“I’ll let the guards know we’re ready to inspect Rashid’s cell.” Art exited the sedan and walked to the red phone in the parking lot.
Twenty minutes later, a federal prison guard escorted the three of them into Rashid’s cell. The floor had been hosed and scrubbed despite Art’s request that nothing be touched. “The warden couldn’t wait because of the bodily fluids,” the guard said. “But I took photos before the cell was cleaned.” He handed Art a bunch of Instamatic photos.
Art looked at the photos and passed them to Richie. They showed Rashid lying on his cot, a puddle of blood on the floor under his right hand. Richie swallowed and passed the photos to Mel. He looked at the guard. “Thanks for taking them.”
“He seemed different lately. Like he had something to look forward to.” The guard sighed. “I’m surprised he killed himself.”
“I’m not convinced he did.” Richie furrowed his brow and exhaled. “Was the cell door locked when his body was discovered?”
“No, he was found at lockdown.”
Richie looked at the ceiling for cameras. “Any footage?”
“No. But only the prisoners on this tier had access to his cell, and not one of them is strong enough to overpower Rashid.” The guard tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Except maybe the new prisoner.” He walked down the row of cells, and Richie followed. He stopped at the cell on the end. “The Bureau of Prisons transferred him in on Monday. Young, muscular white guy. Strong as heck!” He whistled. “He did sixty push-ups in under two minutes—military-style push-ups!”
“Where is he now?”
“Give me a few minutes. I’ll locate him.”
“You know where I’ll be.” Richie walked back to Rashid’s cell.
In the few minutes that he had been gone, Mel and Art had already searched the cell. No signs of foul play. Richie looked again anyway. Maybe Rashid had scrawled something somewhere. He even examined the walls, but there was nothing. Richie groaned. They’d have to depend on the coroner’s report and the results of toxicology to reveal what Rashid had been injected with.
The guard returned, red faced and angry. “I can’t locate the new prisoner, and according to the BOP’s records, he was never here!”
Richie’s jaw tensed. Now they knew how the Shadow Intelligence Network did it. He clapped the guard on his back. “Don’t talk about this to anyone, or you’ll be in danger too.”
“But he may have killed a prisoner whose safety was in my hands.” His face twisted. “And the BOP is involved.”
“I doubt if the Bureau of Prisons even knew he was here.” Richie shook his head. “And you weren’t on duty when it happened. There’s nothing you could have done.” Richie understood exactly how the guard felt and finally realized that there was nothing he could have done either. But he would get justice for Rashid and all the victims of September 11. He just had to work harder. “At some point, though, you will have to testify.”
The guard took a deep breath and nodded. “You can count on me, and I’ll keep my eyes open wide from now on.”
Richie half-smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll be in touch.” He took a last look around the cell. Something nagged at him. “Where are Rashid’s personal belongings?”
“The property desk is holding a carton. You have to sign for it. I’ll take you there.”
Chapter 51
Mel followed Richie’s directions onto the interstate, and Art drove right behind them. She glanced in her rearview mirror. “He has no one to split the driving with. He must be exhausted.”
“He napped in the parking lot while he waited for us.” Richie pushed the seat back and stretched his back.
She peeked in the rearview mirror again and frowned. “He’s keeping pace with me, but his window is wide open.”
“How ’bout this?” He held up a finger and tilted his head. “I’ll sleep for a while then I’ll drive him while he sleeps. Then he’ll take over for you and you can nap—”
“And when do you rest again? When you drive into a ditch?” She glanced in her rearview mirror and grimaced. “Art just slapped his cheek!”
“Plan B. We all sleep for just an hour at a rest stop and then take turns at the wheel.”
“I like Plan B.” She scanned the shoulder for signs.
“The next rest area is near Mount Vernon, about fifty miles.”
She smiled. Surely Art could drive another hour.
When she saw the rest area sign on the side of the highway, she prodded Richie. “Five miles. Hit up Art.”
She pulled into the rest area and parked far away from the brick building that housed the restrooms. Art pulled in next to them and hopped in the sedan’s back seat. “A quick nap and I’ll be fine,” he said.
“We all need a little rest. And then we’ll get a bite and coffee.” Mel leaned her head back and slouched in her seat. If he or Rich replied she didn’t hear a thing. She fell asleep as soon as her eyes closed.
Mel opened her eyes, stretched, and looked around. Where was she? She looked through the windshield. Trees and hills? Oh, right. They were on the way back to Manhattan. The sun was high in the sky. How long had she been asleep? She checked her wristwatch. 1:30. She’d slept longer than planned, but the ride home would be easier for all of them now. Richie was slumped in the passenger seat, snoring away. A large paperback book had tumbled onto the floorboard. Art was stretched out in the backseat. Out like a light and tie-less. She had never seen him without a tie. Loosened, sure. But completely off? Never. Desperate times. She chuckled inwardly. She was still tired and giddy. And she needed the restroom.
Letting the guys sleep a little while longer, Mel quietly opened and closed the car door. She stretched again and eyed the building on the other side of the parking area. The quarter-mile walk would loosen her stiff leg muscles. She walked under the trees and squinted to read a sign outside the building. Vending Machines. Darn, no fresh coffee. They’d have to settle for snacks and caffeine-loaded colas. Her stomach grumbled. It wouldn’t take much to convince the guys to stop for a real meal at a diner. Mel stepped away from the tree line and headed straight for the ladies room.
She’d walked halfway through the parking area when she heard running feet from behind. She spun around, right hand on the butt of her Chief, left hand fisted. Ready to fight or shoot. She slumped and then snorted. “What are you two doing?”
Richie slowed down and walked beside her. “We have to stick together.”
Art flanked her left side, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. “The SIN is capable of anything.” He smoothed wrinkles from his slacks. “If its operatives know that we suspect them of murdering Rashid they won’t want us to report it.”
“Really? The Shadow Intelligence Network is going to take out two NYPD Intelligence Division detectives and an FBI agent to cover up a murder of an imprisoned terrorist?” She threw her hands up. “I’m not so sure this SIN, as you call it, even exists. We don’t have any hard evidence.” A snap and a wisp of air passed by her ear. She squatted and unholstered her revolver. Richie shoved her into a row of trees.
Art pointed his automatic up the hill. “I don’t see anyone,” he said.
“Get in here!” Richie shouted. “Take cover.”
Art backed into the woods, muzzle pointed at the hillside. “I’m reporting this right now to the Springfield office, and then to my office.” He lowered his automatic and flipped open his Nextel.
“But Art, that’ll alert SIN operatives,” said Richie.
Another snap. Leaves from the patch of ground on which Art had been standing a moment ago puffed into the air. “I think they know.” He shrugged and scrambled deeper into the trees. He squatted against a tree and dialed.
Richie tapped Mel on the shoulder and pointed up the hill. “The shooter’s line of sight has to be from up there.” He stepped in front of her before she could protest. “Stay behind me!”
They crept down a few yards and Richie peeked through the trees. The
Springfield FBI office had to have called in the shots-fired report to the local police dispatcher by now. The call would hit the police radio any second and then the shooter would flee. He’d be exposed, and Richie would have a chance of capturing him. He watched the hill and listened. He heard Mel’s breath next to him. “Get ready, he’s going to run,” he whispered.
The low squawk of a police scanner and then muffled words wat-wat-wawwed from somewhere over the crest of the hill. The shooter must have the scanner in a pocket. Richie couldn’t pinpoint the exact location of the scanner, but he heard sudden rustling and movement loud and clear.
“Over there.” He pointed to the downslope of the hill at the very edge of the access road alongside the highway. A man dressed all in black, a rifle slung over his shoulder, sped around the foot of the hill and out of sight. Richie ran after him and Mel kept pace.
They reached the far side of the hill just in time to see a dark suburban pull onto the access road and speed away, burning rubber. Richie watched the suburban until it disappeared. “What do you think about the Shadow Intelligence Network now, Mel?”
“I’d like to talk with Vando and find out everything he knows about them.” She raised her eyebrows. “At least we’re no longer targets now that Art reported their involvement in Rashid’s murder.”
A dark suburban barreled toward them and squealed to a stop onto the grass and Mel raised her gun. Richie pushed her gun arm down. “It’s just Art.”
“It’s hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys.” She shook her head. “They have the same darn toys!”
Richie and Mel hopped into Art’s suburban and rode back to the sedan.
“My office has the logbooks from the Council House,” Art said. “They were just where Eva said they’d be.”
“Good news, for a change.” Richie wasted no time phoning Todd. “We have the books. Go get him, Todd.” He listened to Todd and clenched the phone.
Mel put her hand on his forearm and frowned.
He loosened his grip. “Thanks Todd, you did your best. I’ll be in touch.” He looked down and took a deep breath. “Moen Pindar just took off from Newark on a private jet.”
The suburban’s cab remained silent.
Chapter 52
Mel pushed the driver’s seat forward and adjusted the rearview mirror. It was her last turn at the wheel; they’d be home in just a few hours. She smiled as she drove into Pennsylvania—only one state away from Hope. She couldn’t wait to hold her baby and play with her, to read to her and nap with her. She wouldn’t once think about Dewer Rock or Moen Pindar, or what they had planned next. She rolled her shoulders back and took a sip of coffee.
Driving in the passing lane, she kept the speedometer needle on ninety. She grinned, almost maniacally, each time she passed a vehicle, knowing she was getting closer to home. Suddenly time felt short and she wanted only to be with her baby. But when traffic slowed, Dewer and Pindar popped into the front of her mind, and she began to worry. She couldn’t grasp how transnationalists had so much influence on everyday life, but she understood enough to know that they did. She wanted to bury her head in the sand and forget they even existed. But while she suffocated, Dewer and Pindar were building sand dungeons above her head. Her stomach twisted. She couldn’t do nothing, especially now that she knew the real threat. Deep down, she knew Hope’s future depended on stopping them. She’d couldn’t rest until they were held accountable, even if it took the rest of her life. Yet, if someone offered her a magic forget-what-you-know pill, she would be tempted.
The sun was going down fast. She switched on the headlights and glanced at Richie. She wondered how he could read in the dimming light. “What’s the book about?”
He had opened the book he’d found in Rashid’s personal belongings as soon as he’d settled into the passenger seat.
“I lent this book to Rashid. It’s Thinking and Destiny by Harold Percival.”
“Sounds deep. Did he read it?”
He nodded. “The last time I spoke with him, after we realized the phone was being monitored, he told me to read it, too.” He fanned the pages and raised his eyebrows. “He underlined random words.”
“Do you think he was he trying to tell you something?”
“Maybe.” Richie fumbled through the glove box and pulled out a notepad and pen.
“Maybe?”
He switched on the dome light. “Well, on the bottom of page fifty-nine he underlined the word do.” He flipped ahead a few pages and pointed to the top of the page. “And on page sixty-four he underlined not.”
“Simple, common words. It’s not like he marked them to look up in a dictionary or anything.”
“Yep. Ordinary, everyday words. Do, not.” He stated the words as he wrote them on the pad. “On page seventy-eight, he underlined the word takes.”
“Do not takes?” She shrugged. “Doesn’t make sense.”
“I’ll write down all the underlined words and see what turns up.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She took another sip of coffee. They had a puzzle to solve. A distraction to keep her from missing Hope. She’d be down for the night soon anyway. Mel glanced at Richie. He was busy flipping pages and scribbling in the notepad. “What have you written so far?”
“Do, not, takes, the, operate, the.” He shook his head and exhaled. “I’ll go through the pages again. Maybe I missed a word between the and operate.”
“Finish browsing the book first. Maybe Rashid wanted you to unjumble the words.”
She continued to peek at Richie while she drove. When he switched from the thick book to the notepad, she asked, “What have you got?”
“Rashid underlined a word I’ve never seen before, and it’s weird.”
She laughed. “Weird has become the new norm, or haven’t you noticed?”
“Do you know the word Jivatma?” He waffled out air and shook his head. “It’s capitalized, if that helps.”
“A name?”
“Percival provides a list of definitions. Listen to this . . .” He began to read. “Every living thing in physical nature, which is given its being by the atma—”
“The what?”
“Atma. Let me see.” His finger travelled down the page. “Atma means the ‘light of intelligence.’”
“Percival wrote that living things—including us, I guess—are made by intelligent light?”
“I think so. I’d have to read the whole book to understand. Jivatma seems to be a main concept Percival examines, but what was Rashid trying to tell me by underlining it? The word is printed in the middle of a page in the middle of the book. The middle, the midpoint . . .” He brought the book closer to the dome light. “Whoa!”
“What is it, yogi? Should I stop and pick up incense and a lava lamp?”
“Rashid underlined the whole word, and then underlined just the J twice.” He flipped back in the book, removed the dome light’s cover, and held the book under the now bright light. “Do is underlined once. Not, once. Takes, twice—no, only take is underlined twice.”
“What does the message say now?” She tapped the steering wheel. “Read what you have so far.”
“Do, not, take, the, o, a, th, J.” He twisted in his seat and lifted her coffee cup out of the holder. As soon as she took it from him he spread the book across the center armrest console.
She kept stealing peeks at him while she drove. She loved watching him as he connected the dots. He turned each page from the middle of the book until he reached the very last page. Every once in a while, he stopped to write in the notepad. Finally he slammed the book shut. He stared at the notepad and grinned. “As, Much, A, Likewise.”
Mel shrugged and put the cup back in the armrest console. “What does it mean?”
“Rashid wasn’t playing me!” He looked at the gas gauge. “We’ll have to fill up again. We’re going to the Impoverished’s encampment in Deposit.”
“What?” She looked at the road ahead and then at him. She bit her lip an
d sighed. They were almost home. “Why?”
“Listen to the decoded message now.” His voice deepened. “Don’t take the oath J-A-M-A-L.”
“What oath?”
“Rashid wants me to talk to Jamal.”
“Who the heck is Jamal?”
“My friend from the Jamaat.” He pointed at a blue highway sign. “The next service area is twenty miles out. I’ll hit up Art.”
She shook her head. “I’ll call Mark.” She looked at the dash clock. Maybe later. He was probably asleep.
Chapter 53
“I’m in all the way.” Martin leaned forward in the hospital bed and grinned at Eva. “We’re both unemployed now anyway.” Slurping the last bit of water through a plastic straw, he licked his lips and stretched to reach the water pitcher on the bedside table.
Eva jumped from the chair and refilled the water cup halfway. “Sip slowly, Martin! I promised Sandra I would look after you while she stopped home grabbed something to eat.”
He rolled his eyes and looked at the man leaning against the windowsill. “Vando, some help here.”
Vando turned to look at him. “The more rest you get now, the quicker you’ll regain your strength.”
Martin growled, but the corners of his mouth curved up. “I guess I can take a little pampering for the team.”
“Team.” Vando chuckled and clapped his hands. “I like the sound of that. I’ve been working on my own for so long. And I’m not getting any younger. I’ll teach you everything I know. Our resistance will carry on to the next generation and probably the next, as well.” He looked over the bed and behind Eva, toward the hospital room door. “Martin, you have another visitor.”
The door slowly opened and Mark popped his head in. “I wasn’t sure if I should knock or what. Just wanted to check on the patient on my way home.”
Martin’s eyebrows narrowed and his jaw slackened.
“Martin, don’t you remember Sergeant Ronzone?” Eva kissed Mark on the cheek. “Thanks for yesterday, Mark.”
The Council House (The Impoverished Book 3) Page 23