Al-Mansour takes a deep breath. It’s time to take the step he’s been putting off, the one he now knows he should have taken from the beginning. To be honest, the Chechens scare him. But when they’re bought, they stay bought. And once they take on a mission, they won’t stop. For anything. He picks the phone up off the bed and dials.
THIRTY-EIGHT
It’s a pleasant enough dinner, largely because Francis’s constant chatter keeps everyone smiling and doesn’t give Ben much chance to snap at his mother for her constant stares at Meadow. The girl is polite, almost excruciatingly so, but Ben doesn’t see that making much inroad into his mother’s concerns about his best friend. He’s about to break in and say something when Marie’s cell phone buzzes. She sighs, gets up, and walks to the kitchen counter. She sighs again when she looks at the screen. “Sorry,” she mumbles as she goes to the door, “I have to take this.” As she walks out, Ben hears her say “Jack…”
“It’s him,” Ben says. “Keller.”
Meadow takes a bite of her green beans. “What do you have against that guy, anyway?”
Ben shakes his head. “He’s a fu—” He glances over at his half-brother. “He’s a psycho. He’s nothing but trouble.”
Francis nods. “That’s what Grandpa said.”
Meadow inclines her head quizzically. “But from the way you tell it, he saved your life.” She smiles and puts a hand on his. “I can’t say I hate him for that.”
Ben looks down and shakes his head. “You don’t get it.” He closes his eyes and suddenly, without warning, it comes over him again. He’s back on that hillside, the smell of smoke in his nostrils, the sounds of gunshots as the man he’d looked up to, thought of as his protector, shoots a man kneeling in front of him in cold blood. And laughs. He hears that laugh in his nightmares.
“Ben,” Meadow’s voice is tight with alarm. “You’re shaking. Open your eyes. Please.”
Ben takes a series of deep breaths, like the therapists have taught him, and waits for the tide of adrenaline to break and roll back before he opens his eyes. “I’m okay.”
“You need your medicine?”
He shakes his head. Neither his mother nor Meadow know it, but he hasn’t been taking the pills his latest doctor prescribed. They make his head hurt and give him a restless jittery feeling that makes it hard to focus. “I’m fine.”
“You haven’t been taking it, have you?” she grimaces. “Ben, you need to—”
“You need to drop it.” He pushes his plate away, knowing his anger is irrational, but not able to help himself. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I only worry because I care about you.”
“I already have one mom.” He gets up and walks away from the table. He knows he’s hurt Meadow. It’s not the first time. When he calms down, he knows he’ll hate himself. But she won’t hate him. She never does. She’s a good person. Unlike him. He knows he’s not worthy of her, or Francis, or even his mother. He wishes he were dead. It’s not the first time for that, either. He goes into his room and closes the door behind him. After making sure the door is locked, he takes a deep breath and goes down on his knees, beside his bed. He reaches under the bed and gropes until he finds the wooden box. It’s about a foot and a half square, made of unfinished wood, picked up at a yard sale by his mother so long ago he can’t remember and stuck in a closet until he found something to put in it. He drags the box out and opens it.
The .38 caliber revolver takes up almost all the space in the crude wooden box. Ben takes it out, hefting it and appreciating the weight in his hand. The grip is worn, but it feels molded to his hand. He turns the gun to look at the bullets nestled in the cylinder, each one a promise of oblivion. Those blunt, abruptly curved assurances of release beckon him for a long time, until he finally sighs and nestles the pistol back down into the wooden box. Gutless, his inner voice jeers at him. Coward.
For now, he thinks to himself. For now.
THIRTY-NINE
Marie walks back into the kitchen, putting her phone back on the counter. “Where’s Ben?” she asks.
“I think he went to his room.” Melissa, who insists on being called Meadow, is looking at her plate. Her voice is shaking, as if she’s trying not to cry.
“What happened?” Marie says. “What’s going on?”
It’s Francis who answers. “Ben got mad again.” He looks like he’s about to cry as well.
God damn it, Marie thinks. She wants to go to Ben’s room, pound on the door, pick him up by the shoulders and shake all this angst and drama and self-pity out of him. Then she immediately feels ashamed. She knows her son has real problems. Her anger is born of frustration, the feeling that no matter what she does, it doesn’t seem to help. It’s just so exhausting. I’m so tired of being tired. “Okay. Best thing to do right now is give him time to cool off.” She’s annoyed when Melissa/Meadow nods in agreement. I don’t need your permission, hon. But she keeps that to herself as well. “I need to go out for a little while anyway. Melissa, would you like a ride home?” She doesn’t miss the look of dread on the girl’s face. She knows there’s a reason she spends so much of her time over here. But she’s got her own damaged kids to deal with.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Melissa says. “I’ll get my stuff.”
“Okay.” Marie turns to Francis. “I won’t be long. Make sure you get washed up before bed. Tell Ben to help you if you need it. And the two of you can clean up and get the dishes put away, okay?” Francis just nods and looks at his plate. She crosses the room and leans down to hug him from behind. “I love you, Francis,” she murmurs into the top of his head.
His voice is slightly muffled. “Frank.”
“Okay. I love you, Frank.” She breaks the hug and steps back.
“I love you, too, Mom.”
Melissa’s standing in the doorway. “Ready.”
They make the drive in silence, Melissa looking out the window. When they arrive at the double-wide trailer where she lives, there are no lights on. Marie hears the girl sigh with relief. She looks almost cheerful as she turns back toward her. “Thanks, Officer Jones.”
“You’re welcome.”
Melissa pauses a moment. “Ben’s a good guy,” she says. “And I know you really care about him. And I know he doesn’t show it all that well, but…he loves you a lot, too.”
Marie feels a lump in her throat. “I know you care about him, too.” She laughs. “Maybe that’s why I’m having trouble dealing with you.”
The girl’s eyes narrow. “Because of the way I am?”
“No. Because I’m his mom. I’m supposed to be the one he comes to when he’s hurt.”
Melissa opens the door and gets halfway out. Then she turns back and nods. “You know, I think I get that.” She smiles. “Good night, Officer Jones.”
“Good night. Meadow.”
Meadow’s smile widens. As she exits the car, Marie calls to her. “Meadow.” The girl sticks her head back in. “If there’s any kind of trouble,” Marie says. She gestures at the darkened trailer. “Anything you need to tell me about, you know I’ll listen. And I’ll help.”
Meadow nods. “I know.” She looks at the trailer, then back at Marie. “And thanks. But there’s nothing, you know, illegal going on. No one’s beating me or, you know. It’s just kind of shitty all the time.”
“Because of the way you are.”
Meadow nods. In the dimness of the car’s interior light, Marie can see the tears in her eyes. “Because of the way I am.”
“Well,” Marie says. “That sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“But look, Meadow. If you need a safe place to be…our door’s always open.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
Meadow nods gratefully. “Thanks again, Officer.”
Marie smiles. “We don’t have to be so formal outside of school. You can call me Ms. Jones.”
<
br /> Meadow laughs. “Good night, Ms. Jones.”
“Good night.” Marie watches until she’s certain the girl is safe inside the trailer. Then she heads off to meet Keller.
FORTY
“Trust you,” Marie says, “to find a roadhouse with a name like the Stumbling Pig.”
Keller smiles and takes a drink from his bottle of Red Stripe. “Thought you might like it.”
The place is a dive, with most of the illumination provided by neon beer signs, stools that waver and wiggle as if they’re about to collapse and yet somehow never do, and a tattooed bartender with a ZZ Top beard who looks mean enough to bend iron bars between his teeth. Marie can’t help but like it.
“You want anything?” Keller asks as Marie takes a set on one of the rickety stools.
Marie considers. “I don’t suppose they have a Pinot Grigio.”
“I’m guessing no.” He raises a finger and the bartender saunters down to see what he wants. “Another beer for my friend here.”
“Okay.” The bartender looks at Marie. “What you need?”
“Red Stripe.”
“Ain’t got it.”
“Bud Light.”
“Got it.” He reaches in the cooler and hands over a beer. Then he takes a seat on his stool, crosses his arms, and regards the bar with a baleful stare.
“Come on,” Keller says, “let’s get a table.”
They find one in a booth around the corner from the blaring jukebox, which gives them a little privacy. “Look,” Keller says, “to begin with, I’m sorry for what I said. About you wanting to keep me here. That was a shitty thing to say.”
Marie takes a sip of her beer. “It was.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. But there’s a bigger problem here.”
“How do you mean?” she says.
“After the incident you saw, Alia and Bassim Khoury’s father hired me to protect them.”
Marie shakes her head. “From what?”
“That’s the big question, isn’t it?” Keller asks. “At first, you’d think it was from that redneck dude—Brandon, his name was? And his buddies. But does that make sense to you?”
Like hiring someone to burn the house down because you saw a cockroach. “No,” she says.
“So.” Keller leans forward. Marie can’t help but notice the eager look on his face. “Today, I saw these other guys. Two of them. Watching the Khoury kids. And me.”
Marie puts down her beer. “Wait. What?”
Keller nods. “Yeah. I never saw them before, but I know that look. Military contractors.”
“Mercenaries,” Marie breathes. Then she pulls back. This is nuts. “Are you sure?”
Keller nods. “I know. Seems really off the wall, right? But the same day, this guy sits down with me at Webster’s.”
“The diner?”
Keller nods. “He says his name is Wilson. Says he’s with the government. Tells me they’ve got the security of the Khourys under control. I should just stand down.”
Marie shakes her head and laughs ruefully. “Obviously, he never met you.”
Keller chuckles as well. “Then I talk to Alia and her brother Bassim, and they tell me some wild tale about how Daddy’s pissed off the terrorists and those are the ones who are after them.”
Marie takes a drink of her beer. “I don’t suppose you’ve been to the local police about this.”
Keller shrugs. “What am I going to say? There’s an international terrorist conspiracy brewing in Harnett County? The CIA’s protecting an Iraqi asset here and I’m not sure they’re up to it? You’re the only person here who knows me well enough to know that I’m not nuts.” He takes a drink and laughs bitterly. “Or at least that my story isn’t nuts, even if I am.” He looks at Marie. “Look. I know it all sounds bizarre. But if anything happens, I want you to be ready.”
“Thanks. But, Jack, you know if there’s a credible threat, I have to report it.”
Keller nods. “I understand.”
Marie shakes her head. “No. I don’t think you do. If I report a terror threat as credible, the whole school system shuts down. Across the county. Kids stay home. Working moms have to either scramble to find someone to look after their kids or stay home and risk losing their jobs. Makeup days have to be scheduled, some of them on Saturdays and vacation days. People get really, really unhappy about that, and those people yell at the school board, and then the school board yells at my boss, who yells at me. I’m willing to be yelled at. It’s happened before. But you’d better be dead damn sure there’s a threat, Jack. Are you?”
Keller stares down at the table. “Yeah. I am.”
Marie looks hard at him for a long moment. “Okay, then.” She looks across the room and sees something that makes her whisper, “Fuck. My. Life.”
Keller looks up. “What?”
Marie sighs. “Over there in the booth under the Stevie Ray Vaughn concert poster. Look familiar?”
Keller looks. “Well. Speak of the devil.”
“Brandon Ochs.” Marie says it like a curse. “And two of his dumb little buddies.”
Keller nods. “None of them of legal age to be in here.”
“Nope.”
“You’re not on duty, right?” Keller sees her look, raises his hands placatingly. “Sorry.”
She sighs, drains off the last of her beer, and stands up. Keller does the same. She shakes her head at him. “This is my job, Jack. Not yours.”
“Three on one. And we don’t know how drunk any of these knuckleheads are. You’re going to want backup.”
He’s right, but it doesn’t make her any happier. “Stay back. Let me do the talking.”
Keller nods. “Got it.”
Brandon is the first one who sees her coming. His lip curls in his customary sneer until he sees Keller walking a step behind her, moving out to flank her on her right shoulder.
“Hey, Brandon.” Marie’s tone is as friendly as if they were in the lunchroom. Her next words are a good bit sharper. “I’m thinking that’s not just Coke Zero in that glass.”
The boy looks defiant. “You ain’t got no jurisdiction here, Jones.” The two other young men seated around the table nod as if he’s made a point.
Marie raises an eyebrow. “Well, look at you, all lawyerly and shit. You going to teach me about jurisdiction? I mean, I’ve only been in law enforcement for seventeen years, but I can’t wait to hear legal arguments from a goddamn eleventh grader.” He looks as if he’s ready to say something, but she silences him with an upraised hand. “This is going to go one of two ways. You can all set those drinks down and walk out that door, nice and quiet. Or I can tell the bartender you’re all underage and jeopardizing his business.” She looks over at the bartender, who’s now scowling at the scene being played out.
Brandon looks down at his drink, then looks around at his followers. They don’t meet his eyes. He mutters something under his breath.
“I’m sorry,” Marie says. “What was that?”
He looks up at her, eyes blazing. “I said, fucking bitch.”
Keller starts toward him, but she blocks him with an outstretched arm, smiling broadly. “Oh, sweetie,” she says to Brandon. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Brandon drops his eyes and he and his cohorts start to shuffle out. “Oh, one more thing,” Marie adds. They stop, glowering at her. Her smile widens. “I’m going to need whatever fake IDs you used to get served here.”
They look at each other, then back at her. “We didn’t—” one of Brandon’s nameless followers begins.
Marie cuts him off. “You just need to know that if any of you is using someone else’s ID, that’s identity theft. Class H felony. And if it’s a made-up identity? Oh, boys, you don’t want any part of that. That’s the sort of stuff Homeland Security gets really interested in. So, save yourself a lot of trouble. Lay those cards on the table, fellows.”
The group looks down at
the floor, then, as one, they reach into their back pockets, pull out their wallets, and silently lay a series of laminated plastic cards on the table. Marie nods. “Good boys. Now you can go.” They file out, not looking at either Marie or Keller. She scoops the cards up off the table and shuffles through them.
“Hey.” The tattooed bartender appears at Keller’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”
Marie hands him the stack of fake IDs. “Caught some boys drinking in here underage. You might want to be more careful in the future.”
He frowns. “You a cop? You don’t look like a cop.”
“I get that a lot. Just keep an eye out, okay?”
The bartender nods and walks back to the bar, shuffling the fake IDs and muttering to himself.
“Damn,” she hears Keller say.
She turns to him, sees the smile on his face. “What?”
He hesitates, then says, “I’ve really missed you.”
She feels a lump in her throat again, then remembers what he’s told her about the time he’s spent apart from her, the time she’s spent loving other people. “I’ve missed you, too,” she says carefully, “but I have to get back.” She smiles in a way she hopes is convincing. “Usual home drama.”
“Sure,” Keller says. “We’ll talk soon.”
“Yeah. Soon.”
FORTY-ONE
Alia wakes up in the middle of the night, staring up at the ceiling like a hundred other nights before. She doesn’t know what awakened her, but she knows from experience it’ll be a long time before she gets back to sleep. She sighs and sits up. The house is silent. She’s always felt a special fondness for this time of night, when she has the house to herself. She pulls a long white robe around her and stalks softly through the house, enjoying the feeling, as if she was a spirit gliding to and fro among the living. She eventually ends up at the sliding glass door to the backyard. She hesitates for a moment, then pulls the door open, slowly so as to minimize the noise, and steps into the fenced-in enclosure. At the far end, there’s a makeshift barbecue grill, made of stacked cinder-blocks. When they moved in, it was unused, overgrown with creeper vine and kudzu. Now, all the vegetation has been cleared off, but the grill has still never been used. Alia sits down in one of the cheap plastic chairs that were in the back yard when they moved in and regards the cinder-block structure.
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