The Dark Tide. Andrew Gross

at least that’s what Karen always prayed, every night as she turned off the lights.

      April 8 there was a TV documentary airing on the bombing, the night before the one-year anniversary. Shot by some camera crew that had been embedded with one of the fire teams that had responded, along with footage from handheld cameras by people who just happened to be in Grand Central at the time, or on the street.

      Even still, Karen had never watched anything about that day.

      She couldn’t. It wasn’t an event to her—it was the day her husband was killed. And it perpetually seemed to be around: On the news. Law & Order episodes. Even ball games.

      So they all talked it over—as a family. They made plans to be together the following night, by themselves, to recognize the real anniversary of Charlie’s death. The night before was just a distraction. Sam and Alex didn’t want to see it, so they hung out with friends. Paula and Rick had invited Karen out. But she said no.

      She wasn’t even sure why.

      Maybe because she wanted to show she was strong enough. Not to have to hide. Charlie had gone through it. He’d gone through it for real.

      So could she.

      Maybe there was just the slightest urge to be part of it. She was going to have to deal with it sometime. It might as well be now.

      Whatever it was, Karen made herself a salad that night. Read through a couple of magazines that had piled up, did a little work on some competitive real-estate listings on the computer. With a glass of wine. All the while it was like she had some anxious inner eye fixed to the clock.

      You can do this, Karen. Not to hide.

      As it approached nine, Karen switched off the computer. She flicked the TV remote to NBC.

      As the program came on, Karen felt anxious. She steeled herself. Charlie went through this, she told herself. So can you.

      One of the news anchors introduced it. The show began by tracing the 7:51 train to Grand Central, docudrama style, starting with its departure out of the Stamford station. People reading the papers, doing crossword puzzles, talking about the Knicks game the night before.

      Karen felt her heart start to pound.

      She could almost see Charlie in the lead car, immersed in the Journal. Then the camera switched to two Middle Eastern types with knapsacks, one stowing a suitcase on the luggage rack. Karen brought Tobey up into her arms and squeezed him close. Her stomach felt hollow. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

      Then on the screen, the timeline suddenly read 8:41. The time of the explosion. Karen looked away. Oh, God …

      A security camera on the tracks in Grand Central captured the moment. A shudder, then a flash of blinding light. The lights on the train went out. Camera phones in cars farther back recorded it. A tremor. Darkness. People screaming.

      Concrete collapsing from a hundred pounds of hexagen and accelerant—the fire raging near two thousand degrees, smoke billowing into the main concourse of the station and onto the street. Aerial shots from traffic helicopters circling. The same pictures Karen saw that terrible morning, all hurtling back. Panicked people stumbling out of the station, coughing. The deadly plume of black smoke billowing into the sky.

      No, this was a mistake. Karen clenched her fists and shook her head. She squeezed Tobey, tears flooding her eyes. It’s wrong. She couldn’t watch this. Her mind flashed to Charlie down there. What he must have been going through. Karen sat, frozen, thrust back to the horror of that first day. It was almost unbearable. People were dying. Her husband was down there dying….

       No. I’m sorry, honey, I can’t do this.

      She reached for the remote and went to turn it off.

      That was when the footage shifted up to the street level. One of the remote entrances on Forty-eighth and Madison. Handheld cameras: people staggering onto the street, shell-shocked, gagging, blackened with char and ash, collapsing onto the pavement. Some were weeping, some just glassy-eyed, grateful to be alive.

      Horrible. She couldn’t watch.

      She went to flick it off just as something caught her eye.

      She blinked.

      It was only an instant—the briefest moment flashing by. Her eyes playing tricks on her. A cruel one. It couldn’t be….

      Karen hit the reverse button on the remote with her thumb, waiting a few seconds for it to rewind. Then she pressed the play arrow again, moving a little closer to the screen. The people staggering out of the station …

      Every cell in her body froze.

      Frantically, Karen rewound it again, her heart slamming to a complete stop. When she got back to the spot a third time, she took a breath and pressed pause.

       Oh, my God …

      Her eyes stretched wide, as if her lids were stapled open. A paralyzing tightness squeezed her chest. Karen stood up, her mouth like sandpaper, drawing closer to the screen. This cannot be….

      It was a face.

      A face that her mind was screaming to her couldn’t be real.

      Outside the station. Amid the chaos. After the explosion. Averted from the camera.

       Charlie’s face.

      Karen’s stomach started to crawl up her throat.

      No one might have ever noticed it, no one but her. And if she had so much as blinked, turned away for just an instant, it would have been gone.

      But it was real. Captured there. No matter how much she might want to deny it!

       Charlie’s face.

      Karen was staring at her husband.

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

      The morning was clear and bright, the suburban New Jersey road practically deserted of traffic, except for about thirty bikers cruising in unison in their colorful jerseys.