Kate's Gifts

  The lights from behind and ahead nearly blind Ish. Then comes another jolt. He floors it trying to create some space.

  The construction zone is less than half a mile away, but Ish is more focused on what is behind him than in front of him.

  Freaks hits the siren, trying to get the attention of the work crew, but they can’t hear it over the jackhammers. By the grace of God, one of crew looks up and sees the approaching lights and frantically alerts his coworkers.

  With three hundred yards left, Freaks hits the brakes.

  Ish see this and smiles, pleased with his seemingly correct assessment of the infidels.

  What he doesn’t see is the parked dump truck in front of him, until it is too late. He tries to veer around it, but catches the edge of the truck’s front bumper, instantly making him lose control. The car slams into the wall sideways, bounces off and flips, rolling several times until it finally comes to a stop in a white cloud of concrete dust, illuminated by big work lights.

  Freaks skids to a halt, and they jump out of the car. Guns drawn, they approach the overturned vehicle, its wheels still spinning. A rod of steel rebar has punctured the fuel tank. The smell of gasoline fills the air.

  Heart pounding, aiming inside, McDowd stoops cautiously to look in. Ish hangs upside down, the seat belt holding him in place. “He’s still alive,” he shouts to Freaks. All Freaks does is offer him his own gun. McDowd looks up at him, confused at first, but then he understands. They hear sirens now, growing louder by the moment.

  “We don’t have much time,” Freaks says quietly.

  McDowd looks at the gun, but after a moment he shakes his head.

  “I can’t,” he says sadly, although every ounce of him wants to.

  Freaks nods solemnly.

  McDowd walks away, leaving Freaks with the moaning suspect, pleading for help. Freaks crouches down to have a little chat with the man. “Tell me whom Barabi made contact with, and I will let you live,” Freaks tells him.

  Ish chuckles painfully, “This is America. You have your pathetic rule of law. I want a lawyer.”

  “I will ask you only one more time,” Freaks presses as he fishes out a pack of cigarettes.

  “I have the right to remain silent,” Ish sneers back.

  “Well, if that’s really the way you want it,” Freaks says as he lights up.

  Ish suddenly realizes what is about to happen. “You cannot do this!” he shouts defiantly.

  Freaks gets up and walks off. About ten feet away, he glares at the cigarette, and flicks it over his shoulder. “These things are deadly,” he says aloud as it lands into the expanding puddle of gasoline behind him.

  Chapter 14

  Route 1, Northeast Philadelphia

  Elayna and the boys pull into a motel parking lot, the classiest of the dozen or so hot sheet joints along the sketchy stretch of the city’s main drag. Elayna gets out of the truck and walks back to Hutnikov’s car.

  “We’re staying here. Go to that next one up there with the red sign. We’ll meet you there at seven am.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want me to stay with you?”

  She doesn’t even dignify his last-minute appeal. “Go straight there and stay there. No trouble.”

  “Whatever,” he drones, driving off.

  Kreichek waits at the lobby door and they start acting the happy couple, though Kreichek’s hands overplay the part.

  They find their room, and the lovey-dovey charade ends.

  “How unfortunate they only had rooms with king-sized beds,” he jokes.

  Elayna offers a mock laugh as she takes her bag into the bathroom and locks the door.

  He knows there is probably no point in trying. “Such a shame.”

  Inside, Elayna opens her bag and takes out what she needs. “A martini would be nice, a cosmopolitan better, but this will have to do,” she says of the plain vodka.

  Getting undressed, she checks herself out in the mirror and likes what she sees. “I suppose it would be silly to pass up an opportunity, if time permits,” she mumbles before taking a nice long pull from the French bottle. Its warmth hits quickly.

  Elayna has been in the john for some time, leaving Kreichek to worry that if she fell asleep in the tub or something. He’s heard the shower, then the sink, then the toilet, the sink again and then back to the shower. At one point, he began to smell burning hair. “Has she set her head on fire?”

  After an hour, she finally comes out wearing a towel twisted up on her head and nothing else. Kreichek’s jaw drops and he blinks to make sure what he is seeing is real. Elayna is beyond description, beautiful, perfectly toned, cut like a cat. He sits up as fast as his erection. She crosses the room, gently lobbing the vodka to him and draws the curtains closed, pausing a beat for him to take in the view.

  He drinks mindlessly, not taking his eyes from her, recording the images for posterity. She reminds him of one of those lingerie models, but she has no secrets to hide.

  Elayna turns off the desk lamp, plunging the room into the blue flickering light from the TV.

  Hoping onto the bed, she straddles him at the knees.

  “Well, let’s see what you’ve got,” she tells him. He needs no additional encouragement, undoing his pants to bring himself out.

  Elayna smiles. “Well, looks like you’ve got some talent after all. Show me you know how to use it.”

  She tosses a condom onto his chest, then gets off him and goes to the dresser mirror. Watching him undress, she likes what she sees. He has a good build and not too much fur.

  Elayna takes her hair out of the towel and brushes it. It finally dawns on Kreichek what she’d been doing all that time.

  “Cool. She’s a blonde now!” He starts getting back into bed.

  “No.” She stops him, leaning suggestively with both hands on the dresser. “Over here, I like the mirror.”

  Kreichek is careful not to say a thing out of fear of blowing it. For her part, she has to admit it he’s a handsome man. He gently runs his hands down her back and begins to massage her, working his way down. If she were a cat, she’d be purring. As one hand returns to her neck, the other reaches around her waist, reaching for her moist warmth.

  “Mmmmmm…Nice touch,” she thinks as his long fingers stroke her with gentle firmness, first with one finger, then two. Suddenly, a finger slides all the way in, causing her to moan with delight. His other hand moves from her neck to her breast, which he cups, his thumb rubbing the nipple. Now she can feel him against her cheeks. She lifts to meet him and reaches around to guide him in, slowly, wonderfully filling her.

  He begins with her slowly, shallow strokes sprinkled with sudden deep thrusts, both drawing pleasure from watching the other and themselves. She likes her new blond hair, wet and wild. His rhythm increases, and his fingers return to her. Feeling him get close, she pulls away to slow him down. She is in control, and he doesn’t mind.

  He continues fingering fucking her, and before long Elayna reaches behind for him again, but this time he doesn’t need her help. Now his rhythm is more intense, having regained his composure. She moans, “Yessss, hard.”

  She grips the top of the dresser as if holding on for dear life, his thrusts lifting her higher and higher, again a hand stokes her in front. It is dizzying.

  “Now, call me Katrina.”

  Chapter 15

  Willow Grove Diner

  Edwards and Haddad find Bob sitting at the counter of the empty diner dipping a few fries into ketchup, unfazed by the death and destruction around him. Edwards laughs at the surreal scene, but Haddad tastes a tinge of nausea. He hasn’t seen anything even close to what his CIA brothers have seen.

  “The perp is dead,” Edwards declares, stepping around Moody’s drying pool of blood.

  Bob sips his soda. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “The car caught fire,” Haddad says.

  “So Freaks killed him.” It isn’t a question.


  “It was an accident,” Edwards says.

  “Did he consider we might want to ask the guy a question or two?” Bob asks while chewing.

  “He tried. No luck.”

  Bob pushes the plate away, “Great. Well, we did get something from Barabi, a general location and this,” he says, unfolding an artists sketch.

  “Where is that?” Edwards asks.

  “He said the man he met was cutting the grass at a church with a tall white tower,” Bob tells him.

  “Well, let’s go!” Haddad says, eager for a little redemption.

  “Where? There has to be dozens of places like that around here, colleges, seminaries, churches. We can start, but it will take forever to check them out,” Bob tells him.

  “He said it was a large place. We’ll start with the Main Line schools,” Haddad sighs.

  16

  Route 1, Northeast Philadelphia

  When you tell someone like Hutnikov not to do something, chances are he’ll go right out and do it anyway, especially if he’s a thirsty man.

  Hutnikov finds his oasis, a liquor store with a restaurant and bar attached. First, the bar. “Just a couple while I wait for the food.”

  The couple becomes four in an hour, giving him a reasonable edge, but also the “poor me’s” for being alone.

  “They are probably fucking their brains out,” he mumbles. Only the thought of killing her provides some comfort.

  When his food is finally ready, he gets a six-pack and a pint of vodka, pays up and takes off. He continues to grumble as he walks to his car, juggling the packages trying to get out the keys. He drops them.

  “Bastard!”

  Across the street, hidden behind the tinted windows of a silver Ford Crown Victoria, someone is watching. The car idles with only its parking lights on, the exhaust rising into the cool night air. Hutnikov doesn’t notice it, but its driver notices him.

  He doesn’t even get a quarter of a mile before the unmarked car hits him with the lights. At first, he doesn’t think the cop is after him, but after the car follows him into the next lane and blasts a few Whoops from the siren, his situation is pretty clear.

  “Pizda!” he spits, pulling into the parking lot of a vacant strip mall.

  Highway patrol officers are the elite of a police department’s members. Their uniforms hearken back to the style of the old mounted days: leather jackets, riding boots and attitude. Back then, though, there were zero blacks on the force, let alone on the Highway Patrol.

  The cop makes Hutnikov stew a few minutes while he runs the tags.

  “What the fuck is he doing?” he squints, trying to see beyond cruiser’s blinding spotlights aimed into Hutnikov’s mirrors.

  Finally, a shadow alerts Hutnikov that the cop has gotten out of his car, and he watches his imposing silhouette grow unsettlingly larger in the mirror.

  “A monster! This is not good.”

  He knows his documents are good, so he tries to relax. The cop is alone, but there will be another soon.

  “Boy, did I fuck up,” Hutnikov says to himself.

  He quickly considers his options, none of them good, and to make matters worse, the buzz he has isn’t making his head any clearer. The idea of spending the rest of his life in an American prison flashes in his mind.

  He rolls down the window and slides out the gun Elayna gave him, checking the clip and chambering the first round. It will need to be a head shot.

  Now the cop is upon him, his flashlight in his left hand and his right on his holster. He shines it right at Hutnikov’s smiling face.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Is there a problem, officer?” He watches the cop’s eyes. It’s up to him how this scenario will go down.

  “Sir, you made an illegal lane change back there.”

  “I’m sorry, officer, I am a tourist.”

  “Sir, I detect a strong odor of alcohol. Have you been drinking tonight?” the cop asks with military sternness.

  “A cocktail with dinner.”

  “May I have your license and vehicle registration, please?”

  Hutnikov has them ready, handing them to the cop with his left hand. The officer’s eyes travel from Hutnikov’s face to his lap, where under the rental agreement he sees the barrel of a gun pointing right at him.

  Hutnikov smiles as he pulls the trigger.

  “CLICK.”

  It doesn’t fire.

  “Ohhhhh, FUCK!”

  The cop doesn’t wait. Dropping the flashlight, he draws his weapon and steps back into a combat shooting stance.

  Hutnikov tries again.

  Nothing.

  There is no order to drop the weapon. Helplessly, he holds up a hand defensively while fumbling to get the car in gear.

  The cop opens fire. First a neck shot. Hutnikov’s hand starts to reach up but stops as the second round breaks off a chunk of his skull. With muzzle flashes mixing with the patrol car’s strobes, all to the beat of the gunfire the scene has become a disco of death.

  He keeps shooting as the car starts to roll away, placing slugs in the door, the rear driver’s side window, another to his head, then the rest into the shattered rear window. When the officer pulls on an empty chamber, he let the magazine drop and then slams another one in.

  The car rolls into a concrete base of a light pole, spilling Hutnikov half out of the door. The cop holds his fire, waiting for movement, but the body hangs limply. Everything is quiet again: just the idling engines, the radio traffic and the white noise of the freeway. The cloud of gun smoke drifts into the cool night breeze, taking Hutnikov’s

  soul along with it—that is, if he ever had one to begin with.

  Chapter 17

  Woodcrest Road

  “Mama, when is Dad coming home?” Kate’s son Robbie asks, all snug in his bed. She’s dreaded this coming moment, when she would have to lie to her little boy, or worse, tell him the truth.

  “I’m not sure, sweetie. Do you miss him?”

  “A little.”

  She can see the wheels spinning in his little head, thinking hard while looking out the window into the starry sky.

  “Mama?”

  “Yes, sweetie?”

  “What happens when people die?”

  Her heart skips a beat. “Where did that come from, honey?”

  “Just looking at the stars. Is that where people go?”

  “Why are you doing this to me, God? What do you want me to do!”

  “I don’t know, honey, but I have an idea. I’ll show you.”

  She leaves him for a moment and returns with a lit candle.

  “What’s that for?” he asks as she sits on the edge of the bed.

  “Now, let’s pretend this is old Moose here.” The cat is indifferent to being sacrificed. Robbie nods with hesitation.

  “Watch what happens.” She puckers her lips and blows. With an abrupt puff, the candle goes out.

  “See, even though the flame is gone, the smoke remains. The fire changes to something else.” Robbie watches the wisp of smoke rise and dissipate.

  “Breathe in with your nose.”

  The wrinkling of his nostrils makes her smile.

  “There, something you cannot see, the smell of the candle is still there. Now, close your eyes, try to picture what you just saw. Can you see it?”

  “Yup.” He opens his eyes with a sleepy smile.

  “You see? Nobody really goes away forever. They just change, and they stay in our hearts and our memories forever.”

  “Do they come back if you light the candle again?”

  “In our memories, and sometimes in our dreams.”

  That seems to answer the question for her little boy, and in a way, it is reassuring for herself.

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “Love you too, honey. Good night.”

  Before closing his eyes, he looks out his window once more at the night sky. A shooting sta
r zips across the sky, widening his eyes. He quickly makes a wish, about his mom. He wants her with him forever, just like the memory of the candle.

  Part V

  Dare to look up to God and say, “Make use of me for the future as Thou wilt. I am of the same mind, I am one with Thee. I refuse nothing which seems good to Thee. Lead me whither Thou wilt. Clothe me in whatever dress Thou wilt.”

  -Epicetus

  Friday

 

  Chapter 1

  Route 1, Philadelphia

  The crime scene is awash in blue and red police lights, framed by yellow tape and littered with numbered markers where the shell casings from the highway cop’s gun fell. Cops from all over the city have arrived at the scene, mostly standing around and bullshitting. Once the smoke cleared, the sector patrol sergeant recognized Hutnikov from the hot sheet distributed at roll call and gave the FBI a call.

  Haddad and special agent Linda Carpenter from the Philly field office, both sporting their blue FBI raid jackets with the big yellow letters on the back, show up for a look.

  The body is still hanging out of the door for pictures. They find the lead investigator from the Internal Affairs shooting team.

  “Finally!” they hear Lieutenant Chavez say as they walk up.

  “Chavez? I’m Special Agent Haddad,” he extends his hand. “And this is Agent Carpenter.”

  “You didn’t say those people were cop killers,” Chavez says evenly.

  “News to us too,” Haddad says.

  “Well, you’ll find the officer in there if you want to say thanks, or apologize.” Chavez says, pointing to a big boxy ambulance.

  “What happened?” Carpenter asks.

  “He pulled the perp over on suspicion of DUI. He walks up to the window and the guy tries to punch his ticket. Bipity, ipity, bop, end of story.”

  “Here’s why.” Another cop, hearing the conversation, comes over with the suspect’s gun. His gloved hand points to the firing mechanism.

  “Check it out. No firing pin. Boy, is Darnell going to shit when he hears this,” Chavez says about the highway cop.

  Haddad and Carpenter look at each other.