“Good afternoon, Bill,” she said, pushing through the little gate that admitted her behind the counter.
“Afternoon, Maggie. I’m sure you’ve met Seth by now,” Bill responded, introducing her to the man purchasing a scratch-off ticket. “Seth, this is Maggie.”
“How are you?” she asked, as she stowed her purse.
Seth drummed his fingers on the countertop, sent her a shy nod, and kept quiet. Lena’s gaze went to the black ink tattoo peeking out from under the rolled sleeve of his homespun shirt. She could just make out the letter “a.” An Amish man with a tattoo—really?
“Anything else today?” Bill asked.
With a mumbled negative, Seth thrust the money at him, swiveled on his brown leather boots, and stalked out of the store, sending a frown at the watchful deputy.
Her curiosity piqued, Lena watched the Amish man climb into his buggy. “How long have you known Seth?” she asked Bill.
“Oh, ‘bout ten years.”
“Has he always been so moody?”
“Long as I’ve known him. He never did assimilate with the local Amish.”
“Assimilate? You mean he’s not from here?”
“No, he came down from Pennsylvania with his aunt and uncle, who died soon after. I reckon since he flouts the rules by playin’ the lottery and such, he continues to be seen as an outsider.”
“Huh.” Lena’s attention slid to the police cruiser. The man had stuck his brown-sleeved elbow out the window, in no apparent hurry to go anywhere. “And what’s with the Sheriff’s car?” she asked.
“Oh, that’s Deputy Doug Hazelwood. Don’t know, really. Something about the parolees coming over here so often.”
Heat stole into Lena’s face. She looked quickly away.
“I expect it’s just a precaution,” Bill said. “I should get that camera outside the back door fixed. You haven’t had any trouble with those Gateway men, have you?”
Had he viewed the surveillance footage lately? “No, not at all,” she answered, glancing gratefully toward her buzzing purse.
Bill nodded to the clock. “You’ve still got three minutes,” he assured her.
Lena dove for her cell phone. It had to be Peter calling. Had he managed to identify Abdul? After last night’s kiss, she was dying to know more about him. “Hey,” she said, her hopes riding high.
“Hello, beautiful.”
Ignoring the endearment, she concentrated on his tone of voice which told her he had news to share. “What have you got?”
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“What?” She stabbed a finger in her other ear so she could hear him better.
“Abdul Ibn Wasi lives in Baltimore with his wife and baby.”
The announcement hit her like a punch in the gut. My God, he was married. “Does he?” she said stiffly.
“You don’t understand, babe. He works full time as a janitor in a building owned by Homeland Security.”
“What? I still don’t get it.”
“Listen up. The man you say is Abdul Ibn Wasi isn’t. I’ll send you this guy’s mug shot when we hang up so you can see for yourself. He works in Baltimore and hasn’t missed a day of work in the last week and a half. I found that out by calling his employer and pretending to be his parole officer.”
“Okay,” Lena murmured, conscious of Bill’s curious glance. “So who’s the guy I want to identify?” she whispered, moving toward the store room to ensure her conversation was private.
“That took me a little longer to find out. Everything pointed to the federal authorities being involved, so I called on a favor from a senator to get some information.”
Senator? Federal authorities?
“The man calling himself Abdul Ibn Wasi is an FBI special agent, babe. His name is Jackson Maddox.”
Astonishment rooted Lena to the spot. She gave a squeak of disbelief.
“He’s working undercover,” Peter added confidently. “The question is, what for? Not even the senator knows, but Gateway is an Islamic organization, so I’m thinking the Feds are alleging some kind of terrorism is being played out there, which is total bullshit.”
Lena scarcely heard him. All she could think about was how blind she’d been not to guess the truth earlier. The signs were everywhere from Abdul’s insistence that she delete his pictures, to his missing criminal history, to the cultured way he spoke when the others weren’t around. Not Abdul, she corrected herself, Jackson Maddox. She repeated the name in her head, thinking it suited him.
“I’ll be down there Friday night.”
Peter’s announcement plucked her from her deep thoughts. “What? Why?”
“I just told you. I’m tired of the Feds violating the Fourth Amendment. Someone’s got to blow the whistle on them.”
“Peter, no.” Her protest was immediate. “You can’t do that.”
“Of course I can.”
“What would the senator think? You can’t violate his trust.”
“Oh, that’s cute. Why do you think he told me, Lena?” Peter’s voice dripped sarcasm. “He’s not exactly a fan of the current administration.”
“But you’ll jeopardize the agent’s safety if you expose his cover, not to mention other people’s safety if he’s investigating a crime.”
“Relax. All I’m going to do is photograph him next to the mosque.”
She’d taken a dozen pictures of the undercover agent in front of the mosque, but those had all been stolen along with her camera and laptop. “Why don’t I do that for you,” she offered, “since I’m already in the area?”
“I thought you said your camera was stolen.”
He’d seen straight through her offer. “Oh, yeah.”
“I’ll see you Friday night,” he reiterated.
She tried thinking of a way to stop him. Jackson would leave again on Saturday. All she had to do was delay Peter’s arrival. “Better come down Saturday,” she advised, thinking fast. “My cottage is tiny; I don’t even have a couch for you to sleep on, plus you’ll want to avoid the Friday traffic. It’s hell in the summer.” She held her breath, hoping he fell for it.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. So I’ll see you Saturday morning, then,” he amended.
“Okay.” Having protected the man who had her rethinking her future with a single kiss, she heaved a sigh of relief. Not all law enforcement personnel were wholesome. Lena knew that better than anybody. But the Adonis who’d captivated her imagination wasn’t corrupt. She intuited that much the same way she was able to read his thoughts. Jackson Maddox was a good guy, not an ex-con with a shady past. She wished she’d known that when he’d kissed her. “Oh, send me that photo of the real Abdul,” she requested before Peter could hang up.
“I’ll do it right now. And if I learn anything else, I’ll let you know. See you Saturday, babe.”
The phone clicked loudly in her ear, followed by a chime as the image from Peter showed up in her messages. The dark-skinned, sullen looking stranger looked nothing like her Abdul—Jackson Maddox, she amended. And he wasn’t hers, either; though that could change if they were both agreeable, couldn’t it?
Just trust me, Magdalena. Can you do that? Trust me to help you.
A flame of hope flared within her as she’d considered that, with his FBI resources, maybe Jackson Maddox really could help her incriminate Davis. But then the flame flickered and went out. It had been ten years since Davis had murdered Alexa. Hell, if the PIs Lena had hired over the years had failed to find incriminating evidence in all that time, what made her think Jackson Maddox would have any more success?
Subdued by the reality of the facts, Lena returned to the register to relieve her employer and start her shift. Maybe if Special Agent Jackson Maddox rocked her world with another world class kiss, she’d be able to think more clearly.
**
“Man, what’s that cop doin’ over there?” Jamal groused. Tonight was his turn to be interviewed by Maggie.
Jackson peered
through the chain link fence surrounding the basketball court. His gaze went automatically to Schlesser’s Jeep, which he’d spotted the moment he’d stepped from the mosque earlier. So much for thinking Lena would abandon her plans and trust him to help her later. She’d apparently decided to stick it out, with or without his promise of help.
He’d had a feeling she would take that route. She was an independent woman on an important mission. As frustrating as it was, he could understand her reasons for not taking a blind leap of faith and trusting him.
The police presence at Artie’s had been Jackson’s idea. As he’d explained to Ike, who’d pulled the strings to make it happen, a cop in the parking lot would dissuade the parolees, especially Davis, from interfacing with Maggie. Then maybe she’d give up and go home. Plus Lena would be safer, over all. Hearing Jamal balk, Jackson inwardly celebrated.
“Man, whatchu got to be afraid of?” Muhammed gave Jamal a friendly shove. “You done served your time.”
“You know cops can hear through walls, right?” Jackson spoke up, playing the devil’s advocate.
Startled, Jamal looked back at the cop.
“Man, he ain’t gonna spy on you,” Muhammed insisted. “He listenin’ to his radio. Can’t you hear it?”
Jamal’s eagerness to visit Lena apparently defeated his reservations. “You right,” he said, hitching his basketball shorts and swaggering off the basketball court.
Damn. Jackson glanced at Davis, wondering what he thought about the cop. The man’s scowl gave him hope that he’d stay away from Artie’s from now on.
“With Jamal gone, you on our side now, Abdul,” Corey informed him.
Jackson nodded and switched teams. He’d opted to play ball tonight after jogging just a short distance to leave the pendant for Toby to pick up from a pre-appointed location. Then he’d hurried back in time to join a game, and to monitor the officer’s vigilance.
Beyond Artie’s flat rooftop, the sky turned magenta. With a loud buzz, the halogen lights over the blacktop blinked on as the game continued under a darkening sky. An hour passed, and Jamal still wasn’t back yet.
Jackson wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow and willed the lazy ass, screw-up of a deputy to get out of his cruiser and walk inside the store.
What idiot would miss Jamal’s entrance coupled with Lena’s disappearance for over an hour? But the cop couldn’t seem to tear himself away from the talk radio show Jackson caught snippets of now and then. Only one customer had visited Artie’s in all the time that she was alone with Jamal, and the man was still lounging in his cruiser listening to his radio.
Jackson reminded himself that she had pulled a gun on him. She could handle a mere convicted bank robber.
“Wake up, Abdul!” Shahid’s admonishment snapped Jackson out of his reverie as the ball whizzed past him and bounced off the metal fence. “We gonna lose this game if you don’t start lookin’.”
“Sorry.” At least they still had possession.
“Yeah, you is sorry,” Shahid agreed with frustration, stalking to the sidelines with the ball. He bounce-passed it to Corey, who quickly passed it off to Jackson.
Seeing an opportunity to redeem himself, Jackson made a fast break down the court, where Davis defended the basket. Leaping higher than Davis could jump, he slammed the ball into the hoop. He was still in midair when Davis body-checked him, fouling him intentionally.
Jackson flailed like a cat trying to right himself. Unlike a cat, he landed on his back, not his feet, the wind driven clean out of his chest. Oh, fuck, that hurt.
Davis’s face blotted out the bright lights. “Best watch yourself,” he taunted before moving away.
Corey and Nadim bent over him.
“You okay, brotha?” Corey examined him with worry.
Nadim was grinning like a kid. “Man, that was dope, Abdul! I didn’t know you could dunk.”
Jackson’s lungs re-inflated in painful little gasps.
At last, he was able to lift his hands and let the two men pull him to his feet. That was when he saw Jamal loping back towards Gateway. The grin on his face filled Jackson with envy. At least, his appointment was scheduled for tomorrow. As he’d warned her, he fully intended to keep it, even without Ike’s permission.
“Switch sides again, Abdul,” Muhammed called, as Jamal rejoined them on the blacktop.
“Yeah, we don’t want no white Devil on our side.”
At Davis’s unsolicited comment, all the men turned and gaped at him.
“Half of my family’s darker than you, Sulayman,” Jackson countered with a hard look.
Davis stalked toward him with his fists balled.
“You got a problem with me, brother?” Jackson demanded, itching for the chance to thrash him soundly.
“I ain’t your brotha,” Davis spat. “You don’t look like me and you don’t talk like me.”
Silence descended over the basketball court as the men formed a circle around the adversaries.
“Ain’t you learned nothin’ at this place?” Jackson spread on the dialect more thickly. “We all sons of Allah.”
Davis jabbed a finger at his own chest. “I am Allah,” he boasted.
Jackson shook his head. Ibrahim’s lessons yesterday and today were already taking root in Davis’s shallow mind. “You ain’t nothin’ but a fool.”
With a growl in his throat, Davis pulled back a fist and swung. Jackson easily avoided the blow. The man was powerful but too slow to pose a threat to him. “Come on,” he said, gesturing for Davis to attack him again.
Like an enraged bull, Davis lowered his head and charged. Jackson stepped aside at the last possible moment, gave him a push and sent him sprawling face-first onto the blacktop.
The men broke into uneasy laughter.
Just then, a flash of white beyond the cage caught Jackson’s eye. He realized Imam Zakariya was making his way toward them. Ah, hell. Now he would pay for letting his emotions get the upper hand. “Hey, hey, quiet,” Jackson hushed the others, nodding toward the gate.
As Zakariya stepped into the cage, Davis clambered to his feet, shooting daggers at Jackson. Under the bright lights, the cleric’s robes shone as radiantly as an angel’s.
“Peace be with you, my sons,” he called, splitting a look of concern between Jackson and Davis.
“And with you, Imam,” the men murmured uncertainly.
“There is no place for dissention here at Gateway,” the clergyman stated on a gentle note.
“Yes, Imam,” Jackson muttered.
“Look your brother in the eye,” Zakariya urged. “And shake hands with him.”
In Davis’s dark eyes, Jackson read nothing but loathing. He extended his hand, all the same, earning a vice-like grip. The thought of that same hand snuffing out the life out of a child had him snatching his hand back.
“Reconcile,” Zakariya insisted, giving Jackson an admonishing look for cutting short their handshake. “Now, I am sorry to disturb your free time, men,” he continued, explaining his reason for interrupting, “but there’s a truck due to arrive with important cargo, and I will need your help unloading it.”
The men knew better than to complain. As they followed the imam toward the shed, Jackson gave Davis a wide berth.
The roar of a semi truck preceded the appearance of headlights. Brakes squealing, it slowed at Gateway and backed right up to the new shed.
The men stood nearby, breathing diesel fumes as Zakariya swung open the shed doors and snapped on a light. “Make a line,” he instructed them. “You will pass canisters from person to person. Whoever is last in line will place them along the rear wall, understand?”
Curious to know the contents of the truck, Jackson took up the first position. The cargo door rumbled upward, revealing several dozen canisters of what looked like propane. The driver lowered one down to him. He passed the bulky canister along to Jamal, who passed it to Nadim, and so forth, then he reached up for another one.
“Man, wha’s in these thin
gs?” Jamal huffed, weary after just three passes.
“Propane,” Zakariya cheerfully confirmed. “You are going to warm the homes of your brothers in the city.”
Jackson glanced at the warning labels as he passed the tanks along. Danger. Flammable Substance. Suspicion kindled his thoughts, leaping into blazing tongues of doubt. Older homes in the city might be heated with propane, yes. But if the Day of Judgment was near, then, Christ, this stuff was just as apt to be used for malicious purposes.
“You will deliver the gift of heat yourself,” Zakariya enthused, “along with donations of food and blankets.”
The imam’s sincerity about their good-Samaritan efforts left Jackson wondering if he had aligned himself with Ibrahim’s radical ideas or was completely oblivious to them. Was the propane’s intended use really benign, or was it going to be used as an accelerant?
“In helping others, you will be a blessing to Allah and to all in your community. Thank you, my sons,” Zakariya called as the truck revved and pulled away. With a reminder that their recreation time was a privilege and not a right, he took his leave.
“We got time for one more game,” Jamal said, glancing at the sky to gauge the time.
Seeing Davis’s vengeful glare, Jackson dismissed himself. He needed to text Ike about the propane right away. Given the donations to insurgents overseas and Ibrahim’s radical preachings, the delivery of forty propane tanks took on a menacing connotation.
He longed to slip across the street to visit Lena tonight, but the police presence combined with Lena’s refusal to leave as he’d requested convinced him to keep his distance for now. He’d done all he could do to keep her safe.
Chapter Eleven
By the next afternoon, Jackson felt his tension mounting like a rubber band pulled taut, and for good reason.
“Before I dismiss you for supper,” Imam Ibrahim was saying as he paced before the same seven parolees he had pulled into his office three days in a row, “let me see how well you have listened to the first Supreme Lesson. Muhammed,” he called, wresting that young man’s attention from the window.
The Guardian Page 11
