The Charity

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  The iridescent dial of the clock on the Customs House Tower showed it was nearly three thirty. Shea once said he would often eat a late lunch at the restaurant they went to. It would only take a minute to check there.

  The day was proof that December in Boston can be a miserable time of year. A slight freezing rain was falling after a night of heavy wet snow. Pulling her hat down over her now black hair and thrusting her coat collar up around her head and shoulders, Jessica remembered loving the sodden snow when she was younger. The years in Utah spoiled her. Feet of the lightest, fluffiest snow would fall. Champagne Powder is what the locals called it. Jessica smiled as she remembered days upon days of skiing the best possible terrain and snow she could imagine. Whoever said you could have too much of a good thing never skied Solitude or Alta.

  A yellow cab blasted down the slick street and splashed gallons of salty slush onto Jessica’s legs and feet. She raised her fist at the retreating vehicle in anger. Survival may take different skills here, but the instincts were the same. Watch the conditions. Watch yourself. Watch others.

  She entered the breezeway of the restaurant and looked in. Only five or so people were dispersed around the establishment. She squinted her eyes to see further into the darkened dining room to the corner Shea liked. It was too dark to see from where she was standing. She hauled open the door and walked in. The table was empty.

  A man bustled up to her as she turned to leave. “May I help you?”

  “No. Sorry. I was going to meet someone here, but I’m late, and they’re gone.” She tried to step around him. “Excuse me.”

  “Rita? Rita Harrison?”

  Jessica looked deeply at him. “And you are...?” She let her voice trail off to emphasize her question.

  “Granger. Granger Lipinski. I think you know me.”

  Jessica recognized him as Shea’s tag that followed her from the Y’s residence. Dislike for him was instant. Something told her to get away from this guy. Fast.

  “No. Sorry. You must be mistaken.” She tried again to get around him. He stepped in her path. “Excuse me!” Her raised voice had the desired effect of causing heads to pop up to see what the commotion was about.

  “You’re the one who’s mistaken, Jessica.” His face reddened as he whispered her name.

  “Why do you think I should know you?”

  “Owen wanted me to give you this.” Granger took her hand and placed a small, rectangular piece of metal in it.

  It had been a long time since she had seen it, but its distinctive patina and engraving gave her no doubt. She closed the lighter into her fist.

  “Thank you. Good bye.”

  She dropped her shoulder and again tried to push past the persistent man. He took her arm and used her momentum to get them to the street.

  “Owen says that you should come with me. He wants to meet with you somewhere else, for obvious reasons. I’m to take you there.”

  “Just tell me where he is, and I’ll go there myself. I don’t need your help.” A cold shiver of repulsion rippled up her spine.

  “Outcome’s still the same.” He raised his arm and hailed a cab with a shrill whistle. After several attempts, a cab pulled up. He shoved her in.

  “Plough and Stars Hotel, Cambridge.” The cab sashayed recklessly down the icy street, and Granger used the movement as an excuse to sway a bit toward Jessica. His hot breath clung to the windows as little droplets. He used his fingers to make wet, blurry circles.

  The lighter warmed in Jessica’s tight grasp. Visions of the package being lost or taken by the night cleaning crew disappeared along with her desperation to see Shea. Nothing would make her let it go again, and she placed it deep within her jeans pocket. Her attention wandered from her escort to consider her next steps, his conversation only half-acknowledged.

  “Yep. I used to ride horses a lot when I was a kid. Loved ‘em. When I was old enough, my dad would take me to the track an’ I could watch them jockeys work those horses. Yep, I sure loved those days.”

  It was the way he pronounced some words. ‘When I wus uld enaugh, me dad whould tick me to de trek.’

  “What did you say?”

  “My father loved the ponies.” His mouth struggled around the words, forcing them into an American mold. It didn’t work. ‘Me fither luved da ponies.’

  Jessica’s attention riveted onto her companion. What did he say his name was? Lipinski? Right. And I’m Meryl Streep.

  The cab pulled up in front of a beaten down hotel and sloshed away as soon as Granger paid their fare. He approached the worn and nicked front desk in the shabby lobby.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Eric Taylor. We have a reservation.” To further prove their relationship, he stood close to Jessica and pulled her tightly to him; arm too familiar around her waist.

  “Don’t be an ass.” She pushed him away.

  The desk clerk and Granger looked at one another and slyly shared a smile. Granger looked at her with barely concealed lust.

  “Well, Mrs. Taylor. Is that any way to treat your husband?”

  “Cut the crap. That’s it. I’m leaving.” Shea or no Shea, nothing was worth spending another moment with this guy.

  “No, I’m afraid not. I have my orders.” Granger whirled her around and herded her toward the elevator.

  Jessica quickly made a full assessment of Granger. Big, but not muscular. His tall frame was covered in modestly expensive, but standard clothes. He had removed his hat, and she could see that what hair he had left was mostly gray. He did not move well, like someone unaccustomed to much activity. It was hard to believe Shea was friends with him.

  They entered a room with two double beds and peeling wallpaper. The acrid smell of stale cigarette smoke stung her nostrils.

  “Where’s Shea?” Jessica placed herself between her guard and the door.

  “Hum? Oh, yeah. He’ll be here. Don’t worry. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while we wait?” He patted the bed next to where he lay down. He kicked off his heavy boots, unbuttoned his shirt and rolled up his sleeves.

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Well, we have a few minutes here.” He tried to look at her figure, still wrapped in a heavy coat and hat. “You’ll roast if you keep that stuff on. C’mon, take it off and relax. It’ll do ya good.” He rolled his tongue along his lips.

  Jessica knew this type of man all too well from her years alone and could smell them a mile away. God’s gift to women, they thought. She hated the type. They were nothing but junkyard dogs.

  Jessica took off her hat and let her black hair fall down her back. She moved her shoulders in her coat. It restricted movement just a little too much and was the only reason she obliged his request to remove it. Tape pulled her skin where her spare money was fastened. The feeling offered little security. She hung up the coat on one of the wire hangers suspended by a metal rod by the door. They were the cheap kind. The ones that bent under a little stress. Her back was turned to Granger for a split second.

  He took the opportunity.

  Her arms flew up under the force of the attack, scattering the flimsy hangers around the room. Granger grabbed her and threw her face down on the bed. She could smell the perspiration and excitement as he hovered over her, hands running along her body. Wriggling to free herself, Granger flipped her onto her back and looked down at her. “C’mon, now girl. You only have but a wee bit of time left on this earth. Why don’t we make it memorable, eh?”

  Jessica spat in his face. “You’ll rot in hell for this.”

  He put his head back to laugh. She could see crooked teeth littered with silver fillings. “Oh, I’ll rot in hell for a lot more than just this!” He moved his left arm slightly. It was the first time she saw the tattoo.

  “Fire! Fire! Quick somebo—” Iron fists came down in hard staccato blasts on the side of her head and mouth. Stars streaked acros
s her vision. She could taste saltiness filling her mouth.

  He pinned her arms above her head with one hand and began groping her with his other. He pulled up her shirt and squeezed her breasts until they hurt. Primal knowledge filled her with his intent, forcing her senses to clear with adrenaline. Jessica could see the lust clouding his eyes as he lowered his mouth to hers. She used his movement and brought her knees up quickly and thrust upward and to the right. The sudden action toppled the man to the ground. Her legs tangled in the cheap bedspread as she tried to scramble for the door. He grabbed her ankle and pulled her down to the floor. She was caught between the far bed and the wall, unable to move.

  Again, Granger looked down at her. Fighting only served to heighten his excitement. He licked his lips again with his thin milky tongue, using one hand to stroke the bulge in his pants. He was ready for her. “Go ahead. Fight.”

  Jessica had to think of another way out. “Fight? Why? You just caught me off guard.” She had to distract him, if only for a second. She forced her muscles to relax. “Where’s Shea?”

  “Shea? By now he’s dead. There’s someone else who wants to see you again. Then we’re going to get out of here.”

  “The guy with the scar and the tattoo like yours, right?” She felt under the bed with her left arm for anything. The floor was void of anything useful.

  “Yeah, right. Now it’s my turn to have a little bit of you.” Granger put his filthy socked foot on Jessica’s chest as he unfastened his belt. There! In a flash, she twisted his leg and forced him off balance. In the same motion, she was on her feet, clawing across the bed. He recovered and raced to place himself between her and the door. They stood in silence and stared at one another.

  He approached her slowly. He had her cornered, and she knew it. He felt his excitement build as the wench backed up against the bed, turning one shoulder to him for protection. This was good. He wanted to hear her beg for mercy. She would be begging plenty later on tonight, but he wanted to hear her now. This was going to be fun.

  Granger brought himself close to Jessica, chest touching her shoulder. He took in every feature of her face and body. He wanted to make it last. His long arm began to wrap around her waist in the same gesture of ownership that had pissed her off in the lobby.

  The short shaft of the wire hanger found its mark. He screamed in pain and held his eye where the hanger had lodged. Instantly he thrashed out in anger and agony, one hand gripping the protruding hanger. The other hand unleashed a blow fueled by blinded fear and frustration, catching Jessica in the ribs. The freshly healed bones were still too fragile to withstand such a blast.

  Half blind and half crazy with agony, he grabbed at her. White-hot pain ripped deeper into his socket as Jessica batted the hanger.

  Sensing a window of mere seconds, she turned her back on him and bolted out the door. The whir of the elevator got louder, a bell signaled its arrival. Granger’s bellows of rage and yearning filled the hall. She dashed for the stairs. Elevator doors whooshed open and in one split second, she saw the same attacker that had killed Gus and had tried to kill her emerge. She closed the stairwell door as soundlessly as she could and flew down the stairs.

  She looked through the dingy square window of the door leading from the staircase to the lobby. Two men, dressed similarly in jeans and baseball jackets continuously surveyed the large room and glanced up the street. Jessica continued one more floor down to the laundry and kitchen areas. Ignoring the startled glances of the few workers there, she found the outside door and sprinted down the alley.

  “Sir? I’m sorry to disturb you.” The aide approached the old man with his head bowed in respect and fear. He tried to ignore the glaring eyes and held out a portable phone with the antenna extended. “I believe you want to take this call.” As soon as the phone was delivered, the young man hastily retreated from the room.

  “Yes.” Magnus answered the phone with little courtesy. Catherine looked up from her embroidery and listened with half interest to his side of the conversation. She could have been wrong, but it looked as if some color drained from her husband’s cheeks.

  “Where did you get your information?” There were long pauses in the conversation while he tried to take in all that the phone call had brought him.

  “You know I won’t stop at anything until my job is done. What I do saves hundreds of innocent lives. I believe what I have always believed. If one or two Americans get caught in my work, so be it.”

  The color returned to his face, and he sat forward in his chair. A calculating grin drew up the corners of his mouth. “I cannot stop what is already in progress. Everything has its price... If that’s what you want... Then you must come work at my side, as it is your fate. You know that blood is what lasts forever. Not love... That is the romantic notion that killed my first wife, remember?” Another pause. “No one will try to kill you. That has been my gift to you.”

  The grin grew into a satisfied smile. A plan was laid.

  “You must find out for yourself what happened and why. In doing so, you will learn the humanity behind my methods and get to know my loyal soldiers.” And prove yourself to me. Magnus clicked off the phone. Catherine looked up at her husband and inquired about the call with a raised eyebrow.

  The old man leaned forward and took the chin of his wife lightly into his hand. “I may have solved more problems than I first thought possible.” He kissed her softly and smiled.

  “It will feel good to work again with a son by my side.”

  Shea’s ear was nearly numb from being on the phone for so long. If he could have fired the entire office support staff in that moment, he would have. Instead, he settled for just his secretary and the receptionist. It was only in an ‘Oh, by the way,’ conversation with his secretary that he discovered that he had over ten messages over the span of three days from someone calling herself Rita Harrison. The secretary even confessed to thinking that the woman who left those messages probably called twenty times a day without leaving her name and was proud of the way she had handled such a pestering bitch. She only mentioned it to Shea in the hopes of getting some acknowledgment of how deftly she handled matters while he was out sick. After all, the woman had not called again in over a day. Shea was not ready to return to work and only hoped that whatever it was that was so urgent with Jessica could wait.

  His time spent on research was paying off. The documents he received from the attorney and copied from the Registry presented him with a fairly complete picture. Clearly, Wyeth’s Worldwind Farm was a major piece of the Unity Green empire then and now. Jim Wyeth took definite steps in protecting assets and moving funds into different accounts, but Unity Green frequently lurked in the transfers.

  Shea had spent the better part of one day researching money flow into and out of the Wyeth-owned accounts. The fact that the most recent transactions happened close to eight years ago, and other questionable transactions spanned backward to nearly forty years ago, helped his research. Any record of the Wyeth’s bank accounts over seven years old had been boxed up and shipped to secure archival storage in a huge underground warehouse just outside of Boston. Armed with a fake search warrant, Shea pretended to be looking for hidden assets in a contested estate proceeding. Access to all bank records was granted to him without question. He started with the Wyeth accounts. He could then use whatever information he found to trace outward to other parties and other banks.

  One thing was certain. Whatever was going on at Worldwind Farms, Jim Wyeth had been in it up to his neck.

  “You’re not going fast enough! Run faster! Can’t you hear them?”

  “Jessie, you can help me.” Erin’s voice floated above the water and mist.

  A deeper voice drifted past her ear. “It’s up to you.”

  Rough hands moved along her body. “You’ve unly gut a wee bit o’ time left. Enjoy it.”

  The hands felt down the inside of h
er thigh.

  Jessica forced herself up through layer after layer of fitful sleep. The images stayed close by, ascending with her. Soon, the voices and the mist were gone, just the hands, groping her body as she curled tighter into a ball, remained.

  Her eyes opened wide, and she turned over to face her attacker. She grabbed the thin wrists and twisted outward with all of her strength. The rage and fear which ran through her gave her grip additional power. The body the wrists belonged to sank to its knees.

  “Ouch! Hey! Let me go! Please! You’re breaking my arms!”

  Jessica felt the arms begin to shake. Without loosening her grip, she took a good look at the figure before her. The arms belonged to an old man, maybe seventy years old. His long white hair had yellowed with dirt and sun. The weathered face was crisscrossed with deep crevasses. Long stubble stabbed its way through the surface of his chin. The face was frozen in an expression mixed with fear, pain, and oddly, strength. Jessica looked carefully again into his eyes. Her gaze was met with a cloudy, gray stare of exhaustion and old alcohol.

  “Hey! I don’t mean you no harm. If someone sees us like this, they’ll kick us out for good, don’t you know that?” The gray eyes left her gaze only long enough to look around the nearly empty room.

  She let her hands relax, but not completely. “What the hell were you trying to do?”

  “I... I’m sorry. I seen you on my way out. You don’t look like the kind of person who would sleep in a shelter. I... I thought you got money or food on you. I’m sorry. I don’t mean you no harm.”

  The man rubbed his wrists released from the vise-like grip of the woman. He was taken totally by surprise at the speed and strength of her reaction. Many people in a shelter are too weak from hunger, sickness, or are too tired from a hard life to react that fast and that forcefully. He was right. She probably never spent a night in a homeless shelter in her life. Definitely not the type. She was too aware, too energetic. But her face told more of the story. It was discolored and swollen, and she had more bruises on her chest and arms.