Stranger in the Night (12 page)

“Liz! What are you doing?” A shrill voice streaked through the night. “You promised to call!”

Jerking awake, Liz focused on a wiry figure sliding onto the seat opposite her. “Molly?”

“I’ve been sitting at home dying of nerves waiting for you to let me know you’re okay, and here you are snuggling with the Marine while I’m freaking out that you’re lying dead in the street with a gang bullet in your head!” She dropped her purse on the table. “I have to call my boyfriend. Joel wouldn’t drive down here with me, and I said, listen, if you can’t support me enough to help me find my best friend, then we’re through. Now I see you’re perfectly fine, and I just dumped the one decent guy I’ve met in years.”

“A decent guy would have come with you,” Joshua observed.

“What do
you
know—you with your post-traumatic whatever-it-is? Look, there are two kinds of men, losers and keepers. You’re neither one, right? Liz can’t lose you, because you’re always butting into her life and messing with her mind. But she’s sure not going to keep you.”

“Molly!” Liz cut in. “You don’t know Joshua. Get off his case.”

“I know you,” Molly said. “This man won’t tie you down. That’s clear enough.”

“It is?”

“What, you think you can talk her out of going to Africa? Good luck with that—I’ve been trying to convince her to stay in St. Louis for two years. And there’s no way she’ll ever be a Texas oil baron’s wife. So why don’t you leave her alone?” She blinked. “Liz, were you
asleep?
You were! You fell asleep!”

Sitting up, Liz pushed her hair back. “I guess so.”

“Oh, this is great. The only time she sleeps in weeks is on your shoulder.” Molly pressed buttons on her phone. “I’m coming home, Joel. Yes, I found her, and she’s fine. She’s sleeping with the Marine. Well, not with him, but on him. No, that’s not right. Just don’t leave, okay? I’ll be back in half an hour.”

She snapped her phone shut and took Liz’s hand. “Come with me. Out of the way, soldier-boy. I’m making sure she gets home safely, and that means you stay here.”

“Molly, I’m fine,” Liz protested as her friend dragged her past Joshua and pulled her to her feet. She wanted to shut Molly up. Linger with Joshua. Try to understand what was happening between them. But she had slept for the first time in months, and now she felt off balance. Maybe she was even a little relieved that Molly had taken charge and was helping her get away from something that scared her more than she liked to admit. “We were just talking.”

Now Molly was wagging her phone at Joshua. “You leave her alone. She’s a good girl, and you’re bad news. Just because you put her to sleep, don’t think that gives you brownie points in my book.”

Liz glanced back to see Joshua standing beside the booth, his arms crossed. “It’s been nice knowing you,” she called. “Bye.”

Molly wrapped an arm around Liz and pushed her out the door. “Gangbangers and Marines and who knows what else you’re going to attract,” she said. “Go home and get some sleep, honey. Life will be a whole lot clearer in the morning.”

Liz slipped into her car, then waited until she and Molly pulled out at the same time. With some anxiety, she considered circling the block and returning to Podunk’s and the man with warm lips. But she decided, after all, that would be dangerous.

“You are a man who knows the right thing to do.” Stephen Rudi laid a ribbon marker in the open Bible and closed his book. He intended to begin reading, but Joshua had mentioned a gang task force meeting that evening at the police precinct.

Glasses perched on the end of his nose, the pastor now regarded his friend. “You should have gone with Sam Hawke to this assembly of leaders. You are a warrior. In my tribe—
before the civil war and before the British—we were also warriors. My people were not farmers, digging with hoes and planting beans and maize. We kept cattle. Our flocks of sheep and goats were very large.”

Inside the Rudis’ small room at Haven, Joshua had turned a chair around, sat down and propped his arms on the back. “I hate to tell you this, Pastor, but a warrior and a cow herder are not the same thing.”

“Young boys stood watch over the herds. At the age of initiation, they became warriors. With spears, we protected our tribe and gained wealth for our families. Then, after many years, we became the elders who weighed judgment on all problems.”

“I have trouble seeing you as a warrior, Pastor S.,” Joshua told him. “You don’t look like the spear-carrying kind.”

“I never became a warrior because the British confused our system. We had been nomadic, but they forced us to settle on land that was very bad for keeping cattle. They made us live in a region of Paganda near Lake Victoria. They gave us boats and nets and tried to teach us how to become fishermen. Our old ways became difficult. Those British told us to choose a chief who would report to the district commissioner, and they encouraged us to put away our tribal life. Then one day the British granted independence to Paganda and went away, leaving the people untrained and lacking good leadership.”

“I know enough about tribes to figure out what happened next.”

“Yes, our country fell into chaos. And that is why
you
must stay here, in St. Louis.”

“St. Louis is not Paganda or Afghanistan. You can’t equate the local gangs with tribes.”

“Certainly not. In a tribe, the fathers lead their families. Important decisions are made by a council of elders. Each person supports the others. Enemies can come together to discuss
disputes over territory. Everything is well organized. These gangs are not tribes—they are hooligans bent on thuggery. They are the cause of chaos in St. Louis, America.”

“And I’m supposed to fix that?”

“Look at my children, sir.” He indicated the two small, sleeping figures in the bed. “Shall they grow up in this wicked society?”

Joshua’s heart softened as he studied the children. Curled together, Charity and Virtue clung to each other almost as if they were still inside that metal water drum…as if terror haunted them even in their dreams. He knew that midnight fear all too well.

After a full day at school, the two youngsters always returned exhausted. They did their homework and then ate a dinner prepared by Mary, who by then had already gone off to her cleaning job. Joshua took to joining the family meal, then helping out as their father bathed his children and read a few verses from the Bible—a quiet time that put both kids right to sleep.

“You’re moving into the new apartment tomorrow,” Joshua reminded Stephen. “It’s a better environment.”

The man turned his head away and grunted in disgust. “Would you permit your own family to live in such a place? Would you send your children to these schools? The teachers are sincere, but what sort of friends can my little ones find? If I am not very careful, Charity will suffer the same future as those young girls who bring their babies to Haven every morning. Virtue will stand on the corner with a gun in his pocket and drugs in his shoe. How can I bear this?”

“Not every kid in the area ends up that way.”

“You would not bring your children here!” He thumped the Bible down on a bedside table. “If you were forced to live in such a city, you would use your training as a warrior to protect your family. I speak the truth. Do not abuse me by denying it!”

Joshua stood. “I can’t stay and watch over your kids, Stephen. I have other responsibilities. You talk so much about family loyalties. Try telling my father what you want me to do. Tell him that the son who walked out on him to enlist in the Marine Corps is not coming back to Texas. Tell him that his son will never fill the job he’s been holding open all this time. Tell him every expectation, every hope, every prayer has been in vain. You—of all people—should understand the obligation I feel to my father, to my family.”

“Haya.”
Stephen muttered a Swahili expression of grudging acceptance that Joshua had heard a hundred times since he began to help the Rudi family. “Even so, you should attend the meeting tonight for speaking with the police and the government people. You can help them very much.”

“Did you hear a word I just said?”

“Yes, I heard you speak of your father. But you have told me you are a Christian, as I am, and so you have another Father, my friend. A greater Father. He is not of this earth. He cares for His people here, yet they suffer. This Heavenly Father has trained you to be a courageous warrior, a man of battle who can protect the defenseless. Shall you make petrol instead?”

As Joshua opened his mouth to respond, the phone in his pocket vibrated. Certain it would be one of his parents, he checked it anyway. It was never Liz. He had not seen the woman for almost a week. Rather than helping him forget, her absence grew more painful each day.

“Dad, hey, how are you this evening?” he asked as his father’s voice came through the receiver. He gave Pastor Stephen a nod and pointed to the phone.

“There you are! Your mother and I have been trying to reach you. We’ve left several messages. I’m sure you’ve been busy having fun with your friends, but you might at least return our calls, Joshua.”

“I’ve talked to you every day, Dad. I explained about Haven, remember? The new basketball court. The fitness room.”

“Your mother is wondering when to expect you home. She had a lot of hopes and plans built around that original home-coming date you gave us, and then, you know, you turned right around and walked out on her. Joshua, we’ve done our best to understand that you needed some time to unwind with your friends, but I have to say that this behavior of yours has been disappointing for everyone. Not just your mother and me, but your brothers, their wives, your friends. I understand about the camaraderie of the military, but you do have good friends here in Amarillo, too.”

Standing in the doorway of the small room, Joshua watched Stephen Rudi tucking a blanket over his children. In silence, the man laid a hand on each child and bowed his head. His lips moved as he whispered a prayer. Then he settled into his chair again, put on his glasses, opened his Bible and began to read in silence.

“Dad, I know I’ve disappointed you and Mom,” Joshua began. He stepped out of the room into the long, empty corridor. The sound of kids playing basketball downstairs echoed through the building. Rubber-soled shoes squeaking, whistles blowing, young voices shouting.

He leaned one shoulder against the wall. “I’ll come home soon. I promise you that.”

“Can you give me a date? The other day you said you were hoping to leave at the end of this week. But here it is Friday again, and we still don’t have any idea of your arrival time. I’d be happy to send a car to pick you up at the airport if you’ll just give me a flight number.”

Joshua clenched his jaw. The battle inside him waged with as much intensity as any he had known in Iraq or Afghanistan. Stay and continue to help the Rudis…use his training to impact the city for good…see Liz Wallace again? Or go home…honor
his father by assuming the mantle for which he had been intended his whole life…bring his mother the joy of watching her son settle near his brothers and work in the business that bore the family name…be obedient to those who had raised him with such love?

“Dad, give me one more week,” he said, the words coming out in a rush of breath. “Tell Mom to plan a poolside shindig for next Saturday night. I’ll be there with my boots on.”

“Now, you’re sure about this? Because you know how your mother is with her parties, Joshua. These social occasions are very important to her, and she’ll be inviting all her friends, including some lovely young women.”

“The bumblebees?” He rubbed the back of his neck, recalling the local girls who had swarmed him from childhood through college. “Listen, please ask Mom not to get all worked up about introducing me to any lovely young women.”

“You have a girlfriend? You never mentioned this. We’d love to meet her, Joshua. Is it serious? Why don’t you bring her with you?”

“No, Dad. It’s not…not like that…”

The silence on both ends grew uncomfortable. Joshua checked his watch. The meeting of the gang task force had begun. He had told Sam to go on without him.

But now he spoke quickly. “Hey, gotta head out, Dad. Give Mom my love. See you in a week.”

Pushing the phone into his jeans pocket, he started down the hall. By the time he reached the stairs, he was running.

A
s Joshua slipped into the room, he spotted Sam near the head of a long conference table. A surprising number of people had gathered at the precinct station to discuss the gang situation, an indicator of how serious the crisis had become. Sam paused while describing the work of Haven and beckoned Joshua.

“Grab a chair, Duff.” He leaned forward to address the others. “I’m counting on this guy to play a key role in our strategy—Sergeant Joshua Duff, USMC. He just got back from Afghanistan. Counterterrorism. He’s an expert marksman. Tracks insurgents like a hound dog. Sniffs out trouble and handles it before anyone else even knows there’s a problem.”

“Hawke’s a known liar,” Joshua drawled. “Never trust a word out of the guy’s mouth.”

Low laughter accompanied a rumble of greeting as he set his chair beside Sam’s. A quick scan of name tags revealed police officers, ministers, representatives of charitable foundations and others.

“I believe we’ve already met.” A tall man at the head of the
table nodded at Joshua. “I head the law enforcement division of this task force. Name’s Ransom, St. Louis PD. So, how’s the dog?”

Joshua recognized the cop who had taken his knife on the night of the conflict outside Haven. The two assessed each other, and Joshua sensed an equal in both intensity and skill.

“Recovering.” He kept his focus leveled on the officer’s eyes. “Neighborhood’s not faring too well, though.”

Ransom nodded, accepting the retort. He slid a sheaf of stapled papers across the table toward Joshua. “If you’ve got answers, we’re listening. We have a lot of groups tackling the problem, and we welcome the Marine Corps’ help.”

“I’m off-duty, friend—discharged a month ago. But I’m listening.”

“Good. Sam, you were describing the new day care at Haven. And we’d all like to hear why you had to stop the construction of your outdoor recreation area.”

“Why don’t we introduce everyone to Duff first. Go ahead, Ransom. You pulled this task force together.”

The cop tipped his head in acknowledgment. He made the round of the table, putting faces to the names of organizations Sam had mentioned. The task force included law enforcement officials from St. Louis city and county, as well as the Missouri State Highway Patrol and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.

Ransom’s unit worked with a number of nonprofit agencies—the Gang Resistance Education and Training program, Cease-Fire, INTERACT, African-American Churches in Dialogue, the St. Louis Gang Outreach Program, Central Baptist Family Services, the Regional Violence Prevention Initiative and the North Patrol Initiative. Representatives from DEFY camp, the Weed & Seed Jobs Program, the Safe Futures program and the National Guard Show Me Challenge were also in the room.

“We’re missing someone,” Ransom said. As he scanned a printout, the door opened. “And just in the nick of time, our
newest task force member. Everyone, this is Liz Wallace from Refugee Hope. I asked her to help us understand how we can work with the influx of immigrants being resettled in the city. Welcome, Liz Wallace.”

Joshua tried not to gape as she took a chair across the table from him. After the evening at Podunk’s, he had called Liz’s office a couple of times and left messages on her phone. She didn’t respond, and he knew why. Refugee camps in Africa were her future—not an ex-Marine oil company vice president with a touch of PTSD.

He’d told himself he would never see her again. It would be best for both of them. In time, his memories of her would fade. His desire for her would weaken. Other women would replace Liz in his thoughts. He’d meet some pretty girl in Texas—maybe one of the bumblebees from his childhood had matured enough to be interesting. If civilian life didn’t work out, he would start looking in the ranks. Or he could go on as he had for so long…keeping women at arm’s length, focusing on his work, preferring his own familiar and reliable company over the distraction of female companionship.

But as Liz propped an elbow on the table, something stirred to life deep inside him and he knew it wasn’t over.

“Sorry I’m late, Daniel.” She smiled at Sergeant Ransom. “A new family from Iraq arrived this week, and the kids had a bad experience at school today. I hope you haven’t all been waiting for…”

Her brown eyes settled on Joshua. Her lips parted. “Oh, I didn’t realize…”

“Miss Wallace, good to see you again.” Joshua tore his focus from her face as he spoke. “So, Sam, the new day care at Haven? Looks like it’s going well.”

His friend took over. “Yeah, sure is. More kids than we know what to do with—and I’m talking about the moms as well as
their babies. We only take teenage mothers, and our goal is to return them to high school, help them earn their GED or find them a decent job.”

Joshua saw that Sam had read the uncomfortable situation and stepped in as he always had. Nothing like the brotherhood of the military to attune men to each other. After telling task force members about the child-care program, Sam went on to outline Haven’s effort to build an outdoor recreation area. While he spoke, Joshua hunted for a pen, found one and took notes on the agenda he’d been given. Anything to avoid those big brown eyes across the table.

“Sam, are you sure the sign sprayed on your wall was done by Hypes?” Ransom was asking. “Some of these gangs are using a graffiti code we haven’t deciphered.”

“It was purple paint.”

Ransom’s brows rose. “Did you understand the symbols?”

“Pretty obvious—my name with a big X over it. For some reason they’ve singled me out as the target. My partner, Terell Roberts, keeps a low profile, but they know him. The Hypes want Haven. Our street cuts through their turf, and they don’t like it.”

“Haven stands in opposition to everything the Hypes promote,” Joshua spoke up. “I’ve had a couple of encounters with them now. They create chaos and violence in an effort to build gang loyalty. Haven is about education, job training, employment, meaningful recreation—everything designed to keep kids out of gangs. The message to gang members from your task force should be clear. If you engage in criminal activity, we will bring you to justice. If you want to turn your life around, we’ll be there to help.”

“Your task force?” Ransom glanced at Sam. “I thought your friend was part of Haven’s team.”

“We’re working on that,” Sam said. “Duff has…commitments.”

With a shrug, Ransom turned to Liz. “Haven has brought a
lot of good changes to the neighborhood, but we’ve got big problems growing, too. This refugee resettlement thing is another new wrinkle. What can you tell us about that, Liz?”

She stood and Joshua’s mouth went dry. As if he were on sniper patrol and had just spotted his target, every sense beamed in her direction. Smell, taste, sound, touch…and sight, of course. Liz wore a modest pink blouse, but the short sleeves revealed her slender arms. Her narrow waist. Her perfect curves. That voice dripped into him and lit up every nerve. He was a dying man, stretched out on a gurney, and she was the lifeblood flowing into his veins. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, feel the pressure in his chest.

“Refugee Hope,” she was explaining, “views any immigrants’ potentially greatest problem as a failure to assimilate to American culture. Now we understand there’s something worse. That is the integration into the wrong American culture.”

“By that, you mean gangs?” Ransom asked.

“Any unhealthy lifestyle.” She smiled at him again. Joshua’s eyes darted to the man, recognized the cop’s admiration and swept back to Liz. Was she aware? Was she flirting with this guy? They were on a first-name basis. So what was going on between them?

“Our African refugees are particularly susceptible to the hip-hop culture in St. Louis,” she told the group. “Kids mingle at school. Adults meet on the streets, in the grocery stores, at work. In people’s eyes, their skin color automatically classifies them, even though the original ethnicity—their tribe, their language, even their experiences in the refugee camps—could not be more different. We’re seeing the African-born immigrant children try to adapt by mimicking customs they see in their new neighborhood. This is fine if the role model is healthy. But too often, our refugee youth are falling in with the gang subculture.”

“Aren’t a lot of these immigrants Muslims?” someone asked. “I heard they were, and I didn’t like the sound of it one bit.”

“Refugee Hope is a Christian organization, but we resettle people from many religious backgrounds.”

“So you’re saying these refugees might be bringing a Muslim ideology into the Molotov cocktail these gangs already represent?”

“Possibly. Does religion play a part in gang culture, Daniel?” She looked again to Ransom. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“These kids aren’t religious,” he said. “They may have been raised around some form of faith—grandmothers reading Bibles and saying bedtime prayers. But the only time they crack the door of a church is to attend the funeral of one of their homeys.”

“What about the Hypes?” Joshua spoke up. “Something is holding them together, and it’s not race. Not turf. Not even blood-shed. They don’t have anything going for them that I can see.”

“Their leader is the catalyst.” Ransom picked up another stack of papers and began handing them out to the people gathered at the table. “You’re correct, Sergeant Duff. The Hypes are an unusual gang. Once we recognized their shotcaller as Mo Ded, we started watching him. He’s definitely a different ball of wax. This document is a summary of data we’ve gathered about the Hypes. The broad dimension of their activity goes beyond drugs and weapons to include politics and interracial issues. We do see some religious undercurrents. There may even be possible terrorist connections.”

“Terrorist?” The word rippled around the room.

“Hear that, Duff?” Sam stuck a thumb in Joshua’s direction. “Right up your alley.”

“Hey,” Joshua protested. “I’m just here to listen.”

Ransom grunted. “Well, if anyone on this task force learns something other than what’s printed on this fact sheet, please let me know immediately. We have some concern that Mo
Ded’s group may be working to purchase arms, perhaps even mines and other explosives.”

Joshua held up his hand and rubbed his fingertips together. “Gotta have the dough for that. How are they paying?”

“We’re seeing a lot of ice moving on the streets these days. Methamphetamine is Missouri’s hallmark drug. It’s been the white man’s domain for a long time, but these days it’s moving across racial lines. Latinos, even blacks. We think Mo Ded is behind the St. Louis trade.”

“Have you traced his roots?”

“As far back as we can get—which is nowhere. He came here from some big city is all we know. Detroit. Chicago. Could be one of the coasts.”

“You need to map out his pedigree,” Joshua said, vaguely aware he was leaning forward on the table. Without realizing it, he had been swept into the discussion. “Track the guy back to where he came from. That’ll tell you a lot. Who shaped him, who influenced him, what incidents triggered his patterns. Parents, education, religion. Check his documents.”

“Documents? We don’t even have the guy’s real name. We can’t find a rap sheet on him. He’s not turning up in records anywhere. It’s like one day he just appeared out of thin air. The next day he had built a gang out of a bunch of scrawny rejects. Then he started moving ice. Now we’re hearing about weapons, including some big stuff.”

“Why would Mo Ded want mines or grenades? That’s heavy artillery for a street fighter. Too heavy, if you ask me. With your men looking over his shoulder he’d need to have strong motivation and a major plan. Purchasing that stuff would require a lot of cash. He wouldn’t even think about it unless he had a big target in mind. What does this Mo Ded want? And who does he have to take out to get it?”

The silence in the room told Joshua what he needed to know.

“He wants it all,” Joshua declared as he looked around the table. “He wants to control the police force, the schools, the businesses, the streets. He wants to own this city.”

Joshua made a point of talking to Sam as the meeting ended. He knew Liz wouldn’t want an uncomfortable encounter. Neither did he. All the same, it was hard to keep his focus on his friend as Liz spoke briefly with Sergeant Ransom and then hurried away.

“I’ve asked my dad for another week,” Joshua said. The two men stood to one side. “I haven’t been fair to him, or to my mother. They were hoping I’d come home and blend right in.”

“You? Blend in?” Sam chuckled. “You blend like a chameleon into the Afghan high desert or the streets of Baghdad, but you’ll never belong in a Texas office building, Duff. Accept it.”

“Maybe not, but it’s my destiny. Duff tradition. I’ve thought, I’ve prayed and I don’t see any other way. But I’ll give you this week. It’s the best I can do, Hawke. Everything I’ve got, I’ll put to work unlocking your enemy’s background, MO. Plans. After that, it’s pool parties and that executive office for me.”

Sam shook his head. “I’ve been there, you know? Got back from a deployment, was discharged, headed to New Mexico, tried to fit in with my family again. My dad, my brother. I couldn’t find anything to keep my attention or satisfy me. I was about ready to re-up when I got back in touch with Terell. We bought the old building and started Haven. It’s been touch and go, but I never looked back.”

“The things we did over there…the missions…they gave my life meaning. I promised I’d go home, and I never break a vow. But if I can make my dad understand, I may go back in.”