The Runaway Reporter (A Police Procedural Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Hyder Ali #3) (13 page)

Unlike the traditional Bollywood fare, where the heroes and villains were clearly defined, and where the plot was purposely uncomplicated, the English movies demanded more focus and attention.

His mom was never one to sit through an entire movie anyway.  She would always toil away at something.  Whether it was ironing, dusting, vacuuming (how she understood the dialogue with the motor running, he didn’t know), and even cooking.

Right now she was sewing one of her saris.

Maybe that is how single mothers get everything completed
, he thought.  They were able to multi-task simultaneously.

There was a loud knock at the door. It was as if someone was banging it with their fists.

Hyder looked over at Naveed.  He looked pale and nervous.

Mrs. Ali said, “Naveed, go into the kitchen.”

He quickly left the living room.

Mrs. Ali turned to Hyder. “Let me handle this.”

She went over and opened the front door.  A man stormed into the house.  He had a prayer cap over his head.  His beard was long and heavy and he wore a suit jacket over his dress shirt and dress pants.

“Where is he?” he bellowed.

Behind the man was a woman.  She wore a
hijab
(
scarf
) over her head and she had on traditional Pakistani attire.

“Naveed!” the man yelled.  “Come out here now!”

Mrs. Ali crossed her arms and said, “I told Naveed not to come out.”

Mumtaz Akram looked at his sister with rage and disbelief.  He wanted nothing better than to tell his sister off, but as she was the eldest, he controlled himself.  “Do you know what he’s been up to?” Mr. Akram said.

“Yes, Hyder just told me.”

“I can’t believe my own son will be kicked out of the university,” he wailed.  He turned to his wife.  “This is all your fault.  You spoiled him.  I told you we should have sent him back home to study.”

His wife said nothing.  She just kept her eyes low.

“Mumtaz,” Mrs. Ali said to her brother. “Let’s be calm about this.  I’ll make some
chai
and together we will discuss this.”

“I don’t want to discuss anything,” Mr. Akram said.  “I’m here to take my son home.”

“He won’t go,” Hyder replied. “He is scared.”

“I don’t care,” Mr. Akram snapped at him.  “I’m the father.  He doesn’t make the decisions, I do.  Naveed, come out now!” he yelled.  “Don’t make me come and get you!”

“Uncle!” Hyder yelled back. This startled everyone.  He had hardly ever raised his voice.  “You and I are going to talk outside now.”

Mr. Akram looked shocked and confused.  “Hyder, you can’t talk to me like that.”

“And you can’t come into my house and shout and scream.  If you don’t listen to what I’m saying then I promise you, Akbar and I will never let you come into this house again.” Hyder made sure to include his brother’s name.  His brother was a doctor, and this had made their entire family respect him for what he had accomplished.  Hyder himself had accomplished much with all the major stories he had written for the
Daily Times
.  This gave both of them more clout in the family.  “I don’t care if
Ammi
likes this or not,” he continued.  “We are not children anymore, we are
men
.  So I am asking you as a man: Uncle, please, let’s go outside, I need to speak to you.”

Mr. Akram looked over at his sister, hoping she would reprimand her son for his behavior, but when she didn’t, he slowly nodded and went outside.

Hyde gave his mom and his aunt a thumbs-up, as if to say, “Don’t worry, I’ll sort this out.”

Out on the porch, Hyder said, “Uncle, Naveed is under a lot of stress.  Do you know he’s doing all this for you?”

“For me?” Mr. Akram was incredulous.  “He is doing this so that he can have a better life.  Back in Pakistan I had a very good and respectable job.  I had a big house, maids, a driver, everything.  I left it all to come to America so that my children could have a better education.  For the last twenty years, I’ve done menial jobs.  I’ve worked as a security guard, a gas station attendant, a pizza delivery man; I have even cleaned toilets for businesses.” There were tears in his eyes.  “I have done all that for my children.”

“I know, Uncle.” Hyder replied. “I know the sacrifice you have made, but Naveed is falling apart behind your back.   He is lost and confused.  Right now he needs your love and support.”

“I have tried to talk to him, but every time I do, we fight,” Mr. Akram explained.  “You don’t know anything about a father and son relationship.”

“You're right, I don’t,” Hyder conceded.

Mr. Akram realized what he had just said, “Hyder, I’m sorry... I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay. My father was gone before I got to know him, but I’m sure if he were still alive, I would be doing the exact same thing that Naveed is doing. I would be fighting with him, too. But you know what? I don’t have the opportunity to ever know that now, do I?”

Mr. Akram said nothing.

“Uncle, you have a son, and he has a father.  I wish I had that.”

Mr. Akram looked at Hyder and then nodded. He wiped tears from his eyes.

“I’m sorry for talking to you like that, Uncle.” Hyder apologized.

Mr. Akram managed a smile.  “As you get older, you sound more and more like your father.  I thought I was listening to Karim speak. I miss your father too.  It was a loss for our whole family.”

“I know,” Hyder said.  “Now, let’s go inside.”

As they went in, Mr. Akram said, “If Naveed wants to stay here for a couple of days, I don’t mind, but can I still get
chai
?”

“I’ll put the water on to boil,” Mrs. Ali said.

Mr. Akram turned to his wife.  “Naveed will be fine,” he assured her.

“Will
you
be fine?” she asked.

“I think I will be.” He looked over at Hyder, who gave him a smile.

FORTY-FIVE

Night had fallen and the streets were empty when Nolan decided to go for a walk.  Normally, he would have spent the evening at Damian’s bar, getting drunk out of his mind, but today that was not an option.

He was thirsty and parched. He knew if he went to the bar, he would surely give in to temptation.

There were only so many times Damian would refuse to serve him.  Eventually he would give in to his best customer’s wishes.  Nolan didn’t want that to happen, and he knew neither did Damian or Boris.

So it was better to go for a walk to clear his head instead.

The alcohol withdrawal was worse than he had imagined.  He was getting severe headaches and had even begun to experience memory loss.  Just the day before he decided to go pick up something for dinner, but when he got there he realized he was standing in front of Damian’s bar.

He feared this could affect his ability to perform as a detective.  It was bad enough his drinking had nearly cost him his badge.  And if he lost his job because of him not drinking, it would not only be tragic but ironic as well.

He was agitated.  He could snap at any minute.  He took a deep breath and tried to control his emotions.

It was all in his head, he told himself.  He was stronger than this.  He wouldn’t let the bottle destroy everything he was working towards.

He had it good now.  He’d been able to solve some important profile cases, and he was in a meaningful relationship.

Things were looking up.  After his wife’s death, he was surrounded by darkness and despair, and he was content and willing to let it swallow him whole.

Not anymore, though.  There was a light at the end of the tunnel and it came in the form of his work and his new relationship.

He swallowed.  His mouth was dry.  He needed a drink.  But not just any drink, the ones that would give him the buzz he needed.

He stopped by the side of the road.  He felt sick. He wanted to throw up.

A few passersby looked in his direction, but he refused to make eye contact.

They wouldn’t understand
, he thought.  They would think he was just some drunk who was too weak to give up his vices.

He had to get home, he knew.  Once there, he would formulate a plan.  If he needed to enter himself into rehab, he would.

He was wrong to think he could do this alone.  He needed help.  He needed support.  He needed guidance.

The darkness was beginning to envelop him again. If he didn’t stop it now, it would take him back to a place where all he wanted was to die.

He hurried down the street.

He reached the front door. When he pulled the screen portion open, he found something wedged in between it and the main door.

He leaned down and picked it up.  It was a package.

He checked to see who had sent it.

It was from Devon Pharma.

Why did I get this?
He thought.

He opened the package.  Inside was a small strip, sealed in clear plastic.

It then dawned on him that it was the drug he had asked Dr. St. Claire for.  Maybe she had changed her mind and had decided to send it to him.

Whatever the reason, he was now holding it in his hands.

He put it aside.

He would examine it in the morning, when his head wasn’t hurting.

He decided to go to bed.

For the next hour, he tossed and turned but he didn’t fall asleep.  The pain had gotten worse.  It felt like a million tiny ants were crawling under his skin.  He scratched at them, but they wouldn’t go away.

He got up and went to the bathroom.  He poured cold water over his face.  In the mirror, his eyes were tired and red.
He needed a drink, and quickly.

One sip, he told himself. 
How bad could it be?

He searched the house and realized he had emptied it of all alcohol the moment he’d decided to stop drinking.

He cursed himself.  Then a light went off in his head.

He still had a bottle stashed somewhere in case of emergency.

He went into the kitchen. From underneath the sink, he began pulling out all items.  His eyes lit up when he spotted it.  It was in the back.

He leaned in and pulled it out.

The bottle of scotch felt good in his hand.  He unscrewed the cap and smelled it.  It felt like he was with an old friend again.

He filled the glass and put it to his lips.

But something stopped him.  His hands began to tremble.  He was having a nervous breakdown.

His mind and his body were locked in an epic battle.  The body wanted him to drink, but the mind was telling him otherwise.

He felt a full-blown panic attack coming on.

His eye caught the patch on the dining table. It lay there as if it were waiting for him.

He rushed over and removed it from the plastic seal. He then pulled up his sleeve and placed it over his skin.

He waited, hoping for a rush of joy to flood him.

But nothing came.

He curled up on the sofa and closed his eyes.  He didn’t know when, but eventually he fell asleep.

FORTY-SIX

Nolan woke up. Immediately he felt better.

Normally, his head would be pounding, he would be disoriented and, in general, be in a bad mood.

But not right now. He felt rested and energized, something he hadn’t felt in years.

What’s going on?
He wondered.  He remembered the horrible night he’d had, but then what changed?
His hand instantly moved up his arm.  He felt the patch on his skin.

Had the drug worked?

He couldn’t confirm it, but he couldn’t deny it either.

He looked around.  Everything looked sharper.  The sun hit his skin more intensely.  The birds chirped more crisply.  The air smelled fresher.

He stood up and stretched his arms.  He felt refreshed.

There was a knock at the door. He opened it in an instant.

Lopez stood there, holding breakfast.

Before she could say something, he grabbed her and kissed her.

“Um… what’s going on?” she asked, confused.

“It’s just that I’m so happy to see you,” he said.

“Wow, I can see that.” She smiled, but then made a face.  “Have you started drinking again?”

“No, I swear.”

She went inside, saw the bottle of scotch on the kitchen counter with a glass next to it.  She sighed. “Tom, you don’t have to lie to me.”

“No, look,” he went over and picked up the bottle.  “I thought about it, but I never drank from it.”

She saw that the glass was full and the amount in the bottle indicated it had only been poured once.

“Okay, I believe you, but why the jolly mood?”

“Um… I actually went for a walk yesterday,” he said.  “And… um… when I returned I felt much better.” He neglected to tell her that, upon his return, he had no choice but to administer the drug on himself.