Stranger in the Night (7 page)

“Sam, meet Liz Wallace. Duff’s lady.” Terell lifted Brandy off his shoulders and set her on the floor. “Liz, this is Sam Hawke. We run Haven.”

“Us and a slew of volunteers. So you’re the woman.” Sam smiled in a way that made Liz even more uncomfortable. “Duff was right.”

“That’s what I told her,” Terell confirmed.

“I’m glad you’re filling our resident Marine sergeant in on the refugee situation,” Sam continued. “We hope he’ll stick around and help us out. The refugees are starting to trickle in here, and I have a feeling we’re going to be inundated before long.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Several resettlement agencies have contracts with apartment managers in this area. Refugee Hope placed families from Burundi and Congo right around the corner. We’re negotiating with a manager to place some incoming Somali immigrants in a building down the street. Terell mentioned that Reverend Rudi is interested in planting a church in the area. I hope you’ll encourage that.”

“A church where they talk
Swahili.
” Terell enunciated the word.

Liz smiled. “Refugee Hope has learned that children from our African families assimilate to city street culture very quickly. It’s a way of coping that often leads them into gangs—and then into a lot of trouble. As a faith-based agency, we do all we can to help our immigrants build a stable lifestyle. Any intervention you could provide at Haven would be great.”

“Your visit here tonight can’t be an accident, Liz.” Sam crossed his arms. “The Rudi family must be the tip of an iceberg we’ve just begun to notice. If families are moving into the area at the rate you’re describing, we need to let Haven’s board of directors know about it and put some strategies in place.”

“You have a board?”

The corporate sound of the word contrasted with the pile of dirty white T-shirts in one corner of the room and the row of ancient computers on a long table near the desk. Broken
trophies littered a shelf. A large metal barrel labeled Lost & Found overflowed with jackets, caps, mittens and flip-flops.

“Thanks to the legal help of one of our sponsors, Haven went nonprofit a few weeks ago,” Sam explained. “We’re all set up now. We have a grant writer, too.”

“We’re a 501 (c)(3) charitable organization,” Terell clarified. “You can get grants even if you’re faith-based, which we are.”

“Sounds like Haven and Refugee Hope have similar goals.” Liz reached into her purse and pulled out a business card for each man. “Call me if you run into any problems. I’ve given Sergeant Duff a stack of information about our agency and the people we resettle. We have a lot of resources at our fingertips. And please support Pastor Stephen in his effort to start a church. It’s the best thing that could happen to this neighborhood.”

“We’ll do everything we can,” Sam said. “Thanks again for coming by, Liz. You’re welcome anytime.”

“I’ll be back on Saturday. I promised to let Shauntay braid my hair.”

His grin broadened. “Good—you’ll get to meet my fiancée. Ana teaches a writing class on Saturdays.”

Dreading the thought of any deeper involvement with Joshua’s friends, Liz gave the men a nod of farewell and turned to go. “You aren’t planning to walk to your car by yourself, are you?” Terell accompanied her out of the office, Brandy clutching his hand. “Did you park nearby?”

“Not far. Your door guard—Raydell?—will keep an eye on me.”

“Naw, that’s no good. We got Hypes casing our set day and night. They’re looking for trouble. You’ll be a sitting duck out there. Let’s find Duff.”

“No, really it’s—”

Too late. Terell lifted the whistle that hung by a lanyard from his neck and gave an ear-piercing blow. Joshua—who had been
hunkered down talking to some kids at the far end of the room—turned to look. So did everyone else.

“Yo, Duff! Your lady!” Terell’s long arm snaked overhead, his index finger pointing down at Liz as he yelled. “Walk her out!”

Mortified, she ducked her head and started for the door. She hadn’t made it halfway there when Joshua fell in alongside her.

“I thought you’d gone,” he said.

“You’re the one who walked away.” She focused on the metal detector. “I’ve been talking to your buddies.”

“Sam and Terell? Listen, Liz—don’t pay any attention to what they say.”

“They said a refugee church led by Pastor Stephen would be a good idea. I’m sure you’ll encourage him, too. Right?”

A low groan rumbled deep in Joshua’s chest. “My goal is to find that guy a real job, an apartment and some kind of transportation. I’ve got to head back to Texas. If he wants to start a church, he’ll need to do it on his own time.”

“I didn’t realize you were a janitor, like me. Mopping up the mess left by genocide—but not getting deeply involved with the people. Finding them employment, a place to live. That’s about all I’ve been able to do at Refugee Hope. The name is a little ironic.”

“You give them hope, Liz. Meeting the basic needs of a family is important.”

“I want to do more. When I met you this morning, I thought you did, too.” They had arrived at the door. Shauntay and the dog were nowhere in sight. “I’ll let myself out, Sergeant Duff. I work in these neighborhoods. I’m not afraid.”

He was two steps ahead of her. “I’ll see you to your car.”

“Don’t. Please.” She shook her head. “I’m not comfortable with you.”

“Because of what Terell said.” Blocking her path, he pushed through the one-way swinging door. He glanced up and down
the street, then beckoned her through. “Terell jumped to conclusions. I barely mentioned you.”

Liz held her breath as she walked past him. She could not allow herself to look, to smell, to touch. Dreams and goals lay clearly ahead of her. A sweaty ex-Marine on his way home to Texas was not among them.

The streetlights were inadequate, she saw at once. Darkness hovered in doorways and alleys. A muffled, pumping drumbeat pulsed from open windows. The scent of cigarette smoke and urine mingled in the humid air. A woman laughed. A man shouted. A bottle broke.

Liz gripped her keys in one hand—the long car key jutting between index and middle fingers to serve as a weapon if the need arose. Her small canister of pepper spray dangled from the key ring. A class she’d taken in self-defense had prepared her for this. She mentally reviewed the weak points on an attacker’s body, reminded herself to check her car—front and back seats—before getting in, scanning her surroundings.

Of course, it didn’t hurt to have Joshua Duff at her side. The sudden realization of his military training flooded Liz. Fear slunk away. Wariness eased. She let herself drift closer to him as they crossed the street.

“That’s my car.” She pointed out the American-made compact. “Thank you. I guess…all right, I
am
grateful you came with me. I thought Raydell would be out here.”

“The kid with the gold tooth?” Joshua frowned. “He’s been on door duty all day. Sam said someone is always supposed to be standing guard…. Uh-oh.”

Liz turned in the direction of his gaze. Two figures were pressed against a wall a hundred feet from Haven’s door. She recognized Shauntay’s tall, slender shape. The other had to be Raydell.

“Where’s the dog?” Joshua tensed. His arm stretched out in
front of Liz as she backed against her car. “The kids have gone AWOL. Someone’s taken the dog.”

“Duke. That’s his name,” Liz whispered. “Do you see anyone?”

“Get into your car, Liz. Drive. I’ll take care of this.”

She spotted three silhouettes under the awning of the shuttered building beside Haven. “There,” she whispered, stepping close. “To the left.”

“I’ve got ’em.” He bent slightly. Something small and shiny materialized in his hand. A glint of silver. “Liz, get into the car.”

When she didn’t obey, his voice hardened. “Do it now.”

“This is America, Sergeant.” She slipped her cell phone from her bag and pressed a single, preprogrammed key. “And by the way, I don’t take orders well.”

As she spoke, the three stepped out of the shadows, the dog at their side. Young men. In the light, she saw their white T-shirts. Haven garb? One held Duke’s leash. The canine whimpered. Were these good kids? Or Hypes?

A glance at the entwined pair in the distance gave her little hope. They’d be no help. Raydell and Shauntay had other things on their minds.

“They’ve got the dog,” Joshua said. “They want us to know that. It’s a first step. They’ll try to take you next.”

“They don’t want me. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this.”

Sensing a transformation in Joshua that frightened her, Liz touched his shoulder. “The police are on the way—I just called. Relax. We’ll find out what’s going on.”

She heard him breathing. Sensed the strain of muscle against fabric. Saw the knife in his hand.

This man would erupt, she understood suddenly. He would kill.

Before he could move, she stepped around him. At that moment, the dog leaped.

C
haos. The kind of pandemonium Joshua knew well enveloped the street. As the dog yelped, straining against his leash, adrenaline surged into Joshua’s veins. His mind snapped into combat mode.

Enemy contact.

Prepare to engage.

His body tensed and his heart hammered. Gripping his weapon, he assessed the situation.

Night. Three humans approaching. Two more at a distance. One dog. Business district—storefronts, sidewalk, street. He sorted priorities. His own safety. The safety of those in his charge.

Those in his charge?

There was just one—the woman beside him, too small, out of uniform, unarmed. She didn’t fit his paradigm, and the reality tripped him up.

“Duke! Duke!” A teenage girl ran toward the dog.

“Stop, Shauntay! Come back!”

“Break yourself, Raydell,” she screamed. “Break yourself!”

Shouts, shrieks. The dog tore free. White teeth bared, fur bristling.

The enemy materialized, then faded. People pushing, shoving, struggling for position. Joshua saw his opportunity and moved into the action—blocked, protected, surged into offense mode. He knew these moves.

Yet there were no guns. No explosions.

Why not? Again—unexpected.

The knife in his hand flashed. Why couldn’t he see better? He reached for his night-vision goggles. Gone. How had he lost them?

“Joshua! No—stop!”

Small bare hands gripped his arm. The woman’s voice called his name again.
Joshua!

He halted, fighting for breath. Blinking back sweat. Trying to focus.

Two vehicles swung onto the street, lights flashing, sirens wailing.
Police.

He read the word and shook his head. That wasn’t right. It should be written in Arabic, a language he knew almost as well as English. Something had gone wrong.

The police cars stopped, doors opened. The enemy fled.

Joshua rubbed his hand over his face, wiping away perspiration as he tried to make sense of it. Where was he? Was this the nightmare again?

“What’s going on here?” The voice spoke in English, and he saw the face. The order came at him. “Drop the knife! Drop the knife!”

Who was this man? He couldn’t move.

“Joshua? Joshua, are you all right? Please talk to me.”

He recognized the eyes, the lips. “Liz?”

“Give me the knife, Joshua.”

He knew her. This was Liz Wallace, and he was not in Baghdad. He handed her the weapon.

“Ma’am, I’ll take that. Do you know this man? Is that your dog over there?”

In the light of the cars’ headlamps, Joshua saw the dog lying on its side in the street. He tensed. Dead dogs often hid explosive devices—IEDs. Didn’t these people know that? Why were they kneeling around the animal, touching it?

Others, mostly children, streamed from a nearby building. Haven.

“Duff—hey, man. What’s going on? What happened?” Sam Hawke laid a firm hand on his shoulder, stepped close. His voice was low. “Time to let your guard down, Duff. Relax. This is St. Louis.”

Joshua blinked. St. Louis. Of course it was. He knew that.

Sam’s voice again. “It’s all right, Officer. This man is my guest.”

Hawke edged Joshua off the street and onto the sidewalk. “Okay, listen to me. I’ve been through this drill before, Duff. You’ll get used to it after a while—the constant triggers. The spurts. It’s confusing, takes you back into the conflict. But you’re with me now. Let me handle things, okay?”

“Yes.” It was all he could manage.

Standing on the sidewalk, Joshua watched his friend return to the cluster of people in the street. Still breathing hard, he tried to force his brain to reconfigure. He wanted to believe Hawke.

St. Louis.

But how? The situation had been identical to what he’d encountered countless times in the alleys and roadways of Iraq and Afghanistan. Street patrol, confusion, insurgents, dogs, children, the innocent mingled with the enemy.

Yet, this was different. English signs, police cars, street lingo. A white woman, no uniform, head uncovered. Soft curly hair framing her pretty face. She approached him now.

“Joshua?” Her voice was soft, lyrical as she said his name. “Are you hurt?”

How could he answer that? Of course he was hurt. Everything hurt. His head, his body, his conscience, his heart. Could he ever explain what the years had done to him?

“I need to re-up,” he said. The words came from someplace deep inside. “I don’t know how to exist outside it.”

She stepped closer, leaning into him. Her shoulder was warm against his. Tension ebbed at once. Clarity returned.

“The dog…Did I—”

“No, it wasn’t you. One of the others had a knife, too.”

Joshua bent his head, massaged his brow. If his focus had been off, he might just as easily have been the perpetrator. This was bad. Sam Hawke’s guard dog—now one of Haven’s few defense systems—lay dead in the street.

“I need to talk to Hawke.” He started forward, but Liz slipped her arm around his.

“Stay with me.” She looked at him, her eyes deep. “Let Sam and Terell deal with the police. They know what to do.”

She was silent for a moment before speaking again. “You scared me.”

Joshua lifted his focus, searching for stars. He saw none. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Well…tell me what just happened.”

“You saw what happened.”

“Look, Joshua, in my work with refugees…I’ve studied trauma and terror. The constant presence of death. I know what those things do to people. I understand PTSD.”

Joshua couldn’t hold in a groan. Post-traumatic stress disorder. He’d listened to endless lectures about PTSD—before he deployed, amid the conflict and when he got back. He knew the symptoms. Knew he had them, too.

So what? Everyone who had been deployed had at least a little PTSD. Troops who hadn’t seen a second of combat had heard incoming fire, mortars exploding, A10 tank killers and
Apache helicopters cutting the air overhead. Everyone had seen things, heard things, done things they didn’t like to remember. Joshua had always believed that those who couldn’t transition were pathetic.

He was not a weak man.

Besides, he didn’t like the cure for PTSD.
Talk,
the experts said. Talk to someone—a counselor, a minister, a loved one. Tell your wife. Tell your girlfriend. Spill your guts.

Exactly what he didn’t want to do. Why talk about something you’d just as soon forget? Why relive the close calls? No man in his right mind wanted to explain how it felt to be shot at, to handle the dead body of a close friend, to kill an enemy combatant. Joshua didn’t want to admit his fear, his grief or his guilt. Who would?

The way he’d always handled it was to hunker down and try to forget. When he couldn’t forget—which he finally understood he never would—he focused forward to the next deployment. Back in the saddle with others who understood. In his youth, he drank too much in an effort to manage the pain. Now, anger sometimes masked it. But rage and alcohol were not solutions. Control held the answers, he believed. Self-control and constant prayer.

“I know it’s not easy to talk,” Liz Wallace said, snapping him back to reality. “But I’d be willing to listen.”

“No thanks. I know how to handle a transition. Been through the process many times. There’s always an adjustment period. Doesn’t last long.”

“Meanwhile dogs die.”

Joshua stiffened. He could see people loading the animal into the back of a car. Through shards of light, he distinguished Sam and Terell amid the throng. Others—teens and kids—swarmed the street. Terell was calling out, trying to regain control. Sam focused on the dog. Raydell paced, anger and frustration in every step.

And now Stephen Rudi approached.

“My friend!” he cried, holding out a hand. “Are you well?”

“No problems here.” Joshua shook the hand. “Your family okay? The kids?”

“My children are inside. Of course—upstairs. But you? I was told men attacked you. Here! In St. Louis, America!”

“America, Paganda, Iraq. Every nation has its problems, Pastor.”

“My family—we did not expect to find such a situation here. My wife’s brother said nothing of this in his letter. These gangs. This is what we saw in Paganda too many times. Thuggery. Looting. Riots and killing. It is very bad.”

“Calm down, my friend. I’m working to move you and the wife and kids to your own place. We’ll find your brother-in-law and get you a job. Your wife can work, too. The kids will go to school. You won’t have to live with violence.”

“But why is it here? This is America! This is the United States of America! How many years did we wait in that refugee camp in Kenya, praying to find salvation in the land of our hope? Now what? Has the hostility followed us?”

“It was here long before you arrived,” Liz told him. “Poverty, greed, empty promises. These always breed problems. America isn’t exempt, Pastor Stephen.”

He shook his head.
“Nimeshangaa.”

“Say what?” Joshua glanced at Liz.

“
Shangaa.
It’s a Swahili word. Means to astonish, overwhelm.”

“Even to defeat,” Pastor Stephen added. “I am amazed by this news. Greatly discouraged.”

Liz touched the man’s shoulder. “We’re all discouraged by the problems in the inner cities of America. Just like in Paganda, there are no easy answers here.”

“I cannot bring my children from one place of terror to another! How can this be? Here they even kill the dog!”

“Dog ain’t dead.” Raydell shouldered his way through the
crowd and stepped onto the sidewalk with the others. “Sam’s takin’ Duke to the emergency vet. This is all my fault. Sergeant Duff, man, I’m sorry. I let everyone down. I was supposed to guard the door, and I got tempted away.”

“Shauntay,” Liz said. “Is she in a gang?”

“Naw, ma’am, I don’t think she’s a hood rat. But I can’t be sure. She’s gone now, yo. Took off runnin’ and didn’t look back.”

“Any idea the affiliation of those three guys?” Joshua asked. “Dogs, Locs, Disciples?”

An expression of respect transformed Raydell’s face. “You know this turf? Uncle Sam been talkin’.”

“I’ve been listening.”

“Those were Hypes, yo. You see their do-rags?” He tapped his forehead. “Purple—for royalty, they say. Hypes brag they gonna rule the streets. Mo Ded, he’s their man. He’s got kids jumpin’ off the porch every day. They want this street.”

“They want Haven.” Joshua watched Sam’s car pull away. He looked down a moment, thinking of the dog. Had his knife cut the animal? Could he have been responsible for such a thing?

“Yo, Sam told me you a soldier.” Raydell’s dark brown eyes searched his face. “You know this drill?”

“A little.”

The young man spat on the sidewalk. “Hypes. They’ll do all they can to take us down. We need you at Haven, man. You better stick around.”

Joshua couldn’t keep from glancing at Liz. Then at Pastor Stephen. He shook his head.

“I’m expected in Texas.”

Raydell nodded. “Didn’t think you’d stay. Nobody does if they can get out. Except Sam and Terell. How about you, ma’am? You leavin’ us, too?”

“I plan to go to Africa.” Her voice sounded small. “To work in refugee camps.”

“You ain’t got enough war here—you got to go to Africa to find one?” He snorted. “You headin’ out, too, I guess, Pastor Stephen.”

“I must protect my children.”

“Ain’t no fathers around here to protect
them
kids—nobody but Uncle Sam and T-Rex.” He focused on Terell, who was herding the children back into Haven. “Mothers, yeah. You only get one mother, and if somebody kills your mama, you got to kill him back. But fathers? Shoot, naw. They might act like they care, but they just want a cut of your money. Nobody thinks twice if his father gets killed. No remorse, yo. My dad—he’s in the big house. The walls. I don’t never see that guy.”

Before anyone could respond, Raydell gave an exaggerated shrug. “Sam and Terell are the only father I ever had. Anyhow, I gotta go. I messed up bad tonight. I ain’t gonna do that no more. Count on it.”

The trace of a swagger affected the young man’s gait as he crossed the street. Joshua cleared his throat. “There’s only so much anyone can do. The kid’s too young to know that. Liz, if you’ll hand me those keys, I’ll open your car door.”

“He is not too young to have seen the truth.” Pastor Stephen’s voice was low. “This boy’s words have cut me. In Africa, we love and respect our fathers. The father is the leader of the family. Yet he says that here in America, these children have no fathers?”

“More
shangaa,
” Joshua said. “This is a harsh place, Pastor. But I’ve promised to move your family out, and I will. Now again—Liz—why don’t we get you into this car and make sure you’re safely on your way home?”

She brushed a curl from her cheek. Without answering, she opened the door and slipped into the driver’s seat. In a moment, the engine fired and the car eased out of the parking space. Liz pulled away without even a final look at him.