Ashes To Ashes: On September 11, 2001, When the Twin Towers Fell, Where Most People Saw Tragedy, One Man Saw Opportunity

By Deborah C Sawyer

Hal Jacobs seems to have it all. A successful career as a Hollywood screenwriter. Two Oscar nominations. A great income. Work he can do from home. The freedom to travel when he wants. And, above all, the ability to stay hidden.

 

Becauuse, truth is, Hal Jacobs has something to hide. A lot, in fact. And for over 15 years, he succeeds. Succeeds in pulling off one of the biggest deceptions ever. Succeeds in hiding the truth about himself, where he came from, and who he really is. Until, in a single night, during the Oscar broadcast, the past is cracked open and Hal's days in Hollywood are numbered.

 

Ashes To Ashes is a story of opportunism, desertion, identity theft, betrayal, recovery and love, set during a tumultuous chapter of America's near-history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deborah Sawyer
• Release date: Oct 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215846605

Deborah C Sawyer

Deborah C. Sawyer is the author of several books, including both fiction and non-fiction. She has also written and published numerous professional articles over a 25 year career in business. She is also a gallery-hung artist and occasionally acts in film and TV.

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Copyright 2021 by Deborah C Sawyer

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This work is a work of fiction. Except for references to persons well-known in the public domain, whether living or deceased, and to real events of an historical nature, the main characters and events are purely fictional.

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Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

Sawyer, Deborah C., 1953-

Ashes to Ashes/Deborah C Sawyer

ISBN 978-0-578-83752-9

244 pages

1. Fiction 2. Mystery I. Title

Printed in the United States of America

Prologue

February 28, 2016

But it’s the Academy Awards, Hal! You can’t miss this.

His producer sounded desperate but Hal Jacobs didn’t blink. He’d heard the same arguments back in 2010, when he’d been nominated in the original screenplay category for the first time.

Look, Bob was now coaxing, wheedling: We’ll send a car, get you a wheelchair, hire a nurse...

For gout? Hal tried not to laugh out loud.

You didn’t attend the last time you were nominated. What are you afraid of? You can’t stay tucked away forever.  I mean, have you come over all bashful? Shy all of a sudden? No-one puts staying hidden ahead of attending the Oscars in this town!

Hal lay on his couch and stared at the ceiling. Then: Bob, I’m a screenwriter, for God’s sake, not a star. No one else will care.

But, Hal, the public needs to see you and what you look like.

Hal stretched his 54-year old body, and shifted, glad the call was not on Skype. He ran his free hand through his hair, no longer the blonde of his youth but a shade closer to ebony, a natural transition over the years, still dark with only a few hints of silver. I sent you that photo I had taken while I was up in Oregon. Use that.

But, in that picture, you have a bushy black patriarch’s beard and full facial hair, along with the most grotesque-looking tortoiseshell eyeglasses. Bob’s desperation seeped across the phone lines. Besides, that photo is a few years old now!

That’s what I look like.

No way, last time I saw you, you were clean-shaven.

Hal lay and stroked his beard. How convenient he could grow such a luxuriant one and so quickly. As soon as the Oscars were over, the beard would come off.

Bob, that was months ago!

Hal, reconsider. I’ll get you the most stylish wheelchair I can find. Bob paused for effect: And a beautiful nurse.

Bob, I am not going to the Oscars in a wheelchair. If I win, then you or Charlie can accept on my behalf. Just say, due to health reasons - or a minor injury - I have to keep off my feet.

At the other end of the line, Bob snorted: Okay, have it your own way. And then the line went dead.

Hal remained on the couch, raised his legs, flexed his ankles, wiggled his toes, and went on staring at the ceiling. When he first moved in, the ceilings were a grubby off-white shade while the walls had been painted a sad beige, complemented by earth-brown wall-to-wall broadloom in a squashed shag selection. No doubt, at time of installation, the shag was sprightly, standing to attention, but had then been flattened by various tenants over the years. Hal negotiated a slightly lower rent in agreement for him getting some painting done and new flooring installed. The landlord happily agreed to his choices of ivory satin walls and charcoal engineered-wood flooring, which went well with the ivory couch on which Hal now lay, gazing at the still-crisp white ceiling. The ivory couch, like all the furniture in the three-bedroom, two-bathroom house, was leased, he thought that a good strategy. In case he had to move, especially in a hurry.

In truth, he didn’t have gout. Or any other health problems. But, as if some telephonic essence of Bob still watched him, he waited a good half hour before he stretched his 6ft 2in frame, raised well-muscled arms up to stretch some more, and then sprang off the couch, grabbing his towel and swim shorts, and went to the pool. An indoor pool. In fact, although he worked out regularly, Hal had never joined a gym since coming to Los Angeles. There was enough room in the house for a treadmill and some weights. So, he could exercise all he wanted. Any time he wanted. And none of it visible to prying eyes.

Because Bob did get one thing right. Staying out of sight was important to Hal. Extremely important. He loved his life as a screenwriter but he didn’t want to be recognizable. His face was his own. And Hal had every intention of keeping it hidden.

2001

Chapter One

Tuesday, September 11, 2001 morning

He should’ve been at a meeting. At the World Trade Center, no less. But John Albertson was so tired of his life and job that he was running late. Deliberately running late. In fact, running late was now a habit. Bosses, clients, colleagues at other stock brokerages, it didn’t matter. John – professionally John, but Jack to all his family - was always late.

But that meant he was too late to be in the Twin Towers, meeting with Tom Wisnocki of Fidelity Investments about his portfolio. Too late to be even remotely close to the clouds of ash and chaos that erupted after the planes hit. He’d been on foot, another survival tactic he’d adopted of late. Walking meant he avoided the crowds on the subways and the irritations of delays. Funny that! He psychologically made a distinction between a delay, which was caused by other people, and being late - which was his personal choice!

He’d reached Broadway when word started to spread. Danger! Stop! Go back!

But he didn’t go back. Instead, he walked a different way than usual. He’d gone down Broadway to Rector, then back up Greenwich towards Liberty. It became difficult to see where he was. He realized he was getting closer when delirious and disoriented people, ash-covered souls, started drifting by him. That’s when the realization had occurred to him. What if he had been inside? Would he have made it out? He kept inching closer, avoiding the emergency services personnel he knew must be on the ground by now, anxious to avoid being ordered back. He guessed the area bounded by Vesey, Church, West and Liberty, the heart of the World Trade Center, would be a no-go zone.

It was macabre. He felt like a ghost-walker in his own life, on the precipice of what might’ve been.

Life for John had become a pressure cooker. Big house in Connecticut to maintain. High stress job in financial services. A marriage to his college sweetheart that stifled. Every inch of his soul felt as choked as the financial district of Manhattan, now buried in ash.

He’d tried therapy. Well, at least he could say he’d tried.

So, your bride really wasn’t your first choice? is how the therapist had broached John’s marriage.

No, but there wasn’t anyone else waiting in the wings either, he’d explained, before adding: I was in another relationship, way back, when I was first in college. We had a kid in 1983. I send money each month, always have done.

How is that relationship?

What you’d expect with someone when you’ve just drifted apart. I occasionally have dinner with her, when I’m out west on business. We just talk, no sparks though.

And no sex either?

No, that died down a long time ago.

At first, of course, the relationship had been anything but dead. After he completed his military service, John headed back to Oregon and enrolled at the University of Portland. His parents still lived in the area so, the first year, he’d bunked at home, glad of his mother’s meals and the sense of family.

He’d met Diana, a vivacious bundle of dark hair and a big smile, with gorgeous breasts under her T-shirt, when they ended up standing in line at one of the campus cafeterias. Complaining about the food. That led to eating together which, before not too long, led to sleeping together. Living together was the next step; becoming a father in 1983 followed but wasn’t part of the plan. His or hers.

His pay from the US Army Reserve, such as it was, helped ease the situation plus he got some assistance with tuition, thanks to the Montgomery GI bill, but life had been a balancing act, always on the knife-edge of a looming disaster, from how to cover the rent through to running out of money for diapers. They’d eked out an existence in a former hotel converted to apartments on NW. 26th Ave., Portland, not too far from the university. Now more of a rooming house, the building had once housed the Fairmount Hotel, which had opened for the 1905 Lewis and Clark Centennial exposition. Some features of the building seemed frozen in the early 20th century although electricity and plumbing had been updated in the years since. It had been tight in the studio but there was a nook he could use for a study space and the layout allowed them to create a cordoned-off sleeping area which made it bearable. Then came the offer of a scholarship, back east, for graduate school. Columbia Business School, to do an MBA. John had taken it as a way out. Cowardly he knew, but the relationship had shriveled by then. Eighteen months later, he got married.

And with your wife? The therapist’s question jolted him back to the present.

Well, the sparks went after we had been married for five years, around the time our second kid was born. Nowadays, sex is occasional and mechanical. I mean, we get along, no major fights, it’s just more... Sadness.

He then explained how they got married, under parental pressure. That they hadn’t really considered other options.

So, in a word, how would you qualify your marriage?

Despair, said John. That’s the only word I can think of, despair.

When he left the therapy sessions, John always felt somewhat buoyed by the cleansing of the talk. That was the initial feeling but longer-term, the talks always stirred up his inner ambitions, his long-ago dreams and ideas about life.

As a boy, like many, he’d dreamed of being a firefighter or a fighter pilot. He laughed. The word ‘fighter’ always crept in there somehow. Must be a guy thing.

Had he lost his fight? Before he went to college, he toyed with the idea of journalism. He still loved to write but barely found the time for it anymore. Other than client reports or business letters. Words, words and ideas. Those had been the things that made him feel alive. John’s mind drifted back. He won prizes in high school for his writing and at least one award in college. Back when he came out of the army, he thought of doing an MFA in creative writing. But he had been waylaid. And then, once a man was settled with family responsibilities, dreams had to go cold, if not die outright. In 21st century America, it was way easier to support a family with numbers than with words.

The funny thing was, he had enough cash put by that he could have switched gears, taken the dreams out of the deep freeze and found work for his soul, even if the pay was lower. But he couldn’t see his wife agreeing. He knew the kind of objections she’d raise: How would we save for retirement? What about college for the kids? What if they want to pursue graduate studies or attend professional school? No, once a man was married, his dreams were no longer his to choose. Besides, it would also mean he would have to come clean and let her know just how much cash he had put aside. He knew, in a marriage, you were not supposed to have secrets like that but every second guy he knew had a stash he kept quiet about. His just in case money. John was well-supplied with just in case money.  He wasn’t sure how he had learned to be so cunning and secretive but he had. Especially around money. 

But, no matter how therapeutic the counseling sessions were at first, the letdown came, and eventually, the despair seeped back into everything.

Getting along. As if by rote, he wandered through his own marriage. Polite and courteous to his wife. He suspected she felt the same despair. How did one extricate oneself from a situation that wasn’t good but wasn’t overwhelmingly bad either? She cooked well, she was neat and tidy, she kept a clean house. John laughed softly. It made him sound like an old woman. Or a Jewish matchmaker. How could a man go wrong with that? She seemed to be a great mother. In fact, all his kids - the official two and the secret one out west - were decent, well-spoken, well-behaved kids.

Every so often, he went and saw his secret kid, as he called her, whenever business took him to Oregon. At least, while she was living with her mom. But around 1996, when she was thirteen, she’d gone to live with her grandmother in Bend, and John had only seen her once a year after that. And now, he didn’t see her at all. Because late last year, she vanished, the way this part of lower Manhattan had all but vanished.

As he got closer to Liberty Street, he found a spot to watch the activity by the firefighters and police, making sure he could see without being seen. It was voyeuristic, he knew, but also sad. He felt despair and loathing. Although he knew few of the details, he sensed in his gut it was an anti-American attack. Anti-America. For all America was and all it had become.

It was only while inching even closer that he stepped on the arm of someone buried in the debris. His stomach turned and he almost retched up his breakfast. Having a good breakfast, each day, was a ritual with John; today it had been bagels, lox and cream cheese. No matter the stress in his life, he never skimped on food. There was no sense in wasting a good breakfast, so he fought back the retching, not sure if and when he’d next get a meal. With all this mayhem, many restaurants would be closed, those that stayed open might not have much to offer, if supplies ran out. Bars might even go dry. John wasn’t much of a drinker but even that idea shocked him.

The arm belonged to a man and the man was wearing a business suit. High forehead, hawk-like nose. Hair - once dark, like his own - but now powdered the way French kings and courtiers powdered theirs. Blood matting the hair in places. Arms flung wide, as if the man had been trying to break his fall, arrange himself on the ground where he knew he’d end up. And the hand attached to the arm was clutching a driver’s license and a Social Security card. John squatted, tucking the full 6’2" of him down, closer to the ground, being careful to avoid getting ash on his own clothes. His shoes he’d deal with later. The ash danced around, motes on the stagnant air, settling in John’s hair. Once he left the area, he guessed his hair would have been transformed from near black to almost white by the ash. So, he too would be powdered like a habitue at Versailles.

Taking a cloth handkerchief out of his pocket, he grasped the pieces of ID and wiggled them loose. Had rigor set in, in the body? It was hard to tell. The man certainly held them in a death grip. John gagged a bit at his gallows humor.

He glanced at the face and the name. He also noted the birth date. The same year as himself. Another 39-year old man. Just one more of the flood of workers that inundated the financial district every day. Was he one of the willing worker bees? Or someone who had become just a cog in the machinery of commerce? What would his future have looked like? Was his inner life also saturated with despair? John wrapped the ID in his handkerchief and slipped it all into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. He was not entirely sure why. But, deep inside, nurtured by his talent for secrecy, an idea - a precious, precious idea - was slowly swelling, bubbling up in John Albertson’s brain.

Chapter 2

September 11, 2001 noon

––––––––

It didn’t make sense. He and his colleague had taken the elevator but the last clear memory Henry had was of being in the stairwell. On seriously crowded stairs. Everyone rushing down, down, down. Did that make sense?

He felt heavy, as if he’d put on weight. No, that didn’t make sense either. He was out jogging, only yesterday. And he hadn’t missed his workout at the gym the day before. So, he couldn’t have put on weight. He felt neither warm nor cold. So, this must be a dream. Except the heaviness was real. Okay, so it wasn’t he, himself, who was heavy but something on top of him. Solid, metal perhaps? And why was he lying facedown on the ground? In one of his good suits? That didn’t make sense so, back to the dream theory. He must be dreaming.

Then again, didn’t he have another meeting to go to? Tom! That was it! He was supposed to have lunch today with his old friend Tom Wisnocki, who worked at Fidelity. Tom’s office was in the World Trade Center. A few floors down from his first meeting of the day. So, convenient. Lunch - had he eaten lunch? Weren’t they supposed to have a reservation at Windows on the World? Or whatever it was called. No, no, that wasn’t it. He had a lunch appointment at Windows on the World coming up next week. No, what was the plan with Tom? Sushi! That was it. There was a new sushi place Tom had heard about, thought they should try. What time was it? Was he running late for lunch? No, couldn’t be, he was lying down. So, was he still in bed? Had he just woken from a dream? That must be it.

When Henry next opened his eyes, he couldn’t see much. Just dust, lots and lots of dust. But somewhere, not far away, shouting, screaming, sirens. Was this a movie? It wasn’t a dream, maybe it was a movie set. But why was he here? Had he wandered onto a set by accident? What time was it? He tried to look at his watch but couldn’t turn his wrist. Couldn’t see his wrist. It was covered with powder. And why did his scalp feel as if an army of ants was colonizing the area? There was a relentless pricking, as if electrical currents had been wired into all the pores on his head. Henry lost most of his hair before he turned 30. Premature male-pattern baldness, the doctor said.

Early-onset maturity, he explained to Janice, his wife of now fourteen years. I told you, when we got married, I was the deal of the century! Janice, used to Henry turning everything inside out