The Godless One

by J. Clayton Rogers

  He had not thought to buy batteries.

  This did not entirely displease him. He now had something useful to do. He doubted he could exhaust the next six hours hunting for a pair of Double AA's, which were available at practically every store between the Atlantic and the Pacific, but it was a start.

  He did not bother changing. He had learned that most Americans did not dress to go shopping. In fact, it sometimes seemed to him that most people favored Funk and Grunge. With a careless toss against fashion, he manually opened his door and drove to the nearest drug store. He quickly found the batteries, but discovered that, in his indifferent haste, he had forgotten his wallet.

  He gave up his idea of going furniture hunting and went home. It would be a late night, so he tried to take a nap. It was futile. He was sorry now that he had not waited long enough at the library to accept Lynn Gillespie's gift of books by current Iraqi novelists. He switched the computer back on and did some research on historical events in which he had participated or seen from up close. He learned little new, but once again he was startled by how events, both great and small, were encapsulated in the same dreary format: beginning, middle, end. 'Saddam Hussein was born in Al-Awja 1937. He rose to power. He fell from power. The End.' You might as well leave it at that.

  Most online articles affirmed that Saddam had lost touch with reality. The American military analysts concluded that was one of the main reasons the Iraqi Army was defeated so handily. Ari found it hard to ignore reality. When he touched a cat, it was a cat. What were you touching, Saddam, when you placed your hand on the lion’s head?

  He cleaned off his new shoes, knowing full well that this evening, within twenty yards from his door, they would be encrusted all over again. 'The shoes got dirty. The shoes were cleaned. The shoes got dirty again. The End.'

  At four-thirty he was startled to see that it was growing dark. The clouds and the season were combining for an early nightfall. He slid on his shoes, all the while cursing his negligence. He could have bought a flashlight in the time he had frittered away. He could have even bought batteries for it. As it was, he would arrive early at the rendezvous and be forced to wait in the dark. He took out a plastic shopping bag and scooped five handfuls of cat food into it. No sense letting it go to waste.

  He would be warm while jogging, but he was bound to start freezing while standing in the dark. It was too bad he did not trust his cell phone. Abu Jasim could have called before leaving Montreal, letting him know if he was running late or (far less likely) leaving early. If he was delayed, Ari's wait might prove long indeed.

  Locking his front door behind him, he set off down the lawn and up the lane. He saw no strange cars parked on the block, no human shadows lurking in the woods. Within thirty seconds he was on River Road, his eyes peeled for patches of ice. By the time he paused to cross Westover the darkness was already growing oppressive. Rush hour was in full swing and he was dazzled by a long row of headlights. Seeing a gap, he darted across, the cat food shushing inside his plastic bag.

  He was feeling better than he had the day before, when he had collapsed in an exhausted heap at Manchester Docks. He was more relaxed, now that he was well away from his house, the most likely spot for an ambush. He would have felt better still had he skipped that half bottle of Jack Daniels the night before. But it was thanks to the whiskey that he had gotten as much sleep as he had.

  His eyes streamed tears in the cold. Within a few miles he was already searching for the hot, pulsing coal within him that had fueled his days and weeks of exhaustion in the past. To his intense satisfaction (and relief), he found the glowing source, the part of him that said, ‘You’re alive, Ghaith—let’s keep it that way.’ When alone, it was the closest he came to spiritual uplift. He considered it pure physiology, and did not dwell much on it. A gift from his body, and that was that. Though pummeled by apprehension, a bit bothered in the knee and nagged by the weather, he could have felt worse.

  Once past Belvedere, he prudently slowed to a brisk walk. Streetlights illuminated the small road that ran behind the Manchester banking institutions facing the river, but water had already begun to freeze on the embankment. He avoided the flood wall, whose concrete walkway was no doubt slick with black ice. The detour cost him a half hour, but when he reached the landing there were still ninety minutes to kill—if Abu Jasim was running on schedule. But this was not as onerous as it might have been. Ari had come prepared to entertain himself.

  The landing was revealed in fragments of light from the Canal Walk and the adjoining Rockett’s Landing condos across the river—where, a tourist pamphlet had informed him, Abraham Lincoln came ashore when he redeemed Richmond from the Confederacy. Light also reflected off the river, making the splotchy illumination waver with uncertainty. Ari felt as though he had walked into an experiment designed to demonstrate wave/particle duality. There were no vehicles slouching in the parking lot slush, although a pair of tracks indicated someone had recently attempted a visit.

  The semi-truck-sized pile of rubble was further back, away from the light, but its broken white concrete was visible from the Manchester Docks entrance. Walking towards it, Ari began shaking his bag.

  "Here kitty!" he called out. "I'll bet your nice lady didn't feed you tonight. No one wants to come here in this weather."

  Shadows skittered across the rubble and vanished in black crevices.

  "Here kitty! I hope you are warm in your little concrete shitholes. But it's dinner time now! Eat! Yum!"

  Coming to a halt in front of the pile, he smacked his lips to lure the cats to his chow. He was enormously gratified when several heads popped up. There might have been even more of them watching him, but it was too dark to say.

  "Fit for a king!" he informed them, taking out a small handful and placing it at his feet. He drew away several yards. When none of them accepted the bait, he pulled back a little further. Finally, a very large tabby ventured away from the pile towards the food. Other cats hopped up on the rubble, watching closely.

  "Oh, you're a big guy," Ari said approvingly. "You could beat the shit out of that idiot, Sphinx."

  On hearing the first toothy crunch, more cats crept forward. Even in the poor light, Ari marveled at the striking variety of their winter coats. White, black, tortoiseshell, mackerel tabby, orange tabby, tuxedo, spotted, cow, mask-and-mantle a multitude of bi-colors. It was only after several fights broke out that Ari paused in his admiration and stepped towards them, opening the bag. Most of the cats darted back to the concrete heap. But a few, including the first big one, drew back only a short distance.

  "Oh, mighty cat. Oh, brave cat. I shall name you Hector." Ari cast food in a narrow swath, as though presenting a feast for royalty. Hector came up to stake his claim to a choice clump, warning several others off with an impressive scowl. Ari's next toss was wider because the crowd was growing. He wanted them all to participate in the buffet. But his attention remained focused on Hector, whose dominance was obvious. He moved to within two feet of the cat, bearing orange and yellow markings similar to Sphinx's. Hector hissed, but did not back away. He hissed again when Ari crouched. Ari made kissing sounds that Hector did not seem to appreciate. "Oh, you are most certainly a boy cat. I won't try to kiss you, I swear."

  Hector appeared to be a bit tamer than the others. Or perhaps he was simply more confident of his ability to deal with human antagonists. Ari's slightest movement caused the other cats—now congregated into a veritable swarm—to shift away from him. But Hector squatted in place, curling his tail around his body as he munched away.

  "Wouldn't you like to come home with me? I have a nice home, much better than that little tart Diane's. I have a mattress and four walls. Actually, many walls. I have a basement and four bedrooms! I have plenty of cat food and a kitty litter...well, I'll buy a new one. And I promise to scoop it with great regularity. I'll even get you a scratching post, whatever the hell that is. All you have to do is...be a cat."

  Gingerly, he reached out. He w
as quite astonished when Hector allowed him to pet his head, although not without a low growl of warning.

  The squish-squish of a jogger drew Ari away from the cat. A man’s dark outline appeared at the Slave Trail entrance. Ari’s height, almost Ari’s build—a bit stockier, perhaps. Twice he slid on ice, but recovered masterfully with moves that tightened his style. He spotted Ari almost instantly and changed direction, coming his way. Seeing the newcomer, Hector grew wary and began to pull back. Without looking at him, Ari ran his index finger over the cat’s head, calming him. With brief visual detours he surveyed his surroundings. To his left, five feet away, two chunks of concrete about the size of baseballs. A tangle of tree roots, small but noticeable under the slush, around five feet to his front right. A branch near his foot. Old and soggy but possibly useful. And there was plenty of loose muck at his feet. This was all he could see in the semi-darkness. There could have been a shiny new nickel-plated .38 lying on the ground to his front left, in the shadow of that tree trunk…that would have been nice. But if he couldn’t see it, it was worthless.

  Ari tried hard to see the man's legs and feet. As he came up he saw the man's running shoes had very little mud. He tried to catch a glimpse of the man's calf, but his dark jogging pants merged with the night.

  The man was smiling. Late twenties. Not self-consumed. A purposeful air that he failed to hide.

  "Hell of a night for—"

  Ari grabbed the cat by the neck and threw him at the man's face.

  "Eyes, Hector!" he bellowed.

  With his other hand he flung ground mixture, slush and mud and gravel. Straight at the man’s face.

  Hector howled, threw out his claws, missed the eyes of the ducking man but gave a good gouging before sailing off into the dark. By then Ari was up from his crouch and crowding the man towards the roots. Forced back, the man stumbled on the roots. He staggered, Ari pushed and had him down. He was going for the throat with his foot, a good crush, make it quick, kill him now.

  He slipped wildly on a patch of ice, almost going head over heel backwards. He managed his feet, but when he rose so too did the man, who also knew to attack. Attack, attack. Ari began to kick him in the crotch, felt the mud slipping under him. This was not ground for fancy footwork. The man caught on, too. His heel whiffled ice, he waved his arms to balance, then Ari saw the knife. It had been up his sleeve. Too late to run like hell.

  The nice quilt coat was an encumbrance. It was zippered up to his neck. To die for disliking a chill. The man wore no coat, not even a jacket. He had not come far. Blood ran down his cheeks from Hector's cut. Too bad, it would have been better above the eye, blinding. Ari pretended to slip, took up one of the concrete chunks, whirled and threw as the knife flashed close. The man couldn't quite see what was coming and caught it in the shoulder. He grunted, but that was all. It didn't buy Ari enough time to remove his jacket, use it like an arm guard. The man swayed the switchblade, trying to mesmerize Ari. Ari was mesmerized. The knife was all. There was no way he could run. He allowed his left hand to drift close. The blade slashed down but Ari jumped back. Both of them were quick. Avoid the fugue state. No time for two thoughts at once.

  They both feinted and both slipped. It was almost funny. They should have laughed.

  Ari's shout had not worked. The man was undistracted. He saved his breath. The man was silent as death. He had the gleam of the foiled professional in his eye. The quick clean had become protracted dirty. Why had Mustafa's death been so messy? One chop, this guy could do it. But his partner was incompetent, couldn't show him up. So it was snip-clip, Mustafa, there goes your head. Overtime for overhead.

  Breathing was a nuisance. It clouded the air. The man felt the advantage. He was thinking of deboning Ari. He had gone tunnel-vision, just like Ari. Fuck Saddam, fuck George Washington. Here and now. The universe could crumble.

  Ari had been in this situation before. Big fucking Kurd with a big fucking Tuareg knife. The Kurd was dead, Ari had a scar. Saddam bandaged it with a medal.

  Stop thinking!

  Ari edged sideways, trying to take control of the center of gravity. Get to the perpendicular, take him beyond his ankles. The man knew what he was doing but had difficult footing. Ari began to think he could take the knife out, but at what price?

  The man had a stupid side. The knife froze, shot forward. Ari went for the back of his hand with his knuckles. Get those fragile bones. And he did. But the man's hand wasn't so fragile. He winced but drew back without dropping. Ari lunged. The knife was up. Ari flung back just in time.

  Rana, he thought, and flung her away. Dying thought, didn't want that.

  He remembered the stick. How firm? And where? He had not moved far. He edged the other way, foot seeking.

  There.

  OK, but how to get it? Crouched, both crouched. Fighter's stance.

  It was the man's call. Ari could stay like this all night. Something had to be done.

  Another lunge, this time more cautious. Well, you can't kill a man that way. Ari sensed triumph. He had all night.

  But he really didn't feel like waiting that long. The man was ten years younger, might outlast him, end the conference with a pointed conclusion. Should he talk to the man? No, he had no point. Ha-ha.

  But those guards in Baghdad, protecting Abu Nidal. He had brought them around. Words, so powerful. But they were young, reasonable, trapped in history's bubble. This man was young, unreasonable, and looking for a kill. Ari drifted his body right, his hand right. A quick slash. Nothing there.

  He knows me well enough. Someone has tattled. He doesn't charge. He knows he would die. He's taking the circuit. The Grand Tour. He has time. I have time. What a great time we'll have.

  Patience is a virtue. No, kill him now. Oh...a little problematic? The sound of the river shimmied up his spine. I shouldn't be listening. I shouldn't be thinking about not listening. The knife was bait. But unavoidable. If only he'd spotted it before. You don't fight a man wielding a knife, not if he knows how to use it. He would have run, throwing objects at his pursuer like a kitchen maid in distress. Get to the road and look for a cop, a ranger, a kid with a slingshot. If only Hector hadn't missed the eyes. Would Sphinx have done better?

  Ari shifted left and lunged for the forearm. The man was slow—by design. The instant Ari clamped the forearm he took a shot behind the ear. A hard blow. The fucker was ambidextrous. He raised his knee, jammed the forearm down. The knife flew off. The man grunted again, not much of a talker, not put off from a blow to the side of Ari's neck. Ari tried to jerk his other knee up, a kick to the groin surefire if not blocked. But his leg failed him, squiggled sideways like a fat worm. He had just enough in him to block stiffened fingers aimed at his eyes. The man was mad about the cat trick, wanted revenge in that direction. Then he blocked a pain-blow at his clavicle notch, a killing blow to his throat. He tried a kick at the tibia, lots of nerves there. He missed. He was on the defensive. He was loose, not in the good way of fighting readiness but the bad way of a man no longer able to control his pain. He was a dead man. Where was the knife? Where was the branch?

  A misstep. An opening. Was the man stupid? No, he had an agenda. Didn't want to kill Ari right away. The killing blow aimed at Ari's throat had been reflexive, he had been duped by his own training. Twice in the last five seconds Ari found himself over-vulnerable. No advantage taken. So he's stupid—make him pay. As the man pulled back fractionally, taking himself off offense, mysterious, Ari planted a solid fist in his hip joint.

  "Shit," the man hissed, knowing he'd been stupid. But the hip had been right in front of Ari. Why was that?

  He was on his knees. Hadn't even suspected.

  "Dead and don't know it," the man said. And the fact that he spoke at all probably meant Ari was dead—and knew it. The man tried a kick. He could slip now and not pay the price. But Ari gave his ankle a nice rap with his knuckles and he hopped back. Both men were distracted by a brief search for the knife. Buried in darkness, maybe buried in slu
sh.

  Then Ari succumbed to a feint, raised his left when he should have blocked with his right, or both, and was hammered sideways onto his side. He grabbed the man's ankle when another kick came. Got a close-up of that brand new sneaker. He was weak, now. The man broke away and circled behind him. Ari flipped, letting go an involuntary groan, and hurt them both with a fist to the man's kneecap. The man bent down and buried a wicked jab in his armpit. A whole lot of nerves, there, and they'd been exposed. Ari gasped in pain but managed a counterstroke on the man's nose.

  "God damn!"

  That's was Ari's last blow. A kick to his chest crunched his ribs. He tried to roll away, but the man really came at him. Blows to the head, the back, the neck, the groin, the legs...he was whittling Ari's life away. Ari flailed a bit, refusing to give up. Then another head blow stunned him and he lay still.

  "There, got you fucker," the man almost wailed, limping around his victim like a gorged tiger. "Goddamn, he warned me, that's why I bought the knife. Gawd-damn!"

  "So you're Frank Drebin," Ari gasped.

  "That's a joke!" said the man incredulously. "Don't you Hajis have any culture?"

  Haji…the man was military, had served in Iraq.

  "I would have avoided the fight if I'd known about the knife."

  "Sensible, but you didn't have any choice." The man began searching for the knife. "How did you know?" he asked conversationally over his shoulder.

  "New athletic shoes," Ari gasped, a part of his mind weirdly enjoying the analysis, professionals comparing notes.

  "You've got new shoes, too," said the man.

  "But they weren't covered in Mustafa's blood, like your old ones."

  "Flimsy evidence, buddy. I'm sure as hell glad I'm not part of the general public, or you would have ended up killing one of the general public."

  "And your shoes weren't very muddy," said Ari, hearing a dreamlike buzz in the background. "You parked close by, but were pretending you had run far."