The Winds of God

by pat weakley

Book Two-The Daily Sentinel has been bombed. Britt's investigation of who did it is complicated by the fact that he must keep his activities as the Green Hornet secret from his two grown children who are home for the holidays.

7.

Chapter 7

An Ending and Beginnings

I

John glumly watched the long line of vehicles coming toward the house. News travels fast, especially when it concerned a family as prominent as the Reids. He still couldn't quite believe the news that his father had revealed the night before. Sure, all it did was confirm the uneasy suspicions he had about Fatima. After that business at the Red Knight he would have been a fool not to suspect that she was a lot more than a mere interpreter who had fallen in love with a homesick journalist. Still, the truth was painful. He was no more than a pawn in the bizarre chess game called international relations. What made it even worse was that Fatima was there, having a light chat with his mother when they had finally arrived at home. Fatima had been released after questioning by the police and the scene of domestic tranquility almost broke his heart. Then the accusations started. And the confirmations and explanations. He was at the stage where he didn't know what were the lies and what were the truths. Problem was the lies hurt a lot less.

The police led the long line and ironically, a news van from the Daily Sentinel followed close behind. He knew that this was news after all. News with a capital N. His family's involvement would have been impossible to silence. Not when they were right at the forefront of everything that had happened from the bombing to the conference to the fact that a Sentinel photographer was a bomber and a Reid fiancee an agent from a foreign country. It was only business, the public's right to know. His family's business. John snorted. Ironic, his family's in the middle of this and the Sentinel couldn't even get an exclusive out of it.

The police car pulled up first and the news crews began their preparations. Cameras were pulled out of news vans and suv's. Microphones were placed on extensions to catch the slightest word and news anchors began their sound checks. Testing, testing. DSTV's news anchor, Elena personally knew John, knew his connection to the Sentinel and this mess. Should've been her job to lob a few questions his way, to start the feeding frenzy. She didn't. She ignored him, pretended he wasn't anybody. Professional courtesy and respect for the Reid family tied up in a single glance. John was lucky his parents had not thrown their children into the limelight when they were growing up. He and Danielle were little recognized outside of the Sentinel and if the Sentinel crew dismissed him as unimportant so would the out-of-towners.

A grim faced Detective Morrisey stepped out of the police car's driver side as his much younger curly haired partner, Weston, stepped out of the passenger side. John stepped further away from the front door allowing the two men to enter the house. For the first time John noticed a plain black sedan pulling up behind the black and white. Two big men with black suits and mirrored sunglasses left the sedan followed by a much smaller swarthy man, mustachioed but with the same kind of glasses. Must be some kind of uniform for the secret service types, like trench coats used to be for reporters, John figured as they passed by him.

He could have gone back in. It was getting cold outside, but John preferred to wait outside. Everything that could have been said, should have been said, was already said. A little while later, just long enough to make the news anchors chilly and to make the assorted news crews look at each other in doubt, Morrisey, Weston and the sunglassed men stepped out of the Reid home. Questions were thrown out and thrown back with 'no comments' as Fatima, her elbow held by the swarthy man, stepped out into the crowd. Britt and Casey looked on, not answering the questions sent their way. The questions would be answered later, at a news conference. At the Sentinel, of course.

No matter what she had done, Fatima's beauty still held John spellbound. Her amber eyes were alight with proud defiance and her long golden-olive streaked brown hair flowed unrestrained down her shoulders. Cameras flashed and video cameras whirred as the anchors described the vision before them. Hungrily the reporters started to crowd forward as the police and the girl walked toward the police car. Britt and Casey followed close behind. Then someone shoved and someone fell. John could've sworn he saw a cane slip surreptitiously between a competitor's feet. Britt didn't much care for the guy anyway. People began falling over each other and Fatima pulled free from the man in charge of her. She ran through the crowd to shouts and screams to stop her. Someone fired. Weston. And the girl collapsed to the ground.

Britt knelt beside the girl, and pressed his fingers against her throat. "She's dead," he announced to everyone around. Front page news. Britt's face and his statement went around the world.

II

Breathing slowly, focusing his concentration on nothing but calm, Lee moved slowly through the traditional forms of Gung Fu, each one ancient and timeless. There were times for the more rapid movements, when he moved with eye-blurring speed. But now he wanted to clear his mind, to find his center. One would have thought that after all the missing parts of the puzzle that had followed the bombing of the Sentinel had been found and placed in their proper places things would have immediately quieted down. That had been far from the case.

What had followed was, to Lee, a surprising unleashing of holiday spirit at the Daily Sentinel. It was like only through burying the entire newspaper in holiday cheer could the painful memories of the past several weeks be laid to rest. The wounded building was completely decorated in tinsel garlands, bright decorations and lights. Christmas trees were installed on every floor as were long swags of fresh evergreens so that walking through the front door was like walking into a forest. Lee did not first feel like taking part in the festivities. He felt an outsider and could not understand how people could find anything to celebrate. He felt that the good cheer was forced, as though everyone was putting on a happy face, pretending that nothing had happened.

It took the Sentinel Christmas party to change his mind. Only the staff and their families were invited, and everyone was there including those who had barely survived the explosion. Even young Thomas White and his mother were there. Young White was in a wheel chair and his head was confined in a metal and plastic contraption that held it immobile, but as Lee found out after talking to his mother, the young black man had insisted on coming. She added that he had never missed a Sentinel party, and was not about to miss this one.

Then as he watched the Reid family circulating the room he realized why there were no lawsuits filed against the Sentinel and that none would be forthcoming. How could somebody sue against your family? That's what the Sentinel was, family. Britt Reid was father and mentor to the younger staff members and best friend to the older ones. Mrs. Reid was Den Mother, keeping everything running smoothly, smoothing ruffled feelings when necessary and making sure everything was in its proper place. Even the younger Reids had their places as favorites of the old hands and inter generational intermediaries for the younger ones. Lee found himself joining in the party, realizing for the first time that the most important times for a family to join together and celebrate is when times are the hardest.

Now on the evening of Christmas Day, things were finally quiet. The holiday visits and parties were over with. The presents unwrapped, oohed over and placed back under the tree for display, the holiday turkey had been eaten and the dirty dishes placed in the dishwasher. The visitors had left and now the Reid family had separated out for a time of peace and quiet. So Lee had found himself in the gym, working out, trying still to absorb everything that had happened to him since he had first shown up in Britt Reid's office a very angry young man.

He heard the soft click of the door being pressed shut. Danielle stood there shyly, her back against the door. The leotard set of emerald green and sky blue fitted her slender body like a second skin.

"I like the way that new leotard looks on you," he said as he wiped the sweat from his body with a towel.

"Thanks, I wanted to show you how it fitted. Thanks for giving it to me," she replied.

"Well, I couldn't think of what else to give you, and since the other one was ruined . . . "

"I appreciate it," Danielle said as she nervously ran her fingers through her short hair. "I was wondering where you went to."

"It looked like everything was breaking up so I decided I could use the time to work out a bit."

Danielle nodded, coming toward uncertainly. "I kind of thought that."

"I like your hair," Lee added, wondering what she had in mind.

She smiled slightly. "My hairdresser gave me hell for the way it was chopped up." She shuddered at the memory. "He did the best he could."

"He did a good job."

"Thanks. Uh, Lee, she began, then hesitated. "I was awfully unfair to you."

"Don't worry about it. I can understand what you were feeling. It must have been terrible for you to get the news about your father's past the way you did."

"Yeah, it was, but I think I'm starting to get over it. So, you knew all about it when you were growing up?" she asked.

"Yeah. Those stories about their adventures were some of my best bedtime stories."

"But didn't your father worry about you telling somebody about it?"

"He told me it was our secret. I kind of enjoyed having something that we shared just between the two of us, kind of like having a secret language. It made our relationship special."

"I still wish my father could have trusted me, us, that way."

"I don't think it was a matter of trust. He wanted to forget it had ever happened."

She looked at him questioningly, "Why? I get the impression it wasn't something he should have been ashamed of."

"I think it's because he still wanted to be the Green Hornet. And he couldn't," Lee said, explaining something he was only just beginning to understand himself.

"He couldn't because your father left him," Danielle said slowly.

"My father had to," Lee explained, wondering if Danielle's warm overtures

would again turn icy.

"Because my dad was hurt so badly and your father felt it was his fault," she said in understanding.

"That's about it."

"Then why did your father tell you then? Why did he tell you all those stories? I think he would have wanted to forget too, especially because of that."

"I think it had to do with destiny. The Chinese are big on that. You know, the son restoring the family honor and all that."

"I see. Someday the Green Hornet would again require a Kato."

"Something like that I guess," Lee agreed with a shrug.

Danielle nodded thoughtfully, wondering if anyone, including Lee, fully understood the meaning of that. Something had happened at that church, something momentous when Lee and John had burst into it in their father's costumes. A shudder ran through her as she remembered the horror of being at a madman's mercy.

"What's wrong?" Lee asked, seeing the fear in her eyes.

"I was thinking about what had happened. You know that business with O'Leary."

"It's all over now."

Danielle shook her head. "This time it's over, but . . . "

"But. ?"

"Lee, I have never felt so afraid in my entire life. I felt so frightened, so, so . . . so . . . helpless. I don't want to ever feel that way again." She chewed her lower lip uncertainly, "I want you to teach me Gung fu."

"It takes a long time to learn Gung fu. I began almost before I could walk. You can't become an expert in it overnight," Lee explained.

"I know it'll take a long time, but could you at least teach me to protect myself?" she asked.

"I'd be glad to," Lee said, happy to see Danielle returning his smile.

III

John refolded the note he had been reading. It was from Fatima, left behind with the small box he held in his other hand. Inside the box was the engagement ring they had bought in Kahara. He had just proposed and giddily in love they had wandered the great souk, the main bazaar in Kahara City, looking for the perfect ring. The sun was hot that day, as it always was in that mid eastern country, and the bazaar was a kaleidoscope of bright colors, multicolored fabrics and shining brass and silver metalwork of a multitude of shapes and sizes. The air was as bright and golden as the brass and the dust, redolent with the scent of exotic spices, animals and human beings, faded the bright light into a dreamlike haze. Or was that haze merely the memory of a happier time, John wondered. It was already blurring away like a photograph left too long in the sun.

Her laughing smile though was still sharp in his mind as was the face of the old man who had sold them the ring. It was inside a cave of a shop, dark and cool, out of the sun, cramped and small. The old man's face was a timeless parchment of wrinkles but the yellowed brown eyes were bright with a long life, well-lived and witnessing much, overcoming whatever came.

They had examined all of the jewelry in the shop's dim light over cups of hot sweet tea. Many of the pieces shined brightly, too shiny and new, sterile of life. Then he had pulled out a ring hidden near the back of the glass case. The gold was dull and the stones of turquoise, lapis and coral seemed to be lifeless, but the blending of stone and metal into a complex arabesque caught their eyes, like Aladdin's magic lantern, suggesting something beyond the surface.

"It just needs a little bit of polishing," Fatima had said, refusing any other ring that the old man pressed upon them. With only the minimal haggling just to keep form, they had gladly paid the price old man had asked and walked away with the ring on Fatima's hand.

He thought of the last time he had seen her. A reporter always knows of ways to get information so he was there when the white executive jet came in from Kahara. Even now the Kaharans were acting as intermediaries for her homeland which preferred to remain anonymous in this entire mess. Later she would transfer to another plane that would take her back to her true home. She was a black figure, invisible in the all-covering chador. Only her amber eyes gleamed from the slits above the veil. Her guards had approached him angrily, but with an imperious wave of her hand they had stepped back.

"I knew you would be here," she had said.

"I had to see you one last time," John had said.

"Why? All that can be said, has been said already," she answered.

"I just can't believe there was nothing between us."

There was only silence, a quiet weighing.

"So was this really all just a part of your plan to kill the Ayatollah?" he pressed.

"No. That was an adjustment we had to make after the girl was killed."

"So what about me? How did I figure in your plans?"

Was there a smile behind that veil? "Tradition."

"Tradition?"

"Yes. In the old days it was traditional for countries to form alliances through marriage. That was the plan. My duty was to become a faithful wife to you, and bear you many children."

John frowned, not understanding.

"You are the heir to one of the most powerful newspapers in this country. That newspaper and the television station could, in time, be built into a communications empire. If you are ambitious enough."

"Or if my wife is ambitious enough."

"Yes," Fatima replied. "The Muslim world needs more friends in the West. A man whose wife is Muslim would be one of those friends."

"And a powerful one at that," John added for her. "At least after my father died. So was killing him and probably my mother also part of those plans?" he asked bitterly.

"No. Your father is already one we count among our friends. No violence to you or your family was ever intended."

"And so you threw that all away to kill the Ayatollah."

"Yes, it had to be done. He was the focus of a movement that would have embroiled the Mideast in the worst violence it has seen yet."

"The way those guys reacted at the Red Knight. What you said there. You've killed other people before, haven't you?"

"I have done whatever my country required," she said without emotion.

"Would you have killed me if your country required it?" he asked.

Again he could feel her weighing him invisibly behind the veil. Her steady gaze gave him no clue of what she was thinking. Finally very softly she replied, "I would have regretted it."

Then she had turned away from him, letting those words hang between them. He watched as the dark men, her countrymen he told himself, escort her to the jetway. She had turned to hand one of the guards something, then glided down the jetway.

John opened the note, the memory of the white jet disappearing into the starlit night sharp in his mind. "Beloved" was all it said.

IV

He placed the box and note back into his pocket. It was time to put the past behind him or at least seek out some human company before he became too maudlin. He found his parents in the living room. Lit only by the lights of the Christmas tree and the glowing embers in the fireplace they were dancing to music that only the two of them could hear. Their voices were the murmurs of two people deeply in love. John sighed. They had earned their peace, he had no right to bother them now. Perhaps someone closer to his own age would be better company.

He found Lee and Danielle in the gym. Unnoticed, he watched them through the open door. Danielle had a white headband with Chinese lettering wrapped around her forehead, keeping her shortened hair out of her eyes. Her eyes were bright and she was flushed from hard work. Or excitement, John thought. Lee too looked like he had been working hard as he demonstrated some martial art technique to the dark-haired girl.

Lee grasped Danielle's shoulders. She turned, twisted and sent him flying to the mat on the floor. Danielle squealed with delight, then hesitated uncertainly unsure whether to clap or to make sure that her victim was all right. John watched as her face fell when Lee failed to get up from the mat. She knelt beside the prone man only to find herself captured in his arms. John shook his head as they rolled around the mat, accompanied by giggles and laughter, in mock battle. He decided it wouldn't be a good idea to bother them now.

Pulling out his down jacket and boots from the hall closet, John decided that what he needed was a breath of fresh air to clear all the cobwebs out of his head. Outside the sky was clear and very cold with only a few grey clouds that played hide and seek with the stars. His breath formed a white cloud around him as he stared up at the full moon. It was high up in the sky, a bright white disk surrounded by silver ring. Remembering a childhood fantasy he looked first for the shadows that formed the man in the moon, then he looked for the Chinese rabbit. Stuff of legends and fairy tales from opposite sides of the Earth, they were still there to be seen, the two of them at the same time, depending on how you looked at those shadows.

His feet crunched in the snow as he walked away from the house. The house was nearly dark behind him. A few of the windows still glowed golden in the night and the light at the front porch still welcomed, but all was quiet now. And peaceful. John listened to the quiet around him. The winter silence was so different from the summer evenings of singing crickets and croaking frogs. There was a certain waiting hush all around him. A stray breeze whispered past him, running cold fingers through his hair before losing itself in the naked branches of the trees near the house. Among the clattering branches a single remaining leaf spun and fluttered, refusing to release its hold.

The stars high up in the black sky glittered coldly like chips of ice among the clouds that gleamed white where touched by the moonlight. In the bright moonlight low hills and shallow valleys of snow rolled past him until they came up to the black shadows of the trees that lined the road leading up to the house. There they stopped arrested by the road's flat expanse, packed snow liquid silver in the cold light, only to take up their journey again beyond the dark trees on the other side.

The sight conjured up a memory of his mother reading an old 19^th century poem. In the modern eye it was old-fashioned and melodramatic, yet somehow the visions it conjured seemed to fit what John felt.

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding-, riding-

Riding-

He decided a drive was what he needed.

Inside the large garage attached to the house were the family cars including John's new red Acura. "A red rice rocket," his father had called it, when John had first shown up at the front door with it. The Acura's alarm system beeped off at the touch of the control on John's keychain when he noticed a large shrouded form in the back near the rear doors. He was at first amazed to find the Black Beauty under the tarp, but then he remembered Lee mentioning something about wanting to get some work done on it over the long weekend.

He walked slowly around the big black car. This was the first time he had a chance to fully study it. Now that it wasn't firing rockets at him or racing to save his father's and sister's lives he could finally get a close look at it. His first gut reaction was that the thing was poorly named. Sure, it was most definitely black, but beauty, now that was something of a question. Compared to his Acura, it was huge in a massive sort of way. Unlike his car's smooth teardrop shape, the black car was a blocky rectangle of straight lines, sharp angles and corners. While his wind tunnel designed car looked like it was going 110 mph standing still, this car was all aggression, even the protruding grille gave it the look of a belligerent fighter. John snorted wryly. Considering what laid under all that steel that wasn't far from the truth. If there was ever the perfect gangster's car, this was it.

Gangster. That's the role his father had created for himself, or at least for his alter ego, the Green Hornet. Tough old bird, John thought of his father. This past escapade had certainly given him a new outlook on the type of man his father is. He had always admired his father's toughness, hell, sometimes the man seemed to be invulnerable, but it wasn't until now he knew how tough. Just like the tough old car in front of him.

Yet, he knew there was a lot more to his father, the type of man who could still romance his wife of many years, who had carried his twin babies in each of his big arms, and taught each how to ride their first bikes and washed away tears and treated scraped knees. John smiled, the more he looked at the car the more he saw. He saw the way the curves leading to the grille were subtly sculpted and how the curves of the body were gently smoothed from front to rear into an eye-fooling perspective. There was a slender molded dart that ran from the rear to each rear wheel well, which themselves were covered so as not to break the smooth expanse of metal. Also above the brushed chrome of the grille was a dart of silver chrome that broke up the broad black hood. The black finish itself was unusual, not bright black lacquer, nor primer dull, but rather a soft burnished finish that gleamed like satin with a soft shine that swallowed much more light than it returned. Yeah, John decided, beauty, there was a certain kind of quiet dignified beauty to the car. He liked it.

He ran his fingers along the side of the car until he reached the driver's door. Almost their own will his fingers found the well set into the depression that ran between the top of the side and the windows. Inside the well he found the door's release and gently pressed, not really expecting to hear the soft click. He climbed into the seat, just to see what it looked like from behind the steering wheel. He caressed the steering wheel in his hands. It was very wide, but slender, like a woman's wedding ring and the dash board as well as much of the interior trim was finished in expensive Claro walnut. The seats themselves were of butter soft leather.

He looked appraisingly at his own car and the open garage door beyond. He knew what his own car could do, and wondered what could the Black Beauty do, besides blowing stuff up that is. He pressed the starter button and listened appreciatively as the big V8 roared to life and then settled down into a deep throated purr. Very, very nice. Years ago he had taken the family car out for a joy ride without his father's permission. It was nighttime then, as it was now and he had just gotten his driver's license. He was grounded for a week. As he guided the Black Beauty out onto the open road, he wondered what his father would do this time.

The night beckoned.

Epilogue

The man in black watched the party goers from his high perch. New Years was always a good time for him. It was the time that the wealthy pulled out their pretty baubles to flash in front of their friends, and those they wished to make jealous. He sighed. There was a woman parading proudly around with a lovely arrangement of diamonds and sapphires that set his mouth to watering. His practiced eye valued the large central stone alone at a cool half million, American. It would be so easy. He shook his head. To business, alas. He had other game to hunt tonight. A challenge, true, one that would surely test his not inconsiderable skills. Yet he did have such a soft spot for glittering jewels. Paintings did not glimmer so brightly in the light, but they did bring a lovely price.

His prey, Julius Archer, had left just a few moments ago with a lovely redhead, his latest conquest. Archer was a tall bespectacled man, who did not seem tall because of the bow to his back and thinness to the point of emaciation. The redhead contrasted with her escort. She had a Rubensque figure, big busted and generous hipped with a tiny waist in between, the kind of figure that encouraged a man to bury himself without fearing impaling himself on sharp bones.

The man in black waited a few minutes. He already knew they were heading for the tenth floor suite. He wanted to give them a few minutes to settle in, get over the preliminaries and start the serious business of courtship. It was amazing the things a man would do to impress a prospective sex partner. When a rich man like his prey did not have the body to impress the ladies, he used his power to attract them instead. Of course the ladies are usually not impressed by how many companies he owns or the number of banks in which he has his money. No, the best aphrodisiacs are the pretty things like jewels and rare art treasures. The man in black knew that Archer had a secret vault when he kept his rarest treasures, especially those that had disappeared from art museums around the world. There he could look at them without the press of the unwashed masses and more importantly, impress the ladies.

The man in black had been watching Archer a long time, always hoping that the next girl would be the one he would entrust with his secret art gallery. Most of the girls were usually easily impressed by the lesser things the man owned, and of course there was the wife. As long as the wife was around the man had to be careful where he took his ladies, ruling out the house and the gallery for their rendevous. Now she was out of the picture, away with a large part of the man's income as a consolation prize.

The man in black's smile was hidden by the black hood he wore. If any girl would be the one, it would be the redhead. She struck him as being the type not easily impressed by the small things. He also knew from past newspaper reports that she had a distinctly larcenous soul and ambition to match Archer's.

"My dear Shannon," the man in black heard through his listening device as Archer addressed the woman, "What's so interesting about my chess set?"

She picked up a piece, a king cast in gold, from the white marble and black onyx chessboard. She shrugged as she studied the king. "I was just thinking about your plans."

"Which plans?" he asked with unconvincing innocence.

"You know the ones I mean. You already own one way or the other every media outlet in the country..."

"And a few outside of the country as well," he added for her proudly.

"So why do you want the Daily Sentinel?" she asked.

"To make my collection complete, of course my dear."

"You know as well as I, Reid will never sell it. There are other papers that would do just as good, such as the Clarion or the Daily Express."

"My lovely, lovely Shannon, I never settle for second best. I always get the finest, such as the Daily Sentinel. Everything is for sale, you just have to offer the right price," the man said as he moved a silver king forward on the board. "What is your interest in the Daily Sentinel? I would think that after your late husband's involvement with Reid and his family, you would encourage an, ahem, hostile takeover of his paper."

Shannon picked up another gold chess piece, a knight. "Reid's trouble, he always has been. He has powerful connections, connections that no one has ever been able to beat. Including my late, foolish husband."

"You surely don't mean the Green Hornet. He's a mere thug."

Shannon smiled at a memory, her tongue licking her red lips, "I've met the man. He's no thug. He's smart, tough and very tenacious. I've taken some time to study him and his connection with the Reids and the Daily Sentinel. You couldn't ever get either man to admit to the connection, but all I know is that whenever there's trouble with Reid or his newspaper, the Hornet gets involved."

Archer took the golden chessmen from her hands, "Perhaps, my dear, we will separate them."

She smiled wickedly at him, "Perhaps we will," she agreed. "Although it makes me wonder who is the knight and who is the king." She ran a finger along Archer's expensive coat jacket, the wicked smile broadening on her lips, "And perhaps we may even find out that they're the same man."

"The same man," the man in black echoed. "How very interesting."

Many miles away, another man was greeting the new year with screams of anger. "You told me it would work," he screamed at his doctor. "You told me you could save my arm. You told me that all you had to do was sew it back on."

"My dear Mr. Hakenkrueze," the doctor said in his most soothing voice, "I never said such a thing. I told you from the beginning that it would be very doubtful that we could save your arm. After all it was many hours before we could retrieve it. Arms are not like lost teeth. You can't just pick them up, put them in a glass of ice water and expect them to grow back. An arm is a complicated collection of muscle, nerves and bone. We tried our very best but we were never able to achieve satisfactory circulation."

Hakenkrueze stared at the useless grey limb and the end of his elbow. "Then cut it off."

The doctor nodded at one of the male nurses who had come into the hospital room, "Prepare the operating room and notify the anaesthesiologist."

"No," Hakenkrueze screamed, "I want to be awake. I want to feel every rip of the saw. I want to know what the Green Hornet will be feeling when I tear him limb from limb. I swear it will be more than an eye for an eye. I'm going to destroy him so thoroughly, make him hurt so bad that he'll beg for death." His voice lowered to a whisper, more frightening that his screams," And I won't grant it."

Book Three of the Green Hornet saga is in the process of being written. It should be completed by the end of this year. I will be uploading other Green Hornet stories as I locate and clean up the drafts.