Rick Mofina - Every Second

The short line of beautiful highlands stood between the Blackhead Mountains to the north and, to the south, the Catskills, which stretched over six thousand square miles of forests, rivers, waterfalls and farmland.

The Coyote range was largely unknown to most people, except those with ties to the remote region or locals who lived there.

Sidney Ferring drove his battered Ford pickup along a ridge that climbed into an isolated corner of the Coyotes. The truck lumbered up the rugged, twisting pathway until he came to an SUV.

Sidney shifted the transmission into Park and killed the engine. As it ticked down, Caesar, his Belgian shepherd, yipped and jumped from the rear to explore.

“What do you think?” Sidney asked, turning to his brother Tyree, who was nursing a hangover in the passenger seat.

“Get out and check it, dim wad,” Tyree said. “You’re the one who heard all that ruckus coming from here last night. You wanted to come up here.”

“You’d have heard it, too, if you wasn’t drunk.” Sidney got out of the truck to look around.

The SUV had dipped to the right, resting on the rim of a flattened front tire. The spare and tools were placed next to it, as if someone had started to replace it but changed their mind instead.

No one was in sight. No note on the windshield.

Sidney whistled to Caesar and they got back in the truck.

“Weird,” he said, continuing up the ridge until they came to a van parked a few yards from old man Vanderhooven’s cabin.

Vanderhooven was a retired farmer who lived in a seniors’ residence in Albany. Sidney and Tyree’s mother, Irene, ran a property management company and rented the place for him to fishermen and hunters, while her sons occasionally hired themselves out as guides or did odd jobs on the properties. The boys lived in a double-wide in Owl Pond Valley, a couple of miles below.

Last night when Sidney had gone outside to relieve himself, he’d sworn he’d heard gunfire-a lot of rapid gunfire-echoing down from the old man’s cabin in the mountains. It motivated him to investigate this morning.

“Hello?” Sidney called as they got out of the truck and approached the cabin. “Hello?”

“Not so loud, dim wad.”

The brothers had no idea who their mother had rented the place to. It was usually all done online. People could transfer her the money and she’d send them a code for the key lock. The front door was wide-open, so they stepped inside. They scanned the place quickly-the beds, the kitchen area, the table. Nothing. Nobody. Then-

“ Jee Zuss! Look at that!”

Sidney went to the mattresses in the corner, finding chains attached to the wall with handcuffs linked to the ends.

“This don’t look good, Ty.”

“It sure as hell don’t.”

“What do you think? They making porn or something?”

“How the hell would I know?”

Suddenly Caesar let go with nonstop barking outside.

“Better see what he’s yapping about,” Sidney said.

They went out and down the pathway where the dog was perched at the edge of the ridge, barking at something down below. As if cued by their arrival, Caesar disappeared down the hillside, woofing all the way. Sidney squatted to look at whatever was exciting his dog.

Tyree felt a crunch and heard tinkling under his boots.

“Hell, look at all these shell casings! You for damn sure heard gunfire last night, Sid!”

“I told ya!” Sidney surveyed the area. “Damn, there’s a lot of ’em. What the hell were they shootin’ at?”

Caesar scampered to the ridge top, returning to Sidney with something in his jaws. Petting his dog, Sidney took the item in his hand. It was about the size of a sheet of tissue, a torn piece of fabric, damp with red-

“ Jee Zuss , that looks like blood!”

Sidney’s attention followed Caesar, who’d galloped back down the hillside to the brush heaped at the bottom.

Sidney put one hand over his eyes to block the sun, squinting until he saw a bloodied hand among the branches.

Manhattan, New York

At 7:15 a.m. Kate Page joined the bustle of Grand Central’s main concourse, loving its sweeping staircases, glimmering chandeliers and cathedral splendor.

Striding with thousands of commuters, she made her way to the lower level, aware that she was being watched on Grand Central’s closed-circuit security camera system. Kate knew about the electronic sensors, the radiation detectors, and that you couldn’t go twenty feet without seeing a cop. Since 9/11, Grand Central was considered one of the world’s top targets for terrorists-just another part of life in New York.

But this morning it all underscored her unease over her meeting.

Bert was a complete stranger, but meeting with strangers was part of her job.

As a reporter, Kate had met sources like this all the time. She was not fearless and she was not a fool. She always took precautions. She was extremely careful never to meet anyone alone, unless it was during the day and in a very public place.

Bert could be luring her for his own reasons. He could be a nut who wanted to be part of the story, but, if her instinct was to be trusted, he could also be a genuine source of critical information.

At the food concourse she was greeted by appetizing aromas of freshly baked bread, bacon, coffee and fresh fruit. She threaded her way among commuters, moving under the marble arches along the many food kiosks and joining the line at Grabbin Run Deli.

She studied the sea of faces, trying to guess if she could match one to Bert’s voice. He’d called her again this morning to say he was bringing someone with him and ensured Kate that he’d recognize her from pictures he’d seen online related to news stories.

Kate bought a tea and a bagel with cream cheese. She got lucky when someone vacated a table with three chairs. She took a seat and unfolded her copy of the New York Times . She’d managed two bites, two sips and got to page three before two men stood at her table.

She lowered her paper.

“May I help you?”

“You’re Kate Page, the reporter?”

She nodded.

“I’m Bert, and this is my son, John.”

Bert was in his mid-fifties. His dark-complexioned face was covered with salt-and-pepper stubble. His dark, oily hair was parted neatly to one side. He wore a sport jacket with a newspaper rolled in one pocket-Arabic, Kate noticed from the headlines.

His son was in his early twenties, with white earbuds collared around his neck. He wore a Lady Gaga T-shirt and jeans and was chewing gum.

“Please, sit down,” she said.

“We have very little time before we catch the train to Federal Plaza.”

“I understand.” Kate set her phone to record and took out her notebook.

“No pictures, please.”

“Got it. What do you do for a living, Bert?”

“I’m a contractor. I have a small carpentry business in Yonkers.”

“And John?”

“I’m a student at Hunter College.”

“What’re you studying?”

“Chemistry.”

“Okay, let’s get to it. Why did you call me? What is your relation to Jerricko Blaine and his family?”

“His mother, Nazihah Samadyh, is my cousin,” Bert said. “I want you to know that we’ve not had contact with her for years. To be honest, we never got along. We’re going to the FBI to tell them the truth about her son Jerricko.”

“And what’s the truth?”

“First, you must know that I am an American citizen. I came to this country because I respect it and love it for the freedom and dignity it offers to everyone who is willing to work hard.”

“Understood.”

“John, my son, is also an American citizen, born here in New York.”