Prayers for the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  Colarusso smiled. A few minutes later he nodded as his son whipped past. “Look at Anthony Jr. Ever since he got accepted in the Fedayeen, it’s like he’s grown a couple of inches. Seemed to happen overnight. Cleans up his room without being asked. Goes on five-mile runs every morning. Calls me sir, if you can believe that. More than that, though…it’s like he’s solid in a way he wasn’t before. Like he’s seeing things clearer. Like he finally knows where he’s going.” Colarusso shook his head. “I owed you before…now it’s like I’m never going to catch up.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  Colarusso kept his eyes on the ice. “Anthony Jr. has a real case of hero worship when it comes to you. Everything out of his mouth is Rakkim-this and Rakkim-that.”

  “He’ll get over it soon enough.” Rakkim watched Sarah gliding along. She had separated from Anthony Jr., was doing spins in the center of the rink. Her skate caught and she almost fell, skated on, blushing. “When you ran down Abdullah’s stats…you didn’t do it directly, did you?”

  “No data trail, just like you said.”

  “Did the cops at the crime scene know who I was?”

  “I told them you were State Security. Said Redbeard himself sent you to take over the site. They knew better than to ask for your name. Don’t worry. Nobody knows we’re more than ships in the night. Reprobate like you. Word got out that we were pals, it could fuck up my climb to the top.”

  “What about the Super Bowl?”

  Colarusso shrugged. “Half the detectives on the force got comped to that game.”

  “Okay.” Rakkim waved back to Sarah. “How did you get the information on Abdullah?”

  “I went through a girl in the personnel department. She’s got access to databases all over the country so she can check out new applicants.”

  “She didn’t ask why you wanted the information?”

  “I told her it was a top secret project. I think she enjoyed the idea.” Colarusso adjusted his poorly knotted necktie without noticeable improvement. “She’s a moderate Muslim lady, a little overweight, past thirty and unmarried, so you know where she’s headed.” He scratched his belly. “She’s kind of sweet on me. Laughs at all my jokes. Thinks I’m some kind of rough-and-tough character. I guess I’m the forbidden fruit.” He grinned. “You know what they say about Catholics.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, don’t play dumb. You know what they say.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Catholics are built larger,” said Colarusso, whispering now. “Our equipment…it’s bigger than Muslims’.”

  “I just never heard that about Catholics,” Rakkim said innocently. “All I heard was the thing with the choirboys.”

  “We got rid of that problem a long time ago.”

  Rakkim watched Sarah and Anthony Jr. skate over to the refreshment stand. Anthony Jr. bought her a cup of hot cider. Glanced over at Rakkim, then quickly back.

  “That’s a fine-looking woman,” said Colarusso.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re a lucky man.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Marie’s been puffed up like a partridge ever since Anthony Jr. got his papers. Every neighbor within a mile knows her boy’s going to be Fedayeen. She’s planning a big party next month, just before he leaves.” Colarusso cracked his knuckles, taking his time. “I’m supposed to tell you…I’m supposed to let you know, if you want to marry one of our daughters, just say the word.”

  Rakkim stared at him. First Spider and now Colarusso.

  “I know, I know, they’re homely as an old boot, but Mary Ellen is a fine cook and has the hips for pounding out babies. She doesn’t have to be your first wife. I figure Sarah’s already hanging drapes in that spot. You can put Mary Ellen third or fourth in line.”

  “One wife is plenty.”

  “Tell me about it. Well, at least I asked.”

  Rakkim smiled. “You look relieved.”

  Colarusso started to answer, then Sarah and Anthony Jr. skated up. Anthony Jr. didn’t make eye contact.

  CHAPTER 40

  Before sunset prayers

  “Is it really true people used to swim here?”

  “It’s true.”

  Offshore oil rigs paralleled the coast, hundreds of them as far as Rakkim could see. Waves slapped the beach, the water foamy with black sludge. Huntington Beach was covered with balls of congealed petroleum, the sand clotted with gunk. “Did they have special soaps to wash off with afterward?”

  “There didn’t used to be so much oil on the beach.” Sarah unwrapped another of the spiced-goat sandwiches they had bought at Bin Laden International. She took off the hot peppers, put them aside, and took a big bite. “They didn’t drill for oil here.”

  “Why not?” Rakkim loved watching her eat. “Didn’t they need gasoline?”

  “They didn’t care. They loved playing in the water more. They rode these boards…surfboards they were called. It was supposed to be fun. Tourists came from all over the world to swim and fish and spend money.”

  Rakkim looked around. The boardwalk along the beach was noisy and crowded—retirees strolling with arms linked, mothers and babies. Sarah had insisted that they spread a blanket among the young people picnicking on the grassy bluff taking in the sunset. Rakkim was only thirty, but he felt too old to be here among the moderns and wild-eyed Catholics, all of them long-legged and tan, couples tangled together in the afternoon. Even the Zone was never like this. Not in daylight. Not out in the open.

  It had been forty-one degrees and overcast when they’d left Seattle this morning. It was eighty-seven in Southern California. They had spent the day short-hopping from one small airport to another, finally landing at BLI an hour ago. The airport biometric scanners might have been off-line, but Rakkim had decided to puddle-jump their way south anyway. Colarusso had supplied fake IDs filched from the undercover unit, given Rakkim a list of airports with failed security procedures. A safe trip but tiring. They rented a car with their fake ID, programmed the GPS to take them to the beach with a minimum of traffic. Not much luck on that. When Sarah was ready, they were going to check into a motel. Tomorrow was soon enough to find Fatima Abdullah.

  Rakkim hadn’t spent much time in this part of the country, but the drive from the airport had been a wake-up. The freeways were congested, but twelve lanes wide and smooth as glass, with computerized on-ramps and ozone detectors. Seattle had political power, but Southern California seemed to have the money. Part of it was the oil wealth, but, according to Sarah, demographics were the crucial element. While the rest of the nation was heavily Muslim, Southern California’s majority Latino population had remained Catholic. With their natural resources and hardscrabble work ethic, this part of the nation had flourished. You just had to look around to know things were different here. The buildings soared and the cars were better kept, many of them French and Japanese imports with fuel-cell technology and vector engines. There were still violent ghettos and decaying urban areas, but, unlike the capital, there was an excitement here, an eager rhythm, a sense that anything was possible. You just had to grab it.

  Sarah had responded to the change at some deep emotional level, seeming to bloom in the heat. She had rolled up her trousers until they were above the knee, taken off her jacket. She dug her toes into the grass. “I’ve only been to L.A. for academic conferences. We hardly ever left the hotel and the convention center. Strictly formal attire.” She looked around. “I could live here forever.”

  Rakkim smiled. “Colarusso once told me if I was Catholic on a Saturday night, I’d never want to be a Muslim again.”

  “I’ve seen movies from the old days,” said Sarah. “There was a girl named Gidget. She and her friends practically lived at the beach. They were half-naked most of the time and nobody seemed to notice, which was strange, because she was a nun.”

  “That doesn’t sound like any nun I ever saw.”

  “Gidget could
fly too. Like Superman. Or an angel, I’m not sure.” Sarah raised her shirt, bared her belly to the sky. “Ahhh. This must be what Paradise is like.” Rakkim’s gaze caressed the tight knot of her belly button. “Or hell.”

  Sarah grabbed the hot peppers she had put aside, plopped them into her mouth. She kept her eyes on him as she chewed. Reached over and kissed him, drove her tongue deep into him. Her kiss burned, but he didn’t pull away.

  Anthony Colarusso had a fine house in a Catholic neighborhood in the Madrona district. The lawns were neatly kept, the homes recently painted, the streets free from trash and dog shit. Darwin turned up the collar of his cashmere coat, his hands shoved into the pockets as he strolled along the sidewalk. Clean-shaven as a Baptist. He had parked a block away, made a slow circuit. A couple of kids raced past him on scooters, scrawny little brats in shorts and T-shirts, oblivious to the damp. A rheumy-eyed old man raking leaves in his front yard said hello to Darwin, asked him if he was looking for an address, offered that he had been living on this block for fifty-seven years. Darwin thanked him, but said he knew where he was going.

  Darwin limped slightly, a twinge shooting up his spine with every step. Credit the accident last week. Accident. That wasn’t really the proper term for what had happened. He had been stabbed a couple of times by the werewolves, but the wounds were almost completely closed up. The real damage was to his pride. Rakkim must have gotten a good laugh watching Darwin’s car tumbling end over end that night. Rakkim and Sarah had gone underground, but someone had to know where they were. Darwin had remembered Rakkim and Colarusso walking around the Warriq crime scene the day after, the fat cop dogging Rakkim, passing on orders to the uniforms. One just had to look at the two of them to know it was more than a professional relationship. They were buddies.

  It hadn’t taken Darwin long to find Colarusso’s home address. One of the Old One’s little helpers in the police department had overridden the privacy safeguards that protected department personnel. Leaves swirled around his knees as Darwin crossed the street. He walked up the flagstones to Colarusso’s front porch. Rang the bell. The opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony gonged inside. The epitome of prole chic.

  Darwin brushed back his thinning brown hair with his fingers. Looked up as the door opened and saw Anthony Jr. staring at him from the other side of the security screen. Maximum quality. Half-inch Swedish-steel latticework. Expensive hardware, particularly on a detective’s salary. The windows were probably equally reinforced. Colarusso must spend a lot of time away from his family. Such a good papa.

  “Hi.” Darwin smiled. “I haven’t seen you since your parents’ Christmas party seven or eight years ago. You’ve grown.”

  Anthony Jr. didn’t react. He was a tall, muscular kid in a blue King Fahd High School sweat suit. Cropped hair. A thin beard ran along the edge of his jawline. “You going to open the door, or am I supposed to stand out here in the cold?” Anthony Jr. didn’t move. “I guess I can’t expect you to remember me.” Darwin rooted in his jacket. “I compliment you on your caution.” He flashed the badge he had taken from the handsome young police officer. “Darwin Conklin. I’m police liaison with the mayor’s office.”

  Anthony Jr. barely glanced at the badge. “Good for you.”

  “Is your father here? I need to speak with him.”

  “He hasn’t come home yet.”

  Darwin made a point of checking his watch. “May I come in and wait?”

  “Who is it, Anthony?”

  Darwin saw a doughy woman in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on a dish towel.

  Anthony Jr. kept his eyes on Darwin. “I’m taking care of it, Mom.”

  Darwin pointed at the tiny silver crescent moon hanging above the door. “Have you been accepted in the Fedayeen?”

  A wary nod from Anthony Jr.

  “Congratulations.” No response from Anthony Jr. “Can I please come inside?” Darwin grinned. “I caught a cold from the mayor last week, and I’m just getting over it.”

  Anthony Jr. slowly reached for the door lock. Stopped.

  Darwin jiggled the handle. “What’s wrong?”

  “You. You’re wrong.”

  “Anthony, you’re not scared of me, are you?”

  Anthony Jr. stared at him. Slowly nodded his head.

  Darwin opened his coat. “I’m not even armed. I’m a liaison officer. We talk. We dialogue. That’s all.”

  “Go dialogue with somebody else.”

  Darwin shook his head. “If you’re the kind of young man the Fedayeen is reduced to accepting, I should sell my war bonds.”

  “I know who you are.” Even protected by a half inch of steel, Anthony Jr. trembled.

  Darwin smiled, sincere smile this time. He didn’t remember the last time anyone had detected his true nature. Not before it was too late. Anthony might have the instincts of a born Fedayeen, but it was just as likely that Rakkim had warned him that someone like Darwin might be coming around. Him and his father, the fat cop. One big happy family, all looking out for one another. Telling one another all kinds of things. Darwin’s little visit to the Colarusso homestead hadn’t been wasted.

  Anthony’s mother reappeared in the kitchen doorway. “Anthony?”

  “Call 911, Mom. Tell them to send a couple of cars.”

  Darwin waved to her. “Hello, Marie. You look lovely, as usual.”

  Anthony’s mother touched her hair. “Don’t play games, Anthony, let the man in.”

  “Call them, Mom.”

  “Good for you, Anthony,” said Darwin. “I can’t fool you.”

  “I don’t like you saying my name.”

  “May I give you some advice?” asked Darwin. “You’ve probably been working out a lot since you got accepted. Taking all kinds of growth-hormone and cobra-venom hotshots.” He smiled again. “You’d be better off training yourself to catnap. Set your alarm clock for one-hour intervals so you wake up every hour during the night. When you can wake up without the alarm clock, and wake up alert, fully alert, then set the intervals for a half hour. That’s what you’re going to need to make it through Fedayeen boot camp, because you’re never going to get more than an hour’s uninterrupted sleep that whole first year.”

  “I did it, Anthony,” called his mother. “Close the door. Let the police handle it.”

  “I bet she’s a fabulous cook,” said Darwin.

  “I’m already sleeping on a hardwood floor,” said Anthony Jr. “I got the heat in my room turned off too. That thing with the catnaps, though…that’s a pretty smart idea.”

  “I’m full of smart ideas.” Darwin looked as if he were trying to decide something. “There’s another thing…” He glanced around, the carbon-polymer knife slipping down his sleeve into his hand. “When the escape-and-evasion instructor asks for volunteers”—he lowered his voice and Anthony Jr. unconsciously leaned closer—“you should—” Darwin slammed his right hand into the screen, the blade plunging through the steel mesh. It should have driven into Anthony Jr.’s left eye, but he had pulled away at the last instant.

  Anthony Jr. wiped blood off his cheek. He was breathing hard.

  “Well done.” Darwin put the knife away. “You just might make it through boot camp. We’ll have to get together again sometime and discuss war stories.” He gave Anthony Jr. a jaunty salute, turned on his heel. He was barely limping now, a new spring in his step.

  Sarah pulled wide the curtains, let the last of the sunset into their beach-front motel room. She was nude and slick with sweat, all curves and hollows, and he hardened again just looking at her. She bent forward, hands on the sill, her ass canted toward him. The window was open, the curtains swirling.

  “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  She looked back at him, laughed. “I’ve never been so happy.”

  He watched her as sounds drifted through the window. Bicycles. Seagulls keening. Steady pounding of the waves. The whir of jet helicopters passing overhead, almost silent. Airspace in the
capital was restricted, but not here. Nothing seemed off-limits here. “Come back to bed.”

  “Say—”

  “Please?”

  The curtains boiled around her. “Look at us, Rikki, making love with the windows open. They had to hear us down below.” Her nipples were dark and hard. “Look at us, out in public, holding hands, not counting the minutes until I have to be home. Not going over my excuses to Redbeard, rehearsing the answers for all the possible questions I might be asked. Colarusso is the only one who knows we’re here. We’re free.” She walked toward him, the sunset outlining her in gold. “I don’t want to look for Fatima tonight.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t want to look for her tomorrow either. I want to make love and sleep late. I want to eat breakfast in the café we saw. I want to run in the sun and drink Mexican iced coffee and listen to music. I want you to dance with me. Then I want to make love some more.”

  Rakkim watched her getting closer. She was at the edge of the bed now, and he could smell the sex on her. “I’d like that too. Except for the dancing part.”

  She slid across the bed, and he caressed the moistness between her legs. “Let’s stay here as long as we can,” she said, “because when we leave, when we find her, it’s going to start up again. There won’t be room for us anymore—”

  “That’s not true.”

  She slipped him inside her, slipped him inside so smoothly it was as if he had always been part of her. “It won’t be like this.” She gently rocked on him, and he fit himself into her motion, the heat of her radiating through him. “The clock will have started once we leave here. We’ll be looking over our shoulders again.” She tightened her grip on him, purring, squeezed him to the base, and he cried out as she rocked against him, driving him home.

  Rakkim groaned, arched his back.

  She shook her hair out as she rode him; dark curls flying in the twilight.

  CHAPTER 41