by Ty Patterson
He hit Columbus Avenue and prepared to turn into their basement, when he let the vehicle drift and come to a stop.
Beth stirred behind him after fifteen minutes. Meghan glanced at him.
He stared ahead.
Something.
Let it come.
Another ten minutes, leather squeaked restlessly. A voice from behind. ‘We’re going to sleep in the SUV?’
Twins.
Hospital.
Money.
He swung round to face them.
‘It wasn’t Alisha.’
‘We know that, hotshot.’ Meghan replied exasperatedly. ‘Now if you could just take this beast inside, we could grab the rest of the night.’
Zeb ignored her. ‘It never was her.’
Beth punched him in the shoulder. ‘Just get to it, Zeb, or I swear I’ll damage you.’
‘Think back. What happened four years back?’
Beth sighed. ‘He wanted to sell his store. Then he didn’t. Now can we go?’
‘What else?’
Meghan eyes widened as she laid a hand on Beth’s forearm to shush her.
‘Shaniya Jones. Alisha’s mom.’
‘She died four years back.’
‘Shaniya suffered from pulmonary arterial hypertension. It increases the blood pressure in the arteries and also the size of the heart. She’d undergone multiple surgeries and hospitalizations and a double lung and heart transplant was her only option. She was on the organ donor wait list for three years but unfortunately died before she got a donor.’
Beth read out from her computer the next day and when she’d finished, she looked up at Zeb uncertainly. ‘How does that link with our assumption? She was in hospital, being treated. Her bills were taken care of by her insurance as well as by Alisha. Where does Lester’s money figure? Are we out on a limb here?’
‘We won’t know until we find out.’ He walked to the whiteboard on which the sisters had drawn the timeline and circled September, the month Shaniya Jones had died. ‘Check with Joe or Emilio when the deal fell through. Check with the hospital if Lester visited her before she died. Lester or any others.’
A thought struck him and he swiftly moved to his phone and fired a text to Bwana. I should’ve asked Robert about the store’s sale.
They met at a laundry and dry cleaning outlet in the Bronx, the long row of machines silent witnesses to Bossman and the assassin’s meeting.
Bossman’s men lounged outside the store and stopped customers from entering it. They didn’t have to try very hard since all of them were well over six feet, heavily muscled and carried suspicious bulges under their jackets. Bossman owned the store – emptying it hadn’t been difficult either.
Bossman fidgeted under the curious stillness of the assassin’s gaze. He made others uncomfortable, but there was something snakelike and reptilian about the assassin that made him shiver. ‘They’ve made contact with the girl now. They asked her if Benjamin met Jones in the hospital.’
The assassin nodded. He knew. It was he who’d planted the bug in the girl’s apartment and in her phone.
‘She didn’t know anything. Maybe you should talk to the girl?’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t.’ The assassin’s reply was flat, hard. ‘Right now they’re groping in the dark. If I ask the girl or make her disappear, there’ll be blowback. They’ll know for sure.’
Bossman flared. ‘Easy for you to say. You’re here one day, gone the next. I have my interests to protect. As long as there’s no trail, how does it matter?’
The assassin’s lips thinned as he stared at the man in front of him. He’d been warned by his cutout that Bossman was temperamental and headstrong. He was making a name for himself in the city’s underbelly by undercutting his competition, and in several cases, literally cutting them off. Bossman would show up red on a heatmap. Always red. Never amber or green. He didn’t respect boundaries or people and normally the assassin would have steered clear of him. But the money was good and the first assignment, killing Lester Benjamin, had seemed simple.
It was only after accepting the assignment that Bossman had revealed his colors. He wanted Lester’s killing to be a message for all, a sign that his word was not to be ignored, that he was not to be crossed. The assassin had finally convinced him that using BBK as the fall guy was a better option.
Bossman had wanted him to go after Broker in the hospital when he’d survived. The assassin had demurred again and had finally convinced the man to leave the wounded man alone. He had listened stoically as Bossman raged at the botched attempt on Broker.
The assassin would’ve ended all further contact with Bossman, but he paid very well.
He forced his voice to be calm. ‘Give it a few more days. See if the girl contacts them.’
Bossman shook his finger. ‘If she does, take her out. Take them all out.’
He walked out, his goons forming a protective cordon around him and swept away in his armor plated ride.
The assassin started making his exit plans that very moment. He had lived long by judging situations and this one stank.
Italy. Time to visit the hideout.
That afternoon Meghan and Beth flanked Zeb as they looked down at the city. ‘No luck with the hospital. They don’t keep visitor records that far back. They wouldn’t share even if they did.’
Beth’s tone was even, but Zeb felt excitement crackle through her. ‘Had better luck with Joe. He said the deal fell through mid-August. Shaniya died three weeks later.’
The electricity passed to her sister who couldn’t stop beaming. ‘Alisha called. She too maintained a diary. Guess who visited Shaniya in mid-August?’
‘The Pope?’
‘Funny.’
‘Yeah,’ came the echo. ‘I’m cracking up. He’s better when he’s serious.’
‘Zeb, you know what this’s all about, don’t you?’
Zeb’s phone buzzed before he could reply.
‘If that’s Bwana that would be great.’ Beth looked expectantly as he thumbed his phone.
It was, but it wasn’t the message they were expecting.
Dad no more. Passed away yesterday morning.
They flew to Memphis the next day with the jet bathed in orange in the early morning sunlight, but that did little to cheer them up. Broker helped Meghan in and when Zeb boarded, they were wheels up. They were all in black, except for Zeb, who was in white.
‘Picked it up when he spent some time in India. White is the color of mourning over there,’ Broker murmured to Meghan.
Zeb had suggested that he stay back at which Broker had growled. ‘Try stopping me. I’ve had enough of this place.’
They stopped dead when a six-foot-four mountain parted the crowd and headed their way. Bwana was attired in a richly hued Congolese shirt adorned with a spear and shield motif.
A wide grin split his face when he spotted them and as he hugged Broker and the twins, he mocked. ‘What took you guys so long? I’ve been here since I sent you that message.’
He stepped back and took them in fully. ‘You guys heading to a funeral? Dad wanted to be cremated immediately after he passed away. No fuss, didn’t want people to know. All that’s done.’
Beth drew away and stared at him. ‘You didn’t tell us?’
He pulled her back and hugged her again. ‘Nah. I knew this Zeb critter we’ve got would fly out immediately. Dad died two days back, but I deliberately told you folks only last night.’
He went to Zeb and crushed him. His words came muffled against Zeb’s shoulder. ‘You were the second last person he spoke to.’
Bwana’s home was clean, airy and cheerful. No trace of sickness was present. He read Zeb’s glance. ‘I told you. He didn’t want all that mourning shit. He said he’d got his freedom back and I’d got mine. It was time to live again.’
Zeb stood in front of a black and white photograph of Robert Kayembe. Next to him stood a woman holding a small boy. Behind them was their home. In the background, was
a village.
Luvungi.
Zeb knew Luvungi well. It was the village where he’d witnessed a mass rape and murder perpetrated by a bunch of rogue American mercenaries.
Those mercenaries didn’t exist anymore.
A shadow flickered in the photograph and a hand gripped Zeb’s shoulder hard.
‘I’m glad you’re here.’ Bwana blinked the film of moisture in his eyes and the mile wide grin came back. ‘Let’s get some drinks for that old man over there. Broker’s been griping that you’ve made him live like a monk all these weeks.’
Stories. They swapped them. Of life in the Congo, Zeb’s time in Asia, the twins’ lives in Jackson, Broker’s life in the Rangers. Stories that defined who they were. A tightly-knit team.
‘Rog’s with Bear and Chloe in Australia, they’re doing the whole outback thing.’ He shook his head. ‘Nope. I didn’t inform them. They would’ve cut short their holiday and come.’
Evening fell and Bwana rose to top off their drinks.
When he returned, he tossed a slim package at Zeb.
‘I found it only yesterday night, tucked away with some other stuff Dad had hidden. He couldn’t remember where he’d kept it and hadn’t gotten around to opening it.’
Zeb recognized the handwriting.
Lester’s.
The Petersens crowded around him and he gave it to them.
Meghan ripped the wrapping and gasped softly as its contents appeared. A book, a journal. Thicker than the one in Lester’s apartment.
Her eyes shone when she looked at Zeb. ‘You guessed right.’
She looked at Bwana. May I?
He smiled back. ‘Go ahead. He wanted Zeb to have it.’
She flicked the cover open and drew out a single sheet of paper. A letter. She read passages aloud.
Lester greeting Robert. Remembering shared times, shared adventures. Referring to the illness only in passing.
She stopped at the next paragraph and read slowly.
It’s possible that when this reaches you, we both may not be alive.
She looked up and resumed reading at Beth’s impatient gesture.
I made a deal with evil and when I wished to back out, it didn’t. I’ll not burden you with details. In any case once you read my journal, you’ll know. I’ve sent this to you since you’re the only person I trust. Your son has connections you once said. He might know what to do with this.
There were more paragraphs, more memories of laughter and sadness. She passed the letter to Bwana who tucked it away in a pocket and opened the journal.
It was close to two hundred pages and filled with Lester’s neat handwriting. She read aloud and on hearing the first familiar few lines, Broker whipped his head around to Zeb.
‘Son of a gun. He wrote two journals. The one in his apartment was a dummy, meant to lull whoever was after him.’
‘Three journals.’ Zeb said quietly. ‘I think he wrote three. He wrote one more, identical to this one, which he hid in his apartment. That second journal lead to his death. This third one was insurance.’
She read rapidly of his life in the city, in the store, dating Shaniya, the break up. His attempts at reconciliation and finding that he had a daughter.
Brief passages that were familiar to Zeb and Broker.
He wrote about Shaniya’s illness, wanting to help her out, getting rebuffed, wanting help with Alisha’s college and getting turned down again. Several pages were devoted to watching Alisha in secret.
The writing became darker when he learnt the extent of Shaniya’s illness. He wrote about meeting her and pleading with her to let him help.
She’s like a wall, he wrote. Several paragraphs later, he added. Never let a good woman go. You’ve lost your life.
Meghan cleared her throat and Beth used the pause to snatch the diary away from her.
I’ve decided I’ll help, she read in her clear voice.
I’ve tried speaking to her doctors. They refuse to share any details since I’m not listed as kin. I’ve spoken to other doctors, they all say if she doesn’t get donor organs, she’ll die.
His contacting donor organizations filled several pages and he’d annotated each conversation with a time stamp.
All doors closed. Just one left. Do I wish to enter it?
A couple of days later – Made contact with a street dealer. Offered him cash for information. He pocketed it and walked away. Have I done the right thing? Too late to turn back now.
A glimmer of light dawned in Beth’s eyes when she met Zeb’s. She returned to the journal and read several days’ worth of pages, of clandestine meetings and flashing cash.
Everyone says he’s the man to contact. He runs the network and can get what I want. All say he’s dangerous and not a man to cross.
One week later.
Met the Russian. Had to go through a complex vetting process and finally had five minutes with him in a bar. He was surrounded by men and has that look I’ve seen in some crazy killers in Congo.
He said it will cost me hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Do I have that much? I said no. He laughed and his men laughed with him.
Come back when you have got it.
One week later.
I’ve taken the decision. I am meeting him tomorrow.
The next day.
The deal is done. My store in return for a pair of lungs and a heart.
Chapter 23
‘You knew some time back, didn’t you?’ Beth stopped reading and accused Zeb.
‘Once we ruled out Alisha, then yeah, I suspected he was trying to buy organs. Nothing else made sense.’
‘Why didn’t he go through killing him then?’
Meghan huffed. ‘Babe, if you stopped talking and read, we might find out.’
Beth got back to the diary, half of which had been read.
The Russian knows doctors who do this kind of operation. I told him these are complex operations that need proper facilities and competent people. He laughed and said he provided a one stop service. I asked if I could speak to a doctor. He sneered and said this didn’t work like a job interview.
I dug in, said I wasn’t going to sign away my store just on his word.
He looked at me and I swear it felt like he was planning to kill me. He nodded and said he would give me some names, but I had to make the calls in front of him and sign the papers immediately.
I went back with mixed feelings, didn’t sleep that night, but my overriding feeling was hope. I told the boys the next day that they should be prepared for anything. I couldn’t tell them about the Russian.
A couple of days later the words were deeply impressioned on the page.
The deal’s off. When I told Shaniya she said she’d rather die than take my help. She’d rather die than take someone’s organs like this. Her voice was hoarse and faint, but her anger and contempt were clear. She said if I didn’t leave her presence she would call the cops.
Beth read the date, it matched their timeline.
The rest of the page was blank and the next entry was a week later.
I feel like a zombie. I don’t know how or why I am alive. I told the Russian and he exploded and said in his world there was no going back. A deal was a deal. We argued for several hours and when he started threatening me, I hit back. I said I had recorded everything and would go to the cops.
He said I was a dead man and hung up.
I have taken to going around with a knife in my pocket.
Several entries followed describing his fear and wariness. Those gradually disappeared as the mobster took no action.
The Russian seems to have forgotten me. It doesn’t matter now if he kills me. Shaniya is dying. I’ve made friends with a nurse and she says it could be a matter of days.
I tried to visit her once more. They didn’t allow me. I saw Alisha go through once, thought about calling out, but didn’t. Shame fills me.
One week later.
The only woman I ever loved is dead. I prayed al
l day. I didn’t ask for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. I deserted her when she wanted more of me and left her alone to die.
Two weeks later.
I went to her burial service. I stood far away and saw my daughter cry.
Beth read the next page rapidly and flicked through several subsequent pages. She dodged Meghan’s seeking hands. ‘There’s nothing relevant. They’re about purchases for the store, random stuff. Read for yourself.’
Meghan skimmed through the pages, nodded at herself and sped through the rest of the journal.
She stopped at one date a year later. ‘He’s started watching Alisha now.’
I looked up her workplace and followed her back from work. She goes running every day.
The entries became less frequent and most of them were about Alisha.
She stopped when there were just a few pages left and read aloud. The Russian called. He wants to buy the store. He has offered the same price. I told him it was worth much more now besides I wasn’t selling. I hung up on him.
She read the date. ‘A month back from his murder.’
The next day.
He was here when I was alone. He turned up in a limo with five men. I recognized them. He said he will convert the store to a laundry service. There’s no other laundry nearby. I told him I don’t want to sell. He came close to me and said he’s not giving me a choice. I told him I still have my record. I will go to the cops. This is not Russia.
He laughed and said, it isn’t. That’s why he’s offering me money. Don’t threaten me old man, he shouted before he left.
I should make a copy of the journal. I should make a dummy, a journal that will fool them.
I will write a dummy as well as another full copy, without the names. I know whom to send the second copy to. Names will endanger them.
Two weeks later, the last entry.
He called again and said this was my final chance. I turned him down.
Meghan shut the journal and fingered it idly as she sighed deeply. ‘That was some guilt he lived with. Bwana did your dad talk about him?’
Bwana shook his head. ‘Nope. That part of his life was closed. I get the feeling that Lester was in many ways similar to my father. They both shared only the good parts of their life. They didn’t want to burden others with the rest.’
