Brutal Honesty-Part Eleven

Ivrahim Youngblood was a tough man. He had been part of the KGB for several years before becoming a Mafia don. Ivrahim was harsh, forbidding. But sometimes, he could be compassionate, even merciful. He was the only one there when Sasha and Gilbert Youngblood needed to be terminated. Gilbert had come perilously close to discovering the truth about Ivrahim's allegiances.

Gilbert was shifting through some old records in a closet at Ivrahim's house, the same house Gilbert grew up in. He read through several news articles, with Ivrahim's unmistakable handwriting scrawled in the margins-sometimes onto words, names, places. Each clipping proved more disturbing than the next. Scribbled in the margins were numbers. And frighteningly enough, Gilbert had a very good idea what they meant.

The numbers were calculating how many people were left to die. Each article had been in a newspaper chronicling the deaths of some or another citizen, seemingly without motive. Gilbert had overheard Ivrahim's past few conversations on the phone.

"This is Youngblood," Ivrahim had answered. "What more can I do for you?"

Gilbert was hidden behind an almost closed door. He had come to ask his father whether he would like to accompany him to an Orioles game the following week. But when Ivrahim had answered the phone, Gilbert waited. And he found he couldn't leave.

"This is a secure connection. I sincerely doubt that anyone is tapping this line. Speak, now. What is it you wish to know?" Gilbert strained his ears to listen, but he could hear nothing. Finally, Ivrahim spoke again.

"Five out of ten have been terminated. Three more tonight, and the final two tomorrow." There was a brief pause, and then Ivrahim could be heard again, speaking in hushed tones, almost as if he was afraid of anyone overhearing.

"No, they do not suspect anything. They think I have called an emergency meeting, and no doubt wish to curry favor in any means possible."

Gilbert didn't know what to think. Was his father plotting to kill people?

"I have already carried out seven of your assignments. Over forty-seven malfunctioning units have been terminated. Lives have been jeopardized following your instructions. I am not about to add mine to that statistic. I will take care of everything, as promised. And remember, I am retired. I do not wish to be disturbed. You have intruded enough into my privacy. Now leave me be, and after tomorrow, be satisfied with what has been done."

Gilbert had scurried back up the stairs to the room he was staying in upon hearing the phone hung up and Ivrahim's footsteps. He picked up the news article lying on his bed with shaking hands. The headline: Five Killed in Mafia Hit. He shuddered, now knowing who the architect of that killing was. The door to his room opened.

"Gilbert?" Ivrahim's kindly face appeared.

"Dad." At the sound of Gilbert's voice, Ivrahim opened the door the rest of the way and joined his son in the guest room.

"Was there something you needed?" Ivrahim eyed the article lying on the bed, but said nothing, waiting for his son's response. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Oh," Gilbert said quickly. "No, I just wanted...I just wanted to ask you if you'd come to the Orioles game next week. With me."

"No son," Ivrahim said apologetically. "I'm afraid I already have things that need to be done that week. I wish I could, but...Why don't you ask Sasha to go with you?"

"My wife? She hates baseball."

"Well, I guess you'll just have to go alone, unless Dimitri is allowed to miss a day of school. But of course, his education is more important than a baseball game."

"You're right," Gilbert conceded. "I'll just go by myself. Well, since I'm here, why don't we eat supper together?"

"Son, I wish we could. But I have places to go, people to see, and you have your own life. You're all grown up, Gilbert. You're married, you have a son, and you have a job. You don't need me anymore. Be sure to tell Dimitri I said hello." Ivrahim left the room, closing the door behind him.

Gilbert fled the house without a word. When he arrived at his own home, Sasha was waiting with Dimitri.

"Where have you been, Gilbert?" Sasha demanded angrily, her arms akimbo, standing in a threatening stance. Dimitri stared at his dad.

"Dad, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Dimitri, just fine. How was school?"

"Gilbert, answer my question," Sasha said quietly.

"I just stopped by Dad's." He looked down at Dimitri. "Grandpa said to tell you hi."

Later that night, he was alone with Sasha in their bedroom,  the curtains drawn shut, and the lights off. He sat on one side of the bed, while Sasha was lying down on the other side.

"Sasha, I need to tell you something."

"About why you were gone so long?"

"No, about Dad."

"What about your father?" Sasha said in a bored tone.

"Well, you see," Gilbert shifted uneasily, "I was reading through some of Dad's old stuff. Newspaper articles, letters, that sort of thing."

"So?"

"All of the articles were about mafia killings."

"Your point, Gilbert?" Sasha said dryly.

"Dad was counting the victims."

"So?"

"He was tallying how many were dead...and how many were going to be dead."

"What?"

"Yeah, that's exactly it. I didn't really know why, but then I happened to hear his conversation on the phone."

"You were eavesdropping?!"

"Well, I didn't really want to interrupt," Gilbert said sheepishly, "but Dad was talking about killing people. Tonight. Tomorrow."

"Gilbert, are you okay?"

"I don't know what to do," he continued. "Do I call the police on my own father? Do I confront him? He sounded so cold and calculating on the phone...I'm afraid to find out how far he'll go to protect his secret."

"Gilbert, if you think your father's involved with the mafia, you should ask him about it. Discreetly, I mean. You know, subtly."

Gilbert didn't answer. Finally, Sasha sat up and grabbed him around the waist.

"Come here, Gilbert," she cooed. "I think you could use some loving."

The next day, Gilbert and Sasha were killed in a drive-by shooting. The gunman was never identified. After Ivrahim picked Dimitri up from school, he was homeschooled. Not just in math, English, history, science, and languages, but also in the martial arts, the art of deception, and how to use a gun effectively. Ivrahim taught Dimitri over two dozen ways to kill someone without leaving a trace. And when Dimitri was only seventeen, his beloved grandfather passed away, leaving him rather alone.

There was only one other person he might have been interested in seeing, so he found her address and drove by one night. Lucky for him, Casie Schwartz hadn't been home, otherwise he might have caught a glimpse of her with her fiancé. Instead, he broke into the house using techniques his grandfather had taught him, and looked through her office for something-anything. The only thing in the drawer was a letter. It was a letter he himself had written, a long time ago.

Dear Casie,

I think you're very pretty. I like you a lot. I think you like me, too.

DY

Fifth grade crushes. What a loser he had been back then. His only good choice was Casie, a smart and pretty girl who had grown into an intelligent and beautiful FBI agent. Which was precisely why he could have nothing to do with her. He couldn't imagine living with Casie, and her never knowing the things he'd done. And he couldn't bear to imagine living with Casie, and her knowing just how many people he had killed, when, and how. Either way, it was self-defeating. He didn't want to remember.

"But you do remember your past, Youngblood," Treali Storm said quietly to him from the passenger seat of the car. "Your past is part of who you are. You can embrace it or you can fight it. The choice is yours alone to make."

Dimitri didn't respond. It wasn't out of rudeness, though. A silent tear dripped down his cheek. There were too many could-have-beens, too many could-bes. He only wished he had lived a different life. But it was too late now. The Schwartz house was only ten minutes away.

Casie Schwartz drove in the freezing rain for ten minutes until she arrived at her home, alone. She had called on the way and told Eugene she needed to go home, that she'd be back tomorrow, and they could review the rest of the case together in the hopes of finding Natalie. But now, she was exhausted and tired, and about to fall asleep at the wheel.

The gate was open. Funny, she remembered closing it this morning. As she hopped out of the car, she checked for signs of forced entry. There were none. Feeling slightly more reassured, Casie closed the gate and walked up the front steps. The rain was the same colour as the house was. She closed her eyes and shook her head, clearing her blurred vision.

She opened the door, stepped inside, and hung her coat in the closet. Taking off her shoes, she walked into the living room.

"Don't take another step," the woman said from her comfortable chair next to the fireplace. Her long, black hair reflected the flames, it was so shiny. Natalie was on the other couch, bound and gagged. She stared wide-eyed at her partner, but Casie was reeling in shock, hew jaw hanging open.

"Mom?!"

Marianne Schwartz smiled grimly.