Kate's Gifts



  Kate’s Gifts

  David F. McDonald

  Copyright 2014 David F. McDonald

  This book is a work of fiction. the names, characters, and incidents are products of the writers imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental"

  Acknowledgments

  My anonymous friends,

  I stand on the shoulders of giants.

  You’ve never let me down, and I am forever grateful.

  My editor John Paine,

  who guided me along and at times talked me down

  from the mountain.

  My family,

  for their endless love and support.

  For Amy

  You are my greatest gift.

  Author’s Note

  I’m writing the final words of this manuscript right where it all began--on a train rolling through the darkness of New Jersey. A lot of miles have been covered, and I’ve worn out a few laptops, but this train is finally pulling into the station.

  Kate’s Gifts is a political thriller, a genre that many an agent has told me doesn’t sell these days. That’s okay by me because that’s not what it’s about. The thriller angle, although pretty scary and timely, is what Alfred Hitchcock called the “McGuffin,” a plot device around which the characters change, grow and overcome the adversity they face.

  This is a novel about God, free will, and gratitude, or at least my humble perception of them. Being that you’re reading this sentence, I guess I haven’t scared you off yet. Good for you.

  Writing Kate’s Gifts has given me a glimpse of divinity, creating worlds and giving life to characters that I love unconditionally, even the bad guys. When souls must be reaped, it is not because I love them less; it is because I love them more, for their sacrifice serves a greater purpose. Like words on a page, every life has its own place and purpose, which can stand apart from or contribute to the sentence, becoming a part of the paragraph, which is part of a chapter, which becomes the story. Looking at the words, you can guess what it’s all about, but it is only at the end that you fully understand.

  Native American writer and theologian Vine Deloria Jr. said, “Religion is for those who’re afraid of going to hell. Spirituality is for those who’ve already been there.” I am a spiritualist, having had first-hand experience with some of the worst that you could bring upon yourself. I am a product of Divine intervention, dragged back from the brink for God only knows why. I do know that had He not, this book would never have been written. I am eternally grateful.

  I ran into a train conductor recently I used to see years ago when I started writing. He asked me how the book was coming. I said it was almost there. Then he asked me if it had a happy ending. I told him I’d let him know. No spoilers.

  Prologue

  As you walk by the charming house on a lush tree-lined street in this quiet suburban neighborhood, you hear the music every Thursday afternoon and wonder, “What’s she doing in there?”

  The flagstone path leads you past a dazzling array of potted mums. Inside the front door, the incredibly tasteful decor and meticulous detail seem almost like a movie set, or a real estate open house, with fresh cut flowers and the aroma of cookies baking in the kitchen. The rooms are set in warm hues with deep cherry wood furniture. The music draws you down the hall, past pictures hanging on the wall of a handsome family. Shots of vacations with wet dogs, winter fun with snowmen, and beautiful portraits. As your eyes shift from frame to frame, you feel a slight tinge of jealousy and envy. In the large living room, vanilla-scented candles have been placed on the coffee table, floating in bowls of water rippling from the sound waves pouring from the speakers. The music is classical, a deeply moving, haunting and bittersweet melody. It is Prokofiev, Suite Number One from Cinderella.

  On the couch that faces the fireplace, you see the beautiful blond woman in the photographs. She is older than in the pictures, but still wonderful to gaze upon. Her eyes are a stunning blue. She shifts on the couch, and you realize that she is more than lost in the music. You blush and feel the urge to leave, but you have to stay, watching her as the music spirals upward to the crescendo. Then a silent gasp, a sudden shudder. The music begins to fade, as does but the smile on her lips.

  Who is she? Perhaps Cinderella, alone with her prince, for this moment lost in a world that is hers alone.

  But you know how the story ends. Eventually the clock will turn to midnight and the pumpkin and mice return. Looking at her you wish it wouldn’t, but it always does.

  Everything in life has its end, no matter how sweet. So, sadly, you decide to leave before the music dies. You don’t want to turn your back on the ballerina you see in your mind, in your own secret world, the glowing white figure on the receding stage. You don’t need to see the finale, for there is enough heartbreak in the world already.

  What you don’t see as you close the door is that her eyes are open again, and that a tear has fallen down her flushed cheek. There used to be more. Soon there will be none.

  The more we endure the pain of what we hoped to be and have failed to become, the less we seem to care. Those dreams may change from hopeful fantasy to pleasant memories, but their power to move us still remains.

  A slight smile returns to the woman’s lips as she stares out the living room window, seeing in this world, but for now living in another.

  Part I

  “I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.

  Whoever brought me here, will have to take me home.”

  -From “The Tavern” by Jelaluddin Rumi

  Chapter 1

  New York

  It has to be providence. It’s the only possible explanation for the pretty but worn-looking brunette sitting alone at the bar, soaking up vodka like a sponge. She doesn’t want to be a drunk on a barstool, in the midst of an ugly relapse, not that there are any pretty ones, but that’s exactly who she is. As any survivor of alcoholism can tell you, sobriety is a gift. If you lose it, there’s no guarantee you’ll get it back, and most don’t.

  It sucks when God’s plan differs from your own.

  There are two sources of music in the small midtown Manhattan watering hole, the jukebox playing vintage hits, and the orchestra inside her head. Her music always makes her happy, but never makes her well. Just like the booze.

  She hates the clutch of young women at the other end, stealing glances, judging her.

  She hates how they can sip their delicate little Cosmos.

  “Can I help YOU?”

  All she gets back is a tittering little laugh, and the whispered dismissal of “Drunk.”

  “Fuck. You,” she says, making the pretty boy bartender clear his throat. He doesn’t want to cut her off, but if she keeps it up, he won’t have a choice.

  She hates God for what he’s done to her, but Kati considers herself in good company. “I’m not the only one he’s screwed over.”

  She hates herself, for allowing her marriage to crumble, and worst of all, for what he had done to her children. That thought makes her drain the glass.

  The Christmas lights that never come down adorning the mirrors remind her of that. She came in early, around three. It is nine now. The theater folks have come and gone, leaving only the pros to go the distance, like her. The guys hitting on her find out real quick she isn’t looking for company. She is there to drink, alone in a crowded bar. She doesn’t have to look for trouble because it always seems to find her.

  She gestures for another and the bartender gives in again. She keeps the cash coming and he likes her look, a flattering black business suit with a little black lace something
under the jacket, an attractive bag for a laptop and nice shoes. Being off the night before, he doesn’t know she is sitting in the same place and wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

  “Thank you,” Kati smiles sweetly. Despite the buzz, the pain returns, brought on by the images flashing into her consciousness. Some make her wince, like those of her children. Then pass the faces of the people she’s betrayed, the ones who had kept her sober and those she herself had helped. “Sorry, guys.”

  The young women down the bar get up to leave, one giving her a last look with a sympathetic pout.

  “Good Christ...” The depth of the deceptions still amazes her. Her lies were the only truth she really knew, blending perfectly with reality. “A real fucking fairy tale…and this is how it really ends.”

  Kati’s eyes open to see the dark grain of the wooden bar as a tear runs down her flushed cheek.

  Bar boy can’t take it any longer. “Enough,” he says softly. “Ritchie!” he calls to the ex-Golden Gloves bouncer. The hulking man comes over as the bartender leans to her. “That’s it, honey, we’re closing soon anyway.”

  Her head snaps up, eyes bloodshot from the booze and the bawling. “How about one for the road, handsome?”

  “Tomorrow, sweetie, and the first one will be on me. Ritchie, please help this nice lady into a cab.”

  Ritchie moves to help her up.

  “Don’t touch me,” she says icily.

  That make him pause, “Okay then, after you.”

  But she doesn’t move. In addition to her considerable pain is also a ton of anger in desperate need of release, the byproduct of the simmering rage from all those gifts she’s lost.

  “Please, I’m not going to ask you again,” Ritchie warns, although he wouldn’t mind having a chance to put his hands on her hot little body. Smiling, he leans closer to her.

  She can feel his breath. She sees herself, and him, in the mirror behind the bar. Still, she does not move. He puts his meat hook hand on her upper arm. She jerks it away.

  “I said, don’t!”

  “Come on, lady, don’t make this hard,” the bartender whines, offering her a last chance, but the adrenaline has already shot into her system, the fuse is already lit. She could have made it simple, gone the easier softer way, but she could not. She wants this, no needs this.

  The waiting ends. The bouncer grabs her.

  The fight really isn’t fair, but life seldom is. It is over in seconds, five blinding moves, with a frightening severity and viciousness that stuns the room. The bouncer takes two steps back before collapsing, wide-eyed but out like a light. Nary a soul moves or utters a word, but Patsy Klein keeps singing “Crazy,” not knowing any better.

  Slowly gathering her things, she places a twenty-dollar bill under her glass and holds up another for the bartender to see. “This is for him,” nodding at the bouncer. “Tell him I’m sorry, but I warned him.”

  She stuffs the bill in the empty glass, and heads out the door as the bartender watches.

  “Don’t let me see you in here again!”

  She turns at the door and smiles. “You’d better hope you don’t.”

  Kati wades slips into the current of the night. The rush is wearing off, replaced by the dread of her new regrets, a new failure to add to her collection.

  She has to move on, sure they’ll call the cops. A run-in with New York’s finest would be bad for all involved because there’d be no telling where it would stop. She doesn’t want that. All she wants is another drink, and everything will be right as rain.

  She mixes with homebound show crowd. “I had a home once!”

  The thought quickens her pace, adding to the increasing desperation for the next cocktail. She finds the liquor store she visited that morning, but the door is locked.

  CLOSED FOR THANKSGIVING.

  “A little early for that,” she says dryly, giving the door a little kick. It throws her off balance, nearly spilling her onto the sidewalk, but an overflowing garbage can breaks her fall. A passerby pauses to glower at the visibly intoxicated woman. “What are you looking at, shit head?”

  Luckily, there is another place up the street, next to her cheap tourist hotel. She always hated going to the same liquor store twice in one day anyway.

  No turkey, pumpkin pie, or touch football this Thanksgiving, doubtful that she’d be able to keep any food down anyway. All she has is the muffled TV in the room next door, the bottle of vodka and dread. Turning off the lights, she gets onto the bed, but doesn’t get undressed. She places the laptop bag under her pillow and lays back, hugging the bottle like a teddy bear while holding the 9mm Sig-Saur 244 she’d taken off the woman who tried to kill her, and got her head blown off for trying. She chambers a round. Her troubled mind, filled with every possible aspect of despair, doesn’t let her be.

  Cruel loss…her sons, never to see them grow to become men. Her friends, who she be too ashamed to face anyway. Her love, the single redeeming spark she had waited for all her life, given to her suddenly, only to be taken away quicker still.

  Just then, the door to her room opens. Blinding light floods in from the hallway. Shakily, Kati sits up, pointing the gun at an appearing silhouette, framed by the door. Slowly the female figure approaches, but Kati doesn’t move. The woman sits on the edge of the bed, pushing the gun away. Now the red neon light from the sign outside reveals her face.

  “You can’t be…” Kati starts, but a finger gently placed on her lips stops her.

  “Shush, Kati, time to rest,” the visitor soothes. “You did not live to die like this.” She lightly brushes the bangs from Kati’s eyes. “There are gifts you have yet to receive and to give.”

  “My boys…”

  The visitor smiles, “Yes, your boys and much more, but you must fight for them.”

  “I’m so tired of fighting, tired of the pain. They’re better off without me…I’m better off dead.”

  “Then who am I to deprive you? Death is door that opens, not a door that closes.”

  The anguish is unbearable, more than any human being should ever have to bear. Shaking, in silent empty sobs, Kati brings the gun to her head.

  “You are so brave, Kati, more than I ever was. That is why I love you so.”

  It had to stop, as it should have so many years ago.

  “Forgive me”

  The hammer comes back, and she pulls the trigger.

  The visitor smiles with sweet sadness.

  It has to be God’s will.

  THURSDAY

  One Month Before

  Chapter 2

  Char Qala District, Kabul, Afghanistan

  “Inshallah,” the pudgy shopkeeper says in Arabic, gazing down the filthy street. The local kids call him Mr. Sami. They know him as a kind man, who will pay a few Afghani for any salvageable stuff they scavenge out of the festering dumps.

  A few blocks down he spots a Westerner. Normally such a stranger is easy prey, but as the man draws closer, Sami realizes why he’s walking alone, unbothered. This one is a Russian. There’s no pack of grubby children around him looking for handouts; they know better. The only thing they might get is a swift kick in the ass. He has come to see Sami and his powerful friends. As he enters the shop, the women in black burkas hurry out.

  “Sasha, my old friend...come in, come in!” Sami gushes from the door, looking to see if he’s being followed.

  “Hello, Sami, it has been too long,” the Russian says.

  There is no traditional greeting with kisses, though Sami is genuinely happy to see the brawny blond with British-accented English, just like the Nazis in his favorite American war films.

  “Come, have some tea,” Sami says as he ushers Sasha into the back room, where the real business is done. A small TV flickers with Arabic music videos while a beam of orange sunlight cuts through the darkness between them. The illuminated particles drift lazily in the heavy air like gold dust. Sami fixes a tray with hot tea and sweets. �€
œIt is much too long since you visit me, my friend.”

  “The business climate has changed considerably,” Sasha replies, mopping his forehead. The heat is stifling.

  Sasha plays nice, even though he despises Sami, and that thought forces him to consider what he himself has become, and why he is here. Sasha’s heyday was behind him, but he still has to make a buck, and still has one last card to play

  “So, what brings you here, my old friend?”

  “I have some information that will interest your friends in Tehran.”

  A muffled BOOM from a distant shell or car bomb seems to underline his words.

  “I admire you, Sasha, keeping abreast of things. Yes, my friends are always in the market for good information. They have a just cause, and deep pockets, so I am always ready to help them.”

  Sasha regards his tea. “And the Americans?”

  “They don’t pay as well, and besides, their time here will be short,” Sami assures. They hear the sound of diesel engines and commotion in the distance “Speak of the devil,” Sami grins.

  Sasha cuts to the chase. “Well, I have something they will not be able to resist.”

  “Tell me!” Sasha says, putting his cup back on the tray and leaning across the table.

  “My people have commando teams hidden inside America, poised to unleash hell upon its people.”

  Sami’s eyes grow wide.

  It is the final jumping point. From here, there is no return. This would be his last deal, one way, or another. Sasha braces for it, then steps over the line.