Page 99 of At Midnight Comes the Cry
The old man touched a taper to a flame, then lifted it, quivering slightly, to the first candle on the left. “Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of all, who hallows us with mitzvot, commanding us to kindle the Hanukkah lights.” The wick blossomed, flickered, then straightened. “Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of all, who performed wondrous deeds for our ancestors in days of old at this season.” The single candle, Hadley thought, seemed to warm the whole room. “Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of all, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this season.”
“Amen,” everyone concluded, and the crowd broke out into applause and cheers. The trio of musicians struck up a lively tune, and kids, released from being serious, darting by laughing. Hadley thought of her own two, safe at home under the holiday lights, and was suddenly filled with rage toward the militia men. Rage that they’d look at happiness and holiness and want to destroy it, rage at the absolute violation of this season, of all times, rage that she had to be here, dealing with them, instead of home with her own family.
“You okay?” Flynn whispered.
She unclenched her fists and took a deep breath, relaxing muscles she hadn’t realized were tight. “I’m angry.” She shook her head, not wanting him to misunderstand. “I mean—”
“I get it. It makes me angry, too.”
“We need to start looking for possible hiding spots for IEDs.” The chief’s voice fell onto her like a pile of snow off a steep roof. Flynn snatched his kippah off and handed it to the nice dad, who accepted it with an expression that was half smile, half concern.
“Russ.” Reverend Clare’s voice managed to be both sharp and soft at the same time. “Let’s not panic the crowd.”
He made a noise under his breath, which Hadley took to mean hewas more than fine with panicking the crowd if it got everybody out of here.
“Knox and Kevin, check out the exhibit cases. See if there’s some way—” He broke off at the approach of the two synagogue guards.
“Rabbi Oppenheim said we should talk to you.” The tall blonde glanced over their group, and despite the fact she was in civvies just as they were, Hadley felt like she’d failed inspection.
Her smaller, slighter partner smiled. “I’m Ibrahim Khalil, and this is Johnson. You are…?”
“Russ Van Alstyne.” He paused. “Millers Kill chief of police. This is Officer Knox and—”
Flynn leaned forward. “Kevin Flynn, with the state’s anti-extremist task force.”
“I thought that was dissolved.” Johnson looked skeptical.
“I’ve been undercover. With the guys we think are targeting your people tonight.” Flynn looked at the chief, who nodded. He described what had led them here in short strokes, concluding, “So we were about to begin searching for the possible IEDs.”
Khalil nodded. “Not a lot of first- or even second-choice placements here. These,” he thumbed toward the only doors breaking the expanse of concrete wall, “lead to the media room. They’re locked. The two offices by the entrance we used? Also locked.”
“The museum entrance? Locked.” Johnson pointed behind her, where stairs led down to the cultural center and up to the Madison Avenue doors. “Our primary concern is safely exfiltrating our people, so we make sure we know where the go/no-go areas are.”
“That entrance was closed off,” Clare noted.
“They’re emergency exits. They can be locked from the outside, not from the inside.”
“And the stairs to the plaza are designed to handle a large number passing through, if necessary.” Khalil looked closely at Van Alstyne. “Is it going to be necessary?”
“Maybe. We’re going to do some recon. You two know your people best. I’d like you to stick close to them.”
The two glanced at each other, then, as if they’d agreed between themselves, nodded. “Chief,” Johnson said.
“Knox, Kevin, the exhibit cases and the food carts. Clare, with me. We’ll see if there’s anything suspicious farther up the concourse.”
Everyone scattered. Flynn gestured toward the cases. “Partner?”
“Just like old times.” Their eyes met, and she could see the smile in his. “Okay, let’s do the food carts first, before everyone starts in on dinner.”
The cart frying latkes and the one heating deep trays of brisket were the largest, with storage beneath for power sources and ingredients—which were all they found there. There was also a small rolling refrigerator, which proved to hold nothing more dangerous than sour cream and butter. The folding tables and chairs waiting nearby couldn’t have concealed a pack of gum, let alone an IED.
The museum cases were also a bust—the wooden bases with their wheels locked in place were just that, bases, without doors or drawers. Hadley had a hard time imagining cutting one open, inserting an explosive, and resealing it to look factory-new.
“Look.” Flynn was pointing to a series of mounted photos and newspaper clippings. “There he is. Corporal Schlesinger of the U.S. Marine Corps. Imagine the action he must have seen.”
“He might see more if we can’t find the you-know-whats.” She tugged Flynn away, toward where the concourse ended. “Show me the size again.”
“About as big as a basketball.” He shaped an imaginary sphere.
