Forsaken

by James David Jordan

  “So are you in charge?”

  He laughed. “Believe me, she’s in charge. I’m responsible for important deliveries, that’s all. I’m a CPA with an accounting firm in the Loop. I just do this to help Mom out. She doesn’t trust the regular guys with this kind of thing. Simon Mason is big, you know. Are you a reporter or something?”

  “I’m with the Mason staff. Where did all of these plants come from?”

  “Our greenhouse in Elmwood Park. I’ve got the delivery ticket if you want to see it. Are we in some sort of trouble?”

  “Not at all. Were you with the plants in the truck from the greenhouse?”

  “I drove the truck. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to get finished here. This thing is starting in thirty minutes. There must be ten thousand people out there already.” He pointed at the giant video screen that blocked the stage from the auditorium seats. For the first time, I noticed the low rumble of the entering crowd.

  “How many more plants are you bringing out here?”

  “These two are the last ones. Are you security?”

  I threw up my hands. “You got me.”

  He looked me over. “Wow, security in our building doesn’t look like you.”

  “Thanks.” I thought about saying the polite thing: You’re not so bad yourself. His breath and oily hair simply made it impossible. “How long has O’Reilly’s been in business?”

  “Forty years, last November.” He rolled the other palm off the cart and stood it up.

  “Good enough. Thank you for answering my questions.”

  “You’re welcome.” He slid a hand through his hair and then wiped it on the pocket of his khakis, leaving a greasy splotch. “What are you doing after the show?”

  “Sorry, I’ve got a boyfriend.” That was entirely untrue. “By the way, they tell me it’s not a show. It’s a celebration. They’re very particular about that.”

  He shrugged and turned his back, then stuck a finger into the soil around one of the pots. He grabbed a plastic watering can from the cart, leaned over, and poured water around the base of the palm. As far as he was concerned, I was no longer there. I tapped my foot on the floor and watched him work. This guy was gross, but I would have liked to think that I could hold his attention for more than thirty seconds. I know exactly how ridiculous that sounds, but it’s the way I think sometimes.

  I turned to leave, then stopped and turned back. “One more thing: Do you know who’s in charge of the sound system?”

  “No idea.” He didn’t even look up. I was yesterday’s news.

  I walked to the back of the stage and examined a six-foot speaker. Windy City Speaker Hut appeared in white stenciled letters across the back. I trotted down the steps to the floor behind the stage and looked around. Though people were milling everywhere, they all appeared to be part of the show. I pulled out my phone, dialed information, and within a few seconds was listening to an after-hours recording for Windy City Speaker Hut. I punched zero for the operator but got another recording.

  Only twenty minutes until the first performers were to take the stage. I bounded back up the stairs and moved from speaker to amplifier to speaker. Some of them had removable backs that I pulled away to check inside. Most were screwed shut. I shook the smaller ones to see if anything rattled. This was getting me nowhere. I headed backstage to look for Simon.

  The area behind the stage was like a train station during rush hour. Any terrorist worth a nickel could have walked in with a grenade and wiped out half of the traveling cast. I finally found Simon walking up the steps from the lower concourse. Behind him Elise hurried to keep up, a laptop clutched tightly under her arm. I waited for them at the top of the stairs.

  Simon carried a tattered leather Bible in one hand. He offered a tight-lipped smile and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Hi, Taylor.” His eyes moved, from me, to the stage, then back to me. Elise had been right. He was nervous.

  I gathered that this would be a poor time to talk about security details. Besides, there was little that could be done at this point. I motioned toward the stage. “I checked some things out. Maybe we can talk after the show.”

  Elise’s face darkened.

  “I mean, the celebration.”

  Simon moved over to the curtain that served as a stage door and pulled it aside. The youth choir that I had seen earlier was hustling onto the bleachers near the back of the stage. To the side of the bleachers, a rock band scrambled into position and screeched out a few tuning notes. The drummer climbed onto a glass-encased stand that held bright-orange drums of various sizes. Elevated and isolated, covered with tattoos and wearing a stocking cap, he reminded me of a clown perched on a trap door in a carnival dunking booth.

  “Don’t see any terrorists with machine guns,” Simon said with a weak laugh. He stepped aside and held the curtain open for me. “Want to take a closer look?”

  From where we were, just at the edge of the giant screen, we could see both the stage and a part of the auditorium. People moved up and down the aisles. The floor seemed to vibrate with the buzz of thousands of conversations.

  “Machine guns aren’t what worry me at an event like this,” I said. “Bombs loaded with nails and ball bearings are what keep me awake.”

  He cleared his throat. “Right.”

  The bass player thumped out the first chords of a gospel tune. The singers swayed on the bleachers. A few of them put their hands to their mouths for a last, throat-clearing cough. In front of them the giant screen scrolled up toward the ceiling. A wave of applause began in the front row of the auditorium and washed toward the back as the rising screen revealed the stage.

  I frowned. “Hey, where did those two plants beside the podium come from?”

  Simon looked around the curtain again. “What plants?”

  “The bushy things on each side of the podium— those weren’t there twenty minutes ago.”

  “I don’t know what was there or not there. I’ve been practicing my Bible talk.”

  “It’s a pulpit, not a podium,” Elise said, nudging me aside. “Let me see.” She peered through the gap in the curtain. “It doesn’t look unusual to me. I don’t remember for sure, but it seems that we always have plants beside the pulpit, don’t we Simon?”

  He extended his hands, palms up. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

  I looked again. “I know those were not there before.”

  “Someone must have brought them out after you left. What’s so unusual about that?” Elise said.

  “I was talking to the son of the landscape company’s owner. He told me the two palm trees that he was taking off the cart were the last of the plants for the stage. Those two by the podium—the pulpit—were not there.”

  “What if they weren’t?” Simon was frowning now. “Do you really think someone can hide a bomb in a potted plant?”

  “You better believe someone can hide a bomb in a potted plant! Granted, the odds are overwhelmingly against it; but the odds are overwhelmingly against just about any threat. The point is that you are the focus of attention of some very dangerous people. If they did put a bomb in one of those plants, it would almost certainly kill you. Those plants weren’t there when I checked the stage earlier, and according to the landscaping company they’re not supposed to be there now. I’m telling you that it would be prudent to check them out.”

  Elise tapped her fingers on the laptop she was holding under her arm. “Well, what do you want us to do, call off the show because there are two potted plants that are unaccounted for?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “The show?”

  “The celebration.” She scowled at me.

  “No, we don’t need to call off the celebration. We simply need to check out those two plants.”

  Simon sighed. “How are we going to do that in front of fifteen thousand people? You know, Taylor, I’m not the president of the United States and it’s not practical to do some of the things you may be accustomed to doing for security. Beside
s, if we check out the plants and they do contain bombs, won’t whoever planted them just set them off?”

  “It’s possible. More likely there would be a timing device. Whoever planted them would probably stick out like a sore thumb in this crowd. Besides, the printed programs give a great timetable for what’s going to happen and when it’s going to happen. You’re scheduled to be on the stage three-quarters of the time. A timer wouldn’t have to be precise and would still work just fine.”

  He put a hand on his hip. “Fine, but that brings us back to the question: What now?”

  “Can I see that?” I reached for the program Elise carried in her hand.

  She pulled it away. “Why?”

  I looked at my watch. “There’s very little time. Would you please just give me the program?”

  She glanced at Simon. He nodded. She handed me the program.

  “The song leader’s going to pray right at the beginning, isn’t he?”

  “That’s right,” Simon said.

  “We can dim the lights. No one will think anything about it. I’ll get the plants off during the prayer. Most of the people won’t notice. If a bomb blows up, at least you’re back here and not out on the stage. Elise, who’s running the lighting?”

  “Wait a minute,” Simon said. “This seems like a huge overreaction to me. We can’t cart potted plants around during a prayer. What will people think?”

  I threw up my arms. “If you’re dead, it won’t matter what people think!”

  He took a quick look around us to see if anyone had heard. “Okay, calm down. We get the point.”

  I lowered my voice. “I’m sorry if I sound impatient, but dangerous people have threatened your life and you are acting as if you don’t take that seriously. Apparently you don’t know what people like this are capable of, but I do. We are not overreacting. We are using common sense. Your life has changed. You’d better get used to it if you want to stay alive.”

  Elise chewed her lip. I wondered whether she had the authority to fire me before I’d been hired? I was just about to tell both of them that this was a bad fit and I should just hop a plane back to Dallas when she turned to Simon. “She’s right. Your life is in danger, and we’ve got to get serious about protecting you.”

  I did a double take. “Excuse me?”

  She turned back to me. “Whatever it takes to protect Simon, we’ll do. The arena runs the lights, but the operators are way up in the third deck. We’ve got walkie-talkies to communicate with them.”

  There was no time to stand around with my mouth hanging open. “Get them on one of those things and tell them there’s been a change and you want them to dim the lights real low during the opening prayer. I’ve got to find two strong guys and a cart.” I took off down the stairs.

  The plan was simple, and it could have gone off smoothly. I did find a cart, and I did find two strong guys, and the lights did go down during the prayer. On the other hand, we happened to choose Chicago’s squeakiest cart, so everyone in the auditorium was already peeking toward the stage and wondering what was going on before we even got the cart to the pulpit. To top it off, the two big strong guys were actually much bigger than they were strong. They dropped one of the plants when they were loading it onto the cart. The pot shattered on the stage, spilling potting soil everywhere. At least that saved me the effort of digging through the dirt.

  The song leader, whom I later learned was named Donny, was a young guy with leather pants, two arms covered in tattoos, and hair past his shoulders. He could have been a biker, but he was a real pro. He didn’t miss a beat with his prayer while we were practically making mud pies on the stage. Fifteen thousand heads, though, were praying with one eye open. After the prayer there was nothing to do but send a maintenance guy out to sweep up the mess while the band played a few bars of a song that Elise identified as “Cleansing My Soul.” Simon glared straight ahead the entire time. I almost hoped that I’d find a bomb in the stupid plant.

  When the second pot finally made it off the stage, I dove into it with my hands. There was nothing there but potting soil. Elise didn’t speak. Simon and ten members of the cast looked at me as if I had just arrived from Mars.

  I was off to a great start.

  I was feeling a bit put upon at the end of the show as Simon finally walked off the stage with the band playing a cool, bluesy version of “Amazing Grace.” The whole situation seemed to have been set up to make me look bad. After all, at the last minute I had walked into a dreadfully planned—strike that—totally unplanned security situation. Yet everyone seemed to expect me to make lemonade out of a rotting lemon, with no inconvenience to anyone but me. To top it off, no one had even told me yet that I was hired. There was nothing fair about it; but let’s face it, there’s nothing fair about life. I braced myself for Simon’s reaction to the plant fiasco.

  To my surprise, there was little reaction at all. In fact, Simon barely acknowledged my presence as he came off the stage. He was busy shaking hands and talking to well-wishers and hangers-on. Finally, I tapped him on the shoulder. “Do you want to meet at the hotel restaurant for breakfast so we can talk about some things?”

  “Actually, I’d rather talk now. We’ve got to discuss what went on tonight.”

  “What do you mean, ‘what went on tonight’?”

  “Frankly, I’m not sure this is a good fit.”

  “Fine. You invited me here; I didn’t volunteer.” I turned to walk away.

  He touched my arm. “Hang on, Taylor. I said I’m not sure. Don’t you think we should talk about this before either of us makes any decisions? How would you feel if you walked off and then I got whacked tonight? That’s what they call it, isn’t it? ‘Whacked’?” He smiled, and I noticed again how much he and his daughter looked alike, particularly when they smiled.

  “That’s what they call it on television. We used to call it ‘popped.’ It wouldn’t make much difference to you, though. Either way you’re stiff.” It was my turn to smile.

  “That’s comforting, thanks. Listen, now that the show’s over, the events manager for the arena is taking us out for dinner. Can you come along? We should be able to talk.”

  “I thought you didn’t call it a show?”

  “Elise doesn’t call it a show. Everyone else does. It drives her crazy. Somehow I doubt if God gets very worked up over what we call it.”

  I looked at my watch. “When are you leaving?”

  “Right now. We don’t have to hang around here for anything. How about it?”

  “I’m here because you asked me to be here. If you want me to go, I’ll go. Elise put my suitcase somewhere. I need to take it with me.”

  Simon turned and waved at Elise. “Where is Taylor’s suitcase?”

  “It’s in your dressing room. We can get it on the way to the car.”

  Simon touched my elbow. “You can follow me.” He headed toward the back of the auditorium.

  When we stopped by his dressing room, I excused myself to use the restroom and took my suitcase with me. I opened the suitcase and pulled my pistol out of its travel box, then got a loaded clip from my ammo box. Once I’d loaded the pistol, I transferred it to a purse I’d packed and slung the purse over my shoulder. When we left the dressing room, we wound through some tunnels to an underground driveway where a black Lincoln Town Car waited for us.

  I stopped at the curb. “Who provided the car?”

  “The same limo service that picked us up at the airport,” Elise said. “We’re meeting the arena person at the restaurant.”

  “Did anyone check them out?”

  “No, but they were recommended by the Mid America Center. Seems pretty safe to me.”

  “That’s a good start, but someone needs to check out the drivers and check the cars from now on. It’s easy to do and eliminates a big risk factor.”

  Simon and Elise looked at each other. Neither responded. Why on earth was I bothering? We got in the car.

  Elise leaned toward the driver. �
�We’re going to Pascali’s Taste of Italy, on the Loop. Do you know where it is?”

  He nodded. “Sure.” With that, we sped out of the tunnel.

  The snow had stopped, and the streets were mostly clear. The only lights in the car were the instrument lights and a pin light over the driver’s ID. I could see the back of the driver’s head, but not much else. His hair was curly and black. I looked at his ID and sucked in a breath.

  His name was Hakim Ahmad Malouf.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  “SO, HAKIM, HAVE YOU been in the United States long?”

  Simon glanced at me, then at the driver’s ID. When he looked back at me, I could see Hakim had his attention.

  “Since I was twelve years old. I listened to your show on the radio while I waited in the car, Reverend Mason. Praise God for you, sir.”

  Simon raised an eyebrow. I leaned forward. “You sound a bit more open-minded than some of the Muslims we read about in the papers these days.”

  “I’m no Muslim, ma’am. I’m Baptist. My family is from Lebanon.” He looked at me in the rearview mirror. “There are many Christians in Lebanon. Always have been. During the civil war, when Syria got involved, many left. Things turned very bad. There are fewer Christians now, but they are still an important force in the country.”

  “I’m sorry. I just thought with your name and all . . .”

  “Do you know any men named Peter or Paul?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are they all Catholic?”

  Simon laughed. “Fair point.”

  “Do you want me to tell you a fact you’ll not believe?”

  I moved my head to the side so I could see more of Hakim’s face in the mirror. “What’s that?”

  “About seventy percent of Arabs in America are Christians.”

  “No way,” Simon said. “Where did you get that information?”

  Hakim smiled into the mirror. “I read it in one of the papers. People leave them in the car all the time. It’s one of the great things about driving for a limo service. I never have to buy a paper. It’s true, though. Only about twenty-five percent of Arabs in this country are Muslim.”