The Blood of Patriots (16 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots
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C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SEVEN
Hassan Shatri felt a kind of rage that had been unknown to him—until he met John Ward.
The nineteen-year-old had experienced suspicion and even prejudice growing up in Chicago. But there was a Muslim community and it offered support and a sense of security. Here, in the Christian world, he was not learned enough to be a prophet in the desert. But in Basalt he felt repressed enough to be a slave in revolt, especially where that smug and arrogant New York cop was concerned. Shatri had run up against his kind in Chicago. There, he had to take it: each cop had a precinct to back him up. Here, the guy didn't even carry any legal weight with the local police department. And they were cowards, anyway. Rather than fight their own battles and investigate their own cases, Angie Dickson said the police chief conspired to let Ward come back to town.
That would prove to be his biggest mistake. Shatri smiled.
As Ward had thrown himself from the van earlier that evening, his pocket had ripped in Shatri's fist. The young Muslim found the dinner check in his hand, along with the outer fabric of Ward's pocket. He suggested to his uncle that it might be of use to them. They had gone there and waited. Shatri and his three friends parked their minivan toward the end of Park Circle and, pulling on ski masks, walked back several hundred meters to number thirty-three. The lights were still on in an upstairs room. There was only one car in the driveway of the small home and it was not a rental. Wherever Ward was—Hamza had suggested he was probably watching the Dickson home—he wasn't here. But he would be soon, Debbie herself would see to that. Because the heart of
jihad
was not just to win. It was to subjugate. As the imam had told them many times, defiance is crushed by putting bystanders in jeopardy.
“
There is no such creature as an ‘innocent
,'” he had told them during his weekend sermon just days before. “
They are complicit by their silence and no less deserving of destruction. Their pain discourages resistance. The man who would willingly accept torture will not watch as his daughter's eyes are cut out.
”
That dogma fit with Shatri's own fierce desire to punish Ward.
The men crouched behind shrubs on the lawn, hidden from the house, from the street, and from the driveway. They studied the grounds. There was no evidence of a dog. Light from an adjoining home revealed no run, no fence, no bowl outside. The men circled the house once and selected the back door. It was easy to slip the catch from the lock using a pocket knife and they entered the kitchen. The glow of the clocks on the microwave and oven was not enough to illuminate the room, so Shatri took out a small penlight. The floor was linoleum and it might make popping sounds. He looked to the side, saw another exit, one that opened onto a carpeted living room. They went that way, making their way to the staircase. He killed the light. The bedroom door was open. The woman was talking quietly on the telephone. She seemed to be giving someone advice. The four men ascended slowly but without exceptional caution; there was no way down, now that they were on the stairs. And she wouldn't be able to scream for more than a moment before one of them silenced her.
Shatri reached the landing. The door was just to his left. The woman was still talking. He waited and motioned the others to do the same. He did not want to frighten her and have whoever she was talking to phone the police.
He heard her wish the caller a long and prosperous life; it was an odd salutation, almost Islamic. He heard the bed squeak and she muttered something about the caller needing a therapist and not a tarot reading, her voice coming nearer. He swung in just before Debbie reached the door and they stood face-to-face for a moment at the foot of the queen-sized bed. She was wearing pink satin pajamas and a stunned expression.
Shatri moved first, putting one hand behind her head and the other on her mouth and pressing hard. Her cries were muffled by his palm. He walked her backwards, forcefully, out of the doorway so the other men could enter. The second man in edged between them and the wall, pinning her arms behind her.
“Gag her,” Shatri said over his shoulder. “She's biting.”
The third man came up with a handkerchief, went to push it in her mouth when Shatri moved his hand. She wanted to scream but pressed her lips together and wiggled her head from side to side in an effort to thwart the man. He pinched her nose shut, forcing her mouth open to breathe. He pushed the handkerchief in and Shatri clapped his hand over that.
The men carried the kicking, wriggling woman to the bed. Stripping the pillows, the fourth man tied one around each wrist, and each of those to a bedpost. One of them held her legs down while another looked around for more bindings.
“Use her pajamas,” Shatri ordered.
Hearing that, Debbie screamed louder into the handkerchief and began to pull against the headboard with coordinated jerks, then with random, depleted effort. All the while, two men coldly, methodically pulled off her bottoms. One ripped them in the center and used the halves to bind her kicking legs to the bed. She flopped up and down, side to side, then fell back sobbing and exhausted.
The four men looked down at her. She was panting hard, sucking air through her nose, her eyes wide. Shatri stood by the headboard and looked down at her. She looked up at him, tears falling from the corners of her eyes.
“You are afraid because you know you have sinned.”
She moved her head vigorously from side to side. He bent down and held her cheeks firmly between his thumb and index finger, stopping her. She could not see his features so he would have to convince her by the strength of his words.
“You must do as I tell you, do you understand?” She did not react. He released her face. There was a deck of tarot cards and a lighted candle on the night table. Beside the candle was a box of wooden matches. He struck one and dropped it on the woman's bare belly. She writhed pitifully and screamed into the gag. He lit and dropped a second match before the first had gone out and then a third. Before he could strike the fourth she was nodding vigorously.
He set the matches aside and continued to look down at her. Shatri felt a strong desire to hurt the woman not just because she was a sinner but because her injury would devastate Ward. He found himself wrestling with that thought as the others stood there waiting for instructions. His breath quickened as the idea took root, as he anticipated the satisfaction it would give him. He touched her far cheek with his fingertips. The woman recoiled. He slapped her hard, then again, harder. Then he again touched her with his fingertips. She trembled but did not pull away. He traced a line down her throat, felt her pulse throbbing hard against her flesh. He stopped at the collar of her pajama top.
Her fear was intoxicating. He used both hands to rip the top button away. She was breathing so fast one of the others commented that she was like a dog. Shatri ignored the comment. He moved along the hem and pulled apart the second button. He could see the edge of her bare breasts rising and falling against the fabric. He tore away the remaining buttons, threw the flaps to the side, then straightened and glared down at her.
They had been with women before; they were still young American men and they had grown up in Chicago. But since meeting the imam, Shatri had come to mistrust and then detest women. The Koran said, “Believers, you have an enemy in your spouses.” They were all wanton sinners by whom men were corrupted. They were a means to children and grandchildren, no more.
For Shatri, there was nothing sexual about this woman, about her helplessness. He was an extension of the imam, the sword of the prophet.
“Your dress was immodest to start,” Shatri told the woman, his anger rising. “I have merely completed what you began.” He picked up the deck of tarot cards. “As for these? The Koran says that devils mislead men. These images are all aspects of the devil. What does that make you?”
The woman shook her head as she grunted something in denial.
“You are a sinner,” Shatri said. He threw the cards at her and slapped her again. “You will lead no more men—”
Suddenly, one of the men hushed the others.
“What is it?” Shatri demanded.
“I thought I heard a car.”
They all listened. Shatri heard what sounded like a car door closing. He told one man to kill the light, motioned another to the window. The man looked out, craned to one side, shook his head then shrugged.
“I can only see the side of the yard.”
“Headlights?”
“Nothing.”
Shatri thought for a moment. “Perhaps it will not be necessary to have the woman call him after all.”
The young man turned the bedroom light back on and switched on the clock radio. He told one man to stay upstairs with the woman while he took the other two downstairs. He unlocked the front door and quietly told the others what to do. A street lamp lit the green carpet with green squares here and there. Shatri waited in the nearest long shadow, just beyond the door. There was fire in his belly and strength in his heart. The young man felt an urgency in his limbs that he had not experienced before, all of it fueled by the words of his uncle still fresh in his ears.
“Unless you can tear the eyes from all who might see you, and deafen all who might hear you, the wisest course is to withdraw.”
Even Gahrah could not condemn what Shatri had in mind, any more than he could the actions at the farm the night before.
Allah was good.
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-EIGHT
Ward sped through the dark, unfamiliar streets as the GPS directed him to his destination. He parked beside a Camry in the short driveway and was somewhat relieved to see a light on upstairs. It was past her call-time; she must be reading. The light didn't have that ever-changing rainbow glow of TV. He got out, went to the front door, opened the squeaky screen door, was about to knock, hesitated.
The guys who had sucker-punched Scott Randolph had drawn the farmer out with “normalcy.”
Ward decided to do a circuit of the house. He quietly closed the screen door and went to his left, past the two-car garage. He picked his way in the dark, careful not to trip over a garden hose coiled on the ground and just avoiding a collision with garbage pails. He reached the small backyard, saw the second-floor bedroom light more clearly, stood and watched for movement. There was none. He lowered his gaze to the back door. He went over, could see nothing in the dark. If anyone had broken in, this is where they would have done it. He opened the screen door, held it open with his foot, and reached for where the knob should be. He bumped it with his hand, felt the door give inward.
It was not locked, not even properly shut. The door swung into the darkness.
Ward took out his cell phone. He had to go in but wanted to make sure backup was on the way. He turned it on and scrolled down to the police chief's number. He pushed the button and heard footsteps inside, looked up. In the dark he still managed to see a black hole moving toward him. It took a moment for him to realize it was a mask, though instinct had kicked in before his mind ID'ed the object. His body moved back as gloved hands reached through the doorway. They clutched at him, trying to grab his shirt at the shoulders. Attack patterns are like fingerprints, and he recognized the force and feel of the fingers, the smell of their owner. It was the kid he pulled from the back of the van. Ward dropped the phone so he'd have both hands free. His immediate goal was to generate enough offense to keep the guy in the doorway, preventing anyone else who might be inside from reaching him. While he did this Ward listened, trying to determine how many other men were inside. Hopefully, anyone else was upstairs watching Debbie and this kid was just a lookout.
The attacker had the advantage of seeing Ward silhouetted against the light of the house behind him. Effectively blind, Ward hunkered down into a low boxing stance, his weight forward, shoulders hunched, to protect his chest and simultaneously deliver gut punches when he wasn't protecting his head. The detective didn't hear any footsteps, any voices coming from inside—
Ward saw the shape to his right an instant before it wrapped him in a bear hug and propelled him to the ground. He landed hard on his side with the attacker on top of him. Before he could lift his arms a heel came down on his forehead.
Of course they're not inside
, his brain told him.
You're in the door so they went out the front.
A kick to the his left temple caused Ward's arms to lose strength in a wave from the shoulders to the elbows. They dropped to his sides, his head rolled to the right, and amber circles swam in what was formerly dark, dark night. Any resistance the detective had was purely intellectual.
A voice asked, “Did he call the police?”
Ward heard heavy breathing move around his head. “It looks like he did.”
“Is the phone
off
?”
“Yes. I didn't hear him say anything.”
“Then they won't know where he is,” the other speaker said. “We have time. Move the vehicle and stay near it. We'll meet you on Elk Run south of here. They won't be coming that way.” Ward heard the voice come closer as he felt hands on his shoulder. “Help me bring him inside.”
Ward felt himself being lifted. His fingers clutched at the grass, tried to resist. He must have fought them harder than he knew since a fist crossed his jaw and added clusters of white pinpricks to the display behind his lids. He relaxed, allowed himself to be borne through the door and up the stairs. His closed lids registered brightness without and he forced an eye open a sliver. His vision was blurry but he knew where he was. There was a bed and someone tied to it. He could just see the side of a leg, an outstretched arm. They flopped him in a chair and he tried to resist; someone punched him in the jaw once, twice, three times, all on the same side. His head throbbed painfully from chin to skull. The still cognizant detective part of him noted that he was hit by a strong left. The other guy in the van had been a lefty.
“Open his eyes,” someone said.
Rough, gloved fingers pressed down on his lids and forced them up. It hurt to blink. Ward had a better view of the bed but wished he hadn't. He saw Debbie bound there, looking at him with the widest, most horrified eyes he had ever seen. She appeared to be naked save for her open pajama top. Beside her stood a man in black. That was all he could see. Someone had shut the light; the only illumination came from a single candle on the night table.
He heard something slice the air followed by a terrible, muffled cry. The figure in black had moved; he moved again and there was another slash and then a second muted scream. Silhouetted against the glow of the candle Ward could see that the man was whipping Debbie with what looked like a belt. He lashed her over and over, across the thighs, the belly, the chest, the face, then back down again.
Sharia “justice,”
Ward noted in the small corner of his brain that could still be dispassionate.
The man worked methodically, like someone who had witnessed this kind of punishment before. Ward knew it from his rookie days when he'd seen a blackjack at work. You don't hit the same spot twice in a row or the new pain overwrites the old. You hit different places so that each wound can cycle through to maximum effect.
The woman's cries were constant and her body twitched and jumped and writhed with every blow. Ward looked the man over, tried to find something distinctive he could identify in a lineup. It was difficult enough to stay focused, let alone pick out details in the dark. What could he do, ask the suspects to swing a whip so he can ID the technique?
Ward's head lolled against the armchair as the belt struck for the last time. He could only hear hoarse, nasal gasps from Debbie Wayne. The last few blows themselves had caused her to jump—she was no longer moving of her own volition.
The man who had beaten her came over to Ward. He looped the belt behind his neck, pulled him forward to the floor, onto his face. Then he kicked Ward in the side, in the head, in the hip. The detective found himself wishing the guy would spit on him; at least then they'd have his DNA. But either he was too smart or too spent for that. With a final kick to the cheek, he and the others left the room.
Ward's ears were ringing and he could no longer hear Debbie. He had to get over to her, to a phone.
His ribs were broken; he found out that much as he tried to roll onto his side. A sharp intake of air caused them to stab him a second time and he dropped back onto his chest. He was going to have to claw his way across the carpet to the bed. He was glad for the thick pile: he would grab two fistfuls then use his elbows to drag his battered body forward. It took a while but he finally reached the side of the bed where he was able to reach up and wrap his fingers around what turned out to be the bindings on Debbie's right leg. With one hand on those and another pressed to the floor he was able to get on his knees. He moved slowly, accommodating the busted ribs, found it painful to put weight on his right hip; there was a lot of pain but it did not feel broken.
The men had extinguished the candle at some point, which was just as well. Ward did not have to see Debbie's body to know what they had done to it. The sheet was thick with her blood. He used the side of the bed to support himself as he sidled toward the nightstand on his knees. There was no landline but he felt around and found her cell phone.
He did not know the police chief's number but 9-1-1 would suffice. He pressed it and gave his name and the address and then dropped in a limp twisting motion to the floor.

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