Returning Fire

by Frans Harmon

  “I vote for nine-one-one,” Trina said.

  “I’m with you, Sharlene, someone we can trust to keep looking until they find us.”

  “Decided,” Sharlene said, as they approached the doors.

  With the girls behind her shielding her from view, she tapped in her home number. It rang twice, and then Sean answered.

  “You finally found your phone. I told you, you would.”

  Sharlene’s words caught in her throat, her eyes flooded with tears.

  “Hello, who is this?”

  “Sean, it’s me, Sharl.”

  “Not funny, Sabriel. Say, you’re not supposed to use your phone in class.”

  “No, Sean, it is not Sabriel, it’s me, Sharlene. I’m okay. How are you and Sabriel and Lali doing? I miss you.”

  Her words faded into a pause filled with the sound of running water.

  “Listen, you creep. You leave my daughters alone. Haven’t we suffered enough for your sick reporter minds.”

  Her phone beeped. Sharlene starred at the low battery warning blinking back at her.

  Her free hand flew to her lips, stifling a cry. “No, no, please, Sean…”

  But he was no longer there, the screen black and devoid of power.

  They stopped in the southwest corner. Her mouth open in shock, tears filling her eyes, she couldn’t move.

  Her hands clenched, Trina shrieked in a muted voice, “What the fuck just happened?”

  Sharlene dropped her hand holding the phone, the other covered her eyes. “Oh, God, he didn’t believe me.”

  Trina grasped for the phone. Sharlene pulled away, lofting it over her head, but Trina lunged for it.

  The phone flew up out of Sharlene’s hand, catching in a rain gutter topping the south wall. For a few seconds, they just stood staring at the spot, out of reach even if one could stand on another’s shoulders.

  Trina shrieked, her fist plummeting Sharlene’s arms and hands defending her face. Coria inserted herself, “Stop, stop it, Trina.” She said, her voice barely audible, tears welling in eyes, she encircled Trina’s arms. The three women embraced, they wept as they continued their pacing, south, east, north, and west. The clouds thick, freezing rain began to fall. They continued walking. The light started to fade, and then the red door opened.

  Coated in ice, heads bowed, they entered the stark room where they had been before.

  “Vests,” Sar said.

  Without looking at him, the women removed their vests and dropped them to the floor.

  “Out”

  Sharlene and Coria walked back towards the interior doors. Sharlene sensed Trina was no longer behind her. They passed the doorway where they had seen Ulama. Beyond it, the light was brighter. They both looked towards him, they could see him clearly, dead eyes staring back.

  Coria began to shake. “Did you see?” she whispered, “oh, God, what is going to happen to us?”

  Without the phone, Sharlene shared Coria’s thought and struggled to quell her own panic. As she passed through the interior doorway, Sharlene caught a reflection in the glass. Trina was embracing Sar. For Sharlene, it was clear, whatever was going to happen, Trina was using the oldest weapon in the world to avoid it.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Mace collapsed in his Cold Case office chair. A new wall of boxes covered the small table that served as his desk. He slouched in his chair, the palms of his hands massaging his temples. His gut said the women were alive, but it also told him Jirair was the Vulcan. Now, he needed more proof.

  “Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, what I like to see in my guys on Monday morning, ‘cept it’s Tuesday.”

  Mace spun towards the door. Mo was smiling back. He had on a charcoal gray three-piece suit struggling to contain his bulk. “Didn’t realize Tuesdays were formal dress,” Mace said.

  Mo’s sizeable hands rolled his wheelchair past Mace. “Droll,” he barked, “going to testify this afternoon.” He spun his chair around behind his desk. “You alright? Heard things got a little heated yesterday.”

  “Did,” Mace said, “somebody wants me off this case or part of it.”

  “Jirair?”

  Mace palmed his face and spun around in his chair. If Mo can see it, did I throw an innocent man off the roof? Did Jirair somehow survive? No more denial, I got to know the truth.

  His chair completed a full circle returning to face Mo. Mace dropped his hands on his lap. “Bad if it is, but I’m trying to keep an open mind.”

  “Yeah, something you should try.”

  “I just said—"

  Mo held up a dismissive hand and nodded. “What’d Helyn say about the age thing.”

  “Nothing yet, I wish she had. But Anstice got a name to go with the chip, Emily Dupree, eighty-five.”

  “Great, no body. Sharlene’s likely dead, but you can’t prove it.”

  “Theme of the day,” Mace said, “how about the other two, Coria and Trina, did you find anything?”

  “Yes, I did, they have a lot in common. You should’ve looked.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Oh, yeah, forgot, why I work for you.”

  Mace smiled and shook his head. “You know you love it.”

  “Yeah, well, Trina Burkett was catching a flight to Angola. She was a nursing student at Wayne State, getting her hands-on training with Doctors Without Borders.”

  “Sharlene called me from Wayne State a week before the explosion. She was giving a speech ‘Raise Your Voice, Change The World’, a women’s empowerment talk.”

  “That might be your hunting grounds, Wayne State. Coria Brien was getting her masters in public health. Everyone thought she flew to Dublin when they found her in January.”

  “Only it wasn’t January tenth, it was December twentieth.”

  Mo sat back in his chair. “December Twentieth, you sure about that?”

  “It’s when her driver’s assist software was deactivated. Perp takes control of their vehicles and then, somehow, control of them. I believe that is what happened to me.”

  “Explains something. Mace, my friend, I’ve got your timeline for you. It was the moon.”

  Mace rolled his chair over to Mo’s desk. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, with the January date, I discarded the idea, but with December Twentieth being the date, it all fits. Blue moons.

  “Which are?”

  “A second full moon in a month. So, Coria’s murder—”

  “Or abduction.”

  “Right, Coria is attacked on December Twentieth, which figures about eighteen months ago, a blue moon. Trina, June ninth last year, same again, Sharlene, it was a blue moon that night also, December fourth.”

  “Answers why he didn’t escalate, why the attacks didn’t get closer together. How many days apart is that?”

  “Hundred and seventy-six to a hundred and seventy-eight, some variance.”

  Mace tapped Mo’s desk. “So when is the next blue moon?’

  “May twenty-nine next year, it would be a Tetrad, the fourth blue-moon for people that follow a lunar calendar. It has special significance for some, and they are known as Tetradites.”

  “Could be who we are dealing with. But I don’t think he is waiting that long. I was attacked yesterday because maybe I was getting to close. He didn’t want me interfering with his end game. Who else uses a lunar calendar?”

  “Islamic religion.”

  “Right, I should have remembered that. What’s coming up on their calendar?”

  Mo brought up an internet browser on his PC and typed in a query. “Eid al-Adha, Day of Sacrifice, on the twenty-ninth.”

  “A week away. A day of personal penance, but maybe someone is confused. Not much time, but we must assume that is his target. If we’re wrong, then well, May is a ways off.”

  “Good,” Mo said, “in the meantime, file those boxes on your desk. I’ve got to wheel my rear to court in building two.” He rolled his chair to the door.

  “Before you leave, any luck with
the name I showed you?”

  “Yeah, explains why Gavin is having a hissy fit with anyone looking at this case.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  In the basement room leading to the courtyard, Sar stood at a long table, removing the stuffing from the vests and replacing it with packets of C4. A sudden stab of pain stopped him. He clutched his stomach and gasped for breath.

  “You don’t look so good, Sar,” Sar heard Ulama say.

  “It is the cancer, my Ulama.”

  “Allah’s gift to make you strong, time to prepare.”

  Sar sank into a chair near the table, nodding his head. Ulama was in his wheelchair a few feet away, facing him. “Allah be praised, it is his will that we will complete this.”

  As he waited for the pain to subside, Sar studied the man in the wheelchair. His fragility pained him. Both orphaned by tragically dysfunctional families. Later adopted under one roof, they became brothers. In their teens, they discovered a common bond their hatred for women who did not understand their submissive role, to speak only when asked, and never to think beyond how to please their men.

  “We share many memories, my Ulama,” Sar said to him. Holy prayer and attending Mosque were something Sar did only to satisfy others, but his brother never missed an opportunity for either. It is why Sar, after the fall, now addressed his brother as his Ulama, his spiritual leader.

  “We had a life of joy and purpose. If he had only left us alone, we could have continued Allah’s work,” Sar lamented. “I remember our first, the day we discovered our purpose, do you remember my Ulama?”

  Sar looked at him, he remained silent but did appear to nod. “Dad never understood and carries with him a sadness. Yearning for what his heart desired, but repulsed his mind, Mandisa.”

  “We saved him from such misery,” Ulama said. “Mandisa was ambitious, not a proper wife, took over the business. Dad was little more than a servant in his own home.”

  Sar bunched his lips and nodded as he stood. The subsiding pain freeing him to resume his task. “She was very unkind, Mandisa was, told us to leave our home for the basement room, the basement of all useless places.”

  “With your help, I fed her to the fire, as the others.”

  “Yes,” Sar said, “how we danced, fulfilling Allah’s work.”

  “We told him she had left, Dad was content to have his freedom again, never sought more answers.”

  Sar slowly shook his head. “But the happiness did not last, did it, my Ulama? You were sad, you loved the dance, the fulfillment. We needed another to confirm our purpose.”

  Sar stared at his brother, a tear rolled down his cheek. “But then he interfered, he did this to you, created such a burden. But no matter. In a week’s time, we will be with Allah and the virgins. Our offering of many deaths, including Mr. Franklyn, will bring us peace and Allah’s forgiveness.”

  “He has slipped your grasp twice before,” his brother reminded him.

  Sar nodded. “He is blind when it comes to his friend Sharlene. I have made it easy for him.”

  “She used the phone.”

  “Yes, my Ulama, as we planned. I had the submissive one, the one who calls herself Trina, provide it. On the day of sacrifice, we will all meet once again on that roof, but this time, Jirair, my brother, there will be no escape.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Seven in the morning, Emmitt was lazily rotating side to side in his chair, enjoying his first cup of coffee and starring eight floors below at the iconic Buddha looking Spirit of Detroit sculpture across the street. He convinced himself, waiting was all he could do. For a lead from forensics, an overlooked bit from a crime scene report, Mace to make his next move or just another murder. Emmitt had been over everything, and so had his team, but nothing popped. That would be the gist of his video conference call with Cassandra this morning.

  He turned to his desk. The good news was no Mace, not on my case. He flipped through his inbox, stacked with folders. Action reports, HR minutia, which he hated, and then a brown padded envelope. His face furrowed, questioning what it was. The mystery deepened, there was no return address, but it did have a Sault Ste. Marie postmark. He slit the envelope open and found a videotape inside. Grabbing his desk phone punched in the extension for the digital lab.

  “This is Emmitt. I have a VCR tape I need digitized, and I mean now.”

  Emmitt no sooner hung up his phone, then he got another call. “A Sergeant Anstice Behrenhardt says she has an appointment with you. Shall I send her up?”

  This is turning into an interesting day. “Yes, slipped my mind, I meant to notify you. Send her up.”

  * * * *

  Emmitt’s office was in a glassed off corner of a warren of partitioned offices with agents bent over folders, video screen, or note pads. Anstice reached his door just as a young nerdy looking man with long hair, thick glasses, and a shirt pocket lined with pens was departing.

  Emmitt leaned back in his chair. “Anstice, sweetheart, what brings you downtown, braving the Lodge so early?”

  He was referring to the John C. Lodge Expressway, a primary tributary that snaked its way through declining neighborhoods into the city. “Emmitt,” she said, walking towards him, a smile smothering her raw nerves, “not so bad. I used a marked patrol this morning. No one likes a cop closing on their tail.”

  “Definitely helps. So, why are we meeting.”

  She half-sat, half-leaned on his desk next to his chair. “Trayn Robers.”

  “If I remember correctly, once, you didn’t need me, you two had an arrangement.”

  “You’ll always be special to me, M, first love and all that. We did have an agreement, but Trayn is upping the ante. He wants me to work undercover again.”

  “Ants, you know I’m not a DPD captain anymore, not much I can do, unless…”

  “What… work for you?”

  Emmitt gave a broad smile as he nodded and extended his open palms.

  “Well, okay. I did some checking, Trayn just bought a big house and a new car. I figure he is looking to restart his kickback scheme for some additional income. So what—”

  “Not what I was thinking, Ants.”

  “So what, what you have in mind.”

  “Mace.”

  What she expected, but how far would her heart let her go, she was about to find out. “Mace? I don’t even—"

  “Save it. I saw you with him at the Eddystone. You two drove off together. And Charles, the maître’d at Muir’s, let slip you, and he had dinner just two days ago. So, let’s just skip the denials. What did you talk about at the Stone.”

  Anstice bit her lip. She could see her life spinning out of control. Trayn would keep pushing her until she crossed the line, and it wouldn’t end until they both went to jail. Now Emmitt wasn’t looking any better. “It was a cold case, Lewis Tuller. We walked the roof and his apartment. He mentioned something about videotapes.”

  Emmitt’s eyes got bigger, his only reaction, but she was sure he was reacting to her mention of the tape.

  “What else did he say, Ants.”

  “That was it, just the cold case. What do you want?”

  “Mace didn’t just go to the Eddystone because of a cold case. There was another reason, and I think it has to do with Jirair Houssain. That’s what I want you to find out. What happened there the day Lewis Tuller disappeared, Mace lost his job, and the last time Jirair was spotted?”

  “You’ve got to help me, Emmitt.”

  “You deliver, and I’ll take care of Trayn.”

  An agent knocked. “The lieutenant governor is ready for your video conference, sir.”

  “Okay,” Emmitt said and stood, retrieving his jacket from the back of his chair. “We’re done here, Ants. You want my help, you know what to do.”

  Emmitt followed the agent out of the bullpen and down the hall. Anstice’s insides roiled, she didn’t know what she could do, and a thought kept recurring. Do I have a choice?

  The nerdy-looking guy
returned and dropped a DVD disc and a bulky open envelope onto Emmitt’s desk. Maybe there is another way. Anstice peaked into the package and saw the VCR tape. She folded the package as small as possible and tucked it into the waistband under her jacket. She walked quickly out of Emmitt’s domain and One Woodward.

  * * * *

  Emmitt returned to his desk and immediately spotted the DVD. He inserted it into the drive attached to his PC and began viewing the black and white images. A timestamp identified the scene occurring at ten the night of Jirair’s last sighting and the day Tuller went missing. But all he could see was an occasional pigeon flitting from the roost to the roof and back again.

  He was about to turn it off when a slender dark jacketed figure ran into the scene.

  He stopped mid-roof, turned around, and gestured to someone out of view of the camera. Emmitt strained his eyes, the figure, a man, looked familiar. He backed up the video and zoomed on the man, Jirair Houssain, that’s him. A blur swept across the field of view, and when it cleared, Jirair was standing at a low perimeter wall that edged the roof.

  A second figure wearing a light-colored jacket, a dark gray in the black and white video, seemed to be in pursuit. He had dense, curly black hair. Mace, it’s Mace, it has to be. He was shaking an accusing finger at Jirair. The second figure charged Jirair, bending him over the wall while pummeling his face. Jirair ceased struggling, and the second man picked up Jirair and threw him over the roof.

  Emmitt jerked back in his chair. What did I just see? He backed up the video and replayed the scene. He picked up his phone and punched in the number for Gavin’s MBI office. Mace, boy, I’ve got you. You’re going down for murder.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Scanning his work table covered in Sharlene’s crime scene photos, Gavin growled a Welsh epithet, categorizing his efforts as a useless task, akin to capturing a goat fart. Venting his frustration, he slammed the images back into her case file. Elbows propped onto his desk; he massaged his temples. His insides boiling, as they had for a year. Would he ever find the sick mind that so brutally murdered his Coria? He had to if it was the last thing he did.