Chapter 1, "Cynthia James"

2005-09-20T15:27:00.000-07:00

It was a good morning in Stanhope, New Jersey, yet Cynthia James was ill at ease. For three weeks, she had been depressed—preoccupied with comings and goings and the difference that a few seconds can make. She sat in her kitchen watching a white sedan park in front of her condominium. What might result from that car taking that place at this moment? Cynthia thought about her brother’s departure from that very space 21 days ago. A lump tightened her throat.
She took a drink of water then leaned her slim torso toward the sliding door, widening one slit between vertical blinds to get a better view out the front of the condo she was house-sitting—a first-floor end unit of the northernmost building in the complex. There was something familiar about the stocky man exiting the car. The driver closed the door and looked at her condo; Cynthia’s heart jumped. She recognized Detective Taylor from Chattanooga. As she pulled back, his eyes darted toward the slider a blink before he hurried up the front steps.
She could ignore the doorbell, hoping Taylor hadn’t seen her and would go away. She could let him in. Or she could flee. Cynthia was 27 and in excellent shape—she could outrun an overweight, middle-aged man in dress shoes. If the police had found Alexander Gates, Taylor was here to arrest her, and she couldn’t let that happen.
In one motion, Cynthia turned and snatched her purse off the kitchen table. She bolted through the living room and bedroom to her back balcony where she slammed the slider closed before leaping over the rail, purse clutched in her hand. It was six feet to the ground, and she cushioned her landing with a sideward roll. On her feet, she sprinted west to the woods fifty feet behind her building. Swerving between tree trunks as if they were slalom gates, she dodged through the forest. After ten seconds, she stopped and hunched behind a boulder, watching, listening, waiting. She saw Taylor snooping around the back of her building, inspecting something below her deck. He must have seen where her feet had pressed grass flat.
Taylor followed her footprints to the woods, then her trail through the trees. She had to move. Watching where she stepped, Cynthia stayed low, easing south toward a ravine behind the boulder’s cover. A twig snapped under a careless step. She froze.
Crackling leaves. He was moving her way.
She had car keys and an emergency packet—alternate I.D. and money—that she kept in her wallet. Having parked by the garbage bin, she was now closer to her car than Taylor was. Still listening, she eased the keys from her purse. Keeping low, she crept until she reached an east-west gulley. Without looking back, she sprinted east toward the condos.
Cutting around the back of building number 25, she skidded to her knee, picking up a grass stain before regaining her feet. Seconds later, she was at her Subaru and forced the key into the door lock on her second jab. She hopped inside. The Outback started, and she threw it into reverse, backing up with a screech. Only as she shifted to “Drive” and turned the steering wheel hard left did she peek to her right—to the north—where Taylor huffed around the northeast corner of her building.
She snaked her car down the steep artery that served the entire development. At the stop sign, she rolled through a left turn, accelerating in front of an oncoming Volvo. She ran a yellow light before making a series of lefts and rights that exhausted her local knowledge.
Avoiding Route 80, she wended her way east on back roads, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. Taylor’s white sedan did not appear. When she pulled behind a building to check her map, she thought: don’t ever panic again; always think before you act; stay cool.
A half-hour later, Cynthia found herself at a junction with Route 10. She headed east and turned in at the first car dealership she saw. After parking behind the showroom, she took off her sweatshirt, twirled her long hair into the type of bun pictured on her mother’s license, and donned mirrored sunglasses. She had enjoyed acting in school plays as a teen; now she sucked in a lungful of courage and took on the identity of a young widow.
This was one lucky day for the beer-gutted salesman on duty. A clueless woman looking years younger than the age on her I.D. wanted to trade a perfectly good Subaru for the cheapest clunker she could drive off the lot—she didn’t even haggle over his lowball trade-in offer. An hour later, Cynthia parked her $600 Chevy at a mall where she bought clothes, toiletries, and a suitcase. Thirty minutes later, she made another trade, this time for a rusting Dodge pick-up.
In Parsippany, Cynthia checked into a motel, paying cash and registering as her mother, Karen Smith. At 2:00 a.m., she drove to an all night diner and used the pay phone to dial Oxford, England.
“Good morning, Stephen. I’m afraid I won’t be able to house-sit the condo for the rest of your sabbatical. Turns out I can’t handle Sam having been there that night. I’m sorry.” It was only a half-lie.
After breakfast, she called a neighbor in Stanhope. No, the police hadn’t been asking questions. The only unusual visitor had been a thickset man poking around Cynthia’s building the morning before. Cynthia exhaled. If the police had found Alexander Gates, they would have been all over her building. Taylor must have been trying to rattle her. If so, he had succeeded.
The next day she deposited the car dealership check in a new bank account in her mother’s name and rented a cheap, furnished apartment in Boonton.

* * *

Cynthia James had long, silky hair the color of dark honey. When photographed, she appeared tense, imperfect features frozen. But when she moved, every part melded like a symphony. Once while running together, Sam described her tapered figure by saying, “Sis, when you run, you flow like a stream rippling over smooth stones.”
“Sounds like a line from one of your poems,” she had said.
He grinned the way he had when he got his first soaker. “I’ll call it Rippling Water.”
She thought about his way with words as her strides followed a forest path paralleling a brook in Tourne Park. The beauty of the forest was tempered because he would never again write of its sights and sounds. Bushes on both sides curved overhead, giving her the impression of running through a leafy, red tunnel to nowhere. A songbird’s early-morning tune made her jealous of creatures that could sing for the joy of singing.
Other runners were rare at dawn, so she paid attention when a short man overtook her with a call of, “On your left.” Probably a skier, she thought. Cynthia let him by, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he settled in a few feet ahead, saying, “Mind if we run together?”
“It’s a free country.” She was conscious of her ponytail bouncing on her shoulders. They ran in silence until emerging onto a sandy beach to the west of a small lake.
“Beautiful morning, huh?”
Cynthia ignored him.
The athletic man, who appeared to be in his mid-thirties, slowed until Cynthia came abreast. “Our meeting isn’t an accident. My name’s Marco, and I’d like to talk to you about a job.”
“I don’t have a job for you,” she deadpanned.
“Funny. But I have one for you. I’m a headhunter for an organization that wants to hire you.”
She tensed. “To do what?”
“To be a patriot,” he answered, as if “patriot” were a normal job title.
She snorted. “Sounds like you’ve been drinking. A little early for that, don’t you think?”
“I’m sober as a judge.”
“Who are you, really? Who put you up to this?”
“I’m dead serious. I’m here to offer you a job.”
“First time I’ve heard that pick-up line.”
“No line. I’m offering you a job.”
“Without an interview…Marco?”
“We already know what we’d be getting.”
“We?”
“Patriots for Freedom,” he replied.
“Here’s where I turn around,” she said at the south end of the beach. She hoped he would take the hint and keep going, but he turned, and they retraced their steps. She took her first close look at him.
Marco was her height, 5’7”, with dark curls and a large nose. His voice was melodic, like a tenor’s. “We want to train you to become an operative with Patriots for Freedom.”
“And what do patriotic operatives do? Shoot off fireworks on the Fourth of July?”
“They seek justice for terrorists who facilitated the I-Eighty attacks.” Marco answered as evenly as if he had said they sold insurance.
Cynthia glanced around, half-expecting to see a cameraman from some sick reality TV show.
“We know your brother died in the Parsippany explosion. But even if you don’t necessarily want to seek justice, Cynthia, we’re quite sure that you’d be good at it. In fact, we think you already are.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know my name?”
“We know a lot about you. We know you’ve taken justice into your own hands once. Maybe twice. We’ll pay you to do it for us.”
“Sounds sick.”
“What’s sick is terrorists murdering your brother, Sam. Listen, Cynthia, terrorists are getting more aggressive, and they’re fanatical. The time has passed for sitting back and assuming the government can do everything. Washington’s preoccupied with preventing Al Qaeda’s next attack. It’s time for citizen patriots to take up the call.”
“I should join you because they killed my brother?”
“Don’t ask me. Ask yourself.”
Cynthia slowed, wanting to keep him in front of her as they approached the woods where the path narrowed.
“Does the name Jimmy Taylor mean anything to you?” Marco asked. “He’s looking for you. The Chattanooga Police may not have our organization’s means, but Taylor’s persistent.”
For a few moments, there were only the sounds of breathing and feet thumping in unison.
Marco resumed. “You seem to be a good listener, so listen. We do patriotic things in the war on terrorism that the government can’t. We think you’ll be useful with terrorists who have a weakness for beautiful women.”
“How?” she asked with a sarcastic cock of one eyebrow. “By infiltrating Islamic camps?”
“They’re not Islamic,” he said.
“But the papers say Sabah Al Khair is Arabic for ‘Good Morning.’”
“That’s what these bastards want us to believe. The name’s a red herring.”
She stopped and glanced around. “So who are they?”
Marco stopped, too. “It’s complicated.” He shrugged as if the answer would be too intricate for her to grasp.
“Look,” Cynthia snapped, “if you want me to take you seriously, you’ll have to level with me. Otherwise…” She started to jog away.
“Hold on.”
She stopped and faced him, hands on hips.
“Okay. Here’s the deal. The government doesn’t know who these guys are, but we do. They invested in a trucking company a few years back and used the profits to buy explosives and ten trucks under a paper front. Documentation was conveniently lost in a fire a few months ago. The Feds picked up on bogus trails and traced the trucks to Islamic groups, not the perpetrators.”
“So how do you know who they are?”
“We have a surveillance system. I can’t tell you about its capabilities, but using leads from the two failed attacks and computer trails, we’ve identified almost a hundred conspirators who had a hand in killing your brother.”
“But who are they?”
“A cult, called Eighteen Ninety-Eight, based in Southern Spain. They use Arabic code names so their actions will be blamed on Islamic fundamentalists.”
“What do they want?”
“To avenge the Spanish-American War. The organization revolves around one tightly-knit family that lost everything in the year eighteen ninety-eight. It sounds crazy, but what terrorists seem sane?... Anyway, we’re their target, and the Arabs are perfect scapegoats.”
Cynthia rubbed her forehead, fighting a sudden headache. She ripped a water bottle from a Velcro pad on her running belt and shot a stream into her mouth. Still hot, she squeezed more onto her face and neck.
“These guys are fanatics, Cynthia. You and I would call them crazy. They need to be stopped, but even if we share what we know, the government can’t go into Europe to get these people. But patriots can, and we will.”
She shook her head.
Marco touched her elbow. “It’s a brave new world—horrible and dangerous. You can help make it safer for everyone.”
She frowned. “This is hard to believe.” For a moment, she measured him, eyeball to eyeball, then she pointed. “You go first. I want to keep moving.”
He started running again, and she settled in behind. Neither spoke for a minute.
The path widened, and he dropped back to jog side-by-side. “There are many people in the Eighteen Ninety-Eight network. For example, drug dealers in Spain who launder profits through German bankers.”
“And you want me to seduce Spanish drug dealers and German bankers?”
“Just Spanish drug dealers—because you speak Spanish.”
“Is there anything about me that you don’t know?”
“Not much.” After several strides, he added, “Any questions?”
“You say I’ve…taken justice into my own hands. How?”
“The first time was your stepfather. You used him to improve your batting average when you were seventeen.” He chuckled. “Pretty ironic since it happened in Cooperstown. The ‘maybe’ was in May, a man named Alexander Gates on the steamboat Louisiana Lady, where you were a bartender.”
“Oh, really! And what did I do to him?”
“Frankly, we’re not sure of the details…yet. What we are sure of is that Mr. Gates was attracted to you, and he disappeared. We’re pretty sure he’s dead.”
She said nothing.
“How’d I do?”
Cynthia stopped. “You a cop?”
He stopped, too, turning to walk back to her. “No. I represent Patriots for Freedom. I’ll cut right to the chase, Cynthia. First, the Louisiana Lady went bankrupt so you don’t have a job. More importantly, we can protect you so the Chattanooga Police can’t touch you. Think about that. And we pay very well. Base salary: ninety thousand a year with all expenses paid. Plus bonuses for successful missions—up to a hundred grand per contract. We want someone motivated—like you. You don’t have to enjoy the job, just be good at it. And think about Sam. If that’s not enough, think about the families who’ll be destroyed by Eighteen Ninety-Eight’s next attack.”
She clenched her fists.
“What do you say, Cynthia?”
The numbers were mind-boggling to an unemployed bartender. Cynthia paced back-and-forth before looking at him. “I’m not saying I’m interested, but where do you get the money for this?”
“We have wealthy benefactors who want justice for I-Eighty.”
Cynthia glared. “What if I say no?”
“I don’t think you’ll say no unless Detective Taylor arrests you before you make up your mind. That would be a pity.”
She looked into his dark eyes. “What makes you think I can’t keep ahead of one cop?”
“Until recently, he was investigating you in his spare time. Now, he’s connected you to Gates through the death of your mother, and he found out you lived in Stanhope. Might that be why you moved to Boonton?”
Cynthia’s lips parted, but no words came out.
He continued. “Now the case will likely be reopened so Taylor can use all the resources of law enforcement. He may not be as quick as us, but he’ll track you down. Do you want to run forever?”
She examined her Reeboks. “Suppose I was interested. Where’s the training?”
He waited until she looked up. “The Jersey shore.” His eyes twinkled. “I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”
She almost smiled. “And after?”
“After training, you’d take periodic trips overseas. The official reason for your travel would be pro-American rallies.”
“But instead, I’d be seeking justice. Is that what I think it is?”
Marco’s eyes locked on hers. “Yes.”
Her forehead flushed. Did that mean she was taking him seriously? “What would I tell people?” she asked.
“Officially, you’ll be a supervisor of bar and restaurant services. Remember, ninety thousand a year, plus bonuses.”
Cynthia softened her expression. “You didn’t tell me your last name.”
“We’re both better off if you don’t know.”
Cynthia’s eyes flickered. “I know who you really are.”
“I told you who I am.”
“No. You lied. You’re the devil trying to buy my soul.”
“Is it for sale?”
She stared deep into Marco’s eyes.
He blinked. “Here’s my cell number and a good faith pre-signing bonus. Take a day or two to think about it.” With that he placed an envelope in Cynthia’s hand.
“You never explained how you know so much about me.”
“We can hear your phone conversations without tapping your line. We can read your mail without opening it—”
“I suppose you can tell me what color underwear I have on.”
“It’s black.” He paused a beat. “That’s a joke.”
Cynthia wasn’t so sure.
When she returned home, Cynthia opened the envelope. Inside was a phone number and $5,000.

Patriot James: Chapter 1

Chapter 1, "Cynthia James"