A Prayer for the Devil

by Allan, Dale

  Before leaving on the bus back to New York, Luke insisted that Carlos come with him on a walk through the downtown club area. Finding the jerk outside one of the local bars, Luke handed Carlos his collar and verbally confronted the man. When Luke turned to walk away, the coward hit him with an uppercut that he never saw coming, causing the scar on his chin. Something in Luke snapped, and he started punching the man uncontrollably, not stopping until Carlos pulled him off.

  Although Carlos was horrified, he agreed to keep the events of that day a secret as long as Luke went to confession and promised to pray for strength to control his rage. Luke met Carlos in the confessional the next morning, and Luke’s problem with anger in response to injustice had remained suppressed since then. But now Carlos worried that the murder of Aaron would unleash it once again.

  Realizing that Carlos was waiting, Luke finally responded, “I want to understand who he was talking to and why. I really need to know.”

  After a few moments of silence, Carlos reluctantly asked, “What’s your e-mail address? I know there are several websites that offer this as a free service. Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll send you an e-mail with a web link.”

  Luke thanked him and promised to keep in touch.

  Using the reverse-lookup website, Luke located the missing names and was surprised that the site also listed their addresses. His list was complete except for two numbers, which must have been unlisted. Unfortunately, they were the two numbers called most often. One was the number Aaron had called right before he walked onto the stage on the morning of his death. Luke knew he had no choice but to call each one.

  THE FIRST NUMBER HE called was disconnected. Luke assumed that whoever it belonged to was probably dead. While carefully dialing the second number, he now panicked that he hadn’t rehearsed what he would say if someone answered. However, after several rings, the phone went silent. Hesitant about redialing, he lay on his bed and reviewed the other numbers on the list. Another one suddenly caught his attention. On the morning of the bombing, Aaron had spoken to Ablaa Raboud, the Muslim reformist, for more than twenty minutes. There were also several other calls to her number on prior days. Knowing that it was useless to call her because she, too, was dead, Luke decided to take a ride by her house first thing in the morning to see if anyone else lived at that address.

  After dinner, Luke returned to his room while the rest of his family moved to the den to watch the nightly game shows. His parents were getting stronger day by day, but he worried about Deborah. He sensed that she could fall apart at any moment. The responsibility of raising two small children alone and making all the day-to-day household decisions, while trying to figure out what to do with Aaron’s law firm and clients, was noticeably wearing on her. Luke was doing all he could to help, but Deborah tried to ignore everything except the children, causing important decisions to be made in crisis mode, further adding stress to her now complicated life.

  The next morning, Luke told Deborah that he had some errands to run. Before she could ask how, he explained his new clandestine escape route from the backyard. Already having too many things to worry about, she didn’t question him, but she agreed to keep the children and his parents occupied until he returned. Aware that his clerical clothes could actually help in some situations, Luke put them on and quickly headed out the back door and over the wall. As he entered the address into the Mercedes’ GPS, he saw that Ablaa Raboud’s residence was located on Malcolm X Boulevard in the heart of Roxbury. This didn’t surprise him, since the Islamic Society of Boston Cultural Center was located on the same block. The ISBCC was the largest Islamic center in New England and the second-largest on the East Coast. Noticing that his destination was only twenty minutes away, he backed out of the woods onto the empty street.

  When the GPS announced, “You have arrived at your destination,” Luke waited patiently as an elderly couple slowly maneuvered out of a parking space directly in front. Pulling in, he called Aaron’s cell number for encouragement once again before he left the car. He found the address numbers on a brick apartment building, and he entered and looked for apartment 1C. He quickly determined that the arrangement of the mailboxes in the lobby corresponded to the floor plan of the building. Relieved that 1C was located on the first floor, he walked back outside and looked at the structure again. It appeared that each apartment contained two large side windows, so he walked on the grass to the rear of the building and approached. Holding his hands up to shield the sun’s reflection on the glass, he peered through the blinds to see inside. Hearing something behind him, he turned quickly but saw nothing unusual. Turning back to look in the window again, he was startled as he saw a figure staring back at him. He backed up quickly and stumbled over his own feet, falling hard on the uneven ground.

  As he struggled to get up, he tripped several more times. Finally regaining his composure, he got to his feet and started to run toward his car until he heard, “Stop right there! Don’t move and place your hands were I can see them!”

  Luke froze and slowly lifted his hands above his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man dressed in a dark suit moving into his line of sight. His attention was immediately drawn to the gun that was pointed directly at his chest. The man was talking on a radio with one hand, while the other held the unwavering weapon. The gunman quickly placed the radio in his coat pocket and pulled out a badge. Addressing Luke, he said, “Boston police. What are you doing here?” As Luke came into full view, the detective saw Luke’s collar and immediately recognized him. Luke finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Detective; I just stopped by to see the Raboud family. I wanted to express my condolences.”

  As the officer holstered his weapon, Luke saw his gaze drawn to something behind him. Turning his body without moving his feet, Luke recognized the person from the window walking toward them. The female figure approaching was wearing a full burqa that covered her entire body except for an open slit for her eyes. She stopped while a few feet away and addressed the officer. “Detective, who is this man?”

  Feeling like a criminal, Luke turned completely around and said sincerely, “I’m so sorry that I frightened you. I’m Luke Miller. My brother Aaron was also killed in the bombing. I came here to extend my condolences to Ablaa Raboud’s family.” As she moved closer, Luke could see the compassion and hurt in her eyes, her only visible feature.

  Extending her hand, she said in perfect English, but with a Middle Eastern accent, “I am Jamilah. Ablaa was my sister.”

  Shaking her hand, Luke replied with the trite response he had heard every day for the past few weeks. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Sensing that there was no immediate danger, the detective excused himself and returned to his lookout post. Luke walked to the front of the building with Jamilah. She explained, “The police have had Ablaa’s apartment under surveillance since her death. They worry about retaliation because many Americans think that she had something to do with the bombing.” Before Luke could speak, she continued, “My sister was only interested in peace. She would never condone violence of any kind.”

  Luke saw her eyes squint as if she was smiling. “My outfit frightened you?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Frightened me? It scared the heck out of me!” He could tell she was laughing. “I was nervous to be looking in the window to start with. When I saw your covered face, my heart just about stopped!”

  “I apologize. Today is the holy day of Eid al-Adha, the festival of sacrifice. For Muslims, it signifies the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son Ishmael as an act of obedience to God.”

  Understanding that people of the Islamic faith believe in specific sections of the Old Testament and revere Jesus as a great prophet, he smiled. “Yes, the book of Genesis; Abraham and Isaac on Mount Moriah.”

  Luke saw her looking at the street, where many Muslims, dressed in traditional clothing, were making their way toward the Islamic center for the midday prayer. Seeing that some were staring at her, she whispered, “Perha
ps we can talk tomorrow? I really have to get to the center.”

  Luke replied, “What time is best for you?”

  “How about ten in the morning?”

  Feeling embarrassed about getting into the Mercedes, Luke said good-bye and walked down the street in the other direction until she was out of sight, then he backtracked and hurried to the car.

  Before turning the key in the ignition, he clenched the steering wheel with exasperation and moaned, “What the hell am I doing?” Luke reluctantly conceded that it was probably a longshot that his meeting with Jamilah the next morning would provide any clues, but he decided that a longshot was better than no shot at all.

  LUKE WAS ANXIOUS TO investigate another number on the phone list, one that Aaron had called many times over his last several weeks. Knowing that Mark Aldridge was still alive, because his name wasn’t on the bombing death list, he took out his cell phone and dialed.

  “Aldridge residence; how can I help you?” a female voice answered.

  “Can I please speak to Mr. Mark Aldridge?”

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  “This is Luke Miller.”

  Luke heard muffled voices but couldn’t decipher what was being said. What felt like minutes passed before an elderly, deep voice responded, “This is Mark Aldridge.”

  “Mr. Aldridge, this is Luke Miller, Aaron’s brother.”

  The elderly man hesitated, then spoke softly, obviously overcome with emotion. “You sound just like him. I miss hearing his voice.”

  “Me too, Mr. Aldridge.” Getting to the point, Luke continued, “I’ve been trying to investigate my brother’s death and am attempting to piece together the last few weeks of his life. I would really like to talk to you; do you have a few minutes?”

  Aldridge replied abruptly, with a sharp voice, “Not on the phone. You’re welcome to come to my house to talk, but not on the phone.”

  They agreed to meet in forty-five minutes at Aldridge’s house. Realizing that he had time to kill because he was only a few minutes away, Luke decided that he was finally brave enough to drive past Boston Common to get his first look at the bomb site where his brother was murdered. Yellow police tape surrounded the entire area. Luke noticed that the homeless people had moved back into the park and were preparing for the winter months; park benches were popular locations during the harsh weather. Luke made a mental note to return with warm clothing to help them cope with the upcoming frigid temperatures.

  He cruised along the quaint streets of Beacon Hill, where Luke’s Mercedes fit right in. The exclusive residential neighborhood was known for its distinctive architecture: nineteenth-century brick buildings and sidewalks, decorative ironwork, and perpetually burning gaslights lining the narrow streets. These sought-after town homes were exquisite, but many lacked one important characteristic—a garage, making parking extremely challenging. Driving slowly, Luke continued to circle the block, praying that someone would pull out of a spot. It reminded him of an old priest joke: “A man circles the crowded parking lot looking for a place to park during the Christmas rush. After making several passes and not finding a spot, he starts to pray. Seconds later, a car pulls out of one of the best spots in the lot. Looking up to God, he says, ‘Never mind, I found it myself.’”

  Luke smiled to himself when, sure enough, a car began to pull out of a spot. While parallel parking, he felt his cell phone begin to vibrate in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and saw that it was Robert Romo. Luke answered quickly. “Good morning, Detective.”

  “Good morning, Father. I just heard that you were confronted by one of my colleagues at the home of Ablaa Raboud this morning.”

  “Yes, that was me. I never had a gun pointed at me before.”

  “I’m sorry; you should have let me know that you were going there.”

  “I didn’t realize that she had a sister. I just wanted to see where she lived. My brother had spoken to her several times in the days before his death.”

  After a few seconds of silence, the officer asked, “How exactly do you know that?”

  Luke answered awkwardly, “I was able to get my brother’s cell phone records from his last few weeks, and I’ve been reviewing who he called.”

  “Why?”

  “Detective, put yourself in my position and please tell me what you would be doing.”

  Chastised, he reluctantly replied, “I guess I’d be doing the same thing.”

  “Have you heard anything on the case? Any suspects yet?”

  “The feds have completely shut us out of the investigation. They’re considering the incident a threat to national security, so they revoked all our jurisdiction and authority.”

  Hoping the detective’s annoyance at being excluded would make him more cooperative, Luke asked the question he’d been waiting to ask since his phone rang: “Do you have a way to get information on unlisted phone numbers?”

  There was a hesitation on the line, then a simple answer. “Yes.”

  Acting nonchalantly, Luke continued, “So, if I give you a few numbers, you could tell me who they belonged to?”

  He wasn’t fooling the detective. “I could, but that doesn’t mean I will.” Luke held his breath as Romo continued, “Why don’t we meet? How about this afternoon?”

  Thrilled to have his help, Luke quickly agreed. “No problem. Where?”

  The detective immediately responded, “It has to be someplace where we won’t be recognized.”

  “OK, four o’clock at the old cemetery on Tremont Street. I’ll see you there.”

  LUKE WALKED TO THE door of the impressive row house and lifted the massive knocker. When he released it, the sound echoed throughout the three-story mansion, and he heard footsteps approach. He looked up and noticed a security camera as the heavy door swung open. A petite young girl smiled and invited him inside, obviously expecting him. She locked the door behind him and motioned for Luke to follow her into an elegant wood-paneled library. She offered him something to drink and, when he declined, she excused herself to get Mr. Aldridge.

  Luke stood as the young girl pushed Mark Aldridge’s wheelchair through the open door. Mark extended his hand and Luke gently shook it. Although they had never met, there was no need for introductions. “Please, sit down. I was very close friends with your brother. I know that this is awkward because we’ve never met, but I know a lot about you. Aaron was very proud of his younger brother.”

  Luke smiled. Aldridge’s comment confirmed that he really must have been close to Aaron, since not many people knew that Aaron was born a few minutes before Luke.

  “Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr. Aldridge.”

  “Please, call me Mark.”

  Not wanting to waste any time, Luke took a deep breath and began. “I’ve been going through my brother’s phone records, and I’m trying to retrace the last few days of his life. I noticed that he talked to you many times in the days before the bombing.”

  “Do you know anything about me?”

  Luke grinned. “Only your name, phone number, and address.”

  The old man smiled back and then quickly became serious. “I’m a political consultant who has worked for five presidents and dozens of congressmen and senators. I first met your brother a few years ago at a fund-raiser for Brad Thompson. His good looks and impressive background made him the perfect candidate.”

  Bewildered, Luke interrupted, “Candidate?”

  Squinting, Mark looked directly at Luke and asked, “When was the last time you talked to Aaron?”

  “Over a year ago.”

  “Yes, I remember now. He often talked about the need to patch things up with you. Luke, he loved you very much, and we talked about you so often that I’d forgotten that you two hadn’t spoken in a long time.”

  Tears filled Luke’s eyes, but he didn’t reply.

  “Most political insiders knew that once Brad Thompson became president, Aaron would run for senator in the next election two years from now. Being a longtime B
oston resident, a graduate of Boston College and Harvard, and a well-respected lawyer, he was someone we felt couldn’t lose. He even had a Catholic priest as a brother! He was the perfect candidate. Did you know that Massachusetts has the second-highest percentage of Catholics in the country?”

  Luke shook his head no.

  “Well, then, I bet you didn’t know that Massachusetts has the fourth-highest percentage of Jews.”

  “How do you know all these statistics?”

  Mark smiled. “Luke, it’s my job to know these things. No candidate that I’ve represented as a client has ever lost a race.” He hesitated as tears filled his tired eyes. “Except for Brad Thompson.”

  Luke stood and walked over to a nearby table to get a tissue, which he handed to the distraught man. Kneeling down next to his wheelchair, Luke put his hand on Mark’s and looked him square in the eyes. “I need to know who killed Aaron and why.”

  Looking back at Luke, tears rolled down the old man’s face. “I was supposed to be there that day. I didn’t feel well that morning and called your brother to get some advice. He told me that I should stay home and get better, and he promised to come and see me as soon as the speech was over.”

  Luke squeezed Mark’s hand.

  “He was like a son to me. He was the only one who came to see me just to talk. He was a good man.”

  Luke asked more directly, “Do you have any idea of who would have wanted Brad Thompson dead?”

  Mark dried his eyes and answered, “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t rule out anything.”

  Puzzled, Luke asked, “What does that mean?”

  Mark pushed himself up in his chair. “It means that I wouldn’t assume that it had anything to do with that Muslim lady. Hell, it might not even be directly related to Brad Thompson. Luke, politics is a dirty game. If Brad Thompson was elected president, there’s a good chance that he would have been responsible for nominating the next three Supreme Court justices.”