marcelo’s service. The stringers are standing by and will file any breaking news to New York.”

  “Okay,” Lyon said. “Jack you’re staying in Brazil.”

  “Thank you,” Gannon said.

  “For now,” Lyon stressed. “You and Luiz will mind the bureau while we’re down for the next few days. And you will stay out of trouble and keep me up to speed, is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “After that, we’ll see where the story is and decide your assignment,” Lyon said. “Are you good with that, George?”

  “It’s your call, Mel. I have to go.”

  “Thank you, everyone,” Lyon said.

  As he tightened his tie and slid on his jacket, Archer stared at Gannon.

  “I have to meet Sally and Hugh at the church in Copacabana for the memorial service. Luiz will give you the spare keys. Lock up if you go out.”

  “Thanks.”

  Archer shook his head.

  “You’re a piece of work, Gannon.”

  Archer left, the tension in the office eased and Luiz went out for pastries, leaving Gannon alone. He exhaled slowly as he studied the seating diagram Estralla had given him.

  There had to be something more to this.

  Who was Gabriela’s source? According to Estralla, a woman appeared to have met Gabriela at the café but then disappeared. Maybe she went to the restroom?

  He grabbed the Jornal do Brasil and reviewed the faces and bios of the victims. The diagram allowed him to consider who they were and where they were situated at the time of the blast. He pondered it and the pictures until Luiz returned.

  Gannon had given little thought to the fact he was sitting at Marcelo’s desk until he absentmindedly gazed at all of the notes framing his computer’s monitor, then at some of the photo equipment.

  That was when it hit him.

  “Luiz, help me out here. Marcelo accompanied Gabriela to the café to meet the source, we know that much.”

  “Of course.”

  “But as I understand it, he went for more than a matter of bureau practice and safety. He probably wanted to take a few photos of the source without her knowing. I mean, we did the same thing in Buffalo, in case a source was going to feed you a bad story. If they burned you, you had their picture.”

  “I understand, yes.”

  “What if Marcelo managed to take a few pictures before the café exploded?”

  “But Marcelo’s camera was destroyed.”

  “I know.”

  But in his years of working with the news photographers, Gannon had learned a bit of the technical side of things and an idea was taking shape.

  One that could pay off.

  “I have a hunch about something, Luiz, and I’m going to need your help.”

  13

  Gannon swayed in the chair of his murdered colleague, nurturing his new hunch.

  Taking stock of Marcelo’s desk, Gannon considered an empty package for an Eye-Fi card, thinking about what the photographer could have done at the café.

  “Marcelo was obviously familiar with wireless transmission of photos.”

  “Most photographers are,” Luiz said.

  “And the Café Amaldo had Wi-Fi wireless access.”

  “Yes, the journalists went to the Amaldo often with their laptops.”

  “With this—” Gannon held up the Eye-Fi package “—Marcelo had the ability to ensure that any picture he took at the café was immediately transmitted and stored securely online.”

  Gannon studied Marcelo’s keyboard as if it held the answer.

  “We’ve got to get into his computer.” Gannon switched it on.

  After several moments of whirring and beeping, the system came to life and the password window popped up, stopping him cold.

  “Do you have Marcelo’s password?”

  “No, each member of the bureau has a secret password.”

  Gannon tapped a finger next to the keyboard and searched the notes affixed to the edges of the computer monitor.

  “You said he was forgetful?”

  “It is why he attached all those notes to his screen.”

  “Let’s go through them. Maybe he posted his password here?”

  Luiz and Gannon scrutinized the notes one by one with Luiz reciting names, dates, numbers, addresses and phone numbers as possible passwords. Gannon submitted candidates, and each time they were denied access. He knew it was likely futile, given the upper- and lower-case combinations. But they tried for nearly an hour, including restarting the computer when they exceeded the number of failed attempts to log in.

  No luck.

  “I could call technical support,” Luiz suggested.

  “No. I want to keep this between us for now,” Gannon said. “Think, Luiz. Did you ever see him submit his code or get a glimpse of any of the key strokes?”

  “No, but I heard it all the time. It went like this—” Luiz tapped four quick strokes on the desk, paused then tapped a fifth. “One, two, three, four. Always like that.”

  “So it’s a four-character code, because the fifth would be the enter key. Four characters. That’s pretty short for a password. Okay, let’s check the notes for a four-character word, or name.”

  They had studied them for fifteen minutes when Luiz froze.

  “I think I know Marcelo’s password. His girlfriend’s name is Anna, spelled A-N-N-A, that’s four characters.”

  Gannon entered the name with the first letter in upper case.

  It failed.

  “Try with no capital letters,” Luiz said.

  Gannon typed anna and pressed Enter.

  The screen flashed to Marcelo’s desktop and screen saver of Rio de Janeiro’s skyline at night, a shot he’d taken himself.

  “That’s it!” Luiz said.

  “We’re in! It would be an Internet li
nk. Go to his favorites.” Gannon got out of the chair. “Luiz, you do it. You’ll recognize names faster.”

  Luiz translated after he’d pulled down a list of links for sports teams, a bank, camera stores, weather, magazines, an auto shop and restaurants.

  “This could be it,” Luiz translated, “Onlinephotocapture.”

  “Hit it.”

  An array of news and feature photos came up. Luiz translated the text.

  “Onlinephotocapture…welcome to Onlinephotocapture…the secure members-only Web site for storing visual data….”

  “This might be it,” Gannon said.

  It was secure with a member’s log-in tab, requiring a user ID and another password. Gannon cursed under his breath.

  “It’s no problem,” Luiz said. “This one has a password recall feature. Marcelo’s locked in his password, see?”

  A couple of clicks and they had entered Marcelo’s page. Luiz translated: “Marcelo V. Storage Inventory.” Gannon felt a chill rush up his spine. Topping the item list: Café Amaldo and the date of the explosion.

  “Open it.”

  Half a dozen thumbnail photos appeared on the screen.

  “Open the first one,” Gannon said.

  It presented a well-framed photo of a beautiful woman alone at a table of the busy café. A long silence passed as Luiz and Gannon realized the significance of the image.

  “That’s Gabriela.” Luiz swallowed. “Before her death.”

  “Jesus,” Gannon whispered.

  Luiz clicked to the next picture.

  A woman in her late twenties, dressed in a blazer and skirt, was gripping the strap of a shoulder bag and standing before Gabriela’s table.

  Luiz clicked.

  Next, a close-up of the woman, worry creasing her face and making her appear older than her wardrobe and posture suggested.

  Next, the woman sitting at Gabriela’s table, removing a legal-sized envelope from her bag. Next, Gabriela reading documents from the woman’s envelope, which was open on the table before them.

  When the last picture came up, Luiz gasped.

  Tentacles of smoke spattered with debris shot out in all directions radiating from a red-yellow fireball. Marcelo had photographed the instant of the explosion within the millionths of a second he and the others were killed by it.