by C. J. Box
Then they drive all the way to Montauk to Diane’s favorite restaurant, which looks over the sea, where they order clam chowder, lobster, and cheesecake, which they pay for with Diane’s father’s credit card while he is pacing up and down in the attic, increasingly incensed.
When they arrive back, Diane’s father has tried to jump down from the loft, which might have been possible without injury but he has fallen on the ladder, which Diane left on the floor below. He is lying there making the sort of noises Diane remembers from the car. He has difficulty breathing. The doctors will later discover he has punctured a lung.
Miss Martin takes control of the situation as if she were his secretary again. She calls 911; then she speaks to Diane’s father, leaning down to talk in his ear with her South African accent as he lies gasping on the floor. She says nothing about the ladder but tells him that in her opinion it might be wise not to antagonize his daughter in any way in the future, as she is a remarkably enterprising young woman (and indeed Diane’s father does not bother her again and watches her warily at all times until she leaves for college).
Then Miss Martin shakes Diane’s hand firmly, wishes her all the best, and takes off immediately in her car to go—Diane discovers later—to empty the joint account. Diane never sees her again, but she still thinks about her at times and considers that her father’s initial estimation of her skills was correct: “Remembers everything, is utterly discreet, always there when you need her, never there when you don’t.”
JAKE LITHUA
The Most Powerful Weapon
FROM The Odds Are Against Us
Ariya woke at dawn, carefully easing her way out of bed so as not to wake her so-called husband, Imran. He would wake soon himself; and if his breakfast of flatbread, bean paste, and fried egg was not ready by the time he was dressed, he would hit her. Perhaps I will kill him today, she thought. She always began her mornings with the thought of killing her husband, her master, her jailer. It made the rest of the day more bearable.
She stifled a grunt as she dressed in the long shapeless abaya dress demanded by Islamic State mujahideen of their women, the fresh bruises on her arms and back making her wince. In public she would also wear a double-layered veil, which would at least hide her ice-blue eyes and dirty-blond hair—rare features that marked her as Yazidi. Ariya had been only twelve when she was taken, with no time to cry over her murdered family. Yazidis could expect no mercy from the Islamic State. And seeing the brutality meted out to the other captives, she realized she had to make a choice. And so she did.
My goal is escape, she thought in her native Kurmanji, repeating the daily litany that she had created three years ago. To do that, I must survive. So I play along with Imran for now, so that I can be free in time.
How much time? came a mocking whisper from the back of her mind, but Ariya ignored it. Soon the smells of breakfast filled their tiny house, made of mud brick and scrap metal. It had once belonged to an Iraqi tailor and had been given to Imran by the Islamic State, part of his benefits as a mujahid. Once there had been money too, and Ariya could eat fairly well. But then the airstrikes began and the money tapered off, and so Ariya often went hungry so that Imran could be full. It had been worse when he had had two wives, but then Imran had strangled Zahra and it was just the two of them again.
Zahra had been foolish, Ariya thought with a pang. She got him angry.
“Morning of goodness, my wife.” Imran was up. He was short and had a pale, pinched face; his dark hair was close-cropped, but his beard was long and stringy. When he was given the girl Ariya as a wife, Imran had been eighteen.
Ariya flinched minutely. “Morning of light, ba’ali,” she replied in her now familiar Arabic, using the word that meant both “my husband” and “my master.” Imran insisted on it, no doubt to flaunt his power over her. (Most native Arabic-speakers would have used zawji instead, but Imran had grown up in a place he called Biljika, in Europe, and learned Arabic late.) “Breakfast is ready.”
They ate silently, cross-legged on the bare floor. Imran did not believe in luxuries. On the rare occasions that Ariya could talk to the other wives in the village, they sometimes gossiped about Islamic State fighters who engaged in fusuq by drinking alcohol or listening to Western music; but Imran was a true ascetic. When he was not on duty, he was usually kneeling on the floor, reciting haltingly from the Qur’an or the Hadith. Ariya was glad, because it meant that she only had to worry about his moods during meals—and at night.
When he was finished, Imran rose, went to the closet, and slung his battered AK-47 over his shoulder. “My company is going out today,” he announced. “We will not return until Thursday, maybe later.”
That meant a combat operation. “May you find victory over the enemies of Allah,” Ariya replied mechanically as she rose to her feet. I hope you die, she thought to herself without changing expression.
“Clean the house while I am gone,” Imran said. “Study the Surah of the Cave and be ready to recite it for me by heart when I return.”
“Nothing would please me more, ba’ali.” She despised reading the Qur’an. Ariya had been an indifferent Yazidi at best in her youth, but the book of her tormenters was like ashes in her mouth.
“Do not leave the house except to go to the market.”
He would check on her with the neighbors, of course. She would have no freedom at all, even while out of his sight! Her stomach churned at the thought. “Ba’ali,” Ariya said, “I will need to gather herbs in the hills.” She hesitated, bracing herself, then continued. “Money is scarce and we have little food left—”
He struck her across the face with his fist, as she knew he would. “Do not speak to me about money!” he snarled. Ariya fell back against the wall and made a show of whimpering in pain, which was not difficult; satisfied with this display of his power, Imran said, “Gather in the hills, then. But be back before dusk.”
Good. Now I can get some fresh air. Ariya had become skilled at exploiting Imran’s temper, by necessity. A few more hurts done to her battered body were a small price to pay sometimes.
Ariya waited an hour after Imran left, scrubbing the pots and sweeping the floors, checking that the door was locked and the window shuttered and tensely counting the seconds. Then, when she was sure he was truly gone, she stripped off her stifling sack of a dress and flung it into the corner of the room with a curse. Melek Tawuse, she prayed, not knowing or caring if anyone was listening; Give me strength to be free!
In her underclothes, Ariya bent down and heaved herself into a handstand, holding the position for almost two minutes until her corded arms were trembling violently and sweat dripped down her face onto the bare floor. Then she did squats; then a plank, moving from one exercise to another with savage focus. When she had first been captured, Ariya knew she was too weak to resist; since then, every chance she got she would do strength training. It made her thin as a rail but tightly wound with muscle. Perhaps one day she would be strong enough to kill Imran and escape.
(She had heard that overexercising made it harder to conceive. Good; the thought of carrying that monster’s child was abhorrent, and Ariya did everything she could to prevent it—exercise, herbs, disguising her cycles. If Imran ever succeeded in impregnating her, Ariya might just kill herself.)
When she was too worn out to continue, Ariya ate from her secret stash of parched grain, throwing a handful to the chickens in back when she was full. The rest of the day she spent practicing baking cigar-nut pastries, which she had heard were Imran’s favorite. In the evening she read from the Surah of the Cave, laboriously committing the hated words to memory.
The next day was the same, Ariya not yet willing to risk leaving the house. But on Monday the food ran out; she had to get more or go hungry. She swaddled herself in the abaya, took her canvas satchel, and headed for the hillside overlooking the village to the east. She took one of Imran’s robes with her; I’ll need a way to wipe off if I get muddy, she thought spiteful
ly.
The day was cool, and a biting wind pierced all her layers of clothing. The scents of early spring rose from the moist earth around her. As she picked herbs, gratefully munching on sweet grasses as she went, Ariya could almost imagine that Imran didn’t exist, that the Islamic State didn’t exist, and that she was still a child of twelve gathering flowers for her mother. Can’t think like that. Can’t lose control. I am fifteen and a grown woman, and I have only myself to rely on.
The sudden crack-crack of gunfire. Ariya flinched and threw herself to the earth, squeezing her eyes shut. Then she swore; the gunfire was back in town. You stupid coward. Now your clothes are dirty. The shooting continued, the dull chattering bark of AK-47s along with the higher crackle of pistol fire. Faint shouts reached her ears, Arabic intermixed with something else, and Ariya’s eyes widened. Kurmanji? Are those Kurds? For a second a wild hope that she had never allowed herself to feel rose up in her chest. She ran heedlessly down the hill slope.
Most of the mujahideen had gone with Imran, but there were still some left in the village. Three of them were making their way around houses on the edge of the village, calling to one another and firing their rifles as they advanced. One mujahid staggered and fell; Ariya nearly let out a whoop before catching herself. Yet the others continued forward; the firing went on, but by the time Ariya reached the bottom of the hill, it had petered to a halt. Then came the cries of “Allahu akbar!” and Ariya’s stomach knotted. Sudden tears burst from her blue eyes. The Peshmerga couldn’t have killed all of them so quickly. Those are Islamic State cries, not Kurds.
Her rescuers were dead. No one would save her. No one even knew she was alive, probably. She was trapped here forever. Ariya squeezed her fists shut. Stop it, stop it, stop it! She would never escape Imran. She was being childish when she thought she could. Stop it!
When she finally worked up the courage to walk back into the village, Ariya passed seven bodies that had been covered with bloodied sheets and laid out in a row, just outside the marketplace. Four looked like Islamic State fighters, judging from their thin tan hiking shoes, which stuck out from under the sheets. Three, wearing thicker boots with stiff rubber soles, were not. God, give these poor men their rest, Ariya thought, and averted her eyes.
* * *
As dusk was approaching, Ariya was finally returning to the house through deserted dusty roads, carefully balancing a sack of barley on one shoulder and beans on the other, still carrying her satchel of herbs. She had just come in sight of her door when something out of the corner of her eye made her halt. The alley on her left was strewn with splintered boards and old furniture and discarded rusty metal, as always, but today it looked different than usual—almost as if someone had gathered some of the junk into a pile near the alley mouth.
Her breath caught. Fresh blood glistened wetly on one remaining leg of a ruined stool, almost invisible in the gathering dark. For a moment Ariya shrank back. Then her mind flashed back to the hillside. Are you going to grovel again, you coward? Was everything you ever told yourself for the last three years a lie, you weak fool? Gritting her teeth beneath the abaya, Ariya set down her sacks in the road and crept forward carefully.
One moment she could see nothing, but then her eyes focused and a man suddenly appeared behind the refuse, as if by magic. Ariya gasped. He was curled up in a ball, dressed in a faded tan military uniform without insignia, which was torn in several places and soaked with blood. He had dark hair and eyes but did not look Arab; his skin was pale, almost cream-colored beneath the dust and blood. His jaw was clenched in agony, but his eyes were clear and fixed on hers. So was a small black pistol, held in one trembling hand.
“Quiet,” he whispered in thickly accented Arabic.
Ariya frowned; the accent was strange. “Peshmerga?” she breathed. “Do you speak Kurmanji?”
He relaxed a fraction and lowered the pistol. His face was wider than Imran’s, though drawn in pain. His long, straight nose looked like it had been broken once or twice. “A little,” he said in hesitant Kurmanji. “Yes, I fight with the Peshmerga.”
Her eyes widened. He’s a foreigner! Maybe American? She glanced around her, suddenly afraid, but no one was nearby.
“Help, please,” he breathed. “I need a house. Healing.”
Ariya’s blood froze. If Imran caught her helping the enemy, she would be dead for sure! And not just Imran, but anyone else in the village. There would be no way to hide him for long.
A new thought came to her. True. But it might be just long enough. “If I help you,” she whispered slowly, “would you kill my husband?” The man frowned, and Ariya added, “He’s a mujahid.”
At that the man nodded. “I will kill him. If I can.”
Ariya licked her lips, amazed at her daring. “Can you walk?”
The man clenched his teeth on a piece of torn cloth and heaved himself to his feet, hissing and going even paler. Ariya saw that he had been shot in the right thigh and arm; blood oozed through the makeshift bandages he had tied around the wounds. He swayed but stayed upright. “A little. Slow.”
“Wait.” She pulled out Imran’s robe. Soon, wearing the robe over his bloodied uniform, the man was hobbling painfully toward the house. Miraculously, no patrol came by; perhaps the remaining few mujahideen were busy mourning their dead.
* * *
By the time Ariya had locked the door behind them and cast aside her veil with a snarl, the American’s wounds were bleeding again. His face ashen, he slumped down onto the cushions she provided. “Water, hot water,” he gasped in Kurmanji. “With salt. And cloth, for the—for the blood.”
Ariya understood. She lit the stove and put on a small pot of water to boil. As she waited, she gave the man water to drink and a small piece of flatbread. Then she laid out Imran’s best keffiyehs to clean the wounds with. Either he’s going to die soon or I will, so why not? She grinned a little at the thought.
The American had sunk back on the floor. He looked very weak, his eyes half closed. Ariya surveyed his bloody uniform. It would have to come off; there was no way around it. “Can you take off your clothes, or should I?” He hesitated, going pink. She snorted. “Imran has been my accursed husband for three years; I know what a man looks like.”
His dark eyes widened in shock; for an instant his face filled with fury, and Ariya reflexively shrank backward. But the fury passed and he gave a tiny shrug, then gritted his teeth and fumbled one-handed. By the time the water was boiling, he was dressed in only a thin white shirt that clung to his chest and short cloth pants that ended midthigh. The two gunshot wounds were exposed to the air, dribbling blood onto the cushions. Ariya felt sick in the back of her throat and had to close her eyes for a moment, remembering with awful clarity what her older brother had looked like—how the blood had poured from the gaping wounds in his chest that day.
Shaking her head sharply, Ariya brought the boiling pot down to the floor and poured a handful of salt into the water. Then she dipped a cloth and swabbed the blood away from the American’s arm. “More, make it clean,” he managed, breathing heavily; she winced but swabbed the wound thoroughly. She did the same to the other side of his arm, where the bullet had come out, then tied a thick bandage around the arm. Then she treated his thigh wound; before she was finished, the American mercifully fell unconscious.
She sat back on her heels and gazed at the man, this man who would rid her of Imran. In theory. Right now he looked weak unto death. He was bigger than Imran, more muscular too. But it would do him no good if he could not stand and fight. She bit her lip. What have I done?
Still, he was tough. That he had not cried out when she dressed his wounds was testament enough to that. Perhaps he could kill Imran after all. I will just have to nurse him back to health—and quickly. She covered him with a wool blanket and waited.
* * *
“What’s your name?” she asked later, as she knelt by his side and fed him warm gruel and milk.
“Tristan,�
�� he replied, then coughed.
“Te-rees-tan,” she said slowly, hesitating on the unfamiliar syllables. “Why are you here? Are you Ameriki?”
He nodded. “I fought in the war, before Daesh.” Ariya flinched at the word Daesh; the Islamic State hated the nickname, which was considered a slur. Tristan hesitated, looking for the right words, then said something that sounded like green berei. “It means I teach soldiers. Kurds, Iraqis. Teach them to fight for home.” His eyes hardened. “Then Amerikis go. My students are alone, to die. Daesh kill them. So I stay.”
Ariya frowned. “Why not go back to Amrika? You almost died today. Why not go home?”
Tristan smiled briefly. “Too stupid. I want to stay with my friends. Rajan, Serhat, Alexander.” For a moment his eyes took on a faraway look; then he shook his head and said, “And you? What is your name?”
“Ariya.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Kurdistan,” she said shortly. She spooned out more gruel and thrust it into his mouth, suddenly wary of more questions.
He chewed, his dark eyes never leaving hers. Ariya tensed, but he finished eating silently. When the gruel was finished, he smiled and said, “Thank you for your hospitality. And for the bandages.”
She nodded graciously. “Rest now.”
Tristan was soon asleep. Still, Ariya felt too self-conscious to do her strength exercises, not with a strange man in the house. And she realized with a rush of elation that she would never need to read the Qur’an again. Because you will be dead soon, a nasty voice said in the back of her mind. She ignored it. Part of her wished that Tristan were still awake; she had so many questions about what life in Kurdistan was like now. Most important of all—she licked her lips—what would happen to girls like her? Would she be taken in by someone, the government perhaps? Or would she be cast aside, despised as the enemy’s whore? The thought made her stomach clench.