Mahogany's Dream Read online

That didn’t stop the AAPS from filing a civil lawsuit against Brian for violating Tsang’s rights.

  In 1995, Asian Americans made up less than 5% of the total U.S. population, but they earned over 29% of the doctorates in computer science and engineering. Their strong representation in these technical fields resulted in American military research centers filled with Asian and Asian American scientists. Chen Tsang was not the first one to be falsely accused of spying for China. The AAPS had largely been formed to combat discrimination in industries where Asians and Asian Americans were disproportionately represented. When Danny Gwang worked there, it carried out this mission with ferocity. Their lawsuit against Brian tried to make him the poster boy for racial profiling. It dragged on for two years before Tsang asked the AAPS to call it off. During that entire period, Brian never mentioned Carl Dunleavy once.

  Dunleavy viewed Brian’s silent suffering as evidence that the young agent, despite his other faults, was extraordinarily trustworthy. And trustworthiness was something that could not be taught. When Alison finally succumbed to her cancer in 1998, Dunleavy arranged for Brian to get a junior position at the CTOC in Washington. And he continued to look after Brian once he got there. More than once, Dunleavy had allowed his protégé to break valuable intelligence information that had been obtained during one of his interrogations. One could argue that all of the promotions that Brian received in the ensuing years were a direct result of these acts of grace.

  But Dunleavy never made such an argument because he was too busy feathering his own nest. Always a skilled political operator, by 2007 Dunleavy had become a master at leveraging his unique access to frontline intelligence for political favoritism. He was especially well liked by certain members of the Senate Intelligence Committee. When a new administration swept into office in 2008, he cashed in all his chips and had himself appointed FBI Director, something unheard of for someone who had come up through the insular intelligence side of the Bureau. Despite the fact that most of his track record was classified, Dunleavy’s nomination sailed through his Senate confirmation hearing like a hot knife through butter.

  CHAPTER

  56

  Mancini was lost again. One of the things he hated about rural areas was the lack of street signs. He hadn’t seen one for miles. It was obvious he was lost because he had passed that annoying Honeymoon Capital of the World billboard three times now. The landmark taunted him like a schoolyard bully. He had torn out of Philadelphia with the intention of letting the GPS system in his trusty PDA guide him all the way to the address that Rock had given him. But the battery on the damn thing had died as soon as he got off the Turnpike. Without his PDA, the signless roads of Monroe County were as confusing as a giant plate of spaghetti.

  Mercifully, he came upon a UPS truck and flagged it over.

  __________

  The OnSat virtual concierge service in Norma’s Volvo led Blake right to Dyson’s driveway. He pulled the car to the side of the road and waited for his caffeine pills to kick in.

  CHAPTER

  57

  Brian pulled the car into the gravel parking lot outside the Pocono Valley Sheriff’s Department. The small white clapboard building had a badly warped wooden deck running along its front side and the tallest flagpole Jill had ever seen on its roof. She thought the oversized phallic symbol made the building look as if the Jolly Green Giant had speared a rotten marsh mellow.

  A heavyset receptionist in a flower print dress ushered them into a claustrophobic office towards the back of the building. Three stuffed deer heads, one of them sporting 30 point antlers, seemed to take up half the room.

  The other half was consumed by omnipresence of Sheriff Ralph McCoy. Even sitting down, he looked tall. The bald crown of his head almost rose as high as the second pane of the window behind his chair. His nightstick ominously rested on his desk, waiting to be wielded at a moment’s notice. McCoy chewed tobacco and his incessant spitting disgusted Jill.

  The Sheriff studied Brian’s badge like it contained the meaning of life. “Well if this ain’t a critter on a titter! The F-B-I, right here in Pocono Valley Township. What can I do for you folks?”

  “We’re trying to locate someone we think is in your town, Sheriff,” Brian said respectfully.

  McCoy liked the way Brian had called it his town. “Only 798 folks in the whole township and I reckon I know em’ all. Don’t know what the FBI’d want wit’ none of em’, but I’m at your service. Who ya’ after?”

  “We’re actually looking for two individuals,” Brian explained. “It’s not a criminal matter.”

  “What other kinda’ matter you need my help for?”

  Brian hesitated for a few seconds. “We’re not at liberty to say. It’s a national security matter.”

  “That right?” McCoy said warily, spitting into a tin sweet potato can. He reclined back in his chair. “No a-rabs round here. Hand fulla’ engines though.”

  Jill huffed.

  “Your secretary got sumpin’ to say?” McCoy asked Brian.

  Brian put his hand on Jill’s forearm, gesturing for restraint. “Sheriff McCoy,” he said, “I know you must find this unusual, but we’re somewhat pressed for time. The main person we’re looking for is an African American gentleman named—”

  “Dyson Conwell,” McCoy said.

  Brian and Jill were startled. “You know him?” Brian asked.

  “Wouldn’t say that, but I met ‘im. I hadda hunch sumpin’ what’n upfront ‘bout that boy when he bought the old Mayfield place over offa Whitehall Road. Figgered it was drugs though. Don’t take a fat brain to figger what’s happenin’ when you see a young boy like that buy a spread like the Mayfield Estate.”

  “Conwell owns an estate here?” Jill asked.

  “Sure does. Nice one too. Biggest one in the whole township. When he first bought it, I went ova’ there to warn ‘im bout the Indians. That’s when I found out he was a…African American.”

  “What do you mean warm him about the Indians?” Jill asked.

  The Sheriff scowled. “Delaware Indians. Few of ‘em stay round here all year, but twice a year a whole shitload of ‘em come round dancin’ and carryin’ on like it’s Mardis Gras. Most of it goes on in the pinewoods halfway up Graham’s Peak, but they always work their way down to the backa the old Mayfield place. I warn everybody in town ta’ watch out for ‘em. I know what their red asses are really up to.”

  “What’s that?” Jill couldn’t help asking.

  “They wanna take our property and turn this whole town inta a casino like them engines up in Connecticut.”

  “You mean Fox Woods?” Jill said.

  “That’s the one,” McCoy confirmed. “Been there myself. Folks who paid good money for that land just got kicked out like they stole it. That shit won’t happen in Pocono Valley. Not while I’m here.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Jill said, “but isn’t Pocono an Indian word? How do you suppose it got that name?” Brian was shocked; he didn’t recognize this politically correct side of Jill.

  “Now you sound like Conwell,” McCoy said. “When I warned ‘im to watch his deed, he said, ‘Based on history, the Indians should watch out for us.’ I told ‘im he won’t be saying that when they put a crap table in his living room. But then I almost choked on my tabbaca when he said that he had his will set up to give the whole place back to the tribe when he dies. Shit, I started missin’ old Winston Mayfield that very day.”

  “I hate to break up this important cultural debate,” Brian said, “but we really need to find Conwell as soon as possible. Sheriff, can you take us over to Conwell’s estate?”

  McCoy shook his head. “I gotta be at the Courthouse in twenty minutes, but I’ll have Jesse take ya. You folks should call ahead next time.”

  “Won’t happen again,” Brian assured him.

  “Jesse!” McCoy yelled over their heads. “Alice? Is Jesse out there?”

  “He’s coming, Ralph. Hold your horses,” Alice yelled back.
>
  McCoy spit in his can and grunted. Jill felt like she was trapped in an episode of The Dukes of Hazard.

  A gangly kid with an Adam’s apple the size of a golf ball walked into the room. “Yeah, Sheriff?” he said to McCoy. The kid stared at Brian and Jill like they were aliens.

  “This here’s my deputy, Jesse Crumpett,” McCoy said.

  The kid didn’t look a day over twenty. “Is Jesse an intern?” Jill rudely asked, bouncing back to her usual form.

  “No Mam,” Jesse answered for himself. “I’ll be twenty three in two weeks.”

  “Yeah, Jesse is younger than my huntin’ rifle,” McCoy said. “But he’s all we got right now. My other deputy quit to become head a security at the Caesars Resort over in Tannersville.” The Sheriff turned to his deputy. “Jesse, these here folks are from the F-B-I over in Philadelphia.” Jesse’s eyes grew wide. “I want you to take ‘em over to the old Mayfield place offa Whitehall.”

  Jesse nodded. Either that or the asteroid stuck in his throat temporarily weighed down his whole head.

  “And Jesse,” McCoy warned, “keep your eyes open. Could be drugs involved.”

  When Brian and Jill got back in their car to follow the deputy, Brian said, “What’s the deal with the Indians? I never knew you could be such a freedom fighter.”

  She said, “My great grandmother was half Native American.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Let’s go,” she said, marking the end of that discussion.

  CHAPTER

  58

  The peculiar assortment of gear dangling from Dyson’s hiking vest made him look like a half-armored Roman centurion. He had come into the Kitchen to retrieve a bottle of Evian water for his hike. Janaya was sitting at the counter in a terry cloth robe, drinking a glass of ginger ale to settle her stomach.

  The sight of Dyson and all his toys made her smile. “Are you going hiking or to war?” she asked playfully.

  “What?” he said innocently, glancing down at his various appendages. “This is standard hiking equipment.”

  Janaya slid off her stool and walked over to him. “What’s this?” she asked, picking up a device that looked like a pocket watch from the next century.

  “A barometric-pressure adaptive altimeter. It works in all five of Earth’s magnetic fields,” he said proudly.

  “Everybody needs one of those,” she teased. “And this?”

  “Portable GPS, in case I get lost.”

  “What about this one?”

  “Expandable tourniquet kit, in case I fall and break my leg.”

  “Then what’s this?”

  “A personal locator beacon, in case I break both my legs.”

  She snickered as she searched several of the zippered pockets of his vest. In one of them she found a ziplock bag with a raw T-bone steak inside of it. “I can’t wait to hear this one,” she said.

  “Raw meat, in case I came across a dangerous wild animal.”

  “What are you going to do, cook it a steak?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m going to throw the steak in one direction and then run the other way.”

  She burst into a fit of giggles. “Wait,” she said in between gasps, “What’s this orange strip on the meat?”

  “Oh, that’s a mini parachute. It’s supposed to make the meat hang in the air long enough to give you time to get away.”

  She fell back against the counter, clutching her midsection in uproarious laughter. “Stop it. You’re making my stomach hurt.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “Maybe some of it is only standard for paranoid hikers with a fear of ravenous squirrels.”

  He grinned and she kissed him. “A little boy with a million dollars,” she said. Then, from the pocket of her robe, she produced a dark object with red paper bow attached to it. “You might as well add this to your collection, Inspector Gadget.”

  Dyson was like a child on Christmas morning. “What is it?”

  “A pedometer,” she said. “It counts your steps so you know how far you’ve hiked. It does a bunch of other stuff too. The guy in the store said it does everything but pick up your dry cleaning.”

  Dyson turned it every which way, checking it out. “This is nice. I’ve never seen one like this…oh look, it has a built-in inclinometer.”

  “Whatever that is,” she said.

  He smiled at her. “This means a lot to me. Thank you.”

  “Just a little gift from your family,” she said, meeting his eyes.

  __________

  Dyson hiked with extra vigor that afternoon, beating his usual pace up the ridge by fifteen percent. Hiking always cleared his mind. Something about being alone in nature made him feel like he had gone through a mental carwash.

  Near the summit of the ridge, he stopped and ate a pack of dried fruit. He kicked his gortex boots against a boulder to dislodge the snow packed between the spikes of his soles. It wasn’t very cold so the snow was slushy. He inhaled deeply, taking in the fresh mountain air. From his vantage point, he had a sweeping view of the peaks at Blue Mountain and Big Pocono.

  He whipped out his PDA and thumb-typed:

  HAPPIEST DAY OF MY LIFE.

  __________

  Janaya had just finished loading the dishwasher when she turned around and found herself fact-to-face with Blake. The haggard man scared her half to death. She screamed and Blake hit her so hard that she flew backwards into the spice rack, scattering glass jars everywhere. The aluminum rack gave off a vibrating clang when it hit the floor.

  The commotion attracted Mahogany’s attention. She came sprinting into the kitchen from her studio. She didn’t see Blake until it was too late. He lifted her completely off the floor by the thin bicep of her left arm.

  Janaya writhed in pain on the floor. Blake stomped his boot over her wrist to keep her from crawling away.

  Both of his victims screamed out, but no one could hear them but the deer.

  __________

  Descending a slope was always more dangerous than scaling one, so Dyson had to be careful. He took his time, even though he felt invincible.

  __________

  Using twine he’d brought with him, Blake tied Janaya and Mahogany to two of Dyson’s kitchen chairs. He sat them side-by-side. He ripped open Janaya’s robe, exposing her breasts. He fondled her while slurring, “Who’re you, pretty lady?”

  Janaya hung her head in shame. She could smell the alcohol on his rancid breath.

  “Too good to talk to Blake Hawthorn, huh?”

  She shook her head no, but that didn’t stop him from jabbing his index finger into her chest, sending her chair toppling over backwards. “I’m C-E-O!” he yelled. “C-E-O! Nobody tells me no!” He grabbed a fist full of Janaya’s hair and yanked her upright again. “I’ll teach you.” He picked up a two-by-four beam that had been left over from the supply station Dyson had made for Mahogany’s art room. With a homerun swing, he cracked Janaya across her bare shins with it. She howled in pain.

  Tears flowed from Mahogany’s eyes as she watched.

  __________

  Dyson bumped into the base of a pine tree, causing a flock of crow to rise up and fly away. He got sticky pinesap on his hand, but he didn’t care. He was too engorged with the fullness of life to care.

  He continued making his way down the ridge towards his estate.

  __________

  Blake slung Mahogany against the wall of the first floor shower stall as if she were a sack of flour. He turned on the cold water full throttle, drenching her hair and clothes. “See how it feels, you little freeloading bitch,” he yelled. After a few minutes of that, he yanked her out of the shower, not bothering to turn off the water. He punched her in the face repeatedly, opening a bloody gash in her bottom lip. Mahogany’s whole body shivered as the frigid water seeped through her clothes. “Dream about this!” he screamed as he pummeled the defenseless little girl with pulverizing blows.

  From the kitchen, Janaya begged him to stop.

 
; __________

  Fifteen minutes later, Dyson emerged from the woods at the foot of the ridge. He pulled out his new pedometer to see how many steps he had taken. He heard a loud THWACK, then another. He immediately recognized it as the sound of the plywood door to the shed in his backyard banging against the wall in the wind. He looked in the direction of the shed. There he saw a dark figure straining to pull a snowmobile through a doorway that was too small.

  The shed was not designed to house a snowmobile and the vehicle could only be extracted at an angle. Blake was too drunk to realize this.

  Dyson removed his sunglasses to get a clearer view. What he saw crumpled his blissful mental state like a blade of grass under a cinder block. Mahogany lay in the snow a few yards from the shed, writhing slowly as the stranger struggled with the handlebars of the snowmobile. “No,” Dyson softly whispered to himself. Then he yelled it at the top of his lungs as he ran full speed toward the shed.

  Blake lurched around toward the sound of the yell. When he saw Dyson sprinting in his direction, he quickly shoved the snowmobile back into the shed, away from the door opening. He sloppily ran over to Mahogany and dragged her by the hair toward the shed.

  Dyson was just close enough to make out the rifle slung over Blake’s shoulder. He saw Mahogany tugging at her scalp as Blake dragged her along the ground. He charged so hard that he slipped in the snow twice. On his second tumble, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his left eye.

  No.

  What he had glimpsed was Janaya’s nude body sprawled in the middle of the ice pond. She extended her right arm in the direction of his voice. That small movement caused the razor thin ice beneath her to splinter. A large block of ice broke away beneath her legs, causing the bottom half of her body to plunge into the freezing pond water below. He could see her scratching and clawing the ice to keep from sliding in. He briefly turned back towards the shed and saw Mahogany’s feet disappear into its dark interior.