The guard checked Sarah’s identification, his mouth moving as he read. “You’re collecting money?”
“For the United Islamic Benevolence Society, just as it says.”
The wind and rain battered the guard as he stood beside her open window. His green uniform looked brand-new, but the collar was wilting in the damp. He looked over the battered car she was driving. “You got permission to go door-to-door, sister?”
“Asking for donations is as much of a responsibility for good Muslims as making donations,” Sarah said piously. The chador she had borrowed from Jill was a deep plum color that set off her eyes. “I’m sure you know that.”
The guard scratched his puffy face with the card, the sound like sandpaper. He was a big, strapping fellow with slow eyes and a half-eaten sandwich waiting for him on the desk in the guard shack. “We had a problem here earlier this week. A…situation. Woman got killed. Two of her servants were butchered along with her.”
“I’m certain the neighborhood is safe now, Officer. After all…you’re on duty.”
The guard chewed his lip. “I got to be careful who I let in. I could get in trouble.”
“Do I look like trouble, Officer?”
The guard peered at her, taking the question seriously.
“This is a devout neighborhood,” said Sarah. “It’s after dinner. The brothers and sisters will be happy to have the opportunity to satisfy their obligations from the comfort of their own homes. What could be wrong with that?”
“I…I don’t know, sister.”
Sarah inclined her head, blessed him. “Then lift the gate, Officer.”
The guard backed up, stumbling, muttering a blessing in return.
Sarah drove on through.
“When Sarah arrived at the ranch…how did she seem?”
“I got a call from her at three A.M. We hadn’t talked for over a year, but I recognized her voice immediately. I’m a light sleeper…even if it hadn’t been the middle of the night, I could tell she was upset. She said she was at a gas station about five miles away. Protecting me again. So the man who dropped her off wouldn’t know where she was going.” Jill listened to the rain on the roof. “We stayed up until dawn, talking. She was very upset.”
“Was she injured?”
“She said she had killed a man a few hours earlier. Does that count?”
“No.”
Jill shook her head. Once Fedayeen, always Fedayeen. She didn’t even have to say it. “Sarah went to bed after dawn prayers, slept until late. We went riding the next morning, not talking, just enjoying the day. She seemed better. Then she left for a few hours and when she came back…she was worse than she was the first night she showed up. Sarah is strong, but when she came back, she couldn’t stop crying. She wanted to leave. She said everyone she was close to was at risk—”
“Where did she go Friday?” Rakkim’s voice was so soft that she wouldn’t have heard him except that he had moved closer, close enough to smell horses on her again.
“I don’t know. She said an old friend…a dear friend had been murdered and she blamed herself—” Jill pulled back as he jumped up, knocking the chair over. “Rakkim! Where are you going?”
CHAPTER 27
Before late-night prayers
“Excuse me, Officer Hanson…” Darwin carefully reached under the handsome young policeman, slipped his badge-wallet out of his pants. Flipped it open, “William Hanson. I like that. William. A good, steak-and-taters American name. Pleasure to meet you. I bet they call you Bill, don’t they? How about Willy? I prefer that. Willy. Sounds friendly. Innocent. Do you think of yourself as innocent, Willy? Most people do.” Darwin laughed, the sound echoing off the bathroom tile as he tucked the badge and ID into his own jacket. “A man like me…I have no illusions.”
Hanson’s right hand inched toward his sidearm, hanging half out of its holster.
“Well, look at you. Aren’t you the tenacious lawman.” Darwin reached down, pulled the gun free, checked it out. Standard police-issue 9mm semiautomatic, with a personal-ID grip. The weapon couldn’t be fired unless the registered owner’s thumbprint was pressed into position. The 9mm was useless to anyone other than Hanson. Darwin expelled a round, looked down the barrel, then jacked a fresh bullet into the chamber. “You keep a well-maintained weapon, Officer. You like those expansion slugs, I see. Give you a sense of security, do they? I wager you never fired your weapon in the line of duty, though. Am I right? That changes things, trust me.”
Hanson groaned.
“Let me help.” Darwin bent forward, placed the pistol in the man’s hand. “There you go.”
Hanson’s fingers curled around the grip, made contact. He tried to raise the 9mm, but it was too heavy for him.
“Take your time. Get your strength back. Just keep breathing. Terrible calculus—each inhalation tears you up a little more inside, cuts into the soft pink parts, but a man has to breathe.”
Hanson’s forehead beaded. A ball of sweat ran down into his eyes, sent him blinking.
Darwin daubed at the man’s face with his handkerchief, his movements strangely tender as Hanson’s eyes tracked him. “Don’t worry, I don’t have anything embarrassing planned for you. Homosexuals, heterosexuals…you each make your choices, the wheel of love and desire.” He stroked Hanson’s cheek. “Me…well, truth be told, men and women, they’re all the same to me. Flesh buckets. You can have them.” Laughed. “Take a note, Willy. You can have my share.”
Hanson shifted, cried out. Blood poured out of his mouth.
“Stay put. Down, boy. You’re going to die soon enough; you don’t need to be in a hurry. Let’s chat a bit. I so rarely get the chance to talk with someone who knows me…the real me. Inauthenticity devours the soul, Willy, but what can I do?”
Hanson bit his lip, trying to stay conscious.
“That’s the spirit.” Darwin watched the policeman’s blood trickle toward the drain. “I didn’t do this for your badge, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just that in my present job…there’s a high frustration level. Having to hold back, hold myself in check…it gives me a headache. I’m a man with appetites, Willy. Vast appetites. Terrible appetites. And I’m not allowed to satisfy them.” Darwin smiled. “You’ll just have to do for now. You don’t mind, do you?”
Hanson gripped the 9mm. His blue eyes were going muddy, but he held on to the pistol.
“I’m a Fedayeen assassin. You should be honored to die at my hands. You could have been run over by a bus or had an artery burst in your brain. You could have choked on a piece of tough steak or had an allergic reaction to peanut butter. Instead…here you are.” Darwin tapped the man’s front teeth as though he were playing a xylophone. “If you can get outside yourself for just a moment, get beyond the pain, I think you’ll realize that a certain amount of gratitude is in order.”
Hanson tried to focus.
“Perhaps that’s too much to ask.” Darwin watched the young policeman struggle to raise the 9mm. Blood ran down the drain faster now, curls and eddies. “That’s it…there you go. Just a little higher. Come on, you can do it. Pull the trigger, Willy. Pull it. Pull it.”
The gun wobbled. Clattered into the tub. Hanson took short, little breaths.
“Disappointing, isn’t it?” clucked Darwin. “Welcome to my world.” The wireless Cyclops inside his jacket vibrated. Still balanced on the edge of the bathtub, he slipped out the silver case, flipped it open. “Well, will you look at this?” He grinned, turned the plasma screen to Hanson. “This is the inside of the Warriq house. Real-time. It’s a night-vision image so there’s a green cast, but you can see her quite clearly. That’s Sarah Dougan standing inside the front door. Wearing a very elegant chador, I might add. The hajib flatters her features, wouldn’t you say? Hi, Sarah! Say hi to Sarah, Willy. No?”
Hanson eyes glazed over.
“What did you come back for, Sarah? It must be something very important.” Darwin pointed at the screen. “Look. She’s wrinklin
g her nose at the stink. They may have removed the bodies, but the fragrance lingers.” He watched Sarah start up the stairs and out of range of the camera in the foyer. He flicked to the living room camera. The sofa crusted with dried blood, empty now—sad somehow, like party candles guttered down. He looked at the handsome young policeman.
Hanson was drifting.
“Nothing on TV, nothing in the papers. What would I do if I kept a scrapbook?” complained Darwin. “Collecting clippings is gauche, of course, but still, don’t you think the news blackout is rather petty? I blame that fat detective who was with Rakkim. Someone should teach Detective Colarusso that it’s only fair to give credit where credit is due. I have to admit, Willy, I’m a happy guy right now. I thought she might come back to the house, and here she is. Nothing like being right. Best feeling in the world. Willy? You’re no fun. See, there’s something at the house that she wants. Pay attention, Willy. Find the focus of desire, that’s the secret. Remember that. I’ve just given you some wisdom.”
Hanson’s fingers twitched, but the 9mm was an inch away. It might as well be miles.
Darwin snapped the Cyclops case shut. “Time to go. I need to find out what sweet Sarah is so interested in.” He stood up, looked down at Hanson. The young policeman’s hand moved ever so slightly toward the pistol. Impressive. Darwin wished he had more time to spend with the handsome policeman, but he was already late. He carefully placed his foot on the man’s abdomen, right on the third button of his blue shirt. “Can I have your blessing? Yes? No?” Darwin stamped down. Just hard enough, the pressure precisely calibrated. Hanson’s scream was still echoing as Darwin headed for the door.
CHAPTER 28
Before late-night prayers
Sarah slumped on the worn leather chair in Marian’s library, her head in her hands. Too tired to cry, but more than enough anger to hurl every book on the shelves across the room. She didn’t do it, though. She loved books…and she loved Marian. Had loved her. Loved her clarity, her intelligence, her shy laugh. Loved the way she laughed when she poured tea, as though the two of them were children playing grown-up. Marian was gone now and so were her father’s journals. Sarah sat in the dark, the room lit only by moonlight. The loss of Marian was a stone in her heart…but the theft of the journals was even more devastating.
It had taken her a year to focus on Richard Warriq, a year of fruitless contacts with other China experts, engineers and seismologists and architects, men who had worked on the Three Rivers Gorge project, most of them retired now or, like Warriq, long dead. She had cultivated these sources or their survivors, cross-checked their information before discarding them and moving on to the next name on her list.
An owl hooted nearby and Sarah crossed to the library window, looked outside. Owls were a bad omen, but the security lights from the house next door revealed nothing. She paced the room, restless, the empty shelf on the bookcase mocking her.
Compiling the list of names had been relatively easy. She had run a computer model to track American Muslims who had worked on the dam, supposedly as part of a research paper to highlight scientific talent among the faithful. The Chinese had kept most of the work among their own citizens, but many of the engineering requirements were specialized, and the Chinese had been forced to use several American firms. Marian’s father had been a fractal engineer, a devout Muslim who had returned again and again to the project and who seemed to travel widely. Sarah had almost decided to move on to the next name until Marian mentioned that her father had made a pilgrimage to Mecca after finishing business in Asia, had gone to pray at the holy city less than a month before it was devastated by a dirty nuke. Marian had thought his timing a blessing, but Sarah saw a darker coincidence, convinced now that Warriq’s meticulously detailed journals were the key to unlocking the truth behind the Zionist attack.
Sarah stared at the empty bookcase, not knowing what to do. The Old One’s killers must have taken them after murdering Marian and Terry and Terry’s wife. No other books had been removed, just the journals. So the Old One knew. Which had to mean that Sarah’s theory was correct…didn’t it? That was something, wasn’t it? Sarah took no pleasure in being right. She wished that Rakkim had been at the Blue Moon club Wednesday night. She was sworn to secrecy, but Rakkim…their hearts were joined. She was ready to tell him the truth now.
The clock ticked away in the corner. Another couple of hours until midnight prayers, but she would be long gone by then. No reason to make the security guard suspicious. First though…she started up the stairs to Marian’s bedroom. The neighbors had told the cabdriver that she was found dead in the bathtub. Sarah wanted to see the spot where Marian had died, to pray for her there. Sarah owed her that much.
The stairs were dark, the rain beating against the windows as though someone were trying to get in. Her legs felt weak, and in spite of all her good intentions, her brave intentions, she slowed as she neared Marian’s bedroom. A stone the size of a fist was in her throat, and she had a sudden, overpowering fear that Marian’s body had not been removed, that unlike the bodies of the butchered servants, the police had kept Marian where they had found her, part of some complex forensic necessity. It was a ridiculous thought…but she could barely breathe as she stood outside the closed door to Marian’s room.
Her hand trembled as she opened the door, but she quickly stepped inside, leaving it ajar. Redbeard said that at the moment of greatest fear, the best solution was to go boldly and without hesitation. Sarah stood in the center of the bedroom, heart pounding, and knew it was good advice. If she had waited another moment with her hand on the knob, she would have turned around and raced down the stairs, her chador floating behind her.
She opened the curtains. The wind blew leaves against the glass, and she stepped back, frightened. Smiled at herself. God hates a scaredy-cat, that’s what she and Rakkim had told each other as children, egging the other on to mischief and disobedience. He was five years older than she was, an eternity at that age, but she had never felt the gap between them. If she did, she knew it would be breached soon enough.
Through the open bathroom door she could see the edge of the tub. Too many shadows. She walked into the bathroom, checked the tub. Nothing there. Just a bit of water in the drain, black water in the dim light. The towels were uneven on the racks. Small details that would have bothered Marian. Sarah walked over and straightened them. She didn’t have the courage to turn on the light. Back into the bedroom, her stomach doing flips. The dresser drawers were half pulled out, the tiny Chinese figurines on top knocked over. The police had been in a hurry…or someone else had. She shivered. Yes, it had been a bad idea to come up here.
She heard a tiny click as the front door closed downstairs. It might as well have been a thunderclap. She was frozen now, afraid any step might be heard downstairs. Listening, knowing she had heard something. The rain seemed to stop for a moment, and in that moment she heard footsteps across the hardwood floor of the entryway, a whisper of sound. She had parked on the street, but it wasn’t the security guard come to see what she was up to. There was no way he moved so lightly.
The rain was back, carried on gusts of wind. She slipped out of her chador, tossed aside her head scarf. Underneath the chador she wore the slacks and thin sweater of a modern. Just in case. Another of Redbeard’s lessons. Never let a description of you be accurate for too long. Reversible jackets. Hats and no hats. Sunglasses and no glasses. Umbrellas that shielded the face. When leaving her tiny apartment in Ballard, she had always left as a modern, then changed into a chador at the first opportunity. Changing back on the return. It had worked. Until the night the bounty hunters had come for her.
She moved in tandem with the steps from below, heart pounding. She crossed across a bar of moonlight, blinking now as she flattened herself beside the door.
Someone was coming upstairs.
Sarah looked around for something to use as a weapon. There. A heavy granite clock on the nightstand. She hefted it. Heavy enough to bra
in someone. She was barely breathing, all of her energy focused on listening, filtering away the outside sounds, the wind and rain, focusing on the sounds of the approaching steps. She could isolate the sound of a flute from a performance of the philharmonic, could pick out the individual violinists with her eyes closed. This was no different. That’s what she told herself.
Someone was outside the half-open door.
She pressed herself against the wall, tightened her grip on the clock. Better to attack him as he entered, or wait until he was inside, his back to her?
The door creaked open. “It’s me, Sarah.”
Rakkim! She threw herself into his arms, kissing him, sobbing, lost in the feel of him, the strength of him, the smell of his skin. She hung on to him, digging in, as though to reassure herself that he was really here, that it wasn’t a dream, some desperate trick her mind was playing on her. She felt him squeeze her back, lift her off her feet, and cover her face with kisses, and she knew…it was Rikki. She went with the sensation, eyes closed, the two of them swaying in each other’s arms…no idea how long they stayed there like that, alone in the big, dark house. It could have been seconds…minutes…hours, she didn’t know. She bit him, nipped at his neck, more playful than angry. “You scared me.”
Rakkim laughed. “You can take care of yourself.”
Sarah wasn’t laughing. “Did you…did you hear about the bounty hunter?”
Rakkim must have seen the look on her face, holding her now. “Killing a man like that is a good deed in my book.” He held her close. “Don’t second-guess yourself. Don’t. It will only slow you down the next time.”
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