Fire & Wind

by Leo Gher

  “The boy shouted, ‘Murder, or something like that.’

  “He was after your father, then?” the priest surmised.

  “Next, there was the sound: pop-pop, pop-pop-pop, pop-pop-pop. It was Rasuli firing an assault pistol.”

  “At the boy?”

  “No, at the two men approaching from the front. Curiously, he was shooting at the ground, not at the cutthroats. I could see the splat of shells hitting the gray and dusty gravel at their feet.

  Wysocki cut in again, “I thought you said he was a seasoned security man.”

  Jake’s head fell back, his forehead creased. “I have tried to figure out why our ‘so-called minder’ was not aiming at the assassins. Now I know.”

  “Yes?” Father Wysocki demanded.

  “Rasuli was one of them,” Jake said coldly.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “After seeing it in my mind over and over, puzzling it for seven years, there is no other explanation.”

  “So, what happened next?”

  “At the front of the car, Sam was shooting. He hit one, maybe both of the assailants. I don’t know because I twisted around to check on my father. He was fighting off the kid with the knife. It was long, almost a sword. Tom had taken a fighting stance but had no weapon. He was blocking the assassin’s thrusts with his hands and feet. It was the first time I knew that my father was skilled at hand-to-hand combat. Then the boy made several countermoves, prodding, and thrusting. One caught my father in the chest. I could see blood spurt from his rib cage. Then the assassin smiled, judging that one final lunge would end Thomas Moynihan’s life. But my father blocked it cleanly, and then he hammered the boy’s wrist with a breaking, karate chop. I caught the sounds clearly: the crunch of bone and the blade clattering to the pavement.”

  “And then?”

  “The assassination had failed – Mansour had taken care of the two in front, and Tom had disarmed the boy – the attackers fled the scene. Tom fell back against the car bleeding. My father was weak from his recent chemotherapy treatments, and the unexpected struggle had taken its toll. Sam helped him into the rear seat. I found a blanket in the trunk and wrapped him up as best I could. I bellowed, ‘Who were those bastards?’

  “‘No time to explain,’ said Sam, and then he shouted at Seymur, ‘get us to the nearest hospital now!’”

  Unexpectedly, Jake’s story was interrupted by the ding of his iPhone. It was Katie texting: “Where are you?”

  He answered: “Still in confession.”

  She typed: “Get your penance and go… been waiting forty-five minutes!!!”

  “Who is it?” Wysocki asked.

  “My mother. Got to go, Father.”

  “Finish this, Jake,” insisted the Jesuit. “You’ve got to hash this thing out.” Jake didn’t respond. But Wysocki didn’t hear any groaning wooden panels either. Jacob Moynihan was a big man, not fat but stocky, maybe 220 pounds. If he had moved to get up, the old confessional would have made an announcement.

  After a brief moment, Jake said: “The doctors told us, and I remember the exact words: ‘… everything is fine, the wounds are superficial, and we have cleaned up the other scrapes. We’ll keep him overnight just to be sure.’

  “Mira said we should go back to the house for a meal and a good night’s sleep.”

  “Mira?” asked Father Wysocki.

  “She’s Azreal’s aunt. She and Azreal came to the hospital later. Mira Nadirov was the one hosting the party for my brother.”

  “Sorry, I get a little confused,” said the priest. “Azreal… that’s Conor, right?”

  “Right, his U.S. passport identifies him as Conor Moynihan, but in Azerbaijan, he’s known as Azreal Kedar – can’t use his Christian name there. Kedar is the clan name.

  “Azreal?” Father inquired. “Strange name.”

  “My brother hates it,” replied Jake. “It means ‘angel of death.’”

  “I can understand why,” replied Wysocki. “Tell me more.”

  “The next day everything changed,” Jake continued. “First, Azreal… I mean Conor, disappeared right before the party. Nobody knew where he went. We were supposed to bring Tom back to the Gobustan that afternoon, but we got a call from the hospital – something was wrong – come immediately.”

  “Your father died that night?”

  With his jaw clenched and lips knotted, Jake said, “They claimed it was sepsis. But I suspected poison. I’m sure of it now.” What none knew at the time was that the 16-year-old Jake found his way to the morgue… to see death for the first time, to stare at his father’s lifeless face. It was not enough to be told the cause was poor hospital care or a weaken immune system. Something or someone had taken my father’s life.

  Wysocki was puzzled, “Poisoned by whom?”

  “Rasuli, I suspect, and Qurb had something to do with it too,” Jake replied. “But I think, no, I’m sure Conor’s uncle planned it. Elshan Kedar and my father had been mortal enemies for years. Tom hunted him down, arrested him, and put him in jail.”

  “Was there an investigation?”

  “‘No time for an investigation’ that’s what they said. My father was buried the next day. They said it was their tradition, their religious practice, but I have questions about that.”

  “Did they ask you about it; the burial, I mean?”

  “I had no say in the matter. It was the Kedars who made the call.”

  “That seems peculiar.”

  “Peculiar, indeed,” said Jake. “So, I phoned my mother. Tom and Katie had been divorced for years, but in a certain way, she had never let him go. Katie wanted Tom brought back to the States for a Catholic burial.

  “As I said, it was unusual, this Muslim practice. Tali brought a brass vase from home. It was filled with water, holy water, I guess. She poured it over the hands of the Azerbaijanis, but not over my hands, nor any of the other Christians. Her father then turned to me and said, ‘You cannot pray with us. You are not Muslim.’ Unclean is what I suspect he meant. ‘You must sit behind us.’ When I got home, I told all my friends in the FAA about this.

  “The FAA?” Wysocki asked.

  “My associates, comrades-in-arms, the Freedom Army of America,” said Jake. “After they finished praying they lowered my father’s body – Thomas Moynihan, the UN head of worldwide counterterrorism – into the dirt of Azerbaijan. There was no coffin, just a shroud covering his body. I felt utterly helpless, useless, but I said nothing. Then they all celebrated. They had a picnic and celebrated. It was disgusting.”

  “You don’t think your brother was complicit in the matter, do you?” asked the priest. “Why would Conor want his father killed?”

  “I don’t think he was part of the plan, but I suspect he knew something; a mystery that I will unravel soon enough.”

  “That’s it, then?” said the confessor.

  “One last thing,” Jake remembered, “on the morning that I left for home I made a promise.”

  “Yes?”

  “We had already left the cottage. A driver was taking me to the airport in Baku. But before we were out of sight, I asked him to stop for one last look. I wanted to remember the place where my father was buried. I noticed a large landscaping truck carrying two tree saplings. The men had already planted one and were just getting to the other. It was shaking vigorously from side to side as it was being lowered into the ground. The uppermost limbs and leaves were shifting back and forth. I got the distinct impression of someone waving. It was as if my father was waving to me, his spirit saying goodbye.”

  “And the promise?” asked the confessor.

  “That one day I would return: to consider what the Kedars had done to my father, to learn more about my brother and his ways, and to rescue Tom Moynihan’s bones from that heathen place.”

  What Jake didn’t tell Father Wy
socki was that he planned to kill Rasuli – poison him if he could – and Elshan’s right-hand man, Rufet Qurb as well. That would settle the score.

  “It does no good, Jake, to brood over past wrongs and forget to live,” rebuked the priest. “That way leads to folly.”

  “You, church, purveyors of debauchery,” Jake growled angrily, “you dare to chastise me?”

  A minute of silence past between them, and then Jake’s phone dinged again. This time it was a text from Julia: “Got to get home N-O-W.”

  Jake replied: “On my way.”

  “Got to go, Wysocki.” This time the door to the confessional slammed shut with a bang. It was 11:50, and the mall was more than ten minutes away.

  16

  Defender

  Crow had many bizarre preoccupations. One was lying. Lying is nothing unusual, of course, but the frequent rehearsal of it is. On the inside closet door of his Wilson Avenue apartment, Crow had nailed up a small mirror. He had stolen it from his parents’ house because, the young man thought, he needed it to improve his facial expressions when he was telling a lie. Crow had been practicing this skill since he was 15. Lately, he’d settled on a dogged face and a gravelly monotone, “Alice, you’ve been a good mother. None of this is your fault.” Every so often, he would try adding something personal to his act, like reaching out and touching her forearm, “Why concern yourself about my friends?”

  His mother complained about such friends, “These boys are so young.” Crow would invariably respond, “I’m just trying to keep them from harm, Alice.” Keep was probably the right word for the evolving pedophile, who had not yet perfected his skills.

  When Crow left his apartment that Saturday morning, it was 11:30. He planned to stop, but only shortly, at H&R eGames. That’s where he had worked off and on throughout high school. Crow wanted to check on Hal. His plan included Hal, but Crow had decided to deal with that one after he had dealt with Gregory. Time was crucial. He knew that Greg would return from lunch precisely at noon, so his visit to the game store had to be brief.

  H&R’s was located behind the Pere Marquette Mall. The old, stand-alone building had been many things over the years – a grocery store, a pool hall, and hardware retailer – now its shelving displayed eGames and trading cards. In a backroom, old men played rummy, smoked, chewed tobacco, and complained about everything that came to their slothful minds.

  As he approached the store, Crow felt no moral qualms related to what he was about to do and utterly confident in his plan. When he entered, a bell sounded. “Carmen Duda, the saints be praised,” said Steve, the clerk behind the counter. Besides manning the register, Steve did all the workers’ schedules. Perfect, Crow thought, he will know when Hal would be there.

  “Where the hell have you been, Duda?”

  “It’s Crow, stupid.” For the first time that day, the young Carmen Duda was unnerved by someone, so he reached into his inside pocket. The gun he had loaded and holstered at the apartment was still there. “Is Hal around today?”

  “Be back at one,” replied the testy co-worker. “But he’s not giving you back your job. You’re done for here. Nobody wants your kind around here, Duda.”

  Crow reflected, it would have been better if you had not said that, Steve. Then, “Tell Hal I need to see him. Let’s say quarter past one.” He smiled cold-heartedly, and afterward, “Will you be here at one o’clock, Steve?”

  “What’s it to ya?” snapped the clerk. “Want to take it to the street?” The last thing Crow needed at that instant was a fight, so he turned around and walked out of the shop.

  As he neared the mall, Crow’s mind turned to the boy named Gregory, his Gregory. The boy had not been as accommodating as Crow had wished, and had recently told him “to fuck off.” When Gregory said that, Crow bit his lips, and then reached out and grasped the boy’s shoulder. “Why so cruel, Greg,” he offered. “I’ve only been good to you.” The lie did not work, and Greg insisted that Carmen Duda, Jr. leave him alone.

  Crow looked at his watch. It was 11:55. The closest access to the mall was on Plummer Street, next to Dunkin’ Donuts. He knew that Greg would be filling orders at the display case, so he planned to arrive a few minutes before noon and then waited for the next shift to begin.

  Meanwhile, after escaping from St. Andrew, Jake jumped into his Sierra. It was timeworn, but well cared for, a customized 4-door that he used for his FAA work. Julia and Katie griped about the high step-up on the old truck, but they were always glad to have a chauffeur.

  When he opened the door, he came face to face with a blazing hot cab. He’d forgotten to crack a window. I’ll hear it from the sisters if I don’t get this oven cooled down. So Jake turned on the air conditioning full blast and headed out. By the time he reached the mall intersection, there was a traffic jam at Plummer, and he was just inching forward. With each passing moment, Jake knew Julia would grow more impatient, so he texted: “Traffic hevy... will be there ASAP.”

  Julia texted back: “We’re at the Dunkin’ Donuts. Just drive by. No need to park. We’ll look for u and come out.” He returned a smiley face. Jake finally got to the left lane at Plummer and entered the mall parking lot. It was bumper to bumper. He searched for the pickup zone, but nothing. At least the cab had cooled nicely. It was 11:55.

  At the same time, Carmen Duda had taken up his position at the front window of the donut shop. Two tall women blocked his view inside. They were apparently searching for someone beyond the entry, but he imagined they were staring at him. Unnerved, Crow spun away, trying to avoid eye contact. He moved away quickly and found a better angle. When he turned back again, Crow spotted Gregory – the thing he had come to claim. The boy was slipping on an apron behind the counter. It was time, so Crow started forward, unbuttoning his trench coat as he walked forward.

  As Jake neared the pickup zone, the mall traffic was still a tangled mess – pedestrians strolling across the street and drivers frustrated at being strung out. He began searching for his mother and aunt. The clock was ticking, almost noon, and he knew he wasn’t going to get there on time. So, he rolled down the passenger window; maybe he could listen for Katie yelling. That’s when he heard an earsplitting bang. Metal on metal, Jake reckoned, like the lid of a dumpster slamming hard against a garbage truck. He rolled the window down trying to figure it out.

  What happened next was utterly out of the blue at the crowded Pere Marquette Mall. Shoppers were racing from the entrance. Several fell. One man stopped, looked back as if he were searching for someone, a wife or child. What the hell? Jake thought. Then he pulled his truck onto the sidewalk and threw the Sierra into neutral. There was a second bang. He recognized it this time – a gunshot, high velocity, high caliber – probably a .357 or .38 revolver.

  Jake jumped out of his truck and reached under the dashboard for his Ruger 9mm pistol. It was small, suitable for concealed carry, and held 17 rounds. He checked the magazine, then stuffed into his ankle holster, and ran toward the mall entrance.

  When the Dunkin Donut manager heard the first gunshot, he snapped around in disbelief. Then he saw a man in a black trench coat muscling his way through the shop. He was heading straight for the donuts case. The man knocked over a food tray and pushed his way behind the counter, next to one of his employees, Gregory.

  Hearing the thundering second bang of the .357, everyone inside the Dunkin’ Donuts froze in place. Their safe world had suddenly been terrorized, and no one knew how to react, least of all the 16-year-old named Gregory. When he saw Crow coming his way – with a gun – he wished he had talked to someone about this crazy man.

  Then Crow shouted, “See!” He held his gun-hand high. “I’ve come for the boy,” he said. “We’ll be gone in a moment. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  The one person who didn’t panic was the Dunkin’ Donuts manager, a middle-aged guy named Leslie Jones. He’d had some training about how to handle a robbery
. But when he saw a real live gunman rushing toward the counter, he felt all the air racing out of his lungs. It only lasted a moment, then Leslie regained his composure and some of his nerve.

  There was the gun hidden under the cash register. Can I find the key, the manager fretted. Is my life worth this? His mouth went dry as he fumbled for the keychain. Leslie Jones had lied during his job interview about having firearms training. He had scarcely ever touched a gun but needed the job.

  Crow put the barrel of the .357 against Gregory’s neck and said, “You’re coming with me, baby boy.”

  At the mall entry, right before he ducked into the donut shop, Jake did a quick look around. He was facing a shooter, who had a gun at his victim’s head. Not a robbery, he reasoned, something personal.

  Most of the store patrons had dropped to the floor. To his right, Jake spotted his mother and Aunt Julia huddled against a pillar. It was no protection from stray bullets. To the left, a man stood next to the cash register, guarding it. He had one hand raised and with the other, he was fumbling with a set of keys. The store manager, Jake guessed, and he’s got a gun… under the counter. Jake could see his trembling hands and instinctively knew that if the manager decided to use his weapon, his mother and aunt would be in the direct line of fire.

  Jake pulled out his Ruger, moved inside the donut shop, and then he shouted, “Don’t shoot!”

  Crow’s warning shots were intended to panic the public, but a confrontation with a loudmouthed bystander was not part of his plan.

  Jake could see the gunman’s hand starting to quiver, a sure sign of an adrenaline spike. Moynihan understood the danger – a nervous perpetrator with fine-motor control out of whack – the .357 he was waving around had a hair trigger, and the hammer was already cocked. Jake knew that was a mistake. The culprit had grabbed his victim’s neck and had shoved the gun under his chin.

  When he turned away to see who was doing the shouting, the .357 cannon went off. The gunman felt a gush of hot air from the shockwave. It shook the entire room and everyone in it. This was not his plan. When Crow turned back to Gregory, the left side of boy’s face was blown away, and with it, an eruption of blood and viscera covered his hands. Then, as if it were a distant echo, he heard the second command, “Drop the gun.”