Stranger in the Night (14 page)

Mo Ded.

Liz held her breath. He had called her before from Joshua’s phone, and she believed that was the last time they would speak. But now his words came again.

“Look, I saw you in Podunk’s, so I know it’s you. I know you’re with him. I got some things to say to that dude, yo.”

“Call him, then. You have his number.”

“He rigged his phone. I can’t get through. But you and him are together, right? So you give him a message from me.”

“What’s your name? Where are you?”

“You know me. You know who I am. What I do. You know I own the streets, and I got my people everywhere. We watchin’ you. We watchin’ him. He just left your place. Goin’ down the elevator to his fancy car right now. You want to keep him safe? You want me not to touch him? You want my boys to leave you alone, huh? Then you better listen up.”

Liz glanced at her door, as if the green-eyed man might be standing just outside it. He or some of his Hypes were inside her building. They had followed Joshua as he left the apartment. They knew where she lived, what she was doing, who she spent time with.

Fear coursing through her, Liz gripped the phone. “You get out of here. Leave me alone. And don’t you dare touch my friend.”

“Him? I won’t be touchin’ him. It’s you who should worry about gettin’ touched, lady. You and maybe your Mexican friend down the hall.”

The image of Mrs. Gonzales flashed through Liz’s brain. The elderly woman would be tottering back to her apartment, coffee mugs in hand and a smile on her face. She would never suspect that Mo Ded’s gangbangers might be spying on her from the shadows.

“What do you want?” Liz demanded. “Tell me. Tell me right now, and then you and your people get out of my life.”

“I want you to give your man a message from me. You tell him to stay offa my turf. I can take out his friends—not a problem. I know how to immobilize them. And him…he better not mess with me, yo. You tell him that.”

“Tell him what Mo Ded says, right?” she challenged.

“Oh, you know my name? Good. Then you got an idea what kind of organization you’re up against. You better take what I say serious, yo.”

“What do you want with Haven? Just leave it alone. It’s a good place, a nice community center for kids. You don’t need that block. Let it go.”

“You tellin’ me to back off?” He made a guttural grunt. “Tell that to
him.
Yo man be up there in a second. Yeah, here he come now. You tell him to back off.”

As the connection went dead, someone hammered on Liz’s door. Stiffening in fear, she called out. “Who is it?”

“Liz, let me in!” Joshua’s voice sounded urgent.

She ran to the door and turned the dead bolt. He stepped inside. As she slammed the door behind him, he reached for her, pulled her against him, backed them into a corner.

“Did they touch you?” he rasped, breathing hard. “Did anyone get in here?”

“No, it was a phone call. Oh, Joshua, they were watching us the whole time. They saw Mrs. Gonzales! It was Mo Ded—I recognized his voice from the time before. He knows where I live. He threatened me! What made you come back?”

“A couple of his guys met me when the elevator doors opened. I got past them and ran up the stairwell to your place.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“Not me. It’s you they keep tracking. What do they want from you, Liz?”

“They don’t want
me.
Mo Ded called here so that I would give you a message. He said he wants you off his turf. Haven. He told me he knows how to handle Sam and Terell—take them out, immobilize them. Those were his words. He’s not worried about them. But he said you were not to mess with him.”

Shivering, she wrapped her arms around Joshua and held him tight. “He knew you were coming up here to my apartment again. The moment before you knocked, he told me you’d be back and I was to give you his message. I’m worried about Mrs. Gonzales. He must be right outside this door—in the hallway
somewhere. What if he hurts her? I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to her.”

“He’s not out there now. I checked on my way through. The hall is clear.”

“How can you be so sure about these things? You’re not invincible, you know.” She pushed away from him and took him by the shoulders. “Joshua, you have to get out of St. Louis. Leave and don’t come back to this apartment. Don’t even stop at Haven to pick up your things. Just get in your car and drive away. Let Mo Ded have his turf. Let him—”

“Liz, stop talking.” He took her again, encircling her in his embrace. “Be quiet and breathe. This is about territory, not people. Especially not Mrs. Gonzales. Mo Ded is a bully—posturing and threatening and trying to make a statement. I’m not afraid of him.”

“I am. I’m terrified. If he found my building, my floor, my apartment, who knows what else he could do?”

“Your building was never safe to begin with. You shouldn’t live here. There’s no door security, no alarm system, nothing. Anyone could get through that window. I could take your door down with my elbow. Tracking you would be a piece of cake. You need to get out. I’m going to transfer you to a better place. I’ll put you in a hotel tonight, and then I’ll move you into a secure apartment in a safe part of the city.”

“You can’t do that. This apartment is my home.” She stepped away from him. “Everything was working fine, and then you came along and messed me all up. Why? Why do you have to be in my life?”

“Those questions are irrelevant now. I’m here and I’m not leaving. Not for a week. I told Hawke I’d give him that.”

“Why? He doesn’t need your help building his outdoor recreation area.”

His eyes went deep. “Liz, I’m going to take care of Mo Ded for him.”

“No!” She caught his hands. “No, Joshua. Please don’t tell me that. I can’t accept it. You’re one man. Mo Ded has a whole gang. They’re trained and armed. How could Sam ask that of you? What kind of a friend would place you in so much danger? You could get killed.”

“It’s you I’m worried about. Mo Ded knows I’m a threat to his operation. He said he can take care of Hawke and Terell, but he wants me out of the picture. That means he’s got me figured out—at least to some degree. He recognizes I’m the real danger to his little terrorist cell, and he hopes by scaring and threatening you, he can get me to leave. But he could do worse than frighten you, Liz. He could hurt you.”

He began to pace, head down, fingers toying with his lower lip. “Civilians are always a factor, but not like this. No enemy has ever been able to get at someone who matters to me. I’ve protected women and children, sure. People in their homes and on the streets. This is a whole new level. Mo Ded has the upper hand right now because he’s got you in his sights. He knows I won’t risk you.”

“He doesn’t know the truth about us,” Liz protested. “You and I are friends, that’s all. Mo Ded has put us together in his mind, but we’re not together. Not really. I can stay here in my apartment, go to my job, do my work and keep my relationships with Molly and Mrs. Gonzales and everyone else. If you and I don’t see each other again, he’ll figure it out. He won’t touch me.”

Joshua had halted in the middle of the room. “Liz, I won’t stay in St. Louis without seeing you.”

“You have to. Just leave my apartment and my life. And if you’re as smart as I think, you’ll go to Texas where everything is safe.”

She looked away, fighting unexpected tears. “We can’t see each other anymore, Joshua. From the start, we both knew it wasn’t best. And now that’s even more true. I want to live in my own home. I refuse to become the kind of woman who
buckles to fear. When I move to Africa, I can’t walk around with constant terror that something bad might happen to me, or I’ll never make it. And as for you, there’s only a week left in this city anyway, right? You’ve given Sam your time to set up some kind of protection from the gangs. From Mo Ded. So you’ll be leaving soon. And that’s good.”

“Then why are you crying?”

Brushing at the tears that kept tumbling down her cheeks, Liz shook her head. “I’m not crying. Not really. It’s the shock of the phone call. Mo Ded’s voice. The worry about Mrs. Gonzales. I don’t know, but the tears aren’t what you think. They have nothing to do with…”

At the thought that this might be the last moment she would ever see Joshua Duff, sobs welled up from deep inside her. She turned away, hurrying into the kitchen, opening cupboard doors, searching the shelves for some nameless object.

And then he was behind her, his arms circling her waist, drawing her close.

“Liz, let me hold you.” His breath warmed her cheek. He didn’t speak for a moment, and when he did his voice was husky. “I’ve never felt this way about a woman. Never intended to get so caught up in another person. Please let me take care of you. Let me put you somewhere safe. Let me fulfill my promise to Sam and come to you again. We’ll talk and we’ll take the time to figure out what’s going on, what we’re supposed to do. Please. Please do that for me.”

The images he laid out glittered in Liz’s mind like bright jewels on a necklace of hope. A hotel. Safety. Good food. Maid service. Time with a man she had thought about constantly since the moment they met.

And then what? More precious diamonds. Love, perhaps? Maybe even marriage? A life in Texas. The wife of an oil tycoon. A large home. A swimming pool. Happy, healthy, well-
educated children. Everything a normal, intelligent woman would want. And more.

How could she resist this man?

Turning in his embrace, she slipped her arms around his neck. For a moment, she could only drift in their kiss. It took away the fear, doubt and confusion. Joshua’s strength and shield filled her with such joy. Such bliss.

And yet the call was always in her heart, whispering or lecturing or even shouting at her. The little boy with beckoning eyes. The hunger and filth and poverty and ignorance. How could she dance away with her glimmering necklace of jewels? How could she waltz away and never think again of the promises she had made? How could she stop listening to the words that called to her with such urgency?

“Joshua, I can’t leave this place.” She bit her lip, battling emotion. “I believe God wants me to stay here and eat Mrs. Gonzales’s tamales and keep searching my scrapbook while I work for Refugee Hope. And I think…I really do believe…I’m almost sure I’m supposed to go to Africa and minister in camps on the Kenyan border. So please go. Go and take away the war and violence and gangs and terrorist cells and everything that came into my life when you walked in. Let me stay here in my little home and heal from you. Because I will heal. So will you. Just let that happen, all right?”

She stepped away from him. Grabbed tissues from a box on her kitchen counter. Fought the sobs. She would not say more for fear of confessing too much. For fear of revealing her heart.

He walked to the door. He stood in silence, and she could feel his eyes on her, searching. Clutching the back of a chair, she willed herself not to look at him again. Not to go to him.

And then he opened the door, stepped outside, shut it behind him. Before he could come back into her apartment—her life, her heart—she ran and turned the dead bolt.

“E
at the fish head.”

The gentle request came after Liz and that particular item in the soup pot had been staring at each other for about five minutes.

“Me?” Flustered, she glanced at Boazi, a Burundian refugee whose right hand had been cut off during the civil war. “You want me to eat the fish head?”

“No, no.
Him.
” Boazi gestured at Liz’s coworker.

“I’m supposed to eat it?” Matthew Strong, a college freshman who volunteered at Refugee Hope, had accompanied Liz to the small apartment not far from the office. The young man had been assigned to help the newly arrived family with assimilation.

He blanched at the prospect of dining on the fish head. “I’m not really that much of a fish person, to tell you the truth.”

“A fish
person?
” Boazi frowned. “A fish is not a person. A fish is a fish. In Burundi, the guest always eats the head.”

“Maybe Liz would like it,” Matt suggested.

“No, the man must eat the fish head, because the man is the head of the woman.”

Seated on a blanket on the floor with his guests, Boazi smiled at his wife. Six months pregnant, Rahaba had been trying without success to corral her three excited children—all under the age of five. From the moment Liz and Matt stepped into the apartment, the kids had been jumping on the sofa, running around the living room, climbing on furniture, pushing each other, inspecting wall outlets and reaching for a large butcher knife that lay on the blanket between the soup pot and a large bowl of stiff cornmeal called
ugali.

Now Rahaba dutifully dipped up a ladleful of soup—including the fish head—and poured it into Matt’s bowl. She filled Liz’s bowl with a second portion. The unidentifiable bits floating in a strong-smelling broth caught at Liz’s nostrils and tipped her stomach on its side. But she recalled eating bush rat and monkey meat in Congo, and she could survive this, too.

An opportunity to spend time with one of her families was a rarity, after all. On taking a position as a caseworker with Refugee Hope, Liz had envisioned herself deeply immersed in the lives of people who had come to America from war-torn countries. She would bring them language, health, nutrition, education and, most of all, hope. The hope of a new beginning and, especially, the hope of a new life in Jesus Christ.

Instead, she spent most of her workday drowning in rules and regulations. Government forms flooded every file. Each time she began the process of helping a refugee family, the tap turned on and a gush of red tape came spewing out. School, food stamps, English language classes, job training. Any direction she turned to lend a helping hand, another faucet opened.

“Boazi, thank you for inviting Matt and me to join you for lunch,” Liz said, casting her eye at the young man, who was prodding the fish head with the tip of his spoon. “We are pleased to share this meal with your family and learn Burundian traditions. But in America, we do have some customs that
are different from yours. Would you be offended if Matt did not eat the fish head?”

Boazi sat in silence for a moment, staring at the delicacy in the young man’s bowl. Then the corners of his mouth turned up. Covering his grin with his left hand, he began to laugh. His wife spoke to him in Kirundi, and with a chuckle, he explained the situation. Rahaba, too, began to giggle as if this were the funniest thing she had heard in a long time.

Liz tried to join the merriment, but she wasn’t sure why the couple was laughing at their rejection of the gift. Another cultural mystery, she thought.

There were so many. Just as odd as the fish head was to her, American customs mystified the refugees obliged to learn the ways of their new homeland. Why was fried chicken eaten with fingers, while baked chicken must be cut with a knife and eaten with a fork? A napkin was used for what? A pepper mill? A microwave?

Why did American women wear trousers, panty hose, eye shadow? Why did they go without head coverings? For what purpose was a tie worn around a man’s neck?

What was a table lamp? A vacuum cleaner? A rake? A lawn mower? Not only was the secret of opening a childproof medicine bottle unknown, but what exactly was a
dose?
Or a
tablespoon?
And how often should one take it?

The challenges were so great that Liz wondered how any of the refugees adjusted. Somehow most did. But the success rate varied, and she felt so responsible for the ones who drifted into squalor and disappointment. They had come from such anguish, war and deprivation. Yet America, with its brightly waving flag and glorious dreams, often failed to answer their prayers.

“It is no problem. Do not eat the fish head,” Boazi told Matt. Then he looked at Liz. “But, for you, please take more soup.”

Before she could declare that she already had more than enough, Rahaba poured another ladleful of the pungent broth
into her bowl. Liz stirred it with caution. “So, Boazi, can you tell me how you like your job?”

“Very good. Yes, the job is good.” With his better-than-usual command of English, Boazi had quickly found work at a landscaping company. “I put water on the plants. There is a pipe…many pipes…with water for seeds. I put water on the seeds and make the plants to grow.”

“Wonderful.” Trying to avoid the gaze of Matt’s fish head, Liz dipped up a spoonful of her own soup. “I’m glad you like this work.”

“Yes,” Boazi said. “Thank you. But I have a question about papers.”

“Papers.” Liz muttered the word to Matt. “The bane of my existence. No doubt these are some more forms he has to fill out.”

“I’ll help him,” Matt offered.

Boazi and Rahaba were speaking heatedly while Liz sipped another spoonful of soup and watched the youngest of their children run shrieking from the other two. But when the boy slipped behind a television that had been balanced on a chair, she gasped. “Oh, Boazi, look at your son! That’s dangerous. The TV could fall on him.”

“I got it, Liz.” Matt leaped to his feet and hurried across the room to steady the chair and rescue the baby. “Wow, look how many wires they’ve plugged into the outlet. That can’t be safe.”

“Please, how am I to get this money?” Boazi had dug several sheets of folded papers from his shirt pocket.

Rahaba beckoned her children as Liz spoke to her. “You must move the TV to a better place. Matt, why don’t you put it on the table over there. That’s their dining room table, but they prefer to eat on the floor. It looks pretty strong. Could you—”

“Madam, see this free money,” Boazi cut in. Using his one hand, he spread the papers across his thigh. “Where I can go to get this money?”

Liz leaned over and scanned the pages. Coupons. Rebates. Credit card applications. Bogus offers of cash in exchange for opening bank accounts, testing products or performing in-home mailing services. Clearly Boazi and Rahaba had been saving the worthless flyers as if they were gold. Oh, dear.

“This is not
free
money,” Liz said, lifting an application with its shiny fake credit card attached. She searched her mind for the right Swahili words. “
Weka karatasi ndani ya basura.
Put the paper in the trash. It is bad—
mbaya.
”

Boazi scowled. “Bad? No, please. See here. It says one thousand dollars. Free.” He pointed with his index finger at the figure and pronounced the English word with emphasis. “
Thousand.
One
thousand
dollars. I want this money.”

“I understand, but this is a bad plan. This is not a smart way to—”

Liz’s phone warbled, cutting off her effort to explain. As she crumpled the application, Boazi appeared distraught. She slipped her phone from her pocket. “Hello? This is Liz Wallace.”

“Yeah, Ms. Wallace, my name is Jim Boggs from Apex Cleaning Company. The refugee place in the phone book gave me your number—said you could help me out. Listen, I’ve got an employee who hasn’t been showing up for work. Last night was the third shift in a row, okay? No notice, no phone call, no nothing. I understand about the language problem, but I got people who could use that job. More important, I got buildings to clean.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Boggs. We value your company’s support of our work programs, sir. What’s the employee’s name?”

“Mary Rudi, and I have to tell you she never was much good to begin with. I kept losing her from the crew. She’d start out with us when the shift began, and then she’d vanish. I was about to have to fire her anyway.”

“Mr. Boggs, Refugee Hope didn’t bring Mary Rudi to St.
Louis. We’re not responsible for her.” Liz let out a breath. “I do know Mary, though, and I’m aware of her situation. If you’ll give her another chance, I’ll talk to her and see if I can help. Maybe she doesn’t understand what she’s supposed to do. She recently came from a refugee camp in Kenya, and before that she was in Paganda.”

“Yeah, we’ve had one or two of them before, from Paganda or thereabouts, but I gotta tell you it doesn’t really matter to me where an employee comes from. What matters is that she shows up to work on time and does her job.”

“I understand. It’s just that Paganda is…There was a lot of violence. It’s possible that Mary Rudi suffered terrible things. Unspeakable things. So, if you could give me time to talk to her, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll give her another chance. But if she doesn’t show up tonight, I’ll have to let her go. That’s how the business world works, ma’am. We’ve all had one kind of trouble or another, whether we’re from Africa or someplace else. I’ll look for Mary this evening. And tell her to plan on working a full shift.”

Liz thanked the man and put her phone away. Boazi was again spreading the crumpled credit card application on his thigh. As he attempted to iron out the wrinkles with his palm, he shook his head.

“This is America, and here is money for my family. Please do not take this money from me.” He looked at her with an expression of reproach. “You talk about Paganda on your phone. Paganda is violence, yes. But Burundi also. Much violence. You see my arm? Is bad people chop off my hand.”

“I’m so sorry, Boazi. What happened to you was terrible.”

“Many bad people in Burundi. I know Paganda is bad people, too. In my camp in Kenya are many refugees from Paganda. All have suffering. Burundi, Congo, Rwanda, Paganda—all come to the camp in Kenya.”

He picked up the sheaf of flyers—these bits of magic that had somehow appeared in his mailbox in America—and shook them at Liz. “This is much money. For my family.”

She set down her spoon and rubbed her eyes. As she searched her mind for the right words to explain that not everything in America was good, Liz saw one of the children dart in front of Matt, who was carrying the television toward the dining room table. He stumbled. The TV begin to topple. Though Matt quickly regained his balance, Rahaba yelped and scrambled on her hands and knees across the floor. All three children wailed. One little boy, reaching for his mother, toddled across the blanket on the floor, upsetting Matt’s soup and sending the fish head rolling across the blanket.

As Liz reached for the bowl, Boazi laid his hand on her arm.

“Please, please.” His dark eyes searched hers. “I have two brothers in the camp. My wife’s mother and two sisters and their six children. All are in the camp in Kenya. Please, we need this free money. We must send money to our family. You understand? You understand, please?”

Liz nodded. Yes, she understood. Even more than she comprehended that this man had left his dearly loved family members to languish in a barren camp on the Kenyan border, Liz understood her own helplessness. What could she do? What could anyone do?

“You must watch this street like the cherubim of the prophet Ezekiel.” Pastor Stephen Rudi gripped his shovel as he stood beside Joshua. “Those four angels appeared to Ezekiel in the first of his visions.”

“Really? Well, you might want to remind me about that deal. I’m not exactly up to snuff on Ezekiel’s visions.”

A large group of neighborhood men and teens had gathered for the afternoon ground breaking outside Haven. Despite Mo
Ded’s threats, Sam and Terell had decided to go ahead and start work on the outdoor recreation area. With Joshua keeping watch, police vehicles cruising by regularly and the large number of people working in the empty lot, they trusted that the Hypes would not dare act out against them.

The day before, Joshua had briefly trained Raydell and two other promising young men in basic guard strategies and techniques. Duke was back in action, too. Though still a bit stiff and sore from his injury, the dog stood at Joshua’s side, alert and vigilant.

“You do not remember the cherubim of Ezekiel?” Pastor Stephen shook his head. “You Americans have so many Bibles in this country! You should
certainly
know these Scriptures. I am shocked. Yesterday, Terell told me he did not remember the brave woman who drove a tent stake through the head of her sleeping enemy.”

“A what?” Joshua glanced over in surprise. “A tent stake?”

Pastor Stephen gave a grunt of disgust. When he spoke again, his voice was filled with emotion. “It is important for all women and men of God to know Jael! She killed Sisera, a cruel enemy commander of nine hundred chariots. That man came into Jael’s tent, and while he slept, she took her hammer and struck the tent stake so that it went through his head. That stake went through his brain into the ground. This account is in the book of Judges in the fourth chapter. Do you not know it?”