IF anything can go WRONG, it will. Murphy's Law. It's the first thing they teach you at the Farm, maybe the one eternal truth down there. Fifteen miles south of Wilmington, Delaware, a fuel tanker a few hundred yards in front of us swerved to avoid a pair of deer that must have been standing stock-still in its lane, jackknifed, caught a van broadside traveling two lanes over, and exploded into flames. We got a front-row seat to the aftermath from behind a barricade of Delaware state-police cars.
The two deer on the right seemed to have been dismembered. On the far left, someone-man or woman, it was impossible to tell-had somehow survived. He or she or God knows what was collapsed in the arms of an EMT. In between were the twisted hulk of the van and the still-burning fuel tanker.
I sat there thinking of the fragility of it all-of the tanker driver, of whoever might be ashes in the embers of the van, of the one thing I knew I
couldn't stand to lose myself: my daughter, Rikki. Maybe it had taken me this whole winding route to understand that. Now I did.
By the time a Medivac helicopter had lifted off with the sole survivor and tow trucks had cleared the highway, our four-hour trip had turned into a five-hour one. At 8:15 when I was supposed to be meeting O'Neill, we were still working our way crosstown from the Holland Tunnel. When the doors finally opened at 88 East Broadway, it was 8:32. I took off running. O'Neill said he'd light the fire at 9 A.M. I knew he meant it.
I was in full stride thirteen minutes later, dead in the center of Foley Square, when a shadow descended like some Biblical judgment, followed by the roar of engines.
What in the name of hell, I remember thinking, is an American Airlines passenger jet doing a few hundred feet over Lower Manhattan? I heard the explosion and looked up. The first thing I noticed were the flames shooting out of the North Tower: a bright ocher. That's not the color of burning jet fuel. And that's when I knew: I was too late.
I turned and raced north for blocks looking for a taxi. Traffic was at a standstill. I stopped at a phone booth. The line was busy. I moved to the next one. Broken. Another block north some woman was just hanging up a pay phone as I ran by. I grabbed it, punched in a call-card number, and dialed England. I was waiting for a rock anthem to finish so I could leave a message when the second plane hit.
"Rikki!" I shouted into the receiver. "Rikki! I promise. I'll be there. I'll
be there."