The Perfect Soldier

by B D Grant

  “No next of kin,” he repeats, locking the drawer. The hand holding the tiny key disappears inside his robe and returns empty. He pulls his robe off, a gentle heat hitting Susan from across the desk. He absentmindedly attempts to smooth the shoulders of his shirt, the indentation of the robe still visible.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he says, giving up on the wrinkles. “I have a lunch date with an elderly member of the church, and I can’t be late or I’ll hear about it for the entirety of my lunch.”

  “We could look over your members’ information while you’re at lunch. If we find anything helpful, we can have it out for you to go over by the time you return.” Not to mention Susan still has a list of questions to ask.

  He lifts his chin. “Do you have a warrant?”

  Susan gives him a sweet smile, hiding her surprise. “This doesn’t require a warrant. We’re only locating everyone’s families. Wouldn’t you want to know if one of your loved ones was missing?”

  O’Leary lets out a deep breath, and she thinks he’s going to agree, but then he walks to the door, looking for her to follow. “You can check out those copies I gave you while I’m out, but without a warrant I can’t permit any more.” As he opens the door, June, waiting on the other side, steps away and throws her purse over her shoulder hastily. He eyes her movements as suspiciously as Susan does. “And where are you going?” he asks her.

  She smiles, “You’re going to want someone with you. This particular member has been known to have lunches with Pastor Dave that would last until nightfall. If I’m there, I think I can get you out before sundown.”

  “I think I’ll be fine,” he tells her.

  “Pastor Dave thought the same thing.”

  “Fine,” O’Leary concedes.

  Once outside, Pastor O’Leary walks Susan out to her car as June stops to lock up the building. He checks June’s distance as they cross the street to the parking lot where Lane is waiting. Apparently satisfied, he turns to Susan. “Be here in two hours and I might have something for you.”

  June bounces over, her hair stiff and steadfast in the breeze. Susan shakes her hand bye, spouting a, “Nice to meet you” to the both of them.

  She climbs in the car where Lane has already ducked in behind the driver’s seat. Bill walks out a few minutes later from around the other side of the church where the smaller, private parking lot is located. The early bird definitely gets the worm here.

  Once they’re all inside of the rental car, the team takes turns reviewing what little information they have gathered. None of them received the vital information they were searching for, a link between the bombers of Good Faith Fellowship and any suspicious activities or terrorist-related groups. Besides the obviously fake mission trip, every bomber apparently had a normal life, and none had a criminal history.

  Again, Susan wonders what all is in those boxes of Pastor Dave’s. It would be nice to take a look without the scrupulous eye of O’Leary watching her. Although they’d determined that the outside cameras weren’t functional, the one Susan had spotted outside of O’Leary’s office could be an issue. But none of it will matter if O’Leary actually has something useful to share.

  “Has it already been two hours?” O’Leary asks when he walks up to Susan, who waits patiently by the side entrance.

  “It’s beautiful outside,” she says truthfully, adjusting the strap of her oversized purse on her shoulder. “Getting back early meant I could enjoy it.”

  “Well, I won’t stand in the way,” O’Leary says, unlocking the church doors. “This will be quick.” He holds a door open for Susan to enter first.

  “If this is you telling me that you don’t have anything that could help my investigation, than why did I have to wait two hours?”

  “I needed fewer ears,” he says simply.

  They get to his office again. The door which leads to the back offices is now closed, and for the first time, Susan sees the intricate locks above the doorknob, all of which O’Leary has to unlock.

  “Did Pastor Dave have those installed?” she asks as the door finally opens.

  “No,” he says, having to jiggle the key out of the last lock. “June did after the last detective came round. That’s why I didn’t want her piddling about while we spoke. She says the break-in has to do with the seven missing persons who never made it back from the mission trip.”

  Susan takes her notepad out. “So there was Pastor Dave and six others with him?”

  “Yes. From what they’ve told me, originally there were nine that left on the trip, but two returned, a married couple. And no,” he says before she can get the words out, “they aren’t part of the church anymore, and I don’t have their contact information. They moved quite suddenly after returning. I wasn’t here yet, but from what June has told me it made the whole situation quite suspicious.”

  “You had a break-in?”

  His forehead creases into a serious stare. “We sure did. It happened the night after the first detective asked me about that picture.” He looks her over carefully, his eyes still fixed on hers as he cautiously says, “Will my office be broken into tonight once you’ve left?”

  Susan’s mouth gapes at the insinuation as if breaking in had never crossed her mind. “You think it was the detective who broke in?”

  “I know she did.” He walks behind his desk and takes the first two bibles from his stack before picking up the third. It’s been hollowed out in the center, a small storage space carved into the pages. He pulls out a thumb drive and sets the carved-out bible down on his desk, still open. “Pastor Dave did install that camera outside the office, though. Did you look at the snapshots that I put at the bottom of the stack I gave you?”

  Susan pulls the sleek faux-leather bag from her shoulder that doubles as her briefcase, and triples as her extra firearm holster. She removes everything Pastor O’Leary had given her so that the bag is only half as heavy. Bill, Lane, and Susan had already taken pictures on their phones in case O’Leary demanded that she give it back.

  “I didn’t see anything that jumped out at me,” she admits, pulling the snapshots out. “I couldn’t find anyone that you’ve showed me who’s linked to the mission trip.”

  “Be straight with me,” the pastor tells her. It’s a phrase he may use often in his line of work, but Susan bets that she uses it a whole lot more. “Did you know that there was a detective here before you?”

  He’s perceptive, Susan gives him that. She knows she had her best detective face on, better than any poker face. She was going to get around to asking about her, but he’s beat her to it.

  “It’s normal to have multiple investigators in a case like this.” O’Leary begins to frown at her, his eyes glancing at the thumb drive in his hand. “But,” Susan adds, “I had no idea someone had already made contact with you. I couldn’t even tell you who it could have been. In a town this size, I would think that you would have known the detective if she had been local.”

  Pastor O’Leary, satisfied by her answer, he inserts the thumb drive into his desktop. He rolls the mouse around on a mousepad that has WWJD printed in black, scrolling cursive letters, and the large screen beams to life.

  Susan opens the front door of Good Faith Fellowship with such a force that it slams against the side of the building, leaving a tiny knick in the wood frame.

  June will no doubt have a field day later on when she watches the exterior cameras that Susan and her team had mistakenly thought were inoperable. She will take Pastor O’Leary to the door and show him the mark Susan left on their antique structure. O’Leary will then use his thumbnail to scrap the paint from the metal handle of the door, commenting that their house of worship must have a sprawling history of helping law enforcement based on all of the chips and divots on nearly all the doors and window frames. June will then complain that the paint will have to be redone. Pastor O’Leary will agree, mentioning that her deep blue nail polish as a nice color to bequeath on the wood in its next laye
r of life. He will tell her that the change to the exterior of the church will match the positive changes he hopes to impart on the souls within. The next day, June will have paint sample palettes in all of the shades of blue for the church board to vote on.

  When he sees Susan coming, Bill jumps from the car as Lane grumbles from the passenger seat, “This can’t be good.”

  Bill’s hand reaches for the service pistol on his hip. He calls across the parking lot, “You alright?”

  “We need to go,” she tells him anxiously as she jogs across the street.

  Lane moves into the backseat, allowing Susan to take her spot in the copilot seat beside Bill.

  Bill gets back in the car as Susan swings open the passenger door. “What did he tell you?”

  “He gave me these.” She hands Bill one photograph and gives Lane the rest of what O’Leary had given her before his lunch date and the list of church members who left on the mission trip.

  “Seven names,” Lane states, reading the first page of what she’s handed him. “Great,” he says, getting his energy back. “We have their names, so now we can start searching for the ones on the list we don’t already know are dead.”

  “The couple with the same last name came back before the attacks took place and moved out of town,” she tells them. “I think they realized what they were getting into and chickened out. They need to be questioned. The only hang-up is that the church has no further contact information for them beyond their old address.”

  “I’ll send their names to headquarters,” Lane offers.

  Bill is still examining what he was handed. “And this is…?”

  “That is from the church’s surveillance—which works, by the way—showing the detective who came by asking about the pastor’s missing person’s report. Lane has the surveillance photos of the three of us walking around the building Saturday night.”

  “Would you look at that,” Lane says from the backseat, holding up the picture O’Leary had given Susan with an overly satisfied chuckle at her expense. “We look like perps,” Lane says cheerily.

  “I agree. Lucky for us, he believes we’re real detectives so he isn’t going to give that to the police.”

  Bill shakes his head, handing the photo back to Susan and pulling the car keys from his pocket. “Do you want to email that to Doherty or should I?”

  “You can drive,” Susan instructs. “I’ll send him this one myself.”

  From the backseat Lane asks, “Why is that one so important?”

  She hands the photo from the surveillance footage over her head back to him. “The woman you see there isn’t a detective,” she tells Lane as Bill puts the car in gear. “That’s William McBride’s sister, Catherine.” Susan turns in her seat. “And do you see what she’s holding?”

  Lane can make out the rectangle in her hand. “Is that a picture?”

  “Precisely,” Susan says, plopping back down in her seat. “It’s the photograph we have of the bombing suspects standing in front of the church.”

  Bill pulls out of the parking lot, heading back toward their hotel. “Are we thinking she was the one who got that photo in the hands of that reporter?”

  Susan nods. “Yes we are.”

  Lane squints at the photo again. “So what’s our next move?”

  “We follow her,” Susan answers.

  Lane gives up the photo to Susan. “How do you know where she’s going?”

  “Simple,” she says, drawing her breath out so that Lane might squirm a little. “O’Leary told her where the group was supposed to meet others who were joining them on the mission trip, and” she passes him another still photo, “we know what she’s driving.”

  The brown sedan is unimpressive shown sitting in the parking lot of the church. “The picture’s a still from the church’s security camera. O’Leary said that’s what she’s driving.”

  Susan plays with the button on her door, putting enough pressure on it for the button to give but not so much as to engage the mechanism inside the door. “You can ask her that once we’ve caught up with her.”

  Chapter 7

  A familiar voice echoes down the hall to my room. The laugh that trails it is undeniably familiar. When the laughter gets close, I call out, “Hey Baldy, is that you?”

  The laughter stops abruptly, and the partially closed door to my room opens. Bryant strides into the room, tall and strong with a natural upwards curl at the corners of his mouth. I met Bryant after becoming a student at The Southern Academy. He, along with Dillon and Ben, are among the Seraphim security working for my uncle.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living,” he rushes over, perhaps not expecting to find me sitting up in bed.

  I laugh, which causes my hand to snap up protectively to cover my collarbone. The medicine isn’t enough to alleviate the pain; it only reduces it. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts,” I whine.

  The light from the fluorescent bulbs reflects off the top of his smooth head. “It should. You have a fractured clavicle, bleeding on the brain, a fractured foot, and one ugly mug,” he adds. “Seriously though,” he says, gesturing towards my face, “I don’t think you got enough beauty sleep.”

  I struggle not to laugh again, resorting to a light that chuckle. My collarbone lets me know that even that is too much, so I try soothing it with my only free hand. I know I look like a mess as much as I feel like one. I have one arm in a sling to help with the collarbone, a cast on the lower half of my leg that’s big enough to make any self-conscious teen wince, and a catheter connected to a bag hanging off my bed. My nurse was nice enough to cover it with a towel so everyone who entered my room wouldn’t have to be visually offended by my pee.

  Bryant drops into the chair beside my bed with the ease of an old friend. “You should try a moisturizer. Maybe that would help.”

  I’ve rarely see Bryant alone like this. Most of the time he’s within arm’s reach of Ben or Dillon, or both. It was my weak friendship with the three of them that got me my spot in the raid party. The three of them along with a fourth security guard, Tony, made up Delta team. They were the last team to be called in if things went sideways, and things went totally sideways. Even when we showed up, things continued to go wrong.

  It was Bryant and Ben who watched Tony get shot by Rogues inside the first building we reached. Dillon Weston and I had been stuck outside, sniper fire bearing down on us. Tony’s death will be one of many things from that day that I will never forget. Bryant’s bright eyes show no signs of scars being carried from the raid but I know it affected him, Ben, and Dillon even deeper than it did me.

  I continue to hold my aching collarbone, knowing it won’t be safe from the risk of laugher until he’s gone. “What are you doing at the hospital? These doctors are good, but they can’t fix what’s wrong with you,” I counter.

  “Ben and I dropped off some Dynamar kids from the school who aren’t doing so hot.”

  “The ones who’re having migraines?”

  “One in the same. If you ask me,” he says, lowering his voice. “It’s a united effort to get out of going to class.” He reclines in the chair, returning to his normal volume. “It’s a good one too. One of them went as far as to puke on the ride here. Talk about giving it a hundred and ten percent.”

  I scrunch my nose at the thought. “That’s gross. So where is Ben? Has he already found a cute nurse to hit on?”

  Ben, was usually the one in the group breaking the rule of no fraternization with students, specifically female students. He was constantly flirting with the senior girls. If I hadn’t had my eye on Dillon, whose natural charisma had me enthralled from the first time I laid eyes on him, I might have been one of Ben’s groupies too.

  “Nope, Ben drew the short straw. He’s cleaning the puke out of the van.”

  “And Dillon?”

  Bryant’s aware that I’m fond of Dillon. He also knows that if he were to call me out on it, I would deny it.

  “Our dear friend, Mr. Weston, i
s laying low since the enemy is still out there, to some extent.”

  I nod as I think about how right he is. “Is he still working at the school?”

  Bryant scratches his chin as if he has to think about it as he sits up in the chair. It creaks in protest from the shift in weight. “Possibly,” the chair gives one last creak as he moves to the edge before getting up. “I better go check on Ben,” he says with a growing look of concern. “He’s been alone too long.”

  Such a look doesn’t compliment his features. Bryant’s unusual mood change has me thinking that he might be hiding something. I want to ask if Dillon’s alright, but it’s clear that Bryant doesn’t want to talk about it.

  I put on a happy face. “Ben is already up to no good. I’m sure of it.”

  To my relief, Bryant’s easy smile resurfaces. “No doubt.” With a quick nod he says, “I’ll see you around,” as he turns to head for the door.

  “Hey, wait a second. How did you know about my injuries? You been reading my chart?”

  “Karen told me,” he states. “She’s been keeping us company over at the school.”

  I try my best to appear annoyed. “Haven’t you two heard of patient privacy?”

  “Take that up with Karen,” he says over his shoulder, leaving the door wide open as he walks out.

  Forty-eight hours out of my coma, and my CT scan shows that my noggin is all good. The doctors are happy enough with the results that I’m allowed out of my bed once I’ve been shown how to use a leg caddy. Because of my fractured collarbone, I can’t even use crutches. They have already informed me that I’m not allowed to leave this floor of the hospital, but I can half-walk, half-roll up and down the halls as much as I want in order to regain my strength.

  For my first excursion, I roll out of my room and head toward my father’s. I hear him snoring before I’ve entered the room. The lights are out when I crack the door open, so I don’t even bother to go inside.

  Since the grenade attack, we’re in a different section of the hospital than they’d placed our people at first. I’m not even sure how much of the first wing is still standing. Here, every window I’ve seen since waking up has been covered with thick, honeycomb blinds.