Mortal Dilemma

by H. Terrell Griffin

  Jock crept on into the building. He stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. The voices were louder, but Jock still couldn’t make out the words. They sounded friendly, like two guys having a discussion over a couple of beers.

  He crept closer and began to sense light coming from a room off the main corridor. He was within a few feet of the doorway when he stepped on a loose rock that skittered away. “That you, Ahmed?” asked one of the men in the room, speaking in Arabic.

  Jock mumbled something unintelligible, just loud enough for the men to hear him, to put them at ease. At the same time he lurched forward into the room, the AK held in front of him in the firing position. His very first fleeting thought was that he’d found Abu Bakr, the man in the fuzzy picture he’d gotten from the Mossad. He was sitting at a small table across from another man who bore a family resemblance to Abu Bakr. Jock recognized the odds and ends on the table as the makings of a bomb.

  “Keep your hands on the table where I can see them,” Jock said in Arabic.

  The men looked at Jock, their faces showing shock, and distress, and something else. Recognition? Jock wasn’t sure, but he knew he’d never seen these men before. “Abu Baker,” he said in Arabic. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “You scumbag,” Abu Bakr said in English. “I know you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I see you every night in my dreams.”

  “How is that?”

  “I watched you kill my father.”

  Jock saw it then. The child had grown into manhood, but there was still a shadow of the small boy somewhere around his eyes, maybe in the way he cocked his head, something. “You’re al Bashar.”

  “Yes.”

  “And this is your little brother.”

  “Yes,” said the other young man. “My brother Youssef. Are you here to kill us?”

  “I’m here to kill Abu Bakr.” He looked directly at the older brother. “You’ve killed hundreds of innocent people with your bombs. That does not go unpunished.”

  “And what about you?” Abu Bakr asked. “Were you punished for killing an innocent man, one who had nothing to do with the cause?”

  “No,” Jock said. “Not in any conventional way. But I’ve lived with that mistake. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

  “I am so sorry for you,” Abu Bakr said sarcastically. “Do you know what happened to my mother?”

  “No.”

  “She hanged herself. A few months after you murdered our father. Youssef and I found her when we came home from school. She left a note apologizing to us and telling us that she could not live without our father. We went to live with an uncle.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Abu Bakr used his feet to push his chair back and over. As he fell to the floor he pulled a pistol from the loose-fitting trousers he wore. He was raising it to a firing position when Jock pulled the AK-47’s trigger and shot him through the head.

  “You son of a bitch,” Youssef said. “You better kill me now or I’ll come after you. You won’t be safe anywhere in the world. I’ll take out your family first and then I’ll make sure that you die horribly, begging for mercy.”

  Jock pointed the rifle at him. “Those are strong words for an unarmed man to make when I’m holding a loaded rifle.”

  “Shoot me, you asshole. You’ve killed my whole family. Go ahead. Pull the trigger. I dare you.”

  Jock put the rifle’s muzzle to Youssef’s forehead. “I’ll see you in hell, kid.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31

  J.D. AND I sat in stunned silence when Jock finished. Then J.D. got out of her chair and sat next to Jock on the sofa. She wrapped her arms around him and said, “I’m so sorry, Jock.”

  We sat some more, letting the silence wrap around us. I could hear the ticking of a grandfather clock in the foyer, the occasional firecracker in the distance, probably set off by some kid dressed as a pirate, or a devil. More minutes went by, and finally I said, “If they’re all dead, who do you think is coming after us? Or you?”

  “I didn’t kill Youssef.”

  “Why not?”

  “I created him, him and his brother. And I killed his entire family in the process. It’s no wonder the boys turned into murderous radicals.”

  “Why didn’t you kill him, anyway? He told you he was coming after you. Did you think he was incapable of doing that?”

  “No. I knew Abu Bakr’s brother was the leader of a squad of terrorists. I just didn’t know they were the al Bashar brothers. The agency had decided not to kill Youssef. At least, not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “He wasn’t that effective, and we figured if we took him out, he might be replaced with someone who could do more harm.”

  “But once he threatened you?”

  “I’ve already told you. I created him. And now I’d killed the last remaining member of his family. Don’t get me wrong. The older one had to die, if for no other reason than to save the lives of the innocents he would kill with his bombs. Besides, how in the world would he ever find me? My identity is well protected. I’m a ghost to those people.”

  “But you think they’ve found you,” J.D. said.

  “Maybe.”

  “So what are you going to do?” I asked.

  “I’ll stay here for a few days, if Paul will let me. Then I’ll slip out to Miami and find myself an island somewhere.”

  “And if they follow you to whatever island you land on?”

  “Then it’ll be the end. I’m done with killing. If they get me, they get me.” He smiled. “Karma, don’t you know?” He yawned.

  “You need to get some sleep, Jock,” J.D. said. “You’ve had a long day. Let me look at your wound site and we’ll call it a night.”

  J.D., like all the cops on Longboat Key, was a trained emergency medical technician. She examined the wound, gave Jock her smile of approval, then spread sheets and a blanket over the sofa. She kissed him on the cheek and followed me into the bedroom.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “I’m going hunting,” I said.

  “Hunting?”

  “If somebody’s after Jock or you and me, we have to stop them. Might as well do it now.”

  “You’re pretty good in a fight, sweetie, but you’re not a hunter. That’s Jock’s job.”

  “He’s not going to do it. He’s given up.”

  “That’ll last for about as long as it takes him to completely sober up.”

  “I don’t know, J.D. I’ve never seen him like this. He reeks of defeat. His whole demeanor, his ‘affect’ as the shrinks say, is one of surrender. It’s like he’s crossed into some strange land where he’s gone to await death.”

  “And atonement?”

  “Maybe, but not in the religious sense. He’s probably thought it out and figures that the universe will fall a little more into balance if he’s killed by the same people he’s spent his career fighting and killing. He’ll atone for the deaths he’s responsible for by giving up his life.”

  “You read all that into the way he looks?”

  “I’ve known him most of his life. I think I pick up on clues that, without context, would be meaningless, but because I know him so well, I can, by extrapolation, deduce what he’s thinking.”

  She scoffed. “You’re awfully full of crap sometimes, Royal.”

  I laughed. “Probably, but something tells me I’m right about this.”

  “Your famous gut reaction?”

  “Yeah. It works more than it doesn’t.”

  “I know, baby, and I’m worried about him, too. But that doesn’t mean I want you to go after these guys. They’re a nasty bunch.”

  “I owe Jock,” I said.

  “I know. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

  But we didn’t.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1

  I WAS AWAKENED at three o’clock in the morning by the hars
h ring of J.D.’s cell phone. This couldn’t be good. She reached over me and took the phone from the bedside table, checked the caller ID, put it on the speaker, and answered, “This better be good, Steve.” My girl and I were on the same wavelength.

  “Sorry to wake you up, J.D., but we need you.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Peter Fortson’s been murdered.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Tom Jones found the body a couple of hours ago.”

  “Tom Jones, the singer?”

  “No. Tom Jones, the builder. Lives over in the Orlando area.”

  “Little joke there, Steve. Tom’s a friend of mine and Matt’s.”

  “Oh. Okay. You know where Tom’s beach condo is?”

  “Yes,” J.D. said. “It’s just a couple of doors down from Fortson’s place.”

  “Right. Well, Tom and his wife Linda were out walking on the beach.”

  “At one in the morning?”

  “Yeah. Tom said he couldn’t sleep and thought a little walk might relax him. Linda came along.”

  “Where was the body?”

  “On the beach about halfway between Tom and Linda’s condo and Fortson’s house.”

  “In the water?”

  “No. Between the high tide line and the dunes. Whoever murdered him wasn’t concerned about hiding the body.”

  “How was he killed?”

  “His throat was cut. Almost took his head off. Looks like somebody knew what he was doing.”

  “Do you know the time of death yet?”

  “The medical examiner’s guy says it probably happened around midnight. They’ll know more when they get him to the morgue.”

  “Is the body still there?”

  “Yeah. Kevin, our crime scene tech, is still nosing around. He’s got the county lab people on their way to help out.”

  “It’s about an eight-hour drive back to Longboat. I’ll get started within the hour.”

  “Chief Lester prevailed on his buddy the sheriff to send one of his choppers for you. It’s winding up at the airport now. They ought to be in Key West in a couple of hours.”

  “Okay, Steve. Can you get to the pilot and ask him to call me? Tell me where he wants me to meet him. I assume the fixed base operator’s private terminal at the Key West airport, but I’d like to be sure.”

  “No problem, J.D. See you soon.”

  She shut down the phone and looked at me. “Duty calls.”

  “I wonder if this is connected to his sister’s death.”

  “Seems reasonable.”

  “Why would somebody kill the brother now? She’s been dead for three years.”

  “Good question. Maybe it’s not connected. I guess we’ll start digging and see if anything turns up.”

  “J.D., I want you to ask the chopper pilot if he can get clearance to land at the Naval Air Station on Boca Chica. I don’t want you going to the airport. The bad guys might have it staked out, and I don’t want you to end up dead.”

  “That might not be a bad idea. I’ll talk to the pilot when he calls.”

  She dressed quickly, took the call from the chopper pilot and was ready to leave. “The helicopter is already airborne. The pilot said he’ll be at Boca Chica in about an hour. The gate guards will be expecting us. How far is the base from here?”

  “Not far. It’ll only take fifteen minutes or so. We probably should get moving in case he’s early.”

  The drive to the base was quiet, each of us immersed in our own thoughts. I wasn’t happy about J.D. going back to Longboat where I couldn’t protect her, but I knew better than to mention that to her. She thinks the last thing she needs from me is protection. She’s probably right, but old ideas, like the one about the strong man protecting the little lady, are hard to get over, especially when the little lady is the center of your very existence.

  She would be better protected on Longboat than she would be in Key West. The cops there would take care of one of their own. Still, I was going to call the chief as soon as she got out of the car and bring him up to date on the situation with Jock.

  I needed to stay in the Keys. It was time to start hunting. I didn’t have a clue as to where to begin, except for the bar where Jock had been drinking the day before. Maybe he had enough memory of the day that he could at least point me to the place he’d gone in the morning. According to what the bar manager had told the police, Jock showed up at opening time and stayed until he was kicked out.

  We navigated our way through the main gate security, and one of the gate guards directed us to the ramp where the sheriff’s chopper was scheduled to land. We checked in with the sailor who manned the desk in the small office adjacent to the helicopter landing area. He examined our IDs again and told us the aircraft was inbound and should be on the pad in about twenty minutes.

  A half hour later I watched the lights of the sheriff’s helicopter disappear in the distance, heading due north for Longboat Key. I pulled out my phone and called Chief Bill Lester.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1

  THE PILOT WAS descending toward Longboat Key when J.D. called Steve Carey and asked that he send a car to pick her up at Bayfront Park near mid-key. The Little League ball field there was the only place on the island with enough open space for a helicopter to land. It was a little before six and astronomical twilight was supplanting the night sky, the sun still hidden below the eastern horizon.

  The chopper touched down and J.D. thanked the pilot and walked to the waiting patrol car. She was at the murder scene five minutes later. Steve Carey was waiting for her beside Gulf of Mexico Drive, standing beside a line of vehicles, including police cars and vans from the crime scene section and the medical examiner’s office. Steve led her to the beach where the body lay sprawled on the sand. It was dressed in a polo shirt and shorts, no shoes. Police tape was strung in a square twenty feet to a side, guarding the area where the body was found. A police all-terrain vehicle, one they used for beach patrols, had pulled three large light trailers into the area and the beach was brightly illuminated. The crime scene techs were there, milling about outside the protected area, waiting for daylight to finish their examination of the scene.

  “Anything new?” J.D. asked Carey.

  “No. The techs are waiting for daybreak. They’ve done all they can in the artificial light, but they don’t really expect to find much more. The scene is clean as a whistle.”

  “That points to a professional job.”

  “It does,” Steve said. “Maybe we got pointed in the wrong direction. Maybe the brother didn’t have anything to do with his sister’s murder.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t want to abandon that line of investigation. Maybe Fortson’s murder isn’t connected to his sister’s, but let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  “That’d be a pretty big coincidence if there was no connection.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess Matt wasn’t too happy about me pulling you away from your vacation,” Steve said.

  “Oh, he’ll live. He’s got friends down there. And there are a lot of bars.”

  Steve grinned. “Lots of women, too.”

  J.D. shook her head. “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a death wish.”

  “I hear you, Detective.” Steve was still grinning.

  “I saw the Manatee County crime scene van parked on the road. Who’s in charge of the techs?”

  “Kevin’s running the show.”

  “I need to talk to Kevin, then. I’d like to know the details of what they’ve found.”

  Kevin Mimbs was in charge of Longboat Key PD’s crime scene investigations, but he was a one-man department. The Town of Longboat Key is divided at mid-key by the county line between Manatee and Sarasota Counties. It’s a bit confusing at times, and it might be better if the town were located wholly in one county, but neither county wanted to give up its share of the tax revenue generated by the island. When something big happened on the k
ey, like a murder, either the Sarasota County or Manatee County crime scene investigators were brought in to assist, depending on where the crime occurred. But, Kevin was in charge, and the techs from either county reported to him.

  J.D. found Kevin sitting on a tarpaulin spread on the sand, a Styrofoam cup half-full of coffee in his hand. “About time you showed up,” he said. “I heard you and Matt were down in the Keys playing hooky.”

  She laughed. “Yeah. I try to get away from you people and you drag me back, kicking and screaming. What’ve you got?”

  “Not much, J.D. It’s a very clean crime scene and the beach isn’t the best place for evidence. The tide washes it away or sand gets kicked over it. I’m thinking a professional hit, but that’s just a guess. No evidence of it.”

  “Give me the reasons you think it’s professional. I’ve always trusted your gut reactions.”

  “First of all, the cut to the victim’s throat was clean. We’ll know more when Doc Hawkins does the autopsy, but it looked like the killer got the vocal chords, the carotid artery and the jugular vein with one swipe of the knife. That’s something they teach the special operations troops. Getting the vocal chords makes sure there’s no noise. It’s a quiet death.”

  “And quick.”

  “Yeah. He’d have bled out in less than a minute.”

  “Anything else? Footprints, maybe?”

  “There were a lot of footprints, some barefoot and others with all kinds of shoes. Typical beach environment. There’s no way we could track the killer’s route. He could have come from anywhere and gone anywhere.”

  “Does it look like Fortson was taken by surprise?”

  “Yeah. Another thing that makes me think a pro did it. The victim’s on an open beach, no cover close to him, yet the killer snuck up and took him from behind.”

  “Maybe,” J.D. said, “Fortson knew the killer and they were just out for a stroll.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that. I guess it’s possible.”

  “Was there any identification on the body?”

  “No. He didn’t have anything in his pockets. Tom and Linda Jones recognized him, but the medical examiner will run prints just to be sure.”