The Godless One

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "Stop there," Sid ordered Karen. "Show me the tin shit."

  Karen stopped and took out her badge wallet, flipping it open so he could see inside.

  "Hand it over."

  She handed it over. He raised it to his eyes for a closer inspection, but Ari did not think he was nearsighted.

  "Well, it’s a change from the ATF." Sid handed the wallet back to her. "But it’s still tin shit."

  Karen diplomatically compressed her lips.

  "I can understand why you’re packing." Sid nodded at Ari. "But why the camel fucker?’

  "He’s not armed," Karen said.

  "My dogs can smell a gun a mile off. He’s packing."

  Ari’s face bulged with innocence, but Jeff (or Mutt) kept turning away from Ben and giving him the eye. You couldn’t fool a dog. Karen turned and observed him from across the clearing, frowning.

  "Sid, you never had much in the way of manners, but can’t you keep a civil tongue, for once?" Ben seemed more afraid of losing his friend than his life, although he probably did not realize the latter was at risk. Or maybe he did. Maybe it was only now dawning on him that his childhood friend might very well have chopped off Mustafa’s head. And, like a holy fool, he was trying to find out why. It was so futile.

  Hey Sid, why are you a killer?

  Because I’m a killer.

  "You want some wop camel jockey to ask me questions?" Sid asked. When a hard face like that screwed up in disbelief it made quite an impression. Carnival performers must grimace the same way when they bite through nails, Ari thought. "Anyway, even if I knew anything about anything, I don’t care. Take your A-Team assholes off my land. And you…" He jabbed a finger at Karen’s chest. She reflexed back a step and just avoided getting poked.

  "Watch it, Mr. Overstreet. You’re treading—"

  "I’m treading on my property, where you don’t have any jurisdiction. No puny twat is going to tell me—" He stopped when he realized he had lost track of Ari. Swiveling quickly, he saw him standing next to his Lincoln pickup. "Hey, wonk-fuck! Get away from there!"

  "But I can't help admiring it!" said Ari with a broad smile. "Some of your American airmen based in Sigonella have similar trucks. Please note the improved grille, the sleek contours, the aerodynamic design, the optional all-wheel drive..." And it really is nice, Ari thought, reaching out to stroke the metallic clearcoat.

  "Get your filthy hand off my truck!" Sid bellowed, striding forward—away from the olive-colored metal can.

  Ari sighed. "Ah...how many miles to you get to the gallon? Five? Six? It's really wonderful!"

  Before Ben or Karen could intercede, Sid reached Ari and spun him around. "Didn't I tell you not to contaminate my truck!"

  "Oh, have you just taken it to the bucket wash?" said Ari amiably, but thought, He doesn't care that I'm armed. Either Sid was crazy or someone else was pointing a gun at Ari that very moment. Or both. Then he noticed Mutt and Jeff only feet away from him, panting in anticipation. Ah....

  "Come here. Here! See that license plate?"

  Ari studied the rear plate with a puzzled air. H8-RABS. "You ate some rabs? I'm sorry, what are those? Oh, does it mean 'crabs'? We have excellent crabs in—"

  "You stupid—" Sid's sentence was interrupted when he was spun around in turn.

  "All right, you dummy, you want to have it out? Have it with me! I wanted to punch out your lights the day you acted like a fool at my house, in front of my Egyptian guests...Arab, if you like! But Becky talked me out of it."

  "She isn't here now," Sid hissed. "You want me, you got me."

  They were face to face, glaring at each other like only former friends could. Mutt and Jeff whined in confusion, unable to decide if either of the people they liked should be attacked.

  "You've gone out of your mind, Sid!" Ben cried out. "If I have to beat sense into your noggin, so be it."

  Ari wished Ben could swear better, or swear at all. Even boys in the playground had ornate four-letter vocabularies. Which was not to say that Ben didn't sound fierce. While the men and dogs were preoccupied, Ari began sauntering over to the garage.

  "What have we started?" Karen asked as he passed her.

  "Just a tussle," Ari shrugged, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Go break it up."

  After the gloom of the clearing Ari's eyes took a moment to adjust to the bright halogen lamps in the garage. A glance back showed him Ben and Sid were still sweating on each other while Karen was shouting something about arresting them both. He lifted the lid of the olive-colored metal can and was immediately assailed by a fetid stench. Dog feces! He let the lid drop and roamed his eyes across a shelf next to the door. He went over and looked inside a large coffee can. There was a pistol inside. He thought of the way Sid had kept eyeing the olive-colored can and shook his head.

  I was falling for it.

  He took the gun out of the can and slid it into his coat pocket. Then he turned his eyes to the blue Nissan Sentra resting atop of a lowered ramp lift. The license plates had been removed. He ran his hand near the right taillight, but masking tape prevented him from feeling anything but the most telltale welds. The taillight itself was intact. He leaned down and looked at the bumper. Poking the edge of the tape, he searched for any seam missed by the spray gun. At the right rear door handle he discovered a narrow sliver of red. Candy red.

  There was a fierce shout from Karen outside. Ari stepped back to the bay door. Ben was on the ground, Karen kneeling next to him. Sid was coming across the clearing. When he saw Ari in the garage, he pointed and yelled: "Go!"

  Mutt and Jeff bounded forward silently, their fangs bared. Ari took Sid’s pistol out and aimed it at them. "If they continue in my direction I will shoot them with this marvelous Sigma .40 that I found in your coffee can."

  "We’ll drop them!" came a second warning, this time from Karen, who had swiveled around and was crouching with her gun raised. Ari hoped she was not really planning to pull the trigger. He had complete confidence that he would hit what he aimed at, but Karen’s marksmanship was an open question. Any bullet that zinged past the dogs might hit the man she was protecting.

  "Stop!" Sid commanded. The obedient German shepherds tried to stop on a dime, but slid forward in the snow and collided, momentarily falling into a heap.

  "You all right over there?" Karen called out.

  "I am blessed a thousand times," Ari answered. He wasn't lying, or exaggerating. Karen gave him a curious look and then holstered her gun and turned back to Ben.

  "Please come over here, my alienated friend." Ari crooked a finger at Sid. "I have some confidential matters to discuss with you."

  "You don't know anything and I don't know anything, so there's nothing to discuss."

  "Then we shall ask...what was it you called the Deputy Marshal?" Ari gave a theatrical shudder. "It doesn't bear repeating. I'm sure she'll be interested in finding out why Mustafa Zewail's Sentra is in your garage."

  Sid looked puzzled. "Then why not bring her over here now?"

  "I believe I mentioned that I have a personal issue to discuss."

  Sid's perplexity intensified. "Are you..."

  "Am I what?"

  "Whose side are you on?"

  "Always the perennial mystery," Ari shrugged. When Sid still did not move, Ari continued. "Are you one of those integrated...integral...are you one of those soldiers so filled with integrity that they industriously ply their dremer tools on their weapons? Have you lubed this with molybdenum disulfide? Have you replaced the pigtale spring? I forget…is the Sigma single or double set? In any event, I’m sure it has a much lighter pull. Two and a half pounds? One…? Let’s see…" Aiming at Sid, he gave the pistol a stern shake.

  "OK!" Sid told his dogs to sit. Unwilling to wet their haunches on the snowy slush, they performed a half-crouch. His eyes on the gun, Sid walked slowly to the garage door. "So?"

  "Who was the man with the gimpy leg in Mustafa’s house?"

  "Fuck this. Go ahead, shoot."


  "I have a very good idea who that man is. Have you ever smelled a pig farm? There’s an unmistakable stench in the air. It will hardly be to your advantage if I contact your pig employer and tell them how you went back to steal Mustafa's cars. He did not want the crime to seem like a banal robbery. He was posting a message. He wanted my fellow refugees to understand that he could not be bribed away from his goal, unlike everyone else around him. You and one of your companions were upset at leaving the $10,000 on the kitchen counter. You knew the Zewail cars were still in the open garage. You could hotwire them…or perhaps you lifted the keys without your employer's knowledge while you were in the house. So you went back a few hours later and stole the cars, turning something uniquely horrifying into common thievery."

  "I don’t know what you’re talking about. A customer dropped this car off for some body work and a paint job, that’s all."

  "And I’m a monkey’s ancestor. That was a very sloppy job you did on Mustafa. Obviously, you didn’t spend enough time in Iraq."

  "You’re not really Italian," Sid commented, his sneer bracketed by blue paint parentheses. He glanced down at Ari’s steady hand. "If you’re going to shoot, shoot."

  "Don’t rush me," Ari said in a peevish tone.

  "I think you need a serious fucking of yourself, asshole."

  "Yes, the asshole is where one fucks one’s self," Ari nodded, as though in agreement with a fellow student in an English Language class. He flit his eyes across the clearing. Karen had helped Ben into a sitting position. "Maybe I’ll be rushed, after all. Now about that day in Mosul, July 22, 2003, I believe, when Task Force 20 moved in to slaughter the Husseins while the 101st secured the perimeter…"

  Sid went rigid, his eyes like stones.

  "That must have been one spectacular bribe," Ari continued. "An elite group like the 101st…they don’t recruit traitors as a rule."

  Sid bristled but did not otherwise react.

  "How many soldiers did the Pig bribe? He robbed the Iraqi treasury blind. A little change would buy his escape. Not everyone here benefits from your grand economy. You would be coming back to…" Ari pointed at the rusty hulk of the trailer. "But I’m sure you can afford more than a shiny pickup truck, now. I assume your portion of the bribe is tucked away somewhere safe, and that you are biding your time. How many others were there? You don’t want to talk? Excellent! I’m a terrible listener. I prefer to do all the talking. Let’s see…bin Laden paid the Afghan militia to open the door out of Tora Bora. He was a…’fat cat’. I think the Pig has even deeper pockets. It must have cost a fortune to buy his way out of Mosul. But one lone soldier wouldn’t be enough. Once he was beyond the roadblocks, he would have needed…oh, a few more key individuals, at least. How many would that be?"

  "More than you can handle," answered Sid abruptly.

  "The piglet speaks!" Ari saw Ben stagger to his feet with Karen’s assistance. "We shall not discuss this with them," he said, nodding at the two.

  Sid, genuinely curious, said, "Why?"

  "Because the Pig belongs to me. Tell him I will cut out his tongue and feed it to the real pigs. I will cut off his arms so that he will have to pick his nose with his toes. I will cut off his legs so that he will have only his pecker stand on. And then I’ll take care of that, too. Oh, and tell him I keyed his Lamborghini."

  Sid’s smirk grew broader. "Right. And should I tell the Pig who it is who’s threatening him like this?"

  Ari considered his answer for a moment. "Tell the Ace of Hearts this message is from the Joker."

  "Will he understand?"

  "Maybe not. But he knows I’m out and about. If he hasn’t told you that already, he will, soon." Ari looked at Mutt and Jeff. "And next time he visits, beware for your dogs. He goes into heat around German shepherds. I’m going to keep this, by the way." He toggled the gun in his hand. "I’m a collector."

  He joined Karen and Ben in the middle of the clearing. Ben was doubled over, still gasping.

  "Sucker punched and then an uppercut," said Karen, glaring over Ben at Sid. "I think I’ll arrest him."

  "I suggest leaving well enough alone," said Ari. "I don’t think Ben would want to press charges, anyway." He gave Ben a pat. "You should have broken his jaw while he was talking."

  "That’s not…my way."

  "I don’t think you’re in any condition to drive," said Ari. "Are your keys in the truck?"

  Ben grunted, nodding. "But I prefer that the deputy drive…"

  Nonplussed, Ari leaned forward, as if he had not heard correctly. What he saw in the man’s eyes, behind the fluctuating dials of physical and emotional pain, was profound distrust.

  He thinks I tricked him into this predicament, Ari thought. And he’s right.

  Ben tried to offer a crumb of consolation. "I think she knows these backroads better." Then he turned towards the garage. "I’ll be back, Sid!" A half-shout was all his sore gut allowed him. "I won’t be sucker-punched twice!"

  Suffering through a series of helpful suggestions from the smirking deputy, Ari struggled into the narrow passenger space at the back of the Datsun’s cab. Had it not been so cold, he would have sat in the truck bed.

  "Hey!" Karen protested when his knees hit the back of her seat, bouncing her against the steering wheel. As she pulled around the trees in the parking circle, she noted Sid, unmoving, backdropped by the halogen worklights in the garage.

  "He looks like the cat that swallowed the canary," she said as she struggled with the unfamiliar gear shift. "What did you say to him?"

  "Nothing of great importance," said Ari. "But now the ball is in his gutter."

  "I think you mean the ball is in his court."

  "That, too," said the uncomfortable passenger.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Digital Image No. 57...58...59...60....

  There were no more images of the summer executions in Mosul. He was certain now that this was no coincidence. Whoever had inserted Digital Image No. 56 had counted much on Ari's integrity, not to mention his ability to cull an individual's identity from the mayhem.

  Having fallen off the wagon the night before, he had difficulty focusing. He wasn't taking the situation seriously, and fully comprehended the death wish in his behavior.

  He checked the time. It was almost 10 AM. Abu Jasim would already be on the road. Traffic in the Northeast Corridor was notoriously variable, especially on Mondays. It would take between twelve and fourteen hours for him to get to Richmond. If he was stopped at Customs and his van stripped down, Abu Jasim would not be arriving at all. The guns would be discovered and Ari’s Saddam Hussein lookalike friend would land in jail. Ari had once tried to convince him to use the ‘Samir Salman route’ through Vermont, but Abu Jasim protested that this would add half a day to his journey.

  "I have a passport. Why can’t I claim the privileges of a Canadian citizen?"

  Because you have enough weaponry to arm a platoon buried in your panels, Knucklehead.

  In his email, Ari had specified a departure time of eight in the morning. Barring the unexpected and the unwanted, Abu Jasim should by now be out of Quebec and in Upstate New York, barreling down I-87.

  Ari’s formidable mountain of patience was much eroded after a year of dangerous uncertainty. Impatiently, he reviewed the remaining 171 images on the memory stick. He tagged six more insurgents (‘bad guys’ in the CENTOM lexicon) and then closed down the computer.

  He felt a little better after a shave and shower. After dressing, he pulled on a quilted jacket that he had purchased on the way home from the Methodist church the day before and went for a tour outside.

  The frigid James looked abandoned. He saw no birds, not even geese. Even the most foolhardy kayakers stayed off the river when it was in this kind of mood, flooding and cold, an uninviting douche. The water had risen halfway to his gazebo. Much further, and Ari would have to think about relocating his hidden cache of guns.

  The snow had almost completely melted, leaving his lawn mushy. Runnel
s of soggy leaves mixed with sand slowed to a sludge in the street. The bleakness suited him. An assassin would find him ready and willing. But he doubted his enemies had tracked him down to his lair. Given time, of course, they would. Unless he could track them down, first. Yet habit dictated prudence. He crossed Beach Court Lane and entered the woods. Stepping over fallen trees and slushy detritus, his new Nikes were soon slathered in mud. After a half hour he emerged into the field that ran down to the Pony Pasture, having found no evidence that anyone had explored the area for a clear line of fire at his house. Thinking to limber up both his mind and body, he began to jog along River Road, only to slip and fall on a patch of ice. At any other time he would have hopped up and kept going. Now he lay still on the chilly ground, not even swearing, thinking of unanticipated vulnerabilities. No one had driven or walked past him by the time he grabbed hold of one of the wooden barriers lining the road and hauled himself to his feet. It was a work day and the neighborhood was practically deserted.

  This did not bode well for the evening jog that was pre-planned and unavoidable. The ground was not jogger-friendly, or even otter-friendly, and the lowering clouds made no promise of improvement. He tried to sketch out alternate routes in his mind, but most involved sidewalks that were even icier than the roads. He limped back home, not bothering to explore the woods bordering the Nottoway and Mackensie properties. He entered through the front door and left a trail of muddy footprints on his way to the garage. There, he took his new universal garage door remote and pressed the flat button. Instead of the comforting clank of the overhead motor, he heard only the echo of his own breathing. He pressed again, and again. He was about to smash the device against the wall when a thought came to him. He slid open the hatch on the back of the remote and stared at the empty compartment.