Rick Mofina - Every Second

“I’m on it.”

Once Reeka and Thane were out of earshot, Kate called Nick Varner.

“Varner.”

“What the hell is going on with the car in Queens? I thought we had a deal!”

The line crackled in the silence.

“Come on, Varner. I sat on a lead for you, but I’m not going to do it much longer.”

“We found his car.”

“Yeah, no kidding! Everybody knows that now. So what else? Did you find Fulton?”

“There’s not much more I can tell you.”

“Come on, the whole country’s seeing this live. Did you find him? Or the money? A note? A bomb? Anything?”

“Listen to me, I can’t jeopardize the case and give you information that will aid the suspects.”

“Given what’s already gone public, I think they know you’re on to them. Did you find Fulton?”

“No, but…” Varner seemed hesitant to continue but eventually added, “We’re looking for a second car.”

“So they dumped his at the mall and switched?” Kate asked, reading the news ticker that ran across the bottom of the TV screen as it showed Dan Fulton’s blue Taurus surrounded by police tape and a gathering crowd.

“It appears that way. We’ll put out details on the second car shortly.”

“Can you tell me now? I need something to report here, Varner-and it’s either this or the details about Lori’s past. We had a deal.”

Varner sighed. “It’s a 2014 green Chevy Impala with New York plates, registered out of Alexandria Bay.”

“Anything else?”

“It was stolen from the airport lot in Ogdensburg. That’s all I can give you for now.”

New York Thruway

Not long after Dan Fulton had stopped at Weldon’s Gas and Grocery, the little station was overrun.

A big yellow Blue Bird school bus carrying “The Fighting Wildcats,” a New Jersey high school football team, had stopped to refuel, emptying close to forty players and coaching staff into the store.

Boisterous teenage boys formed a long, winding line to the restroom. Given that no girls were present, Roy Weldon, the proprietor, told them to use the women’s room, too, prompting shoving and teasing.

“You have to do it sitting down, DeFoozie!”

“That line’s for wusses and wimps!”

“This line’s for men! Get your candy ass over there, Wilson!”

Roy didn’t mind the chaos because of the business it brought. The players grabbed sodas, chips, snack cakes, candy bars, gum, magazines, juices, milk and cookies. With the gas for the bus, Roy did a couple of hundred dollars’ worth of business in less than half an hour.

But there was a price to pay.

In the calm that followed the departure of the Wildcats, Roy shook open a big orange plastic garbage bag, got his cleaning bucket holding his brushes, cloths and bottle of cleaner, tugged on rubber gloves and waded into the aftermath.

He was a stickler for cleanliness. Ever since his days as a hotel manager in Boston he had a thing about spotless bathrooms. It was a dirty job but Roy insisted his operation be a clean one at all times.

He started with the women’s room, bracing for the worst and was pleasantly surprised.

Some water had been splashed on the mirror over the sink, the trash can overflowed with damp, crumpled napkins. A few sheets of toilet tissue covered the floor in the women’s stall.

Not too bad.

He tidied up, emptied the trash into the plastic bag, opened the window and moved on to the men’s room.

He nearly slipped and fell when he entered.

As he’d expected, the floor was soaked-likely from a water fight. Crumpled napkins were strewn everywhere, torn shards of toilet paper were dissolving on the floor of the stall. Cleaning this mess would take a bit longer. Roy got his mop and broom and set to work establishing order.

He stopped when he saw what else the boys had done.

Fresh, dark graffiti shouted at him from the stall wall next to the urinal. What foul thing was it this time? He drew his face up to the scrawl.

“DAN FULTON GREEN IMPALA HH47H490 CALL POLICE!”

Roy drew back, shaking his head.

Kids.

Still shaking his head, he ran his damp cloth over it. It was just as he thought. They’d used a permanent felt-tip pen.

Roy read it again. He’d have to repaint the wall to cover it up, but he was pretty sure he had some extra paint in the storage room.

He froze when he got to the door.

Wait. Just hold everything for one damned minute.

Something about the message made him turn around once again.

Dan Fulton.

That’s the guy in the news!

Los Angeles, California

Everyone Is Welcome.

The sun-faded sign rattled above the doors of the mission in downtown LA. Old men, women, teenage boys and young mothers with children were leaving the building after the last meal.

Inside, twenty long tables topped with vinyl tablecloths filled the dining hall. The rules were written on laminated pages and displayed everywhere: All meals are to be eaten in this room. No swearing, no fighting, no drugs, no booze, no weapons. We offer food, love and respect.

The walls were papered with optimism in the form of children’s art, finger-paintings and crayon-colored presentations of flowers, rainbows and happy people. They were clustered around passages of Scripture, some of the pages fluttering in the wake of two FBI agents who’d rushed passed them.

They’d pinpointed their subject to this location.

He was a retired accountant who’d volunteered seven days a week at the mission. When the agents found him, he was wiping tables.

“Ted Irwin?”

The man glanced at the IDs the agents held up.

“Yes.”

“Bill Kendrick and Wade Darden, FBI. We’d like to talk to you about your nephew Jerricko Titus Blaine. It’s urgent.”

Sadness washed across Irwin’s face and he took them to a private corner table where he wiped his hands with a dish towel.

“I expected this when I saw the news report earlier today, only not this fast. It’s been weighing on my mind. In fact, I was going to call police when I finished up here, but I-”

“Mr. Irwin, do you know your nephew’s whereabouts?” Kendrick asked.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“What about an address, phone number, an email?”

“No.”

“You understand that lying or holding back information could be construed as obstruction of justice, sir?”

“I’m telling you, I have no idea where he is. I haven’t seen him in years-not until I noticed his face and name flashing on the news about those hostages in New York. It’s terrible,” the man said. “Just like it was with his older brother.”

“When exactly was the last time you had contact with Jerricko?”

“Oh, ages ago. Years. We just lost touch with Naz and the boys after Andrew died.”

“Who’s Naz?”

“Nazihah. Andrew’s wife and Jerricko’s mother. We all called her Naz.”

“Do you know where can we locate her?”

“I believe she’s in Afghanistan, last I heard. She went back a long time ago.”

Kendrick and Wade exchanged quick glances before Kendrick continued.

“Tell us what you can about the family’s history.”

“My wife, Michelle, and her older brother, Andrew, were true Good Samaritans who wanted to make this world better. Years ago, Andrew took a leave of absence from his job as an electrical engineer and volunteered with a church group as an aid worker in Afghanistan.”

“What were Andrew Blaine’s politics?”

“He had none, really. He just wanted to help people. He was working in a volatile area of Kandahar. I think it was Zhari, where he’d met Naz. She was born in the region. She was an aid worker, too, a teacher, and quite striking. They fell in love, and he brought her home to Los Angeles. They got married, she became a citizen, and they had two boys, Malcolm and Jerricko.”