by W. J. Lundy
“For what, Ishmael?” Sarah scrambled from the bed, searching for her clothing in the dark.
Ishmael stepped back from the window and ran to the door, stopping to look back at her a final time. She could read the horror on his face as his lip quivered and his voice cracked. “Forgive me, Sister; there is no time. May Allah protect you.”
Ishmael slammed the chamber door shut behind him. Then she heard the lock tumble and click home.
“No!” she shouted, knowing that the doors of the monastery were all locked and unlocked with ancient skeleton keys. Sarah looked at the hook next to the door and noticed her room key was missing. Ishmael must have swiped it and locked her into the chamber room. Lights flashed from outside her window. The weapons fire and screaming grew louder.
She heard the shouting of men’s voices, and the thud of their boots stomping through corridors of the building. Doors were kicked in, and women screamed as they were dragged from their chamber rooms. Bursts of weapons fire followed a terrified wailing from the sisters of the monastery. The heavy boots moved along the hallway and stopped just at the other side of her door. Her heart raced in crippling fear as the handle rattled. Sarah cowered to the farthest corner of her room and shielded her face.
A man pounded at the door, shouting instructions in a language and dialect she didn’t understand. Then the lock and handle exploded with the deafening sound of rifle fire. Before she could look away, the destroyed door was kicked in and men rushed forward—filthy men, stinking of unwashed bodies and tobacco smoke. They had long beards and wore black clothing under military vests heaving with equipment. A man grabbed at her and pulled her forward. She struggled helplessly to resist and looked into the man’s soulless eyes. He smiled back with a jagged grin and swung a closed fist that caught her square in the front of her teeth.
She tasted the blood and felt the pain reverberate through her body, the whiplash straining her neck and causing her muscles to go slack. More men rushed in and grabbed at her. They tore at her nightgown, and Sarah felt the cold air hit her bare flesh. The men pulled her in every direction then dragged her limp, nearly naked body through the hallways. Her mind lulled as she passed over cold stone floors, down ancient staircases, and finally into a courtyard, where she was dropped heavily to the ground. She tasted the dirt as her face hit the crushed gravel. The spinning world finally settled, her vision focusing on a tall block wall. Other women surrounded her, whimpering and crying, some trembling with fear.
The gunfire faded then halted. The women clustered together, trying to find safety in their closeness. Sarah brought a finger to her lip and quickly pulled away from the sting of her open cut. Her front teeth were loose from the man’s blow. She tried to look beyond her group to survey the surroundings. They were in the outer yard of the monastery, a little-used place where vehicles were kept and the grounds were patrolled by armed guards.
Men in state uniforms lay dead on the ground all around them. Just in front of her, she saw the bodies of the monastery priests. Vehicles were riddled with bullet holes and broken glass. The buildings beyond the vehicles began to smoke as flame filled the windows. She saw men dressed in black running along the front of the buildings, tossing fire bombs through windows.
Sister Sarah heard a scream, and she turned her attention toward two men who were dragging a limp body. They tossed the man against the hood of a car. She saw that it was Ishmael. His head hung to one side as he briefly made eye contact with her. A man drew a long, rusted blade from his belt and without any word or warning, he cut a long gash through Ishmael’s throat. Blood filled the exposed space and foamed as Ishmael gasped for air. The man let the body fall to the dusty ground. More men surrounded the women. One by one, they pulled the women away from the group and forced them to kneel with their heads pressed against the stone wall. A man grabbed Sarah by the hair. She yelled, pleading for him to stop, and he quickly loosened his grip.
The men on the grounds fell silent as they stopped what they were doing and looked down at her crumpled form. A man lurched forward from the dark sidelines of the chaos. She looked up at his smiling, stained teeth resting under a thick mustache. He moved slowly toward her, the other men clearing a path for him. The man knelt down and locked his eyes on hers.
“American?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft and compassionate.
Afraid to speak, Sarah held her tongue. The man stooped over her. He gently helped her rise to a sitting position and adjusted her torn clothing to cover her bare shoulders “You are American, yes?” he said in accented English, brushing the hair way from her blue eyes. “We were told all of the Americans had left.”
Sarah hesitated and looked at him, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. She wanted to reason with this man’s merciful side; maybe if she answered his questions he would call off his men. She looked him in the eyes. “I am Sister Sarah Donovan,” she responded in a clear voice.
The man grinned, exposing his rotten smile, then struck her hard with a closed fist.
1
She watched him where he sat in a dimly lit corner of the bar. She wore leggings and a loose-fitting top with a stained apron. It was the start of her shift, and she moved slowly, wiping down old tables, cleaning the previous night’s spills. He was alone, as he was every day. He wore a black ball cap so low that the brim covered his hardened brow. Piercing eyes and a strong jaw were lightly concealed by a week’s old beard. He was dressed in a long-sleeve flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, exposing black-inked tattoos. His jeans were well faded along with his boots. He could easily be mistaken as a homeless vagrant. She knew different; she had known the man he used to be. She knew him when he was younger, before he’d given up on himself. Tall and handsome in another time, and not as cold as the image he tried to convey now.
The fair-haired waitress approached his table, stopping by the bar to retrieve the pint. She placed another stout near the man’s hand. She shot a scowl at him as he sat slouched in the wooden chair, his tattooed forearm resting on the polished table. She let her eyes stay a bit too long, focusing on a scar that ran along his bicep. She could see that he was ignoring her. It was a game he played—he enjoyed toying with her feelings.
She scoffed at him. “The VA doesn’t give you that money to sit and drink all day.” She lifted an empty glass and used a towel to wipe away crushed peanut shells.
Tommy Donovan, without taking his eyes off the TV, grabbed the freshly filled pint. He took a long sip and dropped the glass back in front of him with a thunk.
“The government doesn’t give me anything. I earned it,” he scoffed back at her.
“Well, however it comes to ya, Tommy, let me at least get Billy to fix ya a plate. It’s not even noon and yer’ on yer’ third pint.” She wiped the table around him and stopped to look at him close. She scowled in disgust. “Ya look like hell.”
Tommy grunted and took another pull from the glass. He adjusted his chair so that the waitress was far removed from his peripheral vision.
He turned and looked her up and down, grinning. “You never minded my drinking when I let you share my bed.”
“Go screw yer'self, Tommy,” she said, tossing the damp towel at him. “Yer a right pig, ya are.”
He removed the wet towel from his lap and set it on the center of the pub table, laughing to himself. He smiled at the sounds of her walking away, her soft footsteps fading into the kitchen. A door slammed behind her, and he could just pick up on the muffled echo of her voice complaining to the kitchen staff. There was a day when he’d have been interested in the girl’s attention. Not anymore. Those days were gone. Tommy knew she was a good girl. In some ways, he was even still attracted to her, but he was sparing her the hardship. She didn’t need to waste away on the likes of him. She wanted marriage and a family, all the normal things that he couldn’t provide her. That part of him was burned up and gone; he didn’t have any of that left inside of him.
He pressed back, leaning deep into the chair, watching
the television—a classic replay of an old college football game. He already knew the outcome but still found himself cheering for the underdog. He took another pull from the pint, shaking his head as the quarterback fumbled a snap.
“How about that sandwich, Tommy?” bellowed a bartender’s voice from behind him.
“I’m good. Sticking to a liquid diet today.”
“Suit yourself.”
Bells rang at the far end of the bar. A man in a priest’s collar stepped out of the bright sunlight, stomping snow from his boots and clearing drops of ice onto a worn doormat. The dark mahogany door closed behind him, and the blinds clacked against the wooden door. Tommy squinted against the bright light, his pupils contracting as the old man wearing a white collar approached the far corner of the bar.
He saw the priest exchange handshakes with the bartender. Then Billy turned and pointed in Tommy’s direction.
“Damn it,” Tommy said, suddenly recognizing the wrinkled brow and tucked-in lip of the priest. “The last thing I needed today, another intervention,” he muttered.
Tommy knew the old man. He knew him well. Father Murray had taken him and his sister in when he was just a boy. He was still innocent then. It was right after Tommy’s parents were killed an auto accident. In the days after, he was passed off to a distant aunt who was more interested in his inheritance than raising him. Father Murray was close to the family and had followed their progress after the aunt had taken custody.
She was shopping for county homes and orphanages when Father Murray finally intervened. Instead of allowing the children to become wards of the state, the old priest offered them a place at his school. He ensured they received full tuition and room and board for as long as they needed it. But it wasn’t a random act of kindness; most of it had already been funded through an education trust set up by Tommy’s grandfather. A trust that would be vacated if the children failed to enroll in the school.
Tommy’s parents always intended that he and his sister would one day attend a Catholic primary school. They insisted on a large part of the family’s income be set aside for their children’s future. But his parents would have never predicted their early demise in an automobile accident when he was five and his sister, Sarah, two. It changed the balance of things, or would have if Father Murray hadn’t been there.
Through a negotiation with the Church, Father Murray managed to get the children into his own boarding school, and with creative financing and the less-than-eager cooperation of their aunt, the remaining funds were made to last until the children graduated. Unfortunately, that was where the Church’s assistance stopped, and Tommy was left to the mercy of his last living relative—an elderly aunt who had spent through all the children’s inheritance and taken multiple mortgages out against their property.
Rather than beg or sue for what rightfully belonged to him, Tommy kicked around odd jobs before eventually enlisting in the Army. With a new purpose, he gratefully left his past behind him. Some years later, Sarah—also abandoned by his aunt—went on to a convent college to become a nun.
They had tried to stay close, but their schooling—and later, their work—kept them apart and they rarely spoke, other than an occasional phone call. When Tommy was twenty-one, his aunt passed away and the last link to his sister was broken. The family home was sold, and the meager remnants of the trust divided.
She was the first to visit him in the hospital after he was wounded in action, but Tommy felt it was out of nothing more than family obligation. Whenever she tried to reach out to him, he rejected her, no longer having any wishes for a family. He just wanted to be left alone, so they lost touch over the years.
The priest nodded to the bartender and turned in the direction of Tommy. He smiled softly and stepped toward the table. He paused just short of an empty chair and looked down at the bearded man. “Look at yourself, Tommy. You’ve really let yourself go.”
“Been hearing that a lot lately,” he muttered without looking at the priest directly.
Tommy reached for his glass and took a long draw, draining the pint. He held up two fingers so that the barkeep could see them. “Join me for a drink, Padre.”
It was a routine he went through every time Father Murray came around to check up on him. He knew the old priest had a drinking problem in his younger days and had managed to get himself off the booze years ago. Tommy would always order two pints and drink them slowly, end to end, in front of the old man. Not so much to taunt him, but to make the visit as uncomfortable for Murray as it was for Tommy.
The priest smiled politely then pulled out the chair. He sat down, leaning back, and stoically crossed his arms in his lap. “I’m fine, Tommy. Nothing for me; you know I gave it up.”
“Consider it more of a request than an offer,” Tommy said.
He grinned and pushed away his already empty pint glass just as Billy walked to the table and thunked down two more. Tommy adjusted his chair so that he was looking directly at Father Murray then reached to the center of the table and lifted one of the glasses. “This is looking to be a short conversation.” He took a sip off the caramel foam and placed the glass to his front. Tommy used a hand to slide the other glass across the table.
“So, what brings you to my office?”
Murray looked down at his folded hands and apprehensively lifted the glass, holding it just below his nose. He inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the liquid, and then took a small sip. He paused and looked up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. “You know, Tommy, that’s the first bit a stout I’ve had in some time.”
Hiding his surprise from Murray, Tommy asked, “Why go to the trouble of breaking your fast for me?”
“We need to talk, Tommy. It’s important.”
“Well, I’m listening. That sip earned you a minute or so. Say your piece, Padre, I have a lot to accomplish today,” he said, waving a hand at the television.
Father Murray nodded his head in false understanding and lifted the drink again, gulping this time, readily accepting the liquid courage. Tommy noticed the frown on Father Murray’s face. The always positive thinking man suddenly appeared old and broken to him. Something was wrong. He hadn’t seen that look on the old man’s face since the night his parents had died.
“When was the last time you spoke to yer sister?” Murray said.
“It’s been a while—last Christmas maybe. Why? What’s going on, Father, is she okay?”
Murray shook his head and lowered his eyes. He reached into a pocket and removed a folded sheet of paper. He carefully straightened it and slid it across the table. “We received this two days ago, by email. It was to an emergency contact address that only Sarah would know.”
Tommy reached for the sheet of paper and held it up, reading slowly. He dropped the paper back on the table. “Is this for real?” Tommy asked.
“It’s a ransom note. They say they want two million to get her back.”
“Who—? How did—?”
“I’m sorry—Sarah was only there for a short visit to deliver medical supplies and training with the Red Crescent. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“She was where?”
“A Catholic aid center in Albahr.”
Tommy hesitated, his memory flashing back to a time and place years ago. He knew Albahr, Syria. He’d been there. Been betrayed there.
“Syria? Are you serious? Why would you send her there?”
“I’m sorry, Tommy. We were assured that it was safe; she wanted to help.”
Tommy began to sweat, feeling his heartbeat steadily increasing. Suddenly agitated, he asked, “Did you go to the embassy? The State Department? What the hell are you doing about this?” He realized he was shouting and lowered his voice.
“Everything okay?” Billy called from behind the bar, and Tommy waved him off.
Father Murray nodded and took another sip from the glass before speaking. “They know, Tommy. They came to us before we received this message. They knew al
l about the attack before we did; they were tracking it. We were told to tell no one—not even you. They said for her safety it has to stay out of the media while they negotiate for her release. The State Department is working on making contact with the kidnappers, but so far, they’ve failed. Outside of this email, this is the only confirmation we have that she was even taken. We have no other proof that she survived the attack.”
“No.” Tommy shook his head. “They are not kidnappers. The Fed will be useless. Tell me, what is the Church doing to get her back?” Tommy said, his voice slowly rising. “You have a responsibility to do something.”
Father Murray leaned across the table. Looking Tommy in the eye, he nodded solemnly. “We need your help.”
“What the hell can I do?”
“I’ve heard your confessions, son. I know the things you did over there. You could help us, help us find the people who did this, help us secure her release. We have the money; we only need the connections.”
“You don’t know the half of what I’ve done.” Tommy shook his head and looked away.
“Tommy, we only need information. You could do it for Sarah. We aren’t asking for anything you aren’t up to, just help us with the contacts, put us in touch with the right people. The Church can do the rest. Tommy, we need to find her before it’s too late.” The old priest lifted the pint glass and went to take a final sip before setting the glass back on the table. He shook his head and pushed the glass away before standing.
“Tell me who did this, everything you know about them.”
Father Murray looked down at Tommy, who was still studying the printed email. “Keep the letter. Come and find me, there is someone I want you to meet,” he said before turning and walking away.
2
His apartment was dark with the blinds pulled tight. He looked at them absently, not remembering the last time they’d been opened. Stepping to the sill and pulling back the shades, his suspicions were confirmed. A navy-blue sedan with tinted windows was parked across the street. The priest visit didn’t go unnoticed and someone wanted to keep an eye on him. Tommy wasn’t sure who, but he had his suspicions. He was a known man within different agencies and a simple cross-check against Sarah Donovan would ring some bells. He sighed a pang of annoyance and turned back toward his apartment.