chapter 75
IT was almost midnight when Nash pulled into his driveway. He wedged the minivan into the garage, put it in park, and just sat there for a minute, both hands on the top of the steering wheel, his forehead resting on his knuckles. He hadn't wanted to leave the office. It had nothing to do with not wanting to see his wife and children; he just didn't want to leave while there was still work to be done. The death toll at NCTC had reached thirty-eight, with another seventeen injured, three of them critically. The only consolation was that it could have been so much worse.
That was the mantra that had been picked up by virtually everyone as a way to offer comfort to those who had gone through it. Men like Rapp and Nash, who had seen death up close were more equipped to deal with the situation, but for quite a few of the analysts who had witnessed close colleagues and friends blown away in the place they worked every day, it was too much. A few got back to work, because subconsciously they knew it was the only way they could take their mind off what had happened, but a surprising number either became hysterical with grief or went into shock.
As Nash helped move the mentally wounded to the cafeteria, the realization hit home that these people were civilians. They were not trained for combat like his marines. Langley sent over people to help, as did the FBI and other agencies. There had been a hell of an argument early on between Art Harris and another bigwig from the bureau who wanted to quarantine the entire Operations Center and treat it as a crime scene. Harris was adamant that they get the Ops Center up and running again as soon as possible. The other agent wouldn't budge, however, and ordered everyone to stop the cleanup. He wanted the bodies left exactly where they were until forensic teams showed up. The two men began screaming at each other, and then Rapp decided to settle the issue. He walked over, coldcocked the agent, and ordered everyone back to work.
Nash had talked to his wife just once. He'd called her to let her know that she might start to hear some things from the press. He couldn't talk about it, but he was fine and he would call as soon as he had a chance. Nash couldn't even remember how long ago he'd made the call. He guessed it was probably around dinnertime. Maggie would be worried sick.
He pulled the keys out of the ignition and got out. After shutting the garage door, he walked up to the house. The light over the kitchen sink was on, as was a lamp in the study. Otherwise, the house was completely black. Nash slid his key into the back door and entered the mudroom. He turned off the alarm, closed and locked the door, and turned the alarm back on. He put his gun and holster in the gun safe and made a mental note to fill the magazines for the.40-cal in the morning.
Nash took off his suit coat and set it on the back of a chair in the kitchen. He quietly walked down the hallway and looked in the study. Maggie was sitting in the big chair next to the fireplace with a blanket and a book on her lap. She must have sensed his presence, as her eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at him with a warm smile that vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. Her eyes traveled from her husband's face to his shirt.
Nash had forgotten that his shirt was stained with blood.
"What happened?" Maggie asked with concern.
Nash didn't know how much he could say, and he really didn't want to relive what had happened. "I'm fine, honey. This isn't mine."
"When you called, you said you were fine," she said as she tossed the book and blanket off her lap. "You never said you'd been in danger."
"I wasn't, honey. This is from helping with the wounded."
"That building in McLean... the one that they showed on TV with all the emergency vehicles racing in and out - is that where you were?"
Nash was hit suddenly by the bizarre requirements of his job. His own wife didn't even know exactly where he worked. She knew only that he had an office at CIA headquarters. She knew nothing about his role at the National Counterterrorism Center. She probably didn't even know the organization existed.
"I was there," he admitted, "but I can't tell you much more than that."
She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a tight squeeze. "The kids were really worried."
"I know. I wish I could have gotten home sooner but..." Nash's voice trailed off.
"You can't talk about it," she finished for him.
It was the company line. It represented the strange nonbalance of their marriage. She talked about her job whenever she wanted and as often as she wanted. He didn't speak of his even at times like this, when it would have made his life a lot easier. "How did things go with the dean and the De Graffs after I left?"
Maggie took a half step back and looked up at her husband with a proud smile. "Let's just say Dean Barnum Smith and I got the De Graffs to drop the entire matter."
"Really?"
"Yes, and Rory and I sat down and had a good talk this afternoon. I asked him if he was happy at Sidwell."
"And?"
"His answer was less than enthusiastic. So, I told him, if he stayed out of trouble for the rest of the semester, I'd let him go to Georgetown Prep next year."
"What about lacrosse camp this summer?"
"I told him that was between you and him."
Nash drew her in close and kissed the top of her head. Knowing how stubborn she was, Nash knew it couldn't have been easy for her. "Thank you, honey." He squeezed her tight and rubbed her back.
She tilted her head back and offered him her lips. "You were right. I allowed myself to get too caught up in all of it."
"I'm not exactly the easiest person to deal with," Nash said as he stepped away and looked down at his dirty shirt. "You put up with a lot of shit, honey."
"Yes, I do."
"I'm sorry," Nash said in a tired but sincere voice.
"Don't be," she said as she pushed him toward the stairs. "Go upstairs and take a shower. I'll be up in a minute."
Nash started walking up the stairs.
"Michael," his wife said softly, "I know you can't talk about it, but I'm sorry about what happened today." Maggie placed her hand on the railing. "I'm sure you knew some of those people who were killed."
With a blank stare Nash looked past his wife into the near dead embers in the study's fireplace. He didn't have it in him right now to tell her that Jessica was dead. For some reason he couldn't picture any of the faces of those who had died. In a detached voice, Nash said, "It wasn't a good day for us."
She rubbed his hand. "I'm sorry, honey."
Nash looked down at her beautiful, perfect face and gave her a reassuring smile. "I'm fine."
He climbed the stairs and was about to check on each of the kids, when he decided he'd better shower first. They did not need to see their father in the dead of night in a bloody shirt. Nash peeled off his clothes and stepped into the shower. As the hot water cascaded down his shoulders, he took a deep breath, and as the tension began to release, the faces came to him. Chris Johnson was first. He imagined what his final hours must have been like, and shuddered to think of the pain they'd put him through. Then the images of the people he worked with at the NCTC. He thought of Jessica lying there with a bullet hole in her head. He thought of her little boys. They were only nine and six. Their mother gone forever.
A lump welled up in Nash's throat. He tried to fight it, but there was no stemming the tide. The tears began to fall. Nash slowly sank to the floor of the shower. As the water poured down on him his chest heaved and he began to sob uncontrollably. He was not all right.