Chapter 1
Tuesday, October 19, 9:32 a.m.
"You can put your clothes back on, then we'll talk some more."
Kera gave the girl a quick smile and stepped out of the
examining room. Jessie, if that was her real name, claimed
to be sixteen. But Kera suspected she was younger, maybe all
of thirteen or fourteen. The girl was slender, with the
small breasts and flawless skin of someone who hadn't grown
into her adult body yet.
Kera lingered in the clinic hallway and jotted some notes on
Jessie's chart. Genital warts (HPV) on the inner labia
treated with liquid nitrogen. Clearly, her client was
sexually active, but there was no sign of bruising or abuse.
Yet her tender age made Kera wonder if the sex was truly
consensual. Sometimes she walked a fine line between
respecting a client's sexual privacy and ignoring a
potentially abusive situation. She would ask a few probing
questions just to make sure Jessie was in a mutually
consenting relationship.
Kera gave the girl enough time to get dressed, then knocked
lightly and stepped back into the windowless room. Crammed
into the eight-by-ten space was an examining table, a
cabinet-sink combination, a wheeled stool, and a simple
black-cushioned chair. The pale cream walls failed to make
the room seem bigger.
"How long have you been sexually active, Jessie?" Kera took
a seat on the stool.
"For a while." The girl flipped her waffle-iron- straight,
blond hair off her shoulders and stared defiantly. "Why?"
"Is someone forcing or pressuring you to have intercourse?"
"No." Jessie rolled her eyes.
"This is a safe place to talk about your sexual situation.
Everything you say here is confidential."
The girl's gray eyes flashed with irritation. "I said
there's no pressure. I like hooking up."
"Do you use contraception?" Sometimes her questions were so
routine, Kera felt more like a waitress than a healthcare
worker.
The girl shrugged. "Sometimes we use condoms."
The way she used the word "we" gave Kera pause. "Have you
had more than one partner?"
Now Jessie hesitated. "Nicole said I didn't have to tell
about them."
Kera noted the plural use of "them," but the reference to
"Nicole" also caught her attention. She had treated another
young girl with genital warts last week, and her name may
have been Nicole. It bothered Kera that she didn't remember
for sure. But she saw so many young women, and often only
once, for about twenty minutes. They came, picked up their
pills or antibiotics, and went on their way. Kera knew the
work she did was important in a big- picture way, but she
wished she saw more proof of it in the everyday details.
"You don't have to tell me about your partners, but you do
have to tell them about the genital warts. It's very
important that they get treatment, so they don't spread it
to others."
"Okay. I'll tell 'em."
"Where do you go to school?"
Again Jessie hesitated. "Spencer High."
Kera was doubtful. But Spencer was only a block away from
Kincaid Middle School, which suddenly seemed more likely.
And a little disturbing. The girl she had seen last week was
a student at Kincaid. And two months earlier, a
fourteen-year-old girl from the school had come in for
emergency contraception.
Kera made a mental note to look back through the files to
see how many kids from Kincaid had visited the clinic in the
past six months. And how many of them reported having
unprotected sex. Maybe she needed to call the school, find
out what kind of sex education they were teaching—if
any. Perhaps even conduct an outreach program there, if the
school's administrators would let her. Even if young teen-
agers thought they were ready for sex, they certainly
weren't ready to be parents. And nobody was ever prepared to
find out they were HIV positive.
"Are you aware that the HIV virus is sexually transmitted?"
Kera asked, expecting more eye rolling.
Instead, Jessie seemed to deflate, then spent a long moment
looking at her fingernails. When she looked up, she had the
same expression Kera used to see on her son's face when he
wanted to tell her something, but couldn't. On impulse, Kera
pulled a business card out of her jacket pocket and wrote
her home e-mail address and cell phone number on the back.
"This is my personal contact information. You can e-mail me
if you have questions or concerns that you feel you can't
discuss face to face."
Jessie took the card, then quickly looked away.
"I'd like to talk to you about birth control options." Kera
handed her a pamphlet from the rack of educational materials
on the wall.
"I can't." Jessie shook her head. "You don't know what it's
like in our church. If my mother ever found the pills, my
life would be ruined." Her distress was palpable.
"It doesn't have to be pills, there are other—"
The girl jumped up and grabbed her backpack. "I gotta go.
Thanks for the medicine."
"Wait," Kera called after her.
But Jessie was already out the door, blond hair swinging as
she turned into the hall. Disappointed by her failure, Kera
finished writing notes on Jessie's chart. Perhaps the girl
would come back. She flipped the manila folder closed and
scooted off the stool. As Kera moved toward the door, she
noticed a tiny pink cell phone on the examining table next
to the discarded birth control pamphlet. Jessie must have
left it.
Kera grabbed the phone and headed toward the front of the
building, hoping to catch Jessie at the front desk. She
turned left in the middle of the building where the two main
hallways intersected under a giant skylight.
The clinic staff had moved into the new building a few
months ago, and Kera loved everything about it. The creamy
yellow walls were freshly painted, the stainless steel
shined, and nothing was scratched or dingy, yet. Compared to
the metal sheds and mud huts she'd worked in during her
years in Africa with the International Red Cross, the
building was a dream. And compared to the chaos and
heartache of the years she spent working in the ER, her time
at the clinic felt stress free.
Near the front, the walkway opened on the left into a small
reception area where daylight filtered in through opaque
floor-to-ceiling windows. Directly in front of her stood the
building's entrance, a small enclosed plexiglass foyer with
a camera and a locked inner door. Nobody came in without
telling the receptionist their name and their business at
the clinic. Security was a top priority. Behind the wall to
the right was the surgical area where two non- staff
physicians performed abortions on Tuesday and Friday mornings.
Beyond the entrance and across the grass, a small group of
protesters gathered on the sidewalk. Kera had counted seven
as she hurried into work this morning. Now they were
lowering their signs and preparing to leave. Like clockwork,
they showed up every Tuesday and Friday before 7 a.m. with
signs that said things like "Choose Life" and "Don't Murder
Your Baby." The group was mostly female, although
occasionally a middle-aged man joined in. Kera had come to
recognize two of the protestors who participated every week:
a young woman of around twenty who looked half starved and
always wore red—a symbol of blood, Kera thought—
and a tiny middle-aged woman with close-cropped hair who
often carried a Bible in addition to her homemade sign. The
anti-abortionists called out with cries of "We can help,"
hoping to attract the attention of the women who entered the
clinic in the early hours.
But those activities were over for the day. The protestors
were getting into their cars and heading home, and the
clinic was unusually quiet. Two young mothers with babies on
their hips stood at the counter, where Roselyn, the young
Hispanic receptionist, silently stared at the computer
screen, searching for information. Another young woman
waited in a chair near the front windows. Jessie seemed to
be long gone.
As Kera spun around, intending to place Jessie's chart in
the to-file basket, thunder boomed, the building shook, and
the glass in the front windows blew out. Stunned by the
blast, she lost her footing and went down. As she fell, Kera
hit her head on the corner of the reception counter and, for
a minute, her world went dark.
Chapter 2
Tuesday, October 19, 9:45 a.m.
She woke to wailing babies and the sulfur stink of burnt
gunpowder. Kera's temple pulsed with pain, but she ignored
it. She pushed herself up, felt a cool October breeze
blowing through the lobby, and promptly became so dizzy she
had to lie back down. What the hell had happened?
Pounding footsteps charged down the hall. Most were muffled,
the soft thud of work shoes. Only the director's pumps made
sharp staccato sounds as they approached. In the background,
the babies kept crying.
"Kera. Are you hurt?" Sheila Brentwood kneeled next to her,
the tall woman's voice sounding far away. Lavender scented
hands touched Kera's forehead.
"I don't know." Her own voice seemed distant. "I think I hit
my head."
"You did." Sheila turned to someone and said, "Bring some
gauze and some ice."
"Has anyone called 911?"
"I am right now."
The excited voices jumbled together, and footsteps thundered
in from the reception area. "A client is hurt."
Kera desperately wanted to sit up, to rush to the aid of the
injured, but she knew she wasn't ready. "Am I bleeding?" The
fog in her brain began to clear, replaced with a sharp sting
at her temple.
"Just a little."
Sheila still had the bedside manner of a nurse, but with her
black blazer and auburn hair pulled tightly into a bun, she
looked like the administrator that she had become.
"Was that a bomb?" Kera asked.
"It blew out the front windows." Andrea, the clinic manager,
pressed gauze to Kera's forehead. Andrea's perfectly
balanced Japanese features showed worry for the first time
since Kera had known her. Kera reached up and tried to push
Andrea's hand away. "I'm okay. Go help the others."
"Only one young woman is injured, and both Janine and Julie
are with her."
"How badly?"
"There's a three-inch chunk of glass sticking out of her
neck." Andrea's voice was soft, but her enunciation was
always perfect.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Sheila and Andrea breathed a
collective sigh of relief, and Kera willed their young
client to hang onto her life. If the girl made it into the
emergency room, the ER doctors would save her. Kera had
witnessed that miracle many times.
She shuddered to think how many people could have been hurt
if this had been a busy Friday afternoon instead of a quiet
Tuesday morning. Who could have done such a horrible thing?
What were they thinking?
* * *
The woman blinked as the windows blew, and she missed seeing
the full effect of the explosion. But the sound was
overwhelming. Even from across the street, the noise was
bigger than she had expected. It was only her second pipe
bomb. The first one—for practice—had been a bit
of a dud, so she'd apparently over-corrected this time. But
bigger was better. It was the only way to get through to
these people. The political channels were too slow, and
hundreds of babies' lives were at stake every day.
Accessing the clinic had been quite a challenge. It was new
and built with security in mind. There was a camera mounted
on each side of the building and not much in the way of
shrubbery to hide behind. She had cased the clinic during
its first few months from the safety of a group of regular
protesters. After methodically planning her moves, she had
stopped coming with the group. Today, the navy-blue hooded
sweatshirt, jeans, and backpack she had worn made her look
like a kid—if the camera even caught her.
Now the sweatshirt and backpack were stuffed under the car
seat, and she was just another middle-aged woman in the
parking lot at the shopping center across the street. She
knew she should get moving, but the sight of women and girls
running from the building transfixed her. Upending their
ordered little world where they encouraged promiscuity and
discarded life was immensely satisfying. She could feel
God's approval.
Out of the chaos, a young girl emerged, moving quickly
across the parking lot and up the sidewalk toward Commerce
Street. For a moment, she thought it might be Jessie
Davenport, a young church member and close friend of her
daughter. But it couldn't be. Not Jessie, not here. Just
someone who looked like her.
The wail of a siren sent a bolt of anxiety through her, and
she almost lost control of her bladder. She put the Tahoe in
reverse and sped away from the shopping center. She had to
hurry home and change before her volunteer shift at the
hospital.
* * *
Detective Wade Jackson turned down Commerce Street and was
relieved to see the clinic still standing at the end of the
block. The report of a bomb had stunned him. He had lived in
Eugene, Oregon, his whole life and had been on the police
force for half of it, but had never dealt with a sizable
explosion. A few years back, a young male ecoterrorist had
set fire to a car lot full of SUVs down near the university,
but overall, Eugene was a safe, mid- sized town with a
hundred and forty thousand people, many of whom drove around
with bumper stickers that said "Visualize World Peace."
As the most experienced detective in a group of sixteen,
Jackson typically investigated homicides rather than sex or
property crimes. But he didn't have an active investigation
at the moment, and the supervising sergeant had asked him to
take the lead. A wave of guilt hit the pit of his stomach.
Now that he was a single father, every time he took on a new
case, for the first few days he effectively abandoned his
daughter. And Katie was still struggling with her parents'
separation and the fact that her mother chose to continue
drinking rather than be part of their family. If this bomb
case turned out to be long and complicated, he'd have to
give up the lead to another detective.
Jackson pulled into the long narrow parking lot, where he
passed a group of women—assorted sizes and
ages—huddled on the sidewalk near the street. Two
young girls each held a baby on their hips. One wept openly,
shoulders heaving, but no one in the group looked bloody.
Tension drained from his shoulders. Maybe this would not be
as awful as he'd expected. The nightly news for the last
three years had led him to associate bombs with body parts
scraped off the pavement.
Only a dozen cars, including a black-and-white police unit,
were scattered throughout the lot. Jackson slammed into the
first open space. He felt for his Sig Sauer and evidence
collection bag, then jumped out of the car.
He jogged up the sidewalk toward the main entrance. The
intentionally nondescript gray brick building sat on the
back curve of the street and sported good visibility on all
sides. Its one vulnerability, the windows in the reception
area, had been blown out, and a gaping hole exposed its soft
yellow inside. A twenty-something Asian woman in light blue
scrubs ran out the front door, spotted him immediately, and
sprinted down the sidewalk.
She grabbed his arm. "We need an ambulance. Someone's hurt
badly."
Jackson started to reach for his cell phone, but in the
distance he could hear the wail of the ambulance screaming
up West 11th Avenue. Another patrol unit careened into the
parking lot and almost hit a blue Toyota pulling out of its
space. Jackson motioned for the officer behind the wheel to
roll down his window.
"Secure the perimeter," he yelled. " Don't let that car
leave. And don't let anyone in that group near the sidewalk
leave."
As he looked over at the huddled clinic workers, his eye
caught a group of protestors across the street, at the edge
of the shopping center. Their signs hung limply at their
sides as they stared back at the clinic. "And bring those
protestors back over here for questioning."
Then it hit him. This bomb seemed almost inevitable. A few
months earlier, one of Portland's abortion clinics had been
rocked by violent protests, followed by several pipe bomb
explosions. The statewide group that sponsored the Portland
protests had a chapter here in town. In hindsight, it was
only a matter of time before they turned their attention to
Eugene's new clinic. Jackson was glad that his daughter was
only fourteen and that he didn't have to worry about her
coming to Planned Parenthood for many years.
He turned back to the clinic and started up the front
walkway. Shards of white-tinted glass and mangled azalea
branches covered the narrow lawn and spilled onto the cement
path. The smell of gunpowder wafted past on a warm gust of
wind. The combination reminded him of summer afternoons at
the firing range.
Once inside, Jackson found himself in a small glass- walled
foyer with a camera mounted above the door. But the security
system was unmanned at the moment, and he pushed through the
unlocked door into the waiting area. Near the massive hole
in the front wall, two clinic workers huddled over a young
female client, who, from where he stood, looked lifeless.
Blood pooled in the area around her head. Jackson rushed
over, past the twisted chairs and scattered debris,
desperately trying to recall his first aid training. The
women weren't wearing white, so Jackson asked, "Is either of
you a nurse or doctor?"
The older of the two looked up quickly and said, "I'm a
nurse." She wore her hair pulled into a ponytail and her
makeup-less face was drained of color. "But I can't do much
here."
Jackson was close enough to see the injured girl now, with
her Goth-black hair, delicate features, and Green Day
T-shirt. A chunk of glass thrust out of her neck and the
blood flowed freely around it. The nurse pressed white
strips of cloth to both sides of the wound. The injured
girl's eyes fluttered open, then closed again. She didn't
look much older than his daughter.
"I'm afraid to remove it," the nurse said, her voice almost
a whisper. "If I do, she could bleed to death."
They all heard the ambulance then, its siren cutting off as
it entered the parking lot. For a moment, silence settled
over the room. Then a sparrow burst through the opening in
the wall and began chirping wildly as it swooped around
looking for an exit. For a second, the bird drew their
attention away from the bleeding girl. A moment later,
paramedics charged through the foyer door, and Jackson
gladly stepped back.
"Is anyone else hurt?" he asked the nurse.
"One of our staff is down in the hallway."
Jackson moved quickly to the end of the counter, around the
corner, and into the wide hall.
Another female lay prone on the crème-and-gray tile floor,
attended to by a tall woman in a tailored black blazer.
Jackson recognized her as the clinic's director, Sheila
Brentwood. He had met her at a fundraiser last year, an
event his soon-to-be-ex wife had dragged him to. Sheila
nodded to him but didn't speak.
"Is she all right?"
The prone woman sat up. Through the skylight, the sun lit up
her copper-colored hair, which fell in a braid nearly to her
waist. Even seated on the floor with a bloodied forehead,
she looked strong and athletic.