About that time, the driver rolled down her window, and Alex aimed the flashlight at her. She was a freckled redhead with blue eyes and an innocent smile. Seventeen, eighteen tops. She squinted against the glare of the light. “Was I speeding?”
Alex’s breathing was jagged, his body ready for a fight that was never going to materialize. He straightened and removed his hand from his gun, willing his heartbeat to slow down. He lowered the flashlight a little and thought as quickly as he could. “Your speed was okay.” He was scrambling, trying to save face. “But you were weaving between lanes.” He crossed his arms, hoping she couldn’t tell how awkward he felt. “This one’s just a warning.”
“Really?” She looked genuinely surprised. “That’s so nice of you. I have to pay for my own insurance if I get a ticket.” She peered out the windshield. “My parents warned me about the Santa Ana winds, how it’s hard to keep control of the car when it’s this windy. But I didn’t realize I was weaving — “
“Drive safely.” Alex was already backing away. He didn’t have time to visit.
“I will.” She gave him a weak smile, waved once, and then safely left the convenience store parking lot and reentered traffic.
Bo was waiting for him back at the car, his expression slightly bewildered, as if even he was confused by Alex’s traffic stop. “I know.” Alex slid behind the wheel and slammed the door of the squad car. “That was crazy.” He thudded his fist against the steering wheel. He was becoming obsessed. There were more criminals on the streets than just the members of the REA. So what was he going to do? Pull over every pale green Honda Hybrid? The girl hadn’t been weaving even a little. He could’ve gotten more information on the plates and figured out the car was licensed to a teenage girl, right? Or made a note of the vehicle and the owner’s address. But pulling someone over for no reason other than the color and make of the car? More than a week after the fires had been set? If he wasn’t careful, he’d become a liability to the department.
He pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to the freeway. He would be more careful next time, but still there was just one place he wanted to go, one place where he wanted to park and read the piece of paper in his pocket. He reached back and patted Bo’s head. “Get some sleep, Bo … Lie down, boy.”
Bo did as he was told. Alex only had a few more hours before they’d be done for the night, and unless he was called for backup, Bo was probably done for the shift. Alex reached the road to the Oak Canyon Estates in ten minutes and noticed a new guard station partway up the drive. Good. The developers finally took the threat of arson seriously. He drove up and introduced himself to the guard.
“Just wanted to spend a little time looking for anything suspicious,” he told the man.
“Thank you.” The guy was older, retired maybe. He looked alert and concerned. “The extra patrol up here can only help.”
Alex agreed. He flipped a U-turn around the guard shack, drove back down to the base of the road, and parked his squad car facing the main street. That way he could get a good look at any vehicle that might come up this way at such a late hour.
The wind had let up a little, but it still howled through the canyon. Alex killed his engine and took the piece of paper from his back pocket. Before he opened it, he stared at the dark, empty road ahead of him, and the flickering lights from the neighborhood at the base of the hill. He shouldn’t be here on the West Coast, working as an officer in LA. If life had gone as planned, by now he would’ve been moving his way up in the FDNY, maybe even working at the same station as his father.
His wonderful, brave dad.
Alex swallowed back the sorrow that suddenly surrounded him. Memories rushed at him, and he was six years old again, sitting in the front row of Mrs. England’s kindergarten class, and there was his dad, standing at the front of the class next to the American flag, decked out in his firefighter uniform, talking to the kids about fire safety. And Alex was the proudest kid at Franklin Elementary School.
All he ever wanted in life was to be as good and right and true as his dad, so that people might say, “Alex Brady is doing his father’s memory proud, a real good guy just like his dad.”
He and his dad would’ve worked together and fished together, and one day when Alex married Holly, his dad would’ve stood beside him, his best man. The best man Alex ever knew.
No one understood what he’d lost on 9/11, because the loss had been so great for everyone, the numbers so vast. With hundreds of firefighters dead, there was no way to take a look at each one and let the world know what sort of person had fallen victim to the terrorists. Alex narrowed his eyes. Maybe that’s what made the loss even greater. The country hadn’t only lost four hundred firefighters and police officers. It had lost four hundred heroes. Four hundred heroes like his dad.
He pursed his lips and let his cheeks fill up with the air from his lungs. As he released it, he forced himself to find the strength to read the journal entry. Whatever it said, the words were sort of a final message from his father. That’s why he couldn’t wait another day to read it — not when any day on the job might be his last.
The car was too dark, so he flipped on the overhead light and opened the folded sheet. At the top of the page was the journal date — August 7, 2001. Alex tried to remember what he must’ve been doing that day. It would’ve still been summer break, and he would’ve been at football practice, maybe … or swimming at the city pool a few blocks from their home in Staten Island. Alex steadied himself and started at the beginning.
Sometimes I come across someone in the department who personifies courage and commitment, the sort of firefighter people talk about with words like bravery and loyalty, strength and honor. That’s the way I feel about my friend Ben Brady from the station a few blocks from mine.
Alex read the description of his dad once more. Brave and loyal, strong and full of honor. They were words Alex could’ve written. He blinked back the dampness in his eyes and continued.
We worked a call together yesterday, and I found myself watching him, the way he took charge of the blaze and set an example for the other men from his firehouse. Ben and I know each other. We’ve talked a number of times. But yesterday we talked on a deeper level, about what drives us. I wasn’t surprised when he told me he was a Christian.
Guilt stabbed at Alex. His father had shared his faith as easily as he lived it out. Alex liked to think that somewhere in heaven his dad was proud of his police work, proud that Alex was his son. But what would his dad think about the fact that Alex had walked away from God? Alex pushed the question from his mind and found his place again.
“I take God with me on every call,” he said. I liked that. It’s the way I feel, the way I live. But I guess I never heard it put that way before. He said something else too. He told me he knows he can only do so much to keep the city of New York safe from fires. “When you live with constant danger,” he told me, “you have to remember John 16:33.” He winked at me. “That’s what keeps me sane. John 16:33.” I was familiar with the verse, so I understood. Jesus used that part of Scripture to tell his friends a simple, profound message: “In me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” He also told me he hoped one day his son would embrace the verse.
The knife in Alex’s conscience went a little deeper. He knew his dad thought about him often, but at work? The fact that his father had talked to another firefighter about his hopes for Alex somehow made his loss even more real. How important the Bible verse must’ve been to his dad, for him to talk about it with Jake Bryan. Tears burned in his eyes, but he held them off and kept reading the things his father had told Jake.
“So far, my family has had very little trouble. Life is good, love is sweet, and time seems like it’ll last forever.” His eyes held a bittersweet shine. “We all know that isn’t true. Especially working for the FDNY.”
His words stayed with me all day and even now, as I write, I can hear them in
my heart. He’s right. Today is like that for me and Jamie and Sierra too. Life is good, love is sweet, and time seems like it’ll last forever. But it won’t. It never does. And so we stay strong in the hope of John 16:33 … because in the end, Christ has overcome the world. That’s what I have to tell myself every now and then.
Every now and then.
That was about how often people thought about September 11 anymore. Once in a while, every now and then when an anniversary came along or someone mentioned Ground Zero. Alex allowed himself to focus on his father’s words, the thoughts that really did form his final message to all of them. His dad had described their life before 9/11 perfectly.
Alex set the piece of paper down on the seat beside him and stared into the darkness again. Life had been so good … love, beyond sweet … and there had been no signs that time as they knew it was about to stop forever. Alex sat unmoving for a few minutes, remembering how great life had been, but gradually a thought came into view, something he hadn’t considered before.
His dad had known the life they were living wouldn’t last, that by working for the FDNY there was always a chance he could report to the station one day and not come home. But the fact hadn’t made his father bitter or driven to conquer every fire in his way; it hadn’t made him angry or determined to live cut off from the people who loved him.
Alex picked up the piece of paper and read it again straight through. No, the knowledge of danger and darkness in the world around him only made his father more keenly aware of the truth about life and love and time. And the way he’d kept his focus was not through some fierce determination of his own doing, but through his faith in God, his belief in the Bible. He believed that trouble was a certainty in this world, but he was not to worry because God had already conquered the evil in this world.
The wind had dropped off considerably, and Alex rolled down his window, welcoming the fresh air. No matter what his father wished, Alex didn’t think he could embrace God again. But there was something about his dad’s faith that pounded at him, pushed him, and made him uncomfortable in his own skin. The talk with Clay earlier tonight came back again. What was that Scripture he’d talked about? There was a way that seemed right for a man, but in the end it would lead only to death, right? Wasn’t that it?
More than that, the main thing he remembered from Clay’s talk was the part about evil, and how Christ never intended for people to rid the world of all bad things, but for people to deal with the evil inside themselves. Alex tried to breathe, but his chest felt tight. It reminded him of a time when he was doing the bench press at headquarters, running through a few sets alone, without a spotter. Something had him frustrated that day, a drug bust gone awry, maybe. Whatever it was, he piled too much weight on the bar and, as he lowered it, he knew he was in trouble. He was able to hold the bar just high enough off his chest to keep it from crushing him, but he couldn’t move it, couldn’t get out from beneath it without calling for help.
That’s how he felt now.
In the weight room that day, Joe Reynolds must’ve heard him shout, because he ran in and together they got the bar up and back on the rack. But who could help him now? And what about the evil in his own heart? At first the idea had seemed insane — he was one of the good guys! — but now that he’d had some time to think about it, maybe Clay was right.
He wasn’t all good on the inside. What about the way he’d treated his mother, barely calling her and writing her off because she’d remarried? In the back Bo yawned and shifted to a different position. Alex looked back at his dog. He’d treated Bo better than he’d treated the people in his life, so what else could that be but a show of evil?
A car drove past, but it didn’t hesitate at the winding dirt road. Alex closed his eyes, and he could see Holly exactly as she looked that day at his house when he sent her away. Her long blonde hair and deep blue eyes, the way they clouded with pain when he told her it was over, that he couldn’t love her and that she needed to move on without him.
He blinked and stared at the road again. It was too late for him to make it right with Holly. Too late for any of the buddies he’d left behind. But it wasn’t too late for his mother. The phone calls they shared always came from her, and every time he made the conversation brief and strained, with short answers and a sense that he had something pressing he needed to get back to doing.
The piece of paper was still in his hand, and he studied it one more time. His father would’ve been appalled at the way he’d lost touch with everyone — but especially with his mom. Why hadn’t he thought about that before? Again, the pressure built in his chest and he had the sudden feeling that the canyon walls around him were closing in, threatening to crush him.
He looked at the time on his iPhone. It wouldn’t be quite five in the morning in New York City, but it no longer mattered. Alex couldn’t wait another minute to tell his mom what he should’ve told her years ago. What he should’ve told her September 12, 2001.
He found her number and tapped it once. It connected immediately, and on the fourth ring — just when Alex was chiding himself for calling so early — she picked up. “Hello?” her voice was frantic. “Alex? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, Mom, I’m fine.” He pressed his fingers to his brow. He should’ve waited until morning. Any mother of a police officer would be terrified of a call at this hour.
“Alex …” she let go a rush of air. “You scared me. It’s five in the morning.”
He wasn’t sure where to start. “I owe you an apology.”
“Son?” she hesitated, calmer now, still trying to catch her breath.
He sighed. “I don’t know if I can put it into words.” He would tell her the whole story someday, the next time they were together. He held his breath, pressing through the moment. “I … I haven’t been the same since Dad died, and … well, I’m sorry. That’s all. I just want you to know I’m sorry.”
She must’ve been too surprised to speak because it took her several seconds to respond. “Alex, what … what happened?”
“I don’t know.” He anchored his elbow on his open window and rested his head in his hand. “It’s a long story.” His eyes felt damp again. “I couldn’t wait another hour to make this call.” Alex waited, but there was silence on the other end. He thought maybe they’d lost connection, but then he heard the soft sound of sniffling over the phone line. “Mom … don’t be sad … it’s all my fault. I can’t live like this anymore, pushing everyone away.” He paused, his sorrow suffocating him. “Dad would’ve hated what I’ve become.” He set the piece of paper on the seat beside him again and grabbed the steering wheel. “Can you forgive me?”
“Yes.” She sniffed again, although clearly she was trying to hide the fact that she was crying. “I’ve prayed for this ever since you left.”
Alex wasn’t sure what to say to that, but something felt different in his heart, the same tenderness he’d felt for the crazy old lady with the imaginary soldiers in her backyard. This time the feeling was almost a welcome one. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep from crying. “I love you, Mom. I do.”
“I love you too.” Her voice cracked and she couldn’t hide her tears.
“Okay, then.” Alex’s throat felt thick. “Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later.”
As the call ended, Alex sat back and inhaled fully. He could breathe again, and he took stock of the condition of his heart. On this windy Wednesday night, he had rid the world of one more bad guy, and he’d guarded a development and a neighborhood from the terrorist attacks of the REA. Okay, so what? He couldn’t sit up here every night. Besides, the world was no different now than it had been when he woke up. There was no less evil around him.
But he’d told his mother he loved her, and as a result there was less evil inside him.
And that — more than any crime solving — would’ve truly made his dad proud.
TWENTY-THREE
Owl felt sick to his stomach. Only one thing could explain his ner
vousness tonight — the same thing he’d been feeling for the past month. He was having second thoughts. He paced along the front window of the rented house at the base of the foothills. The winds had died down last night, but now it was just past midnight and they were back with a vengeance. The decision was made.
It was Thursday night and the winds were in full force, same as yesterday. But an hour ago the orders had been given by Leo. This was the night the Oak Canyon Estates was going down.
“Listen to this.” Steve Simons adjusted his glasses and grabbed a piece of paper off the printer. People thought Steve was the leader among the three of them, but they were wrong. Leo was in control. All three-dozen members of the REA answered to him, and it was Leo who ran the show a few weeks ago when he and Steve masqueraded as brothers and cased Oak Canyon Estates the first time.
A single light reflected off Steve’s bald head as he held up the printed document. “We’re leaving this at the guard station. If it survives the fire, great. If not, we’ll send a copy to the paper.” He sat on the edge of the table at the center of the living room. None of them lived here, but they spent more time here than anywhere else. The mission was that demanding.
“Hurry up.” Leo was sunk into the sofa along the back wall. Owl tried not to cower. Sometimes he wasn’t sure how he got mixed up with Steve and Leo. Somewhere along the way the ideals Owl prided himself in keeping had distorted so that property, possessions, even people took a lesser role than the environment. But at this point he was committed. He knew too much to back out, and Leo was just psycho enough to kill him if he tried.
Tuesday Morning Collection, The: One Tuesday Morning, Beyond Tuesday Morning, Remember Tuesday Morning Page 87
