Tomorrow's Vengeance Read online

  By the time I’d worked my way through ‘Travel’ and ‘Land of Counterpane’ Lillian Blake was sound asleep. I sat there quietly for a few minutes, enjoying the garden, the sun and the soft August breeze.

  ‘The babies are fighting again.’ Plump, sausage-like fingers closed around my wrist and squeezed.

  I looked up from the page I’d been nodding over, wondering how long I’d been asleep. ‘What?’

  ‘Agg! Argh! No! Arrr!’

  The sounds seemed to hover over the garden wall, encased in cartoon balloons.

  ‘What’s on the other side of the wall?’ I asked Lillian.

  ‘Dunno, lovey dove. Don’t get out much.’

  When designing the brick wall, Calvert Colony architects had taken precautions so that memory unit residents couldn’t get out – safety measures that defeated me, too. At five foot six inches there was no way I could see over a seven-foot wall. I tried a few experimental jumps, accomplishing nothing but giving Lillian the giggles.

  ‘Don’t move,’ I told her.

  As Lillian observed with a bemused expression on her face, I rested one foot on the armrest of the swing, pulled the other foot after it, teetered for a moment to gain my balance, then stood on tiptoe and peered over the wall.

  In a grassy patch on the other side, not far from the musalla, a man was on his hands and knees under a large tulip poplar. As I watched he struggled to his feet, dusted off his pants then inspected the front of his shirt, which I noticed was splotched with blood.

  ‘Mr Abaza! Are you all right?’

  Masud touched his nose experimentally. ‘I believe so.’

  ‘What on earth happened?’

  ‘I was at prayer, and when I left the musalla, I caught a man …’ He paused to take a handkerchief out of his back pocket and use it to clean his hands. ‘This evildoer was spray painting graffiti on the wall of the musalla.’

  I squinted into the distance and saw that Masud was right. Remember 9/11!! and Burn the Kor had been sprayed in bold black letters, defacing one side of the pretty little building.

  ‘I tackled him before he could finish the job,’ Masud said, which explained the ‘Kor.’

  ‘Who was it?’ I asked. ‘Another resident?’

  ‘If it was I didn’t recognize him. He was wearing a monkey cap.’

  My granddaughter, Chloe, had a winter hat knit up like a sock monkey. Masud must have noticed my puzzlement because he explained, ‘A balaclava, like you wear for skiing, with holes for the eyes and mouth. He wore a ball cap, too. Gray, with a blue star on it.’ He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. ‘I kicked the man hard in the uh, uh …’

  The next word was probably going to be ‘balls’ but Masud did a quick vocabulary adjustment and substituted ‘thigh.’ He waved an arm. ‘After that, he ran across the lawn and into the woods over there.’

  I scanned the line of trees that bordered the property and, seeing nothing, turned my attention back to Masud. ‘Do you need an ambulance, Mr Abaza?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, no. A bloody nose, a few bruises. It’s already stopped bleeding. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Shall I call the police?’

  ‘No, but thank you.’ His dark eyes met mine. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d say nothing about this to anyone until I’ve had an opportunity to take the matter up directly with Mr Bennett.’

  ‘Are you …’ I began, but he cut me off with a wave.

  ‘Calvert Colony is supposed to be a secure facility. Where are the security guards, that’s what I want to know. Somebody is not doing their duty.’

  Masud bent over, felt about in a bed of pachysandra that bordered the wall on his side and came up holding a spray can labeled Krylon. ‘I got his paint can,’ he said, not bothering to suppress the note of triumph in his voice. ‘That man will pay for insulting Islam.’

  ‘Maybe there’ll be fingerprints,’ I pointed out helpfully.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Holding the can gingerly by the rim, he turned to go, paused for a moment then looked up at me. ‘Thank you for your concern.’

  ‘No problem.’ I watched until he disappeared around the side of the building.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Lillian asked in a quiet, worried voice.

  Too late, I realized that she was standing to my right, next to the wall. Since Lillian’s ample bottom had been providing the ballast that kept me more or less securely balanced on the arm of the glider, I found myself suddenly catapulted into the flower bed when the arm dropped out from under me.

  I must have cried out as I hit the ground.

  ‘Hey! Everything all right over there?’ the orange-sweatered woman wanted to know.

  ‘Fine!’ I caroled from a prone position in the zinnias.

  ‘Peachy,’ Lillian replied with a conspirational glance in my direction.

  ‘Those men?’ Lillian said as I got to my feet, dusted off my red slacks and began to pick cedar chips out of my hair. She bobbed her head, indicating the wall. ‘My eyes are no good, but there’s nothing wrong with my ears.’

  ‘You heard something interesting, Lillian?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  She was making me work for it, and judging by the sly grin lighting her face, Lillian knew it, too.

  ‘One man said, “I’m going to kill you, you mother fucking son of a bitch.”’

  ‘Which one?’ I asked, trying hard not to laugh at the poster image of a grandmother standing before me, swearing like a longshoreman.

  She shrugged then smiled beatifically. ‘Dunno, lovey.’

  Which left me wondering whether it really was the graffiti artist who’d threatened to kill Masud. Could it have been the other way around?

  EIGHT

  ‘O Prophet! Tell your wives and your daughters and the women of the believers to draw their cloaks (veils) all over their bodies. That will be better, that they should be known (as free respectable women) so as not to be annoyed.’

  Quran, 33:59

  When I met Naddie for lunch in the dining room half an hour later, as hard as it was not to mention the attack on Masud that I’d come within sixty seconds of witnessing, I kept my promise. My head was spinning with thoughts as to who the balaclava man might have been – sadly, there were a few potential suspects. Naddie was an investor in Calvert Colony so she’d find out about the incident eventually, but I owed Masud the courtesy of allowing him to report it to The Powers That Be himself.

  ‘Who is that?’ I asked, as we tucked into our starters.

  ‘Who?’ Naddie considered my question over a bowl of vichyssoise.

  I pointed with my soup spoon. ‘That guy talking to Raniero, over by the kitchen door. Light brown hair. Blue suit, yellow tie. He looks like a lawyer.’

  She turned her head. ‘Oh, I should introduce you. That’s Tyson Bennett. He’s the executive director of Calvert Colony. A hands-on kind of guy who really seems to care about the residents.’

  Ah ha, I thought. The Powers That Be himself.

  Naddie waved in Tyson’s direction but he was too engrossed in his conversation with the chef to notice. ‘Tyson used to be a lawyer but after he won some sort of long-running, high-profile liability case and got a whopping settlement for his client, he decided to retire from practicing law.’

  I blew on a spoonful of clam chowder to cool it. ‘Must be nice.’

  ‘Everyone thought Tyson was going into politics,’ Naddie continued, ‘but he disappointed everyone by applying his considerable clout and expertise to community work. After he uncovered Medicare fraud on a massive scale at a national nursing home chain where, basically, the company was giving patients rehab they didn’t need and billing the government for it, he found himself on the board of several hospitals, so when the investors were looking for somebody squeaky clean to run Calvert Colony, his name shot to the top of the list.’

  ‘I haven’t talked to all the staff, of course, but from what I’ve heard, I really like Tyson’s philosophy.’

  She smiled. ‘We al
l do. That’s why he’s in charge here.’

  The server had just delivered our sandwiches – tuna melt for me and a BLT for Naddie – when Tyson Bennett made a pit stop at our table. After Naddie introduced me, he said, ‘Ah yes. Mrs Ives. I hear you’re volunteering in the memory unit. Thank you for that.’

  ‘No secrets around here, then,’ I joked. ‘And please, call me Hannah.’

  ‘I believe I know your husband, Paul? We met at the Rotary Club crab feast last week.’

  If the annual Annapolis Rotary Club crab feast didn’t have a place in the Guinness Book of World Records as the largest crab feast in the world, it ought to. For sixty bucks, you, too, could be one of the twenty-five hundred folks who filled the Navy-Marine Corps stadium and chowed down on four-thousand crabs, thirty-four hundred ears of corn, a hundred-and-thirty gallons of crab soup, God only knows how many hot dogs, and barrels and barrels of draft beer. You could buy T-shirts, too, natch. ‘Sorry to have missed it this year,’ I lied. Picking crabs just wasn’t my thing, not even for charity.

  Tyson’s blue eyes considered me curiously from behind his aviator glasses. ‘Paul and I were working the Budweiser truck,’ he said. ‘Sixty kegs consumed, more or less.’

  ‘Not much left for the ticket holders, then,’ I joked.

  Tyson laughed. ‘Well, can’t claim we didn’t sample the merchandise, but somebody had to make sure it was potable.’

  ‘A tough job, but somebody has to do it,’ Naddie said.

  ‘Will I see you at the board meeting this afternoon, Mrs Gray? Something just came up that we need to discuss.’

  ‘With bells on,’ Naddie replied, sounding grim.

  ‘Nice to have met you, Hannah.’ Tyson extended his hand.

  ‘Likewise,’ I said, shaking it, thinking Masud Abaza hadn’t wasted any time taking his complaint straight to the top of the food chain.

  After Tyson disappeared into the lounge, Naddie took a bite of her sandwich, chewed thoughtfully, then said, ‘To tell you the truth, Hannah, I can’t stand board meetings. If they simply read what’s been sent out with the agenda ahead of time, what the hell is the point? Should be spelled B-O-R-E-D, if you ask me.’

  I’d been the records manager for a large accounting firm in Washington, D.C., so I’d attended my share of ‘bored’ meetings, too. It was another thing I didn’t miss about not having a career ‘outside the home’ – that and the punishing commute.

  ‘I think you’ll find there’s an item on the agenda that wasn’t included in the email,’ I said. Over the soup, I gave Naddie a head’s up on the vandalized musalla and Masud’s tussle with Balaclava Man.

  Naddie dabbed her lips with her napkin then threw it down on the tablecloth. ‘Damn, damn, damn! Just what we need.’

  ‘Do you think Tyson will report the incident to the police, Naddie?’

  ‘I’m sure of it, Hannah. If it were simply an act of vandalism …’ She looked thoughtful. ‘… probably not. But you say Masud Abaza was attacked by this guy?’

  In spite of the seriousness of the conversation, I smiled. ‘According to Masud, it was quite the other way around, Naddie. Masud caught the guy in the act and tackled him. That’s when the fist fight broke out.’

  After a pause, during which Naddie seemed to be marshalling her thoughts, she said, ‘So, other than that, Colonel Custer, how was your first day on the job?’

  ‘Uneventful,’ I fibbed. ‘At least nobody yelled or threw things, or decided to take off their pants like Paul’s great uncle William used to do whenever things at the nursing home didn’t go his way.’ I slid a homemade potato chip into my mouth, bit down and sighed with pleasure – crunchy, nutty, just a hint of salt. ‘Why me, though? Are you short-staffed or something?’

  Naddie frowned. ‘Not at all, it’s just that we’ve found that the residents benefit from the extra one-on-one attention they receive from somebody not in a uniform. Our volunteers tend to serve as an extended family for the residents, and they look forward to every visit.’ She waved a dill pickle spear over her plate. ‘It’s especially true for the older residents who have outlived most of their family. One of our volunteers brings in her children and the residents treat them like their own grandchildren. It’s really heartwarming.’

  ‘How many volunteers are there?’

  ‘It varies but right now, counting you, there’s eight.’ She folded her napkin and laid it on the tablecloth. ‘There’s another volunteer over there, in fact, having lunch with her husband, the guy we’ve just been speaking about.’

  I swiveled in my seat. The dining room was full so I wasn’t sure to whom she was referring. In addition to several faces I recognized from the sing-alongs in the lounge, I noticed Safa Abaza sitting with Masud at a table for two in an isolated corner of the dining room. A shopping bag from Nordstrom rested on the floor next to her chair and she was showing him a necklace she’d evidently purchased. His face remained blank, bored. He concentrated on his plate, where he seemed to be dissecting a lamb kabob. As I watched, he dragged a cube of lamb through a pile of rice, not seeming to notice either his wife or the necklace with which she seemed so pleased.

  ‘You mean the Abazas.’

  ‘Correct. Safa has been volunteering in the memory unit for several months. She’s a quiet, gentle soul and the residents love her.’

  ‘Confession,’ I said. ‘I’ve met Safa, too, while I was waiting for you the other day. Since you were so late …’ I gave her a wink, ‘… we had time for a good chat. Interesting woman.’

  Her mouth full of fruit salad, Naddie simply nodded.

  Before coming to lunch, Masud had changed into a clean shirt. Safa wore an ankle-length, long-sleeved shapeless black garment, possibly because she’d been out in public, shopping at the mall. A brilliant saffron-colored silk scarf covered her head and neck. ‘It’s August, for heaven’s sake. It must get hot under all those layers,’ I mused. ‘She must feel like ripping them off and jumping into the swimming pool.’

  ‘From time to time, she does. You should see her burkini,’ Naddie said.

  ‘You’re kidding me. A burkini?’

  ‘It looks like a full-body wetsuit with a colorful hood to pull over your head. Safa’s a modest but thoroughly modern Muslim woman.’

  I considered going up to their table and introducing myself to Masud – he’d seen me at least two times, after all, but we’d never been formally introduced. He probably thought I was a member of the staff. Masud looked like such a sourpuss, however, that I decided to put that on the back burner. Besides, I might unwittingly be breaching protocol.

  I decided I’d let Safa make the first move in that direction. I’d probably see her again soon enough anyway – if not around Calvert Colony proper, our paths might cross eventually in the memory unit.

  It ended up being much sooner than I expected.

  NINE

  ‘Regardless of a nursing home resident’s age or mental capacity, they need touch and affection. Residents of all U.S. facilities have a right to romance – as long as it’s consensual. “We try to keep residents as independent as possible,” said Suzanne Garside, executive director of Emeritus at Federal Way. Residents find love and get remarried at the assisted living facility. Caregivers have also walked in on couples by accident, but unless safety is compromised, they let the fireworks continue.’

  FederalWayMirror.com, July 3, 2012.

  As was quickly becoming our habit, Naddie and I lingered over our coffee for so long that the wait staff had begun to loom like vultures, preparing to pounce on our dishes the instant we finished with them. ‘Guess it’s time to go,’ I said, laying my napkin down and rising from my chair.

  Naddie grinned at the bus boy. ‘We can take a hint, Michael!’

  When Naddie and I entered the lobby a crowd had gathered around the fish tank, so we wandered over to see what all the fuss was about. ‘The fishkeeper’s here,’ Colonel Greene explained when we asked. ‘They’ve added a cownose ray.’

  Duri
ng our years of sailing the Chesapeake Bay on my sister-in-law’s sailboat, Sea Song, we’d encountered schools of rays from time to time, particularly in the fall when they were migrating south. Brown, kite-shaped creatures, they swam by flapping their ‘wings,’ often being mistaken for sharks when their triangular wing tips broke the water. I peered into the tank where a woman in full scuba gear – wetsuit, tank, facemask and all – appeared to be adjusting some filtering equipment.

  ‘She’s from the National Aquarium,’ the colonel added helpfully. ‘They do the maintenance.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Would I kid you, Little Lady?’ he drawled. He favored me with a thousand-watt grin. ‘The fish tank was a gift and it came with an endowment. Eventually they’ll get around to putting a plaque up about it somewhere.’

  As he spoke, the new ray swam into view, and I remembered what Naddie had told me about the arrangement with the National Aquarium. The ray was just a pup, with a wing span of about twelve inches.

  ‘They’ve taken the stinger out,’ the colonel informed us. ‘Not that it’d do any more damage than getting stung by a bee.’

  ‘Let’s not and say we did,’ Naddie muttered.

  ‘There’s a contest to name the little guy,’ the colonel informed us. ‘Drop your suggestion into the box on the reception desk. I just did. What do you think of “Ray”? You can call me Ray, or you can call me Jay, or you can call me RJ …’

  ‘Must go,’ I told Naddie, feeling a desperate need to blow the joint before the colonel trotted out the whole of his Ray J. Johnson routine. I gave her a hasty kiss on the cheek. ‘See you tomorrow? I’m scheduled to be with Nancy in the morning. Jerry has some medical appointments so she’ll be on her own. She’s made so much progress lately and they want to keep her engaged.’

  Naddie gave my arm a gentle squeeze. ‘I hope you’re enjoying your time here, Hannah. Maybe I’m just being selfish, but I’m glad of the excuse to be back in touch with you.’

  ‘The feeling is mutual,’ I said and, with a nod of farewell to the colonel, who was still muttering to himself, I aimed myself in the direction of the door.