Читать книгу Stranger In The Night - Catherine Palmer - Страница 11

L iz sat at her desk, staring. The stack of files blurred as her eyes lost focus. The sounds of people talking in cubicles nearby faded. Unnoticed, the hand on the clock ticked toward five. Even the candy bar in her desk drawer ceased its demand, its chocolate-caramel siren song ebbing.

“Wakey-wakey, Sleeping Beauty!” Molly breezed into the cubicle. “Time for your happy news report from the Fairy Godmother.”

Settling on the edge of a chair, her favorite perch, the reed-thin woman waved a sheaf of stapled pages. Molly’s exuberance and generally cheerful outlook belied the fact that she had battled an eating disorder most of her adult life. Only Liz knew, and the two made it a matter of prayer each evening before they left the office.

“More trouble in Africa,” Molly began, reading from their weekly headquarters update. “Sudanese refugees are still flooding south. Tribal tension continues to flare in Eastern and Central Africa. The Kenyan camps are full to overflowing. Really? Surprise me some more. Congo and Burundi are still unstable. Rwanda isn’t much better. And on to Asia! Hostility has increased toward the Karen people group in Burma/Myanmar. Refugees are heading for Thailand in record numbers. People are still fleeing Vietnam and North Korea. Yeah—when they can get out. Europe is pretty quiet, but the Middle East is tumultuous. This could’ve been last week’s report.”

Liz had closed her eyes and was trying to pull out any important information between Molly’s running commentary. Sarcasm bordering on outright derision was the woman’s stock in trade.

“Now for our weekly federal government refugee resettlement averages,” Molly continued. “Currently in St. Louis there are 2,500 Somalis, more than 1,000 Ethiopians, 700 from ex-Soviet states, 700 Liberians, 500 Sudanese, 300 each from Bosnia, Vietnam, Iran and Afghanistan. The Turks and Burmese are passing the 100 mark, and Ivory Coast, Sierra Leone, Burundi and Eritrea are catching up fast.”

“Just give me next week’s airport list, Molly.” Liz held out a hand. “I can’t process this stuff right now.”

“What’s going on? Have you been staying awake all night again—plotting your own refugee flight into darkest Africa?”

“No, it’s not that. I’ve had a hard day.”

“The Marine.”

Liz looked up. “You remember him?”

“Who could forget? Every woman in the building—married and single—watched you drive off with the guy this morning, Liz. I’d have been in here sooner but I had to pick up some sardines and Spam to welcome my latest batch of Burmese.”

They laughed together at these favorite foods of the silent, polite and terribly modest people group. It was hard to know what would strike the fancy of a given batch of refugees. A few local stores had started carrying live bullfrogs and eels, packaged duck heads and various other items too pungent even for Liz—who considered herself brave compared to many in the agency.

Molly set her elbows on Liz’s desk and rested her chin on her palms. “What’s his name, where’s he from and how long do you get to keep him?”

“I don’t want him.” Liz let out a low growl. “Men like that should not exist. They complicate everything.”

“But they’re oh, so nice to look at.”

“I can’t argue there. You could drown in his eyes. Seriously, though, this guy is a pain. Very demanding. When he’s not chasing insurgents in Afghanistan, he lives in Texas. He’s visiting a friend here, and somehow he got tangled up with a family of Pagandans.”

“Ooh. Paganda is not a nice place.”

“No, and Joshua’s people have been through the wringer. Global Care brought them in from Kenya, but they’re on their own now. Except for Sergeant Duff, USMC. Their story won him over. The two children hid inside a metal drum while rebels massacred their mother and siblings. Their house burned down around them, but they survived.”

“Wow.” Molly fell silent—for once.

“Joshua met these people last night, and now he’s determined to help them through the entire resettlement process. I told him that was crazy. It’s too complicated and time-consuming for one person, but he wouldn’t budge.”

“Is he aware of the cost? Without an agency supporting the family, that could get expensive.”

Liz paused, weighing whether to tell Molly what she had learned about Joshua’s family. Finally, she spoke. “Okay, the guy is filthy rich.”

“Mmm. Even better. Let’s see. Joshua is rich. Joshua is handsome. Joshua is tenderhearted toward the poor and needy. What’s not to like about Joshua?”

“He doesn’t take no for an answer, he’s domineering, he’s forceful, he’s way too self-assured and…and…” Liz clenched her fists. “I don’t want to like him, Molly!”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m going to Africa. As soon as I become fluent in Swahili and get enough experience for the UN to want to hire me, I’m out of here. I don’t have time for complications. I can’t let myself think about Joshua Duff, and I hope I never see him again.”

Liz shook her head. “No, that’s not true. I can’t think about anything else, and it’s driving me nuts. You know what I went through with Taylor. It took me forever to figure out how wrong we were.”

“I could have told you in two seconds.”

“And you did.”

“Liz, you need a man with backbone. Taylor was idealistic and friendly and good-hearted, but what a pancake. Flat. Boring. Wimpy. Pass the syrup.”

“Molly, please. He wasn’t that bad.”

“Have I been married twice, Liz? Do I know the good ones from the bums?”

“Apparently not. Case in point—Joel.”

Molly stood. “Yes, but I’m not marrying Joel. He’s a friend.”

“You’re sleeping with your friend, Molly. That’s a dumb thing to do. Have I told you that before?”

“Two thousand times. It’s in my DNA to do dumb things with men.”

Liz stood and picked up her purse. “Molly, please stop living this way. You don’t need Joel. You don’t need men who are bad for you. Why do you do that to yourself?”

“For the same reason you dated Taylor. He was there, you were lonely and it felt good at the time.”

“I didn’t sleep with Taylor. When I figured out he wasn’t right for me, I got out pretty easily. You’re tangled up all over again, Molly.”

“And you can’t stop thinking about Sergeant Joshua Duff. We’re the same.” She tossed the refugee update on Liz’s desk. “Let’s hurry up and pray, because I need to get some time on my treadmill before Joel comes over.”

“All right, all right. I’ll start.”

The women had been friends for a couple of years. Liz had talked Molly into going to church not long after they’d met at the refugee agency. Now they prayed together at the end of every workday.

But Molly’s life didn’t change. She kept plunging from one mistake into another. As Liz took her friend’s hands and bowed her head, she had to wonder how different they really were.

“Gangs.” Sam Hawke tossed Joshua a white T-shirt from a stack on the desk in the front office. “Get used to it. This is the Haven uniform. We don’t allow gang colors in here.”

Joshua unfolded the cheap cotton garment. He had spent most of the afternoon under an oak tree in Forest Park, using his laptop to search out jobs and apartments for the Rudi family. It was high time to complete this assignment and move on to the next, he had decided.

The Marines had kept Joshua busy and in the thick of action for nearly a decade. Reflection and contemplation didn’t sit well with him—especially when his own thoughts were so troubling. The pitiful condition of the Somali family he and Liz Wallace had met at the airport disturbed him. Liz disturbed him more.

But Sam’s mention of gang activity piqued his interest. Maybe his military skills could be useful in St. Louis.

“Which gangs are causing you problems?” he asked, recalling the two he knew. “Crips and Bloods?”

“Around here, Crips are usually called Locs. Bloods are Dogs. We’ve got Murder Mob, Sets, Your Hood, Homies, Peoples, Cousins, Kinfolks, Dogs. Girls’ gangs are called Sole Survivers and Hood Rats. The Disciples and the 51 MOB are unique to St. Louis. Hispanics have ’em, too—mainly the Latin Kings, but Florencia 13 is making inroads.”

Joshua frowned. The St. Louis gangs sounded as complex as the factions he had encountered in Afghanistan and Iraq. Those sects had been founded on religious differences, but their current enmity went far beyond matters of faith.

“What’s the gangs’ focus?” he asked. “Territory? Violence?”

“Those are part of it. Arms and drugs play a big role. Just like everywhere, gangbangers worship the idols of the modern world—money, power and sex.”

Sam leaned against the edge of Terell’s old steel desk and studied the youngsters playing basketball on the large court just beyond the office window. “Our black gangs deal in crack and powder cocaine, marijuana, black tar heroin, powder heroin and heroin capsules. The Hispanics used to handle mostly commercial-grade marijuana. When Missouri clamped down on local methamphetamine producers, Mexican ice exploded. We’re doing all we can to keep tabs on what’s moving through the city.”

“Who’s we? ”

“Haven. But there are others.” He held up a hand and began ticking off the groups. “The St. Louis County Gang Task Force. The Metropolitan Police Department Gang/Drug Division’s gang unit. GREAT, the Gang Resistance Education and Training program set up by the mayor, works in elementary and middle schools. REJIS is an agency that notifies parents of a child’s gang affiliation. Cease Fire is a coalition of law enforcement, school and government officials, clergy and crime prevention specialists. We’ve got citizens’ groups, too—INTERACT, African-American Churches in Dialogue, the St. Louis Gang Outreach Program, you name it. But no one’s winning this war.”

Leaning one shoulder against a post, Joshua unfolded the T-shirt. “African-Americans, Latinos—sounds like the gangs run along racial lines.”

“Typically. A new gang showed up this summer, though. Hypes. They’re unusual—racially mixed.”

“So what binds them?”

“As near as we can figure, it’s their leader. Fellow goes by the name Mo Ded.”

“Sounds more like the definition of a cult to me—a group focused around a single charismatic person.”

“Maybe, but they operate like a gang. Nothing religious about them. We’re guessing Mo Ded is a newcomer to St. Louis. He was smart enough to pull together all the ‘losers’—the gang rejects. You don’t find anyone more loyal than the disenfranchised.”

“Exactly how cults get started.”

“Cult, gang, whatever. Mo Ded has been recruiting, organizing and training people all summer, carving out his turf and building his weapons cache.”

“What race is this guy?”

Sam shrugged. “Anyone’s guess. He’s not black or white. But he’s not Hispanic, either. Some say he’s got Oriental eyes, but I hear they’re a weird green color. Definitely not Asian.”

“You haven’t met him?” Joshua’s recon experience had fine-tuned his ability to sniff out bad guys, and he knew Sam had similar training. “Don’t you want to know who’s sharing your territory?”

“Nobody shares turf, Duff. This block, including our building, belonged to the 51 MOB. Terell and I knew that when we bought it. We had to push them out and set up defenses.”

“Like when we took streets in Baghdad or Mosul.”

“This is war, man. Same thing—only without the manpower or arms on our side. Haven has a dog, a metal detector and Raydell and his crew to guard the door.”

“You sure Raydell is clean?”

“When I first met the kid, he had a baby Uzi tucked in his pants and a juvie record that would have put an older man inside the walls—exactly where Raydell’s father is right now. But our boy is working on his GED and planning to join the police force.”

“Big change.”

“One of Haven’s few success stories. If a kid wants to spend time here, he’s got to pull up his britches, leave his do-rag and grill at home, cover his gang tattoos, go through the metal detector and let Duke give him a sniff. The police keep a close watch on our place. We even have a few snitches. Terell and I realized we could let Haven become a staging area—a place where gangs congregate for retaliation and violence. Or we could essentially become gang leaders ourselves and make Haven our turf.”

“Haven’s homeboys. Does your woman know about this?”

“Ana knows and worries. But I remind her I’ve got unseen forces on my side. You may have noticed that sign in my office—If God is for us, who can be against us? God is really the leader of Haven. No one stronger than Him. The gangs know our focus on faith, and that helps some. But they’ve learned we’ll do whatever it takes to protect our kids. We had to earn their respect, and we did.”

Joshua was impressed. On first sight, the old building didn’t look like much. Now he understood it was hard-won property.

“How about the 51 MOB?” he asked as he stripped off the shirt he had worn all day. “Did they ever surrender Haven?”

“Yeah, but it took a while. Haven used to get marked with graffiti all the time. I would paint over it, knowing that targeted me for death. You don’t strip gang signs without getting killed. They’d spray my name on a wall and X it out. Essentially, that meant I was dead. They came after me a few times, but we worked it out.”

“What about Terell?”

“He’s an ex-offender. That gives him a lot of street cred. They know he can take care of himself. He uses his past to relate to the kids, but he doesn’t want to get mixed up in the gang thing. I’ve got the military training, so I mostly handle it.”

“Do the Hypes respect you, too?”

“Mo Ded doesn’t give a rip about anyone. He’s had his people loitering right outside Haven, inviting some of my best boys to jump off the porch.”

“Join up?”

“That’s right. Most gangs require a kid to join by beating in—walking between two lines or standing inside a circle of gang members who beat him to a pulp. But to get into the Hypes, you have to go on a mission.”

“Military term.”

“Worse. Mo Ded’s favorite technique—he makes a boy put a blue rag on his head, dress all in blue and walk through a Blood neighborhood. Or wear red and walk through Crips turf. If the kid survives, he’s a Hype.”

“What age are we talking about?” Joshua asked.

“Around here, any boy over twelve either owns or shares a gun. Mo Ded starts them out at eleven.”

Joshua shook his head as he unfolded the white T-shirt Sam had given him. “Reminds me of child soldiers in Africa. Sudan and Rwanda.”

“Don’t forget Paganda. As bad as he’s had it, Pastor Stephen thanks God his sons weren’t forced to fight for the rebels.”

“The ones who were killed?”

“They end up dead either way. At least with a massacre, the suffering is short. In these African countries or in the kind of war you and I fought against terrorists, the only way to win is to eliminate the enemy. That or be eliminated yourself. You know what I’m saying, Duff. There’s no middle ground. It’s the same here in St. Louis. According to gang code, the only way to get rid of another gang is to kill all the members.”

“That’s genocide.”

“Welcome to my world.”

Joshua let out a breath. “Hatred. It’s a grown man’s game. Why are these gangs recruiting kids so young?”

“Same reason al-Qaeda straps explosives to children and sends them into marketplaces on suicide missions. Talk to your new friend at the refugee agency about child soldiers in Africa.”

Uncomfortable at the mention of the woman, Joshua began putting on the T-shirt. He tried to work his arms through the sleeves. “Do you know Liz?”

“Pastor Stephen told me about your encounter at Refugee Hope. He and I had a long talk this afternoon. Stephen Rudi may be Pagandan, but he understands St. Louis.”

“Yo, Hawke. This shirt’s too small.”

“One size fits all.” Sam studied his friend for a moment. “Still got the six-pack abs, I see. I’d better not let you get too close to Ana.”

“When am I going to meet this fiancée of yours, anyway?” Joshua said, wincing at the tight fit around his shoulders. He rolled the shirt down over his chest, but he knew the thing would never stay tucked into his jeans. Slouch time for the ol’ Marine sergeant. He would have to get used to it.

“She’ll be around,” Sam told him. “Ana teaches a creative writing class on Saturdays, but I’ve stopped encouraging her to come over here much. Too dangerous. I go to her place if we want time alone. We cook dinner, watch a little TV. It’s a nice break from the smell of sweat socks and dirty sneakers.”

“What about Terell? Does he have a woman?”

“His church hired a new youth director last month—lovely lady named Joette. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s got a former NBA star in her future. And you? Anyone out there in the battle zone catch your attention?”

“Plenty. But you know me. Careful.” He decided it was time to change the subject. “Let’s go catch some of the action.”

Sam indicated the door, and the two men stepped out of the office. The basketball court swarmed with players. Whistles blew, the buttery aroma of popcorn drifted in the air, kids shouted. A toddler wandered out of one of the small classrooms. Smeared with blue paint, he looked around, lost. His face wrinkled into the start of a wail. Just then, a teenage girl sailed out of the room, snagged the child with one long arm and hauled him back to safety.

Too many kiddos, Joshua realized. This place could make a real impact, but not without more space. Sam had mentioned an idea to turn the parking lot outside into a basketball court and playground. Good plan if the gangs would leave them alone.

“No girlfriend?” Sam wasn’t going to let it drop. “Come on, Duff. You’re not getting any younger. Doesn’t daddy want his boy back in Amarillo pumping oil and raising heirs?”

“He’d like nothing better than to see me build a house right down the road, get married and do the whole Duff-Flannigan Oil thing just like my big brother. No doubt the younger Duff boys will fall in line. I’ve been the black sheep.”

“The lone ranger.” Sam clapped Joshua on the shoulder. “Well, you’ve got your hands full right now. Those Pagandans are quite a bunch. I like Stephen Rudi. You won’t believe what he wants to do in St. Louis.”

Joshua glanced at his friend. He hadn’t had time to look in on the family since returning from his trip to the airport with Liz. Her wariness about his undertaking had put him on guard.

“Reverend Rudi had better be happy to work for minimum wage,” he told Sam. “That’s all I can find for him around here. The wife doesn’t speak a word—English or anything else—that I can see. She’s a walking shell. No telling what the woman went through before they got together. The little girl will have to go to school. Maybe the boy, too. What did Stephen tell you?”

“He wants to start a church.”

Joshua scowled. “No way.”

“He’s dead serious. He believes God spared the family from genocide, brought them to the States and plans to use them to further the Kingdom right here in St. Louis. The man practically had Terell and me on our knees this afternoon right in the middle of a basketball game. He’s pretty magnetic.”

“Magnetism won’t pay bills.” Joshua studied the busy room. “Listen, Sam, I want to get the family hooked into the system here as fast as I can. I admire what you’re doing at Haven, but it’s not for me. I need to get on with my life. Got any idea how I can plug Pastor Stephen into a job?”

“We can find him work, but what about you, Duff? You don’t want to sit behind a desk and count money for the rest of your life.”

“Nothing wrong with money as long as it’s used right. I don’t know about that desk, though. You know me—I’m a hands-on man. I like getting down and gritty with people, working to change lives.”

“Sounds like what we do at Haven. Why are you on the run?”

“Not sure. I have a few things to figure out.” Joshua ran a finger around the neck of the T-shirt. “I’m no social worker, that’s for sure.”

“You’re not Recon anymore, either. I doubt you’ll bust up any al-Qaeda cells in Amarillo. Why not stick around here? We’ve got Mo Ded and his brand of terrorists right outside these doors to keep things interesting. There’s a lot more to Haven than social work, and we could use another man the kids can look up to. I’m starting to think we need a liaison with the refugee community, too. Maybe that could be you.”

“Nah. The social worker at Refugee Hope showed me the error of my well-meaning ways. The things that go into resettling these people—it’s more than one guy can do.”

“Come on, Duff. I know you too well. You’d take on a challenge like that any day.” Sam assessed his friend. “What’s up with you? You’ve done a one-eighty since this morning.”

Joshua focused on a group of youngsters carrying stacks of freshly laundered and folded white T-shirts toward the office. The last thing he wanted to admit was the way Liz had affected him. Five minutes, and she’d had him in overdrive. Not just her looks, either. They had clicked big-time. She knew it, too.

But it wouldn’t work. She was headed to Africa. He was expected in Texas.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he said finally. “This place is messing with my mind.”

“It’s not St. Louis. The war did a number on your brain. If you’re like me, you’ve still got one foot in the sand.”

Joshua recalled his nightmare. “I need to take care of the Rudis and move on.”

“You can’t escape it, man. What else is bothering you?”

“Want the truth?” He chuckled. “ Women —the only way I can think to get my head out of combat mode.”

“Ana’s got friends. Or how about that caseworker? Pastor Stephen said you looked at her like you planned to marry her.”

“ Marry her? Are you kidding me?”

“Like I said, the man is…insightful. Intense might be a better word. So what’s the lady’s name?”

“Liz Wallace. Gorgeous but on her way to some UN job in Africa. All day I’ve either been avoiding imaginary land mines or trying to figure out how to get that woman into my arms. Neither one good. I need to focus on the Rudis—find that missing brother, get Pastor Stephen a job, enroll the kids in school, locate an apartment and get them set up. All without letting myself get tangled in a pretty missionary’s curls.”

“Now there’s an assignment worthy of the Sergeant Duff I met on a dusty base in Iraq.”

“I’d rather hunt terrorists.”

As Sam laughed, Joshua decided it was time to cut the chitchat. He needed to find the little minister and his wife. Sam beat him to the punch.

“Pastor Stephen is in one of the classrooms. Said he wanted to start teaching Bible stories to the children. He’s that way.”

Joshua set off in the direction Sam had indicated. He definitely did not want to marry Liz Wallace—or any other woman. Not soon, anyway. He’d have to set the Rev. Stephen Rudi straight on that point. As well as a few others.