Out of the Ash: Volume Three of the San Francisco Trilogy

By Gloria H. Giroux

The intertwined Prescott, Manzone, and Grant clans have made their marks on the world against the backdrop of the turbulent and astounding 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s. As the mid-1990s roll on into an exciting new millennium, evil forces rise from the ashes of the past and inexplicably threaten these families peaceful, productive lives in San Francisco.

The tight-knit group searches for answers to the growing peril: perpetrators who are driven by lethal rage and savage depravity and for whom there is neither redemption nor a show of mercy toward the people they hope to demolish. Not only do they seek to destroy the families but their friends as well with grotesquely malevolent intent.

Through passion, strength, and utter fearlessness, family members battle back to reclaim their lives and end the savage thirst for revenge of beings that could only be considered demons from hell. Will Norah, Adam, Zack, Trenton, Toni, and their next generations succeed? Or is the evil too smart, too immoral, and far too determined to be defeated?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532013423

Gloria H. Giroux

Gloria H. Giroux was born in North Adams, MA. Raised in Hartford, CT, she graduated from Bulkeley High School, the University of Connecticut and the Computer Processing Institute subsequently embarking on a double career of IT and writing. The author of nineteen fiction novels, Keene Retribution is homage to a special place in her life in New England. She currently lives in Arizona where she is working on her next book.

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Copyright © 2017 Gloria H. Giroux.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-1341-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-1340-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-1342-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015910322

iUniverse rev. date: 01/20/2017

CONTENTS

Cast Of Characters

Prologue

Book One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Book Two

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Book Three

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

This book is

dedicated to my brother, Tucson, who has put up with me for sixty-plus years through the patience and sheer willpower of a saint.

You’re one tough dude, Big Brother!

And I love you very much …

CAST OF CHARACTERS ¹

PROLOGUE

September 16, 1995, Napa Valley, California

It was almost midnight, and the celebration seemed to be winding down. The string quartet was playing Canticle, Stravinsky’s third piece, and several couples were still dancing, including the bride and groom and his parents. Tables of friends and family rumbled with muted conversation and laughter as the last of the delectable meal and desserts was consumed, and a satisfied peace settled over the reception room and its diverse occupants.

Deep-set eyes scanned each of the people on whom the scrutiny was mainly focused. The groom was almost preternaturally handsome in his perfect tux, and the adoring eyes he riveted on his beautiful bride sent a thread of longing through a guarded heart. No one could mistake the father of the groom as anything but, so close were they in height, body type, and features; there was far less of the mother in the son, and apparently very little of her physicality in her three daughters save the greenish eyes. Two redheads––interesting that that could have occurred. The little girl had her father’s hair and her sisters’ eyes, and the oval cast of her mother’s face. Two older men and a woman rounded out the family cluster; one couple was the grandparents, the other man was a family friend who couldn’t have been more integrated into the clan if he shared their blood.

Glances bounced off several guests seated at the tables, especially one young man who seemed a little withdrawn and perhaps naturally shy. His eyes were sad; the watcher could relate. He seemed affectionate when interacting with the teenagers and adolescents at the reception, but there was clearly the aura of isolation and loneliness. His mother, a beautiful Hispanic lady who radiated class and serenity, stroked his cheeks and spoke softly to him, garnering a sweet smile. His stepfather was fighting the good fight to keep his two young daughters under control, but the girls were spirited and clearly took pleasure in tormenting their overwhelmed parent.

Two tables away a raucous extended family oddly composed of a variety of ethnicities was engaged in what seemed to be a spirited guessing game of some sort, and a sudden loud whoop from the lovely black woman broke out as she threw up her hands in triumph, and the blond man next to her shook his head in resignation. She kissed his lips and patted his cheek as he sighed deeply, withdrew a twenty from his wallet, and handed it to her. Research indicated that these two were married and both were professionally successful. With fine careers characterized by professional respect by others in their fields, a city full of family and friends, and two gorgeous kids, they had it all. A family of those friends clustered around them at the table, a regal-looking Asian man, his obviously hot-tempered Hispanic wife, and their five mixed-race children (four girls, one boy). There was an easiness borne of longtime association surrounding them; in truth, the men were best friends as well as professional colleagues.

The other table meriting a longer examination held another set of young identical redheads and their family, including parents, a younger blonde sister, and grandparents. Extra chairs crushed the family together along with another man and woman, and what appeared to be their young son, who was constantly fidgeting as his mother scowled menacingly at him. She seemed like a woman on whose bad side one should never dare to roam. She was dressed somewhat traditionally for a wedding, but still had a large swath of shocking pink running through her short blonde hair. Her husband wore the standard tux, as did their son who, despite a nod to the solemnity of the occasion, also had a wide swath of neon purple running through his shoulder-length ash-blond hair. Apparently, he was more his mother’s son than his father’s.

The bride and groom finished their dance and she drew him over to a nearby table where two elegant men rose to greet her. She kissed each on his cheek and sat between them. The older man whispered something into her ear and she smiled widely. She held his hand tightly as her groom poured the other man the last dregs of a bottle of Dom Perignon. He handed the bottle to a waiter who was part of a crew deftly cleaning up the remnants of the special evening. The younger of the two men whispered something into the bridegroom’s ear and was rewarded with a loud, unaffected laugh. The bride scowled menacingly at him, then drew him onto the dance floor for a slow dance to the classic oldies song, Turn Around.

Loud arguing in Italian disrupted the general quiet of the room when a table full of people whose normal speaking voices denoted a northeast upbringing stood and waved their arms around and made unusual hand gestures. The only two of that crowd who managed to keep their enthusiasm to a minimum were the dour priest and nun who sat stiffly and let their disapproval of some of the levity emanate from dark, disdainful eyes. The two older women were the loudest, and the loud voices degenerated into an actual shouting match having something to do with who was the better singer, Sinatra or Martin; mention of the name Al Martino brought the decibel level to near ear-shattering. The groom walked over and tried to make peace, but anyone could see that his efforts would be futile. Nevertheless, the people toned it down a bit as both of the older women began crying and relentlessly smacking kisses on the groom’s flushed cheeks.

The longing throbbed again and darkness with pinpoints of light blocked out the watcher’s sight like a final curtain. One word chanted over and over again in the depths of an obsessed mind.

Retribution.

BOOK ONE

Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning,

when I wake up, I am reborn.

— Mahatma Gandhi

CHAPTER ONE

San Francisco, June 26, 1996

Anna Sapienza Aliberti was sixty-five years old. A naturalized American citizen, she had led a conventional life as young working woman, then wife, then mother after she emigrated from Monte Cassino, Italy in 1950 at the naïve age of nineteen. Settling in a highly Italian-populated section of Queens, New York, she worked as a salesgirl in the Manhattan Macy’s; she thoroughly enjoyed the long commute into the bustling heart of the city, where she’d never felt more alive and excited. It was the 1950s, however, and her lack of formal education and a good grasp of English left her few options.

She met and married a young contractor, Joe Aliberti, and as expected produced two children four years apart: handsome, dark-eyed Christopher and ethereal, willowy Julie, Anna’s heart and soul. Anna always knew and made sure that other people knew that she was a beauty with her unusual dark blond hair, vivid caramel eyes, high cheekbones, and lush red lips. She was petite, merely five feet tall in two-inch heels. Boys and men flocked to her in her youth like honeybees to a red rose in full bloom, and she was quite adept at flirting and getting her way. But at heart she was a good person and never let the flirting go past a few sessions of batting eyelashes and demure glances. Joe was the love of her life, and they both knew that.

If she wasn’t totally happy and always a bit emotionally restless, she was at least content in her family life. She punctuated her moments of discontent with forays into the city to see a Broadway show with her girlfriends, window shop along the stores in Times Square, sip Cabernet Sauvignon in Greenwich Village, and take day trips on the weekend with her husband and kids. One long weekend they drove up to Niagara Falls and spent two days in awe of the spectacular feat of nature, snapping photos and eating Belgian waffles at a little shop on the Canadian side. Anna thought it was one of the best weekends of her life, even if she did break one of her expensively manicured fingernails. She still had her most precious memento of that trip, a hand-carved wooden cuckoo clock from the Black Forest that they found in a German souvenir shop.

Her single claim to fame was that one glorious summer day when sauntering past the Dakota she had seen––yes, actually seen––Yoko Ono getting out of a limousine. Unfortunately, the Walrus was nowhere in sight, but she managed to milk the story for years to come, especially after John Lennon was assassinated.

The years went by and they were good years. Joe lived to see their son graduate Fordham University with a degree in economics and their daughter graduate NYU with a degree in history, but the lung cancer claimed him before he could watch Julie graduate law school and pass the bar. Anna wore black for a full year as she mourned the loss of her soul mate. But she still had her children and her friends, and life went on. Christopher married and had three daughters, and Julie married and had a son.

And then Julie died unexpectedly from a brain aneurysm at the unfathomable age of thirty-two. Christopher moved to San Jose where he started his own import-export company, and after three years Julie’s widower remarried and moved to Albany. Anna lost that close communication that had sustained her after Joe’s death, and her restlessness grew like a tsunami. Home didn’t seem like home any more. Most days the waves of sadness overwhelmed her and she knew that to survive she would have to make radical changes in her life situation.

The last straw was the great blizzard of January, 1996, when the relentless snow and cold claimed one hundred fifty lives on the eastern seaboard. Philly received over thirty inches of snow, and for the first time in eighteen years New York City closed its schools. Anna had loved the changing of the seasons and reasonable winters, but this one was just too much. For a girl raised in the temperate climate of central Italy, the enticement of a warmer climate was too much to resist at this point in her life. Yet she loved the vibrancy of a big city, and wanted to retain that. Christopher suggested that she consider San Francisco, which had many similarities to New York City, rarely encountered snow, and was driving distance to his family. She was reluctant to sell the house in which she had raised her children, but conceded that that was the only option. Anna hated change in any form, but she wasn’t stupid and grudgingly acknowledged that she needed to listen to her deferred common sense once in a great while.

So her son found a condo for her in a nice part of the city, and flew back to New York to help her pack and get her furniture and BMW off on their cross-country trip. Tears rolled down her face as she closed her front door for the last time, then slipped silently into the limo that Christopher had hired to take them to JFK. Eight hours and one Chicago layover later, she stepped into the San Francisco International Airport terminal to begin her new life.

Anna grudgingly gave minimal approval to the condo. It wasn’t home. It could never be home. She would never let it be home. She made sure that Christopher knew that. When her furniture and car arrived two weeks later and she was able to move into her new place, her son and daughter-in-law were guiltily relieved to see her go. Of course, they weren’t totally free of Anna’s angst––she called them nightly to issue a stream of complaints about her living conditions, her neighbors, and a plethora of denigrations about the lack of true culture, shopping, and Italian food. More than once her son considered pulling up stakes and moving to another continent; Antarctica was at the top of the list due to its distance and inaccessibility.

She had been living in her new hellhole of a city for four months as June closed out. She had begun to make tentative steps into enjoying her new life, including planting a nice, small garden of roses in her tiny enclosed back yard. Neighbors smiled at her and waved; she began to wave back, and even spent a few enjoyable moments chatting with the elderly lawyer a half block away. He originated from the Bronx, which pleased her greatly and gave them some common ground. They had spent nearly a half hour once discussing the finer points of Nathan’s hotdogs. He introduced her to his close friends, an equally elderly couple whose condo abutted his. The man owned and ran a small bookstore, and his wife came over to welcome Anna with a plate of blueberry muffins (which were too sweet, by the way, but a nice enough gesture). Her three new acquaintances provide her with ideas about sightseeing and shopping, and where to get good Italian food; Tarantino’s became a staple in her eating-out forays since there didn’t seem to be an Olive Garden close by.

Anna thought about making a move on George, but her strict Catholic upbringing kept her at arm’s length from the kind man who happened to be Jewish. Well, it was a new world, wasn’t it? Maybe her ingrained prejudices should take a back seat to necessity. She’d take it slow. She pushed back her living room drapes and saw an elegant, impeccably dressed middle-aged woman park her sleek red Corvette in front of George’s building and rush up the front stairs. The woman seemed familiar, but Anna couldn’t place her. Anna waited and watched and after a half hour the woman came out of the building with George’s friend Mike, hugged him tightly, kissed him on the cheek, and slipped into her car and jackrabbited away from the curb. Mike watched the woman leave and turned back to his front door. He had a worried look on his face. Maybe she’d make a plate of cookies and wander on over to his condo and wheedle something out of him. She did love a good gossip, and her bay window was an excellent place to scrutinize the neighborhood people and goings-on. She hummed all the way to the kitchen where she began pulling out flour and sugar from her tiny pantry. She sniffed; the pantry in her Queens house was so much nicer.

Connor Manzone wiped the sweat and grit out of his eyes and adjusted his keffiyeh. Although the headdress was supposed to prevent excessive sunburn and reduce the onslaught of dust, and sand, so far his wasn’t doing much to protect him from the grit that characterized the desert landscape and chaos swirling around Khobar, Saudi Arabia. His loose white cotton sirwal and matching tunic afforded him some comfort from the dampness issuing from his pores. He would be forever indebted to his guide, Osorkon, for not only managing to get him from Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt, to Khobar, but for proactively procuring the comfortable and protective garments. Timing had been critical, and Connor knew that going through proper channels, even for a respected photojournalist, would waste too much time. Osorkon––or Ollie, as the young Muslim preferred to be called––had grown up on the mean streets of Cairo and knew the ins and outs of legal and not-so-legal processes of traveling between countries in the Middle East. He was also adept at procuring any material items that a visitor might need, from technology to documents (real or fake) to drugs to willing and creative women; or boys, if that was one’s inclination. Connor had no material needs, but he did need to get across the Arabian Peninsula damned fast.

Within two hours of learning about the bombing, Connor and Ollie were headed away from the tip of the Sinai Peninsula and enduring a choppy and illicit midnight crossing of the Gulf of Aqaba. After they landed at a makeshift encampment not too far from Jabal al-Lawz––and Ollie finished throwing up from debilitating seasickness––they had close to another thousand kilometers to go to reach Khobar, depending on which route would be the most surreptitious and least dangerous. Connor changed into the set of light, comfortable clothes miraculously waiting for him. He chucked his jeans, San Francisco Giants tee-shirt, leather jacket, and New England Patriots cap, which were quickly snatched up by a chattering duo of teenagers wielding big smiles and automatic rifles. He kept his hiking boots and an extra pair of socks, and slipped a toothbrush, a disposable razor, his press pass, his tape recorder, and his passport into the small backpack that held his photography equipment. He thumbed the embroidered blue M appliqué that his wife, Heather, had sewn on the day before he boarded his flight to Cairo. God, he missed his wife. He had a hell of a lot to make up to her, especially after his brief, breathless phone call home when he learned of the Khobar attack. He had left it up to her to contact his parents and inform them that he was going on a dangerous cross-country journey to reach the bombing site and be one of the first journalists on hand to record the devastation. Norah and Adam were not going to be happy about their son’s excursion, and he anticipated a lengthy lecture once he reached home.

Connor hadn’t planned on the impromptu journey. He had been commissioned by National Geographic to do a photo spread and story on Karnak and the efforts of thirty pharaohs and many years to construct the monument. Unlike many of the other Egyptian temples, Karnak took shape from efforts beginning with the reign of Senusret I in the Middle Kingdom (2055 BC-1650 BC) and continued through to the Ptolemaic period (305 BC-30 BC). Connor spent two weeks photographing the components of the temple and exploring and writing about the history of people and action behind its creation. He found a hook in exploring the female pharaoh Hatshepsut who also had a hand in building the Karnak complex.

He had always loved Egypt, ever since his first foray into the country with his brother-in-law, Zack Prescott, all those years ago. He bunked into a cozy hotel room that he shared with a journalist from France, and they had built a comfortable relationship of conversation and shared interests. He called home every three days, as he had promised his wife and parents. He made sure to spend a half day shopping for souvenirs for his family, and specifically bought a half dozen magnificent renderings on papyrus. He initially forewent the papyrus Elvis head, although on reflection be caved in and bought it for Bruce, and a Darth Vader one for Donna. Connor imagined that the presidents of his mother’s magazine and technology company would position them next to the velvet Elvis painting hanging on the executive office wall of Seraphim, and the autographed William Shatner photo on the MCS wall, respectively. He packed his souvenirs carefully and shipped them home, silently hoping that the pernicious mail of Egypt would eventually deposit the two boxes at his front door. He kept the gold Cleopatra necklace and earrings that he had purchased for his wife in a zippered compartment in his backpack; in a few months they’d make a very special first-anniversary gift. He hadn’t forgotten that his twin sisters, Cara and Krista, were approaching their sweet-sixteen birthdays in less than a month: he knew they’d be thrilled with the identical silver ankh pendant, earrings, and ring sets he bought for them at Luxor. He didn’t forget his baby sister Elspeth: she would be the recipient of a magnificent, fist-sized marble carving of a scarab.

He finished his assignment a few days early, but decided to spend those days exploring a little bit more of the mysterious and beautiful country that had wheedled its way into his soul. He mentioned his intentions to his roomie, Armand, who suggested a young Egyptian as a guide. Armand introduced Connor to eighteen-year-old Osorkon, who had been engaged by a number of foreigners to show them the sights. Ollie (Sounds American, yes? Yes?) was slender, wiry, clever, possessed of saturated chocolate eyes and curly black hair, and completely besotted by western culture. He rarely crossed the line into obsequiousness, but when he did he managed to diffuse Connor’s annoyance with a huge grin and a few witty, broken-English jokes. And, he was an excellent guide. He suggested that Connor journey to lesser-known towns along the Red Sea coast. Connor found interesting material by spending a couple of nights in Hurghada, which since the 1980s had been fast becoming a popular coastal resort area for (mainly European) tourists and Egyptians alike; and two more in Sharm el-Sheikh, which rested at the lower tip of the Sinai Peninsula. Sharm, as it was colloquially known, rested on a promontory overlooking the Straits of Tiran where the Gulf of Aqaba spilled into the Red Sea. Over the years it had transformed from a fishing village into the Egyptian Navy’s major port.

The two towns provided a neat footnote to Connor’s article, where he compared the hot desert and its famous monuments to lesser-known but equally fascinating coastal opportunities. He hoped his editor would include that footnote, but if not, perhaps he could work it into a future article––he didn’t plan on this being his last trip to the Cradle of Civilization. Connor was packed and booked on a small plane for Cairo where he’d catch his flight to Madrid and connection to San Francisco. He was about to retire for the night when Ollie burst through his bedroom door and began babbling excitedly about a terrorist act. It took a few minutes for Connor to calm down his excitable young friend, but when he did he felt a wash of horror and anger sluice over him.

Just around 10 PM on that night, June 25, a truck bomb went off in Khobar, Saudi Arabia, at a housing complex being used for military personnel, including those from the United States. There were confirmed casualties, but no one knew exactly how many, or who had detonated the bomb. Pushing away a thread of guilt, Connor made a snap decision to postpone his trip home and get to the bomb site. Easier said than done. He needed to enter and cross a vast country not especially sanguine towards foreigners––especially Americans––and get there fast before the Saudis closed down the area and before the global media would swoop down to get the best shots and stories. Connor wasn’t a ghoul that relished such tragedy, but he was a professional who knew his obligations and maximized his opportunities. He had learned that from his mother.

Ollie used Connor’s cache of Egyptian pounds to snag the last two places in a small motorboat that would cross the Gulf of Aqaba near its mouth and deposit them on Saudi soil near the town of Jabal al-Lawz. The boat captain changed another handful of pounds to Saudi riyals––at an exchange rate that redefined the term exorbitant––so that the two men would have the resources for additional transport and any other needs. He told them where a jeep driver was waiting to accompany them to Khobar. It was up to them to select one of the two routes that the man had devised.

Amir was tough and no-nonsense. In a calm, professional voice of a longtime smuggler, he laid out the north and south routes and the pros and cons of each. The journey either way would be around eight hundred kilometers––or five hundred miles––across inhospitable terrain and quite probably with interruptions by official authorities as well as bandits and other unfriendlies. He suggested the northern route, which would remove the necessity of passing into or close by the Saudi capital, Riyadh, where Americans weren’t the most welcome travelers. Connor agreed to the proposed route, and before the crack of dawn they were well past Tabūk and the huge Saudi air force base and swinging south towards Jubbah where they’d refuel and pick up water and food. Shortly before they reached that milestone they were stopped by a trio of Saudi soldiers. Connor hid his fear as best he could while Amir and Ollie screamed back and forth with the soldiers, who grudgingly let them go after fifteen minutes and a fistful of riyals. Connor flashed back on a conversation he had once had with his mother regarding her biological father: Danziger had once told her that, Money changing hands makes everything cut-and-dried. Always has, always will.

They stocked up in Jubbah and screeched off southeast through the At-Taysiyah region, where nomads were prevalent and the desert unforgiving, particularly in the hot middle of the day and early evening when they were traversing; the men endured temperatures of one-ten, and Connor was grateful that they had skimped on buying food and instead purchased three cases of water. Another fat handover of riyals bought them a replacement tire for the one that blew out a hundred and fifty miles from Khobar. Upon entering the area close by the bombing site they dealt with several checkpoints by both Saudis and American forces; the former were resolved with, yes, more riyals, and Connor’s press pass and persuasive explanations got them past the Americans. He hated dropping names, but the tough sergeant scanning his documents and scowling at him melted into an actual smile and pleasantness when Connor mentioned his mother and her books; it turned out that the soldier was a fan, and after scribbling down his stateside name and address and extracting a promised autographed copy of Norah’s latest book he waved the jeep past the barriers.

Amir and his weary passengers pulled up to the fringes of the site around 6 PM. Connor paid Amir his required second half of the fee; the taciturn Saudi ducked his head in a quick goodbye and immediately got back in his jeep and left Connor and Ollie to their own devices.

Connor had loaded up his three cameras, one with black-and-white film, and had begun snapping photos well before arriving at his destination. He saw that other photographers were surrounding the devastated area and buildings and he forgot all about Ollie as he went about visually documenting the material destruction and obvious human cost. He learned from a couple of guards that nearly two dozen American servicemen were killed, as was a Saudi worker, and there were at least five hundred people injured. Fortunately, in reaction to the November 13, 1995 car bombing in Riyadh, the American forces had raised their threat level to Threatcon Charlie and were on high alert. An American sentry who was stationed on top of Building 131, the main target of the destruction, noticed the unusual activity of men and the truck that had pulled up outside the perimeter fence, assumed the worst, notified his superiors, and began evacuating the building. His quick action saved dozens of lives. When the bomb exploded, the blast was so powerful that the neighboring state of Bahrain, thirty-two kilometers away, felt the earth shudder.

Connor spent the next two days recording the tragic event, and filled up a half dozen cassettes with stories about what happened before and after the bombing, and the reaction of soldiers and civilians (Americans and Saudis alike), and associates of the injured, who spanned many nationalities. He was able to make one phone call home, thanks to an eager and angry young corporal. He managed to calm a stressed-out Heather, but, unfortunately, his parents were with her and he got an angry lecture from his father and a cautious hooray from his mother. Norah understood him; after all, she had molded and shaped him for decades with her own talent and ambition, which were tempered with strong parental angst. He swore he was safe and would be home within the week. His family was somewhat mollified by his promise that he planned to fly out from Riyadh to Cairo and then back to the United States on Sunday, June 30th.

He had a night flight out of Riyadh, so he spent the early morning in Khobar finishing up his last spare roll of film. He soothed Ollie, who had grown attached to him and wasn’t very happy that his new American buddy was leaving for home. As they were enjoying a peaceful moment near the Persian Gulf, Connor gave Ollie his Timex watch, a book on English grammar and slang, and a thick book on American history. He promised to keep in touch. He stood at the edge of one of the finger outlets that jutted out into the Gulf, and wished guiltily that he had the time to bop over to Bahrain and check out that small state. He pushed away that nagging desire for adventure and smiled; soon, soon he’d be home with his wife and family in a safe, loving, familiar place. He pictured his wife’s vivid blue eyes a split second before he heard a loud pop-pop-pop and was slammed with stunning force that sent him crashing to the ground in silent darkness.

The sniper placed the rifle down in the hull of the small motorboat. Military-grade binoculars confirmed that the bloodied target was lying in a motionless heap on the ground as his young companion screamed and people began running towards them. A satisfied smile flashed as the outboard motor was gunned and the boat began a speedy run up the coast to the Kuwait border.

CHAPTER TWO

September was always a beautiful month in San Francisco. The beginning of autumn had fairly consistent temperatures ranging in the lows from fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit to a high of seventy, sometimes higher after the fog lifted. Light drizzle was common, but at least there was still almost a full half day of sunshine. Today the fog burned off early, and the sky was a deep azure with huge, puffy white clouds gently moving with the northeast wind.

Norah Maguire held her daughter Elspeth’s hand tightly as they climbed the stairs to enter Old St. Mary’s Cathedral. Norah stood patiently as Elspeth dipped her finger into the Holy Water and made the sign of the cross. There were a few dozen occupants scattered around the rows of old wooden pews. They sat in a middle pew quietly as the impromptu a cappella group of teenagers began a beautiful rendition of Amazing Grace. Norah doubted that she would ever give up her atheistic ways, but she did enjoy the magic of any kind of music, and she reluctantly admitted that the hymns with which she had grown up could be a balm to a troubled soul. And in the last few months her soul was more than a little troubled.

Elspeth squeezed her hand and Norah flashed a smile at her youngest child. Norah never stopped marveling at the intelligence and compassion that issued from her daughter in equal measures. All of her children had been bright and motivated while growing up, but there was something special about this one. She and Adam encouraged and nourished the little girl’s inquisitiveness and relished albeit sometimes only tolerated Elspeth’s incessant questioning of the world around her. She was never satisfied with stock answers, and demanded explanations of the infinite universe she was discovering. Today they were at St. Mary’s, where Elspeth had been baptized and where on intermittent Christian holidays Adam took her to enjoy the mass. After the 1992 Christmas mass that all of the Manzones had attended, Elspeth made a firm request to explore the other religions in the city. Her parents were surprised but complied. George had taken the child to two Jewish synagogues and explained the rituals and customs, and was peppered with oddly incisive questions by his adopted granddaughter. Mike, Adam, Connor, and Norah took turns exposing the child to the buildings, rituals, and philosophies of the Presbyterians, Lutherans, Methodists, Baptists (that was Toni’s excursion, as well as the historical perspective on Kwanzaa), and other Christian enclaves. Wei Chang took her to Buddhist and Hindu temples. Next on Elspeth’s list was the Islamic Center of San Francisco, but given recent events Norah was stubbornly putting that off.

The a cappella group had finished their song and seemed to be gearing up for another musical interlude, so Norah whispered to Elspeth that they were leaving and they quietly left the church. On the steps outside Norah buttoned her daughter’s sweater and tweaked her nose. Elspeth laughed and they skipped down the stairs. They walked for a hundred yards down California Street towards Kearney where they turned and Elspeth ended her contemplative thought. She looked up at her mother.

Do atheists have a church? she asked Norah.

Well, by definition, honey, atheists have no religion, so, no, there are no churches or temples involved.

What about foxholes?

Huh? Norah responded as she scrutinized her articulate daughter.

Daddy says there are no atheists in foxholes, but I didn’t ask him where they were. I thought maybe … caves?

No, that’s where troglodytes like your father retreat to when they can’t handle foxholes. Norah fought back a grin. Wait until I explain to you what ‘such a guy’ means.

Oh. Elspeth paused and furrowed her brow. Daddy said you were raised Roman Catholic. Why did you convert?

Honey, there are kind of a lot of pieces to that puzzle. What say we wait until we finish lunch? Norah and her daughter had arrived at the entrance to the Mandarin Garden, Adam’s favorite Chinese restaurant. She had surprised him on his fiftieth birthday with the deed to the eatery, which also came with the caveat that he would continue to employ the staff as long as they wanted to work. The tiny terror of a waitress/hostess, Kyong Wu, was pushing at least seventy-five, but was as hearty as any sixty-year-old. She and Norah had a silent agreement that Mrs. Wu would continue to harass Adam and his buddies whenever they came in, particularly when a newbie experienced her brand of sarcasm for the first time. Somehow, despite the fear she instilled in them, they always came back for more. Notably, the only time that Mrs. Wu offered a restrained patience and gentleness was with Elspeth, who she had nicknamed xiăo húdié––little butterfly. She was even teaching the child to speak Mandarin.

Norah opened the door and smiled at Adam, who rose from his reserved window table to greet his wife and daughter. Elspeth threw herself into her father’s arms and they hugged fiercely. Adam winked over her head at his wife. As her excited daughter extricated herself from her dad and sat next to him Norah thought, Daddy’s little girl. Before Norah could engage her husband the tiny terror appeared and gently placed a glass of sweetened raspberry iced tea in front of Elspeth. The girl grinned saucily and said in perfectly inflected Mandarin, Xièxiè.

You most welcome, Missy Elspeth. Mrs. Wu ran her hand down Elspeth’s long, silky dark hair, then turned her glare on Norah. What you want? Husband already order. Same thing, always same thing. Boring. She frowned menacingly at Adam, who suddenly found something very fascinating at the bottom of his beer glass.

I’ll have what he’s having, Norah answered. And an order of the green onion pancakes for Elspeth, please.

Kyong Wu breathed a heavy, frustrated sigh, shook her head, and walked away muttering; she managed a quick wink at Elspeth before departing.

Adam sighed. God only knows what she’ll bring back this time. He smiled at his girls. So how was your morning? Do anything horrible I should know about before the police arrive at our door?

No, we were good, Daddy, Elspeth said seriously. We were shopping for a gift.

Find one?

No. Can we go to the mosque after lunch?

The sudden change of conversation direction startled Adam, who flashed a quick look at Norah. She was tightlipped and had set her face into that frightening neutral that was all too familiar these days. He couldn’t blame her. His heart had stopped that fateful day that they received the phone call. His limbs still went cold every time he thought about it, and he thought about it every day. Like an unexpected storm, the simple question and its implications and associations drew a dark cloud over what had promised to be a pleasant lunch. He abruptly decided that he didn’t want to stay at all, and locked eyes with his wife, who clearly had the same inclination. Before he could verbalize his intent Mrs. Wu returned with a big take-out bag and a carry-cup of iced tea for Elspeth.

You want leave. Go. Pancakes for other daughters, too. Bones for filthy mutt. She handed Adam the bag and waved her hand towards the door. He stood up and whipped out his wallet and paid the check; even as the restaurant owner, he wouldn’t take advantage of the business or of his small, tough nemesis.

Norah stood and smiled at Mrs. Wu. How did you know?

Psychic, she stated succinctly.

A psychic told you? asked Elspeth curiously.

Mrs. Wu shook her head vigorously. No. I psychic.

Then what’s my future?

Mrs. Wu bent over and cupped the child’s chin and stared into her vivid green eyes. She nodded sagely. You will change the world. She straightened, nodded curtly at Norah, and disappeared back towards the kitchen. Without a word the parents and child left the restaurant and walked into the sunny day.

Elspeth looked up at her mother. I’m going to change the world, she said with a certainty that only a nine-year-old child could possess.

Norah flashed back to a conversation she had had with her father on a Hawaiian beach over a quarter century earlier. "What do you want, Norah? What do you want? I want to not live a life of mediocrity. I want … I want my life to have uncommon meaning." Norah felt that she had accomplished that goal. She was fairly certain that her children would follow suit. She smiled at her daughter and husband. Let’s go home. She slid into the back seat of Adam’s brand new gunmetal-grey Ford Thunderbird and let Elspeth ride shotgun. A sudden wave of black overwhelmed her as she thought about how Connor had loved to ride shotgun in Zack’s 1973 Mustang. She clenched her teeth so hard that her jaw began to ache.

Adam had barely parked his car when his daughter sprang out of the passenger seat, grabbed the takeout bag, and sped towards the back kitchen door. As soon as the door slammed open he could hear her yell, Food! He heard wild barking as Wolfie greeted her young mistress with abject joy. Adam was glad that Norah had the beast since her silly but much-loved cockapoo, Cinnamon, had passed away shortly before Connor’s marriage; her doggie ashes rested on the hutch in a hand-carved wooden urn shaped like a bone, right next to Bandit’s urn. Two-year-old Wolfie, an assumed mix of chihuahua, terrier, and God-knew-what-else that Cara had found one day as a puppy being tormented in an alley by three boys, was hell on paws; Cara showed her own hell-on-wheels personality as she screamed and chased the recalcitrant and terrified boys down the alley, waving her baseball bat and threatening death. Short-legged, black as night with gigantic bat-like ears and an inexplicably curly tail, and a face like a demented werewolf, the dog was moody, malicious, stubborn, and sly––she was known by her full unofficial name of Wolfie-what-did-you-do? She disdained most of the family except for Elspeth and Adam, and was more than a match in toughness and attitude for the two cats that ruled the feline roost, Top Cat and Choo Choo; the original Manzone cat swarm––Buffin, his daughter Felicia, and her brother, Thumper––occupied a kitty urn on the opposite end of the hutch.

Cara bopped into the kitchen as her younger sister was pulling a container of green onion pancakes out of the bag. The sixteen-year-old was tall and lithe, her athletic limbs nicely tanned and taut. Her luxurious dark red hair was gathered up in a thick ponytail that swayed crazily as she practically danced around the kitchen in nonstop motion, opening cabinets and pulling out plates and utensils as she hummed an oft-heard tune by Celine Dion. She was the more kinetic of the twins, although Krista did have her moments when she pirouetted and danced at her ballet classes. Unfortunately, her height and gangliness weren’t conducive to a career in the ballet, but she was fine with that and aimed her focus on her real love, linguistics. Cara, on the other hand, was determined to follow her mother and brother in their writing careers, and she was taking preliminary courses in journalism at Berkeley while she aced every English course in her private high school. Her only weak spot was math, and Norah engaged a private tutor for that subject; she also engaged tutors to teach the girls foreign languages, French for Cara and Spanish and Japanese for Krista. Elspeth was already learning Mandarin from Mrs. Wu, but Norah planned to engage a German tutor for her youngest daughter. Since the little girl was of German blood through the Danziger line, she might as well embrace that integral part of her family history. Elspeth insisted on a second language so she could practice and converse with at least one member of her family, so Norah agreed to a Spanish tutor as well.

Adam closed the kitchen door and watched his wife’s butt as she sauntered past the two girls, one kinetic dog, and two aloof cats and made her way to the living room. He grinned; she still had it, and he’d always want it. Norah heard him yelling at Wolfie as she dropped her sweater on the couch and smiled lovingly at Krista, whose head was buried in one of her foreign language books. She heard heavy thumps coming from upstairs, and she briskly climbed the two flights to the attic where she quietly opened the door. Her heart flipped back and forth between joy and pain.

She watched as Connor, stripped to the waist and wearing only boxing shorts and athletic shoes, pummeled and attacked the hanging punching bag that had seen its share of activity from the entire Manzone family. Norah had begun training her son in hand-to-hand combat techniques when he was twelve, and carried through the same plan with her daughters. Toni’s son and daughter were frequent visitors to the ninja attic until their father, Trenton, broke down and created one in their own home. All of the Manzone and Grant offspring had been enrolled in karate classes, and at sixteen each was expected to learn the competent ins and outs of cleaning, loading, and firing a handgun. The twins had just begun those lessons along with Jordan, but Tonia was four years from her initiation, and a seven-year wait was in store for Elspeth despite the little girl’s pleas and rational arguments.

Norah honed in on the bullet scar on Connor’s back as he was unaware of her presence and focused on his own personal physical therapy. He had another three months to go at the outpatient facility, but he supplemented his recovery with the attic equipment. When he began, Norah was pleased at his determination, but soon she became concerned about the single-minded pursuit of regaining his health and getting back on his life’s track. She didn’t share her concerns with Adam, but pushed them down and told herself that his determination was healthy. She remembered how she had aggressively attacked the same punching bag and other self-defense training after the Walker Simmons matter. She remembered the same concern in Adam’s eyes as he couldn’t fathom the source of her fire.

Connor was dripping in sweat as he punched and kicked the hapless bag. Norah made a mental note to buy a new one before this one spilled its guts onto the attic floor. He was absolutely silent as he beat the bag into submission. He stopped every few minutes to flex his damaged left shoulder, ignoring the occasional twinges of pain left as a residue from the bullet that almost killed him. He finally stopped, sensed another presence, and turned to his mother. He flashed that old Connor grin that Norah once thought she’d never see again. She handed him a damp towel and a bottle of water, and gently touched the upper chest scar where the bullet had entered before ripping through his back. He wiped his face and downed the water in one long draught. His eyes were bright and she relaxed.

Norah sniffed loudly. You definitely need to take a shower before you get dressed for your date. I don’t think they let smelly people into the Top of the Mark, even if they are celebrating their first anniversary.

And happy to do so, he breathed as he opened and swallowed another bottle of water. He ran his fingers through his long damp hair, gave his mother a fast hug and strode out of the attic to prepare for his anniversary dinner.

Norah took a deep breath and held it for a long time before exhaling. She melted into her desk chair and turned on her CD player. Little silver records that didn’t scratch or skip: God bless new technology. Bob Seger started moaning about turning the page and not daring to make a stand. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the mournful sax as she wafted back to that fateful night of June 30th.

She was unnerved about the first call days earlier when Heather called to tell her that Connor was heading out to the Khobar bombing site. There was no way to get in touch with him since the cell phones they used in the United States were largely absent from Africa and Asia, and were out of communication reach anyway. Adam blew up when he learned of his reckless son’s plans, and Barnaby was angry and frustrated that his daughter had an errant husband who chose to take an unnecessary risk with his life and their future. Their family and friends wandered close by for days awaiting word. When Connor finally did call he promised that he was almost done and was leaving Khobar for home on Sunday. On Sunday evening at 6:36 PM Norah opened her front door to find a white-faced, tearful Heather on her doorstep. As she had many years before Heather rushed into her mother-in-law’s arms and sobbed brokenly as she babbled out the details of the call that she had received from the Army base in Khobar.

The details were sparse, their consequences devastating: Connor had been shot by a sniper and was fighting for his life as they rushed him to a hospital in Riyadh with his young friend Ollie in tow. There was extensive blood loss, significant tissue damage, and a collapsed lung; he had gone into immediate shock when the bullet tore through his body, and had been unconscious ever since except for momentary periods when his eyes fluttered open and he tried, unsuccessfully, to speak. Currently, his vital signs weren’t rallying at all. The young sergeant hedged to say that the odds weren’t good, but he managed to convey that message with silence and verbal hesitation.

Adam wasn’t home at that moment––he and Trenton were up in Marin finishing up a case––and for that Norah was grateful. After Heather’s first two broken sentences she had already decided what she was going to do. She called Toni to come over and stay with Heather and the girls. She wrote a quick note to Adam, then called Duke, explained the situation and made plans to meet him at San Francisco International. She grabbed her passport, withdrew fifteen thousand dollars in cash from her attic wall safe, packed a small carry-on bag, and drove her ruby-red Corvette down the I-101 to the airport. Duke and Sigrid were already waiting at the terminal where Duke had purchased two first-class tickets to Cairo. They’d figure out how to get to Riyadh when they arrived. Sigrid kissed Duke passionately, hugged Norah tightly, and waved good-bye as her husband and friend ran to the international terminal to catch the last flight to London. She cried all the way back on the drive to Norah’s house, where she encountered a furious Adam and a houseful of crying Manzones, Prescotts, and Lucases. It was in Sigrid’s arms that Elspeth had curled up and sobbed uncontrollably.

Norah and Duke had an interminable ten-hour flight to Heathrow, where they endured a three-hour layover before they boarded the British Airways flight to Cairo. Norah called home but hung up after thirty seconds when Adam began yelling at her. She loved her husband, respected the hell out of him, but, damn––Connor was the child she had carried in her womb and fought like hell to raise right and set towards a good life. She didn’t dare let herself think about arriving at the hospital to a dead son; if she did, she might start screaming and never stop. She slipped her hand into Duke’s and received a tight, reassuring squeeze; they were linked that way for most of the flight.

Even in the middle of the night the Cairo airport was chaotic and noisy as they made their way through immigration and customs. Duke told her to wait inside for a bit while he attended to something; fifteen minutes later after scrutiny both appreciative and damning from the Muslim civilians and tourists, Norah felt utter relief when Duke reappeared. He handed her a hijab to cover her hair, grabbed her carry-on and his, and led her outside where a taxi was waiting. The driver was a wizened old man with a leathery face and a dearth of front teeth. He grinned at Norah and opened the back door of the taxi for her. Duke sat next to him in the front seat and kept careful watch in all directions and the driver made his way through the throngs of cars cluttering the roads. Norah had to force herself not to scream as the man weaved in and out of traffic like a NASCAR racer. After forty-five gruesome minutes of heart-wrenching motoring, the taxi pulled up in front of the Ramses Hilton. Duke paid the driver with an exorbitant tip, and nodded as the man scribbled his personal telephone number on a scrap of paper. Duke took Norah’s arm and led her into the hotel where he took charge and booked them connecting rooms on the tenth floor. He thoroughly checked out her room before he went to his own. Norah knew she should call home, but she was bone-tired and two minutes later she was lying on her bed fully clothed and snoring like a buzz saw. She slept for eight solid hours, awaking at 11 AM to the gentle knocking on her interconnecting door.

Duke entered quietly, relieved to see that she was awake. He noticed that she was still in her traveling clothes. He had a food tray in his hands and grinned.

Thought you might be hungry, he drawled.

Starved, Norah said as she yawned widely and sat up on the bed. She stretched and cracked her neck. Duke put the tray down on the nightstand and parked himself on the worn old armchair near the window. He nodded towards the tray.

It’ll keep, he said. Take a shower. You’ll feel a thousand percent better, guaranteed.

Yes, sir, Norah replied, saluting. She grabbed a set of clothes from her bag and went into the bathroom. She closed the door, stripped down, and, as Duke predicted, felt a thousand percent better as the hot water sluiced over her exhausted body. She washed her hair and shaved her legs, and reluctantly shut off the water after a good fifteen minutes. She felt renewed. She dried off and quickly dressed in a long cotton skirt and loose peasant blouse, and opened the bathroom door to let the steam and hot air rush out. Duke was at the window examining the skyline of the city and the Nile. He turned and smiled at her. He motioned towards the tray, and she sat on the bed and ravenously wolfed down the scrambled eggs, croissants, and thick oatmeal. She spread pomegranate jam on a slice of toast and licked her fingers afterwards. She met Duke’s amused eyes.

Guess I really was hungry, she admitted. I’d kill to have a big-ass helping of bacon, though.

Remember where you are, infidel.

True. Always be suspicious of a religion that lets you marry a child, but doesn’t let you eat a ham sandwich. Now, next steps––

Let me tell you what’s going on, Duke interrupted. First, I called Adam. He fired me, then rehired me as long as I keep you safe. He’s pissed at you, but I couldn’t miss the awe in his voice when he harangued me about our international flight without letting him know in time so he could be here, too.

Someone had to stay home with the kids, Norah stubbornly groused.

Agreed, but Macho Man thinks it should have been you. Typical guy, right?

Don’t get me started.

Hell, no. So I called the U.S. Embassy and pretty much got the runaround, but, hey, I can be persuasive and headed over there in person early this morning. I argued with the guards and a few other people until a Marine captain took pity on me––or just wanted me to go away––and had me wait in the lobby. He made some calls and found out that Connor is still alive––

He paused as Norah sobbed loudly and threw her arms around his neck. He held her for a long moment before gently disengaging and continuing. He wiped the tears off her cheeks with his thumbs. I called Adam back and let him know. So anyway, Connor is in a hospital in Riyadh in critical condition. He’s not strong enough to be moved to a hospital here, but he seems to be holding his own. Duke raised his thick eyebrows. So I’m guessing that you want to go to––

Yes! Norah shouted. Get us there, whatever it takes.

Good thing you brought all that cash. I took a few thousand that you gave me and changed it into Egyptian dollars and Saudi riyals, and have a few feelers out to people that may smooth our way to Riyadh. We could go on a commercial flight, but I think the best way is a private charter. Shem is soliciting a pilot he knows.

Shem?

Our taxi driver. He likes you. He thinks you’re modest and respectful by wearing the headpiece. ‘Not like most American females,’ as he put it.

Swell.

Don’t minimize respect in this culture, or how they view women.

Why do you think I brought you? Norah actually managed