by Milam,Vince
“So, could you tell me where I crashed and burned?” he asked. “I mean, what did I do to push you away? Future reference and all that.”
“Good question. I have a bad answer.” They walked awhile before she continued. “I’ve thought a lot about it. A lot. A chunk of it was me. Not sure how much. The part you get to tote around had to do with communication, commitment, and—maybe—a simple lack of compatibility.” She turned her head to address him as they walked. “I don’t know, for sure. Yeah, I broke it off. But if you need a point A to point B to point C answer, Cole, I can’t give you one. And if you need ABC, then that’s one of the communication or compatibility problems.”
Well, I do sorta understand. I’m no ace at that stuff. Martha accepted it, and we moved together through life without too many hiccups. The memory of his passed wife, murdered and sorely missed, knotted his heart.
“Okay,” he replied.
“Okay? Okay to what?”
“Okay, you have valid reasons. Okay, I’m not the best communicator. Although I’m trying, here.”
They strode up a paved incline and waited to cross a street before the path took them back along the river.
“I’ll give the ABC thing a shot, Cole. For the purposes of talking it through.”
He nodded back.
Apparently she didn’t catch the gesture, and asked, “Well?”
“Well, I’d appreciate it,” he said.
“Alright. Communication. God knows, I bounce around when I verbalize. Can’t help it,” she said. “I’m hardwired that way. But it never seemed to bother you.”
Didn’t bother me much at all. Truth told, I kinda liked it. They slowed their pace. The conversation dropped their walk to a meander, focused on words and not movement.
“And this part,” she added.
“What part?”
“Right now. I made a comment. And still waiting for a reply. But you seem to believe silence is sufficient. It’s like pulling eyeteeth with you.”
“Well, okay. Guilty as charged. I’m not a big talker. But your bouncing around stuff…it never bothered me. At all.”
“It bothers everyone else,” she said. “So I’ve been told more than a few times.”
“Not me.”
The wind increased and Nadine hunched her shoulders under the fleece jacket.
“That’s good to hear,” she said. “Really. I’ve never had a long-term relationship, and I always figured that was due to my verbal habits and looks.”
“Looks? You look hotter’n a firecracker. A man would have to be an idiot not to notice.”
“Thanks. Stick a pin in the looks department and we’ll venture back that way in a minute. Now, what about your reticence? The Cole Garza strong silent type shtick?”
“Shtick?” They walked another ten paces, silent.
“Here comes another one of those parts,” she said.
“I’m supposed to elaborate?” he asked.
“Bingo, cowboy. Collect your prize.”
That’s a little damn snarky. “It’s not an act, Nadine. It’s me. And it didn’t bother Martha.”
“I’m not Martha.”
“Sorry. Stupid to mention it. Sorry.”
Thirty seconds went by. Low blow and stupid, son. What is wrong with me?
“Okay. My perspective. It might help if you didn’t pigeonhole it as an act. It isn’t,” he said. “I suppose I should talk more, but one of the things I enjoyed was, you closed the gaps. I didn’t have to work at filling dead air.”
A bike bell rang behind them, and again Nadine moved and brushed against him. A mother and young son pedaled by to their left. Mom tossed a “Thanks” over her shoulder.
“I know it’s not an act. Don’t know why I said that. But maybe that’s a big part of the issue, Cole. Wonder if they rent bikes nearby? I can’t seem to accept your reticence or my having to pick up the slack during the supposed two-way flow of relational conversation.”
Alright, here’s where I get bogged down. What do I add? She’s clearly waiting for input.
“I wouldn’t mind a bike ride,” he said. “It makes me feel like a kid again.”
They stopped, asked an approaching pedestrian, and were told bikes could be rented for Greenbelt cruising a couple of blocks away. They headed toward the bike rental shop.
“Alright, commitment. You ready for that conversation?” Nadine asked.
“Sure.”
They walked, silent, into downtown Boise. It didn’t take long for Nadine to cast a raised-eyebrow look at him.
“Okay. Commitment,” Cole said. “We were pretty dang committed. Neither of us dated anyone else.”
“And?” she asked.
“And now you want to talk about sex. Mercy sakes, we’ve talked the britches off it, Nadine. I wasn’t ready to cross the line. To make that commitment.”
“Exactamundo! To make that commitment. And I mean beyond bonking. Discussions regarding the future. What would we, as a couple, be doing a year from now? Five years from now? Etcetera, etcetera. And don’t tell me the sex part would have to come first. There’s the bike shop. Relationships aren’t linear. They change, morph. I’m no expert given my track record, but it’s the larger package. We didn’t go there. Ever. Wonder if it’s too windy to bike?”
They paused and waited to cross the street.
“Plus, the whole sex thing is pretty damn important,” she added. “We’re both relatively young. I’m not doing a Cat on a Hot Tin Roof spiel, here, but it would have brought a unique closeness and maybe helped break down some barriers.”
They approached the door to the bike rental shop. “You’re not going to talk about this in there, are you?” he asked, indicating the interior of the shop with a head nod.
She stood, hands on hips, and stared unblinking for a full five seconds. “I’m deciding whether to punch you or jump your bones,” she said, then flung open the door and entered the shop. She stopped long enough to turn and add, “Or both.”
They each rented cruisers and enquired of coffee shops along the Greenbelt. Cole declined the shop owner’s offer of a tandem bike for the two of them. A coffee shop waited a few miles distant, and Nadine took off, pedaling fast. He admonished himself for admiring her butt and pedaled hard to catch up.
Nadine May wasn’t going to ring the bike’s bell or call “On your left,” when they approached folks walking in the same direction. She’d tear off the paved path, over grass and tree roots, bouncing, and leaned back to the pavement, laughing. They covered the miles in short order, the day crisp and fine. She had already parked her bike and was waiting for him by the time he made the coffee shop.
“We don’t have a bike lock,” she said.
“It’s Boise.”
“Right.”
They ordered coffee and two scones. Cole seldom ate breakfast pastries, but past experience pointed toward Nadine’s consumption of both his and her scone without too much problem. They sat outside, weekend morning pedestrian traffic far more abundant than automobiles.
“That was fun,” she said, eyeballing the passing people. “It’s nice to get out and not be immersed to our chins in dark and dangerous affairs.” She sipped coffee and added, “These folks around here look so outdoorsy.”
“A hoot. Glad we rented bikes,” he said. Several coffee shop patrons had dogs leashed next to them as they sat at the small sidewalk tables. Cole extended a hand and scratched behind a mixed breed’s ear. The dog responded with eyes closed, head tilted, and chin lifted.
They danced around their previous conversation and discussed Jude, Jean, Luke, and Nick. They admitted to relief at knowing of others—others with similar experiences. Others engaged with real, potent, and dangerous Satanic influences.
“Jean is someone you’d want on your side,” Nadine said. “Nice enough, and solid, but man oh man, you’d hate to have her coming after you.”
“A big help to Jude, for sure.” The dog whined for more attention and Cole complied.
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“And how weird is it to watch Francois discuss battle plans with Jude and Luke?” Nadine asked. “I mean, talk about three different characters!”
“Yep.” The incongruity of those three didn’t bother Cole as much as the knowledge this whole gathering showed signs of rallying the troops before a major fight.
“That Nick’s a looker,” she said and plucked the untouched scone from his plate. “Eye candy.”
“He seems out of place. Not really bought into the whole thing.”
“Young eye candy is never out of place.”
“You turning cougar on me?”
“Maybe. So what?”
He raised a single eyebrow and stared, hard. She returned the look. Her raucous laugh broke the stare-down, a baby two tables away joined in, and the dog barked.
You’re one piece of work, Nadine. Honest to God, Cole thought.
“Back to the looks. Mine. Where we stuck that pin,” she said.
“Okay.”
The short silence brought a triple foot tap and widened eyes from Nadine. “You want more detail on your looks? At least, my opinion?” Cole asked. Her foot activity increased tempo. “Well, you’re hot,” he continued. “A babe. I love that you’re comfortable in your own skin. Don’t fuss around much.”
Nadine’s foot ceased. She lifted her face, sunshine bright, eyes closed. “Well, for Cole Garza I suppose that’s as ‘sweep a girl off her feet’ as it gets. Don’t fuss around much.”
“I mean it.”
“I’m sure you did.” She lowered her head to gaze at him. A wry smile offered few clues.
Cole stood and let a couple squeeze past him to an adjoining table. Morning foot traffic had increased, the Boise breakfast crowd enjoying the day. He went inside and brought back two more coffees.
“Alright. Since we’re on a roll, let’s talk that last C-word,” he said.
“C-word?” she asked.
“Yep. C. Compatibility. The third component you mentioned.”
“You sound like a movie detective.” She giggled and lowered her voice to imitate his. “The third component, madam. The third.”
“You gettin’ drunk? Something in the coffee?”
“What I’m getting is a sense we are fairly compatible, and maybe I missed it or overlooked it or just got too hung up on the fact you’re about as verbose as roadkill. Man, that was a good scone. And thanks for the coffee. But look at us now. Nice walk, great bike ride, good vibes. Yessir. Good vibes.”
She had slipped off one of her sneakers and her foot now made its way to his calf, headed north.
“I hope to hell that’s you,” he said. “Because if it ain’t, Boise has some cultural components I’m a little uncomfortable with.”
She laughed, loud, and drew the attention of nearby tables. She also lowered her foot.
They finished their coffee, the mood light and fun. Cole relished the time, a world removed from what loomed ahead. They rode back to the bike shop and walked to the hotel, conversation centered on easy subjects. Her job, his job, books and movies. Mule the Cat. Antique roses. His anticipation of the summer Rockport softball league and her commitment to take up tennis.
It carried them into the hotel lobby where they found Jean on her phone. “Love you, too,” she said as she finished the call and smiled when they approached her. “Sly. My husband. He’ll be home in a couple of weeks,” she said.
“Where is everybody?” Nadine asked.
“Nick went for a run. Our three soothsayers are huddled upstairs. Francois’s room. I just got back from walking Banjo.”
“Well, I need to get online. See what’s happening in the world. Got a client asking me about Uzbekistan,” Nadine said as she headed for the elevators. “Call me if something happens.”
“Cup of coffee?” Jean asked Cole.
“I’ll have a diet Coke.”
The two occupied the bar area, alone, and talked law enforcement. It was common ground and sound footing for the inevitable discussion of “what’s next?” Cole endeavored to explain the role he and Nadine had played against living evil. Rockport, Wales, Syria. West Africa and Mexico. Jean locked eyes and absorbed. She continued to circle back to actual encounters. She probed for answers regarding the physical nature of those things the others, and Cole, referred to—demons, Satan’s army, the Enemy.
“I can’t be definitive, Jean. I’m sorry,” Cole said. “Yeah, I’ve seen them, or at least one of them, and I wanted to strangle him. Or it. Not sure how it would have worked out.”
“I’d appreciate a grip on how best to handle one of them. In person. Your priest contends bullets aren’t effective,” Jean said.
“I’m not convinced, but Francois says he’s seen it.” Cole paused to sip his Coke. “There is something else, Jean. I’m pretty dang sure we have a lot more to deal with. This time.”
He elaborated on his gut feeling, and emphasized the effects demonic influences had on people he’d run into. Cole pondered the possibility of such influences affecting groups of people for a common cause.
“How do you ID it?” Jean asked. “If someone’s influenced by supernatural evil.”
“Their eyes. Their face. An energy. A nasty energy. Mercy, I wish I could explain it better.”
“How’d you handle them?” she asked.
“Shot one. The other killed himself. Both slaughtered a whole lot of innocents.”
They eased back in their chairs and stared at the tabletop, contemplative. The whoosh of elevator doors and the carpeted pad of hotel staff filled the space. Someone past the swinging doors to the kitchen began to hum a tune. The morning break with Nadine faded, replaced by a knotted stomach.
“What do we do?” Jean asked. Her tone indicated low expectations of an answer.
“Wait. Wait and follow the lead of the three upstairs.”
“It’s going to get ugly, isn’t it?” she asked.
Cole wished for a strand of hope to offer. A statement of reassurance, or maybe a “don’t worry.” But Jean Murphy would not want a whitewash.
“Afraid so, Jean. Damn ugly. You can pretty much bet on it.”
Chapter 15
The old stairs creaked as Saif climbed to his apartment above the dry cleaners. Decisions weighed heavy as he trudged, unsure.
He’d left a private meeting with a new friend. A friend who had sought him, contacted him. A friend and a leader. A leader of ISIS in America.
To be expected, Saif thought when his new friend had first approached him. Saif had commented on an ISIS fighter’s Facebook profile and developed an online friendship. He’d sought out chat forums where the focus concerned Islamic State life. Life within the caliphate. He had asked candid questions on the electronic forums such as what to wear, what weather to expect in lands controlled by ISIS, if he had to buy his own weapons, and whether there was Wi-Fi. Personal contact from this American leader would be expected. I have not hidden my desires.
Saif’s family had immigrated years before, fleeing the mayhem and chaos of Syria. Relatives in Portland, Oregon, took them in, and Saif entered American society. The language barrier took years to overcome, and school provided few associations or friends. As a young man, he lacked a sense of belonging. The Americans around him had pride and assurance. Their country prospered, people marveled at their technology and scientific discoveries, and American cultural influences spread throughout the world.
Saif felt left out and never assimilated. He’d grown more distant from his surroundings as he sought a purpose in life. His parents and sister had blended in, joined the Portland community, and made friends with the infidels. Saif had not, could not. He grew to hate the culture of his new country. To despise the lack of order and structure. To loathe the frivolity and absence of spiritual focus.
He was not brought up in a religious household, so he had sought and found a sympathetic mosque and developed new friends. New friends who alluded to the notion of a worldwide caliphate. Friends who whispered of global jihad.<
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The online ISIS community brought him deeper into the fold. It provided friendship and understanding and sympathy. The online community gave direction and purpose. It pointed out the clear injustices and wrongs against his people, his heritage, and instilled a sense of honor within Saif. Honor in his roots and life and future. Honor that inflamed his hatred for Western society.
The secret meeting he’d just left offered an opportunity to exercise power. True power. Jihad. An opportunity to have an immediate impact on the struggle against those who waged war against the true Islam. The Islam of the caliphate.
Such a decision! The plan as explained by the leader had a simplicity, a finality, with huge appeal. Strike a blow each day, at random. A plan strong and viable and one sure to bring terror to this place he lived. Saif teetered, agreed, yet unsure of his personal ability to kill. To murder.
Another meeting tomorrow. One last meeting as the ISIS leader demanded full commitment or full withdrawal. No middle ground. And the fear Saif carried came not from battle or blood. It originated deep inside—a fear of failure.
Saif sensed the stranger before he saw him. The small apartment exuded a feeling—a force—as he climbed the stairs. Deep concern, yes, but also a strange affirmation as he opened the peeled door and looked into the dark. The far corner of the one-room apartment showed a figure, dark and quiet, beckoning. Saif shut the door and stood still, his heart racing. Have they come? The authorities?
“Come. Sit,” the stranger said, motioning toward a chair. “Come. You have nothing to fear.”
Saif moved, sidestepping, and kept his eyes on the stranger until he bumped against an old kitchen chair.
“Al-dowla al-islaamiyya fii-il-i’raaq wa-ash-shaam,” the stranger said. The Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. ISIS. “It cries for your help. Your devotion.”
A streetlight reflected off the lone window of the apartment and provided the shadowed room’s only illumination. Something compelled Saif to keep the room dark. The stranger, large and powerful and of shadow, spoke with a voice soothing and filled with association, brotherhood.
“I am unsure,” Saif said, convinced this stranger held an important role in ISIS. “Unsure of my abilities. I confess. The ultimate act is needed—required—but I have never done such a thing.”
