This Thing of Darkness (35 page)

It was bright and cold out. He squinted up and down the street, adjusting to the sunlight. Now that he was out here, he needed to figure out his next move. Should he ask Nadif? He shivered at the thought. Nadif scared him. Even when they hung out, Nadif scared him. He'd knifed that kid in the Rideau Centre on a dare, for no other reason than the guy made a crack about Nadif 's girlfriend. “Hey, ho, you ever get tired of Nadif, I'll show you what a good time really is.”

Yusuf. That was the guy to ask. Yusuf had a scary side too, but it was mostly show. Imitating music videos and tramping around in gangsta clothes. All fucking hot air. Yusuf wanted to be Nadif, but he'd never stabbed anybody. Maybe this had freaked him out too.

Omar started down the street towards Yusuf 's house. It was a long walk across Rideau Street and way down through Sandy Hill almost to the Queensway, but this was one time a cellphone wasn't enough. He had to see Yusuf 's face.

When he'd gone a little more than two blocks, he heard footsteps behind him. Laughter. He turned to look. Nadif was walking up the street about a block behind, cool as could be, with four of his gangster friends. Today they were all wearing the black bandannas of the Lowertown Crips.

“Hey, Omar! Where you going?” Nadif shouted. The others flashed big grins. They walked five abreast like commandoes sweeping the streets.

“Buy something for my mom.” He turned to continue his walk.

“Aw.” More laughter. The five picked up their pace. “Wait up, we'll help you.”

Omar smelled danger. A couple of the others had their hands in their pockets. They were slouching along like they didn't have a care in the world, but Omar knew some of them packed handguns. Nadif was a pussycat compared to them. He had called in the big muscle.

“I'm late. Thanks, anyway!” He began to walk as fast as he could. Behind him he heard running. He risked a glance and saw they were closing the gap. Giving up the “everything's cool” act, he began to sprint. The traffic light at Rideau Street was visible up ahead, but so far away. Could he make it? He was skinny, and he was fast, much better at running than at fighting. For once, tough guy muscle didn't matter. He raced full tilt up the block, dodging cars, strollers and old ladies with shopping carts, expecting a bullet to zing past his head at any second.

Behind him, footsteps thundered. Curses flew. If he could just reach Rideau Street, he could get lost in the crowds and maybe duck into a shop...

But the sidewalks along Rideau Street were deserted. What the fuck, he thought as he hurtled down the street. Where was everybody in this useless town? At church? He thought of flagging down a car—any car—but a small voice of caution said no. If these guys were going to open fire, they wouldn't care if there was a dozen innocent people in their way.

He dashed across four lanes of traffic and flung himself through the doors of a delicatessen he knew was open. A Jewish delicatessen. Of all the fucking luck, he thought. Inside, he ran down the narrow aisle past the counters of deli food, ignoring the shouts of the guy behind the cash, and ducked through the doorway into the restaurant part, which was full of people and clattering with noise. He made a direct line for the bathroom. Without a second's hesitation, he burst into the Ladies' Room, muttered a quick sorry to the woman at the mirror and slammed himself into a bathroom stall. He pressed the bolt shut, stood up on the toilet, and listened. Prayed he wouldn't hear footsteps, or worse, gunshots. Prayed the woman at the mirror wouldn't rush out into the restaurant screaming “There's a man in the bathroom!”

Astonishingly, there was silence. He heard the soft creak of the door as the woman slipped out of the room, the murmur of voices beyond as people began to react. He strained to hear over his ragged breath, but could only make out frightened fragments. Cops, 911, gun... After an eternity, his breathing quieted and his heart slowed to a heavy thump. He groped in his pocket, dragged out his cellphone, and punched in a single digit on his speed dial.

“Dad?” His voice quavered. Shattered. “Can you come get me?”

As soon as Cunningham signed off, Green phoned Levesque. Enough lying around in bed, no matter how nice the company. He updated her on the Ident officer's news and set up a meeting with her at the station to plan their next move. He gave her an hour to say goodbye to what's-his-name and get dressed, which also gave him time to jump into the shower to wash the dirt and sweat off. Sharon was sitting on the bed waiting for him when he emerged from the shower. He dropped a quick kiss on her head as he walked by.

“Sorry, honey, I don't know how long I'll be. At least I got some leaves off the ground.”

“So Omar Adams is the guilty party after all?”

He stopped, a pair of
T
-shirts in hand. He'd barely had time to process the idea. “That's where the evidence points.”

She shook her head in disgust. “A stupid mugging by a bunch of hyped-up punks. What a waste of a life. Are you going to arrest him?”

“Probably. I want to get him off the streets
ASAP
, in case he goes after Caitlin.” He picked the cleanest shirt and pulled it on. “The kid's an enigma. On the surface he plays a ‘peace and non-violence' guy, but he was raised by a no-nonsense military father and an unstable, abusive mother. He doesn't appear to be part of the local street gang, although the others are to various degrees. He can turtle in on himself and block out the outside world, and in interrogation, he claimed he didn't remember a thing about that night. He's either very good at hiding who he is, or he's a seriously screwed-up kid who snapped.” He began rooting through the closet for his belt. “I'm leaning towards the latter. I've also got CrimIntel looking into possible jihadist connections. So far he hasn't shown up on their radar. This kid is adrift, on the fringes of groups without belonging anywhere.” He paused, switching to his search in earnest.

Sharon reached under a pile of clothes and pulled out his belt. “Gangs are more likely. With parents like that, he probably feels powerless, put down and victimized for things that weren't his fault. Gangs would give him friendship, protection, excitement, a chance for payback, and most importantly, a place to belong. He's probably struggling in the mainstream white world of school, jobs, women...”

Green was familiar with all the social theories about the appeal of gang membership, and he knew Omar fit many of the criteria, yet his gut reaction was negative. “But the kid seems frightened of violence. He hasn't developed a tough, ‘don't feel anything' attitude yet. Gangs may offer a haven, but they are still violent and predatory. They have initiation rites—”

“Could this have been an initiation rite?”

“Maybe. An initiation rite gone wrong.” He turned the idea over in his mind as he did up his belt. “But usually the rites are within their own criminal world—like against a rival gang—or a property crime. Omar is more the type of kid you see addicted to violent online gaming, where he can be brutal and cut people down, but it's victimless. Virtual.”

“That satisfies up to a point, Mike, but when it's all imaginary, the person is still left feeling powerless and aggrieved in the real world.”

He turned to her, excited. “That's why the internet jihadi stuff. It's the best of both worlds. You plot, you share fantasies of murder and revenge, you may even meet to pick targets and start preparations. But until you actually blow something up, it's all imaginary, and the victims you fantasize about are far removed. Jihadism also gives your violence a noble cover.”

“Is he religious?”

Green shook his head. “CrimIntel's looking into that too. So far we have no evidence of that. He dresses like your average gangster punk straight out of a Geto Boys hiphop album. But jihadists typically don't come from religious backgrounds and in fact are so poorly informed about Islam that they are easy prey for manipulative radical imams.” He glanced at his watch. “Luckily all we have to do today is charge him. We'll have lots of time to pull together the background before his day in court. And who knows, maybe with this new evidence linking him directly to the assault, he'll crack and tell us what really happened. If he's faking amnesia, this might scare him into flipping on his friends. And if he really is blocking it all out, the sight of the cane may open the flood gates.”

From the downstairs hall, he heard the dim ringing of his cellphone. He contemplated not answering, but after four rings, Tony came bouncing up the stairs, shouting and brandishing the phone. “It's for you, Daddy! She says it's very, very important!”

Green glanced at the
ID
. Levesque. “Change of plans,” she said. “Meet me outside Nate's Deli.”

Twenty-Five

B
y the time Green arrived at Nate's Deli, Rideau Street was a parking lot, and the entire block had been cordoned off by police cruisers and yellow tape. A group of civilians stood off to one side outside the cordon, being interviewed by uniformed officers. Restaurant patrons, Green surmised. Black-clad officers from the Tactical Unit blocked the entrance to the deli, and a quick scan revealed more of them positioned on the roofs and corners of surrounding buildings. A tall, ramrod straight man was arguing with the officers at the door, gesturing wildly and demanding entry. Green recognized Frank Adams.

“He's not dangerous!” Adams yelled. “I'm telling you, he's scared. He called me to come get him.”

“We're just following procedure, sir,”the tactical commander replied in a patient monotone. “No one's going to get hurt. First we need to ensure that everyone is evacuated from the premises, then we'll check on your son. We have a negotiator on his way.”

“He doesn't need a negotiator, you id—” Adams stopped himself just short of the insult. “He's hiding. He says five guys from the Lowertown Crips are after him. Have you bothered looking for them?”

“There was no one fitting that description in the street when the police arrived, sir. And as you can see—”he gestured towards the motley collection of mostly pot-bellied, middle-aged patrons, “no one among the restaurant customers either.”

“Then let me in to talk to him. I promise I'll bring him out.”

“I can't let you do that, sir, but once the negotiator arrives—”

“Oh, for fuck's sake!” Adams roared. He's going to accomplish nothing with this by-the-book crew except maybe get himself arrested, thought Green, and he pushed forward through the throng. Tactical officers moved to stop him, bristling with rifles and armour, but Green flicked open his badge. Adams saw him about twenty feet away.

“Will you tell these cowboys that Omar is no threat!”

Green approached calmly. “Your son is scared and cornered, Mr. Adams. That makes him unpredictable. Does he have a firearm?”

“Fuck you guys! He's harmless.”

“Possibly, but this is no time for guesses. You have four firearms registered to you. Does he have access to any of them?”

Adams looked startled. “You checked up on me?”

Green didn't answer, and after a moment's thought, Adams deflated. “I keep them out at the Rifle Club. They have no place in a family home.”

“What about knives?”

“He doesn't own a knife. I keep telling you, he hates violence.”

Green held up a soothing hand. “Look, Mr. Adams, you may be right. But I also have to tell you that parents are often the last to know what their young people are up to. Does he spend time on the internet?”

“Our computer is broken. You know that. You've been through my entire fucking house.”

“At the library then, or at an internet café.”

Adams shrugged. “Maybe to check his email and his Facebook page. He's not an internet nut, doesn't even play PlayStation much any more.”

“How does he spend his time?”

“We shouldn't be wasting time on this now. We should be getting him out!”

“The more time he has to calm down, the better. And the more we know about him, the better we can defuse this. His time?”

Adams folded his arms sullenly. “He has a part-time job at the Loblaws in Vanier—the usual grunt work stocking shelves and pushing carts. He's studying at Adult High School. I keep him busy. Less time for trouble that way.”

“Does he attend church? Mosque?”

Suspicion flickered across Adams's face. Beside him, the tactical commander leaned in intently at the mention of the word “mosque”.

“Mosque? What's that got to do with anything?” Adams's scowl blackened to outrage. “My boy's not in there because he's a Muslim terrorist! He's got Nadif Hassan and his thugs after him, trying to kill him because he can rat them out on that murder!”

Green hid his excitement. “He told you that?”