by Lauren Carr
Hand in hand, they made their way up to the porch of the cabin marked “Registration.”
“I’m looking for cabin eight,” she told the group on the porch.
“Are you with the police?” one of the women asked.
“I’m working with them.” Jessica turned to the two boys. “I understand one of you saw Mr. Dooley coming in from the woods the night he was killed.”
One of the boys nodded his head. “I did. Then after he went inside his cabin, I heard screaming. I heard him being killed.”
“Where was he coming from when you saw him go into the cabin?” she asked.
The boy pointed toward the woods at the other end of the motel. “There’s a path that takes you to the creek where you can go fishing.”
Thanking him, Jessica and Murphy walked hand in hand past all the cabins to the path into the woods.
“The boy saw Russell Dooley coming in from the woods the night he was murdered,” Murphy said.
“Time of death is between midnight and one o’clock,” Jessica said. “It’s been freezing cold this whole week—”
“That’s because it’s winter.”
Shivering in the cold, they entered the dark, rough-cut path through the trees. The bright sun shone through the treetops and danced on the white snow.
“What was Russell Dooley doing in the woods that late at night?” Jessica said. “Not night fishing.”
“Meeting someone?” Murphy suggested.
“He had a cabin to himself,” Jessica said.
“But there are people all around that motel area,” Murphy noted. “He was out to get your dad. You said he had a bunch of money on him. Maybe he brought it to hire a hit man to kill your father—on his wedding day.”
“I have another theory,” she said. “Russell Dooley always claimed my father framed his wife, Leigh Ann. That’s what she claimed, but it was bull. He believed her because if he accepted the truth that she had committed murder, then he would have also had to accept the fact that he married a sociopath.”
She stopped at a fork in the path. In the freezing winter, with the deep snow, it was easy for them to make out the one set of tracks that led down to the creek, which they could hear rushing toward Deep Creek Lake a few miles away. Tugging at Murphy’s hand, Jessica trudged down the trail toward the water.
“What goes around, comes around,” she said. “Russell Dooley told his daughter that he had proof that my dad framed Leigh Ann and that he was coming out here to confront him. He even hinted that my father might kill him to silence him.”
Murphy chuckled nervously. “Do you believe that?”
At the creek’s edge, she stopped. “No, because it’s not true. But I believe Russell Dooley wanted people to believe that. He believed his wife was convicted of a murder that she had not committed because she was framed. Can you think of a more fitting punishment for my father than being framed for a murder he didn’t commit?”
“The blood that they did not have at the hospital,” Murphy said.
Jessica nodded her head. “Of course, he had to have it in something when he brought it to the cabin. If the police found the blood in IV bags, they would have known.”
Murphy whirled around in the clearing at the creek. “So after planting the blood in the cabin, he had to put the bags somewhere the police would not find it.” Spotting a rural trash can next to an outhouse, he removed the lid.
“The boy saw him when he came back after getting rid of the blood.” She looked around him to peer inside. “What’s in there?”
“There’s a bunch of dead leaves.” Murphy reached his hand down inside.
“Careful,” she instructed.
He abruptly let out loud anguished cry that filled the trees above them, and then he dropped to his knees.
“Murphy!” she cried out while clutching him. “Are you okay?”
Heartily, Murphy laughed.
She slapped his shoulder. “How could you?”
“I couldn’t resist.” He continued to dig through the moldy, rotten leaves. “You should have seen your face.”
“I’m going to get you for that.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“How?”
With a wide toothy grin that showed off his dimples for all they were worth, he extracted four IV bags from the bottom of the trashcan. Three still had blood in them. One was empty.
“How’s that for making it up to you?” he asked her.
Bishop Sullivan was having the best Christmas ever. For once, he had gotten everything on his list. A week after Christmas, he had barely come out of his room in his mother’s basement, for he had yet to grow tired of his new computer with a touch screen, his games, and his smart television.
Of course, it would end soon enough when he had to go back to work on Monday.
“Bishop!” his mother hollered from the top of the basement stairs. “Some folks are here to see you.”
In the middle of gulping his Red Bull, Bishop almost spit up the soft drink down the front of his Angry Birds T-shirt. “Huh!”
He gazed up the stairs to see two men in police uniforms—one from the sheriff’s department, the other from Spencer’s police—and a young couple. The man was dressed all in black, including a cool leather jacket, and the girl looked hot in black pirate boots, black tights, and a red sweater dress that fit perfectly in all the right places.
Licking the drool from his lips, Bishop released the control on his game mouse and wiped his hand on his shirt.
“Bishop,” his mother said in that tone from where she stood on the stairs, “these people have a few questions for you.”
His visitors were admiring the collection of new computer games and equipment that filled the man cave.
“Looks like Santa was very nice to you this year, Bishop,” Police Chief David O’Callaghan said.
“Our question is,” the sheriff said, “were you naughty or nice this year?”
“Why are you asking that?” Bishop’s voice shook. His eyes were wide.
“We’re sorry to hear about your grandmother passing away,” Chief O’Callaghan said.
“She passed away eight years ago,” Bishop’s mother said. “Bishop! What did you do?”
“My father’s blood disappeared from the hospital,” Jessica Faraday said, “and turned up at a blood scene. Suddenly, a week ago, Bishop, who works in that department at the hospital, took leave to attend his grandmother’s funeral in Minnesota, and he obviously came into some money.”
“He won five thousand dollars in the lottery.” Bishop’s mother narrowed her eyes on her son. “And he didn’t spend one red cent on presents for the rest of us.”
Bishop hung his head.
“Who bought my father’s blood?”
“Tell them!” his mother ordered.
“I didn’t get his name. He was just some guy. He offered me five thousand dollars for all of Mac Faraday’s blood, and, like, what were the odds that this dude was going to need it, and what harm could have come from it?”
His mother was madder than Jessica. “And then you lied to the hospital, after selling that blood, and stayed here in this basement for a week and played games.”
Jessica took an envelope from Murphy and stepped up to Bishop. She took a stack of photographs from the envelope and handed them to Bishop. “Here’s ten pictures. Look through them. Is that man in any of them?”
“Jessica, I don’t think—” Sheriff Turow objected.
“He’s not under arrest yet,” Jessica said. “We’re just fact finding.” She flashed a smile at Bishop. “If you help us, then we can help you.”
Bishop looked at his mother, who had folded her arms across her chest. He didn’t know which he feared more: going to jail or being left at home with his mother. He leafed through the stack of photographs. T
hree pictures into the stack, he picked out the man.
“That’s him.” He handed the picture back to Jessica, who handed it to Sheriff Turow.
David looked over the sheriff’s shoulder to gaze at the picture. “Is that who I think it is?”
Sheriff Turow’s eyebrows met in the middle of his face. “I don’t …” He turned back to Bishop. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” Bishop said. “What’s wrong?”
“This man was murdered,” Sheriff Turow said.
“I didn’t kill him!” Bishop jumped out of his chair. “I haven’t left this basement in more than a week. Just ask Mom.”
“Don’t ask me to be your alibi!”
Chapter Thirty-Two
In the hospital’s intensive care unit, Abdul Kochar opened his eyes to see a vaguely familiar face. The wavy silver hair and closely trimmed jawline beard came into view as his vision cleared.
“The spy who couldn’t put my book down,” Abdul said through a weak grin.
“I have read your book, Abdul,” Joshua told him. “I really couldn’t put it down.”
“So you didn’t just say that as part of your cover?”
Shaking his head, Joshua observed all the tubes and needles. Abdul’s injuries were more serious than his own. “You are brilliantly insightful, Mr. Kochar. Reading your novel about growing up in Afghanistan and the people and the way of life and—I’ve had assignments in the Middle East—”
“But I doubt that you had the opportunities to really see things from the viewpoint of the people whose roots are deeply buried in the sand and religion there.” With sadness, Abdul shook his head. “I heard you were shot.”
“It’s not bad,” Joshua said. “You got hurt worse than I did.”
“Your son saved my life,” Abdul said.
Trying to hold back a proud grin, Joshua shrugged. “It’s what he does.”
“For that—for both of you—I am eternally grateful.”
Joshua patted his hand. “The information that you risked everything to bring back to our country has provided us with invaluable intelligence about shell corporations that are really fronts for terrorist cells operating here in our own country. We’re now going to be able to identify powerful terrorists who have been living and operating right under our noses. For that, the United States is eternally grateful to you, Mr. Kochar.”
“I am glad I was able to help you and your country.”
Trying not to cringe with the pain from his wound, Joshua slowly stood up. “I wanted to come by to personally thank you for risking so much. I know it wasn’t easy—especially since it is your own brother—”
Abdul grabbed Joshua’s hand with both of his. “We’re not all monsters.”
Slowly, Joshua lowered himself back down into the chair. His eyes met that of the man lying in the hospital bed with tubes and machines connected to him. He was a man, just like him, who had taken two bullets while trying to help their country in a war against a religious ideology that had become horribly twisted.
Abdul Kochar had a much bigger stake in the outcome of this war. Much of it was being fought in his homeland, against many of his people, with his religion being at the center of all of it.
The anguish on Abdul Kochar’s face was from more than the holes in his chest.
“I know you’re not a monster, Abdul,” Joshua said slowly. “Just like I’m not a monster. I don’t know how much you know about American history.”
“I have studied it.”
“There was a period in the sixties,” Joshua explained, “during the civil rights movement, where a lot of white folks fighting against giving African-Americans equal rights would spout scripture from our Christian Bible as evidence of how God did not create them equally and how it was wrong for us pure white folks to mingle with those lowly black folks.”
Joshua paused to watch Abdul’s face while he digested what he was saying.
“I’m a Christian, Abdul,” Joshua said. “But I’m not a monster and I don’t believe—I’ve never believed that any man was created less than equal to me. That small fraction of racists lifted scripture out of context and twisted it around to conform to their hateful views.”
“Just like the extremists in my religion have done.” Slowly, Abdul nodded his head while grimacing in pain.
“Unfortunately,” Joshua said, “with all the media attention spotlighting those racists, a lot of people thought they represented all Christians everywhere. Even today, there are many who believe we are all racist monsters.”
A weak grin came to Abdul’s face. He reached for Joshua’s hand. “Just like what is happening now with my people.”
“I know that you are not all monsters, Abdul.”
“You’ve seen the reports of what is happening in my country to my people,” Abdul said. “The news won’t tell even half of the truth about what Satan’s demons have done to good—innocent people—whole families—in the name of Islam. How do you fight such evil?”
“With good,” Joshua replied. “When good doesn’t hide, stands up for what is right, and refuses to back down, evil will lose every time. Evil may gain a temporary advantage and may even think it is winning—but in the end—good always wins out.”
“Evil has been around since the beginning of time, my friend,” Abdul said.
“So has good,” Joshua said. “I’m not giving up, Abdul. Are you?”
“And leave my number one fan to fight this war alone?” With a chuckle, Abdul clasped Joshua’s hand. “No, we are going to fight this war together, my friend.”
“What a way to spend our wedding night.” Mac laid back onto the bed and looked across the room to where Archie was lying with her leg elevated. “I hope this isn’t a preview of when Jessica and Tristan put us in the home.”
Archie reached across to take Mac’s hand. “At least we’re together and we’re all right.”
Mac looked around the room at her raised leg and the IVs in his arm. “This is all right?”
“We almost lost you,” she said.
“If we can’t explain my blood at Dooley’s murder scene—”
“We’ll get an explanation for that.” She cocked her head at him. “You’re usually more confident than this.”
“I’ve reached my limit.” Mac tugged on her hand. “Archie, you know full well that I completely adore you. I love everything about you …” He raised his eyes to her hair. “Except your hair.”
She stroked her dark locks. “Don’t make me hurt you, Mac.”
“You’re the love of my life, Archie.”
As best she could, Archie turned on her side to face him. “And you are mine, Mac. I love you, too.” She smiled. “I’ll even marry you.”
“There’s something that we never talked about …” He sighed. “Children.”
“We have two. Which one?”
“I mean new ones. Our having children. You and me, together.”
Her eyebrows came together in a furrowed brow. “I thought that was out of the question. You got a vasectomy.”
Mac said in a soft voice, “I can have it reversed with surgery, and if you really want us to have a child of our own, I would be willing to do it … for you.”
Her eyes tearing up, Archie kissed Mac’s fingers. “Oh, Mac, that is the most loving thing that you could offer to me.”
He held his breath to hear her answer to his offer.
“But no,” she said.
“No? Are you sure?”
“Positive.” She caressed his hand with both of hers. “Mac, I love our life together as it is.” Taking in their surroundings, she said, “Well, not right at this instant, but generally—our life at Spencer Manor, and traveling, and Jessica and Tristan, and our friends. I don’t want to change a thing—except my hair. I think,” a wicked grin crossed her face, “when it comes to
babies, we should be looking forward to grandchildren. Think of how much fun we can have spoiling Jessica and Murphy’s children.”
“Yeah.” Mac’s evil grin matched hers. “I like the way you think, woman. I think we should start with a German shepherd puppy.”
Their minds reeling with plans for their conspiracy, they dropped back onto their beds.
The door flew open.
Her usually vivacious self, Jessica rushed in and stopped at the foot of their beds. “Well, look at the newlyweds!”
Envisioning the elegant, perfectly coordinated Jessica with a spoiled child and an unruly puppy, Mac and Archie laughed so hard that Jessica was forced to ask, “What’s so funny?”
They wiped the grins from their faces and insisted that it was nothing. Not believing them, Jessica narrowed her eyes to violet slits and cocked her head. “I think you’re up to something.” She pointed a long fingernail at Mac. “You look evil.”
“I wouldn’t talk that way to the man who’s paying for your wedding and doesn’t even get to walk you down the aisle.”
Tristan pulled a chair over to the television. “Don’t worry, Dad, you’ll be there.” He climbed up onto the chair while Murphy held up his laptop. “You’re going to see and hear everything live.”
Jessica sat on the edge of the bed and took Mac’s hand. “But since you can’t walk me down the aisle, I asked David if he could do it in proxy.”
Mac glanced up at David, who was waiting at the foot of the bed.
“Only if you agree, Mac,” David said.
“Tristan can’t walk me down the aisle because he’s doing the video and audio streaming so that you and Archie and Cameron can be there,” Jessica explained.
“Why can’t Cameron be there?” Archie asked, even though she suspected she knew the answer.
“Cameron doesn’t do weddings,” Murphy explained. “But she thinks she could handle it if she’s off site.”
“Do you mind if David walks me down the aisle for you, Dad?” Jessica asked. “I really wish you could, but—”