She pointed to Donne’s right. Closed double doors with a combination keypad.
“Through there. Third door on the right. The code is one, five, seven. When you go through, make sure you pull the door closed. There is a pad on the other side for when you leave. Same code.”
“Why the security?” he asked.
“We don’t want any of the residents in that wing to get out. We have a staff that’s outnumbered by residents twenty to one. If the door is left open, one of the residents could wander unsupervised and injure either another resident or themselves.”
“Do I have to go in armed?” He smiled.
She didn’t. “We change the code every week or so, so be sure to ask. Sometimes the residents find the combination out and sneak through. Have a good day, Mr. Donne.”
He pressed the code and opened the door. He stepped into another room, much like the lobby. A large TV played the news—a picture of something that looked like a war zone—and a few people sat on a couch, staring at the screen blankly. A woman in a wheelchair cried. Another in an easy chair seemed comatose. A man screamed that he wanted to see his father. The man had to be nearing eighty.
Four closed doors down a pale, plain hallway, he found room 308. He knocked gently and pushed the door open. A small square room with a twin bed in the middle, his mother lying asleep in it. A dresser with a mirror above it and a small TV across from the bed next to a desk and chair. A long window with drawn curtains let sunlight seep through. He stood in the doorway and watched his mother’s chest rise and fall slowly.
Stepping closer, he saw how white her hair had gotten. The last time he’d seen her it had been a light blond, but now it nearly matched the pillowcase. Even as she rested there were wrinkles around her lips, eyes, and nose that hadn’t been there before. His mother had had her kids late, but she’d always acted young. Always looked young. Until now. He put his hands in his pockets, closed his eyes, and took a long, slow breath.
Donne’s cell phone buzzed and he stepped out of the room. The caller ID informed him it was his sister again. Flicking open the phone, he wasn’t even able to say hello before he heard her crying.
“Susan,” he said, “are you okay?”
“Jackson, I—Have you seen the news?”
“No. I just got to the nursing home. What’s wrong?”
“Franklin . . . the restaurant. I don’t know.” She couldn’t control herself, and the sobs continued, harder now. He was surprised she was able to hold the phone.
“Okay. Calm down. Just tell me what happened. Take a deep breath and go through it from the beginning.”
As Donne spoke, he looked up at the TV again. He knew what she was going to say before she said it.
“Franklin’s restaurant in New York. Terrorists or something, they don’t know. But it’s gone. They blew it up.”
The war zone on the TV screen wasn’t a foreign country. It was New York City.
“Jesus Christ. How many people were hurt?”
“No one is sure what’s going on. They haven’t found any bodies—Oh God.”
“All right. It’s okay. Where’s Franklin?”
“Trying to get into the city.”
“He’s not hurt, then?”
“No,” she said. “He’s all right. There probably wasn’t anyone there; it happened in the middle of the night. But just . . .” She trailed off.
“It’ll be okay. Could it have been an accident? A gas explosion, something like that?”
“No. They found pieces of a truck.”
“Well, keep me posted. I’m going to stay here and wait for Mom to wake up.”
Donne went back into the room, pulled out the desk chair next to the bed, and took his mom’s hand. For the first time since he’d last seen his mother, he was worried about his family.
***
The first thing Franklin Carter thought when he got to the site was that he was going to have to have his shoes shined. Here he was dressed to the nines, pin-striped suit, tailored blue shirt, red Armani tie, black shoes, and he was going to get dust all over them. Dust and who knew what else. Blood maybe?
Could someone have been inside?
He doubted it. The restaurant took its last table at ten-thirty and was usually cleared and closed up by one-thirty. The explosion had happened after two in the morning.
But still, blow the place up? That was a tough way to wake up in the morning. Never mind getting to the city when terrorism was suspected. That was a pain in the ass. The FBI had to come get him, in a black car, lights flashing. They tried to look undercover, but they could put on a show when they wanted to.
“Any idea who could have done this?” one of the agents in the front seat had asked.
No, Franklin Carter thought. I don’t have an idea. I know.
But he looked at the agent dead in the eye and said, “No. I don’t know anything about this.”
Jackson Donne’s mother woke up an hour later. She didn’t jolt awake or sit up, she simply opened her eyes and let out a deep breath as if she’d been holding it for a while. He squeezed her hand. She didn’t return the squeeze.
“Daddy?” she whispered.
“No, Mom,” he said. “It’s me, your son. It’s Jackson.”
“Dad,” she said again. “Dad, you can’t go there. You’ll get hurt.” The words were directed at him. There was fear in her voice, her hands shook, and she breathed quickly as if she was nervous. Her dark eyes bored into his, but she didn’t see her son, she saw her father. And for some reason, he was in danger.
“Mom,” Donne said again. “Your father is dead. He has been for years.”
“Dad, please. Just stay.” She whispered the words, but they contained power. He remembered her ability to do that anytime he came home late. She didn’t want to wake up Susan, but she wanted Donne to know she meant business. You never do what you’re told.
Donne wasn’t going anywhere.
She told him or her father—Donne wasn’t sure which—to stay one more time, and then her entire body shook and tears ran down her cheeks. He squeezed her hand tighter. He didn’t know what she was talking about, but he told her it would be okay.
Eventually her breathing slowed, the crying stopped, and she slipped back to sleep. He let go of her hand and stood up.
It didn’t take a doctor to realize she was very ill and there wasn’t much time left. His sister had been right to ask him to come here.
He found a box of Kleenex in the desk after he returned to the chair. He took a few tissues and dried the tears off his mother’s face.
Donne’s throat closed up and he had to leave the room. He stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door of room 308 closed behind him. He dialed his sister.
When she answered, Donne said, “She didn’t recognize me.”
“What are you talking about?” Susan didn’t sound like she was crying anymore, but her voice was thick, as if he’d woken her up from a deep sleep.
“Mom didn’t recognize me.”