Messages

by John Michael Hileman

  Alex started pacing. He stopped. “Yes. I’ll do it, but I want you to know I’m not happy about it. I don’t agree with what you’re doing. –But I’ll respect your decision.”

  “Thank you, Alex.”

  The door to the study creaked open, and a man from the Bomb Squad entered, a tall freckly man. The patch on his shirt said, Quincy. “Am I interrupting?”

  “No. Come in,” said David.

  “I want to thank you for your cooperation. I know you’ve been through a lot this morning.” He offered his hand to David, then Alex. “We’re going to remove the bomb from the premises now, which means you need to leave.” He handed his business card to David. “Give me a call if you see anything else suspicious.”

  David looked at the card. “Yeah. Will do.” The man turned and left.

  The card said, Sgt. James Quincy, Boston Bomb Squad, 2331 Market Ave., Boston MA. In the corner was a slogan. “Honor is Courage in Crisis.” David’s mind unscrambled the words, and a sentence formed. Bomb is in Quincy Market.

  David’s heart skipped a beat. “Here we go again,” he said under his breath.

  “David?”

  “It doesn’t get any clearer than that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  David looked at Alex. “I know where the bomb is.”

  “What?”

  David spoke low. “It’s in Quincy Market.”

  Alex’s jaw dropped. “It just told you that? Point blank? Just like that?”

  “It’s on this card.” He held it out.

  Alex grabbed the card and examined it. “What are you going to do?”

  David scowled at him. “I don’t know what I’m going to do! I wish you’d stop asking!”

  “Are you going to tell the police?”

  David stared blankly at his friend. Should I? The messages were coming to him, and him alone. Was he the only one who could get to the bomb? Would the mobilization of an entity as large as Homeland Security cause the terrorists to detonate the bomb early?

  “I don’t know, Alex. At this point I’m going to keep it to myself. The message was sent to me, so I have to assume that involving the authorities might force the terrorist’s hand. Maybe the message was sent to me because I’m the only one who can slip in under the radar.”

  “Slip in where, into the middle of a terrorist encampment? Do you think the messages will protect you from men with guns?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think about it, David. You’re working with slivers of information. You know where the bomb is, because the messages were nice enough to tell you, yet there are no instructions on what you’re supposed to do with this information. You don’t know whether to go, or stay, or even if you’re supposed to tell anyone.”

  Alex was right. David felt like he was walking from streetlight to streetlight on a pitch dark night, with no idea of what might jump out at him from the shadows. He had one piece of information, but was left to guess the rest. What if he guessed wrong? What then? He looked at his friend. “Do you think I haven’t thought of that? I am well aware of the pitfalls. But I’m going to follow this to the end.”

  “To the end all right. Your end.”

  David leveled his eyes at Alex. Why is he so against me? Is it because HE’s not the one getting all the action? Does it bother him that I’m the one in the spotlight for a change? “Are you going to help me or not?

  Alex paused. “–Yes. Whatever! I’ll take your family and leave you to your fool’s errand.” He scowled. “Man! I’ll be glad when this is over so we can go back to liking each other again.”

  Chapter 34

  “Hi. You got Larry. I’m out whoopin’ it up. Leave a message and I’ll holler at ya later.” Beep. Karen canceled the call and tried his cellphone.

  “Hello?” said Larry in his thick Texas accent.

  “Hi, Larry. It’s Karen.”

  “Hey there, darlin’. You got banged up pretty good last night. How ya feelin’?”

  “I’m okay. I just wanted to touch base.”

  “Sure thing. I got somethin’ I want to show you.”

  “Are you standing in an empty room?” she said. “There’s a horrible echo.”

  “Nope. I’m in a room full o’ people.”

  She pulled the phone away and turned slowly in her chair.

  Larry stood behind her with a broad grin, the phone still to his ear.

  “You’re pretty pleased with yourself aren’t you?”

  “Pleased as punch.”

  “What’d you want to show me?”

  “This.” He flipped his phone closed and slapped a crumpled napkin with pen etchings on her desk. The napkin was frayed where the pen had dug the name Ali Al-Kabim into it.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “That, darlin’, is a name I may or may not have got off one of the cellphones put into evidence from the raid on the farm last night. Of course, that would be illegal, therefore one can only figure I must have got it from another acceptable and reliable source.”

  She covered the napkin with her hand and looked at him. “Larry!” she whispered.

  Larry’s brows rose. “You want to find Brad or don’t ya? This man might know where he is.”

  She closed her mouth. “Isn’t this the guy who did an interview with Brad a few weeks ago to generate publicity for his pawn shop?”

  “Yup. Same guy.”

  She looked around, then leaned in toward him. “Why do you think he knows where Brad is?”

  “While we was at the pawn shop, I noticed some pictures on his desk, and I asked him about them. One was his wife, the other his brother. Here’s the real interestin’ part. His brother was picked up last night in the farm raid, and that there name wasn’t taken from his brother’s cellphone.”

  “Okay, so someone else from the farm had him on their cellphone. Your point?”

  “It wasn’t his pawn shop listing, it was his name. It’s a personal connection. Which means he has at least two points of contact with the terrorists. Are you catchin’ my meanin’?”

  “So––we should question him?”

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  She rubbed her hands across her desk. “Well––I don’t have anything better at the moment, we might as well.”

  “Great. Let’s mosey on down to the carport and see if we can’t rustle up a ve-hicle.”

  Chapter 35

  David said goodbye to Sharon and the kids and headed off to Quincy Market. His heart was heavy, not simply for the task ahead, but for how he was forced to leave things with Sharon. She wanted to understand why he had determined it was his responsibility to stop the bomb, but how could she? She had not experienced the things he had, and she did not share his driving passion to answer the question of God’s existence. To David, it was more than stopping a bomb or saving a city. He was in communication with something greater than himself, possibly the God of everything, and he had to see where it led. She could not understand this, and he could not make her understand.

  The city seemed dark and foreboding as he made his way through the busy streets. News of the terrorist activity had not disrupted business as usual, but apprehension was in the air. His skin tingled and his stomach roiled as he approached Market Square. It was the weekend, Quincy Market was always crowded on the weekend. The open-air market was filled with happy shoppers, blissfully unaware of the danger in their midst. He parked in a nearby garage, then followed the flow of pedestrians to the main thoroughfare, where people crossed to and fro from store to store, carrying shopping bags of all shapes and sizes.

  There was a message here, there had to be, somewhere hidden in the endless array of advertisements, lying dormant until each piece assumed its position in choreographed splendor upon the stage. David had never stopped to notice, but almost everyone had something to say. They put it on their shirts, their pants, their hats, even their skin. It was on bumpers, windows, backpacks, notebooks, shopping bags. Everywhere. The world was co
vered with words. Somewhere, among the signs, posters, marquees, and window displays, was a message just for him, a message leading to the bomb.

  But would he find it set to explode––or would it be another harmless bluff?

  His eyes scanned the crowd.

  A woman bent down to speak with her daughter. The bag on her arm said, “Urban Outfitters,” but the words did not speak to him. To her right was a man in a t-shirt. The shirt said, “Dare To Speak,” but there was no sense of confirmation. He turned and looked at a man pushing an empty wheelchair. “Allstar” was written in bright white letters across the seat back. He broke the word in half, All and star. Neither had any meaning. Am I doing something wrong?

  He began walking, half in a trance, scanning and deciphering, gathering word after useless word, generating one garbled sentence after another. Nothing. Why send me here only to abandon me? There are words everywhere! Why don’t you speak? He remembered the message from the study and pulled up his sleeve. Maybe now it would make sense. I am that still small voice. Fear not the distant horn sounds signal run left bullet stairs she waits. He cocked his ear. Nope. No small voice. No horn sounds. Still nonsense.

  He turned and headed down a covered walkway toward the entrance of a restaurant. The colors of the menu lining the side of the brick wall were warm and welcoming. His eyes began their search. Tenderloin, to, poached, with, topped, creamy, delectable, perfection... Lobster Tail. Baked Salmon Roulade. Beef Tenderloin with Stuffed Mushrooms and Shallot Dressing served on a Tomato Garnish. Mmm. That sounds really good. His stomach rumbled.

  He turned to the desert menu. Strawberry Cream Torte, cream cheese and fresh strawberries on a baked... Something stung him on the neck. His hand shot up, trapping the object. It felt like a bee sting, but it didn’t feel like a bee, the object was hard and bristly. He kept the pressure on it and slowly pinched, hoping to trap whatever it was safely between his fingers. The covered walkway began to tilt and his vision blurred as he pulled the stinger from his neck. His eyes closed slowly––so slowly. He forced them open and tried to focus on the object in his hand. It was a feathered blow dart. He stared at it, unable to comprehend what had happened. His brain slowed, his body began to go numb. Who... He put his hand on the wall to stable himself and turned toward the street.

  Through melting vision he saw the wavering figure of the man he’d seen a short while ago with the empty wheelchair. Firm hands gripped him from behind and sat him down into the chair. He turned lethargically and looked up at the owner of the hands. My Arab neighbor! Hamid! David’s eyelids slid down like a warm blanket, and his brain sank helplessly into placid darkness.

  Chapter 36

  The pawn shop rested in the heart of a neighborhood heavily populated by Muslims. Arabic words were everywhere, on windows, posters, neon signs. A woman in a berka strolled with two children up the cobblestone sidewalk. Two men with full black beards and white linen robes stood talking next to a mailbox with an Arabic sign posted on its face.

  Larry pulled the news car up to the front of the pawn shop and peered out the window. “Looks like it’s open.”

  “What’s our angle with this guy?” Karen looked up and down the street. “Do you think he’ll talk in exchange for more publicity?”

  “At this point, I doubt it. His brother was just thrown in jail. He’s likely orneryer than a bobcat full o’ cactus quills.”

  “Please tell me you have a plan.”

  “You’re the reporter.”

  She furrowed her brows. “Okay. We’ll do a human interest piece. Ask him how the current terrorist threat is effecting the Muslim community here. Maybe he’ll open up and share more.”

  “Sounds good to me, darlin’.”

  “Fine. You go first and break the ice.” With her one usable hand, Karen adjusted her wavy black hair, smoothed her suit jacket, and stepped out of the car. It felt like every eye on the street was on her. She was used to being the center of attention, but not this kind of attention. The memory of last night hung over her like a suffocating shadow. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was still a possible target.

  Larry grabbed the camera case from the back seat and headed up the small cement stairs. Karen followed uncharacteristically close behind. The door jingled as they entered. The shop owner, a young Arab man in a white dress shirt, recognized Larry immediately. He waved him in. “Come. Come. I welcome you.”

  “We ain’t interuptin’ are we?”

  “No. No. Not a- tall.” He walked down the length of a glassed-in counter filled with jewelry and watches and other assorted trinkets to the end where he opened a small swinging divider. “‘Tis good to see you, Mr. Larry Turner.” The man offered his hand, and Larry took it.

  “How’s business?” said Larry.

  “Business is very good. I thank you that you did not make me look like a rat. I was worried people would stop coming.”

  “Naw. That’s not how Brad works. If he says he’s gonna do somethin’, he does it. And we was just lookin’ for a confirmation from someone in the Muslim community, that Americans can sleep easy at night because there are Muslims who love this country and are watchin’ out for us.”

  Karen shot him a glance. Was that what they’d interviewed him about? She hadn’t bothered to ask. Of course, it made perfect sense. Why would they interview an Arab business owner about terrorist money laundering? He would only ostracize himself from the community he was seeking to win business from.

  “Brad is a good man. I saw on the television about him. Very sad. I hope he is not harmed.”

  “Well, he’s kinda why we’re here.” Larry moved aside. “This here’s Karen Watson. She’s doing a piece about the impact this terrorist activity is having on Muslims in Boston. Could she have a word with you.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Karen held her hand out to him, and he took it. “It’s good to meet you, Ali.”

  He released her hand, stepped back, and held a finger up. “Wait one moment. I will call Jamil down to run the shop, and we will talk out back.” He made a call on his cellphone, and soon a young teenager came to take his place. He guided Larry and Karen into the back room where piles of boxes sat among old appliances, musical instruments, and assorted electronics. Ali stopped in the middle of the room and turned to face them. His countenance had turned serious. The single dangling light bulb cast a foreboding shadow across his dark skin. “I am fearing for my life to talk to you,” he said in a whisper.

  “I promise we won’t ask anything that would endanger you,” said Karen.

  “You do not understand. I know these people who have took your Brad.”

  Karen could barely keep her composure. “Wh- Who? Who took Brad?”

  “I must ask you a most important question.”

  She stood silent, her eyes studying his face.

  “Do you look for a story, or do you look for answers?”

  She glanced at Larry, then back at Ali. “What do you mean?”

  “If I tell you what I know, you cannot do the report. They have seen you. They know I have met with you.” He looked at them with growing intensity. “But I tell you for fear of what is coming.”

  “You want me, to give the story, to someone else?”

  “It cannot be you. You must promise.”

  “You have my word.”

  “And you, Mr. Turner?”

  “Yeah. Mum’s the word.”

  He gave the Texan a confused look. “Your mother, is––the word?”

  “That means I swear.” He held his hand up in scout’s honor.

  Karen shook her head.

  Ali’s expression was void of humor, whatever he knew brought him great anxiety. “Follow me.” He led them out the back door and up a rickety staircase to the door of the upstairs apartment. A crooked broken number 2 hung from a single nail. “I am living here with my brother and his son Jamil.” The door creaked as he pushed into a cluttered room which looked more like a storage closet than a livi
ng room. Light filtered through multicolored curtains, bathing the room in swaths of primary colors.

  “Come.” Ali gestured. “My brother’s bedroom is this way.”

  Karen touched his arm. “Wait a second. Who lives here?”

  “Me, my brother, and his son, the boy downstairs.”

  “The same brother who was picked up by the FBI last night?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at Larry. “We can’t be here, the feds will be all over this place.”

  “No. It is safe. My brother is living in another apartment as well. No one knows he lives here with his son. They think he lives there and that his son has gone away with his mother.”

  Karen and Larry looked at each other. Larry shrugged.

  “I am telling you. It is safe.”

  Hesitantly, Karen followed the men through the living room, down a hallway, and into a bedroom. Faint light penetrated the drawn curtains, revealing a small cluttered room filled with electronics. A computer sat on a desk in the corner. Ali switched on a lamp and turned to face his guests. “One year ago, my brother began to act strangely, spending much time here in his room, and not talking to me very much. When I heard of the other apartment, I asked him, but he said he could not tell me; he wanted me to stay out of it. I was safer not to know.” Ali got down on all fours and slid an old suitcase out from under the bed. “I was worried for him, so I searched his room.” He slid the zippers and flipped the top. Inside was an odd collection of items.

  Larry crouched down. “Four galvanized pipes, some end caps, BBs, batteries, and two bottles of somethin’ liquid.” He looked up at Ali. “I could probably put a guess to what this is.”

  “When I found this, there was also a cellphone that was taken apart, a laptop computer, and many papers on how to make a bomb.”

  “Yep, a bomb alright. A small one, but still deadly.”

  Karen took a step back. “Did you confront him?”