The Nick Lawrence Series

by Brian Shea

  “What do you mean by skills?” Izzy was lost again.

  “He’s got to be ex-military. No civilian has the wherewithal to react with composure in that level of bedlam without having been exposed to it before. Look how he swiveled his head back and forth while pulling me to safety. He was scanning the area. He never turned his back to the bus. Skills.” Nick said this with an air of respect.

  “Okay, so you are saying he is an ex-military guy who now works construction. That’s a pretty common thing. Why are you looking so hard at this guy? Do you want to find him and thank him?”

  “I definitely want to thank him, but I also have some serious questions.” With that said, Nick got up and walked over to the teller counter. He saw the bank clerk he was looking for. Melissa. She was rocked back in her chair away from her window, talking on her cell phone. “Where is the driver’s license from the construction guy?” Nick interrupted.

  “Huh?” She too was unaccustomed to this level of stress and couldn’t initially comprehend the question.

  “The construction worker who forgot his license. Remember? You called him back to you when he was leaving… right before the bus fire.” Nick was patient. There was no reason to get angry with someone in her condition. She just required a little extra time to process the questions.

  “Oh yeah, right, I remember. Sorry. I put it over here,” she said, handing him the license, and then without another word went back to her phone call. Nick noted that she never even inquired as to why he wanted it.

  “Thanks,” Nick said softly out of courtesy, realizing that she wouldn’t register the comment. He looked down at the Connecticut driver’s license belonging to the construction worker that had saved his life… Declan Enright of Wethersfield.

  16

  Declan pulled into the small driveway of his gray Colonial. Cold winters and warm summers had taken its toll on the exterior. The peeling paint revealed the original white undercoating. He sat for a moment as the blood continued to pour from his left arm. A torn strip of his shirt that was wrapped in a makeshift bandage did little to ebb the flow. The inside of the minivan would require a serious cleanup. A thick pool of blood was being absorbed into the floorboard carpet around the center console. Declan shut the engine off and heard the screams resonating from inside his house. The sound was audible through the closed doors of the van.

  Laney’s meltdowns were legendary and could unnerve a Tibetan monk. Before he and Val had learned anything about Autism they had thought that she was just an extremely temperamental child. Both Val and Declan had taken their turns trying to soothe her, most of the time without success. Each episode was an experience that left them both physically and emotionally drained.

  Even now that they had learned techniques and routines designed to minimize the outbursts, Laney would occasionally explode. Sometimes these crisis points would happen in the privacy of their home. It created an additional level of stress when in public. As parents, they had become jaded toward the judgmental eyes of passing strangers. They wanted to scream You try and do this! I’m a good parent!! But usually when some “good Samaritan” tried to intervene and help by dispensing some parenting advice all that usually came out of their mouth in response was screw off!

  Patience. Laney required patience. They would hold her tight to keep her from injuring herself. Her back would arc in a guttural response to the physical contact. Laney’s arms and legs would lash out with a force that equaled a bullwhip. On more than one occasion, each had been caught off guard with a strike to the face or body. The impacts from these strikes were surprisingly powerful when contrasted to the size of the tiny assailant.

  Declan walked to the side entrance of the house. The front door was inaccessible since he sealed a gap in the storm door with duct tape. One of many projects that required fixing once they got back their financial footing. As he opened the side door, the sound of Laney’s scream penetrated the air. The blast had temporarily impacted his ability to hear, muffling the volume of her tantrum as if he had covered his ears with a plastic cup.

  He walked into the living room and saw Val cradling Laney. To a layperson, Val looked like she was using some type of UFC grappling hold, but Declan knew better because he’d been in that position many-a-time himself. Val wrapped Laney up using her legs and arms. Val’s mouth was pressed close to Laney’s ear and she was humming. The repetitive noise helped soothe her. It was their way of bringing her back to them. They envisioned that she was lost in the woods and that the sound of their song would guide her home. Thoughts like that gave them a modicum of peace in their delicately balanced world.

  Declan passed them, moving up the stairs to the bathroom without saying a word. He needed to get a better assessment of his injuries before he alerted Val.

  He had dealt with worse wounds, under much harsher conditions, and had lived to tell the tale. Today would be no different. The only easy day was yesterday. A saying that carried with it the indoctrinated mindset that kept him going at the worst of times.

  Declan slowly peeled back the shirt from his arm. Some of the blood had already begun to coagulate, adhering it to his skin. Pulling the cloth free had opened some of these fresh lacerations causing blood to run more profusely down his arm.

  Laney’s final high-pitched wail had managed to cut right through the fog in his head before subsiding. Val had become aware that he was home. She must have noticed that the minivan was parked in the driveway.

  “Hey babe, are you home?” Val called from downstairs.

  “Yeah. Upstairs. When Laney is totally settled I may need your help with something.” Declan’s voice did not betray the pain he was attempting to conceal.

  “Okay. Give me a minute.” Val’s voice was calm. “Hey by the way, did you hear that loud bang earlier? It sounded like a transformer exploded.”

  Declan did not respond to his wife’s comment. She would know the actual source of that sound soon enough. He grabbed a towel from the hallway closet, wet it and began the process of clearing the area around his gashes. Most of the cuts could be sealed with some butterfly stitches once they were cleaned, but four of them would require some suturing. He located a piece of metal sticking out of his shoulder. It was hard to tell how deep it was buried, but Declan knew that it had to come out.

  “Val, can you bring me the Jameson?” Declan asked, knowing he was going to need to self-medicate. Their health insurance had pretty much dried up when he was terminated from the police force. Traditional medicine was not an option right now for the Enrights.

  “Sweet Jesus! What happened to you?” Val said, trying to process the man standing before her in the bathroom. Only a half-hour ago he’d left her to drop some money at the bank, and now he stood blood-covered in their bathroom. Looking at her damaged husband covered in blood, she took a pull from the bottle of the Irish Whiskey before handing it off to Declan.

  “Long story, but I need you to help me get this bleeding under control. I have cleared out most of the shrapnel from the cuts. Can you grab the peroxide? I am going to have to flush ’em out.” Declan said this, managing a forced smile. There was a peculiar piece of his psyche that enjoyed testing the limits of his ability to endure pain.

  Declan hung his arm over the sink’s basin, wincing slightly at the discomfort as he pulled the metal shard out of his shoulder. He had to manipulate it in several directions to free it from the muscle tissue. The pain was intense, causing him to grunt through clenched teeth. With the jagged piece of metal removed from his arm, the blood began to quickly vacate the wound, soaking his shirt and further darkening its once bright color. Declan applied direct pressure to the open gash and within a short amount of time, the flow of blood slowed.

  “Can you do the needlework?” Declan asked of Val as simply as if he were asking her to pass the salt during dinner.

  “Of course. I’ll go heat the needle. Be right back. Flush the big one again and then put some more pressure on it until I return,” Val said, already in moti
on moving toward their bedroom to grab her sewing kit.

  She returned after sterilizing the needle. “Ready big boy?” She jested, batting her eyes.

  “Do I get a lollipop when you’re done?” Declan retorted and gave her a quick once-over, eyeing her in an overtly flirtatious manner. A needed distraction from the current circumstance. Val was beautiful. The fact that she could stand there looking at him covered in blood as he sucked whiskey out of the bottle and still find a way to make a game out of this made him love her even more.

  Seventeen stitches in total had sealed the wound in his shoulder. The sutures closed the two largest gashes and the rest were patched up with adhesive butterfly strips. Val placed loose sterile gauze over the damaged area, providing an extra layer of protection.

  The whiskey had given ease to some of the pain, but it also had induced a rapid onset of fatigue. Declan needed to rest so that he could process what to tell Val about the event that just transpired. He sat on the couch watching as Laney played quietly, lost in her own world. He looked on, wondering if she knew how much he loved her. His eyes grew suddenly heavy and Declan allowed himself to drift off to sleep, knowing that this might be the only rest he got for a long while.

  17

  “Success.” Khaled answered the phone and said this evenly to the man on the other end. The number used to call Khaled would be changed as soon as the conversation was over.

  “Allah is proud of you,” the man on the other end said softly. Khaled chose not to respond to this statement. He had long ago lost his belief in anything beyond the life he lived. The irony that any god would be proud of someone killing a group of people was never lost on him. Khaled was convinced that more people were killed in the name of God than any plague.

  “I leave for my next destination soon. I have one thing left to do before I go. You understand our deal. Make sure that everything is set.” Khaled said this with no hostility. He spoke briefly and with purpose, but not out of any concern of a governmental wiretap. His phone that had been provided by the Technician contained a level of encryption that would eliminate any interception.

  “It has already been done, my friend. Good luck in Colorado.” The man’s voice carried an optimistic tone. “By the way, The Seven were very impressed with your decision to change the location of the bus attack. The fact that it was done during an FBI bank investigation made the iconic American law enforcement agency look weak. It was an unexpected bonus and one that will be exploited to our advantage.”

  “I serve The Seven,” Khaled said, ending the call with the middleman. Khaled thought to himself about the reality of the situation, The Seven served him.

  Khaled took out a second phone from the center console of his nondescript Honda. He tapped the icon with a blue and white shield. The application opened, and the screen filled with a live feed showing footage of the front of the gray colonial home. A blue minivan and red Toyota were parked in the driveway. He double-checked his notebook, more out of habit than necessity. Enright’s wife would be leaving in a few minutes with their youngest daughter. The time on his watch showed 1:20 p.m.

  Khaled had been watching the house for a while. He had arrived midday three weeks ago dressed as a cable repairman. He had climbed the telephone pole that was positioned directly across the street from the American military man’s home and attached a discreet digital surveillance camera. It was motion activated and had provided a clear picture of the comings and goings of this family. The camera would activate and record for thirty seconds whenever movement was detected by the sensor. This feature enabled the camera system to operate for an extended time with minimal battery drainage, negating a need for replacement. This remote view enabled Khaled to fill his notebook with the daily routines of Enright’s family.

  During the course of his preparations for the bus attack, Khaled had monitored the family’s activities, focusing particularly on the littlest child. She was brought to a doctor’s office, located on Main Street, every weekday. Like clockwork, the mother would leave the house at 1:20 p.m. with the little girl in tow. She had only been late on two occasions. Tomorrow would be the last time that the two would ever make that drive.

  18

  “Jake, I think there is more to this bus thing than we originally thought.” Nick said with a sense of urgency. His boss was like many who had achieved the rank of administrator, in that he only liked ideas that had originated with him. Nick had come to realize that bosses were much like children. They needed to feel special, to be coddled to give them the impression that the world revolved around them. Nick had developed a skill for planting ideas in Jake Nelson’s head. Nick would wait patiently, allowing it to fester until it took. Nelson would seize hold of the planted idea, sharing it as soon as he could take credit for it. Nick didn’t care for this type of narcissism. Today, he didn’t have time to play games with his supervisor. Time mattered and his boss’s under-developed ego would have to be put on hold.

  “We have our crime scene guys heading out to assist. If they notice anything, then I’ll let you know. Otherwise, work the robbery and let the locals handle the bus incident.” Nelson had put on his “I’m in Charge” hat and was already impeding Nick’s ability to communicate his observations.

  “You’re making a mistake. This is going to be our problem very soon. You’ll want to get out ahead of this before someone else figures this out… like the press,” Nick said, knowing that by throwing out the potential for media coverage, Nelson would begin to sweat. His boss hated seeing something on the news before the Bureau knew about it. Nelson had a disdain for receiving a call from his supervisor with a question for which he did not know the answer. Shit rolled downhill.

  “What? Why do you think the bus fire investigation is going to involve the Bureau?” Nelson reacted, showing his frustration at the implication. He was the type of man who tended to wear his emotions on his sleeve. As far as Nick was concerned, that was a terrible trait in a superior. Over the years, Nick had seen worse and he’d worked with better. Nelson was a mediocre leader, but Nick tolerated his shortcomings to a limited degree.

  “Well, there was this construction guy in the bank at the time of the bus incident. He actually saved me from the blast by shielding me.” Nick said as he took a breath, letting this sink in with Nelson. “Anyway, I don’t think the fire and subsequent explosion were accidental. It reminded me of some things I saw overseas in the Sandbox,” Nick said, knowing that his boss hated when Nick referenced anything military. Jake Nelson had never served, and like many in that category, felt in some way slighted by anyone who had.

  “Please tell me why you think this! Because if you are going to start a shit storm in the little town of Wethersfield, then I want to be the first to hear about it,” Nelson exclaimed, bordering on anger.

  “I’m not starting any shit storm. It’s already begun. I noticed something in the way the construction guy reacted just before the blast. And then there was the blast itself. I’ve never seen a vehicle explode like that except during wartime.” Nick dropped the military connection again, knowing regretfully that he had added to Nelson’s psychological roadblock as soon as he said it.

  “Listen, Nick, I get it. You have just been through a crazy ordeal, but is it possible that you are overreacting? Maybe it’s like a PTSD thing.” Nelson said this for effect, knowing that Nick’s brother had committed suicide after his combat tour. Nick had first-hand knowledge that post-traumatic stress disorder was real and attacked its victims in different ways.

  “What did you just say?” Nick spat the question, teetering on earning some unpaid vacation. Hopefully, Nelson would register the rage in Nick’s tone and recant his last comment.

  “Sorry. No offense intended. I’m just under a lot of pressure about progress in this armored truck case, but you’ve shown good instincts in the past. So, I am going to give you some wiggle room today. You and Izzy take the rest of today to investigate your bus theory, but if you don’t have anything tangible, the
n first thing tomorrow I want you back on the bank. Got it?” Nelson said, placating him. Nick didn’t really care about the imposed deadline. Confident that by tomorrow morning he would either be wrong, and the world would continue to spin, or he was right and that meant things were about to take a dramatic downturn.

  “Got it. Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.” Nick had learned that saying thank you took the edge out of any confrontational compromise regardless of whether it was genuine. Nelson hung up and the line went dead.

  “Izzy, it’s time to rock n’ roll,” Nick said, already moving. He had walked out of the bank and into the sea of police, fire, and EMS. Additional aid had been called in from the neighboring agencies of Hartford and Rocky Hill to assist with the scene. Nick saw who he was looking for and made his way over.

  “Hey Lieutenant Patterson, got a quick minute?” Nick said as he approached, shaking hands with the local police commander.

  “Sure, Agent Lawrence, what’s up?” Patterson asked, obviously distracted by the carnage surrounding him. He was a man clearly more comfortable in the controlled, air-conditioned environment of his office than out on the street.

  “It’s just Nick.” Nick smiled as he said this, reducing his status as an agent and humbling himself to Patterson. “I know that you guys are swamped with this bus fire and I don’t want to be in the way. I will be running down some leads, but if anything unusual presents itself in the investigation please let me know.” Nick was being intentionally vague.

  “What do you mean by unusual?” Patterson asked in a half-interested tone.

  “You will know it if you see it. Our crime scene guys should be here within the hour to assist. Hit me up on my cell if you have any questions. Thanks.” Nick projected his voice over the noise as he walked away from the Lieutenant. He pulled his cell phone out and was already dialing as he and Izzy headed away from the bank to their government vehicle parked two blocks away.