Warn Me When It's Time

by Cheryl A Head

  Robbie didn’t answer.

  The Bureau was monitoring this conversation. Don’s instructions from James were to get a sense of Robbie’s state of mind. Push him, scare him, test his resolve to continue his agreement with the Bureau. They knew he was playing both sides, and perhaps ready to sell out the Bureau. If Don thought the boy had made a decision to side with the bad guys, he would give a signal and two cars of agents would sweep in to grab Robbie, his bike, and the money. Neither the Turks, Stormfront, nor his family would see him again for a long time.

  “You’re still good with things, right?” Don asked.

  “Yeah,” Robbie said unconvincingly.

  Don made a decision to go off script. “Let me be real with you, Barrett. Let me speak to you man to man. Every man gets to a crossroads where their life presents them with two paths to take. One takes you in one direction; the other takes you in a totally different direction. Mine came when I left the Marines. I was about your age, and I was lost for a few years. Couldn’t keep a job, I drank too much, and I didn’t think I had much reason to get up in the morning. My family stuck by me, and eventually I got some help. It took two years until I finally got my job with the Detroit police. Not long after that I met the woman I later married. Your crossroads event is now. You listening?”

  Robbie nodded.

  “It’s too bad you don’t have the time I had to come to a decision. I’m sorry about that, but your time is now. You can follow these madmen who blow up churches to show their dissatisfaction with the way things are, or you can decide that the other path, even though it doesn’t seem clear right now, is the smarter thing to do for you and your family.”

  Robbie had been listening. Intently. He’d placed his helmet on the floor of the truck, and his hands gripped his knees. “What do you think I should do?”

  “I’m not going to give any more advice. Damn, I’ve talked more to you in the past week than I have to my wife. But I will make you an offer. If it’s okay with Agent Saleh, you can work with me. I’ll be going through the motions of preparing this church job for the Turks. I’m doing it to draw these guys out into the open so we can put them out of business. I don’t want to live in a world where I just hate people and blow up things.”

  “I’d like to work with you,” Robbie said.

  “You have to be sure, Barrett. I’m going to be depending on you. Stay, and let’s start planning. Or, get the hell out of my truck.”

  # # #

  Don and Robbie were parked across the street from St. Anne’s. The church’s neo-Gothic architecture with double spires and red brick gleamed awesomeness in a way that caught the eye of even nonbelievers. It was one of the oldest churches in the city, and Robbie peered up through the windshield to see the full scope of the building. The historical significance of St. Anne’s alone made it a worthy target, but the fact that a majority of its congregation were Spanish speakers made it even more relevant to the malicious goals of the Turks.

  “Damn. That’s a big place, and there are a lot of people around,” Robbie said.

  “That’s going to help us to blend in as we check out the place. Let’s get out and walk.”

  The St. Anne’s complex took up a square block in southwest Detroit in an area some called Mexican town. It faced a street named for the church, bounded on the north and south by Howard Street and Lafayette Avenue, and separated by hundreds of yards of industrial space to the east. It was adjacent to the US Customs Cargo Inspection facility, and just beyond that stood the Ambassador Bridge. The bridge’s tower competed with St. Anne’s two tower spires, which reached 180 feet into the sky.

  They slowly walked along the side of the building, eyeing the windows and foundation vents. The red brick building was solid, and the grounds were maintained well enough that few places would provide cover for someone lurking in the shadows. As they rounded to the plaza, they stopped to read the sign indicating the church’s historical designation and its association with Father Gabriel Richard who was enshrined there.

  Three lancet windows, pointed arches, and wooden doors gave the building a welcoming look. The bricked courtyard included a few mature trees, several cement planters, and benches. The gabled façade of the central nave was separated from the west tower by a flying buttress. The circular window above the nave included a Star of David. The towers had two levels of windows and louvered bell openings below steeply pitched peaks topped with crosses, and the slate roof sloped into decorative ridges.

  Don and Robbie continued around the building chatting nonchalantly and nodding to the one or two people they passed. A few of them, Don suspected, were tourists because they carried cameras and exclaimed their excitement about the building’s beauty. The old nineteenth-century firehouse on the property was also a landmark. Don walked to the building, which still had its faded green double doors. From here, looking up Eighteenth Street, Don could see the corner of the old Michigan Central Station.

  The mammoth train station was an iconic Detroit landmark. In its heyday, thousands of daily visitors, commuters, and workers had moved in and out of its doors. Now, after thirty years of neglect, the building and the grounds surrounding it had a dystopian feel. Still, the old girl jutted her concrete chin in defiance of those who’d abandoned her.

  They rounded the corner walking past the rectory and the convent, and back to the car.

  “It’s a huge church,” Don said. “I didn’t remember how fortified it is. I’ll need to go inside for a closer look at the interior.”

  “If you’re not going to blow it up, why are you going to all this trouble?” Robbie asked.

  “Don’t you know people are following us?”

  “What?” Robbie said, starting to look around.

  “Hey, stop that, kid. Just look straight ahead,” Don said. “We don’t want them to know we’re aware of their surveillance. We can’t be sure who’s working with the Turks. It might even be somebody associated with the church. You’d be surprised what people will do for money.”

  Don looked up at the building a final time before turning to the car. Robbie followed.

  “We need to make this look good. Be seen all over this area, casing the church and the neighborhood.”

  “Oh, I get it. Otherwise, the Turks will be suspicious.”

  “Right. I’ll come back later for the weekday mass. Then you and I should come back tomorrow. We can take a few pictures, have a cup of coffee. I have another guy who takes care of the explosives, but we need to be seen buying other materials. Between now and next Sunday I’ll probably get a call asking for a status report. I’ll work with James to come up with a plausible plan to draw them into the open. I think a lot of them will want to be around to see what happens on Sunday. Out of harm’s way, but close enough to witness the explosions they think they’re going to see.”

  “Got it.”

  “Here’s what I need from you. Be on the listserv tonight. Talk up the Sunday Surprise without getting into any details. Don’t mention the name of the church. At least not yet.”

  “What if someone calls me?”

  “Who’s been contacting you?”

  “Depends. If it’s to check on the phishing work, I usually hear from the chapter president. I heard from some other guy about picking up the money for you.”

  “Has Walt ever called you?”

  “Uh no. Not directly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I found out the guy from Stormfront—his name is Spader—knows Croft. They’ve been in touch via email. Spader calls me every once in a while.”

  “When are you supposed to speak with him again?”

  “We don’t have anything scheduled. I’ve applied for membership in Stormfront, and he says they’re still working on my application.”

  “Hmm. Is that the dude I’ve seen you chatting with on the boards? The guy who calls himself SEEINGBLUE?”

  “Yep.”

  “I don’t like that dude, Barrett. He spouts all this Ch
ristian stuff but in a bullying way. He’s trying to control you.”

  Robbie didn’t respond right away. They sat in the truck staring at the side of St. Anne’s. With the windows rolled down Don could hear the constant din from the cars and trucks traveling to and from Windsor, Ontario, on the Ambassador Bridge.

  “Who isn’t trying to control me,” Robbie finally said.

  Don barely heard the kid’s response. He was focusing on the sound of traffic behind him. It was constant, so it just became white noise. He turned to look at the bridge. There were 60,000 crossings every day; 8,000 trucks going back and forth both day and night.

  “What are you thinking about?” Robbie asked.

  “Sorry, kid. My mind wandered for a moment. I was looking at the bridge.”

  “I’ve never been to Canada,” Robbie said.

  “You’re kidding? I thought everybody who lives in Detroit has been to Canada at least once.”

  “Not me.”

  “Thirty years ago you could bike across the bridge. My father told me about it,” Don said. “But times change. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 26

  Don had attended Catholic school all the way through high school. The Catholic church was strong then, and Hamtramck had some of the most stable parishes in the archdiocese. St. Anne’s was the oldest Catholic church in Detroit, and the second-oldest continuously operating parish in the United States, so no matter what parish your family belonged to, every practicing Catholic had probably attended an event at the historic church.

  It was hard not to be awed by the beauty of the building. As soon as you stepped into the nave your eyes were drawn upward to the eighty-five foot high, pale blue ceiling decorated with gold stars. The stained glass was breathtaking. Don sat in a pew about halfway between the sanctuary and the vestibule. He’d forgotten about the church’s elevated pulpit and the spired pew ends. Polished, dark wood was everywhere Don looked—the confessionals, the beautiful altar rails, and the side altars. He glanced over his shoulder at the elegant organ on the second level, then back to the marble nave, which was clean and polished. The church wasn’t rich, but someone was taking good care of it.

  Although attendance at the Wednesday evening mass was decent, the pews were less than half filled. Don scanned the congregation of white, Black and Hispanic worshippers—most of them gray-haired, a few children, more women than men.

  Earlier, he’d visited the church’s food pantry, entering through the parking lot door, and standing in line with families and individuals who needed the help of the church to make ends meet. The volunteers distributed staples like toilet paper and soap, cereal, canned goods, and peanut butter. Don slipped out of line as he got to the front. He’d only wanted to see the interior of the building, and noted the extensive heating pipes crisscrossing the walls.

  He shifted his attention to the rest of the church’s vulnerabilities, including the many nooks and crannies that would not likely be examined on a daily basis. There were a few security cameras on the exterior of the building, and probably in the offices and sanctuary areas, but Don saw no cameras along the pillars in the nave.

  He enjoyed the simple mass with a good message on life’s seasons and how they reflect the seasons of the life of Jesus. Don knew the songs, although he hadn’t sung them in years. Aware that he might be watched, at the end of the service he waited with others in a short line to use the restrooms.

  He remained in his car well after the mass was over watching the people who lingered in the plaza. Little girls in colorful dresses chased after bubbles that one of the mothers blew into the wind. An elderly couple sat close, wearing matching knit caps, smiling and watching the children play. A man used his phone to take photos of the historical plaque. Next Sunday would be Pentecost. He wondered if the Turks even knew this.

  A bomb placed in one of the planters, under the gladiola, would send visitors in all directions. Plastic explosive in the food pantry would blast a hole into the chapel if it were strong enough, and a blast from the organ area would send the upper floor toppling into the nave.

  He watched the plaza area darken. Spotlights, probably on a timer, splashed the red brick. Something about the change of light made him think so strongly about Rita that he almost called home. But to do so might put her in danger. If he could speak with her, he’d want to know about Rudy’s day, how he was getting along with his grandfather, and if Rita’s school was gearing up for the summer break. He had never understood until now how much the mundane patterns of family life sustained him.

  As Don drove pass St. Anne’s, he looked back. The view of the church towers captured in the spotlights, the soft illumination of the lanterns hanging at each door, the green trees and colorful blooms fading into shadows, and the thin lines of a pink sunset spreading behind the church gave him comfort.

  He’d heard the phrase “our thoughts are prayers,” and he felt guilt roiling in his chest like thick cement. Don knew God understood his detailed and intense thoughts of destruction of this house of worship were not those of a terrorist, but of a man of God who had lapsed in his duties to the church. A man who still had faith in the power of the cross. At least he hoped God understood.

  Chapter 27

  Despite James’s report to the contrary, Don knew he was still under surveillance. He could sense it. So he insisted that he and Charlie maintain their covert meetings. He was parked in the lot of the MGM Grand staring at the entrance near valet parking. Remembering his run-in with the blue-eyed Spader inside the casino, he’d passed a note to Charlie as she sat at the quarter slots, telling her to wait a half hour then meet him outside. In the meantime, he bought two coneys from the food court and a giant soft drink. When he spotted Charlie coming out the exit, he pulled out the second bag and laid it on the seat.

  “What’s this?” she said stepping up into the truck.

  “A coney and curly fries. I’ll take the fries if you don’t want them.”

  “Who said I don’t want them?”

  “Your face looks better,” Don said. “I don’t see that bruise over your cheek anymore.”

  “No. That was just a glancing blow, but I still have a couple of sore spots on my upper arms. That boy has a good kick.”

  “You wouldn’t even believe how homesick I am. What have you heard about Rita and the kids?”

  “Judy knew we were meeting tonight, so she spent extra time on the phone with Rita getting details.”

  Charlie spent ten minutes recounting the information she’d heard from Judy. Rudy’s two grandfathers were in competition about who would pick Rudy up from school. It had always been Don’s father’s job, but now that Rita and Rudy were staying at her parents’ house, Rudy’s maternal grandfather thought it made more sense for him to take over that duty. Don asked questions and gave his personal opinion: His dad should continue to pick up Rudy so it wouldn’t affect his routine, and Rita’s dad needed to get over it. Charlie was done with her fries by the time she’d finished the report. “Oh, and Rita specifically said to give you her love. She said she would hunt you down if she hasn’t heard from you by Sunday.”

  Don sat quietly for a moment staring out the windshield. Charlie bagged her trash and waited. “Did you buy me a soft drink?” she finally asked.

  “No. Sorry. Do you want a swig of mine?”

  Charlie made a face. “Uh no. I’ll just chew a piece of gum. So how did it go the last few days? Are you still being followed?”

  “Yeah. Someone’s keeping an eye on me. I’d do the same if I’d just paid somebody twenty thousand dollars. They want to keep up with Barrett, too, I think. He has a lot of information about them now, and if he’s anything like he is with me when he meets or talks to them, they must have a few doubts about him.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “So far, steady. I’m talking to him like he’s a grown man. He’s curious, asks a lot of questions. There’s a shitload of stuff he doesn’t know about life, and there’s a side of him that gets to y
ou and makes you want to help him.”

  “That would be the side that Judy spotted right away. What kind of work is he doing for you?”

  “Stringing along the Turks and the other loonies who want to see shit blown up. He’s on the message boards. I told him to tease them. Don’t give any details, but keep their anticipation up. He’s doing a good job with that. Tomorrow, he and I are shopping for bomb components. I still have that list from Agent K. We’ll make a day of it. Go to three or four different places. Leaving a trail if anyone wants to see one, and pretending I’m about to blow up one of the most important churches in the city.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, Don. I know we both have fallen away from the church, but it’s in our blood. It must be really hard to be thinking about all this insane stuff.”

  “I attended mass tonight, and as I knelt and made the sign of the cross, my twelve years with the nuns all came flooding back to me. Mack, when’s the last time you been in that church? It’s everything the Pope wants you to believe about the faith.” Don shook his head. “I just want to get this damn job over with.”

  “I know. We all do. I’ve got a bit of news. Frank Wyatt is making a deal with the FBI after all. He’s confessed to being the bomb maker in the mosque explosion, and he’ll say the chapter president is the one who ordered him to do it.”

  “That’s something really useful to the prosecutor,” Don said.

  “James told me to tell you that they’ve been in touch with someone he trusts at St. Anne’s to give them a heads-up that he may see a couple of strange men lurking about. He didn’t give any details at all on the operation. He told the guy it was something the hate crimes task force has recommended doing at all of the key churches in the city.”

  “That’s good. It will give me some cover. I’ve already been around the place three times in the last couple of days, and tomorrow morning Barrett and I will be taking pictures.”

  “That’s all I have in terms of new information,” Charlie said.