M I S C U E
By Glen Allison
Copyright© 2002 by Glen Allison
Published by Yoke Press
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher, except as provided by U.S. copyright law. All inquiries should be directed to Yoke Press, P.O. Box 885, Tupelo MS 38802.
Cover design: Marie Owen
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 0-9718105-0-8
Library of Congress Control Number 2002101105
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to the many people who made this book possible, including my editor Carolyn Schreiter; my "first readers" Anna Fortner, Rusty & Ann Benson, Cindy Ballard, Bonnie Porter, Sandra Hendrix, Shirley King, and Randall Murphree; my encouragers Jonathan and Ashley McIntosh, Julie Homan, Malone Newell, Reesie Bradbury, Lee Jones, Jan Cooper, Kenneth Benson, Jamie Finley, Dina Plunket, Peggy Carlton Jones, Barbara Kinsey, Denny Gordon, and Ellen Aregood; and my proofers, The Sisters: Christy Grissom, Rachel Luttrell, and Darlene Donaldson.
To Kathy,
who deserves more than me,
yet shows me
the simple astounding power
of her love daily
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Prologue
Saturday, 12:30 a.m.
He held the scalpel above his head and twisted it slowly in the air beneath the naked light bulb. His rubber gloves blocked the chill of its metal handle. The blade caught a sharp glint of light from the bulb in the ceiling.
It would do.
He screwed the plastic cap over the blade tip and placed it on the thin bedspread.
Six-and-a-half hours until the clinic opened.
A tugboat on the distant river gave a low moan. He listened for a moment then turned to examine a selection of CDs in the small bookshelf next to the bed. The bookshelf creaked as he selected a disc and pulled it free. “The Moldau” by Smetana. He inserted the silver disc into a CD player that sat next to a Bible on the bookshelf. With his eyes closed he listened to the journey of the music as it swelled then ebbed.
From the top of the dresser he took the two Velcro straps and turned back to the bed. He positioned the straps parallel four inches apart on the blanket next to the scalpel. Shirtless, he kneeled and laid his right forearm palm up across the straps. Taking the scalpel in his left hand he held it length-wise along the inside of his forearm with the capped tip toward the inside of his elbow. He felt the cold instrument on his skin.
Bringing the straps over the arm, he tightened them to hold the scalpel secure. He flexed to test the straps, making the muscles of his forearm ripple. He rose from his kneeling position and stepped up to the mirror mounted on the wall above the dresser. With some tissue he wiped the grime from between the cracks on the glass. He stepped back and bent slightly to examine himself in the mirror before opening the top dresser drawer and taking out the green scrubs he would wear to the clinic. He pulled the top of the scrubs over his head, shook his long black hair free from beneath the collar of the cotton top, then checked his image again. The sleeve covered the scalpel well.
As he had done dozens of times, he practiced the movement of pulling up the sleeve and plucking loose the knife with his left hand. It was fluid and quick, as it would need to be.
He repeated the process several more times. Satisfied, he laid the scalpel and the straps on the bed and switched off the light. He lowered himself into the straight-backed chair by the window. Neon-tinged night and the echoes of sirens seeped through the gaps in the window frame of the old apartment. He checked his breathing. Calm. Steady.
He closed his eyes and listened to the strains of “The Moldau” as it faded away. He was long past thinking it was murder. It was justified. He was an instrument of justice. Just as a scalpel creates pain in order to bring healing. It was the right thing to do.
He sat and waited for the light.
Chapter 1
Saturday, 12:45 a.m.
Al Forte took one last drag from his fifth and final Checkers of the day and blew the smoke over the wrought-iron balcony rail. The exhaled puff of white drifted out past the point where his black boots were propped on the rail and faded into the late April night.
It was a bad habit and he knew it. Even if Verna hadn’t harped on him about it for the past three years. He had started smoking in rehab and knew, even back then, that he would eventually quit. That’s why he still smoked the vile Checkers brand. It would make giving them up easier. At least that was his story and he was sticking to it. He had gradually cut his intake down from two packs a day to one pack then down to a dozen cigarettes. Now he allowed himself a strict five per day: one upon rising, one with morning coffee, one after lunch, one after dinner, and one to cap the evening.
It was a bad habit and no excuse for it. But he’d had worse.
A black cat tightroped its way along the rail of the balcony toward Forte’s feet. The cat stopped at the man’s ankles where they were crossed on the rail.
“Not moving ‘em, Boo,” the man said. The cat looked at him when he spoke. The animal’s eyes were almost the same color yellow as Forte’s but looked brighter against its black background of fur. The cat stepped over the man’s boots with casual care and continued his stroll along the balcony rail.
Forte’s third-floor balcony was several blocks from Bourbon Street, a distance that usually separated him from the noise. This was a weekend night, however, and he could pick up snatches of noise from where he sat. He imagined a klatch of tipsy conventioneers from Iowa pausing on the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse to watch the frenzied tapping of the Peabody brothers or swaying to the offerings of a street jazzist. The music and laughter floated through the narrow streets and found him, teasing his ears. Especially the laughter of women. Somehow, of all the sweet cacophony that spilled out of the narrow east-west divider that sliced the Quarter in half, it was the high laughter of a woman that had the best chance of reaching his balcony through the muggy night.
Then again, maybe it was all just his imagination.
He smiled to himself in the dark, then sighed and stretched his arms above his head as he balanced in the tipped-back chair, feeling the muscles in his back and arms lengthen and contract. He reached over and ground out the cigarette butt into the misshapen clay ashtray on the table next to his chair. Forte stood up and stretched again. Just 15 minutes until his meeting. Enough time to walk to it.
He stepped into his dark apartment from the balcony. From a small table inside the door he retrieved a Glock nine-millimeter automatic and stuck it into a holster at the small of his back. He then picked up a lightweight leather jacket from the back of a chair and walked thro
ugh the length of the apartment into the back bedroom. He stepped into the closet, locked it behind him and pressed his thumb into a tiny scanner practically unseen where it was mounted on the wall inside the closet door.
The back wall of the closet was immediately transformed into a sliding door which silently closed exactly five seconds after he stepped through it. He moved through a pitch black passageway, turned right and by memory paused after a dozen steps. Mounted about seven feet high on the wall in the darkness was another thumbprint ID scanner. Standing on tiptoe he activated it. Another hidden door slid open after a five-second delay during which a flashing green light had alerted the security guard on duty that Forte was entering the area. If he had been an intruder the flashing light would have been red and accompanied by an alarm after which all doors in the structure would have automatically locked down.
He stepped onto a catwalk that looked down on a courtyard 20 feet below. The corridor where he stood was hidden from the courtyard by one-way screens. At the far corner of the catwalk a man sat at a console of six monitors which alternately flashed the video images that were being captured by 18 cameras mounted throughout the interior and exterior of the building.
From the outside, the building looked like many others scattered throughout the Quarter: a block-long row of connected townhouses of 19th-century vintage. Forte’s apartment framed one end of the building and the offices of Forte Security occupied the other end of the block. In between, however, the façade of the old building was a masquerade for what the Times-Picayune had called “the safest place in the world for children in danger.”
It was called, simply, The Refuge. Forte had allowed a reporter and a photographer into the shelter when it was opened three years previously on the condition that he approve the article’s content for security purposes. He wanted the word put out about the round-the-clock surveillance and the firepower provided by ex-Special Forces personnel. But he also wanted to ensure that the exact layout and other secrets of the shelter remained just that – secret.
This was the place, the feature article had said, “where up to a half-dozen of the most threatened children in the world could sleep soundly and play peacefully in the small playground in the courtyard. Children who were to be witnesses against killers. Children of deposed (or deceased) rulers in lands where death now reigned. Children of celebrities who had somehow earned a spot on some serial criminal’s sick list. This was a place of safety reserved for children who found themselves in a hell they didn’t deserve and usually didn’t understand. For a few days or weeks or sometimes months, this was a place where those children could rest easy until the cloud of danger passed – one way or another.”
The article had been a little dramatic, Forte had thought at the time of publication. Three years later, he no longer thought so.
Ironically, Forte never considered himself much of a “kid” person, at least overtly. He didn’t detest them; he just didn’t adore having them around that much. Not like Ruth had. In a way, The Refuge had been her idea, even though Forte had planned it and made it come to life. At the time, he felt it was something he could do. Now he knew it was part of his recovery.
Forte walked toward the guard at the security console.
“All quiet, Sammy?” he asked.
“So far, chief,” the man answered, his eyes still on the monitors. He idly reached up to adjust the shoulder-strap of his bullet-proof vest. “Everyone’s lights were out by 11.”
Forte’s eyes scanned the monitors. “You heard that the drug dealers want to come get the girl? They think they can protect her from the Colombians better than we can.”
The guard glanced up at Forte. “Yeah, we were briefed on that. We’re double-timing our rounds over the weekend.”
Forte patted him on the shoulder and walked down to the far end of the catwalk. Ahead lay another series of secret passageways which he traversed to find himself in the darkened offices of Forte Security. He walked through his office and went down the stairwell and out the entrance onto the street. Choosing to avoid Bourbon Street, he strolled down to Canal and headed toward the river. His meeting was in the Warehouse Arts District. Keeping an eye out for anything that seemed out of place, he turned right on Magazine and kept walking.
Away from the Quarter, New Orleans was like most American cities: a business district seasoned with clusters of low-income housing and run-down warehouses and infused with the homeless. The Warehouse Arts District occupied a relatively recent section of urban renewal near the river. Artists, craftspeople, antique dealers and other retailers had set up shops and studios in the re-done manufacturing plants and warehouses. The meeting had been scheduled to be held in a small upstairs gallery in the area past Julia Street.
Though the hour was late, a few couples in evening clothes were window-shopping at the funky storefronts along the route Forte had taken. Ahead of him he could see a bag lady shuffling slowly across the entrance of the alley near the gallery where the meeting was scheduled. Forte crossed Julia Street and turned the last corner to approach the staircase leading to the upstairs gallery.
He slowed his pace. Three men lolled at the bottom of the stairs. The smallest of the trio sat on the stoop while the other two leaned against the stair rails. They didn’t look like they were there for the meeting.
Forte stopped ten feet away from the men.
“Evening, Poochie,” he said. The small man continued to sit quietly with his elbows propped on the stairs behind him.
The two bodyguards straightened up and moved to each side of the staircase like cats stalking a bird. The man on the left wore a black leather skull cap over a shaved black head. He glanced at the small man on the steps. The bodyguard’s voice sounded tortured as it rumbled deep in his throat.
“Damn, Poochie, he don’t look like no SEAL.” He turned back at Forte and showed white teeth in the dim light of the alley. “Looks more like a little weasel with them yellow eyes.”
His partner, the lean man on the right, tugged at his rust-colored goatee and chuckled softly but kept his eyes alert.
The seated man shifted slightly and leaned forward. “Uh oh,” he said. His tone was amused, however, and he didn’t budge from his seated position on the stairs. The bag lady had stopped and retreated 20 yards where she watched from the alley. A middle-aged couple in tux and gown hurried around Forte with their heads lowered. They reached the street at the end of the alley before glancing back. They disappeared around the corner.
Forte slowly took three steps toward the staircase. He looked at Skull Cap. “Your mama would be ashamed of you for picking on people smaller than you, you know that?”
Skull Cap stopped smiling and looked hard at Forte. The silent one on the right took a half-step sideways and crouched slightly. Forte took in the man’s movements. He would be the more dangerous of the pair.
The man sitting on the stairs casually brushed a speck from the lapel of his cashmere jacket and peered up at the sky that peeked from between the buildings. His voice was light-hearted and high-pitched. “Alvin, Alvin. Why don’t we just relax and go have us a little party? You know I got your dream right here in my pocket.” Poochie’s smile spread across Octoroon features. “Then we can go pick up the girl.”
Forte shook his head without taking his attention away from the two thugs on each side of the staircase. “Not going to happen. Kyra is safe. No one can get to her.”
The smile vanished from the other man’s face. “You are tough, Forte. I know that. But you don’t know those people, the Colombians.” A flash of pleading crossed his face then disappeared. “They ain’t civilized. They don’t care who goes down.”
Forte sighed. The man on the stairs had sown death in the form of white powder and magic rocks for years. Yet he could shed tears of grief over a murdered brother and could feel compassion for the fate of his tiny niece. Fearfully and wonderfully made. “Go home, Poochie. It'll be okay.”
The small man held his gaze for a
long moment. Finally he stood and jerked his head toward his bodyguards. Skull Cap did not break his glare for a long moment then followed his boss. Goatee trailed after them. Poochie walked to the end of the alley, stopped and lit a cigar. He called out to Forte.. “This time we came just to talk.” His voice had lost its lightness. In the flame of the match, his eyes looked flat. “Next time…” He dropped the match as he turned and walked out of the alley.
Forte watched him go. He looked up at the gallery window at the top of the stairs. Several heads were looking down at him. He went up the stairs and into the gallery. About two dozen chairs were arranged in four rows. He recognized some of the people: casino workers, a couple of waitresses from clubs in the Quarter, an off-duty cop, a lawyer, a dock worker, a Tulane professor, a hooker. He took a chair on the back row and caught the eye of Manning Laird on the other end of the row. Manny’s leathery face twisted into the closest thing to a smile he could conjure. Forte leaned back and relaxed.
A bespectacled man in a rumpled suit had just walked up to a podium at the front of the room and cleared his throat. He looked like someone’s low-rent bookkeeper. The man pushed his glasses up on his nose.
“Hello,” he said. “My name is Jimmy and I’m an addict.”
Chapter 2
Saturday, 7:30 a.m.
Dr. Tyson Lamberth guided his Lexus past the protestors and into the guarded parking lot under the clinic. He carefully looked through all the windows of the vehicle before stepping out of the car. Even though he had taken a random route to his office, different from the one he’d taken the day before and the day before that, he knew it always paid to exercise caution these days. The crazies were still out there, he reminded himself.
He always arrived early on Saturday. It was his busiest day of the week, and he was looking forward to it. Not only was it a beautiful spring morning, it was his birthday. Even the misguided souls on the sidewalk out front would not put a dent in his good mood today. His sailboat was at the dock, ready to take him away at the end of the day.
The doctor greeted the security guard at the elevator as he hummed the Beatles tune he’d been listening to on the car’s CD player. What was the name of that one … Ah, yes, “Here Comes the Sun.” Today he turned 40. He had been three years old when The Fab Four had arrived in America at JFK Airport. As a child he was playing little league out in Metairie when the group broke up. But then again, when had their music ever been out of style? Little darlin’, it’s been a long cold lonely winter. The elevator door parted and he strolled down the corridor to his office.