For God and Country: Leona Foxx Suspense Thriller #1

by Ted Peters

  Could the killing be justified? She talked it through with God in a walking prayer. Suppose I had not answered the phone? Suppose I had kept on jumping rope and simply listened to the phone message after everything was over? Perhaps then, Lars would be dead. No, that won’t work.

  Suppose when standing at the tree I had simply refused to fire the gun? Suppose the police would have successfully killed the hostage taker without my help? In that case, I would be innocent. But then one of the cops would be dubbed the killer. No, all of the cops as a group would be responsible. No, actually, the hostage taker himself would be responsible for his own death. This is getting me nowhere. Lars lives, that’s what’s important. Right? Amen?

  So many questions about what might have happened had Leona refused to take action. But Leona had acted. And now history could not be written any other way. Innocence was not an option.

  15 Tuesday, Chicago, 11:58 pm

  Walking the alley from 79th to the Trinity Parking lot was a familiar route for Leona. Nevertheless, not for a moment did she flag in alertness. Once she thought she heard a trash dumpster lid slam down. But when she turned she saw nothing unusual. On another occasion the rustling of leaves drew her attention. But again, no reason for alarm. She did not notice two shining eyes staring at her from the far side of the parking lot. They blinked once, then disappeared.

  Leona arrived on her front porch without incident. Even though she’d left the house door unlocked in her hurry to get to the Bolstads, nothing seemed out of place. Crossing her parsonage doorstep, however, she was threatened with a sense of foreboding. Moments ago she was calm, focused. She had retained her composure while struggling with danger and guilt. Now she felt an uncontrollable dread, but not over what had just happened. Rising up in her was an old fear. An old trauma wrestled for a hold on her soul. She tried to muscle her emotions into control through sheer willpower. Get a hold of yourself. You are home. Here. In Chicago.

  Leona stood upright, took a deep breath, then warily flitted from room to room, turning on lights and checking closets. She returned to the kitchen, filled the electric teapot with water, and found one last bag of chamomile tea. She climbed the stairs and made a nest in her bed.

  Before allowing herself to fall asleep, Leona called Graham on the phone. She told him how she had responded to Harriet’s phone plea, that the police had shot the suspect, and that the questioning had taken such a long time. No mention of who fired the first bullet. Graham was aghast, but grateful that Leona had survived without injury.

  “I think I should stick closer to you,” said Graham. “Before you go out tomorrow, please let me know. I want to, well, come along as you go about your day’s work. Okay?”

  “Yeah. That’s okay. Good night.”

  Leona checked her watch. It was past midnight. Was Leona ready for bed? No. Jitters kept her body restless. Her conscience was in turmoil. Though ordinarily it would be too late for phoning east, she hit the speed dial for Angie and turned on the bedroom LED screen.

  Angie’s phone rang three times, “Hullo,” Angie said with a slow and deeper than normal voice.

  “It’s Leona. Sorry to wake you. Can we talk?”

  “Sure. Just a minute.” Angie slid her feet to the floor and walked away from the bed where Harry was snoring. In the next room she switched on her LED. Soon the two were looking at each other on Skype and ready to talk.

  “Can anybody else see me?” Angie asked.

  “No, of course not. You don’t need to brush your hair for me.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I think I may have just killed a man.”

  “What?”

  “I shot a man in the head. He died immediately.” Leona followed with a recounting of the incident.

  “Will you tell the police?”

  “No. It would help nothing. At this point the cops think they’re responsible for saving the Bolstads. I don’t need the complications.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “On the one hand, I think I did the right thing. My CIA training provides me this mechanism: when I click it on, my nerves firm up. I call it my machine mind. Once I flip the ‘on’ switch, my body and mind synchronize for one and only one thing, my job at the moment. No heart. My heart departs when I click on the machine mind. I think clearly. And I’m as invincible as steel. I was able to perform like a professional in a crisis. On the other hand, when I switch off the machine mind and flip on my human heart, then the denied feelings come roaring to the surface. Angie, I’ve shed blood. Not innocent blood, but blood just the same. Who can wash this blood from my hands? It’ll be hard for me to sleep tonight.”

  “Remember, Lee, I saw you when your machine mind broke down. When you returned from Tehran, you were like a Mercedes that had hit a bridge abutment at ninety. Your parts were splattered, irreparable. You were totaled. And your heart was broken too. For months you seemed unfixable. You did not begin to re-integrate until you made the decision to go to seminary. It does not surprise me that you might be double-minded after what happened this evening.”

  “Angie, I could not have done without you during my recovery. You were so present for me. I treasure all those days when you would read me a poem or a passage from scripture. You helped me put my mind back together with my heart. I owe you my present life, Angie.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Lee. Remember, girlfriends last a lifetime.”

  “I won't forget.”

  “Back to tonight. How secret do I keep this, Lee?”

  “Totally secret.”

  “You probably don’t want to let me in on Graham developments, eh.”

  “Not now. Simply know that I did not and will not tell Graham about what I did tonight.”

  “Gotcha. Grahams come and go but a girlfriend lasts a lifetime.”

  “Dare I say, ‘killings come and go, but a girlfriend lasts a lifetime?’ Sounds terrible, doesn’t it.” Leona went silent for a few seconds. Angie patiently waited.

  “Angie, one more thing before we hang up. Have you seen mom lately? I’ve not had time to call her.”

  “I see your mother every evening. On TV of course. I wouldn’t miss the Karen Foxx Spotlight Show. She interviewed Detroit’s mayor tonight, Keith Steinke. She gave him a rough time. She challenged him fiercely for not inviting enough new industry into Detroit. On the other hand, she turned to the viewing audience to tell Detroiters to help their mayor revitalize the Motor City. She’s a crusader for Detroit. She closes every show with Detroit’s motto in Latin, Speramus meliori, resurgit cineribus. It means: ‘It will rise from the ashes: we hope for better things.’ However, it’s not gonna rise. Detroit’s hopeless. When everything’s finally blown away, she’ll still be standing wearing a Tigers’ cap and waving a white victory flag.”

  “That’s my mom for you.”

  “The Germans say, ein Apfel fällt nicht weit vom Stamm, which means something like an apple doesn’t fall far from its tree trunk. I think that applies to you and your mother.”

  “You do, eh. I gather you’ve not seen her in the neighborhood.”

  “Only on the tube.”

  “Well, I’ll have to bite the bullet and call her. Too late tonight, though. I have to say goodbye now.”

  “G’night.”

  “G’night.”

  After hanging up, Leona sought solace in sleep. But it did not come easily. She offered an audible prayer to God, an anguished prayer in which she told God both sides of her story. “Come on, God, iron out the wrinkles. Why do I have to have such a tortured soul? Why can’t you deliver me some internal peace? I’ve lived up to my side of our bargain. I’m now an ordained pastor. I’m now a shepherd guarding your flock. Why do you call me—literally call me—to blast someone’s brains out? Why can’t my little church be the city built on a hill, the beacon of light showing the world the path toward godliness and community and peace? For Moses, you led the people of Israel with a mighty arm and an outstretched hand. For me, you’re holdi
ng your providential hand behind your back. Why? All I can do is give you my ‘whys,’ God. Amen.”

  She gained little comfort from this. Her eyes remained wide open. She fell asleep even before those eyes closed.

  16 Wednesday, Chicago, 7:15 am

  Leona’s cell phone rang at 7:15 the next morning, Wednesday. Leona was in the midst of her morning wake-up ritual, including her meditation on Psalm 32. She found in verse 3: “When I refused to confess my sin, my whole body wasted away, while I groaned in pain all the day long.” Then she quizzed herself. I’m ready to confess my sin. But I still groan in pain all day long. What’s wrong with this picture?

  “Hello, Lee. This is Hayim” said the voice on the phone.

  “Hi, Hy. How’s my favorite rabbi?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

  “Nancy says you made the morning news. You were a witness to a robbery or something on South Marquette last night. The guy got killed. That’s why I’m asking if you’re all right.”

  “Oh, that. Yes, I’m not hurt. The Bolstads are members of my congregation. They didn’t get hurt either. Everything’s okay, Hy.”

  “How many miles are you running these days?”

  “I’ve been able to get in ten or even twelve on a good day.”

  “That’s almost far enough to make it to Hyde Park. Make it a good day today. Why don’t you come by the apartment for brunch. Nancy’s got eggs and toast. No bacon. Sorry.”

  “That’s an invitation an impecunious pastor just can’t turn down. Give me an hour and a half. I’ll be ready for orange juice when I get there. Ya got kosher orange juice?”

  “We’ve got a gallon. See you shortly.”

  After dressing in a freshly laundered jogging suit, Leona headed down the stairs to the front door. On the porch she was greeted by another omen. A dead crow. Again, the neck was broken, perhaps from vigorous shaking. The crow found its burial plot in the garden next to the squirrel. With her mind on the crow funeral and the scheduled visit to the Levys’ for brunch, Leona forgot about phoning Graham.

  Leona’s jog took her north, past the South Shore Cultural Center and on toward 55th Street. She could not shut off her mind; so she could not enjoy the beauty of the lakeshore. Like a cinema, her mind kept playing and re-playing the scenes from the evening before. The shock she had experienced after the event was over was superimposed on each scene as she viewed the course of events again. Like Lady Macbeth’s cry of forsakenness, “out out damned spot,” Leona could not cleanse the blood spot in her conscience.

  Despite the unsteadiness of her mind, her body jogged rhythmically on. The tall brick apartment buildings in the neighborhood to her left provided their residents with spectacular views of Lake Michigan. The inhabitants included faculty from the University of Chicago and the Catholic Theological Union, as well as retired couples from Loop businesses.

  Leona turned off the lakeside trail and headed inland toward the apartment constellation. In one of the building lobbies she found the familiar names: Hayim and Nancy Levy. She pressed the button next to their name. A voice greeted her and unlocked the elevator.

  As soon as the elevator doors closed and Leona had begun her ascent to the twelfth floor, another figure quickly entered the building lobby. It was a young man, a Caucasian, twenty-five, bearded, overweight, yet wearing athletic clothes—a gray and maroon sweatsuit. He bent over to study the list of residents. His face indicated he had found what he was looking for. He took out a cell phone and typed carefully into his calendar, “Hayim and Nancy Levy, Apt. 1220.” A moment later he was gone.

  17 Wednesday, Chicago, 9:15 am

  As the brunch chatter dissipated and the three were sipping their coffee, Leona turned to Hayim. Hayim and his wife, Nancy, were at that age when they think about retirement, grandchildren, and recreational travel. His hair was turning from gray to white, while the color of Nancy’s, aided by a talented stylist, was close to the color it had been decades earlier.

  “Now, my favorite rabbi...,” Leona paused. “You know how grateful I am to you for helping me through the dark night of my soul back when you were a visiting professor in Berkeley. You provided pastoral care to my other student colleagues as well. We’d make you an honorary Lutheran if you’d eat lutefisk.”

  “Hey, I eat gefilte fish. Isn’t that good enough?”

  “No, that’s just bad enough.”

  “Nancy and I listen to Prairie Home Companion. Doesn’t that qualify us as Lutherans?”

  “Why would you find Norwegian Lutherans worth hearing about?”

  “It’s about small town life. We know what that’s about. What happens in Lake Wobegon happens in every small town.”

  All exchanged warm smiles. Leona continued. “Well, can we lower the iron curtain of confidentiality?”

  “This sounds private,” said Nancy. “Should I go to the kitchen?”

  “Actually, Nancy, your wisdom might be helpful too,” said Leona. Nancy settled in.

  “What is it, Leona?” asked Hayim. “We’ve got plenty of hot coffee.”

  “I’m only a morning two-cupper, but today I’ll take a coffee refill whenever it’s offered.” Leona filled the two in on the events of the week, including Graham’s suspicion that she might be subject to kidnapping. She even confessed to the secret shooting of the bandit the night before. She took her time, providing many details. “As you know, Hy, this is not for public sharing. Only you and my friend Angie know the whole truth about me.”

  “The iron curtain of silence has been drawn, right, Nancy?”

  “Right,” said the rabbi’s wife.

  “My soul is aching,” said Leona. “I feel like I’m a killer. I’d feel this way whether I pulled the trigger last night or would have let Lars die at knife point or let a Chicago cop pull the trigger or…Oh, I don’t know how to make peace with myself.”

  The rabbi said nothing. He looked into Leona’s pained face with compassionate eyes of understanding.

  “I keep going over it and over it in my mind,” Leona said with her eyes now directed toward the floor. “I’m a killer. But if I had not acted, then Lars would be dead rather than the bandit. I’m the one who made the difference. At least I think I’m the one who made the difference. But it doesn’t really matter whether it was me or not, does it?”

  The look on the rabbi’s face revealed that he knew she was not asking for an answer. He waited. Leona continued looking at the floor, thinking. A minute passed. Then, she looked up at Hayim and their eyes connected. He knew it was his time to speak.

  “I think you’ve been thrown into your destiny, Lee. But you also had your freedom. You were free to wait for the police. You didn’t need to run to the Bolstad house. You chose to do so. You freely embraced your destiny. This is who you are. This is the Leona I’ve come to know. This is the Leona I’ve come to love, I might add.” Nancy nodded an agreement and looked directly at Leona’s sad face.

  Silence reigned, but not for long. “Peace, Hayim. Peace!” she exclaimed with a fist thumping the table.

  “Your loss of peace occurred many years ago, Lee. Not just last night. You might think of it this way. You were trained to kill by some of the most professional assassins on our planet. You learned well. Could it be that God was a good steward of your talent last night? Might God have placed you in the line of fire at the right moment to provide, shall we say, salvation for the Bolstad family?”

  “Good try, Hy.”

  “It’s more than a try, Leona. It’s good theology. Remember, God’s got a pretty messy world to work with. A conscience-plagued soul combined with unflinching courage might be one of the tools God uses to clean up part of the mess.”

  Leona looked at her favorite rabbi with a slight smile, expressing gratitude. Then, she changed the subject. “I live alone, you know. I needed to tell somebody. Thanks. Now I need to think something through. I don’t know how these various events are related, if at all. Yet, he
re’s my question.”

  “Should I fill your coffee cup before you drop the big question?” asked Nancy. Leona shoved her cup across the table and allowed it to be filled. Then she turned toward the rabbi.

  “Should I take steps to protect myself? I want to focus my time, my energy, my prayer, my psyche on my ministry and only my ministry. If I give my attention over to these events—and if these events mean nothing in themselves—then I could be wasting valuable resources needed for my parish work. I don’t want to cheat my sheep.”

  “Do you think you can trust this guy, Graham?” asked Hayim.

  “No, not yet. Maybe in the future. He’s too new and too suspicious to have earned my trust. For all I know, what he’s said might be a big ruse to get some information out of me, some information too dangerous for me to have shared even with you. But you didn’t need to know the political stuff. I’m rambling here. No. I’m not ready to declare Graham an ally.”

  “Leona, your safety is important.”

  “Thanks, Hy. But if all of this is nonsense or coincidence, then my safety is not really at stake.”

  “The risk is that it might not be nonsense or coincidence. The risk is that someone associated with this CUB, or whatever it is, wants to kidnap you and force you to divulge who the secret anti-nuke guy is in the Iranian government. If contractors kill foreigners on U.S. government whim, they’re certainly capable of roughing up, if not murdering, our domestic friends.”

  Leona could only sit thinking, while her eyes gazed out the Levy picture window at Lake Michigan. “Beneath the surface of the glistening waves,” she said, “there’s a war going on. Big fish are hunting and killing and eating little fish. The little fish are hunting and killing and eating insects and frog eggs. All a frog egg wants to do is hatch and give to the world the life of a new frog. Yet, its chances of survival are one in a hundred. From the moon, Earth’s atmosphere looks like placid Lake Michigan. Yet, what’s under the surface is war—relentless and merciless war.”