The Eternal War

CHAPTER 93

11.31 p.m. 11 September 2001, Police Precinct 5, New York

The police sergeant lurched violently in his seat, the squad car rocking on its suspension.

‘Whoa! Hey! Bill! You nearly spilled my darned coffee!’

Police Sergeant Bill Devereau turned to look at his partner. ‘Uh? Sorry. Must’ve dropped off for a moment there.’

His partner nodded. ‘You can say that — you were muttering like some juiced-up crackpot.’

Bill Devereau shook his head. Wide awake now. ‘I … Crazy, I just had the weirdest dream.’

‘Yeah?’

Devereau narrowed his eyes, stroked his chin thoughtfully. The memory of it was fading fast, blurring; the clear definition of it vanishing, like cream stirred into coffee. ‘A war … or somethin’ like that. New York was all just ruins … like, I dunno, like Stalingrad.’

Sergeant Wainwright sighed. ‘I’m sure you ain’t the only one havin’ nightmares, buddy.’ Their precinct had lost some men earlier today when the Twin Towers came down, good men. And they’d be lucky to find anything of them in those smouldering ruins. They were going to be burying empty coffins for weeks to come.

Devereau stopped stroking his clean-shaven chin. ‘It was weird … In the dream, I had a beard, would you believe? Big bushy thing.’

Sergeant Wainwright turned to look at him. ‘A beard?’ His face cracked with a cavalier grin. ‘Beard? You kiddin’ me? You’d look a total idiot with a beard.’

Devereau nodded. He checked his face in the wing mirror. Yes, he probably would at that.

‘You’re gettin’ too old to be on the beat, Bill, seriously … If you got to be catchin’ sleep like that on duty.’

‘Was up late last night, that’s all.’

Wainwright nodded thoughtfully. His gaze rested on a bundle of newspapers dropped off outside a corner store. Tomorrow’s papers. Tomorrow’s headlines.

There was going to be only one story in every paper tomorrow.

‘Guess there’s gonna be a lot more sleepless nights for everyone.’

Devereau nodded. The dream had gone. Blown away like morning mist along a riverbank. All that was left was a nagging sense of trouble lying ahead. A storm coming.

‘You got that right, partner.’