Hellfire (Sisters In Law Book 2)

by John Ellsworth

  Slowly the sanctuary filled up behind them as parishioners found their usual seats--unreserved except by common assent, as everyone had a favorite location in the church. Then a white-robed choir filed into the choir benches and a first chord from a piano was struck, sending the pitch of the first note fluttering across the still air.

  A hymn erupted as the choir began singing about clouds of gold, mighty horses in the sky, and strong hearts committed to a heavenly army. Visions and images were called down and hearts soared among the congregants as the timeworn hymn launched the traditional service.

  As the last notes died away, Reverend Helen Paulsen emerged from offstage and took her place behind the pulpit. She raised her arms to indicate the attendees should remain standing while she prayed. Which she did. Ninety seconds later the prayer ended with a bold "Amen!" and "In Jesus' name!" and the reverend indicated all should sit. Which, with a sigh of relief, they did. Launching into a twenty-minute sermon, the reverend reminded the congregation what mankind had experienced on 9/11/2001. She spoke of the creation of a country designed to accept those who were persecuted for their beliefs elsewhere. A safe nation where people could worship, as they believed. And she spoke of forgiveness, and the redemptive powers of the shed blood. Ten minutes into the oratory, chins were dropping onto chests, eyes were fluttering and closing, and the five- and seven-year-old were fighting below the surface of the pew to see which of them would have both handouts they had received upon entering the sanctuary. The object was to control them both and the silent dispute raged until the young woman boldly reached between them and jerked away both handouts. The five year old's bottom lip projected in a flat line and tears coursed through her eyes as she wept silently, her hands palm down on the plank beneath her as she struggled to remain silent. On her right her sister glared at her mother and soundlessly moved her lips. To the casual observer it looked like she might have said, "Dumb damn bitch," or "Why did you do that?"--one couldn't be sure exactly what the words were. Maybe she even said both phrases, thought an old man with white hair and an ebony cane with a brass handle. A small smile flitted across his face as he agreed with the daughter. The woman was a dumb damn bitch for ruining their fun. Why did she have to go and do that?

  Ignoring all this and straining to remain engrossed in the sermon, Ed Mitchell twiddled his left thumb against his left ring finger. There was a gold band there--a wedding band--that his probing thumb obviously found stimulating by its presence. Clearly, said the thumb, he wasn't accustomed to having the ring there and anyway it was bothersome.

  As for Ed, it took great effort to remember when the ring and when not the ring. In Ann Arbor, Michigan, the ring appeared. In Chicago, Illinois, the ring went unseen.

  At the end of the sermon there was another prayer, an out-loud reading and response, two more hymns about this redemption and that blessed re-birth, a rousing rendition of "God Bless America" and a fond farewell from the reverend. Plus there was a "drive safely on the way home."

  "Dismissed," said the reverend, who then hurried back up the sanctuary's center aisle so she could arrange herself at the sanctuary entrance and begin shaking hands as her flock swept outside and away.

  The young woman retrieved the three-year-old. She rejoined the others. First in but last out came Ed and the four females.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell," said the reverend. "Thank you for coming."

  "We'd be here more often, but Ed spends so much time in Chicago anymore," explained the woman called Mrs. Mitchell.

  Ed, for his part, nodded shyly at the young woman.

  Yes, he indicated, it was true. He was away an awful lot and yes, they would be seen around the church many more Sundays if his work weren't so demanding.

  "Well, you take care, Ed and Genevieve. And you darling girls, don't you look breathtaking today?"

  Said the middle girl, "We're going to Chuck E. Cheese. Finally!"

  "Ed, honey," said the young woman, "Why don't you bring around the car and I'll wait with the girls. I'm afraid we'll lose someone if we try walking through all the traffic in the lot."

  Ed had to admit, there was a lot of traffic that Easter morning.

  The young woman leaned and kissed him quickly on the cheek as he nodded and moved away.

  "Daddy," cried the three-year-old. "Daddy, we love you!"

  Without turning around, Ed nodded.

  He was loved, that much he was sure about.

  He was definitely loved.

  When he was pulling out of the lot with his family, Ed might have noticed the Nissan behind him. Its license plates were Illinois and its driver wore sunglasses and a ball cap pulled snug over his head.

  The man nodded to himself and picked up his cell phone.

  "Christine?"

  “Go ahead, Andrus.”

  “Wife and daughters, three cute little girls.”

  “Did they arrive together at church?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they leave together?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you following them now?”

  “Yes. We’re headed back to where I fell in behind them this morning.”

  “At the lake front home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where he evidently stayed overnight?”

  “I’m sorry, Christine. Yes, he stayed overnight there. He’s been there all weekend. He’s come and gone with the girls. He’s barbecued outside for them. He and the wife went out Saturday night.”

  “Went where?”

  “Dinner and dancing. Restaurant called The Flame.

  “And you personally witnessed them dancing together.”

  “Chris, I wasn’t three feet from them. They danced right past my table.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Okay. Come home. You’re finished.”

  “So is he?”

  “So is he.”

  51

  Monday 7 A.M

  On Monday morning the buses loaded up and moved out. Headed for Windsor School in one bus was a collection of just under fifty grade school students.

  It was 7:10 a.m.

  Samantha Evans was ten years old, taller than all the boys in her fourth grade class, a girl who rescued guinea pigs from laboratories, and loved doing art on her Nintendo Pokémon Art Academy. She thought biology class wonderful and played center front on her grade's champion volleyball team because of her height. Samantha's long blonde hair was most often arranged into two tight pigtails that bounced on her shoulders whenever she leapt to spike the ball or ran from the school bus to the classrooms where most mornings she arrived just after the final bell, thanks to "our dopey bus driver." The girl's report card was usually filled with two's and three's--average and a bit above--and the social comments indicated she was quite a handful in class, never cowed from arguing with anyone, including her homeroom teacher.

  Her mother and father were teachers at her school. Jameson Evans, her father, taught physical education; Madison Evans, her mother, taught math and science. Thus the threesome spent their days together--yet apart--at Windsor School District's Elementary School Number 9. The school was a unified school in the northern end of Cook County where the rolling hills had lured Hussein with their promise of a reflected bomb blast.

  On Monday, September 14, Samantha carried her Pet Taxi with her onto the school bus. Loaded inside with hay and a small water bottle were Gus and Andy, two guinea pig boars who, in the pink of life, weighed in excess of a pound each, and who wheeked nosily when Samantha stuck lettuce through the door of the small cage as the bus bounced along. The extra lettuce was a thoughtful inclusion from her mother, a welcome addition to the lunch Samantha carried in her backpack.

  "It's Show and Tell in Miss Maroney's class today," Samantha told her seatmate and best friend Aine Rautherson. "So I brought Gus and Andy. I'm going to show how they know their names. Plus they know tricks."

  Aine poked her finger through the door. Gus immediately ambled up to
the door to investigate and nibbled curiously at the digit. Aine shrieked and jerked her hand away. "He bit me!" she cried.

  "Don't be stupid," said Samantha. "He was only tasting you. Guinea pigs don't bite but they do taste when they think it's food. Next time ask me before you stick your finger in."

  "What tricks do they know?"

  "Oh, you'll see. They're a-ma-zing!"

  "Oh, I'm sure. Now I'm going to feel stupid showing how to make a cake. Guinea pigs are a thousand times better to show off."

  "Hey, do you get to cook the cake?"

  "Your mom said she'd help me get it cooked in the cafeteria. It only takes a half hour. So if I go before you I can take my cake over there and have it back before class ends. Cool?"

  "Yeah, cool."

  Two seats forward on the bus sat Rashad Nidal, a Muslim student born and raised in Chicago. He was thirteen years old and a seventh grader and a huge fan of World Soccer. He frequently played soccer and was often the fastest kid on the field. Rashad--Rash, to his buddies--had grown up without a father and his closest adult male influence was Jameson Evans, Samantha's father. Mr. Evans had promised Rash that if he trained hard and studied hard he would one day be good enough to play for the Chicago Fire. He said Rash would get a chance to tryout his junior year because Mr. Evans knew the Fire coach. Rash sat facing forward, his knees close together, balancing a ball on his lap. He spun the ball in his hands as the bus accelerated and decelerated, always mindful that it must be kept moving all the way to school so he got in a full workout in ball handling. A goalie, Rash was the only player on his entire team to ever actually touch the ball with a hand during the games, and he was working hard to get all the hand-eye workout time he could manage.

  Next to Rash was Jimmy L. Johnson, a classmate of Rash's whose glory in life was the trumpet. Jimmy blew high and blew low and he played "Lady of Spain" during the school's talent contest and came in second. Balanced on Jimmy's lap was his trumpet case, complete with a bumper sticker that said Obama-Biden 2008. Jimmy regretted defacing his trumpet case with anything--his regret wasn't political--and he had tried many times to peel away the sticker but it had embedded itself in the pebble grain of the cowhide cover. So Jimmy L. Johnson rode along tapping the fingers of his right hand against the trumpet case as he closed his eyes and practiced several songs he was going to tryout with at this year's contest. At those moments, hearing music with his eyes closed, regret was the farthest thing from his mind. Like Rash, Jimmy's goal was to one day go pro too. Only he wanted to play for Chicago, the rock band.

  There were forty-eight other kids on the bus that day, most of them similar in likes, hopes, and dreams to Samantha, Aine, Rash, and Jimmy.

  The last thing any of them expected was to die before their next birthday.

  But then they didn't know about the white van that would seek them out.

  No one did.

  52

  Monday 9 A.M.

  He backed the van out of the storage garage. Sevi was riding in the front seat, both hands pressed up against the headliner to her right.

  He pulled into traffic on Washington Street and headed northwest.

  There was no parking in front of Windsor School so Hussein considered his options. A suggestion from one of the cell members had stuck with him.

  As he passed a telephone company truck with its orange cones and pedestrian guard, he decided to give it a try.

  He pulled over, stole up to the phone company truck, and removed eight orange warning cones from its bed. Quickly he laid these in the back of the van.

  Sevi turned to see what he was doing in the back, but her head wouldn't swivel that far. She was handcuffed to the passenger seat panic bar. Both hands were cuffed and pressed above the window glass. She was all but immobilized.

  "What will we do?" she asked Hussein when he returned to the driver's seat and they were again moving with traffic.

  "We? I will park the van. You will wait in the van."

  "Wait in the van? With you?"

  He smiled into the rearview mirror. "Time will tell, dear Sevi. Please try to be patient."

  In the console between them were two unregistered cell phones. "Burners," he had told her when he brought them home. One of them would remain behind in the van, wired to a twelve-volt battery. The other would accompany the twosome when they left the scene some ten minutes before the bomb would detonate and level the school.

  Traffic was heavy and Hussein was extremely alert. They were riding on enough explosive to propel a moon shot, as she had heard him tell someone on the phone that morning. He maneuvered through downtown Chicago, keeping as far from other vehicles as possible. It was difficult. Soon the usual honking and tailgating and cutting in and out by taxicabs was overrunning the private automobiles and trucks that were frantically trying to find a parking spot or simply trying to escape the downtown and get back out to the freeway they wished they'd never left.

  At the Circle Interchange they waited four lights to cross back and head westbound on the Kennedy. Traffic was a snarl all the way and they found themselves stopping and starting, starting and stopping. Hussein became frustrated and pounded the steering wheel at one point. Sevi watched traffic flowing around a stalled vehicle in the third lane. "Poor guy," she said as they managed to cut into the right lane and pull around. Hussein merely shook his head.

  "Abu will pick us up two hundred meters east of Windsor School," Hussein announced. "You will call him when I say. He is speed dial one. Under no circumstances are you to make any other calls on the phone. If you do, you run the risk of blowing us all up by setting off the cell on the battery. Do you understand me?"

  "Yes."

  "Say it!"

  "Abu is speed dial one. I am to make no other calls. Who would I call anyway? I know no one in Chicago. Or even in America. It's ridiculous, what you tell me."

  He raised his hand as if to backhand her and she winced. It wouldn't have been the first time he had hit her, if one could judge by her response. Then he slowly lowered his hand, shaking his head.

  "It is that mouth that I have come to despise. You are venom, woman."

  "Please, I'm only trying to help us do this and get away."

  He looked across at her for one second. "I thought you wanted us to abort. You have changed your mind?"

  "I think only of my family, gone. And I think the infidels must be stopped."

  Four miles west they took their exit and rolled down the ramp in the right lane. Waiting no more than ten seconds, they turned right.

  It was 9:20 a.m.

  Windsor School was less than a mile down a heavily congested road.

  53

  Monday 9 A.M

  It was only fitting that his little sister would play the music so loud and so many times that he literally had to wake up to make it stop.

  It was so.

  During the tenth evolution of the Veggie Tales: Minnesota Cuke and the Search for Samson's Hairbrush he had evidently had all he could stand.

  At least, that's how they would tell it later, when everyone was older and more settled.

  His hospital bed was in the family room, where he was guaranteed the most stimulation. Janny had replayed her video into the tenth opening credits when--

  He opened his eyes.

  Opened his eyes and moved his head to the side.

  "Son ob bitch shot me," he muttered.

  "Mommy!" shrieked Janny. "Jamie's swearing!"

  The home health nurse leapt to her feet and went to his bedside.

  "There, there, just relax," the nurse was saying in her most soothing voice. "We're all here with you and everything is going to be fine."

  "Son ob bitch shot me!"

  Christine ran into the room.

  "He did shoot you, Jamie. But you're going to be okay," his mother said. Waves of relief washed over her body and through her mind and touched her soul. She had been dreading--oh, how she'd been dreading! After all, she felt one hundred percent responsible for t
he shooting. If she hadn't hidden documents, if the FBI hadn't--

  She stopped herself. That all could wait.

  For now, there was Jamie.

  "Mom, can I please have some water?" he said, and he simultaneously drew his finger across the angry suture site on his face. "Ow!"

  The nurse was already inserting the straw between his lips and pulling his shoulders more upright. "Drink, please."

  "Jamie, you're swearing," said Janny.

  "Janny, please turn that video off," said Christine. "We need to talk to Jamie right now."

  "Crap. It's always about Jamie!"

  The little girl stalked from the room, carrying her iPad and scuffing her shoes as she went.

  "How is your vision, honey?" said Christine. "Do you see all right?"

  "Mom, I see fine. What's this thing?" he asked, and weakly pulled the sheet aside. "They've got a tube in my dick!"

  "It's a catheter," said the nurse. "If you're feeling better I can take it out. But for now let's just wait a little while. That okay?"

  "Okay. More water, please."

  Additional water was administered through the straw.

  Jamie pushed himself up on his pillows.

  "Oh my God," he said. "Sevi!"

  "What about Sevi, honey?" said Christine. "We don't need to talk about all that. I've got it all under control."

  "No! They have Sevi and we need to find her! What day is it?"

  "Monday."