When Freedom Dies – Chapter 1

Tuesday, June 20, 2006, 7:45am. The first day.

Kathy Ralston noticed the young man in the suit seated by the fountain. Even at this early hour the temperature was confirming the forecast that this would be a day to remember. He looked conspicuously overdressed. She did not return his smile as she passed. She had left her apartment fifteen minutes earlier than usual so she could enjoy a more leisurely walk through the Garden and still be acceptably fresh in her office before John arrived at 8:15. She glanced at her watch. Still ten minutes ahead of the game. She would make it comfortably.

She heard the footsteps coming briskly behind her. Someone was in a hurry for such a beautiful morning. The footsteps drew alongside her and slowed down.

“Good morning, Miss.” She recognized the owner of the footsteps immediately as the young man from the bench by the fountain.

She did not feel threatened. There were too many people in the Garden at that time for this to be a mugger. Besides, he was dressed in a suit and was obviously on his way to work. He carried a bag which she presumed held his gym clothes. He looked like he worked out, probably during his lunch hour, as so many young people did these days. While it didn’t immediately strike her as unusual, she would later remember that there was a slight pallor to his complexion.

“You’re looking particularly smart this morning.”

“This morning?”

“I see you all the time. You walk this way to your office.”

“Maybe it’s time to break old habits, then?”

“There’s no need for that. I’ll make sure nobody harms you.”

She stopped and faced him. “Okay, what’s your line, Buster?”

“No line. I know who you are, that’s all. I admire your work.”

“Oh, you read my editorials?”

“Never miss them.”

“And why is that?”

“You tell it how it is. I like that. Too many editors today pander to the establishment. All that politically correct BS, it catches in my craw. Whatever happened to freedom of speech?”

“I like to think it still has a voice.”   

“Well, it must be whispering, because it’s barely audible. We need to do something about all this crap of bending over backwards so we don’t offend anyone.”

“What would you suggest?” 

“Dump all those politically correct a-holes in the harbor. Let them drink tea for a change.”

“I would imagine the flavor of tea would be pretty well diluted after 230 years.”

“All the better. They don’t deserve to even drink tea.”

She wondered what he would say if she told him she was a tea drinker.

“To drink even tea,” she corrected.

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“No, you said, to even drink tea. The correct expression is, to drink even tea.”

“Once an editor, always an editor.”

“It’s an occupational hazard. But I think it’s unfair that you have the advantage over me.”

“In what way?”

“Well, you know who I am, but you haven’t introduced yourself. What’s your name?”

Just then there was a loud explosion.

“Sounds like the Fourth of July celebrations have started early.”

“That didn’t sound like any fireworks to me. More like a bomb. Let’s find out what’s going on. It sounded like it came from somewhere on Boylston.” She began to hurry off in the direction of the explosion. When she realized that he was not following her, she turned around.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I can’t handle the sight of blood. There might be bodies lying all over the place. You go and do your newspaper thing. I’ll take the long way around.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, and she broke into a run for Boylston Street.

As she rounded the corner from Arlington onto Boylston she saw the carnage. The windows of the Parish Café had been blown out and there were bodies lying in the street. Without checking, she ran onto the road and was almost hit by the first of three police cars, sirens blaring and lights flashing.

She jumped back onto the sidewalk, her heart pumping even more rapidly after her close call, and continued to the area of the explosion. By the time she got there the police were shepherding people away.

“I’m with the Herald,” she said a little breathlessly, trying to push through the police cordon.

“I’m sorry lady,” the young officer said. “There are injured people here. We can’t endanger their lives by having unauthorized personnel parading through the site. You’ll have to step back.”

She was about to protest when she saw Todd Blakely lying on the ground, blood splattered on his sport jacket and trousers. He appeared to be bleeding from the face.

“That young man there,” she said, pointing to Blakely. “He’s a reporter of mine. Can’t I see if I can help him? He looks badly hurt.”

“Which one?”

“The one in the grey sport jacket.”

“Wait a minute, let me check.”

“Please hurry; he’s hurt.”

The officer went over to the young man who was now half sitting up. They were looking in her direction and Todd Blakely was nodding. The officer beckoned to Kathy Ralston to come over.

“He’s not too badly hurt,” the officer said. “A bit of a nasty cut to the scalp, but that appears to be the extent of it. Flying glass, I suspect. He’s a lucky kid, I’d say. Better if he stays sitting there until the medics arrive, just to be safe. Keep his head above his heart, it’ll slow the bleeding.”

“Thank you, officer, I’ll stay with him until help arrives.”

“Just try not to get in the way, okay? It looks like we’ve got some serious casualties here.”

The young officer went to attend to some of the other victims. Kathy Ralston knelt to help her colleague. He was holding a handkerchief to his scalp.

“What happened, Todd?”

“I think it was a bomb. I was just coming up to the café and the windows suddenly blew apart. There were two ladies in front of me. They took the full force of the blast. It sent them flying into the street. They don’t seem to be moving. I think they might have bought it.”

She looked across to where Todd was indicating. Two youngish women were lying motionless in the road. Their clothes were badly torn and covered in blood. A police officer was kneeling over them, shaking his head.

“It doesn’t look good,” she agreed. “Are you sure it was a bomb? Could it just have been an explosion?”

“I didn’t smell any gas. I’m pretty sure it was a bomb.”

“It doesn’t make any sense; the Parish doesn’t open for hours.”

“Maybe an upset customer? Or a disgruntled employee, trying to get even?”

“I can’t really see it. They have such a good reputation on both counts.”

Before Todd Blakely could add to the conjecture an ambulance medic interrupted.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Could I look at this young man?” He looked her over quickly as he kneeled to attend to her colleague. “Are you a casualty, too?”

“No, I’m from the Herald. This young man is one of our reporters.”

“I see. Well, if you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d like to check him out. He looks like he needs some medical attention.”

“Yes, please go ahead. I’ll try to find out from the police what might have happened.”

She made her enquiries, but the information was speculation at best. She called into her office on her cellphone to get another reporter on the scene and then decided that her best bet was to continue into work and try to make sense of what she had witnessed. She glanced at her watch and was mildly annoyed when she saw the time. She had missed John’s delivery.