For God and Country: Leona Foxx Suspense Thriller #1 Read online

  For God and Country

  Leona Foxx Suspense Thriller #1

  Ted Peters

  Apocryphile Press

  1700 Shattuck Ave. #81

  Berkeley, CA 94709

  Copyright © 2013 by Ted Peters.

  Revised edition 2018. All rights reserved.

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-947826-75-5

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-947826-76-2

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  Thanks

  1. Monday, Chicago, 6:24 pm

  2. Tuesday, Afghanistan, 5:00 am

  3. Monday, Chicago, 6:56 pm

  4. Monday, Chicago, 7:10 pm

  5. Monday, Chicago, 9:30 pm

  6. Monday, Chicago, 10:01 pm

  7. Monday, Chicago, 11:14 pm

  8. Tuesday, Afghanistan, 2:15 pm

  9. Tuesday, Chicago, 5:30 am

  10. Tuesday, Chicago, 6:30 am

  11. Tuesday, Afghanistan, 7:25 pm

  12. Tuesday, Chicago, 6:20 pm

  13. Tuesday, Chicago, 8:45 pm

  14. Tuesday, Chicago, 10:29 pm

  15. Tuesday, Chicago, 11:58 pm

  16. Wednesday, Chicago, 7:15 am

  17. Wednesday, Chicago, 9:15 am

  18. Wednesday, Chicago, 11:31am

  19. Wednesday, Chicago, 1:54 pm

  20. Wednesday, Chicago, 5:01 pm

  21. Thursday, Afghanistan, 7:01 am

  22. Wednesday, Chicago, 7:05 pm

  23. Wednesday, Chicago, 8:14pm

  24. Wednesday, Chicago, 8:34 pm

  25. Wednesday, Chicago, 9:03pm

  26. Wednesday, Chicago, 9:48pm

  27. Thursday, Pakistan, 11:02 am

  28. Thursday, Chicago, 2:01 am

  29. Thursday, Chicago, 2:29 am

  30. Thursday, Chicago, 3:24 am

  31. Thursday, Chicago, 3:48 am

  32. Thursday, Chicago, 4:23 am

  33. Thursday, Chicago, 7:00 am

  34. Thursday, Chicago, 4:00 pm

  35. Thursday, Chicago, 6:20 pm

  36. Thursday, Chicago, 7:44 pm

  37. Thursday, Chicago, 10:17 pm

  38. Friday, Chicago, 1:08 am

  39. Friday, Chicago, 5:58 am

  40. Friday, Chicago, 7:36 am

  41. Friday, Chicago, 10:45 am

  42. Friday, Evanston, 12:31 pm

  43. Friday, Chicago, 3:21 pm

  44. Friday, Chicago, 6:30 pm

  45. Friday, Chicago, 8:55 pm

  46. Friday, Chicago, 10:16 pm

  47. Friday, Chicago, 11:54 pm

  48. Saturday, Chicago, 5:59 am

  49. Saturday, Chicago, 12:57 pm

  50. Saturday, Chicago, 1:10 pm

  51. Saturday, Chicago, 2:04 pm

  52. Saturday, Chicago, 4:01 pm

  53. Saturday, Chicago, 4:58 pm

  54. Saturday, Chicago, 5:02 pm

  55. Saturday, Chicago, 7:08 pm

  56. Saturday, Chicago, 7:53 pm

  57. Saturday, Chicago, 7:56 pm

  58. Saturday, Chicago, 8:18 pm

  59. Saturday, Chicago, 8:49 pm

  60. Saturday, Chicago, 9:44 pm

  61. Saturday, Chicago, 10:11 pm

  62. Sunday, Chicago, 6:00 am

  Also by Ted Peters

  About the Author

  Catch us the foxes,

  The little foxes,

  That spoil the vineyards,

  for our vineyards are in blossom.

  —Song of Solomon 2:15

  This is a book of fiction.

  It mixes truth with lies.

  Which are which?

  Thanks

  Like the corned beef I cook slowly each St. Patrick’s Day in my electric crock pot, the story of Leona Foxx has been simmering for nearly four decades. After reading Stieg Larsson’s trilogy in preparation for a visit to Sweden in 2010, my resolve to write fiction finally took hold. A threshold had been crossed. I began this new and strange writing process. The writing took on a life of its own, and I began to live in Leona’s world. Leona’s world, of course, is partially my world and the world of selected individuals whom I have come to know and revere. It is time to serve the dinner while it’s piping hot.

  Without identifying exactly what advice or spice or ingredient came from whom, I wish to thank those who contributed to this book’s final recipe: Arthur Amos, Linden Berry, Juliet Bongfeldt, Kayla Carter, Erik Cederblom, Mary Anne Cooney, Matthew Crabb, Mark and Carmen Dankof, Arielle Eckstut, Mark Fischer, Kathryn Franzenburg, Elizabeth Peters Frase, Gabriel and Kristi Friekin, Stephanie Fuelling, Martinez and Gail Hewlett, Paul and Lucy Lange, Nina Lescher, Jean Mansen, Martin and Harriet Marty, Thelma Nauth, Anja Passananti, Riitta Passananti, Jenny Peters, Paul William Peters, Peg Pursell, Christin Quissell, David Henry Sterry, Alicia Vargas, Elisabeth Vergun, and the “Bookies” at Marin Lutheran Church. More. Without Karen Peters—who joined me in Leona’s world to provide silhouette design, inspiration, encouragement, and editorial criticism—this book could not have flowered as it has.

  Ted Peters

  Berkeley, CA

  Ash Wednesday 2013

  “Purity of heart is to will one thing,”

  said Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard.

  Not two things. One thing.

  No double-mindedness.

  No waffling. No equivocation.

  No ambiguity. No nuance.

  Just one thing.

  Leona Foxx is about to discover

  that purity of heart is impossible.

  At least for her.

  1 Monday, Chicago, 6:24 pm

  Leona peered out the window as the Metra passed the South Shore Cultural Center, the once elegant South Shore Country Club. Flowing auburn hair draped around a slender unblemished face, partially covering one of her electric blue-green eyes. Wearing ear buds, Leona listened intently to the Cubs’ play-by-play on WGN. Even when the team was losing—which it had been for as long as she could remember—Leona was dedicated to her Cubbies. She proudly wore her oversized Cubs jacket that hid the otherwise head-turning figure of a thirty-five year old fan.

  It was the bottom of the eighth inning of a rain delayed game at Wrigley Field. Leona’s favorite player, Hank Greer, was stepping into the batter’s box with runners at second and third. Two outs. The physical world disappeared from Leona’s vision, replaced by a mental picture of the diamond surrounded by a roaring crowd at Wrigley. A swing and a miss for strike one. God! she whispered to herself. God had long been on Leona’s spiritual speed dial. I know you’ve got a giant universe to watch over. But could you send just one moment of grace to Hank Greer? All we need is a single!

  A called strike on the inside corner. Just a single, God!

  Greer swung. It was a pop fly headed toward right field. Leona sprang momentarily out of her seat. So did 24,000 people at Wrigley. The spinning blooper curved toward the foul line. Would it drop? No. The ball lodged itself securely in the glove webbing of a scurrying second baseman. Out number three.

  Damn. Even you’ve abandoned the Cubbies, God!

  The outcome of the game had been decided. Discouraging, but not unexpected.
/>   Leona turned her attention toward the intersection at 71st Street where the commuter train made one of its many stops. She glanced at the storefront signs: “Food Exchange” and “Party Mart” were perched slightly askew over doorways that were once white, but now shades of cream and brown. On the door of the photography studio in uneven, handwritten letters: “No Drop-In Customers! Call for an Appointment.” With a small jerk, the train was again in motion, making its way at twenty miles per hour through the neighborhoods on Chicago’s south side. She packed her listening paraphernalia into her purse.

  At the Windsor Park station Leona watched a handful of people exit. A young Hispanic woman pushing a baby carriage boarded. Leona pondered the expression on this mother’s face, showing both the strain of negotiating an awkward carriage and her devoted concern for how the baby was taking the bumps. Just as the doors on the next car were closing, a youthful African American man leaped aboard, barely pulling his back foot through the opening in time. Once on board, he paused, then entered the breezeway separating the cars. He cupped his hands around his eyes, pressing them against the smudged windows to inspect the passengers. Evidently finding what he was looking for, he pushed the doors open and stepped into the car where Leona was seated. He did not sit down.

  Perhaps in his early twenties, he stood about six foot two with even features. Clean shaven. The husky build suggested maybe 230 pounds. Recent tight taper haircut. The Nikes on his feet—Lebron X—were unscuffed. His faded blue sweatshirt did not match the generic gray sweat pants. Leona noted how nothing bulged in the pant pockets. No wallet. No keys. He leaned back against the doors with an arrogant demeanor that indicated a tough life on the streets.

  The Metra Electric again lurched forward. Leona continued to gaze out the window, observing the decay of an economically impoverished neighborhood. Empty lots were strewn with partially exposed bags of garbage, beer bottles, and plastic take-out containers. Passing the U-Haul livery signaled to her that it was time to stand up and head for the exit. The approaching station sign read: “Cheltenham / 79th Street.”

  Leona checked her watch. She shouldered her suit bag strap and situated herself at the door. When the stop came, she stepped onto the concrete platform between the northbound and southbound tracks. Out of the corner of her eye she observed that “Mister UnScuffed Nikes” had also disembarked and was standing still, about one train car distant. Leona turned to walk slowly toward the blue exit doors at the south end of the platform. Behind these doors would be the waiting room and the final exit door to the 79th Street ramp.

  Most of the commuters who had finished their workday in the Loop were disappearing through these exit doors, heading home. Home directly, or perhaps indirectly after a stop at the 24/7 Coffee Shop or one of the 79th Street bars.

  Leona made a mental note: one person was not exiting. A muscular black man, twenty-ish, in a lime-colored shirt with open collar and khakis, was standing still with his back to the exit doors. A medium fade haircut with a short top. Feet parallel, fifteen inches apart. New Nikes. His arms hung straight downward. Athlete? Former athlete? she asked herself. He was looking her way.

  Across Exchange Avenue she spotted a third young man. Black. Gangly in jeans and a baggy tee shirt, about the same age as the first two. He sported a red tam and leaned against a green dumpster next to a white panel truck. New Nikes just like the other two? A uniform? Sale at Big Five? A rusty car passed.

  Her iPhone vibrated. Leona paused on the platform to check a text from Bud Stevens: “Church council meeting tonight. Special guest.” The phone’s digital clock told Leona that being a little late was unavoidable.

  Leona pretended to be listening intently to a voicemail, but her actual attention was directed behind her. Her ears picked up the faint sound of small stones crunching under otherwise silent rubber-soled feet. She clicked off the phone. She let the suit bag drop from her left shoulder and the purse drop from her right hand.

  He struck. Powerful hands gripped the ribbed collar of her Cubs jacket. With a deftness and alacrity that caught the assailant by surprise, Leona withdrew her arms from the sleeves, leaving the attacker with an empty Cubs jacket in his clenched fists. Leona turned quickly, her black shirt and white clerical collar now fully visible. The stunned look on the attacker’s face didn't last long. A jump step. A spin. And then an axe kick. The ball of Leona’s right foot caught the thug under his chin. The blow lifted his 230-pound body first upwards, then backwards. He crashed down on the concrete platform, rolled off the deck and onto the southbound tracks five feet below.

  Leona had no time to regain her composure. Immediately, the muscular arms of the open-collared hoodlum wrapped around her torso. His knee kicked the underside of her left leg and she spun downward. Her right cheek slapped the pavement. Fragments of cement chips burrowed into her facial flesh like boll weevils. Blood spurted, spewing onto the concrete. Rushing adrenalin blocked her pain.

  The goon was now on top of her, their eyes meeting only inches apart. He expected to read fright. But Leona’s eyes were not those of a frightened victim. They spit fire, the fire of a voracious beast about to pounce on its prey. Though outweighed by more than fifty pounds, her right knee came up with the force of a horse’s kick right in the thug’s crotch. He winced, but only momentarily. Like snarling wolves in mortal combat, their clutching embrace seemed like a death contract for one or the other. He rolled to his right, hanging on to his prey. Leona rolled with him, over him, freed her arms, and then found herself flung toward the platform’s edge. Her torso reeled off the platform over the northbound tracks. The attacker still held on to her legs as her upper body wafted perilously in mid air.

  The engineer of the northbound train felt a wave of panic as he caught sight of the frightening activity ahead: the top half of a human form slung in the air above the tracks. Although the train was slowing, no amount of braking could possibly stop it before reaching the disastrous point of deadly impact.

  For a moment, Leona’s head turned southward and she counted in tenths of seconds the time remaining before her bloody and grotesque end. In less than one of those tenths, she prayed in a panic: God, into your hands I commend my spirit. Amen.

  Then, a tug on her legs.

  The engineer made a split-second decision. Too late for an emergency stop. Too late to prevent the loss of this poor woman's life. Even a normal stop could be a mistake. If there is gang trouble on the station’s platform, then a normal stop might invite this trouble aboard. The engineer thrust it to full throttle and gunned through the station without stopping at all.

  The train whizzed passed as Leona, now with her head back on the platform, stared at her assailant with an increasingly violent countenance. She had no time to ponder the mystery: Why am I alive and not dead?

  Leona caught sight of a gold neck chain nestled under his open collar. The assailant paused. This was his undoing. Leona grabbed the neck chain, clenching a medallion in the palm of her left hand. She jerked. She jerked again. The snorting bull suddenly became a docile calf.

  Keeping tension on the leash, she planted her feet. She rose slowly, holding the neck chain in a tight threat of strangulation. Her unexpected ferocity had partially unnerved the assaulter, but not enough to blunt his next move. Once the balls of his feet reestablished his equilibrium, his strong hands wrestled his chain and medallion free. He so twisted Leona’s left arm to his right side that she could not resist being thrown to the platform. Once again, the thug had established dominance.

  The voice from the previous attacker, at this point standing on the track bed, screamed: “She’s a priest!” Even louder. “Didja see the shirt? Nobody tol’ us she’d be a fuck’n priest. Let’s get outa here!”

  Leona on the ground froze. The aggressor on his feet froze. Then, shouting “Sheee-it!,” he released his grip and jumped from the platform down to track level. The two hunters left their prey and ran—one hobbling—across Exchange Avenue. The wheel man in the red tam had already sta
rted the engine of the white van. His two partners climbed in as the van engaged in gear and sped south. Leona stared at the van. “Evanston Cleaners,” on the van’s panels. What’s an Evanston truck doing down here on the south side?

  By this time the train passengers had exited the platform and were crossing the tracks on the 79th Street sidewalk. The commotion behind them drew their attention. “It’s a robbery,” shouted one woman. One man set his briefcase down on the sidewalk and jumped across the tracks toward the activity. Another followed. Then a third. By the time the three Good Samaritans arrived beneath the platform where Leona stood panting, the van had departed. They asked in shouting voices whether she was okay. Leona inhaled two deep breaths and told her would-be rescuers that she was just fine. Nothing had been taken. Numerous witnesses were dialing 911 on their mobiles.

  Leona collected herself, as well as her things. Once the suit bag strap was resting again on her shoulder and the purse in her hand, she exited and walked through the crowd of onlookers. They were concentrating on interrogating the three rescuers, so they hardly noticed Leona slip her way through the gathering to the other side. Stopping to talk to police—police who might not ever come—was something she wanted to avoid. She crossed the southbound tracks and headed west on 79th Street. Though disheveled and bleeding slightly from her cheek bone, no one would have thought from her gait that this young woman had only a moment prior escaped a potential mugging.