“Seriously, Foster? I thought I let you out already.”
He scratched at the door and whined again.
“Hold on,” she said and placed her Bible on the nightstand. She climbed out of bed and went to the door. She pulled back the drapes and surveyed the illuminated back yard. It was clear. She removed the broomstick that braced the door shut, clicked open the lock, and slid the door open. Foster bolted out and dashed to the corner of the fence, passionately sniffing at the ground. Could it be the neighbor’s cat again? A horrible vision of her having to explain the dead cat to poor old lady Crawford flashed in her mind. She stepped out into the dark. “Foster!” she yelled. “Just do your business and get back in here. Leave that cat alone!”
A noise from behind startled her. She spun around.
A heavy shoulder shoved her through the open door. She lost her footing and fell to the floor. A hulking man in black slammed the door shut behind him.
Foster attacked the door, scratching, barking, and gnashing teeth.
He snatched a gun from his waistband and leveled at her head, hand clenched tight, quivering. “I warn you! You no listen!” the large, Middle Eastern man said. A deep, red scar crossed his forehead. The man from the library.
“Wait!” she said, slowly coming to her feet. “Please, don’t do this!”
“Shut your eyes!”
“Please, you don’t have to do this!”
Foster growled, barked, and clawed.
“Please, shut your eyes . . . please!”
She opened her eyes even wider, pleading for mercy.
Resolve fell away from the man’s face. He relaxed the grip on his gun and moved the barrel to the temple of his own skull. “I am sorry for this.” His eyes billowed with tears.
“What are you doing? Are you crazy? Just put the gun down!”
“I have no choice.”
“Yes, you do have a choice.”
Dad crashed through the door, gun drawn.
She dove at the man’s arm and yanked it down. The gun toppled to the floor. She wrenched his hand to the small of his back, thrust upward, and shoved him against the wall.
“Ahhh!” the man cried.
Dad brought his gun steady against the man’s head. “Get him to the ground,” he said, then kicked the assailant behind his knee. He sank to the floor and she came down on top of him, still shoving his hand up to his shoulder blades.
“You hurt me!” the man cried.
“Hold him there while I get my cuffs.” Dad went back to the couch and rushed back in with the handcuffs. He stooped down and wrenched the other wrist to the small of the back, cuffed him, and clamped them tight. Dad sank onto the bed while Amari kept her knee on his back. Foster still clawed at the door.
“We got him, baby,” Dad said. “We got him.”
****
Ambulance lights flashed out in front of the house. Dad laid on a gurney. He had passed out shortly after calling this in. Adrenaline and fever didn’t go together well. They were taking him to the ER for IV fluids and observation. The Middle Eastern man sat in the back of a squad car, sad eyes fixed on Amari.
Kevin slammed the door of his Honda Accord and ran toward her, nearly knocking her over with his hug.
“It’s okay,” she said, hugging him back. “We got him. It’s over now, thank God. It’s finally over.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said.
“Hope I’m right? Don’t you see him? That’s him in the police car.”
“Well, yeah, but your dad thinks he was being paid. Sorry to burst your bubble, babe, but whoever was paying him is still out there.”
Chapter 38
Pete stayed overnight at the hospital and was discharged around noon the next day. Amari and Kevin picked him up in his Regal he’d left at the house the night before and took him back to the house so he could continue his recovery. Pete knew he was fine. A little flu never killed anybody. He wanted to get back to work, only they wouldn’t hear of it.
When they got to the house, Amari came around to Pete’s door and tried to help him out.
“I’m not an invalid,” he said and used the door frame to steady himself as he got out. They went inside to the couch and Amari stuck a thermometer under his tongue. She set an egg timer and when it went off, she pulled out the thermometer and announced the reading, “You’re down to a hundred. How do you feel?”
“Still a little achy, but I’ll manage.”
“I’ll get you some ibuprofen.”
“Just ibuprofen. Nothing to make me drowsy. You should never have given me that cold medicine. If I’d known it would knock me out, I never would have taken it.”
“He wasn’t going to shoot me. He couldn’t make himself do it.”
“Still, it wasn’t a good idea.”
“Do they have him on suicide watch? If I hadn’t knocked the gun away, I think he would have pulled the trigger. I could see it in his eyes.”
“I don’t know. I hope so. If someone paid him to do this, we need him alive. That’s another reason I should be at work.”
“Why do you think he was paid to do this?” she asked. “Why can’t this just be over? We got the guy, didn’t we?”
“He’s too tall, Amari. The guy who shot the priest was shorter. The guy that started the synagogue fire was shorter, thinner, and faster.”
“Then the two cases aren’t related. Why do you think there’s a link?”
“I hope you’re right. Maybe Rahal is lying and he paid this guy. Maybe someone else put him up to it.”
“Why do you insist that he was being paid?”
“He didn’t have the heart to kill you. Otherwise, he would have done it. But he didn’t want to do this. He was pressured. Maybe somebody is blackmailing him, who knows?”
Kevin brought some ibuprofen and a glass of water.
Pete took the tablets, downed them with the water, and snatched his keys off the coffee table.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “The nurse said you had to stay in bed for two more days.”
Pete went to the hall closet, got his overcoat, and headed for the door.
“Dad, where do you think you’re going? Get back on that couch. Doctor’s orders.”
“Where do you think I’m going?” he said and closed the door behind him.
****
Pete moved carefully down the hall toward the holding cell, steadying himself against the wall. George saw him coming and rushed to his side. “Pete, what are you doing here? You should be in bed, man. You got the flu.”
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Now out of my way. I need to talk to that guy.”
“It’s no use. He’s not saying anything.”
“Nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing. He had no ID. We don’t know how he got to the house. We have no idea who he is. But what we do know is this. That gun he had pointed at Amari, it was registered to the minister at that little church.”
“Then the preacher must have had a gun stashed in the church and our killer stole it.”
“Seems that way,” George said. “If that’s true, then maybe this guy’s our serial killer.”
“Or it means our serial killer paid this guy and gave him the stolen gun to use. That way it couldn’t be traced back to the killer.”
“Or that.”
“All right, get him to the interrogation room. I’ll meet you in there.”
“But, Pete . . . ”
“Now!” he yelled, cringing at the pain in his head.
“I’ll meet you in there.”
Pete went to the interrogation room and waited with a wad of tissue in his hand. Finally, George brought the prisoner in, hands cuffed behind his back. Two other officers came in with George for extra muscle in case there was trouble. After they sat the prisoner down, the two officers stood sentry by the door. A surveillance camera pointed at the table from the top corner of the ceiling.
The beefy Arab sat with his shoulders hunched, dressed in
orange, jail issued coveralls. His vacant eyes were red and swollen. A purple scar was on his head, a visible dent underneath. Amari’s fire extinguisher.
Pete looked up to George. “I hope you have him on suicide watch.”
“We do.”
Pete studied the guy for a second. He could have been a NFL defensive tackle, but his eyes, bloodshot and sad, seemed to have no fight left in them. They held a distant stare at the table, refusing to make eye contact. His hulking body moved only slightly with the slow rise and fall of his breath.
“Listen, fella, I can see you’re sorry for what you did,” Pete finally said. “I know you didn’t want to hurt my little girl. Somebody put you up to this. Somebody didn’t give you a choice.”
He just sat there, face of stone despair.
“Okay, listen, pal. It’s not as bad as you’re thinking. Here’s all we got on you. Assault at the library and assault at the house. You didn’t even break in, so there no charge there, right? You weren’t trying to kill her because the last place you pointed the gun was to your own head. Judge might give you two years at the most, maybe three. Maybe they have you see a shrink while they’re at it. Hey, look at me,” Pete said and lowered his head to try to meet the man’s gaze. “I bet we can work a deal. Maybe we can do six months if you tell me who put you up to this. Who knows? If the prosecutor feels like it, maybe we can even let you walk on probation. It’s called working a deal. If we think we can land a bigger fish, we do it all the time.”
But the man refused to look up.
Pete slammed his fist on the table. “Talk to me!” Pain pulsed in his head.
“Hey, Pete, before you go offering him a deal,” George said, “I forgot to tell you something.”
“I’m listening.”
“That guy who was selling grenades from his trunk?”
“Yeah, I know who you’re talking about.”
“Well, that guy made a positive ID on our mute friend here. He says this guy bought three grenades. One regular, two of those fire grenades.”
“Incendiary,” Pete corrected.
“Yeah, that.”
“So you’re the guy . . . look at me when I’m talking to you!” Pete yelled, sending another pulse of pain to his head. He closed his eyes until it passed. Pete opened his eyes and saw the guy still staring at the table. “Are you the guy who firebombed my daughter’s car?”
Finally, the beefy Arab raised his head and met Pete’s stare. He spoke, but said only one word, his baritone voice tinged with sarcasm. “Jihad.”
“Oh, yeah,” George said. “He did say that. But that’s all he would say.”
Pete leaned back in his chair and stared back. “That confirms it then. Jihad was painted on the sidewalks. I doubt this guy is our killer, but he was definitely being paid by him.”
“Makes sense,” George said.
“Listen,” Pete said. “Tell us who you are. We can work something out.”
The man lowered his chin to his chest and let out a deep sigh.
Pete looked over to George. “Nothing on the prints, right?”
“Nothing local. Still checking. FBI’s on it too.”
“What about Interpol? Did you fax the prints to them?”
“FBI said they would.”
Pete’s chair barked when he scooted it backward. He stood and rotated his neck, trying to release some of the tension. Finally, he put his hands on the table and leaned in closer to the man. “Listen, I know you think this is hopeless. I know you think you have nothing to live for, but it’s not true. We can work something out. Please, for the love of God, talk to me. We can get you some help. But you have to help yourself first.”
The man met his gaze. “Jihad,” he said with a weary tone of resignation.
Chapter 39
Friday, January 6, 1989
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Bishop McClure said. “As I mentioned on the phone, in four days, Cardinal Ragazzi is leaving Italy for a conference in Buenos Aires. He’s scheduled to visit several other South American cities after that. I could suggest you meet him in South America, but he needs input from his scientific adviser, Professor Messina. Unfortunately, Dr. Messina can’t leave town because he’s a professor at the University of Turin. He has classroom obligations. So unless we want to wait another month, I suggested we meet before the cardinal leaves. Also, there is the matter of . . . .well, you know.”
“The guy who’s trying to kill me,” Amari said.
“To be blunt, yes. Apparently, your discovery has hit a nerve. I informed the cardinal about your situation. In light of this, he felt he should meet with you as soon as possible.”
“Before it’s too late,” she said.
The bishop paused to consider his words. “Once you’ve revealed your findings to the church, the cat will be out of the bag. Hopefully, whoever is stalking you won’t see the need to keep you quiet anymore.”
“That’s right,” Kevin said. “Why risk getting caught after that?”
“Precisely,” Bishop McClure said. “Now, of course, that was the logic I used with the cardinal. But now that you have this man in custody, this is a moot point.”
“It ain’t as moot as you think it is,” Kevin said. “They think this guy was a hired hitman. The real culprit’s still out there.”
“Oh, my,” Bishop McClure said. “Then you really do need to talk to the cardinal as soon as possible.”
“When do we leave?” she asked. “Soon, I hope.”
Bishop McClure removed two envelopes from a drawer and dropped them on the desk in front of her. “An anonymous donor has paid for everything, plane tickets and hotel. You said you had passports, right?
“I got mine for a trip to Canada,” Kevin said. “Amari’s been to Mexico.”
“That’s good,” the bishop said. “Because you leave in three days, this Monday. Better get packing.”
“We’ve already started packing,” Amari said, referring to their move to Washington.
“Good. Your plane tickets and instructions are in those envelopes. It’s not the greatest flight times, but it’s the best we could do on such short notice. It’s mostly at night, so at least you can sleep on the plane. A driver will meet you at Milan. He’ll be holding up a sign for you when you get there, so keep your eyes open. It’s about a two-hour drive to Turin. There’s a half million lire for spending money. It’s about two hundred and fifty dollars in American cash. Complements of the Diocese. Buy some souvenirs and do some sight seeing while you’re there. Now, most of the people in Italy speak at least some English, so language shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I bought me a book on Italian,” Kevin said. “Just in case we got the call. Do vay el bag no?” he asked in an exaggerated Southern accent.
“I think you mean, Dov'è il bagno,” the bishop said in an articulated, Italian accent as he pointed to his private restroom. “You can use mine if you like.”
“Kevin, I’m begging you,” Amari said. “Please don’t embarrass me over there.”
Bishop McClure chuckled.
“But you don’t talk Italian like I do,” Kevin said and flashed a big toothy grin.
“Then I’ll find someone who speaks English.” She stood and tugged on his shirt. “Come on. You’re embarrassing me here too.”
Before they left, she turned to the bishop. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“If this goes as I hope it will, the Church won’t know how to thank you. God be with you. Every Catholic church in Arizona will be praying for you. Some of the Protestant churches as well. They’re all behind you. May God bless your journey.”
With their fingers laced together, they strolled toward Kevin’s car in the long parking lot behind the cathedral. “I’m so excited,” she said. “I’ve never even been on a plane. In three days, I’ll be flying to Italy!”
They stopped when they reached the car. Wheels barked from behind. She dropped his hand and spun around. Lincoln Town car, coming in fast.
Chapter 40
Kevin grabbed Amari’s arm and yanked her out of the way.
The Town Car barreled past, just missing them.
Without thought, training kicked in. Amari snatched her gun from her purse. She took the Isosceles Stance, feet shoulder width, knees flexed, both hands on weapon, out in front. She followed the car through the gun sight. In front of the car, a white brick wall. The shot was safe. Car, front sight and rear sight aligned. Pop! Pop!
The Town car broke left, then right again into traffic, angry tires screaming.
Another car sped after the Town Car. A black Mercedes. Two men in the front.
She caught her breath. “I think I hit his car. Did you see the Mercedes?”
“I did. I saw it at my apartment again. Once at work. I think they’re tailing me too. You think maybe they’re on our side?”
She slid the gun back into her purse. “If they were on our side they would have stopped to see if we were okay. The reason they sped out of here is because they saw my gun—just like they did when you had your gun out on the way to Los Alamos. I say they’re up to no good. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be afraid of getting shot.”
“I don’t know what to think,” he said. “But we better go back inside and use the phone. Call your dad and tell him what happened.”
Amari’s dad showed up a few minutes after her call and his men immediately started working the crime scene.
“Amari, why didn’t you tell me you were coming down here?” Dad asked. “You’re supposed to have a police escort. I know we’re short because of the flu, but I could have gotten a car.”
“Kevin’s with me,” she said. “We both have guns.”
“The escort is a deterrent. He wouldn’t have tried this if a squad car was here.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I was just so excited when the bishop called. I let my guard down.”
“All right, that settles it. As soon as you two get back from Turin, I want you both out of here,” Dad said emphatically. “You can let your guard down then. I’ll go to the U-haul place and rent a truck. I’ll drive the truck and fly back when you unpack. I’ll put both your apartments in my name. That way they won’t be able to track you. You keep your Arizona tags and stay away from the DMV. I don’t want any public record that says you’re in Washington. Until then, I want the two of you spending the night in a hotel, both rooms in my name. We’ll get a downtown high rise with interior corridors. I’ll try to get an officer to stand guard, but if I can’t, I’ll do it myself.”
Carbon-14: The Shroud of Turin (An Amari Johnston Novel) Page 23
