Hanson squared his shoulders. His eyes were eager as a puppy’s. Filthy beasts.
“As I said, you’ve got a mosque close at hand, but you’re only a fifteen-minute drive from the Zone. I’m sure you’re familiar with the temptations of the Christian Quarter.”
“Yeah…well, not in uniform.” Hanson grinned, squatted down, and felt the blue shag carpet. Turned his long, horse face up at Darwin. “This is really nice. The rug in my room now has got cracker crumbs that are older than me.” He stood up, wiped his hands on his trousers. “Hard to believe the price though.”
“Motivated seller. That means the owner is eager to sell it. He wants to retire to Palm Springs. Says he’s tired of the rain.”
“I like the rain.”
“Me too. Cleans things up, doesn’t it?”
“You got that right. After yesterday…after what I saw inside that house, we could use all the cleanup Allah can deliver.” Hanson looked queasy. “The bathroom…tub or shower?”
“Both.”
Hanson shook his head. “This is Paradise.”
“You’ll have to supply your own virgins, but that shouldn’t be a problem with a handsome young man like yourself.”
Hanson gave him a look. “I do okay.”
“And the uniform…one can’t overestimate the power of the uniform over the female of the species.” Darwin smiled. “How soon would you like to move in?”
“Soon as possible.” Hanson hitched up his pistol again, then walked over to the window and checked out the view. The Grand Mosque was dimly visible through a gap in the surrounding buildings, floodlights gleaming off its azure sides. “My dad might be able to help me with the down payment. And I can tap the police credit union.”
“There you go.”
“Where there’s a will, right?”
Darwin winked at him. “You’re a quick learner.”
Hanson checked his watch. “Evening prayers are in eighteen minutes.” He nodded at the sconce. “You want to join me, Mr. Conklin?”
“I’d be honored. We can wash in the bathroom.”
Hanson sat down on the carpet. Unlaced his shoes and removed them. Peeled off his socks, tucked them neatly inside. Placed the shoes against one wall. He took off his patrol jacket, hung it on a doorknob. His blue shirt sweat-stained. Hanson didn’t seem to mind that Darwin still had on his suit jacket and shoes, standing there with his hands in his pockets. They had time.
“Bathroom’s this way.” Darwin started down the hallway, hearing Hanson padding along behind him. He stopped outside the bathroom door, gestured inside. “Here you go. Be my guest. I’ll finish up after you.”
Hanson carefully washed his feet in the bathtub with the chip of soap left from the previous tenant. Washed them again, water splashing, then looked around for a towel. Nothing.
Darwin took a handkerchief from his suit jacket, unfolded it.
“I couldn’t do that to your fancy handkerchief, Mr. Conklin.”
“Nonsense.” Darwin handed it to him. “Please. We can’t be expected to offer our prayers to God in a state of filth, now can we?”
Hanson dabbed at his feet with the handkerchief, draped it over the bare towel rack. The bathroom was small, the shower stall tiled in pink, the floor a checkerboard of black and white. He rolled the sleeves of his blue shirt past the elbow, started lathering his hands and forearms in the oversize sink. It would have been easier to take off the shirt, but he was modest…or uncomfortable with Darwin standing in the doorway watching.
“What exactly did you see in that poor woman’s house yesterday?”
Hanson rinsed off his thick forearms, water sluicing down his wrists. “Trust me, mister, you don’t want to know.”
“Actually, I do.”
Hanson glanced over at him. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He grabbed the handkerchief off the rack, wiped himself damp, and refolded it. Held it out.
“No, thanks.”
“You’re not going to wash?”
“I can assure you, my handsome young police officer, it wouldn’t do any good.”
Hanson squared himself up, jaw forward, on guard now. “What’s going on?”
Darwin applauded. “You’ve just posed the ultimate philosophical question. Although, as usual, the question is asked too late for the answer to do any good.”
Hanson looked Darwin over, saw an owlish, slightly built Realtor in the tailored gray suit. Give the young policeman credit, he didn’t smile. Not exactly. His right hand rested on the butt of his pistol, but it was more reflex than genuine concern. “Get out of my way, Mr. Conklin.”
Darwin didn’t move. “No need to be so formal.”
Hanson stepped forward. “I asked you to get out of my way, buddy.”
“My name is Darwin. I’ll be your killer tonight.”
Hanson had barely tightened his grip on his pistol when Darwin hit him. Hanson was 195 pounds of grade-A muscle, but the punch emptied the air from him, knocked him backward. Hanson clung to the shower curtain rod with his fingertips, all of his tender parts open to the world. Darwin stepped into him, hit him full force just above the solar plexus, sent him tumbling into the bathtub. Hanson’s head smacked the inside of the tub.
Darwin sat on the edge of the tub. Hanson’s legs hung over the rim, dangled above the checkerboard floor. Darwin tugged at the young policeman’s little toe. “This little piggy…” There was just a minimal autonomic response. He looked into Hanson’s face. “Take your time. Shallow breaths. Pretend you’re sucking in air through a straw. The second punch broke the two lower ribs on your left side. Shattered them, actually. Your insides are filled with splinters of bone. Shrapnel to the vital organs. You’re filling up with blood. So, as I said…shallow breaths. Look at me. Stay with me. Do you have a foul taste in your mouth? A rotting-meat taste? Do you?”
Hanson gurgled a response.
“See there? Your liver’s been shredded. Amazing how quickly the bile backs up when the ducts have exploded. The human body…what a playground.”
“W-w-why?” whispered Hanson.
“Always the why with us, isn’t there? We always have to know why. A steer waiting in line to be slaughtered sees the steer in front of it getting its throat slit…do you think either of those dumb beasts wonders why?” Darwin smiled at the handsome young policeman. “It’s a heavy burden being human, isn’t it?”
Hanson tried to speak, groaned, his face twisted on the bottom of the tub.
“I know eighty-seven ways to kill a man with one punch. Eighty-seven kill spots on the human body if the blow is perfectly placed and struck with sufficient force. I don’t mean to brag; I just thought you’d be interested. You’ll be dead in a couple hours, but I wanted us to have some time together first. I so very rarely get to discuss my handiwork. That’s why I asked you about the Warriq crime scene.” Darwin played with Hanson’s toes again. The policeman needed to trim his nails. “I was trying to get your impressions.”
Hanson’s eyes widened.
“I don’t mean to be a poor sport, but there wasn’t a word about the killings in the papers, no footage on television. It was as if it hadn’t really happened.” Darwin stuck his forefinger in the young policeman’s open mouth, hooked him behind the front teeth, and repositioned his head to help him breathe more easily. He wiped his finger on Hanson’s shirt. “Vanity is a weakness, but a man deserves to take pride in his work. At the end of the day, family and friends are nothing—all we have is our work. Every one of my kills is seared in my memory. Every one. I could describe in detail how I killed them, and the look on their face at the moment of death. I could tell you about the way they fought, and what they were wearing and the sounds they made or didn’t make. I could prove it to you. I could run through the complete list”—Darwin smiled, smoothed the young policeman’s eyebrow—“but you don’t have that much time.”
CHAPTER 26
After sundown prayers
Jill Stanton buzzed open the gate to her r
anch and Rakkim drove through, the car bouncing over the dirt road. A drizzle started and he hit the wipers, the stiff rubber leaving a smeared, muddy trail on the windshield. The guy he’d stolen the car from should keep up on the maintenance. Probably didn’t change his oil at the recommended intervals either. Lightning in the distance. Early evening and the clouds blocked the stars, made it darker. He kept his foot heavy on the accelerator.
It had taken him a day to find the gypsy cabdriver who had picked up Sarah in the Zone late Wednesday night. Her neighbor Hennesy had been right, it had been a Ford that had picked her up, but it had been dark green, not maroon.
The cabdriver had recognized the photo of Sarah—his eyes gave him away—but, he just said, what’s it worth to you, brother? Silvery protective medallions picturing Osama and Zarqawi dangled from his rearview, faces turning as the Ford roughly idled. “How much, brother?”
The lights in the ranch house came on as Rakkim navigated the road. He had only been here once before, five years ago when he’d been home on leave, jangled, unable to sleep. Nothing had seemed familiar. Except for Sarah. She had brought him to the ranch, not even telling him where she was taking him, wanting to surprise him. It had worked. Jill Stanton was easy and unaffected, quick to laugh, a woman who had willingly left the glamour of Hollywood behind fifteen years earlier and never looked back. The three of them had ridden horses all morning, then picnicked beside a river, lazing with cheese and fresh peaches and cold cider in the sun.
Sarah had interviewed Jill for How the West Was Really Won: The Creation of the Islamic States of America through the Conquest of Popular Culture. Lousy title, Rakkim had thought, but he wasn’t complaining if it got him the chance to meet Jill Stanton. “The Face” herself, the woman considered the most beautiful and talented actress of her generation.
Jill Stanton’s proclamation of faith while accepting her second Academy Award would have been enough to interest tens of millions of Americans in the truth of Islam, but she had also chosen that moment in the international spotlight to announce her betrothal to Assan Rachman, power forward and MVP of the world champion Los Angeles Lakers. Celebrity conversions cascaded in the weeks after that Oscars night, and according to Sarah’s research, the newly married couple were feted on fifty-seven magazine covers over the next two years. Jill and Rachman had been divorced for eighteen years now, and it had been more than that long since Jill had been in a film, but she remained a revered, if reclusive, personality. Her interview with Sarah was one of the few she had given since retirement, and Sarah had taken pains to safeguard her privacy.
Jill stepped out onto the porch as Rakkim’s car approached. She waved as he pulled up, walking down the steps to meet him.
“Where is she?” said Rakkim.
Jill put her hands on her hips. She was almost sixty years old, still lean and beautiful, radiantly healthy, her long, braided hair salted with gray. She wore boots and jeans and a chamois shirt the color of butterscotch. “You’ve lost your manners, Rakkim. A pity.”
Rakkim stepped up onto the porch and threw open the door. “Sarah!”
Jill was beside him. She smelled like horses. “She’s not here.”
Maybe it was the movie star voice, or the face, but Rakkim knew that she was telling the truth. He had no idea what it would take to make her lie. Jill had turned down multimillion-dollar offers to write a tell-all book about her marriage. She had never advertised a product or endorsed a political candidate. He had only met her that one other time, but if Jill Stanton said that a great white whale was swimming up her driveway, Rakkim would look for a harpoon. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know. Come on in.” Jill took his hand in her rough grip, led him into the living room. Knotty-pine interior, thick antique carpets, plush sofas and easy chairs. Clean and comfortable. “She left a half hour ago. I’m worried about her too.”
“Call her.”
“She always keeps her phone turned off. She says a cell phone can be used to pinpoint your position. Is that true?”
Rakkim nodded. “Call her anyway.”
Jill didn’t like being told what to do, but she did it. A guest, even a boorish one, had certain privileges. She was right though. Sarah’s phone was off.
“How much has she told you?” said Rakkim.
“She said she’s working on something dangerous. She wanted to make sure I understood there was a risk to taking her in.” Jill’s gaze was cool and clear. “I told her I haven’t been afraid since I found my faith. What about you, Rakkim? Are you afraid?”
“Only when I breathe.”
“Yet, you’re here.” Jill smiled. “You can wait here for her.”
Rakkim wanted to put some distance between them. It was hard to get a read on things with her so close. Redbeard used his bulk and physical presence to intimidate, but Jill used her femininity the same way. He walked over to the spot on the wall marking the direction of Mecca. A large photograph of the Great Mosque hung at the precise proper direction on the wall. The photo was taken at sunrise during the hajj, a sea of believers spread out from the square, black Kaaba, the prostrate multitudes touched by golden light.
“I made my journey three years ago,” Jill said, coming over beside him. “There was a peace I can’t describe, Rakkim. In a way, the lingering radiation makes the passage even more precious. A few months ago my doctor found a lump in my right breast…a tiny lump, no bigger than a poppy seed. I had it removed. Some pilgrims, older ones mostly, choose to do nothing. They think it’s a sign of their devotion, but I—”
“Anybody else living here with you?”
Jill’s eyes flashed, that old diva power, and he felt it like a slap. “A few ranch hands and their families live in the outbuildings, but they’ve been with me for years. They have no idea who Sarah is, and no interest in asking. They’re good Muslims. You can meet them at midnight prayers, if you like.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I see.” Jill lowered her eyes. Hard to see a beautiful woman who felt sorry for him. She patted his arm and made the hair stand up. “Perhaps Sarah will be back before then.”
Rakkim checked the driveway. “Do you have any idea where she went? She must have said something to you when she left.”
“She said she would be back in a few hours, that’s all. I’m going to make some tea.”
Rakkim followed her into the kitchen. “Did she take a cab?”
“Sarah borrowed a car from one of the hands.” Jill ran water into a copper teapot, set it on the stove. “Carl is a mechanic. He builds Frankenstein cars from wrecks he drags back from the junkyard. Mostly he drives them around the property—they’re not licensed. Sarah insisted on taking one of his creations.”
“She didn’t want to bring any trouble on you…in case something happened to her.”
“She’s a friend. Her troubles are my troubles.”
It was an easy thing to say, but hard to live with the consequences. Rakkim kept silent. No point in trying to communicate the possibilities to Jill. A small photo was above the sink, a picture of two teenage boys each with an Academy Award balanced on his head. They had her smile.
“My boys,” said Jill. “Ahmed and Nick. Ahmed is an executive with Puget Shipping, Nick is Fedayeen.” She looked at Rakkim. “Sarah says you’re not Fedayeen anymore.”
“I’m retired. Once Fedayeen, always Fedayeen.” Rakkim watched as she poured water into a couple of ceramic mugs, then dropped a bag of black tea in each.
“Sugar?”
Rakkim shook his head, took the mug. The kitchen was as comfortable and unassuming as the living room, spacious and clean and practical, with pots and pans dangling from hooks and a large, freestanding butcher block. A plain white-pine table was in a breakfast nook. He imagined Jill and Sarah having scrambled eggs with cheese early in the morning, watching the sunrise over the mountains. Then clearing the plates and tending to the animals, shoveling out the barn and dredging the duck pond. “Do you miss it?”
“Hollywood?” Jill knew immediately what he was talking about. She was probably weary of the question. One more reason to stay on the ranch, raise horses, go to the small mosque in town, and let the rest of the world go by. “Sometimes.” She sipped her tea. “What about you? Do you sometimes wish you weren’t retired?”
Rakkim smiled. “Sometimes.”
“I’ve got one more performance in me, although I have to admit I’m not thrilled with the role.” Jill watched him through the steam in her tea. “In a few weeks I’m being given a lifetime achievement award at the Oscars. So, I think we can conclude that I’m officially certified as a living fossil.”
“Lady, you don’t need to fish for compliments.”
Jill laughed. “I see why Sarah is crazy about you. You’re like a rough kiss.” She toyed with one of her braids. “Sarah told me so much about you. I feel like I know you.”
“That would be a mistake.”
“You make her feel safe. You and Redbeard both do, but with him there was always an agenda. Maybe that’s why Sarah and I became friends—we both know what it’s like to be in the public eye. To be judged. To be used. I can remember all those photo ops of her visiting shrines, the televised meetings with the president. Sarah Dougan, the child of the nation’s first great martyr—”
“Redbeard put a stop to that when she was six. No more photos. No nightly news segments. He was worried about her safety—”
Jill snorted. “Redbeard stopped it because he didn’t need her in the spotlight anymore. She had served her purpose.” Jill wandered over to the photo of her sons. “Nick is my youngest. His father was so proud when he became Fedayeen, but I’m a mother. I was worried.”
“He’s all right?”
Jill nodded, still looking at the photo, the boys young and silly with the Oscars balanced on their heads, eyes crossed for the camera. “Sixteen years since Nick took the oath. A few scars and scratches, that’s all. He’s posted to Chicago. Three wives. Ten children. A Fedayeen colonel…” She carefully replaced the photo above the sink, ran a finger lightly across the frame. “I’m proud of my son. He serves Allah and the nation…but when he visits, I don’t recognize him.” She looked at Rakkim. “Is it a sin for a mother not to recognize the fruit of her womb?”
Prayers for the Assassin Page 20