The official death toll of the second civil war was 9 million, but Redbeard said the true figure was three or four times higher, much of that from outbreaks of plague and typhus and other dark diseases that had sprung up in the aftermath. The worst were the man-made toxins, lab-grown fever brews that twisted the infected into screaming knots or left them vomiting gouts of blood. Even now, whole cities were still quarantined—Phoenix and Dallas and Pittsburgh, hot zones where no one dared enter.
Rakkim watched a robed pilgrim moving slowly along the far wall, head tilted in prayer. His face was hidden within the folds of a hood, but something about his gait was familiar. Faces could be disguised, height and weight altered, but something as elemental as walking was almost impossible to shift. The pilgrim was Stevens, the pockmarked dandy Redbeard had sent to arrest him that night at the Blue Moon. Rakkim started toward the staircase. He wondered if the agent’s face was still swollen, if he liked the look of his broken nose, flaunting it as an injury in the line of duty.
Redbeard rolled his electric wheelchair through the crowd of schoolchildren visiting the War Museum, their voices hushed, glancing around as though they were in an unfamiliar mosque. He wore opaque glasses, his beard powdered white and extended, hanging over his belly. He rolled silently across the granite floor, his left arm twitching, useless. A single medal was pinned to his voluminous jellaba, a combat infantrymen’s badge. An honest medal, devoid of fame or favor, marking him as a wounded veteran of the war of independence. A businessman approached, bowed, and placed a $20 bill into Redbeard’s lap, joining the other bills that he had been given. Redbeard murmured a blessing, head lolling, and the businessman backed away, thanking him for his service.
Still no sign of Rakkim.
Redbeard liked the museum, particularly at dawn. The House of Martyrs was never closed and never empty. The people honored the dead, those who had paid the greatest price for their faith. He still remembered the old days, before the transition. Graveyards for the nation’s war dead had been overgrown, the graves untended. There had not even been enough buglers to play taps; the army had been forced to use recorded music to honor the martyrs. Military parades had played to empty streets, or worse, the color guard had faced catcalls from those whose freedom to jeer had been paid for with others’ blood. A terrible time for heroes. A world without glory, a people with their eyes on the mud instead of the heavens. No wonder the wisdom of the Prophet, may his name be blessed, had swept across the land like a wildfire, cleansing all before it. After all that had happened since the transition, after all he knew about the Old One, there was never a moment that Redbeard regretted the passing of the former regime.
Another man in a wheelchair glided past, nodding at Redbeard. A young man, wearing an army uniform, his legs removed above the knee.
Along the far wall, a woman in a bright blue chador led a young girl by the hand, led her along by the fingers as though they were on an excursion in the woods to pick wildflowers. The girl was young, five or six perhaps, but it was the woman who drew Redbeard’s attention. She looked like Katherine. Sarah’s mother. His brother’s wife.
Redbeard trailed along after them, heedless of who was in his way. People stepped aside, apologizing, as though they were in the wrong, but he kept his eyes on the woman. It was impossible of course, Katherine wouldn’t dare be here. He wasn’t even sure she was alive. She had fled after his brother’s murder, fled leaving Sarah in the hospital, run for her life. He had thought at the time she was afraid of the Old One. The early reports were that both he and his brother had been assassinated, reports that Redbeard himself had planted, hoping to draw out the conspirators. The ruse had worked. Even though he had been wounded, Redbeard had worked almost nonstop for weeks interrogating those arrested. He had rolled up the Old One’s network, most of them anyway, but the nation had paid a terrible price. James was a charismatic figure, loved and admired by the citizens and the politicians alike. Redbeard was merely feared. A few weeks after Katherine had fled, he realized she had been afraid of him. She had thought he had murdered his own brother. For power…and perhaps, for her. He had searched for her for two years, put all the men and resources he could spare into finding her. He had failed.
The woman in the blue chador and the child were swinging their arms gently as they walked. Redbeard had not seen Sarah smile like that until he’d brought Rakkim home. The street thief who had melted her heart. Melted Angelina’s heart too. Redbeard had been more careful with his emotions, but the boy had finally won him over too. It had taken years, but he had come to love the boy. The urchin with the eyes of a wolf. His only solace was that he had never revealed his feelings. Redbeard was experienced at such deception. He had never revealed his feelings for Katherine either.
Redbeard slowly wheeled across the great hall, getting closer to the woman and the girl. It couldn’t be Katherine. It had been over twenty years…surely she didn’t look the same. It couldn’t be her, yet he couldn’t stop himself from finding out.
The woman turned as he approached. His wheels were silent, but she turned anyway, sensing his presence, and his heart leaped at the connection between them…and just as quickly sank. The woman was beautiful, her mouth tender, but she wasn’t Katherine. The woman bowed to him. Her little girl scurried over, kissed Redbeard’s hand, and retreated. He blessed them and rolled on. Head high, his jaw clamped shut.
Rakkim closed in on Stevens, matching his footsteps to the pockmarked dandy’s. While Stevens hid his form and features within the hood of the burnoose, Rakkim had on a plain, gray suit and thin, knitted skullcap, as befitted the well-dressed modern. He had narrowed his goatee, his beard extending in a thin line from his sideburns down his jawline. His walk was poised, shoulders back, eyes sweeping the room—the best camouflage was to move as though unafraid of being observed, of inviting observation.
A man with a baby carriage cut across his path and Stevens went to cuff him aside, but stopped himself, allowed the man to pass.
Rakkim moved as Stevens moved, closing in. A tug on the man’s right earlobe…yes, that would be the perfect greeting. Turn him around by that clump of cartilage. Lead him like a lamb. Eye to eye. No permanent damage. Just a bruised ego. Keep hate alive.
Rakkim didn’t know why he had taken such an immediate dislike to the man. His preening at the Blue Moon had been part of it, but it was more than that. Their hostility had an instinctive, almost a cellular component, a mutual recognition. Rakkim had shared the last of his water with dying men who had tried to kill him minutes earlier, had held their hand and told them they were going to be fine. Stevens was different.
Rakkim was only two steps behind Stevens now, close enough to smell his aftershave. Stevens had enjoyed using the stun gun on Rakkim. Given the opportunity, Stevens would veer across three lanes of traffic to run him down, and Rakkim would welcome the attempt. Which was, of course, the reason that Redbeard had Stevens accompany him here today. Why Redbeard had sent Stevens to fetch Rakkim at the Blue Moon. Rakkim had thought it was just an accident that first time, but he should have known better—Redbeard didn’t have accidents. He had wanted to stir Rakkim up. To gain a faint advantage then…and now. Rakkim stopped, let Stevens walk on. It was too late though.
“Shall I slice your femoral artery or deball you, boy?”
Rakkim didn’t turn around. He could feel the tip of the knife pressed against his thigh, the tip poking through the fabric of his trousers. “Good morning, Uncle.”
Redbeard slipped the knife back into his sleeve, sat back in his wheelchair.
Rakkim slowly turned. A wheelchair. No gait to give him away. He bowed.
“Don’t just stand there, push me.” Redbeard waved Stevens back, the security agent sullen now, retreating. “You’ve embarrassed him again,” he said, as Rakkim got behind him. “I would have thought you had made enough enemies.”
“You should talk.”
“What have you found out about Sarah?”
“Do you wan
t to talk here?” Rakkim slowly pushed the chair. “There’s a man with a briefcase eyeing the aerial photos of Indianapolis. He’s supposed to be a businessman, but he has faint stains at the corners of his mouth. Betel nut juice. A Black Robe—”
“I’ve got a blocking device in effect. You can say anything you want.”
“You’re certain?”
“It’s Russian. Sonic, subsonic, microwave, and ultrahigh frequencies.” Redbeard shook his head. “I remember when the best gear was made in this country.”
“I don’t.”
“That is your loss.” Redbeard waved to an annex. “What have you learned?”
“I talked to one of her colleagues…one of her friends. A sociology professor named Marian Warriq. They used to have tea, but she hasn’t spoken with Sarah for weeks.”
Rakkim slowed as they passed the D.C. Qur’an. The clicking of prayer beads from a hundred hands echoed off the gently sloping dome.
“I said, is that all you’ve accomplished?” said Redbeard. “I would have thought you had some method of contacting Sarah.” He stood up as they entered the annex, left the wheelchair behind.
“We had a method. I’ve used it. No response.”
“So much for the power of love.” Redbeard stretched, seemed to expand to twice his former size. “You must be disappointed.”
“I’ll find her.”
“We haven’t much time.” Redbeard took Rakkim’s hand, the two of them strolling the perimeter of the museum. “Do you know who Ibn Azziz is? No? He’s the new grand mullah of the Black Robes.”
“So what? He can’t be any worse than Oxley.”
“Don’t be a fool. Oxley was predictable, content to bide his time, gathering power slowly. He would never have gone after Sarah. Ibn Azziz is a zealot, angry and impatient. He’s the one who sent the bounty hunters after Sarah. He acted in secrecy before, fearing Oxley’s displeasure. Now…there is no one to stop him.”
“I’ll stop him.”
“Tempting, but, you’re needed to find Sarah. I’ll take care of Ibn Azziz.”
“I discovered that Sarah didn’t run away from an unwanted engagement. That’s something useful, isn’t it?” Rakkim leaned closer. “Did you say something? Or was that the sound of your story collapsing.” He locked eyes with Redbeard. “She was working on a book. She seemed to think it was dangerous.”
“If this book was dangerous, she should have stayed where I could protect her.”
“Maybe she didn’t think you could protect her.” Rakkim patted Redbeard on the back and he stiffened. “You should have told me the truth, Uncle. You wasted our time, and as you said, we don’t have much of it.” Rakkim gave a perfect bow. “Go with God.”
CHAPTER 18
After noon prayers
Rakkim sensed something wrong as soon as he pulled up to the security gate at Marian’s hillside community and saw the guard shack empty. He waited in his car, engine idling as he looked around. He hadn’t called Marian before driving over, certain that Redbeard already had her phone bugged. No reason to let him think that Marian was more than a colleague of Sarah’s, a good Muslim intellectual she shared only tea with. A follow-up call from Rakkim would tell Redbeard that she merited closer scrutiny. Better to show up unannounced. Marian had told him he could come by anytime.
He wasn’t sure how China and the Three Gorges Dam figured into Sarah’s research, but Sarah had been looking for something in Warriq’s journals. Besides, he wanted to talk more with Marian, she might have remembered something. Something that Sarah said. Something she didn’t say. First contact was always awkward. Trust took time. Distrust was immediate. For an instant at the War Museum this morning he had actually considered telling Redbeard about the journals. The impulse had passed. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, watched another car drive into the resident’s lane and flash an entry code. The gate flew up, then back down as the car zipped past.
Rakkim backed up and parked in the visitors’ lot, then slipped into the guard shack and buzzed Marian’s house. No answer. Marian and her staff might have gone into the city, or shopping, or left for afternoon prayers at the mosque, but he took off toward her house, walking at first, then faster, until he was running flat out up the steep, winding streets.
He was out of breath when he got to Marian’s front door, chest aching. He rang the bell, then beat on the door before anyone inside would have had a chance to answer it. The door was locked. A good lock too, and he didn’t have any tools. He trotted around to the back, peeked through the windows but couldn’t see inside. The back door was ajar, an invitation. The knife was in his hand.
He slowly opened the door, moved inside on the balls of his feet, taking a few steps, listening, then taking a few steps more. A fly hovered around his ear. He swatted it away, but it returned, a sluggish, fat green fly humming an ugly tune as Rakkim silently worked his way across the kitchen. No sound other than the ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the foyer. And the buzzing of the flies.
Rakkim put the knife away. Even before he caught the smell, he knew that whoever had been here had left hours ago. He took a deep breath, walked out of the hallway and into the living room. A few moments later he was back in the kitchen, hands on his knees and grateful that he hadn’t had breakfast. He had seen men blown apart by land mines and bullets, guts and glory flung to the winds, some dying with a surprised how-the-fuck-did-that-happen expression, some dying quietly, dead before they were even aware of it. He had seen all that and more, but one glance into the living room and he could barely contain his anger and revulsion. The other dead had been outside of him somehow, killed in action, part of some greater process that anesthetized guilt and left Rakkim a bystander, albeit not an innocent one. This was different. The living room was an atrocity exhibition arranged for his private benefit. He washed his face in the kitchen sink, but the cold water did nothing to numb his rage. Then he walked back into the living room. He didn’t bother holding his breath. It wasn’t the smell that tore at him.
The flies stirred at his entrance, rising up in a buzzing, dark cloud, then settled back down on the heads of the bodyguard and his wife. Terry and his wife sat beside each other on the purple, floral-print sofa as though sitting for a formal wedding portrait. Terry cradled his wife’s severed head in his lap. She did the same for his head. Their hair was matted with blood, their eyes staring straight ahead. Blackened blood crusted their gray clothes like a rusty carapace. Flies moved across the soaked sofa, the carpet shimmering with their metallic green brightness. Green, the color of Islam, green the color of the Prophet’s banner, green the color of the robe of Ali, the fourth caliph. Rakkim remembered his lessons well. The flies squirmed, green the color of obscenity.
Rakkim moved closer, wanting to see, needing to see, not to turn away. This tableau was a challenge someone had laid down, a moral and visual dislocation. Closer now. Marian’s bodyguard was a seasoned warrior, but someone had killed him easily, killed him and his wife while they sat there waiting to die, then left them with their heads exchanged as a greeting specifically meant for Rakkim. On the wall behind them, scrawled in blood, was written, R U Having Fun Yet? The same slogan Mardi had in neon on the wall of the Blue Moon. In spite of his efforts to hide his tracks, Rakkim must have led the killer here…and the killer had left a calling card that could not be ignored.
Rakkim wasn’t sure how he knew that it had been a lone individual who had done this…perhaps it was the singularity of the aesthetic. The killing had a grotesque artistry; the mocking phrase from the club, the switching of heads, all spoke to a unique point of view. A joker who didn’t want or need assistance.
He waved away the flies, bent down, and looked into the bodyguard’s dead eyes. It had been a long time since Rakkim had prayed, but he said a prayer now. A prayer that Terry forgive him for bringing death to the house, and a prayer that Terry be welcomed into Paradise, that he spend eternity in the company of the faithful. Those who have fear of God wil
l have gardens wherein streams flow and wherein they will live forever with their purified spouses and with the consent of God. Then he closed Terry’s eyes and did the same for his wife. Rakkim didn’t even know her name.
Marian wasn’t in the living room, but Rakkim just had to follow the bloody footprints. It was like the diagrams of dance steps he had seen in old books, fox-trot and waltz and tango and rumba, party dances for good times that weren’t coming back. He followed the footsteps up the stairs, the blackened imprints getting fainter with every step. There were no clouds of flies in this part of the house, no flies at all. He found Marian in the master bedroom, found her submerged in the soaking tub, her hands and feet bound with electrical wire, her black hair drifting like seaweed. She was nude. Of course.
Marian’s chador was thrown into a corner of the bathroom, slashed apart, but there were no wounds on her body. Another indication of the killer’s skill with a blade. Rakkim sat on the edge of the tub, looking down at her. The tub was filled almost to the top, and water had sloshed across the floor from her struggles. Her face was underwater, turned shyly to one side, away from Rakkim. Her breasts and pubic bone broke the surface, an archipelago of sad flesh.
He stared at her profile, saw the bruises on her neck from when she had been clasped and held under, two small bruises on either side of her windpipe…he had a delicate touch, this killer, using just enough force to hold her down, not to strangle her. Marian had not been carved up like Terry and his wife, not posed in some horror show diorama, but her death had been even more cruel. Marian, who had loved only one man in her life, who had allowed only one man to see her nakedness, had been drowned slowly, thrashing and screaming and coughing up water, fully aware that she was to be left exposed for all the world to see. No wonder she had fought so hard, even tied hand and foot.
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