The Speed of Sound (Speed of Sound Thrillers #1)(34)
He’d pulled the brake on instinct. And immediately wished he hadn’t. Had he thought about it a moment longer, he would have kept right on going, because he was sure the rapidly spreading white gas cloud was lethal.
They were all going to die.
The squeal of the brakes was punishing. Sparks flew off the tracks where the giant steel wheels skidded down the rails.
The passengers inside the train were thrown violently forward as the train rapidly slowed. Several would later require hospitalization, one in critical condition. Their screams were loud, but not as loud as the hundred or so people on the platform.
Almost no one saw the man get thrown in front of the train. Most weren’t sure what had happened. They were too busy running away from the ever-expanding cloud of noxious white smoke. Only those nearest Jacob actually saw him tumble to his death. The gas cloud was too thick. Everything was too chaotic.
In total, thirty-seven New Yorkers would be treated for injuries sustained during the stampede. The unfortunate were trampled, including Tatiana, who was screaming at the top of her lungs. She was one of the few who had seen Jacob fall to the tracks and watched the train cut him in half. Her eyes were glazed. She was going into shock, and mumbled incoherently.
The gas was everywhere. “Hold your breath!” Barry screamed at his catatonic girlfriend. He grabbed her hand and pushed and shoved his way through the throng struggling to get out of the danger zone. She moved like a zombie, but somehow managed to hang on.
The paranoia worked in favor of the homeless man who had pushed Jacob to his death. He was not among those worried about a chemical attack. Because he knew it wasn’t lethal. It wouldn’t be until eleven hours later that a joint task force of federal, state, and city officials would determine the smoke was only tear gas, probably stolen from the NYPD. The entire event wasn’t anything more than a stunt, a desperate act by some crazy guy who wanted attention. It was not unlike the fake bomb incident that had shut down LaGuardia for seven hours in the summer of 2009.
Only no one had died in that one.
The killer was gone before anyone gave much thought to pursuing him. He had disappeared among the fleeing hordes by concealing his gas mask and acting like the rest of the herd running for their lives. The homeless man bounded up the steps swiftly, with no sign of a limp. He quickly reached the top of the stairs and continued along with the swell of other terrified passengers, until he ducked inside a men’s room. He locked himself in a stall and removed his disgusting, matted wig. It wasn’t until he pulled off his fake beard that Michael Barnes became recognizable.
He removed his tattered coat and pants, revealing a Brooks Brothers suit beneath it: Mr. Businessman. He stuffed the ratty garments, along with the gas mask, into a nylon sports bag, which had been folded up inside a pocket. When he stepped out of the stall, no one would suspect that he was the crazy bum who had faked a terrorist attack and pushed an innocent man to his death.
Barnes moved to the sink, where he splashed cold water on his face. He showed no emotion whatsoever. The assignment was not finished. He still had to get out of the station, but that was the easy part.
He stepped out of the bathroom, coughing into his hand like so many others around him. He looked just like every other New Yorker caught up in the chaos at what was supposed to have been the end of another ordinary workday. The nylon gym bag he was carrying suggested he had been on his way to Equinox or some other fashionable gym to work off the stress of the day, before the incident occurred. Like everyone else, he now acted more like he was heading to a bar.
Michael Barnes exited the station, just one of a herd of terrified people. Some dropped to their knees to catch their breath, or to thank God that they were still alive. Most were on their phones, letting loved ones know what had happened and that they were unharmed. That was the pose Barnes adopted, appearing to be on his phone for the entire walk to his beige Impala parked near New York University, which now had one less professor than it had at the start of the day. As he pulled into traffic, he passed the first of dozens of emergency vehicles that would be arriving on the scene.
CHAPTER 28
Jacob Hendrix’s Apartment, Greenwich Village, New York City, May 24, 10:57 p.m.
It was almost eleven o’clock that evening by the time Skylar walked up the two flights of stairs to Jacob’s apartment on Bleecker Street. It had been several days since she’d done any Pilates, and her body was craving some exercise. These stairs weren’t much, but they would have to do for the moment.
When Skylar reached the third floor, she was surprised to find a weathered man in a wrinkled suit standing outside Jacob’s door. He was sticking his business card in the crack by the lock. He was in his late thirties, but looked more like fifty. “Can I help you?”
He turned to face her. “Is this Jacob Hendrix’s apartment?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Who wants to know?”
He removed his business card from the door and offered it to her. “I’m Detective Butler McHenry, NYPD.”
She studied his card, then took out her keys. “Yes, this is Jacob’s apartment. For the moment, it’s mine, too. What’s going on?”
“Could I see some identification, please?”
She nervously took out her wallet and handed him her Massachusetts driver’s license. “What’s this all about?”
“Ms. Drummond, this says you live in Cambridge.”