Rick Mofina - Every Second

“Were you and your wife close to them?”

“We were at that time, yes. They seemed to be a happy family. We had no children of our own and we thought the world of the boys. Then Andrew told Michelle that, even after several years, Naz was not settling in. I guess she was having a hard time adjusting to life in America.”

“In what way?”

“Just with accepting American behavior, attitudes, values, that sort of thing. Naz had an ultraconservative religious upbringing-it’s very different from life in the States. She couldn’t adapt-didn’t want to. She wanted to return to Afghanistan with her sons. Andrew didn’t want to leave the US, but she kept insisting that she couldn’t raise the boys properly as long as they stayed here.”

“What happened?”

“It was around then, when she became determined to move back, that Andrew was killed in a traffic accident on the Hollywood Freeway. It was horrible. A tanker truck jackknifed and exploded. They said Andrew died instantly.” Irwin paused, staring at nothing, lost in a memory. After a few moments, he continued. “That really hit us hard. By this time, the boys were older and Malcolm began running with gangs, just as his mother had feared. He got into trouble so often, and eventually he was convicted of a robbery and sent to prison in Tehachapi.”

“Was his mother still in the country at that time?”

“Yes, she and Jerricko would visit Malcolm in prison. Michelle still kept in touch, then. She worried about them all and talked often on the phone with Naz.”

Kendrick glanced at the clock on the wall. Time was ticking by, but he didn’t want to rush this man as he opened up.

“Prison had hardened Malcolm, changed him. He came out a cold, embittered man. He took his mom’s name, calling himself Malcolm Jordan Samadyh. He seemed…disdainful of his American heritage and he continued with his criminal ways until-” Ted paused again, shaking his head. “He was killed during a robbery in Santa Ana.”

“What happened to his family after that?”

“Naz was devastated, out of her mind with grief. During one call with Michelle, Naz blamed America for the deaths of her husband and son. She really believed everything would have been different if they’d gone back to Afghanistan when she’d asked.”

“Malcolm murdered a police officer and shot a pregnant woman while robbing a convenience store. And she blamed America for his actions?” Kendrick asked.

“I know, it was her son . Naz refused to accept reality. She claimed there was some sort of conspiracy against her family, that they were being punished by the US because Andrew had helped people in Afghanistan. It wasn’t long after Malcolm’s death that she returned home.”

“What about Jerricko?”

“He idolized his big brother and was never the same after Malcolm’s death. He was lost. My wife heard that he drifted across the country doing odd jobs, but we couldn’t find a way to contact him.”

“He didn’t go to Afghanistan with his mother?”

“Not initially, but we’d heard that he did a few years later-stayed a few years and then returned to America a very angry young man.”

“Who told you this?”

“My wife. She’d tried so hard to stay in touch with Naz after she’d left. They both had something important in common-they loved Andrew. And Michelle felt like she owed it to her brother to keep Naz close, to remember they were family, despite everything else.”

“We’ll need to talk with your wife,” Kendrick said.

Ted stared hard at them, something dark and painful behind his eyes.

“Michelle died a year ago. Heart failure. That’s why I’m down here doing what I do. It’s what she would’ve wanted.”

“I’m sorry about your loss, Ted,” Kendrick said. “I’m sure you’ll understand, we’ll need contact information of everyone in the family. Can you provide it to us as soon as possible?”

“Yes, anything to help. There’s only a few people-a cousin in New York, one in Texas.” Irwin reached for his cell phone, shaking his head while scrolling through contacts. “It’s a sad irony, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Andrew went to Afghanistan to help people in need, a wonderful legacy. But that legacy also includes a son who killed a police officer, another involved in a terrible robbery and hostage situation, and their mother, who blames America for it all.”

Deer Kill River, New York

“What the f- Watch where you’re going, jerk!”

Bruce Grover battled to control his Jeep Wrangler after a white SUV barreling around a blind turn had forced him off the dirt road.

The Jeep bucked, gravel peppered the undercarriage and broiling dust clouds swirled as Grover slid to a stop on the shoulder. His blood thumping, he looked hard in his rearview mirror until the clouds dissipated and the SUV was long gone.

Where did that idiot come from? Nobody ever uses this road.

He let out a long breath, shoving the incident out of his mind and his Jeep into gear, as he continued. Although wary, he strained to reclaim the serenity he had been enjoying before his encounter with stupidity.

After all, this was his vacation, his first real break in two years since he took over as editor-in-chief of the Weekly Highlands Sun-Bulletin .

Running a small paper had taken over his life. It meant that every complaint like, “My paper was left in the rain again, I’m going to cancel.”

“Your website sucks. It freezes my computer.”

“You’re obviously on the payroll of corporations.”

“Why are you covering up what’s really going on at that military base?”

“I want you to write about my neighbor’s barking dog” -came to him 24/7.

Still, Bruce loved it because he was also part owner of a paper that, surprisingly, even in these dismal times for the industry, was turning a profit. And he loved it because he was a news junkie who craved panning every call for the gold that would lead to a real story.

He’d gotten that from sixteen years as a reporter, then editor, at the New York Post . His appetite for news was impossible to satisfy. It’s why the whole time he was on the Thruway he’d followed radio news reports of that bank robbery in Queens.

Manager takes a quarter million from his own bank. Bombs strapped to him and his own family, and maybe a mob tie? It’s one helluva story. Wish I was on it.

But he’d made a promise to his wife when he’d kissed her goodbye this morning-he would turn off the news, forget about the business and go fishing. It was just what the doctor ordered, and she never failed to remind him of that.

“Don’t forget what the doctor said about your blood pressure, Bruce.”

So he’d shut off the radio when he’d left the freeway and took in the scenery instead, embracing memories of the “Nick Adams, Big Two-Hearted River” period of his life when he’d come up here alone to fish. Over the years he’d still driven through the area to keep a vigil on all the secret places he knew.

Like this one.

The jagged rock formation jutted from the forest up ahead.

The dense growth hid the entrance he knew was there and he slowly guided his Jeep on to the rugged path. As he tottered along the earthen trail, branches smacked and scraped at the Wrangler, as if he was driving through a woodland car wash.

Bruce loved how the light had dimmed, slivers of sunshine piercing the forest canopy in brilliant shafts as if through the stained-glass windows of a great cathedral.

His fishing tackle and camping gear rattled in the back. The Deer Kill River was a mile ahead. It was one of the best regions in the country for brook and brown trout and this long-forgotten logger’s trail led to pockets of deep pools and frigid springs that were heaven for fly-fishing.