Every Second

by Rick Mofina

  Kate marveled at Vanessa, a beautiful young woman who’d triumphed by crawling victoriously out of the hell she’d been cast into. She was working so hard at reclaiming the life that had been stolen from her.

  You’re my hero, kiddo.

  Kate then climbed into her own bed. Sleep came quickly and soon her mind was filled with stressful dreams of making calls, the sound of her phone ringing, then vibrating, so loud...

  Kate woke, head spinning as she grabbed her phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi... Is this the reporter who was asking about Nazihah Samadyh’s sons?”

  “Yes, who’s calling?”

  “Bert.”

  He had a heavy accent—maybe Middle Eastern, Kate thought.

  “Bert who?”

  “Only my first name, okay? My cousin in California told me about you. I’ll talk, but not now. It has to be early tomorrow.”

  “Can’t we talk on the phone, Bert?”

  “No, it has to be in person.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Because I’m going to the FBI tomorrow.”

  Kate sat up and grabbed a pen.

  “All right, where do you want to meet?”

  “At Grand Central Terminal, by the Grabbin Run Deli. You know it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meet me at seven-thirty. I’ll tell you everything before I tell the FBI, because you should know the truth. You’re my safety net for the truth.”

  The call ended with Kate staring at her phone.

  How about that? Wanda Blaine came through, Kate thought as she absorbed the information.

  “You should know the truth.”

  Her head was swimming.

  She settled back into bed, though it took several long moments for her pulse rate to slow down. Waiting for sleep, she looked through her window and up at the crescent moon. Staring into the night, she thought of Dan, Lori and Billy Fulton and wondered if they could see the same moon from where they were.

  Are they even alive to see it?

  53

  Somewhere in New York State

  Lori ran with Billy through the dark woods, terrified, breathless, her heart bursting.

  Images of her life streaked before her: Dan’s smile when she first met him at college; their wedding day; his tear-filled eyes above the surgical mask in the delivery room when they had Billy; his last words...

  “Go get Billy... I’ll be right behind you!”

  Something had cleaved inside and Lori needed to let loose a great guttural, animal shriek at the horror she now faced. A wail was about to erupt and shoot to the heavens, beseeching God to turn back time and release her from this netherworld.

  Why, why, why?

  But she couldn’t scream. They would hear her. She choked back her sobs and fought against the shock, the cold, the painful stomach spasms, helping Billy as they ran.

  The whip-snip of bullets in the trees had ceased; the distant echoes of voices had long faded. How long had it been? She didn’t know. How far had they fled? She didn’t know. But fear compelled her to keep moving.

  Fear that the murderers were gaining on them.

  Fear that at any time they could detonate the vests. If they got far enough away maybe they’d be out of range. Lori held fast to that hope.

  As it grew dark, they had to slow down. It was harder to see now and the cumbersome vests and Lori’s bound hands made it difficult to travel. Lori refused to jettison the backpack of food, water and laptop, despite the extra weight. It was all they had now, along with their will to survive.

  Keep moving, keep moving.

  Legs numb. Sides and arms aching, lungs sore, throats dry and ragged from panicked breathing. But they kept moving through the dense stands of sweet-scented woods. Branches scraped their faces and arms, snagged and pulled at them. The terrain was rocky, uneven and dangerous.

  They stumbled often and when Billy had cried out, Lori comforted him.

  As they continued, she heard him sobbing through his clenched jaw and she was pierced with the thought that he’d witnessed his father’s murder.

  Did he see it? Does he know Dan’s dead?

  She was uncertain. They hadn’t stopped. There’d been no time to talk.

  Eventually they could go no farther. They settled in along a small hollow in a soft hillside. In silence, they gathered branches to pull over them for cover. The temperature had plunged and they shivered quietly. The running had warmed them, but Lori knew the freezing air would make it worse for them while they were still.

  She searched blindly through the backpack, opening the zipped pockets, desperate for anything that would help them survive. Feeling around, she let out a gasp of relief when her fingers found a folded pocket knife. She held it to her face to examine it for the groove she needed, then opened the blade and very carefully cut Billy’s wrists free of the plastic cuffs, passing the knife, so he could do the same for her.

  The freedom to move their hands and arms was a victory, and it gave Lori a measure of hope. She considered attempting to remove the bombs, which she thought might be possible by moving their arms, sliding the vests up and over their heads. But the way they were rigged, zippered and Velcroed, with wires running across the front, drove home her fear that any attempt to free themselves might cause the bombs to explode. They’d had them this long and they were still alive. She’d only try removing them as a last resort. Besides, now they offered warmth.

  She continued searching the bag, finding a sweatshirt and ball cap. Taking her time, she put them on Billy. Swishing sounds in the backpack led her to discover a plastic bottle of water that felt nearly full.

  “Easy,” she whispered to him as he drank. “We have to save as much as we can.”

  She felt the laptop and debated whether to turn it on and use it. Maybe, just maybe, if there was service, the computer could be a lifeline to help. But she decided against trying to find out right now, worried that the light of the screen would give away their location or activate some other tracking feature she might not be aware of. No, she didn’t want to take that risk. Not now.

  She pulled Billy close, both of them trembling, gasping erratically as they fought to stay warm. The night carried the intermittent sounds of nocturnal animals moving through the forest.

  “I’m scared, Mom,” Billy whispered.

  She held him tighter.

  “We’ll be okay. Try to rest. It’s the best thing.”

  “But...what happened to Dad?”

  His question cut through her. She pushed back a sob and anguished over whether to lie to her son to protect him, or if it was best to just tell him the truth.

  “I heard shouting,” Billy insisted. “I heard Dad’s voice. I know it was him. Then there was all this shooting. Mom, what happened?”

  Lori swallowed hard and realized that, after all Billy had been through, he needed to know the truth.

  “Yes, sweetheart, your dad was outside. The two other men brought him here, then Daddy did a very, very brave thing. He fought back, so fast and so hard, that we—” her voice broke “—that we were able to get free...”

  “So where is he?”

  “Honey, I’m so sorry, but he didn’t—they—they shot him.”

  Billy pulled away from her, whispering harshly, “No! You’re lying!”

  “Shhh-shh.”

  Lori pressed her little boy’s face tight to her body, practically feeling his heart break, feeling him shake as he sobbed against her.

  “He saved us, sweetheart. Daddy did what he had to, so that we could get away. He saved us and now we have to do our best to get home, so we can tell police what they did. Promise me we’ll fight hard, together, for Daddy, okay?”

  Lori felt his head moving
up and down against her as she stared up to the sky at the crescent moon and prayed.

  54

  Blue Coyote Mountains, New York

  In Greene County, deep in central New York State, to the southeast and west of the Hudson River, the lowlands rose into the Blue Coyote Mountains.

  The short line of beautiful highlands stood between the Blackhead Mountains to the north and, to the south, the Catskills, which stretched over six thousand square miles of forests, rivers, waterfalls and farmland.

  The Coyote range was largely unknown to most people, except those with ties to the remote region or locals who lived there.

  Sidney Ferring drove his battered Ford pickup along a ridge that climbed into an isolated corner of the Coyotes. The truck lumbered up the rugged, twisting pathway until he came to an SUV.

  Sidney shifted the transmission into Park and killed the engine. As it ticked down, Caesar, his Belgian shepherd, yipped and jumped from the rear to explore.

  “What do you think?” Sidney asked, turning to his brother Tyree, who was nursing a hangover in the passenger seat.

  “Get out and check it, dim wad,” Tyree said. “You’re the one who heard all that ruckus coming from here last night. You wanted to come up here.”

  “You’d have heard it, too, if you wasn’t drunk.” Sidney got out of the truck to look around.

  The SUV had dipped to the right, resting on the rim of a flattened front tire. The spare and tools were placed next to it, as if someone had started to replace it but changed their mind instead.

  No one was in sight. No note on the windshield.

  Sidney whistled to Caesar and they got back in the truck.

  “Weird,” he said, continuing up the ridge until they came to a van parked a few yards from old man Vanderhooven’s cabin.

  Vanderhooven was a retired farmer who lived in a seniors’ residence in Albany. Sidney and Tyree’s mother, Irene, ran a property management company and rented the place for him to fishermen and hunters, while her sons occasionally hired themselves out as guides or did odd jobs on the properties. The boys lived in a double-wide in Owl Pond Valley, a couple of miles below.

  Last night when Sidney had gone outside to relieve himself, he’d sworn he’d heard gunfire—a lot of rapid gunfire—echoing down from the old man’s cabin in the mountains. It motivated him to investigate this morning.

  “Hello?” Sidney called as they got out of the truck and approached the cabin. “Hello?”

  “Not so loud, dim wad.”

  The brothers had no idea who their mother had rented the place to. It was usually all done online. People could transfer her the money and she’d send them a code for the key lock. The front door was wide-open, so they stepped inside. They scanned the place quickly—the beds, the kitchen area, the table. Nothing. Nobody. Then—

  “Jee Zuss! Look at that!”

  Sidney went to the mattresses in the corner, finding chains attached to the wall with handcuffs linked to the ends.

  “This don’t look good, Ty.”

  “It sure as hell don’t.”

  “What do you think? They making porn or something?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  Suddenly Caesar let go with nonstop barking outside.

  “Better see what he’s yapping about,” Sidney said.

  They went out and down the pathway where the dog was perched at the edge of the ridge, barking at something down below. As if cued by their arrival, Caesar disappeared down the hillside, woofing all the way. Sidney squatted to look at whatever was exciting his dog.

  Tyree felt a crunch and heard tinkling under his boots.

  “Hell, look at all these shell casings! You for damn sure heard gunfire last night, Sid!”

  “I told ya!” Sidney surveyed the area. “Damn, there’s a lot of ’em. What the hell were they shootin’ at?”

  Caesar scampered to the ridge top, returning to Sidney with something in his jaws. Petting his dog, Sidney took the item in his hand. It was about the size of a sheet of tissue, a torn piece of fabric, damp with red—

  “Jee Zuss, that looks like blood!”

  Sidney’s attention followed Caesar, who’d galloped back down the hillside to the brush heaped at the bottom.

  Sidney put one hand over his eyes to block the sun, squinting until he saw a bloodied hand among the branches.

  55

  Manhattan, New York

  At 7:15 a.m. Kate Page joined the bustle of Grand Central’s main concourse, loving its sweeping staircases, glimmering chandeliers and cathedral splendor.

  Striding with thousands of commuters, she made her way to the lower level, aware that she was being watched on Grand Central’s closed-circuit security camera system. Kate knew about the electronic sensors, the radiation detectors, and that you couldn’t go twenty feet without seeing a cop. Since 9/11, Grand Central was considered one of the world’s top targets for terrorists—just another part of life in New York.

  But this morning it all underscored her unease over her meeting.

  Bert was a complete stranger, but meeting with strangers was part of her job.

  As a reporter, Kate had met sources like this all the time. She was not fearless and she was not a fool. She always took precautions. She was extremely careful never to meet anyone alone, unless it was during the day and in a very public place.

  Bert could be luring her for his own reasons. He could be a nut who wanted to be part of the story, but, if her instinct was to be trusted, he could also be a genuine source of critical information.

  At the food concourse she was greeted by appetizing aromas of freshly baked bread, bacon, coffee and fresh fruit. She threaded her way among commuters, moving under the marble arches along the many food kiosks and joining the line at Grabbin Run Deli.

  She studied the sea of faces, trying to guess if she could match one to Bert’s voice. He’d called her again this morning to say he was bringing someone with him and ensured Kate that he’d recognize her from pictures he’d seen online related to news stories.

  Kate bought a tea and a bagel with cream cheese. She got lucky when someone vacated a table with three chairs. She took a seat and unfolded her copy of the New York Times. She’d managed two bites, two sips and got to page three before two men stood at her table.

  She lowered her paper.

  “May I help you?”

  “You’re Kate Page, the reporter?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m Bert, and this is my son, John.”

  Bert was in his mid-fifties. His dark-complexioned face was covered with salt-and-pepper stubble. His dark, oily hair was parted neatly to one side. He wore a sport jacket with a newspaper rolled in one pocket—Arabic, Kate noticed from the headlines.

  His son was in his early twenties, with white earbuds collared around his neck. He wore a Lady Gaga T-shirt and jeans and was chewing gum.

  “Please, sit down,” she said.

  “We have very little time before we catch the train to Federal Plaza.”

  “I understand.” Kate set her phone to record and took out her notebook.

  “No pictures, please.”

  “Got it. What do you do for a living, Bert?”

  “I’m a contractor. I have a small carpentry business in Yonkers.”

  “And John?”

  “I’m a student at Hunter College.”

  “What’re you studying?”

  “Chemistry.”

  “Okay, let’s get to it. Why did you call me? What is your relation to Jerricko Blaine and his family?”

  “His mother, Nazihah Samadyh, is my cousin,” Bert said. “I want you to know that we’ve not had contact with her for years. To be honest, we never got along. We’re going to the FBI to te
ll them the truth about her son Jerricko.”

  “And what’s the truth?”

  “First, you must know that I am an American citizen. I came to this country because I respect it and love it for the freedom and dignity it offers to everyone who is willing to work hard.”

  “Understood.”

  “John, my son, is also an American citizen, born here in New York.”

  “Okay.”

  “Nazihah and her sons have brought shame upon our family. When she came here, she always complained, she never even tried to fit in. Her husband, Andrew, was a good man, but she was not happy here. She was always critical of US policy. You know that her son Malcolm went to prison for robbery, then murdered a police officer and was shot.”

  “Yes.”

  “In her twisted thinking, Nazihah said it was the fault of the US government and its policies that Malcolm was shot. She believed in some fantasy conspiracy and moved back to Afghanistan. Jerricko, Malcolm’s brother, didn’t want to leave the US at first. He was never the same after his brother’s death. He started hanging out with the wrong people. We know because he recently tried to pull John into his circles.”

  Kate turned to the younger man.

  “It’s true. He messaged me online, told me how much he respected and admired me for my work at Hunter.”

  “Did you hang out with him much?”

  “He came to our place and we went out a few times. But he was just like his mom—all he ever wanted to talk about was the corruption of America and how everyone here was greedy and sinful. But he was never open to talking about it or letting anyone argue with him. I knew things were getting out of control after he’d told me that he’d used a stolen and altered passport to go to Afghanistan to visit his mom. When he came back, he kept sending me online links to read, extremist stuff that his mom had sent him. He was always denouncing the US and Israel as part of a global system of oppression. I mean, some of the stuff he talked about was true—there are tons of pretty horrible things that happen all the time. But he’d show me all these jihadi sites, stuff that was way too intense, and tried to convince me to join him and his friends.”