The Guardian

by Marliss Melton

  But Toby’s phone call last night alerting her to Rupert Davis’s arrest had led to a phone conversation with the Metropolitan Police. After hours of wrangling with them and enlisting her friend at the DA to help convince them she was on the side of the prosecution, they’d shared the evidence that had prompted Davis’s arrest.

  Curtis Vandaloo, the troubled teen who’d seen Davis drive off with Alexa in his squad car, had emerged from hiding to reiterate his allegations. But even more astonishing still, he’d been living all that time within the Amish community of Mechanicsville. His relatives had fled there from Pennsylvania out of fear that Davis might track them down.

  Lena had known the name Vandaloo was Dutch, but at nineteen years of age she hadn’t considered it might be Pennsylvania Dutch, otherwise known as Amish. Little wonder the PI’s she’d hired hadn’t been able to find them, especially when the Vandaloos had moved from one Amish community to another and Seth had changed his first name.

  Even with her honed investigative skills, Lena would never have guessed that Curtis was now Seth, a man she had come into contact with daily. The odds were impossible; the telltale signs only evident in hindsight. Having recognized Davis the other night, Seth/Curtis had found the moral strength to do what was right and to declare his allegations to the local police, who’d immediately contacted the authorities in D.C.

  Lena nosed her Jaguar into her old parking spot and stepped out into the oppressive heat. Across the street, Gateway stood quiet, its occupants cloistered inside to escape the humidity. Ignoring the fact that she could still feel Jackson’s presence, even with the space—real and emotional—between them, Lena shouldered her purse and walked bravely into the convenience store.

  At her entrance, Bill looked up from the hotdogs he was setting on the grill. He sent her an incredulous look. “I’m surprised to see you here,” he admitted stiffly.

  His words sparked shame. “I’m so sorry, Bill. I never meant to leave without giving any notice.” She looked up at him, then, revealing the bruises on her neck that had gone from blue to violet and yellow.

  His jaw dropped and his eyes bulged. “Is that the reason—?” He was too appalled to even finish his sentence.

  “I was attacked by a man,” she affirmed. “Behind the store,” she added, bending the truth to suit her purposes. “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t have any proof. Maybe if the camera hadn’t been broken. . .” Plagued by her conscience, she left it at that.

  He launched into a stream of apologies.

  “Please.” She lifted a hand to forestall him. “That’s not why I’m here. I need to find Seth, the Amish man,” she told him. “It’s personal,” she added, loath to explain.

  Bill’s brow furrowed with confusion. But he didn’t question her reasons for wanting to find Seth. Jotting directions on the back of a receipt, he urged her to report the incident and not take matters into her own hands.

  “It wasn’t Seth,” she assured him, prompting a look of relief. With a word of gratitude and well-wishes for the future, she headed out the store to her car. As she pulled from the parking lot onto the country road headed away from Gateway, she cast a wistful glance in her rearview mirror.

  Be safe, Jackson, she silently willed.

  And then she turned her thoughts to Curtis Vandaloo, wondering how he would respond when she told him who she was. Her intent was two-fold: to thank him in person for finally coming forward, and to make sure he didn’t fail in his obligation to Alexa a second time.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What’s wrong witchu?” Muhammed hissed as Jackson’s elbow jabbed him in the arm.

  “Sorry.” The men were all seated in a half circle in Ibrahim’s office, and he’d been heedlessly stretching in his seat unable to subdue his restlessness. Listening to the delusional imam rant on and on about Judgment Day, while saying nothing of any actual significance was like hearing fingernails being dragged over a chalkboard. Jackson would rather be waterboarded than be tortured this way.

  “Most of this bloodshed will take place in the South, far North and far West,” Ibrahim read, citing a passage from the Supreme Lessons. “The West will be the fountain of dripping blood and insanity, murder, rape, and a hundred percent total violence.”

  Jackson wanted to raise his hand and ask, When you say South, North, and West, do you mean across the country or just in the nation’s capital? But Mr. Rakeem had warned him that a soldier should not ask questions, so he kept his mouth shut.

  Besides, in a matter of hours, now, he would be free of Gateway, and Ibrahim and his sidekick, Zakariya, would be sharing their visions in a jail cell.

  “Only the Muslim who has taken it upon himself to learn, listen and be completely righteous will survive the Day of Judgment,” Ibrahim continued. “Just because you aspire to join the Five Percent, it does not make you righteous. There is only one man in this room who is truly enlightened—your teacher and redeemer.” He laid his hand on his chest.

  “Yes, Imam,” some of the men affirmed, but not Corey, Jackson noted. Corey kept his mouth shut, his face expressionless.

  At that exact moment, Jackson was delighted to hear a disturbance in the hallway. Frantic knocking sounded at the door.

  “Come in!” Ibrahim called, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

  Nadim peered anxiously into the office. “Sorry to disturb you, Imam, but Zakariya sent me to get you. There’s police at the door.”

  “What next?” Throwing his hands into the air, Ibrahim stalked out of the office. The parolees looked at one another then vaulted out of their chairs to chase him down the hall. Jackson was right behind them.

  “Stay here,” Ibrahim ordered them as he slipped through the glass doors at the front of the building to join his colleague on the marble steps. Conscious of the cameras outside, Jackson looked on over the heads of his peers.

  Imam Zakariya was already in earnest conversation with a portly, pompous-looking individual, whom Jackson recognized as Attorney General Wilkes of the U.S. Justice Department, the supreme enforcer of federal law. The SWAT team lined up behind him, bristling with weapons, represented the AG’s muscle, but they were only here as window dressing.

  With every major television station in the country tuned into his announcement, Wilkes milked the public relations moment for everything it was worth. He no doubt figured that because the imams were religious leaders, they would submit without a struggle, especially with the SWAT team present.

  The Taskforce would’ve grabbed and cuffed the offenders the second they stepped out of the building.

  Not my problem anymore, Jackson reminded himself. He had completed his part of the investigation. Now it was time to get the hell out of dodge without the media catching sight of him.

  Backing surreptitiously toward the stairs to the basement, he could hear the AG, with his voice raised in benefit for the press, shouting the half-dozen charges being brought against both leaders. You are hereby charged with conspiracy to commit domestic violence by stockpiling bombs with the intent to commit mass slaughter. Christ, this could take all afternoon. At least Jackson had plenty of time to make his getaway.

  He was just pulling open the fire door when the AG’s litany cut off in mid-sentence. A commotion at the front of building had Jackson peering up the corridor in consternation. When Ibrahim flew into the mosque and slammed the door shut behind him, Jackson let the fire door drop shut again. Uh-oh.

  “Quickly,” Ibrahim hissed at the stunned parolees, “into the prayer hall!”

  Arming the alarm, the imam ushered them toward the heavy wooden doors that divided the worship space from the entryway. “Out of sight before the Devil attacks!” he urged. That was when he caught sight of Jackson, standing alone and indecisive at the other end of the building. “What are you waiting for, Abdul?” he called. “Follow me. We must arm ourselves.”

  Arm? The suspicion that Ibrahim had stashed weapons in the mosque made desertion suddenly impossible. The Taskfo
rce would want to know just how many and what kind of weapons Ibrahim had at his disposal. The fact that the mosque was built like a fortress with all the windows welded shut made the possibility of a stand-off likely.

  Well, fuck.

  With a shudder of reluctance, Jackson joined the others in the prayer hall. What else could he do? Tackling the imam to the floor in the presence of ten parolees, five of whom had been planning this Friday to swear eternal allegiance to their leader, didn’t strike him as the brightest idea. Plus, if this situation escalated into a siege, having an agent on the inside could make all the difference to the good guys, which was why Ike had asked him to stay put, in case something went wrong. Well, it had.

  Once they were all in the inner sanctum, Ibrahim shut and barred the oak doors with a thick, carved plank, as functional as it was ornamental. Then he swooped across the floor and mounted the minbar, taking two steps at a time. With the men looking anxiously on, he got down on his knees and proceeded to pry loose several floorboards. Reaching into the hole he’d made, he pulled out a flat metal lockbox and keyed it open.

  The box proved to contain seven semi-automatic pistols. As Ibrahim loaded, one by one with fresh cartridges, Jackson swept an eye over the silent parolees. Reading dread in the faces of some men, excitement and agitation in others, his concern mounted. He suffered a sinking certainty that he wouldn’t get to see Naomi at all tonight, or any time soon, for that matter.

  **

  It was dusk by the time Lena left Curtis’s single-story, clapboard farmhouse. Escorting her through a garden abundant with lettuce and green pumpkins, he stood by her car in that awkward, unsophisticated way of his that reminded her of the gawky teen she had met for the first and last time at the pretrial hearing. Thunder rumbled in the distance, promising an imminent rain storm and relief from the heat.

  “Thank you,” she told him, rolling up on her toes to plant a kiss on his prickly cheek. “I had a wonderful visit. Let’s get together again for lunch or dinner during the trial, okay?”

  With a self-conscious smile, Curtis nodded his agreement.

  “I’ll see you in court,” she assured him. “Are you going to need a ride to D.C?”

  “I’ve got one.”

  Lena glanced over at the horse, grazing in the fenced area beside his simplistic home. “Not that one, I hope,” she teased.

  He gave a rusty chuckle and shook his head. “No, not that one.”

  “My sister would have liked the man that you’ve become, Curtis,” she felt compelled to tell him.

  He scuffed his toe into the dark earth.

  “Good night.” Easing into her sweltering vehicle, Lena lowered all four windows and blasted the A/C. Waving through the open window, she headed down the long dirt track to the main road. The cooler air wafting into the car smelled of fertile soil and ripe soybeans.

  Vignettes of the afternoon crossed the stage of her mind. Curtis, astonished by her visit, had been blown away when she’d identified herself as Alexa’s older sister. He would never have recognized her for the plump college coed she was then. After much reassuring on Lena’s part that she’d never blamed him for skipping out on Davis’s trial, Curtis had invited her to stay for supper. And over a meal of meatloaf and applesauce, he’d admitted, haltingly, that he’d been in awe of Alexa and the way she’d had it all together.

  She was kind and beautiful, just like an angel.

  Rolling back the cuff of his sleeve, he’d showed her his tattoo, which proved to be Alexa’s name in black calligraphy. The first letter had angel’s wings coming out of it.

  Officer Davis said he’d take her home, Curtis had recollected about the night Alexa had been murdered. But I knew he wouldn’t. I knew he was evil because he’d gotten me hooked on drugs then used me to sell them.

  You’re doing the right thing now, Lena had reassured him.

  Turning onto the paved road that wound back to Artie’s and Highway 235, Lena raised her windows against the flecks of rain that dropped suddenly from the sky. Drawing a deep breath, she held it a moment before exhaling in a long sigh. Amazingly, after all their reminiscing of Alexa’s death, her heart felt lighter than a balloon. It seemed to sail right up out of her chest, through the roof of her car, to the boughs of the trees now waving in the gusting wind.

  Paired with the recording of Davis’s partial confession, which Lena was certain she could get back from Jackson, Curtis’s testimony might very well bring closure to a wound that had been open and bleeding for a decade. Then Alexa’s spirit would finally be at peace.

  The rain began to fall in earnest as Lena reached the intersection with the highway. Through her water-streaked windshield, she noticed the lights at Artie’s were all extinguished. Maybe the store had lost electricity due to the storm.

  Across the street, Gateway, too, stood in darkness, except for the parking lot which overflowed with official-looking vehicles. Several police cruisers were there, as well, their blue lights flashing. With rising alarm, Lena recognized several media vans representing prominent television stations. Journalists stood under umbrellas, telecasting live.

  It occurred to Lena that Jackson’s investigation had come to a head already. Peter wasn’t responsible for this media frenzy, was he?

  Making up her mind to find out, she waited impatiently for the light to change. Just then, her gaze fell on a familiar Crown Victoria parked right on the highway in front of the dormitory. As the light turned green, and she pulled up behind it, relieved to spot Toby sitting at the wheel.

  When she rapped on the passenger door, he unlocked it. She slid onto the seat beside him, shaking off the rain that dampened her clothes and hair. “What’s going on?”

  Even in the sedan’s dark interior, there was no mistaking Toby’s consternation at seeing her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He’d obviously been expecting someone else. “Never mind that.” She gestured over her shoulder. “What’s happening?” she repeated. “Where’s Jackson?”

  When he just rubbed his nose and stared at the steering wheel, her alarm mounted.

  “The imams’ arrest didn’t go the way it was supposed to,” he finally admitted. “The leader went and locked himself inside the mosque with the parolees. Jackson talked some of them into slipping out a couple of hours ago, along with the staff, but he refuses to leave himself. He figures we need a mole to keep us informed of Ibrahim’s next move.”

  Lena swallowed hard. “I take it this Ibrahim is a terrorist?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Toby didn’t have to ponder his answer this time.

  “So, it’s a standoff,” Lena inferred, concerned for Jackson’s safety. “How long do you think the imam and parolees can stay in there?”

  “Without electricity, which we cut off right away—” he shrugged “—I’d say a couple of days, maybe a week.”

  A week!

  “First they’ll get hot without the A/C, then their food’ll spoil because they have no packaged stores to rely on since they only eat fresh foods, and they’ll get hungry,” he predicted darkly.

  “I guess you can’t just blow the doors off a mosque,” she considered out loud.

  “Bad PR,” he agreed with a sardonic wink.

  Sensing Jackson’s nearness more than ever, Lena peered anxiously out the window. The only thing she could see of the mosque was the rain-washed minaret reflecting a muted version of the blue strobes below.

  But then a jag of lightning lit the upper half of the building in dramatic fashion, accompanied by a deafening clap of thunder that made her jump.

  She looked back at Toby. “Why are you parked way over here?”

  “The plan was for me to get Jackson the hell out of here as soon as the imams were arrested. Doesn’t look like he’s going to leave any time soon, now.”

  It was then she noticed the words on Toby’s T-shirt: I’M WITH STUPID, and an arrow pointing at her. He’d probably worn it for Jackson to celebrate the completion of this job. Given the gravity
of the current situation, the shirt’s message fell short of seeming humorous.

  “So, he is communicating with you,” she deduced with some relief.

  Toby lit up the phone gripped in his left hand to display a bit of text. The greenish light cast by his viewing pane, made his expression look unusually harsh.

  “What are you not telling me?” she demanded, sensing there was more.

  He doused the light, took a deep breath, and scratched a spot on his chin. “The imam has weapons,” he said softly. “Seven semi-automatic pistols.”

  The contents of Lena’s stomach pitched. “Oh, my God, this reminds me of the Waco disaster,” she breathed, gripping her good-luck bracelets.

  Toby whipped his head around to face her. “Don’t even say that.”

  “Sorry. No, it can’t end like that.” The showdown between the ATF, the FBI, and a religious cult in Waco, Texas, had led to a fifty-day siege and ended in an inferno that left seventy-six people dead, including women and children.

  “Look,” Toby said, on a more assured note, “Jackson already talked those first parolees into escaping while on a bathroom break. He’s working on the others. He thinks he can get them to defy the imam’s orders.”

  And that was supposed to be comforting? He was going to bring the leader’s wrath down on him if he kept that up.

  Toby sighed. “You shouldn’t be here. It isn’t safe.”

  “Well, I’m not leaving,” Lena informed him.

  He gave a humorless laugh. “Why is that not surprising?”

  “It’s settled then,” she told him firmly. “I’m staying right here with you until Jackson’s free again.”

  **

  Ibrahim was delivering a powerful sermon. The solid red light on the iPhone he had squirreled away for emergencies bathed him in bloody light. Sweat trickled from beneath his taqiyah, but he refused to take it off.

  Below him, kneeling on the floor of the dark prayer hall, nine remaining sets of eyes shone up at him, inspiring eloquence on his part. Two cowardly parolees had deserted them earlier, slipping from the prayer hall under the guise of using the restroom in the hall. In the next instant, the alarm had signaled their desertion. From that point on, Ibrahim insisted all the men use his private toilet, just behind the minbar. The next man to try to desert him would be shot.