James Grippando - Afraid of the Dark

“They will not suspect a woman.”

“She must be very brave.”

“You should be proud. It’s Samira.”

Habib did a double take. “My sister?”

“Our shaheeda.”

Habib glanced at the bustling marketplace, then at Abukar, then back at the crowd. He spotted several women dressed in traditional black burkas, any one of whom could have been a human bomb. Before Habib could speak-before his anger could even begin to find words-a huge blast ripped through the usual daily commerce. Screaming bystanders scattered as bloodied body parts flew through the air.

“Samira!” he cried out, invoking his youngest sister’s name.

“Allahu Akbar!” his cell leader shouted.

“King’s Cross St. Pancras.”

The crackle over the loudspeaker stirred the Dark out of his memories. The blur of the platform whizzed past in the train’s window, slowing steadily to a stop. He was the first one off when the doors parted, and he walked straight to the escalator.

The largest tube station in central London was so named because it served two rail stations: King’s Cross and St. Pancras. Forty million riders coursed through the complex each year. The Dark was interested in a select few of them. The tube had delivered the goods in the past, but tonight he would try the Suburban Building. Platforms 9 and 10 to be exact.

In the Harry Potter series, King’s Cross is the starting point of the Hogwarts Express. Riders enter secret platform 9? by passing through the brick-wall barrier between platforms 9 and 10. The books and movies are set in the main part of the station, but platforms 9 and 10 are actually in a separate building. Nonetheless, authorities did their best to capitalize on the phenomenon, erecting a cast-iron PLATFORM 9? sign on a wall in the right building. Part of a luggage trolley has also been installed below the sign, half of it seeming to have disappeared into the wall. Fans of the series were always flocking there for photographs, one after another taking a turn at pretending to push the cart through the wall.

That was where girls of the right age would be. Silly girls who hung out in train stations late at night and who wanted to disappear like Harry.

The Dark passed a row of shops in the concourse, checked his reflection in a storefront window, and smiled to himself.

Disappear, they will.

Jack’s voice cracked for the third time. Lengthy eulogies were inappropriate at a Jewish funeral on a Friday afternoon, but delivery of even a short one was painful.

“Neil Goderich was my mentor and my friend,” Jack said, fighting back tears. “And he was the kindest soul I’ve ever met.”

The entire memorial service was kept short, as it was the wish of the Goderich family to bury Neil before sundown on Friday, rather than hold the body over until after the Sabbath. Jack was the only gentile among the pallbearers, so the family provided him a yarmulke. The casket was a simple wooden box adorned only with the Star of David. The procession stopped seven times, in accordance with Jewish custom, each stop symbolizing the liberation from the vanity of this world and transfer to the world without vanity.

An easy transition for Neil, a man of remarkable humility.

By the time they reached the burial plot, the sun was low in a cloudless blue sky. A slight chill in the air forced Neil’s widow to drape a sweater over her shoulders, another layer of black atop her traditional black dress. About twenty other mourners gathered at graveside. Among them was Theo Knight, who was forever indebted to “Mr. Goodwrench ” for mentoring Jack through a case that could have ended with Theo in the electric chair. A rabbi, the only speaker at the cemetery, led prayers in Hebrew and in English. As the casket was lowered slowly into the grave, one verse from Psalm 91, in particular, caught Jack’s attention:

“Thou shalt not be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow that flieth by day; Of the pestilence that walketh in darkness…”

Terror by night… darkness… The Dark.

Jack shook off thoughts of how Neil might have died-and who could have murdered him.

One by one, the mourners stepped forward for k’vurah. Jack followed Neil’s brother. He took the shovel from the pile of dirt. Using the back of the shovel-a showing of how hard it is to bury a loved one-Jack pitched a scoop of earth onto the wooden casket below. It landed somewhere in the darkness with a hollow clump. Jack hadn’t expected it, couldn’t even really explain it, but that sound triggered a flood of memories, and it sounded like so many things-all at once. It was like Jack’s eager knock on the door when he showed up at Neil’s office for his first interview out of law school. Like the bang of a gavel when Jack tried his first case with Neil at his side. Like the clop of Neil’s vintage Earth Shoes, which he’d resoled a half-dozen times since the 1970s.

“Good-bye, my friend,” Jack whispered through the lump in his throat.

It was after dark when Jack reached the Sunny Gardens Nursing Home.

Grandpa Swyteck was in bed, staring at the television on the credenza, as Jack entered the room. The other bed was empty, and a nurse was emptying drawers and bagging up the roommate’s belongings. Jack didn’t have to ask what that meant, not in a place where most residents were eighty-five or older. Just twenty-four hours earlier, Jack would have bet his car that the next funeral in his life was going to be his grandfather’s.

Life’s weird.

The Goderich family returned to the house after the internment. Shivah-the period of mourning when visitors would stop by to express their condolences-would not begin until after the Sabbath. Although Neil’s widow had invited Jack to join them for Shabbat eve dinner, he sensed that it was best to leave the family to itself. As much as Jack didn’t want to be alone, he didn’t feel like stopping by Cy’s Place to watch Theo work. He wished Andie were back, but he hadn’t heard from her, which surely meant that, wherever she was, news of Neil’s death had not yet reached her.

“You can take a break,” Jack told the hired bodyguard. Theo had kept his promise and found serious muscle to sit with Grandpa after the threat. This guy had to be six feet eight, Jack estimated as he watched him leave the room.

“Hi, Grandpa,” said Jack.

The older man gazed in Jack’s direction, showing little reaction at first. Truthfully, Jack barely recognized him anymore. He’d shed twenty-five pounds in the nursing home, and it showed in his face. Jack had always known his grandfather as having long wisps of silver hair, but now a buzz cut was necessary to keep him from yanking it out in fits of confusion. Breathing through his nose was too much effort anymore, so his mouth was constantly agape. Finally, the recognition flashed on Grandpa’s face.

“Jack, how are you?”

Jack smiled. It was hit-and-miss with Grandpa, some good days and some bad days. Nighttime was generally tougher than daylight. Sunset was worst of all-sundowner syndrome, they called it.

The nurse kept busy packing, but she glanced over and said, “We didn’t have a good sunset at all today. Lots of confusion. But he seems to be coming back a little. You can give it a try. He may have a few good minutes left for you tonight.”

Jack held his tongue. He knew she was trying to be helpful, and he was fully aware that his grandfather’s condition was irreversible. But it still bothered him the way so many people felt free to talk about his grandfather’s condition right in front of the man, as if he were already gone.

Jack reached through the bedside restraining bars and took his grandfather’s hand. Grandpa’s gaze slowly rolled in Jack’s direction. A little smile creased his lips, and he raised a crooked finger, pointing at Jack’s head.