by Allen Kent
If Yusef Haddad followed his standard morning routine, he would leave his apartment and head in toward town for just over a mile on the path on the street side of the creek. He’d cross the stream at the Hardy’s Mill Bridge, then jog along the wooded side to where the stream passes under Beaver Creek Road. Then back to his apartment to shower and change for work. There were any number of trees on the return side that could hide a man. But my guess was that Yusef’s assassin would walk the middle stretch of the path where it was farthest from any buildings, see the giant sycamore that was only five or six paces off the trail and branched into two barrel-thick arms at about shoulder-height, and find it a perfect vantage point.
I sent Grace in a direction closer to the Mill bridge, then took a trail I knew would bring me down close behind the sycamore. My steps were at first slow and measured, knowing that the Syrian was conditioned to waiting in the night silence, probing the air about him for any sound that signaled danger. With each pause, I trapped my breath and listened for Grace, but heard nothing. She and her siblings had also cut their eyeteeth chasing each other through these woods, sometimes intent on being so quiet that even the crows and jays weren’t disturbed.
Then in the distance, I heard the wail of the Kansas City Southern intermodal train, hauling a hundred stacked semi-trailers south toward the Gulf. The barrier where the tracks crossed Beaver Park Road would soon begin to clang, the train whistle would sound two or three long blasts as it approached the crossing, and I’d have three or four minutes of rhythmic, window-rattling clicking as the train rumbled behind The Oaks. I waited for the first whistle burst, then scrambled downward, pausing between the train’s wailing screams and reaching the first patch of grass by the time the night again began to quiet.
I was thirty yards from the sycamore. In the first shades of morning gray, the shadowy figure of the assassin crouched against the base of the tree, just where I had placed him. His head lolled forward onto his chest, arms clasped tightly, unfazed by the clatter of the train. I slipped behind a walnut trunk, checked the time on my silenced phone, and waited.
Joseph should now be in position where she could watch the Hardy’s Mill Bridge. Grace was midway between the bridge and the sycamore. Rosario would leave his stakeout post near the apartments shortly before dawn and cover the Beaver Park Road bridge behind me. His assignment, with Joseph, was to keep any other joggers or bikers off the trail after 6:00 a.m. With the four of us in place, Yusef should be in sight of someone during his entire jog. My eyes were to stay on Qasim Sayegh.
At 5:55 sharp, a low buzz from a watch on Qasim’s wrist stirred the Syrian from his doze. The sky had clouded over as dawn approached and in the muted half-light of an overcast sky, he double-checked the time, then stared for a moment across the creek at the sleeping apartments. After a quick check of the path, he punched a number into his cell and whispered for less than a minute, then slipped around the thick trunk until hidden from the road.
Within two minutes of 6:30, Yusef Haddad stepped through the door of his ground-floor apartment and stretched lazily. He wore a pair of gray unmarked sweats with a kangaroo pouch across the front of the jersey, the hood pulled back onto his shoulders. His dark hair was hidden under a black stocking cap. He looked up at the flat, moody sky, frowned his disapproval, and walked nonchalantly across the street to the paved trail.
Fifty yards across the creek, Qasim flattened against the sycamore, clutching his silenced weapon against his chest. Yusef leaned into a half-hearted quad stretch, first left, then right, glanced at the time on his own watch, and started a shuffling jog toward the Hardy’s Mill Bridge.
Qasim edged around the tree away from his target, turned into the Y in the trunk, and practiced steadying his firearm in the narrow crotch. I moved with him, keeping the walnut between us as I drew the Sig and listened to Yusef’s retreating steps. The creek was wide and slow here, flowing with just a whisper of moving water. As the morning again became silent, I could hear and feel the muted thumping of my own heart, a sensation I hadn’t experienced since trailing my squad leader through a village sweep in Iraq. The night at Marti’s when Sal had gone after Grace had been one of constant movement and action. No time to be aware of the fear and throbbing pulse that were part of tense, uncertain waiting.
For nearly twenty minutes, everything along the trail seemed frozen in time: me braced against the back of the walnut, fingering my Sig; Qasim peering through the crotch of the sycamore; Grace in her own hiding place, perhaps able to see the two of us; Joseph and Rosario sitting restlessly in their cars, guarding access to the path.
In the distance, I heard the rhythmic pat-pat of Yusef’s shoes as he shuffled toward us on our side of the stream. Qasim heard him at the same moment and rose upright, pressing into the white side of the sycamore where he could swing quickly into position for his shot. I pulled the Sig up against my shoulder and peered around the trunk.
Yusef was a hundred yards away, moving at a relaxed trot, his eyes on the path a few yards ahead of him. His hands were tucked into the long pocket of his sweatshirt. Qasim leaned awkwardly behind one of the trunk’s thick branches, weapon tight against his chin.
From further down the path, near where I expected Grace to be hiding, a second runner appeared suddenly from the base of the hillside. He jogged in place for a moment beside the trail, looked quickly in both directions, then fell in behind the Syrian, closing at a brisk pace. He wore a pair of faded orange sweats with the same waist pocket, the hood pulled forward hiding his face. As he reached Yusef, he appeared to mutter a passing greeting, then moved quickly past him in my direction. Qasim now stood with his side toward me, his lips curled into a silent curse.
Twenty paces beyond the Syrian, the second jogger stopped and spun, drawing a silenced pistol from the pocket of his sweats. He squared and fired two quick shots into the chest of the man who was now only forty feet away. In an instant, Yusef’s face passed from surprise and terror to pained resignation as he pitched backward, clutching at a crimson stain that spread across his gray jersey.
Qasim again fell into a crouch, glanced about in panicked confusion, then broke into a run in the direction of Rosario and the Beaver Creek bridge. Twenty yards beyond my hiding place, he turned off the path and sprinted into the trees away from the stream without looking back. Yusef’s assailant had also turned toward the hillside and was running in a low crouch toward where Grace must be hiding to intercept. I dashed toward the fallen Syrian, holstering my weapon as I ran. Dropping to one knee beside the bloodstained body, I pressed two fingers tightly up beneath Yusef’s jaw.
27
You might say that Deputy Frankie “Rambo” Ritter had been born for this role. For one thing, he looks the part. He’s about five-nine, thin, with a hawkish face that just looks sinister. I like to tell people that the first time I visited the man’s house up in Willston, I was responding to an anonymous call reporting gunfire in the neighborhood. I’d found Frankie in his back yard, practicing a drop-roll-and-fire maneuver he was trying to perfect using a two-foot high crossbar and a target he’d braced against a pile of sandbags. To my knowledge, he’s only used the maneuver once, rolling sideways out of his patrol car into a drainage ditch while backing up a state trooper who had pulled over a suspicious, heavily-tinted black Camaro. Fortunately, the ditch was flooded and a screen of cattails kept him from firing off a shot, or he might be locked up over in Potosi rather than a questionable addition to our force.
So the role of killer had been a natural, aside from a nagging concern on the part of Grace and Marti that he might forget the blanks and accidently kill the man we were trying to protect. It had been Marti’s job to meet with Ritter at 6:00 a.m. at the station, make sure Bobby wasn’t having trouble with our jail guests, and check Frankie’s load for harmless bullets.
Yusef had initially balked at the plan, believing that if another Sayegh had been sent to get him, he and his brothers should intercept and rid the world of the traitor. But we
were able to convince him that the string of back-and-forth revenge killings might never end until one assassin believed he had succeeded and the other side didn’t care. Once Yusef bought into the plan, despite his wife Lilia’s strenuous objections, he became as committed as Ritter to play his role to the hilt.
Marti had whipped up two thin pouches of fake blood from a Halloween recipe she’d found online, using corn syrup, Hawaiian punch, and chocolate syrup. Luckily, the evidence had stayed intact in the pouch of Yusef’s sweatshirt until he grimaced, slapped them hard against his chest, and threw himself backward. The fall had been so authentic he’d momentarily knocked himself out against the paved trail.
Grace joined me almost immediately beside the fallen Syrian, looking like a concerned citizen out for a morning walk. As we crouched over Yusef, she asked again if I was sure I wanted to let Qasim Sayegh escape.
“He needs time to report what’s happened,” I murmured, looking about nervously as if searching for whoever had gunned down a citizen in a public park. “And we want those he calls to know he made it out of the area before he disappears, should that happen.” I pulled out my cell. “I’ll call the department. Why don’t you get ahold of Chase and get the ambulance over here. We need to move the body just as we normally would. Ask him to run with sirens on.”
The coroner and a deputy arrived within five minutes, both driving their vehicles down the jogging path to the fallen body. While Frankie Ritter, now dressed in his service uniform, photographed the scene and kept curious gawkers from The Oaks at bay, Chase checked the corpse for any sign of life, solemnly shook his head, and pulled a gurney from the back of the ambulance. I helped him load the motionless victim.
Joseph and Rosario were waiting at Backman’s Funeral Home when Chase arrived, remaining in the reception area until the draped body was wheeled inside. Grace had climbed back up to her Cherokee, scouring the hillside for any sign the assassin had hidden in the trees to watch the scene below. She and Ritter reached the mortuary as the ambulance was pulling up and escorted us inside.
“The woods were clear,” she reported. “I suspect our man’s still running.”
I smiled grimly at the assembled team. “This couldn’t have gone better,” I said, giving Ritter an appreciative nod. The deputy beamed and extended a hand to the still horizontal Yusef who had pushed the sheet onto the floor, but chose to remain stretched regally on the gurney, rubbing the back of his head.
“Ya almost fooled me there for a minute,” Frankie chuckled. “I’ve never truly shot a man, but if I did, I expect he’d look like you did. We fooled him.”
“I can’t remember ever being this excited and nervous about responding to a call,” Chase said, still a little jittery. “Imagine! An international assassination attempt, right here on the edge of town.”
I gave him a light slap on the shoulder. “You were great, Chase. Everyone played their part perfectly.”
Special Agent Rosario took my elbow and directed me to the outer door, turning his back to the cluster around Yusef. “You know I can’t officially have had anything to do with this,” he confided. “I was told to leave that pair from Mississippi alone. I’ve done that. But I can’t very well report that we had a Syrian killer in our sights and let him go. I’m just planning to say that we were able to keep our immigrants safe, and that it looks like we won’t have future problems here. I hope you can support me in that.”
“As far as I’m concerned,” I assured him, “you weren’t here at all this morning. The others will agree. And I can vouch for you having left the Mississippi boys alone.”
“I’m a little surprised we haven’t seen anything of them,” he muttered, looking back toward the group who were still celebrating their performance. Yusef was now upright, describing in vivid detail how he had reacted to the shots.
I paused long enough to let Rosario know it wouldn’t be wise to say more. “I think I’d head back to Springfield and check in with your home office,” I suggested. “You might want to let them know I called, and everything here has been taken care of. Qasim missed his target and disappeared.”
He gave me a long, thoughtful look, then nodded. “I was just headed that way. I should be there by nine-thirty.”
“That’ll be about right. We’re all going to have some breakfast over at LeeAnn’s before we go back to the office to see if Bobby had to lock anyone up overnight.” Rosario shook his head with a bemused grin, gave my hand a firm squeeze, and pushed open the mortuary door, sending a quick wave to the others. The less conversation before he left town, the better.
When I unlocked the cells, Tyler Brawn grabbed the coffee cup from the edge of the wash basin and was out before the barred door was fully open. While we had eaten at LeeAnn’s, we ordered breakfast sent over. The coffee was all that was left of Tyler’s Sunnyside-Up Special. Jason Anzar stayed planted on the bunk and glowered at me.
“So—what the hell happened this morning? Did you let Sayegh get to his target?”
I scooted the same chair back in front of the open cell and straddled it backward, staring at him sourly. “Yusef Haddad was shot down in the park about 7:00. You probably heard the sirens.”
“You let the bastard do it?”
“I wanted this problem out of my county. As long as Haddad was alive, the problem kept coming back.”
“You’re one cold sonofabitch,” Anzar sneered.
“I’m told you I was an S-O-B. I’m not paid to be warm and fuzzy.”
Anzar’s eyes narrowed and he glanced through the bars at Brawn, who had come back over to make sure he was hearing all this right.
“So what did the Syrian do?” Anzar asked.
“The dead one or the one you came to get?”
“Our man.”
“Turned and ran like hell.”
“And you didn’t stop him?”
“I told you I wouldn’t.”
Anzar pushed up from the bunk. “So, where did he go?”
I slid the chair out of the doorway and back against the wall. “No idea. If he checked out of the hotel when he left last night, he could have gone anywhere. If he circled back for his car, he’ll still have that rental but could probably turn it in anywhere. He may just abandon it. Like I promised, I left him to you.”
I glanced over at the wall clock. “He’s got about two hours on you. With all your resources, you should be able to find him before he slips back into Canada. But I figure he’s had time to let his people back in Idlib know Yusef Haddad is dead.”
Anzar pushed past me and tromped to where Marti had his personal items in a plastic bag. “You might still be hearing from our people,” he threatened.
I crossed the office to join him. “That wasn’t our deal. . . and I don’t think so. We’ll be keeping Yusef’s obit out of the paper. There won’t be anything else to indicate you two were here. It would probably be smartest to leave things the way they are.” I pulled the nazar out of his plastic bag and tossed it to him. “I think I’d keep this in your pocket. And I wouldn’t be coming back into this part of the state again.”
Brawn picked up his belongings, Anzar pocketed the amulet, and the pair gave me and Grace a final onceover—more her than me. They left without so much as a “Thanks for putting us up.”
“Sweet couple of guys,” Grace muttered. “Do you think they’ll find Qasim before he can get out of the country?”
I watched them through our single outside window as they cut across the square toward the town end of Beaver Creek Park and their car. “If I had to put money on it, I’d bet on those two and their backup team, whoever that is. They seem to have eyes everywhere. But we’ll probably be better off if they don’t. I’d like to see the guy get back to Idlib and tell his people in person that Yusef is gone.”
“If the Talismen do get to him,” Grace wondered, “will that be the end of it? Or will his family send someone over to see what happened to him?”
I put a hand on Grace’s shoulder in a way that proba
bly wasn’t smart, given today’s climate. “I can think of only one sure way to find out,” I suggested.
28
The parade that wound its way up Webber’s Mountain was the strangest collection to ever visit the sisters. It was led by a tall, Latina beauty, who looked like she was modeling a deputy’s uniform for some outdoor photo shoot. Behind her, a sturdy woman in full hijab stepped gingerly up the path in what appeared to be light slippers. The pretty, dark-haired girl who followed was nearing twenty. Other than a headscarf, she wore the same ripped jeans and “I’ll be there for you” T-shirt that were popular with her classmates in the nursing program she attended. I brought up the rear: boots, jeans without the trendy tears, khaki uniform shirt, and ball cap. The sisters were on their porch, waiting as if a group like ours came for a reading every day and had called ahead.
“Isn’t this just the nicest surprise, Edith?” left-handed Ethel said. “And weren’t we just saying, ‘It’s time for that good-looking Tate boy to come pay us another visit.’”
“And I was saying, ‘I think that lovely Mexican girl will come with him this time,’” Edith continued without a pause. “And the woman who’s had so much family trouble should be coming again soon. And here you all are together!”
They ushered us into the parlor, which had already been set for six: four chairs grouped around three sides of their small table, with two side-by-side at one end. A wood fire burned in the enameled iron stove and a kettle was just beginning to whistle.