Mourning Dove

by Donna Simmons

  The boss man, with his jaw clenched, stared venom at the little weasel.

  “Now who’s top dog?” Otto bragged.

  “Obviously, you’ve been busy doing more than picking up the evidence. Did you find anything more of interest?”

  “A lot of neat filing and a locked desk drawer I was about to open when you came in.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ve got a key and I check this office daily. Sara Stafford keeps confidential files on the former comptroller and company espionage in there, nothing else. I’ve got some other news that may lead you to the prize we seek. The Jew got Sara’s husband to spill his guts. Ron Stafford showed him the information and evidence he has, but the Israeli didn’t take it with him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He would have talked Monday night. He said the guy keeps the information he found under the kitchen sink behind the cooking sherry. Do you think you can get this one right?”

  “I’ll have it in your hands tomorrow morning.” Otto walked around to the front of the desk. The boss man grabbed his shirtfront and pushed him against the wall.

  “Listen to me, you little shit, you screw this one up and you’re dead.” The boss man took the glass of poison evidence and walked to the door.

  Otto straightened his green t-shirt with the fitness club logo on it and shoved past him. If Otto wasn’t his only contact to the group he would have been dead long ago.

  ***

  Deception was a craft well learned. It took Ron years to realize his son had deceived him. Carl’s life from the time he could shave was a fake. He pretended to be someone he wasn’t, riding this pretense until a bullet stopped the charade. Then, another deception took its place. A government lie made Ron believe his son’s sacrifice was self-inflicted, no hero’s honor guard, no recognition for services rendered to his country, just a void where his life had been.

  It took months to understand Sara’s deception, too. Not until Carl was gone and her nightmares began did their marriage start to unravel. It gnawed on her six months before she walked out on twenty-six years of a partnership intended to last a lifetime.

  If Sara was to be believed, even the government agent was an imposter. What a web of lies. He put his reading glasses down on a stack of printouts from weeks of research, a search that got him lost in circles of anonymity. He picked up the brass medallion that started this and rubbed his thumb over the embossed insignia. With eyes closed he remembered Sara’s shock. She was so horrified she was physically ill the night she found it.

  A muffled thud at the back of the house interrupted his thoughts and Ron wondered if his erstwhile burglar had finally come back to finish the job. He slowly pulled the center drawer of his desk open and lifted the gun. The slider was opening now. He could hear the crinkle of the cellophane he’d placed in the track.

  He hobbled as quietly as he could to the kitchen doorway. Cast or no cast, this was not a time for crutches.

  Ron flicked on the overhead lights in the kitchen. “Come back to finish the job, did you?” A young man dressed in black with his head tucked into the cabinet under the sink jerked back, banging his head on the top of the opening.

  “I see you’re home, after all,” the short, stocky burglar rubbed the back of his blond head and stood with a box in one hand and a flashlight in the other. “Your lights were out; you should’ve stayed at your office.” His eyes scanned down Ron’s body, probably sizing him up for a fight. He laughed when he got to the cast.

  “What do you find so funny, little man? Is it that you have at least a hundred pounds on me, or my decorative footwear?”

  “I find your pink cast hilarious. You’re nothin’ but a scared jack rabbit that tripped over his own feet at the first sign of trouble. You couldn’t even hold on to your wife. Now, she’s a tough little package. No matter what I put in front of her, she always seems to land on her feet. Well, she’s not gonna make it out of this one. I’ve been tending to her nutritional needs; to shake up her system. And there’s no cure.”

  “You listen here, little man. You harm Sara and your life is over.”

  “Makin’ idle threats now? Ooh, I’m so scared.”

  “This threat isn’t idle. You’re not leaving this house.”

  “You think you’re tough enough to stop me?” The burglar slowly put down his flashlight and the box Ron could now see was a container of soap pads. Immediately a switchblade appeared in the right hand of the burglar. A single click and four inches of steel appeared.

  “Do you mean to tell me you broke into my house for a box of Brillo pads?” Ron laughed over the absurdity of the situation and moved to put his butcher-block island between him and the threat.

  “You thought you could hide the disk and cylinder in here, didn’t you? Well the Jew couldn’t keep the secret. He died with the truth on his lips.”

  “You mean the man who came here Monday night? I told him my son kept his secrets in the soap pad box. And honestly I have to say he did. All of Carl’s secrets did, in fact, stay hidden in there. His mother never saw the evidence of his childhood misadventures, from a test with an F on it to a mysteriously appropriated marijuana cigarette. Since she was always away at work, I was the one to scrub the pots. But, son, that was a long time ago and a truckload of Brillo pads from here.”

  “You’re bluffin’, old man. And I ain’t your son.” He picked up the box and dumped the contents out onto the counter. A half dozen soap encrusted steel wool squares scattered before him.

  “It has to do with age relevance, little man. Find what you’re looking for there?”

  “You moved it! Where is it?”

  “Where is what? You had all the answers a minute ago. You tell me what’s supposed to be in the box.” Ron slowly raised his gun hand to the top of the butcher-block and waited for a reaction.

  The punk looked down at the gun and snickered. He lunged over the wooden block with his knife. It cut a slice across Ron’s shirt. The gun fired tearing through the flesh of the kid’s left ear.

  “You fuckin’ shot my ear off, you pukin’ piece of shit!”

  Ron watched the kid drip blood through his fingers onto the kitchen floor and shook his head. “I just cleaned this floor and you’re making a mess. You know what I had to go through to mop it with a crutch and a cast?”

  “Listen here, man. I don’t give a flyin’ fuck about your floor. I’ve destroyed more than this. You don’t know what kind of shit your son was into. I fuckin’ killed the little Jew!”

  Ron jerked his head sideways, lifted the gun and pulled the trigger again. Blood pooled on the punk’s right shoulder. He was leaning back against the sink now, but the knife was still in his right hand.

  “Shit man! What are you tryin’ to do? You ain’t good enough to kill me.”

  A roar, like the sea in heavy surf, filled Ron’s head. “So you’re the sorry piece of humanity that killed my son.”

  “Yeah, and I enjoyed it, too.”

  “Did you kill Stacy, too, little man?”

  “My cousin never could do anything right. Stupid bitch was no more use to me.”

  The gun fired again, this time knocking the switchblade to the floor.

  “Fuck, man! Stop!”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. You see, I’m still learning how to use this thing. I’m aiming for your balls and I’m trying to adjust the angle. Or don’t you have any, little man?” The gun fired again and blood pooled from a hole in the punk’s right thigh. “My aim’s getting a little better, don’t you think?” Ron could see himself from a distance, speaking like a tough guy, firing a weapon. It didn’t seem real, or was it finally too real? He could do this for his son; he could make this one thing right for Sara.

  The kid turned toward the slider to escape and slipped on the red stickiness of his own blood. His wet hand slid across the top of the six burner gas range. He looked back at Ron with a sneer on his face then turned on all the burners and the oven below.

  “That only works in th
e movies, little man.” Ron laughed, “Electronic ignition – you see, you have to blow the flame out.”

  Ron watched the punk’s attempt to blow out the blue flames lit like dozens of blue mini-candles on a birthday cake. “Gives new meaning to the old nursery rhyme, doesn’t it?” Ron asked, not expecting an answer. “He huffs and he puffs.” His next shot went wide, hitting the glass on the slider, causing the punk to jump. The smell of gas was beginning to fill the room now. “Tell me, how does a sorry piece of crap like you get into this kind of work? Is it a family business, this burglary, murder and mayhem? Or did you take a left turn at the window where common sense and intelligence was handed out?”

  “You don’t know a damn thing about it, Jew lover.” He bent over and blew out the ring of flame in the oven below. “We’ve got people in all the important positions. We’re gonna take over and cleanse the world.”

  “Oh really? Do you think selling chemical weapons to Islamic extremists is going to solve your problems? Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘What goes around comes around’?”

  “You don’t know anything about chemical weapons and terrorists! How I see it, we’ll help you kill each other off and then we’ll be the last men standing. To the survivors go the spoils.”

  “Spoils is an apt word. Do you realize what kind of a world you’d be living in? Or do you plan to deceive your partners, too, little man?”

  “Stop calling me that! Where’re ya hidin’ the cylinder and the disk?”

  “Deception only works if you’re good at it, little man. My wife is good at it; my son was very good at it. I might be a novice, but I’m a quick study, and I’m the son-of-a-bitch who’s going to destroy you.”

  “You are certifiable, man!” The kid glanced from the gun, to the stove, to the door. Ron could see that he was frantic to escape now that the room was filled with the smell of gas.

  “I believe you’re right about that.” Ron thought about the family he’d lost. With a sad smile he shook his head. “Let’s see, how does that rhyme go again? He huffed, and he puffed, and he blew the house down.”

  The kid lunged for the door when the pistol fired again.

  CHAPTER 35

  “What do you think, love? Can you handle another cup of soup?” Matthew was trying to drown Sara in liquid.

  “I don’t think I should press my luck.” He was holding the small sauce pot in his hand but he was staring at the painting again. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I’m just thinking. If you had to, do you think you could find that spot again?” he tilted his head toward the painting. Then he poured the last of the soup into her cup and brought it back to her. “Finish this and I won’t push any more soup on you.”

  “That’s because there isn’t anymore.” She held the cup in her hands and sipped the last of the broth. “Are you thinking what I am?” She nodded to the scene on the wall.

  “We’ve looked everywhere else. So have the others. It’s a logical spot, given what we know.” He sat on the end of the coffee table and placed his hands on her knees. “How are the stomach cramps?”

  “I think I’ll live.” The phone rang and she answered it.

  “Sara, it’s Allen. Your house just blew up.”

  “What are you talking about, Allen?”

  “I just heard it over the police scanner. There was an explosion at your address in Greenland. I’m on my way over there now; I can already see the sky lit up with flashing red lights.”

  Sara placed the receiver into the cradle of the phone without saying goodbye, her heart pounded inside her chest.

  “Sara, what is it?”

  “Oh my God!”

  “Sara!”

  “My house just blew up.” She pushed the words past her lips. The shock of the news left her stunned. Looking around she saw Matthew’s questioning face and the soup mug in his hands. “I have to go.” She stood up and pushed past him to the bedroom. “I have to get dressed.” She walked back and looked at this stranger in her house. “I have to go to him.”

  “Sara, tell me what Allen said.”

  “My house just blew up. I have to go.” She turned toward the coat closet and pulled a jacket off a hanger.

  He grabbed her arms and turned her toward him. “You have to get dressed first. Go put on some clothes and I’ll drive you.”

  ***

  In his car, Matthew pulled a red mobile light from beneath his seat, set it on his dash and flicked a switch. Racing down I-95, they passed three lanes of cars. He flashed high beams at slower vehicles ahead of them. She heard him talking on his cell phone to someone she didn’t know. “Bloody hell!” he said and punched in another number. They barely slowed through the York tolls. She stared at him and he turned his head to look at her.

  “Did you have anything to do with this?”

  “Sara, I was with you. No, I…”

  His cell rang again and he picked it back up. They were flying over the high bridge. “Yeah, I heard. We’re on our way... I thought you had someone in place... Well, maybe he blew up with it!” He slammed the phone down and glanced back at her.

  “I’m sorry, Sara. The agency had someone watching your husband’s house. They haven’t heard from him since this afternoon.” He glanced at her face. “We don’t know anything beyond what Allen told you. Don’t borrow trouble.”

  Beyond the bus depot, Matthew took the next exit. She inhaled her shock at the red glow coming from the direction of the house. He slowed the car and turned right stopping at a police barricade. Matthew flashed his ID. Minutes felt like hours; then the cop waved them through. Matthew pulled to the right side of the road and got out telling her to stay put. Sara was already half out of the car. “Not on your life!”

  She slammed the door shut and ran toward the house, weaving around pickups and cars of the volunteer firefighters all with flashing red lights bouncing off the black night. Just beyond a red fire truck, she leaped over a hose bulging with water, ignoring the shouts behind her. Then she stopped dead in her tracks.

  The front of the house was dark, no obvious damage except for the missing window glass and smoke billowing from the back. She shook her head. Then she saw it. The house frame was not on the foundation. It was as if someone had lifted the house up and set it back down off center. “Ma’am, you can’t be here.” A firefighter with a mobile phone in his hand confronted her.

  “This is my house. My husband may be in there.”

  “Ma’am, you can’t go in there.”

  Matthew pulled her back to Mrs. Murphy’s lawn where the neighbor stood next to Allen. “You have to stay here. I’ll find out what you want to know. Allen, keep Sara here.”

  “Of course we will,” Mrs. Murphy said. “Sara, why don’t we all go into my house where it’s warmer? You can see what you need to from my living room.”

  “He was home, wasn’t he?” She asked looking into Allen’s, then Mrs. Murphy’s eyes.

  Mrs. Murphy nodded her head. “He came home early, around two. He didn’t turn any lights on until just a little while ago. I thought he might be sleeping. I made him a casserole and was going to bring it over when I thought a sonic boom went off. You know, dear, like when the airbase had those planes and the pilots sometimes flew too fast. It always sounded like an explosion, rattling dishes and breaking windows. But this time I think it was an explosion. Five minutes later and I would have been in your house delivering a tuna noodle casserole. Ron uses a gas stove, doesn’t he? I’ve always been leery of those things. I remember the first time I saw it. It was bigger than any stove I’ve ever seen.”

  “I have to find him.” Sara walked away from Allen’s shout. Around the back side of the next door neighbor’s place she saw that the whole back of their house was gone, pieces of charred wreckage scattered across Ron’s vegetable garden. One of the firefighters kneeling in the kitchen over a body grabbed his microphone and spoke into it. “Captain, fire’s out. We found one dead, and another with a heartbeat. Send in a back board and k
it.”

  Leaping over rubble Sara headed for this man’s location. Just inside what used to be Ron’s prized kitchen, crumpled in the bottom of the pantry, was her husband. He was almost unrecognizable; his body broken, his hair…gone. She tried to shove past the firefighter. “Please be the one with the heartbeat,” she begged God.

  “Lady, you can’t be here,” the firefighter said.

  Someone lifted her away and held her back. “Sh, Sara, it’s me. Let the emergency team take care of him.” She nodded and shivered over the possible outcomes of this night, gathering warmth from Matthew’s arms.

  What seemed like forever finally moved forward; they threaded a line into Ron’s arm, slid a back board under him, and lifted him to the waiting stretcher. She pulled away from Matthew’s heat and walked beside the men carrying Ron to the ambulance.

  Sitting beside him as sirens announce their race to Portsmouth Regional, Sara stroked his left hand miraculously unharmed, his wedding ring smudged with soot. She begged him to stay with her. The technician was listening to his vitals and checking his pulse. “What’s his name?”

  “Ron, Ron Stafford, my husband.”

  “Ron, can you hear me?” he asked. He checked Ron’s pupils and shook his head.

  “Keep trying, maybe the sound of your voice will get through.”

  “How’s he doing?” a voice came from the front.

  “He’s unconscious, pulse thready, BP dropping.”

  “We’re two minutes out.”

  “Hold on, Ron. We’re almost there,” Sara whispered into his ear. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

  “Sh, Ron. It okay, I’m here. You’re going to be all right.” She squeezed his hand and leaned down to his lips.

  “I love you, Sara. I’m sorry.”

  “I love you, too. Don’t leave me now.”

  “Carl’s waiting.”

  Sara watched his eyes close through a blur. “Ron! Noooo!”

  The technician checked for a heart beat, and began CPR.