Mercy at Midnight

by Sylvia Bambola

  Jonathan spent a good ten minutes trying to find a flashlight. He finally found one in Miss Emily’s kitchen junk drawer. The basement was well lit for ordinary use, but Jonathan planned to poke into spaces where the overhead lighting didn’t reach. He checked his watch. A few minutes past ten. He heard voices coming from the vicinity of the TV. By eleven everyone had to be in their rooms. There was no way he could check out the basement before then. He’d have to wait.

  Cynthia spread her sateen sheets over the couch, then a light blanket over that. She slipped a pillowcase over her spare pillow, fluffed it and positioned it at one end. “Hope you’ll be comfortable.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I slept on things you wouldn’t believe!”

  “Well, okay then, goodnight. I’m hitting the hay.” Cynthia gave him a hug. “Maybe tomorrow night you can tell me more about heaven.”

  Stubby looked like he was going to say something. Instead, he just smiled and nodded.

  Jonathan crept from his room into the hall, stopped and listened. It was after twelve and all was quiet. He tiptoed down the hall, through the kitchen, then down another hall towards the supply room. Opposite the supply room was the door leading to the basement. He opened it, then stopped again and listened for sound. Nothing. He flipped the light switch.

  From the top of the stairs he could see the first two dryers in a row of twenty. Nothing looked amiss. He tucked his flashlight into the waist of his slacks and began his descent. As he went he scanned the ceiling, steps, and walls. He didn’t know what he was looking for. He supposed he wouldn’t know until he found it.

  When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he flipped on another light, illuminating the entire laundry room. Starting at one end, he checked the walls, ceiling, floor and all the machines. He checked for any sign that something had been moved or was out of place. When he got to the corner, he pulled out his flashlight and turned it on. He inspected every nook and cranny. When he was satisfied, he moved down the hall and began the procedure all over again.

  Then one by one, he inspected the classrooms. There were three in all. By the time he finished the last room, he was convinced he had let his imagination run wild. There was nothing here. Reverend Gates had slipped and fallen. Pure and simple.

  He placed his hand on the light switch and was about to turn it off when his eyes happened to glance at the metal bookshelf. It resembled the other bookshelves in the two previous rooms: gray, four shelved and approximately five feet by four feet, with a metal backing. He had already checked it out and found nothing amiss. Only . . . it wasn’t overflowing with material like the shelves in the other two rooms. It just held about twenty books and two stacks of magazines.

  Odd.

  Jonathan walked over and scanned it from top to bottom. After staring at it for another minute, he began to feel foolish. The only odd thing was that he was thinking it was odd. It was late. He was tired. It was time to tuck his overactive imagination into bed and call it a night.

  He gave it one last look, then stepped back. When he did, he noticed the industrial carpeting in front of the bookcase was more worn than it should be. He bent down and ran his fingers over the short pile. The rug was crushed and worn in an arching pattern. It made no sense. He squatted on his heels, and stared at it. It reminded him of something. Then it came to him. His mother’s improperly hung pantry door had made this same kind of pattern on the kitchen linoleum floor. This bookcase had been dragged across the rug.

  Repeatedly.

  Jonathan rose to his feet and pulled the bookcase forward. It was heavy, impossible to move if it were full. When it was several inches from the wall Jonathan stopped and glanced behind it. His heart flipped. There, about a foot off the ground, a large opening was cut into the sheetrock.

  He pulled the bookcase further, until there was enough space for him to get behind it, then he retrieved his flashlight from the floor, turned it on, and inspected the opening. Strewn between the studs were drug paraphernalia, a small scale and a residue of whitish-looking powder—all covered in cobwebs. Obviously, no one had been here in a while.

  He scanned the opening again and noticed a torn wrapper wedged in one of the corners. Carefully, so he wouldn’t disturb anything else, he reached in and pulled it out. It looked like part of a paper bag, the kind sugar or flour came in. He read the lettering: ALLIAN. The rest of it had been ripped off.

  He flashed his light again into the opening. There was nothing else. But he didn’t need anything else. It all made sense, now. This was where the drugs must have been hidden after being delivered to the mission. Hidden until they could be distributed by their inside man. Apparently, operations had stopped since Reverend Gates’ death. But now that the mission was open again, had a new inside man been installed? Willie Tanner? Unlikely. He didn’t have what it took to be head of maintenance. It was reasonable to think it was the head of maintenance that ran the drug operation. A head maintenance man could come and go without suspicion; would have access to the entire building. It would be important to have the right man in place. Was that why Stubby had to be removed? Was Willie the advance man? Someone sent to remove Stubby and create a vacancy until a new inside man could fill the spot?

  Jonathan pushed the bookcase back into place, then picked up his flashlight. The police would have to unravel this mess. But one thing was certain. Cynthia was right. Alliance Bakery was delivering drugs to the shelters.

  Cynthia.

  Jonathan flicked off the light and bolted down the hall and up the cellar stairs. He had to call the police. It was after one o’clock, but maybe someone at the station could get hold of Steve. He couldn’t take the chance of telling anyone else what he found here. If Bill Rivers or Charles Angus was involved, no telling who could be trusted. After Jonathan contacted Steve, he’d call Cynthia.

  She was in real danger.

  Cynthia rushed around the apartment stepping over couch pillows and bedding. She was late. And she had promised Bernie she’d be in early or at least on time so she could wrap up her story.

  Just wait till he read the ending!

  Last night, Jonathan had woken her and Stubby out of a sound sleep, then made their heads spin with his discovery. He had made Detective Steve Bradley’s head spin too, so much so that Steve planned to immediately send his forensic team to the mission and gather enough evidence on Alliance so he could move on them first thing this morning. Jonathan had made Cynthia promise not to step foot outside her apartment without Stubby, and not to let anyone in. Then Jonathan had spoken to Stubby and given him the same information and instructions.

  It had taken Cynthia hours to fall asleep again, but when the alarm went off, she bolted out of bed, not even allowing the snooze feature to go through its usual paces. So, by all rights she shouldn’t be rushing. But she was, thanks to having one bathroom and two people who wanted to use it. She wasn’t accustomed to sharing it. Her timing was off and so was Stubby’s. They had spent most of the morning bumping into each other.

  She glanced around the apartment. It looked like a bomb had gone off. She had never left it like this. She smiled because it didn’t matter one bit.

  “Get the lead out, Stubby. I’m late!” she shouted toward the kitchen. She could hear the refrigerator door close. Within seconds, Stubby walked out carrying two slices of buttered toast.

  “I made us breakfast.”

  Even from where Cynthia stood, she saw the inch-thick layer of butter on each piece. “Thanks.” She blew Stubby a kiss then ushered him out of the apartment, locked the door, and headed for her car, leaving him to carry the toast.

  “Great day, ain’t it, Cynthia? Just look at them colors on that bush, and over there at them flowers.”

  Cynthia hurried to her silver Jeep Cherokee, not bothering to look at the scenery. “If I don’t get to work on time, the only color I’ll be seeing is red, when Bernie starts breathing fire.” She pressed her remote and unlocked her car.

  “Oh, no!” Cynthia said, st
anding behind her Jeep. “Some people don’t know how to park!” She squeezed past the truck that had pulled too close to her driver’s side, and opened her door. “For heaven’s sake! How am I supposed to get in?” No matter which way she turned she couldn’t open her door wide enough to slip through. She looked over the hood at Stubby. “Don’t get in. I’ll have to use your side.” Cynthia tried walking toward the front of her car so she could cross over to Stubby’s side, but the truck was angled in front and passage was impossible. She turned and walked toward the rear.

  She squeezed past the white paneled truck and noticed that the large company letters which had once blazed across its side, was now scrapped off, leaving a faint outline. She scanned it as she passed. A-L-L-I-A. She turned to Stubby in panic. “ALLIANCE!” she croaked.

  “What?”

  “ALLIANCE!” she repeated, pointing to the truck. Before Stubby could move, the rear of the truck rolled up like a garage door and a man, the size of a gorilla, jumped out, landing a foot from Cynthia. By the time Cynthia or Stubby realized what was happening, the man grabbed Cynthia and jerked her towards the back of the truck. Another pair of hands, belonging to someone inside, pulled her upward and onto the truck bed.

  “Stubby!” Cynthia screamed as she saw the door of the truck close. She tried to scramble out, but somebody held her back then threw her to the floor. Then the interior of the truck became black. “Stubby!” Cynthia screamed again.

  “That little runt can’t help you now,” a voice said in the darkness. “My friend’ll make sure of that. Then he’ll drive us some place nice and quiet.”

  Cynthia’s heart melted with terror when she recognized the voice.

  “Yeah, we’ll go to a nice quiet place where I can keep my promise. And I’m gonna take my time. I’m gonna enjoy it.”

  Perspiration streamed down Cynthia’s face. She could barely breathe. Outside, she heard Stubby shouting and the sound of bodies crashing against the truck.

  What if that man killed Stubby?

  Oh God. What was she going to do? She couldn’t count on Stubby’s help. She found herself praying . . . begging God to protect her and Stubby . . . to help them both out of this. She looked around wide-eyed. She had grown accustomed to the dark and could see Skinner standing close by. It didn’t look like he had a weapon, but she couldn’t be sure. What was she going to do? How was she going to get out of this? Oh God . . . help me!

  “You’re gonna see what happens to troublemakers. And it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

  Frantically, she scanned the walls for anything hanging, anything she could use as a weapon.

  Nothing.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this. I would’ve done it for nothing. But I don’t mind telling you I’ll be getting a nice piece of change for my pleasure. Looks like you really pushed somebody’s buttons.”

  Cynthia, who was still sprawled on the truck bed, pulled herself up on one elbow. From this position she noticed a coiled rope not far from her left hand. If she knocked him away then got to the door and open it, she could escape.

  Oh God, give me strength.

  “And where we’re going, you can scream and cry all you want. In fact, I’d like you to.”

  Cynthia sat up and inched backward until her left hand felt the rope. Then she brought her feet up under her so she could spring forward.

  “I’ll start with your face.”

  Now, Cynthia. Now. Cynthia swallowed hard. Do it now. It was as if a voice whispered in her ear. Her fingers tightened around the rope. In one quick motion she was on her feet. Then in blind, savage fury, Cynthia swung the coiled rope in the air and heard it connect. She raised her hand again and again, swung blindly. Skinner groaned as she scrambled for the door.

  She was inches from the lever now. All she had to do was pull and the door would roll up. With a strength that surprised her, she smashed the rope against Skinner one last time and saw him reel backward. Her hand was on the lever now and she pulled with all her might. As daylight entered, she saw Skinner remove the knife from his sheath and lunge toward her. Without thinking, Cynthia threw the coiled rope causing it to uncoil and entangle him like a dozen lassos. Then she dove out of the truck and on top of Stubby. He was panting, and at his feet the gorilla-like man lay rubbing his eyes.

  “How . . . what . . . ?” she stammered, feeling her elbow and left ankle throb with pain.

  Stubby bent over and pulled the gun from the sprawled man’s waist and turned toward Cynthia. His gaze remained fixed on the prone man. “‘God has chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise.’ That’s scripture, case you don’t know. Before he took one punch or got his gun out, I nailed him with my toast, one in each eye. It was the butter that done it, made it where he couldn’t see. Then I knocked him to the ground. How’d you get out?”

  Cynthia glanced at the truck and watched Skinner stagger toward the opening. “Same as you. God.”

  “You’re learnin’, kiddo. Now, go call Steve.”

  While Stubby covered the gorilla and Skinner with his gun, Cynthia retrieved her bag from the asphalt where it had fallen and pulled out her cell then punched in the familiar number. As she listened to the phone ringing on the other end, she felt the sun warming her head. Behind her, she heard footsteps. People were gathering. Someone shouted “What’s going on?” then someone else yelled, “Call the police.” Cynthia took a deep breath and smelled wisteria. It was good to be alive.

  Thank you God.

  CHAPTER 21

  “I’m telling you, it’s the best story you’ve ever done. People are eating it up. They just can’t get enough. The Trib’s selling like hot cakes. Circulation says their phones are ringing off the hook.” Bernie sat with his feet on his desk, a big grin on his face.

  “That’s because people like to read about giants who get knocked on their tails. And Steve gave me plenty of good inside info when he cracked the Skid Row drug ring along with the Angus Empire.”

  “False modesty doesn’t become you, Wells. Let’s face it, you aced this in spite of me or Angus or anyone else.”

  Cynthia picked up her pen and began drawing stick men down the length of her yellow pad. Steve’s investigation had turned up nothing incriminating on Bill Rivers—only the fact that Bill had a younger brother on drugs who had dropped out of sight and who Bill hoped would turn up at the mission. But Cynthia was still having trouble digesting Steve’s other discovery—that in addition to using Alliance Bakery to run his drugs, locally, Charles Angus used his glass factory to package drugs, and his distribution company to ship them to seven different states.

  “I know the Angus Empire got hurt when many manufacturers were no longer competitive on U.S. soil, but Charles Angus, with all his millions, didn’t need to do this, to get involved in drugs. So why did he? It still baffles me.”

  “Greed? Power? Maybe fear that his empire was slipping away. Who knows? He’s not the first rich man to dip his beak into a poisoned well.”

  “I checked his financials. His corporations are doing well. It’s not like he was desperate or needed money. I can’t figure it out. There was no reason for this.”

  Bernie repositioned his feet. “Some things can’t be figured out, Wells. Just chalk this up to a bad seed, a bad apple, whatever you want to call it. You can’t explain people. Just when you think you’ve got a handle on them, when you think you’ve seen it all, another surprise comes down the chute.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Look, you did a terrific job. You should be proud of that. It’s a great story. Even if you don’t win a Pulitzer, you’ve won yourself a raise. And you know I don’t give those often. You can round out the story with something on that young woman, what’s-her-name from Social Service . . . .”

  “Pamela Harmon. But she must remain anonymous. I promised her that.”

  “Fine. Fine. Do a story on her—without revealing her identity—then maybe a piece on Social Services and another on the South Oberon gangs. We’v
e got enough here to milk this thing for another few weeks.” Bernie chuckled as he removed his feet from the desk and plunged his hand into the jellybean jar. “The other papers are fuming. They want to know why none of their reporters got wind of this story. I told them because they didn’t have Cynthia Wells on their payroll.”

  Cynthia noticed how comfortable Bernie looked in his massive leather chair. It made her hard wooden one feel all the more uncomfortable. “Didn’t you promise to buy a new chair if I got this story?”

  “Chairs, shmairs. You’ve bigger fish to fry. You finish up with that Pamela person and see what else you can dig up on Social Services and those gangs. The longer we keep this going, the better Circulation will like it.”

  Jonathan was about to sprawl across his bed with a good book when the phone rang. His heart jumped. Maybe it was Cynthia.

  “Hello, Dearest!”

  “Oh . . . hi Aunt Adel.”

  “You sound disappointed that it’s me.”

  “I’m not. I’m just tired.”

  “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to tell you that everyone, absolutely everyone at church is buzzing about Cynthia’s articles. Of course you came out quite well, too. Especially in that piece about your keen instincts and how you checked out the entire cellar looking for clues. You’re a hero.”

  “Aunt Adel . . . .”

  “You two make a good team—you and Cynthia, I mean.”

  “Aunt Adel . . . .”

  “So when will you be seeing her again?”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to say.”

  “Just take a guess.”

  “Probably never. She doesn’t even return my calls. Now, that the story’s finished, I’m sure she’s already onto something else. You know how it is.”