The Guardian

by David Hosp

  At that moment, the hand moved, jumping and bouncing of its own accord. The cat let out an angry roar as the hand skittered across the alley, pausing in the middle, as if to look at him, then continued on. Nick was so stunned he couldn’t move.

  When the severed hand made it to the far side of the alley, it flew into the air, spun around in a circle. At that moment, Nick could make out the silhouette of a man standing just at the edge of the light cast by the doorway. He realized that the man was holding a string that was tied to the hand, and was swinging the hand around on the string like a lasso. After a moment, he slung the hand hard across the alley, and the hand collided with the clapboards just to the side of the doorway, only a few feet from where Nick stood. The cat screamed and pounced on the hand as it hit the ground. The man pulled the hand back toward him, the cat nipping at the flesh along the way.

  ‘You have something of ours,’ the man at the edge of the alley said. He spoke with a soft voice and a slight accent Nick couldn’t place.

  ‘Get out of here!’ Nick yelled numbly. He watched as the hand flew again across the alley, mesmerized by the grotesque display. It hit against the bricks even closer to Nick this time, and landed so close to his feet, he could have reached down and picked it up.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what has become of Mr Phelan? My understanding was that he is an acquaintance of yours.’

  The cat screamed again and pounced on the hand, grabbing it by the stump near the wrist, where the bones protruded, and the flesh was so worn that the grey-white skin flapped raggedly.

  He could feel the man staring at him, but Nick couldn’t pull his eyes away from the hand as the cat continued to gnaw on it.

  The man said, ‘Don’t you want to know what we will do to his sister?’

  Sense overtook horror within Nick at last and he raised the gun, aiming at the man. ‘Where is he?’ he called. ‘What the fuck did you do to Charlie!’

  At that moment, Nick felt a blade against his throat. Turning to his left, he realized that he’d left the front door open. Another man was standing behind him in the door, holding a combat knife hard against his neck. He was a bald giant, with massive shoulders. ‘Put the gun down, Mr O’Callaghan,’ he said. Nick did as he was told, and the gun clattered against the cement alley.

  The man from the alley walked toward them. As he came into view, Nick could see a soft, kind face with a birthmark in the shape of a tear on his cheek. The man wound the string attached to the hand as he walked, and once he was next to Nick, he pulled the string up, so that the hand dangled at thigh height. The cat batted jealously at it, letting out a long, frustrated cry as it swung just barely in reach.

  The man watched the hand for a moment as the three of them stood there in silence. Then he looked into Nick’s eyes. ‘We have much to discuss, Mr O’Callaghan, no?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  There is no accounting for a cop’s intuition. It comes with years of experience and careful attention to detail. The good ones become experts in the way people behave and interact, and the best seem to have a window into the minds of those with whom they come into contact. It was that intuition that drove Detective Morrell to the street in front of the girl’s apartment of Ninth Street early the next morning.

  In Morrell’s case, it wasn’t just intuition; it was a touch of obsessive compulsiveness – another common attribute among detectives. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had seen her before. In addition, something about her behavior had bothered him the previous day. No, that would be an understatement. Something about her behavior had angered him the day before. The nervous arrogance in her voice and the defiance in her posture sent warning flares shooting off in his head. The bloody mess down at his brother’s bar had taken precedence, but he’d been unable to shake the feeling that something was terribly off about her.

  As a result, Morrell found himself sitting in his car for an hour before his shift, sipping coffee, staring up at the apartment windows. It wasn’t a hardship to him; his job was all he had now. The wives, thankfully, were gone. He had a daughter, but he hadn’t heard from her in more than two years, and her last words had been unkind. Not unfair, perhaps, but unkind nonetheless. As for friends . . . well, he had long since determined that, for most, friendship was a convenience based on shifting self-interest. After a long list of petty betrayals, he no longer had the strength to feign friendship. He was probably closest to Nick, but there was a distance to their relationship that seemed difficult to fully bridge. He supposed that was natural among half-siblings. As a result, for the moment, the job, and those in whom he placed his temporary trust, were all he had.

  At least the coffee’s good, he thought as he sat there. The area was honeycombed with corner bodegas and delis and donut shops that opened early to sell egg-and-cheese sandwiches and beers to road crews just coming home off the night shift. There was nothing better to Morrell than a cup of coffee from the first pot brewed. It made even the most boring parts of his job bearable.

  The morning hadn’t been a total waste on the investigative side, either. He’d discovered that he wasn’t the only person watching the girl’s apartment. Parked a half-block ahead of him a man sat in a dull tan rented car, looking up at the windows that were the subject of their mutual attention. Morrell knew instinctively that the man was watching for the same girl.

  From what Morrell could tell, he was a young man, perhaps in his early-twenties, with dark skin and a thin beard covering his face unevenly. He didn’t behave nervously, but his focus on the apartment was unwavering. Given the gunshots that had been reported the day before, it was enough to cause Morrell to act.

  He opened the door to his car, got out, and started walking slowly up the street toward the car.

  Akhtar Hazara didn’t see the man until he was standing directly beside his car window, rapping on the glass with a heavy ring. He’d been too caught up in his own thoughts and worries to pay attention to anything other than the girl’s apartment.

  The night before had been agony for him. He’d been sitting outside the bar by the waterfront, watching as it closed down, waiting for them to come out. He’d watched as four armed men entered the place, and had listened to the sounds of the altercation – with the shattering of glass and the crashing of tables – followed by the sharp crack of a single gunshot.

  The girl and her companion had emerged moments later and hurried to the man’s car, speeding away even as the sound of sirens approaching began off in the distance. Wanting no involvement with the authorities, Akhtar had followed them back to her apartment, but there had still been no sign of Charles Phelan.

  And so he’d sat in his car all night, drinking coffee to stay awake in case Phelan showed up, or the girl left. Now he was running on pure adrenaline, and he knew that was in short supply at this point. He was raw and anxious, and he wondered whether he even had the courage to do what needed to be done anymore.

  The knocking at the car window made him jump, and he considered reaching for the gun in the glove compartment. Fortunately he recovered his composure quickly.

  He rolled down the window and looked up at a round, middle-aged man with more chins than hair. ‘Yes?’ Akhtar said. He tried to keep his tone polite but short; he wanted no involvement with anyone.

  ‘You don’t have a sticker,’ the man said. The words made no sense, and for a moment, Akhtar thought his English had gone stale.

  ‘Pardon me?’ Akhtar said.

  ‘A parking sticker,’ the man said. ‘This street is for resident parking only. You need a zone sticker to park here.’

  Akhtar was relieved that he understood. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I am not parking, I am waiting.’

  ‘Waiting for what?’

  Akhtar began to get annoyed. ‘That is not your business,’ he said. He glanced up and down the street, and took note of the fact that there were very few cars and plenty of parking spaces. ‘I am bothering no one,’ Akhtar said. ‘Please, leave me alone.’

&
nbsp; He rolled up his window and faced forward, thinking that if he ignored the man, he would go away. It didn’t work, though, and the tapping came again on the window. It was a different sound this time, though; heavier. And when he turned to roll down the window, ready to be more aggressive in his tone, he noticed that the man was tapping with a badge now.

  Akhtar’s heart began to beat with greater violence, and he willed his hands not to shake as he rolled down the window again.

  ‘Yes?’ he said. His voice was back to polite.

  ‘It is my business. What are you waiting for?’

  ‘A friend.’ It was the best Akhtar could come up with.

  The policeman pulled out a small notebook and a pen, and for a moment Akhtar thought that he was going to write him a parking ticket. That would have been a relief, as it likely would have meant an end to the interaction. He didn’t write a ticket, though.

  ‘Who is your friend?’

  Akhtar’s mind raced. He had not prepared himself for an interrogation. ‘David,’ he said. ‘His name is David.’ It was the first western name that popped into his head.

  ‘David what?’

  ‘I . . .’ Akhtar stumbled for a moment before recovering. ‘I don’t know his last name. That is why I am waiting for him. He lives nearby, and I am hoping to see him.’

  ‘Why do you need to see him?’

  ‘It is because of a woman,’ Akhtar said. It was an easy story. Americans lived in such a sex-driven culture that they believed there was a woman at the core of any obsession. ‘He knows a woman I wish to see.’

  The older man frowned. ‘You’re sitting on a street waiting to see a guy about a girl you want to date?’

  ‘She is a very beautiful woman.’

  ‘What is her name?’

  ‘I don’t know. That is why I am waiting for this man.’ For a moment, Akhtar thought that he had pulled it off. He thought the cop was going to let him go.

  ‘License and registration,’ the police officer said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Akhtar said. He did not understand.

  ‘I want to see your driver’s license and your registration for the car.’

  That presented a problem. Akhtar had a valid international driver’s license, which would suffice. But he knew the registration for the car was in the glove compartment. Right under the gun. He took his license out of his wallet and handed it to the policeman.

  ‘Registration, too,’ the man said.

  ‘It is a rented car,’ Akhtar replied.

  ‘Registration and rental papers should be in the glove box.’

  Akhtar looked over at the glove compartment. It was narrow and shallow; he knew that, because he’d had to work to fit the gun in the tiny space. Looking back at the policeman, he gave a nervous smile.

  ‘Is there a problem, sir?’

  ‘I have done nothing wrong,’ Akhtar replied. ‘This is not right.’

  The police officer took a step back and pulled out his gun. ‘Step out of the car, sir,’ he said. ‘Now, please.’

  ‘I tell you, I have done nothing wrong!’

  ‘That may be, but I want you out of that car, now.’

  Akhtar opened the door and slowly pulled himself out of the driver’s seat.

  ‘Face the car, hands on the roof, please. Feet behind your hips, shoulder-width apart.’

  Akhtar did as he was told. ‘Are you arresting me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Depends on what you’re hiding in the car.’ He performed a thorough frisk and found nothing. ‘Stay right in that position,’ he ordered. He kept an eye on Akhtar as he walked around to the passenger side. It was early enough that there were few people on the street, but those who passed by stopped a short way away to watch what was happening. ‘Move along, people,’ the cop said. No one listened, though, and a small crowd began to grow.

  The officer opened the passenger door, reached in and opened the glove compartment. When he saw the gun, he pulled back and looked sharply up at Akhtar. ‘What are you planning to do with that?’

  Patrolman Ayden McMurphy was on the scene five minutes later. Detective Morrell had called in for uniformed support, and McMurphy had been dispatched. Whenever possible, McMurphy was dispatched when a call came in from Morrell. He was one of the few people in the department who could deal with the crotchety old cop. When the uniformed officer arrived, Morrell couldn’t help but notice that McMurphy was treating his superior with an odd deference and solemnity. Morrell chose to ignore it, though, and focus on his job.

  ‘He says it’s not his,’ Morrell told him. The young man was sitting in the back of Morrell’s car, his hands cuffed behind his back. The semi-automatic pistol was in a plastic evidence bag on the hood. ‘He says he doesn’t know anything about it. It’s a rental car, and he says he never looked in the glove compartment.’

  ‘Where was his rental agreement?’

  ‘In the glove compartment.’

  ‘There you go.’

  ‘He says someone at the rental place put the agreement in there.’ Morrell looked around the street. There was more foot traffic now, but the small crowd that had gathered before was gone. People were moving around, too engrossed in their own troubles to concern themselves with the young man in the police car.

  ‘What is it?’ McMurphy asked. Again, Morrell noticed that the patrolman was having difficulty meeting his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Morrell said. ‘Something about this doesn’t feel right. What was he here for? And what was he planning on doing with the gun?’

  ‘You think it’s gang related?’

  Morrell shook his head. ‘He’s got an international license. Issued out of Pakistan. Says his name is Mohmad Hadid. I haven’t heard anything about the Crips or the Bloods recruiting out of the Middle East, have you?’

  ‘So, what are you thinking?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Morrell ran his palm across his face. ‘I guess I’m thinking maybe we’ll get some answers from him down at the station.’

  ‘You never know,’ McMurphy said.

  ‘You never do,’ Morrell agreed. There was an awkward silence between the men. McMurphy finally said, ‘I really admire that you’re out here doing the job. I think it’s a good thing.’

  Morrell gave McMurphy a curious look. ‘You’re not goin’ gay on me, are you?’

  ‘No, I just mean under the circumstances, it probably is the best way to handle things.’

  ‘What circumstances?’

  ‘You know, with what happened over at Spudgie’s.’

  ‘Last night?’ Morrell grunted. ‘It was a mess, but my brother can take care of himself.’

  ‘Not last night,’ McMurphy said. ‘I mean what they found this morning.’

  Morrell’s voice became serious as a feeling of foreboding crept through his chest. ‘What did they find this morning?’

  McMurphy gave Morrell a frightened, incredulous look. ‘You haven’t heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘I thought you knew. I guess you didn’t go into the station yet this morning, did you? It’s your brother. They found him this morning. I’m sorry, man. I know you weren’t that close, but still, he was family, right? Apparently Miles Gruden has a little more juice than people thought.’

  Morrell stared blankly at McMurphy. ‘I gotta go over there,’ he said. He opened the door and pulled the young man out of his car and pushed him over toward McMurphy. ‘Can you take this guy down to the station and book him? I’ll deal with him when I get back.’

  ‘Sure,’ McMurphy said. He grabbed the man by the elbow and picked the gun in the bag off the car. ‘He’ll be waiting for you.’

  Morrell hardly heard what the patrol officer was saying. He put his police light on the roof of the car and pulled out at speed. Whatever concern he’d had about the young man with the gun was gone for the moment. He had warned Nick about possible retaliation, but he’d never thought it would come this fast.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Cianna did
n’t sleep. She put her head down on the arm of the sofa at one point, even closed her eyes for a moment, but the images running through her mind were torture, and she spent most of the night staring at the wall.

  Saunders slept like a soldier on patrol, she noted. He sat on a chair next to the phone, and for two hours straight he didn’t move. His eyes were closed, though she thought a few times she could see a slit through which he might have some vision. Combat veterans learned to capture what sleep they could in stressful situations, but to keep one foot in the conscious world so that they could react instantly if necessary.

  She’d learned the skill herself while on active duty, and she’d perfected it during her time in prison, where constant alertness was necessary for survival. At least in combat theaters there were bases, which provided an occasional sense of security. There was no such respite in prison; there, the threats were constant.

  She thought about her brother as she sat in the silent squalor that had become her life. The dagger he had stolen was on the makeshift coffee table in front of her. She wondered about his decision to steal it, and wondered whether the uncertainty created by her arrest had led to that decision. He’d depended on her for so long, it must have been devastating when she was taken away.

  ‘He’s alive.’

  She looked up. Saunders’s eyes were open now, and he was looking at her. She had the sense that he could see through her skin, into her thoughts. It was at once disconcerting and comforting.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said.

  ‘The people who are behind this don’t have what they are looking for yet. Until they do, he is worth more to them alive than dead. They’ll call.’

  She looked at the phone for a moment, then back at him. ‘Where did you serve before you joined the Agency?’

  ‘Who said I was in the military?’ he responded. It was the first time she had heard his voice defensive.

  ‘No one,’ she said. ‘It shows.’

  He didn’t answer immediately.