“Father Santiago was nothing more than a pawn. He thinks he was leading me, but I led him like a dog on a leash, like every other male whose tongue licks the ground I walk on.”
Suddenly, just below Britney’s feet, the Father leaped upward, a gun in his hand, and jabbed it at the base of her skull.
“The queen bitch even turns on a man of God. Well, I don’t die so easily. Your punishment for betraying me will be death. What’s the saying? Let it be written, let it be said.”
She winced.
“No más. No más. No más!”
A teenage boy, covered with bruises and bloody cuts, yelled from behind Sean. Just then, Bolt swung his left leg upward and cracked the Father right between the legs. Britney pulled away as I jumped for both of them. As we hit the ground, a gun fired.
Britney rolled onto her chest, while the father curled into a ball.
I scooted over to Britney and turned her over. Both hands covered her face. She was in tears. Looking over my shoulder, blood pooled around the priest.
Valdez ran through the double doors as sirens blared in the distance. “Mr. Booker, Bolt, are you okay?”
“Esteban…he saved our lives.”
I watched Bolt run over to his new friend and hug him.
Beneath me, Britney cried uncontrollably.
I said, “We’ve got El Jefe. No more killing. No more.”
20
Booker,
As you might have guessed, I’m not great at doing goodbyes. I feel guilty, and it just doesn’t go well. But I didn’t want you to feel what you’ve felt the last thirty years. I’m not running away from you or your mother. I’m just doing my job. The agency is sending me on another assignment. It’s better if I don’t tell you where.
The last few days have been gut-wrenching, trying to reunite an abducted kid with his father. Through this experience, I got to know the real Booker Truman Adams, who’s driven by a higher calling to do what’s right. I’ll never forget this time we spent together. You are a great man and a great father.
I love you, son.
Sean (Dad)
Looking out on to the Belo Garden across Commerce Street in downtown Dallas, a dog broke away from its owner and chased a frantic squirrel toward a tree. I stuffed the mangled piece of paper back in my pocket. I’d originally found the note slipped under my door at Lupe’s brownstone the day after we’d found Esteban. I wasn’t surprised, given his nomadic existence and job demands. I knew he’d made his life choices. No one had held him hostage or coerced him into continuing his work as a CIA operative, an assassin for hire nonetheless. But knowing, after all these years of resentment and anger, meant everything to me. Knowing that he cared. Knowing what kind of man he was. Knowing the sacrifices he’d made to make the world a safer place. Not just for me, but for thousands…no, millions of people.
And, yes, for me too.
A hand patted my back.
“Are you nervous?
Turning to face Henry, as assistant district attorney for Dallas County, his power red tie made him look like he was running for office. Not just any office, but something at the federal level. The suit fit my old college buddy quite well, considering we were hunkered down in the corner meeting room of the Earle Cabell Courthouse. The federal building housed, among other agencies, Health and Human Services, US Court of Appeals Fifth Circuit, and the US Attorney’s Office.
“Doing okay. Much better than he is.” I gestured toward Bolt, the only person sitting at a twelve-person table, his hands glued together while his thumbs twirled. The nearly-fifteen-year-old Dominican Republic native looked straight ahead, a solemn expression covering his face.
“Looks like he just lost his best friend. Strange not to see him happy, given everything you’re doing for him. Teens. Hard to predict, huh?”
I nodded. Henry’s version of “everything” related to strings being pulled to expedite Bolt’s immigration to the US and eventual citizenship, as well as his guardianship, at least until he turned eighteen. Of course, I knew who’d pulled the strings, but I couldn’t tell my secret to anyone.
I recalled our recent flight back to Dallas, Bolt’s first-ever plane trip. He finally had a chance to explain at least some of his early life.
Bolt had no memories of his parents. He’d been told that they left him when he was just two years old, although his dad tried to sell him to a dealer just to get his daily fix in. As the story goes, the dealer wouldn’t take him, said he wasn’t worth that much to his business. Bolt was tossed around like a runaway pet up until he was seven, at which time he decided to take ownership of his life, everything from how to feed himself, where to sleep, how to survive the scam artists and perverts, to how to make it in this world.
“It’s really not that big of a deal,” I said as my partner, Alisa, approached us in the corner. “The kid needed a home, an education, a chance to make something of his life. If I didn’t do this, I’m not sure he would have lived to see his eighteenth birthday.”
Alisa squeezed my upper arm, her amber eyes contrasting with her dirty-blond, curly locks. I could feel an awkward sense of attraction with her. Before I’d left, we’d shared a…moment. It had been unpredictable, yet not totally unexpected, if those two could coexist in a relationship.
Relationships.
That term usually lit a firecracker under me. I dated pretty well, but I failed miserably at relationships.
“After everything we went through with my little sister, I’m surprised the teenager thing didn’t scare you away.”
“I thought about it. Hell, I’ve thought about what life will be like when Samantha hits that age. But that’s more about me dealing with it. Growing up in those years is awkward at best. Speaking of…”
Samantha, dressed in her purple and white polka dot Sunday dress and matching shoes and headband, barreled into me, then squeezed my waist. I winced slightly, my ribs still on the mend, but I didn’t want her to know that she’d hurt me. “Dad, what does it mean to be a legal guard? I couldn’t understand everything G-Nan and Uncle Charlie were talking about.” Missing teeth still created a hissing sound every so often.
I glanced over at Momma and Uncle Charlie, who had just been interrupted by Henry’s girlfriend and my former stalker, Cindy. That girl had never met a person, or a fence post, she couldn’t force to listen to her nonsensical babbling. But she was Henry’s significant other, becoming more significant every day, so I suppressed my natural instincts to put a bag over her head and tried to be friendly.
Kneeling down, I let Samantha lean against my leg. She crossed her arms while tapping the toe of her shoe to the floor. “Legal guardian. It just means that I’m responsible for making sure Sebasten is safe, has a roof over his head, and is being taken care of.”
“So you don’t have to guard him?”
I looked up at Alisa and Henry, smiling. “No, Mittens, I don’t need to be his guard, although I’m hoping he feels secure for the first time in his young life. I just want to make sure he gets to school every day and help him figure out what he wants to do with his life.”
“Daddy, I think being in the BeginAgain Republic has hurt your memory,” she whispered, glancing around with no idea her volume was just as loud as before. “You can’t call me Mittens anymore. I’m not a baby.”
I nodded, but let her see some disappointment in my expression.
“Okay, you can call me that in private. Deal?”
We swatted a high five.
“So, does all this formal stuff mean I’m going to have a big brother?”
I wondered if this would come up, knowing her mother would surely share her opinion.
“Kind of, yes. You know, Samantha, families are formed more by who really cares about you the most. Like Aunt Alisa and Uncle J.”
She nodded, biting her lower lip, then darted off, running up to Bolt.
“I hope you get to be my brother. That would be cool for you. Me too.”
The massive door opened and
Justin, my best friend since high school, peeked his head inside. “Fooled ya, didn’t I?”
He was met with a few moans. We’d been in wait mode since we arrived at the courthouse almost three hours earlier.
“So, the authorities in the Dominican haven’t been able to find this nomad who helped you find Esteban and take down Amador and Britney,” Henry said, as Justin joined our conversation.
“Not surprising. He seemed like a loner.”
“So we’re supposed to believe some homeless guy randomly steps in and puts his life on the line against a bunch of lethal drug smugglers? Seriously, Booker, we’re not naïve. There is more to this story.”
Sadly, I couldn’t share the details of our dramatic search and rescue of Esteban with my friends, even those I’d known for over half my life. Even worse, I couldn’t share what I’d learned with Momma, to give her a peace that I finally felt. But as I’d been told, I couldn’t put more people at risk.
“Have you gone to visit…uh, her in jail?” Justin asked as he flopped his ponytail over his collared shirt.
“I can say her name. Britney. See?”
“So, have you?” Justin asked with a bit too much enthusiasm.
“She’s put in a formal request to meet with you seven times,” Henry added. “That just doesn’t happen. Do you guys have some unfinished business?”
A quick glance at Alisa. “I—”
“Don’t tell me, what happens in DR, stays in DR?” A wrinkled smile covered Justin’s face.
He was partially right, although I couldn’t admit it. “Hardly. It was sickening to see the lies and betrayal, not to mention the brutal violence. We’re lucky to be alive,” I said. “I’m just glad that Esteban was reunited with his father, and I was able to meet my clients’ objective—to catch their son’s killer. She just happened to be my ex-girlfriend.”
Alisa balled up a fist and punched me lightly in the ball of my shoulder socket. Six months ago, it would have sent splintering pain throughout my throwing arm. This time, she purposely held back.
“It’s been kind of strange not having you around.”
“Is that your way of saying you missed me?” I couldn’t help but grin.
Curling a lock of hair around her ear, she shuffled her shoes off the carpet. “I…well, it’s just been different.”
“Sorry I didn’t call. I had a lot going on.”
“No problem. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
I touched my hand to the side of her face, brushing a loose curl out of her eyes. “You think we need to hold a Booker & Associates offsite meeting? You know, just to review our cases, billing, potential clients?”
A warm smile washed across Alisa’s face. “Anywhere except The Jewel,” she said, referring to Justin’s bar, of which the second floor was home to our small office.
“How about I find a special place? Just the two of us.” The words spilled out before I knew better. I didn’t want to cross that line. Or had I already?
“I’ll bring my computer. A working dinner,” she said with a wink. She’d just bailed me out, knowing how I handled these types of things. Not well.
A few seconds later, the bailiff came in and said, “He’s made his decision. He’d like to speak with you. All of you, apparently.” The old guy grimaced, as if we were wild animals and he’d be left to clean up our collective mess.
An hour later, our procession exited the judge’s chambers, but not before he gave us one piece of advice. “Borders are nothing more than imaginary lines.” The silver-haired man lowered his readers, leaning forward. “We’re all human, no better or worse than anyone else. All of you here before me have taken an oath to help this young man, Sebasten, adjust to his new life, help him grow into a productive member of society. Be mindful that he will always be part of your family. And family always trumps everything else.”
Laughter and hugs all around, as our large group spilled into the open space, a bank of windows ahead of us that highlighted the downtown skyline on a warm, muggy July day.
“Booker, darlin’,” Momma split through Henry and Cindy, finding me and Bolt leaning on the railing, just staring outside. “I wanted you and Sebasten—”
“It’s Bolt, G-Nan. That’s the name given to me by Mr. Booker. Bolt.”
“Okay, Bolt it is. I spoke to my old boss at your namesake high school—”
Bolt scrunched his eyes.
“I’m not that important. I’ll fill you in later,” I assured him, and then to Momma, “You were saying?”
“I think I can get Bolt a scholarship if he’s interested in an education centered around the arts.”
Bolt splayed his arms wide and hugged her. “You are so kind. That means so much that you would go to the trouble.”
I tried to imagine Bolt hanging out with the Bohemian crowd. He seemed more like a budding entrepreneur type, but then again, I didn’t want to pigeonhole his life at age fourteen.
“Mr. Booker, have I shared my thoughts about some opportunities that could…how do you say…complement your business at Booker & Associates?” He stuck a hand inside his khaki pants.
Here comes the sales pitch.
Alisa and Justin pulled up next to us as Bolt continued his diatribe about how he could help us add to our bottom line.
I finally broke in. “You might be the next Perot or Vanderbilt, but for now you’re going to start learning about Faulkner and Poe, and the periodic table, and the Pythagorean theorem.”
“Oh joy. Sounds like fun,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
I peered out the windows, thinking about everything I’d experienced in the last few weeks. Exhaling, my lungs emptied like never before. I felt different, possibly more settled.
I realized today probably wouldn’t have happened had Dad not reentered my life. Dissolving the chip on my shoulder had helped me open my eyes and my heart. While I couldn’t tell anyone else, I finally allowed an emerging thought to permeate my soul.
I love you, Dad.
BOOKER – Dead Heat
A Novel
Volume 6
By
John W. Mefford
1
The scent of urine clawed at his nostrils, as if his face had been encased in a used litter box. Ignoring the putrid stench, he lifted his chest, inhaling a deep dose of air. His breathing cadence didn’t slow down a bit. In fact, it was on the rise. He couldn’t stop it, even if he wanted to.
The pitter-patter of raindrops bouncing nearby off three plastic garbage bags was the only thing that drowned out the timpani of his thumping heart. A line of ugly trees, nothing more than overgrown weeds from thirty-odd years ago, cast jagged shadows across his face. A few matted leaves fluttered downward, instantly pasted to the pavement. A yellow bug-zapping light five doors away in the back alley provided the only illumination on a night where the dark October skies, thick with a wet fog, hugged the tops of buildings.
The morbid setting only made the man feel that much more restricted. He took in another gulp of air, his chest suddenly feeling like four cinder blocks were crushing his lungs.
Was the oxygen deprivation brought on by anxiety? He was about to cross a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. By taking this step, his life would forever change.
The more he thought about what he was about to do, the more his breathing increased, and he became lightheaded. Wobbling slightly, he braced himself against the smooth bark of a wet tree. He reached down and tore open one of the garbage bags, found a filthy paper sack, and inhaled until his eyes refocused and the dizzying sensation subsided.
Steadying himself, his size-eleven shoe shuffled against the pebbled surface, kicking a garbage bag, the overflow from a stuffed dumpster to his right. A black cat and three tiny kittens jumped out from behind the bags. He could just make out their annoyed whines as they scurried between his legs and through the cluster of trees and grass, heading toward a building that was going through a refurbishment.
Halloween was less than a week away, but
the irony of seeing a throng of black cats on this night—a night when the shadow of bad luck would engulf an unsuspecting victim—did not go unnoticed. Brushing a fist across his nose that dripped with water, he had a second thought, a more advanced thought. All of…this had nothing to do with luck. He only stood in the cold rain, a soaked, gray hoodie drooping across his forehead, for one reason. Redemption. An appropriate response to the acts carried out by others—and there were so many out there.
He sniffled, focusing his gaze at the metal door with the black number thirty-seven painted over a layer of rust. Checking his phone, the time approached midnight. Just then, the back door burst open, the metal knob smacking the white cinder-block wall. The man’s body tensed. Keeping his head bowed, he raised his eyes. Live music and hollers invaded the empty alley as a woman with tight curls and even tighter stretch pants waddled in his direction.
Realizing she wasn’t his intended prey, he eased his torso back slightly, hoping she wouldn’t spot him.
“Eh,” she said.
Was that directed at me? he wondered. His ears perked up, and his body prepared to launch forward.
“Nobody does a fucking thing around this bar, except me,” the woman said, slinging a small bag of trash on top of the heap.
He could see her bending over, picking up a larger bag of trash, then grunting out loud as she heaved it with everything she had. Slowly, it rolled off the perch and fell to the wet pavement at her feet.
“Screw this shit. Someone else can deal with this smelly garbage.”
He heard her shiver out loud, followed her rubber-sole shoes crunching gravel in a quick pace. Then the door slammed shut, taking with it a screaming rendition of “Big Balls” by AC/DC.
Wiping dripping water off his face, he released an annoyed breath. Had his research and preparation gone awry? He’d planned this event for weeks. He could feel his jaw tighten, his lips pressed against his teeth.
He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the popping sounds of the rain to calm his frayed nerves. He knew that no one could match his tenacity, his incessant ability to push through adversity and reach his intended goal. Nodding, he’d figure out what happened—or didn’t. He contemplated shifting his focus, possibly teaching a lesson to the person who screwed him over.
BOOKER Box Set #2 (A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense): Volumes 4-6 Page 48