Gideon

by Grant Rosenberg

  “Is it okay to do that? Is the nurse gonna be pissed?” Diego asked.

  Kelly shook her head. “They can read all your vitals at the nurses’ station. They just keep the sound on to annoy the patients.”

  Diego looked confused. “I’m kidding,” Kelly added. He didn’t react. Kelly wondered how long it would take for Diego to rediscover his infectious smile.

  She pulled up a chair and reached out for Diego’s hand, but he didn’t offer it.

  “I spoke to the doctor. He said he told you about the operation they’re going to be doing.”

  Diego nodded. He was trying hard to stem the tears, but was losing the fight.

  “It’s okay to cry,” Kelly said softly.

  All he needed was permission. The tears flowed freely. Kelly opened her arms. Diego leaned in and she enveloped him in her embrace. He wept like a little boy.

  Just like he should.

  After a few minutes, Diego pulled away. He was ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? There’s absolutely nothing to be sorry about.”

  “Spider says I need to be strong.”

  “You do. You are. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be human. Human’s cry. It’s natural and it’s healthy for you to let it out.”

  “Spider says it makes me a puto.”

  “Diego, I’m a doctor. I went to school for many years and learned all kinds of things about the human body. Crying absolutely does not make you a puto.”

  Hearing Dr Kelly say it made him smile. At least for an instant.

  “Do they have to cut off my leg?”

  “I’m afraid so. The bottom part is badly damaged. They tried to treat it with medicine, but it didn’t help. The infection will spread if they don’t operate today. Do you understand that?”

  Diego thought for a moment, then nodded. “Is it like cancer or something?”

  “It’s like that, but fortunately it’s not cancer. Once they remove the damaged area, all of the infection will be gone and you’ll be completely healthy.”

  “How do I do stuff? Like play soccer or baseball or… anything?”

  “Remember when we talked about prosthetics?”

  He nodded. “Metal legs. I don’t want a metal leg.”

  “They come in all kinds of material. I’ll come back later and show you some videos of people who have prosthetic legs. It’s pretty cool the stuff they can do.”

  “Okay.” Even at age ten, Diego was resolved to his fate. Kids in the gang culture grew up quickly. “Are you gonna be there when they operate on me?”

  “Absolutely. Someone has to make sure that they don’t operate on the wrong leg.”

  Diego was momentarily stunned at the thought, and then slowly broke into a tiny smile. “That was a joke, too, right?”

  Kelly nodded. “Just not a very good one.”

  Diego shrugged. “It was okay.”

  Kelly marveled at his strength. Diego was going to turn out fine if he could somehow stay out of the gang.

  Unfortunately, that die had already been cast.

  69

  The following morning, Kelly spent time with Jessica, leafing through the pictures in their old photo album. They’d done this at least a hundred times before, but it was the first time they’d looked at it since their father’s death, and now the photos took on different meanings and evoked more emotional memories.

  Kelly stopped at one photograph of her and Jess taken just a week before everything went sideways. Back when they were carefree and had no idea of the tragedies that awaited them. They were holding the tennis rackets their father had given them as end-of-the-school-year gifts. Rackets that would never be used. Kelly removed the photo from the album and slowly ran her fingers over the images. It was the last photo taken of Jessica before she ended up in this bed. Kelly held back her tears as the anger built up inside of her, fueling her resolve. A homicidal monster had destroyed two lives and turned two others upside down. She wasn’t going to allow that to happen again.

  Pete had sworn to keep digging until he had all the answers. It wouldn’t take him long to find Angelo Moretti, and there was no way to know what information Angelo had and could be coerced to share.

  The decision she’d been putting off was made. No questions asked and no turning back. She had an obligation to her sister and she was dead set on not letting Jessica down, again.

  On her way out of the building, Kelly dropped off a certified check with Ms Spiro, squaring up Jessica’s account, then made a phone call to Benedetto.

  When she returned to the clinic, there was a small envelope on her desk that had been delivered by a messenger. Other than Kelly’s name and address, there were no markings on the envelope. She knew who’d sent it.

  She slit it open and pulled out a thumb drive which contained an updated report about Angelo Moretti and a copy of his medical records.

  Kelly was about to take another step along her journey.

  70

  Over the next few days, Kelly was extremely diligent about her preparation, which included late-afternoon excursions to East Oakland to scout the area. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it right, or at least to the best of her ability.

  She took Benedetto’s words to heart and questioned every aspect of her plan, looking for holes and things that could come back to haunt her. Were there security cameras? Could she gain access without leaving any traces? Did she have a backup plan in the event things took an unexpected turn?

  No plan was foolproof. She couldn’t account for every unimaginable roadblock that fate may decide to toss in her way, but Kelly wanted to believe that this time around fate would be on her side.

  Her first challenge was to camouflage the hit. Her father had become an expert at this, so she took a page from his playbook and found what she needed in Angelo’s medical records. In the past two years he’d been treated twice at Express Care in Oakland for anaphylaxis. Turns out he was allergic to shellfish. Extremely allergic. Why he’d eaten it twice in as many years was a mystery, but not one that mattered. He’d been prescribed an EpiPen and had refilled the prescription at CVS six months ago.

  The information from Benedetto included Angelo’s cell phone records. Fortunately, he was a creature of habit. Every Tuesday and Saturday night he had food delivered from the Golden Palace. Kelly, posing as Angelo’s girlfriend, called the restaurant on Tuesday to confirm the order, and the cranky woman who answered said it was the same thing as always. Spicy garlic chicken and a double order of rice to be delivered at 7pm.

  Kelly could work with that.

  Using Google maps, she found an apartment complex that fit her specifications. It was situated along the route from the restaurant to Angelo’s house, and it had four units in the back.

  Evidence that fate was smiling upon her came in the form of a house directly across the street from Angelo’s that had been on the market for six months. It was a foreclosure, which meant it was empty. Houses in that neighborhood rarely sold and frequently became crash pads for squatters, so Kelly did a few drive-bys and peered in the windows. It was rundown as hell and there was no indication that anyone lived there. Too crappy for homeless drifters meant it was perfect for her.

  During her forays to Oakland, she spent time tailing the teenager who delivered food from the restaurant. He was the only delivery person they had, which made it convenient. He drove an old Tercel, and when he brought the orders up to the front doors he never locked his car. Why would he? Maybe he hoped that someone would steal his junker, which was highly unlikely. Even in this neighborhood, car thieves had pride.

  The last step in preparation was to make concentrated shrimp stock. She could’ve bought it at an Asian grocery, but there was no reason to expose herself like that. She bought two pounds of shell-on shrimp, along with dozens of other groceries that she really didn’t need, then boiled the shrimp for a few hours to reduce the liquid and increase its intensity.

  By Saturday, she was ready to put her
plan into action. She hadn’t slept the night before, her head throbbed and the very thought of food revolted her. It was as if every fiber in Kelly’s body was screaming at her to bail out. That wasn’t going to happen. She’d sworn she wouldn’t second-guess her decision, and she didn’t. She was past right-versus-wrong. If she allowed any doubt to creep in, it would throw off her concentration, and she needed every ounce of focus if this was going to work.

  4pm. Kelly parked her car in a pay lot several blocks from Angelo’s house. There were no security cameras on the lot. She was dressed in well-worn drab clothing, a beat-up backpack slung over her shoulder. Her hair was tucked up into a baseball cap that was pulled low over her eyes. She could’ve been a college student or a barista on her way to work.

  4:30pm. Kelly nonchalantly approached the back door of the foreclosed house. A large, grizzled dog tied up in the yard next door barked ferociously, but no one seemed to care. She knocked on the door three times. There was no response, which was exactly what she’d hoped for. Glancing back over her shoulder, Kelly slipped her father’s electric lock pick out of her pack and inserted it into the lock. Her hands were badly shaking and it took a few tries to get the prong in straight. After a moment, the tumblers lined up and the lock gave way.

  She opened the door a crack and peered around the filthy kitchen. An overwhelming stench wafted out that caused Kelly to gag. It was the sour odor of rotten food and the reek of death. She feared she might be entering the final resting place of some unlucky soul. She hoped the smell was emanating from a rodent trapped inside the walls, but she didn’t plan on searching the house to find out one way or the other. The neighbor’s dog must’ve gotten the scent as well, because it launched into a frenzy.

  Kelly quickly slipped inside and closed the door behind her.

  5:30pm. She had set up a high-powered riflescope on a collapsible tripod and watched Angelo’s house. She’d wrapped a thin scarf around her nose and mouth to filter out the stink, but it didn’t help. The fumes made her eyes water.

  Kelly checked her watch. Every day at this time, Angelo made a pilgrimage to an empty lot around the corner where he met his drug runner and picked up the daily take. Right on cue, the door opened and Angelo exited, casually cruising down the cracked pavement, unsuccessfully trying to look intimidating. Angelo Moretti may be a burnout, but the guy was methodical as hell.

  She had to act fast. She eased out the back door, and, to her relief, the neighbor’s dog was gone. She walked around the side of the house, treading in the shadows.

  Crossing the street without being seen was crucial. She couldn’t risk the possibility, regardless of how remote, of being identified at a later date. As she looked out from the shadows, her heart was beating hard and her hands were slick with sweat.

  Fortunately, the street was empty. Loud rap music blasted out of a nearby open garage, and Kelly could make out some muffled conversation, interspersed with laughter, but didn’t see a soul.

  She crossed the street, slowing down her gait so as to not attract attention. She had no more than ten minutes to get into the house, do what she needed to do, and get out.

  Even if everything went perfectly, she’d be cutting it close.

  The rear door to Angelo’s house was shielded from the neighbors by a semi-enclosed porch with rippled Plexiglas panels that had yellowed from years in the sun. Kelly slipped on a pair of latex surgical gloves, quickly picked the lock and entered.

  The house was a sty, but Kelly didn’t have the time or inclination to explore. She had one very specific task, and the clock was ticking. Loudly.

  It took her two minutes to search the bathroom, and she came up empty. She spent another few minutes rifling through his nightstands, to no avail. Her pulse was racing and perspiration was dripping into her eyes when she finally found his EpiPen in the kitchen. Who the hell keeps an EpiPen in the kitchen? She made the switch and bolted for the backdoor. As it was closing, she heard the front door open.

  Calming her nerves as best she could, Kelly walked up the street a few houses before crossing over to the other side. She made it back to her stakeout without incident.

  When she was safely inside the house, she began to shake. This was lunacy! If Angelo had come home just a minute earlier… thirty seconds earlier… she would have been exposed, and possibly shot. Kelly took a bottle of water from her pack and guzzled it down, then forced herself to take several long, deep breaths. She had to slow everything down and be ready for what lie ahead. There were more risks to be taken and she needed steady nerves to pull them off.

  6:30pm. Kelly pulled out a disposable cell phone and placed a call to the Golden Palace. She ordered food to be delivered to the apartment building she’d scouted and was told it would be there in thirty minutes. She started the stopwatch on her phone and headed out.

  7:00pm. The darkened doorstep across from the apartment building proved an ideal place to wait for the delivery. A few minutes later, the Tercel pulled up at the curb and the teenager hopped out, a bag of food in hand. He trudged up the walkway to the apartment building, and after checking the numbers, headed for the units at the rear of the complex.

  Kelly briskly walked across the street and opened the car door like she owned it. A few young kids were riding bikes down the block, but that couldn’t be helped.

  There were three bags of food in the passenger seat. One of them was marked “Moretti”. Her good fortune was holding. Kelly opened the bag, removed the carton of garlic chicken, and pulled a syringe out of her pocket. She quickly emptied the contents of the syringe into the chicken, anticipating that the strong spices and heavy garlic would mask the shrimp flavor.

  The chicken was back in the bag, the bag back in the car and the car door closed before the teenager came around the corner, talking on his cell to someone at the restaurant, explaining that the address was wrong.

  By the time he was back in his car, Kelly was on her way back to her stakeout position. The rest of the plan was in the hands of the gods… or, to be more exact, the hands of a pimply faced teenager and a spaced-out crack addict.

  7:45pm. The riflescope sat a few inches back from a slit in the filthy curtains. Kelly watched as the teen delivered Angelo’s food. She watched as the teen muttered what looked like “asshole” under his breath. That almost brought a smile to her face, but she was much too tense to find any humor in the moment.

  Angelo’s blinds were tilted open just enough for Kelly to observe him as he shoveled the chicken into his mouth, and then realize something was dreadfully wrong. She tracked him as he desperately lunged into the kitchen, ripped open a few cabinets and finally found the EpiPen.

  She watched with no emotion as he jabbed the empty auto-injector into his thigh, over and over, followed by his face turning red from lack of oxygen.

  She sat witness to him stumbling back into the living room, where he ripped the blinds off the window, smashed his face up against the glass and mouthed the word “help”.

  Kelly flinched for a moment when Angelo looked directly at her. It was reminiscent of the stare she got from his cousin Tommy when she’d spied on him from across a street. But that was a different street, a different time – and Kelly was a very different person.

  As Angelo collapsed to the floor, Kelly closed the drapes. She’d wondered how she’d feel when this was all over. Relieved? Fulfilled? Remorseful?

  She was surprised to find that she felt nothing.

  71

  Kelly spent Sunday in Golden Gate Park by herself. She ignored phone calls from Pete, Alexa and Benedetto, as she sat beside Stow Lake, eating a light lunch and watching a father and his daughter maneuver a pedal boat around a family of ducks.

  She took a leisurely walk to the bandstand and listened to a rousing rendition of Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring, before heading off to the Steinhart Aquarium, where she’d spent countless hours as a child. Kelly wandered around the cool dark building, letting her mind travel back to the wonderful memories
of visiting the aquarium with her family. She successfully blocked out any negative thoughts and basked in the distant glow of happier times.

  She was hungry by the time she left the park, so on the way home she stopped at Molinari in North Beach and picked up a variety of salads and a bottle of Prosecco. She’d felt her phone vibrate a few more times over the course of the day, and when she arrived home, she didn’t bother checking the messages. She didn’t want to break the serene mood of a lovely day.

  Kelly set Spotify to “Acoustic Covers”, laid out her feast, poured her wine and hoped against hope that the events of the past twenty-four hours would fade into the dark recesses of her mind. But she knew different. Regardless of how idyllic her day was, the memories of killing the Moretti cousins would stay with her forever.

  That night, she went to see Diego. It had been five days since his operation and she’d already visited twice. Despite what Alma had said, Kelly still harbored guilt about Diego’s infection and felt that the least she could do is swing by and bring him something to brighten his mood. Tonight it would be chocolate-dipped biscotti.

  When she arrived, Diego was alone in his room, his eyes red and swollen. This time he didn’t look away. In fact, he stared at Kelly like she was an apparition. “Dr Kelly?” His voice cracked.