Blown Coverage

by Jason Elam

  Besides, Isaac desperately wanted to get back to New York, where he knew that safely tucked away in his apartment, under his bed, two more backpacks awaited him.

  FRIDAY, MAY 15, 5:30 P.M. CDT

  SOUTH BEND, INDIANA

  Mohsin Ghani used the end of his $130 Burberry woven silk tie to wipe the sweat and tears from his eyes. Although the basilica was temperature controlled, it felt to him like it was located two planets closer to the sun. Mohsin had been using a tie-matching handkerchief as his face towel, but that was now sitting next to him on the pew, crumpled in a damp ball. A three-quarters-empty water bottle sat beside it.

  Mohsin could not believe the situation he was in. It was absolutely surreal. Just over a decade ago he had walked through the Basilica of the Sacred Heart when he visited the University of Notre Dame. Back then, he was an excited college senior searching for the right graduate school. Now, he had returned to blow the building up.

  What are you doing here? Mohsin’s head spun, and for a moment he felt like he was going to faint. He took a deep swallow from the water bottle.

  Get it together, he chastised himself. It’s not like you have a choice. Just reach into the backpack, turn the key, and walk out. You’ll be well gone before the . . . before the . . .

  Another sob escaped him, causing a well-dressed woman in the next pew to turn slightly and offer him a tissue. Mohsin muttered a thank-you and loudly blew his nose.

  The twentysomething next to him gave him a good-natured elbow and said, “Lighten up, buddy; this is a wedding, not a funeral.”

  When Mohsin didn’t acknowledge his remark, the young man turned to his friend on the other side and said something that soon had both of them quietly snickering.

  Anger flared in Mohsin’s heart. You see? These are the kind of arrogant people who deserve what they are going to get! I’m trying to find a way to save their lives, and here they are mocking me. So do it! Just do it! Turn the key, excuse yourself, and drive back to Chicago. You can leave the TV off! You never even have to hear about it! Besides, these people are nothing to you—less than nothing!

  Mohsin’s attention was suddenly drawn to the front of the church by a young lady singing the title track to his favorite Norah Jones CD. Many an evening Mohsin had spent stretched out on his couch with a glass of pinot grigio, dreaming about “coming away” with Norah and kissing her on a mountaintop. Merciful Allah, what am I doing here? How can I do this?

  Heaving a big sigh, Mohsin continued his prayer. I am so weak. Please give me the strength to accept the things I cannot change and to carry out the task you have placed before me.

  Carefully, his hand found the cutout in the rear of the backpack. The key was warm to the touch. He let his thumb and forefinger rub its top and bottom. Just one quick twist and it’s done! Just one quick twist! Mohsin’s fingers clamped down on the small copper key. How much can I push it before it accidentally turns? He began softly applying clockwise pressure. Maybe a little more and it will turn by mistake. I don’t want it to, but insha’Allah, maybe God has willed it.

  The key budged. Mohsin gasped and pulled his hand away. “I can’t,” he said out loud.

  “Then don’t,” said the guy next to him, causing his friend to laugh out loud and the well-dressed woman in front to shush all three.

  I can’t! I won’t! They’ll just have to understand that I’m the wrong person for this job. I’m not telling them they’re right; I’m not telling them they’re wrong. I’m just saying that they need to find someone else to do it.

  With Mohsin’s decision came an overwhelming sense of peace to his heart. He suddenly felt light, like he was in a dream. For the first time he really noticed his surroundings. The columns supporting the roof of the neo-Gothic church were topped with incredibly ornate, gilded caps. Surrounding the basilica were windows of intricate, colorful stained glass. Just think: you just saved all this. You, Mohsin Ghani, made a decision, and as a result, all this beauty lives on.

  Up front, below the enormous golden main altar, the bride stood radiant in her mermaid-cut gown—the white of her bare shoulders showing clearly through her sheer mantilla veil. She was staring into the face of her soon-to-be-husband with so much love, so much excitement, so much passion.

  Today, you had the power of life and death. You could have chosen to end the lives of this beautiful young woman and all who love her. Instead, you, Mohsin Ghani, benevolently chose to bestow the gift of life.

  Mohsin slid down in the pew and tilted his head back until he felt the coolness of the old wood. Above him he discovered the murals that were spread across the arched ceiling sixty feet above where he sat. Most of the people depicted he didn’t recognize. But then he found Moses—the great prophet of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—his namesake.

  Am I not like Moses? Moses had the power of life and death over his people. Several times God wanted to wipe out the entire nation, but Moses intervened. In the same way, haven’t I intervened for these people, and hasn’t God granted them life?

  Continuing to ride the endorphin rush, Mohsin was drawn deeply into the mural. He closed his eyes, envisioning himself leading a mighty nation through the wilderness—Mohsin, the Great Prophet.

  His imagination so carried him away that he didn’t notice the pronouncement of the new couple; nor did he see their recession down the aisle. He didn’t hear the parting insult of the young man who sat next to him. Instead, he just sat there, the mighty servant of God, until a priest touched him gently on the shoulder and said, “Son, it’s time for you to go now.”

  Instinctively, Mohsin’s hand grabbed for the backpack. “What?”

  “You need to go, my son. There’s another wedding starting soon.”

  “Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

  Sliding the backpack over his sweat-soaked suit coat, Mohsin began to walk out. It was then that the deep sense of peace was forced out of him by an overwhelming feeling of dread. His knees buckled as he walked, and he caught himself on the font at the entrance to the basilica. They—whoever “they” were—would not let this slide. The men behind all this would soon come looking for answers. As he leaned on the marble, the tears began flowing again.

  Get yourself together! Just make it home, and you can figure things out there. There has to be a way to make them understand that I’m not the right person for this job. They’ll have to see all the ways I can help them other than doing this. That’s what I’ll do—I’ll just explain it to them.

  The water in the font looked cool and clean, and Mohsin dipped his hands in and splashed water on his face. He reached for his handkerchief, then realized he had left it on the pew. He used his sleeve to dab the water from his eyes, then walked out the door, feeling the cool breeze on his wet face.

  I’ll just explain it to them. They’ll have to understand, Mohsin kept telling himself. But way deep down, in that part of his mind that always told the truth no matter how much he wished to ignore it, Mohsin knew as he crossed the grass to get back to his car that he was no better than a dead man walking.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FRIDAY, MAY 15, 5:15 P.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO

  The thick smoke swirled around Riley’s head and stung his eyes. “You know, it’s a scientifically proven fact,” he said to Keith Simmons, who was looking way too comfortable sipping an Arnold Palmer in an Adirondack chair, “that no matter where you stand around a charcoal grill, that’s the direction the wind is going to blow.”

  “Can’t argue with physics,” Simmons replied. “What I can’t figure out is why you have that little jobber burning when you’ve already got your big old Nuclear Chef 2000 gas grill going. You could cook a water buffalo on that thing!”

  Riley dabbed his forehead with a hand towel he had hanging over his shoulder. Although it had been two hours since he and Simmons had finished their workout, the unseasonably warm afternoon sun combined with the heat of the grills made Riley feel like his face would never be completely dry again. “Ah, my bli
ssfully ignorant young protégé. First of all, this isn’t just any gas grill; it is an infrared grill specially designed for the finest of steak-grilling perfection. However, for our corn, we want a little extra flavor. Thus, the Weber and our mesquite charcoal.”

  “Tell you what, Emeril, you cook the food, and I’ll eat it. Any details beyond that, you can tell them to Skeeter here. Right, Skeet?” Simmons said, reaching to the next chair over and clapping Skeeter on the arm.

  “Mmmm,” Skeeter replied, never taking his eyes off the tree line spread across the back of Riley’s property.

  “See, I told you he’d warm up to me,” Simmons said.

  “Trust me, where Skeeter comes from, that’s called a conversation.” Sparks flew as Riley dumped the white-dusted coals from the smoker onto the grill. He quickly arranged the briquettes with a pair of tongs, feeling the heat curl the hairs on the back of his fingers. After dropping the top grate onto the barbecue, he said, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go snag the food.”

  “Go for it,” Simmons replied before turning to Skeeter and saying, “I ever tell you about the time I was playing beach volleyball back in college? I was on spring break down in South Padre—”

  The story cut off as Riley closed the patio door. No big loss; I’ve heard that one so many times before. Guy jumps up for the spike . . . guy lands wrong on the sand . . . guy’s toe pops off at the joint. Story still gives me the heebie-jeebies thinking about it.

  The coolness inside the house gave Riley a quick chill after standing in the heat for so long. As he crossed to the refrigerator, he could see the red message light blinking on his phone. Can’t imagine anyone I really want to talk to right now, he thought. Although that does remind me . . .

  He reached over to where he had dumped out his pockets on the kitchen counter and picked up his cell phone. Sure enough, he had forgotten to turn it back on after practice.

  The last thing anyone wanted to have happen at a team meeting was for their cell phone to go off, especially Riley since it had been his first day back at minicamp and Coach Burton hadn’t seemed all that happy to see him. The $1,500 fine would have been mild compared to the tongue-lashing he would have received. In fact, Coach hated cell phones so much that players and coaches alike knew without a doubt that if their phone went off, they were one step closer to being out the door permanently. Riley could remember one time when an assistant coach’s cell phone had started ringing during a full team meeting. The man had gotten so panicked when he couldn’t figure out how to silence the ringer that he had finally thrown the phone across the room, shattering it against the wall.

  While the phone powered up, Riley pulled the steaks out of the refrigerator—three sixteen-ounce ribeyes, marinated to perfection. A beep from his cell phone told him he had messages there, too. I’ll deal with those later, he thought as he slid the phone into his shorts pocket. He swung the patio door open and was greeted with the two outdoor constants—heat and Simmons’s voice. Stacking the butter baste on top of the plate of corn, he walked out to the grills, nearly stumbling as he shut the door with his foot.

  “Okay, Simm, come on up and learn from the master,” Riley interrupted.

  “I told you—as long as it ends up on my plate, I don’t care how it gets there.”

  “Sure you care. You just don’t know that you do. Come on.”

  “Better go,” Skeeter encouraged him, “else we’re never going to eat.”

  Simmons reluctantly pushed himself up from his chair. “What happened to the good old days when I could go to someone’s house and just be served without actually having to participate? Okay, so show me the . . . Hold up, what is that?” he asked, pointing at a bowl of yellow liquid.

  “That, my dear uninterested friend, is a baste for our corn. Take a whiff,” Riley said, holding the bowl up to Simmons’s face. “You’ve got melted butter, freshly cracked pepper, and a truckload of garlic.”

  “Oh yeah. Consider my interest piqued. And what’ve you got on those steaks?”

  Riley put down the bowl and lifted the Pyrex dish holding the steaks. “It’s called Montreal seasoning. This marinade and Mario Lemieux are the best things that ever came out of that city.”

  “The only good things,” Skeeter muttered under his breath.

  “Now, now, Skeet,” Riley chided him, “while most of the civilized world may agree with you, you must remember that there are certain things that we shouldn’t say . . . at least not out loud.”

  Simmons took a deep whiff of the steaks. “Man, that smells incredible too.”

  “Ask him what’s in it,” Skeeter said, still watching the trees.

  “What?” asked Simmons.

  “He didn’t say anything.”

  “Ask him what’s in the seasoning,” Skeeter repeated.

  “Who invited you into this conversation anyway?” Riley complained. “Go guard something.”

  “So, Chef Pach,” Simmons said with a smile, “what’s in the seasoning?”

  Riley sighed. “Okay, if you have to know, I have no clue what’s in the seasoning. It comes in a packet. You happy, smiley-boy?” he said to a grinning Skeeter.

  “Ecstatic.”

  “Dude, don’t hate on my man Skeeter,” Simmons said, walking over and putting a hand on Skeeter’s shoulder. “I like it when he opens up.”

  “Yeah, well maybe it’s about time he closes back down,” Riley said, dropping the steaks onto the grill. The ensuing sizzle all but drowned out the last two words of his sentence.

  As he reached over to start basting the corn before dropping it onto the Weber, he saw Skeeter whispering something in Simmons’s ear. Oh no. What now?

  “Hey, Pach,” came Simmons’s voice as Riley placed the first ear onto the grill, “aren’t you going to ask me how I want my steak done?”

  Riley looked over and saw the two men laughing. Skeeter said, “There’s only one way a steak is cooked around here—the Riley way.”

  “Why? Don’t you know how to cook steaks any other way?” Simmons asked.

  But before Riley could defend himself, Skeeter answered for him, “Sure, he knows how. He just figures, ‘Why would anybody want it cooked any different from how I like it?’”

  “Well, why would they?” Riley said with a smile. He set the rest of the corn on the grill, and then turned back to crosshatch the steaks. The smells in his backyard were just reaching the heavenly stage.

  A ring came from his front pocket, and Riley pulled out his cell phone. The caller ID said Scott Cell, so he hit Talk. “Hey, Scott.”

  “Pach! Where’ve you been, man? I’ve been leaving messages all over.” Riley could hear concern in Scott’s voice. That’s never good.

  “Sorry, my bad. I’ve got a buddy over, and we’re cooking some steaks. What’s up?”

  “As you can imagine, things are going crazy here. I just wanted to see how you were handling all this.”

  Great, thought Riley, another one of Scott’s cryptic calls. “Scott, I have absolutely no clue what you’re talking about . . . again. Handling all what?”

  “All what? Philadelphia! Haven’t you been watching the news?”

  A sick feeling spread through Riley. “Scott, we came right from practice to my backyard. I haven’t heard a thing.”

  Riley heard popping starting from the corn on the grill and quickly began turning the ears over while Scott said, “We’ve been hit again. A bomb in a subway station in Philly.”

  “Oh no. Is it bad?”

  “Rush hour combined with an explosive device containing thousands of screws. You do the math.”

  “How did . . . hang on a sec. Skeet, can you come take over?” While Riley headed toward the quiet of the pool area, the big man walked over. As they passed, Riley said to him, “We’ve been hit again—a bomb in a subway in Philly.”

  Immediately, Skeeter grabbed Riley and pushed him toward the house. “Finish your call inside! Keith, get over here and watch the food.”

  Simmons
was about to protest until he saw Skeeter drawing his gun. “You got it, man!”

  Riley knew better than to argue with Skeeter. After he closed the patio door, he said into the phone, “Scott, you still there?”

  “Yeah, what’s going on?”

  “Skeeter.”

  “Enough said.”

  Riley looked out the window and saw Simmons standing in front of the grill, looking at him helplessly. Riley motioned for him to flip the steaks over. Simmons gave a thumbs up and set to work.

  Beyond Simmons, Riley could see Skeeter kneeling in a defensive posture, scanning the tree line with the barrel of his gun looking like a third eye.

  “Okay, tell me what happened.”

  “There’s not much to tell yet. We still don’t even know if it was a suicide bomb. I’ll tell you what I can tell you when I get more intel. Right now, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “We’re fine.” Riley rapped on the glass door and pointed at the corn. Simmons began turning them again. “I can’t believe they’ve started again.”

  “Pach, don’t go jumping to any conclusions. We don’t even know who ‘they’ are yet. There are a lot of other bad guys in this world. We don’t need to automatically assume it’s the Cause.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” But the sick feeling in Riley’s stomach told him that Scott wasn’t right. No, this is the Cause. You guys said it yourselves: we hurt them, but we didn’t kill them. “You’ll keep me up-to-date.”

  “That’s what I promised you. Hang in, bud. I’ll call back later.”

  “Thanks, Scott.” Riley pressed End, then sat down at the kitchen table. He put his head in his hands and prayed, Lord, please don’t let this start again. I just . . . I don’t want to go through this again. I can’t go through it again. The dead face of his friend Sal Ricci flashed in his mind. His chest felt like a hand had gripped his heart. But if You do let it start, please protect those around me.