The Valley of Shadows

by Mark Terry

  She shrugged again. “I’m not quite ready to let go of Kalakar.”

  “Okay. Fine. But if you find anything, let me know. This is our crime scene. You don’t have any jurisdiction over a murder here. You probably don’t have jurisdiction over a murder anywhere.”

  “Sure,” she said. She went back to her search, wondering if she could pick up more prints. Lee watched her for a moment before wandering away.

  Toward the edge of the woods she thought she saw another small print. She crouched down, immediately wishing she hadn’t. The world became gray for a moment, lit up by fireworks. She sucked in air and regained her equilibrium.

  When she could focus, she saw that there were, indeed, footprints that looked like a kid’s leading into the woods. Studying the footprints more closely, she tried to remember any of the basics she knew about tracking.

  These footprints seemed to be quite a ways apart.

  The little girl was running, O’Reilly thought. Running into the woods.

  A little more study further substantiated this thought. Although the entire footprints were there, they were deep in the toe and very, very faint in the heel. The little girl had really been running hard.

  Glancing around further, she thought she saw larger footprints nearby, also running.

  She thought: the little girl ran away and Kalakar chased after her.

  A chill swept over her, thinking of the little girl being chased into the woods by the terrorist.

  What’s your name, honey? How did you get mixed up in this?

  Standing up, O’Reilly looked around. Nobody was paying her any heed. Flicking on the flashlight, she followed the footprints into the woods.

  It became almost impossible right away. O’Reilly had to go very slowly and look for each print. The ground was harder here, rockier, and any footprints tended to be partials. She thought ruefully of every western she’d ever seen where the scout was able to track through desert and over rocks and through streams. She thought it was all a crock of shit.

  Twenty feet in and she was about ready to give it up.

  Think like a ten-year-old.

  Crouching down, knocking a good eight to twelve inches off her own height, O’Reilly studied the woods. And she saw the way she would probably go, particularly if a grown man was chasing her. There were routes between tree trunks and beneath branches and through shrubbery that would be far easier for a little girl than for a man.

  Pushing her way through the undergrowth carefully, O’Reilly swatted at mosquitoes that hadn’t yet gotten the message that it was November. Behind her she could hear the cops talking. The red and blue lights glowed and flashed in her peripheral vision.

  Glancing down, she saw a footprint. It was a beautiful, full, child’s footprint, followed by another and another. The little girl had slowed down.

  O’Reilly followed the tracks. They disappeared for a while among a bed of pine needles, but she picked them up again twenty feet farther on.

  She also saw a larger set of footprints following her.

  The footprints abruptly ended.

  O’Reilly studied the tracks. The pine needles and dirt here looked disturbed, but not like it had been walked on.

  It looked like—

  It looked like maybe the girl had crawled here.

  Cautiously, O’Reilly followed the tracks into a clump of shrubs.

  Nothing.

  Except—

  It did look like someone had been there. The ground was matted, pressed down. Scanning around, she saw a larger footprint.

  He found her, she thought.

  The little girl ran and hid in the brush and he found her.

  Heart beating in her chest, O’Reilly looked around, wondering if she was going to stumble onto the little girl’s cooling corpse.

  What she saw was something different.

  A small ball of crumpled paper.

  She reached down and picked it up from where it had been left.

  A voice behind her said, “O’Reilly? You back here?”

  It was Peter Lee, crashing around in the woods behind her. Heart hammering in her chest, she tucked the piece of paper into her pocket and called out, “I’m over here.” She waved her flashlight around.

  Lee stumbled over to where she stood. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I think the little girl ran away and hid back here. I was following her tracks.”

  Lee looked skeptical. “Show me.”

  She did, pointing out the tracks. O’Reilly described the potential scenario. He grunted, as if interested, but said, “I’m not sure that helps us much. So he found her and dragged her back to his truck and drove away. Probably more pissed off than before.”

  “I’m just following clues as I find them, Detective.”

  “Yeah. I see that. Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. You coming back?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I think I’m done here.”

  Back in her car, she drove away. Once she was out of sight, she pulled off to the side of the road, flipped on her interior light, and pinched the ball of paper from her pocket. She flattened it out and studied it.

  It was a math assignment. Multiplication. Basic stuff: 8 × 9 = 72, the times tables. Third- or fourth-grade math. Twenty questions, all completed in pencil. Only one had been wrong. It was circled in red ink. There was a big red A printed at the top of the page and circled.

  Had this been left in the woods on purpose?

  O’Reilly studied the page, zeroing in on the name. Just a first name with the number 17 next to it, which she supposed was some sort of student number identification for the classroom. The name said: Malika S.

  O’Reilly popped the car into drive and fished out her phone, dialing Derek Stillwater’s number. God only knew where he was these days.

  Okay, Malika S., she said. We’re looking for you, honey. Hold on.

  CHAPTER 59

  Derek dozed in the back of Detective Connelly’s Grand Marquis as they left Santa Monica and headed toward Culver City. The first family, the Farooqs, lived in a two-story colonial in a subdivision that was upwardly middle class. They hadn’t been thrilled to receive a knock on their door so late at night from the LAPD asking about their daughter, Noor.

  Officer Andine had handled the parents. Connelly and Derek had stood in the background trying to look unthreatening, although Derek was fairly sure that their presence had alarmed the Farooqs. Betty Andine had explained that they were trying to identify a girl who had been kidnapped and they were trying to confirm that their daughter, Noor, was not the missing girl. Was she home?

  She was, they assured her.

  Could I see her? Betty had asked.

  They were obviously reluctant. She was sleeping, in bed, it was very late.

  Betty suggested perhaps they had a family photograph. From what Derek could see, she was handling things significantly more tactfully than either he or Connelly would have. She was working very hard to put them at ease, to assure them that if their daughter was home, they had nothing to worry about.

  They showed Betty a school picture. Derek stepped forward to peer over Betty’s shoulder. Betty shook her head. “I don’t think that’s her.”

  “Me neither. Show them the photograph.”

  Reluctantly Betty gave the Farooqs the photograph of the little girl. They studied it for a moment before shaking their heads and handing it back. “That is not our daughter.” Their expression was a mixture of relief and confusion.

  “You see our problem, though?” Betty had said. “They do look a little bit alike.”

  The wife, whose name was Roshan, had waved for Betty to follow her into the house. A moment later Betty had returned, thanked the Farooqs for their time, apologized for any concern she may have caused them, and led Derek and Connelly back out to the car.

  Now they were heading to Culver City, which had two possibles, a little girl named Abida Masood and a little girl named Parwin Younis. If tho
se didn’t pan out, there was a girl in Huntington Park and one in Inglewood.

  Meanwhile, the last thirty-six hours or so were catching up to him, and no amount of coffee was keeping him awake. He dozed off, but not completely. A part of his brain was monitoring the murmured conversation between Connelly and Andine. He was all too aware that to all extents and purposes he was a prisoner of the LAPD and his future freedom might depend a great deal on what happened over the next couple hours.

  He didn’t completely trust their involvement. It seemed clear that Andine was Connelly’s friend, but her motives for helping seemed to revolve around the little girl. She was whispering something to Connelly about how she was going to have a lot of explaining to do, and Connelly told her not to worry, she’d be a hero. Her reply was inaudible, but Derek got the impression she was telling him he was full of shit. Then he remembered nothing for a while.

  His buzzing cell phone jerked him awake.

  Connelly glanced over his shoulder. “What the hell’s that?”

  Forgot you gave it back to me, Derek thought, didn’t you? Cell to his ear, Derek identified himself.

  “Derek? It’s Sandy. Are you all right? Where are you?”

  “I’m fine. I’m working with the LAPD.” Sort of, he thought. “What about you? Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “Just a graze. But they found the body of Imam Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad.”

  This bit of news woke Derek up completely. “What? Where?”

  “Griffith Park. And Derek—”

  “Kalakar, right? It had to be.”

  “Yes. Almost positive. But Derek, I found something a little strange.”

  “What?”

  She explained about following the footsteps and discovering the crumpled bit of math homework. “There’s a name on it, Malika S. No last name—”

  “Seddiqi,” Derek said. “The name is Malika Seddiqi.”

  “How—”

  He leaned forward and tapped Betty Andine on the shoulder. He gestured for the list. She handed it over and Derek reached up and snapped on the overhead light so he could read it. “Yes, Malika Seddiqi in Inglewood. We’re on the way. Don’t go knocking on the door, okay? Meet us down the street. We’re in a black Grand Marquis. We’ll meet you there.”

  He rattled off the address and clicked off. “We might actually have gotten a break.”

  It was well after midnight when they arrived at the Inglewood address. The house was dark, although a pair of lights shined from each side of the garage. Derek didn’t think that meant much, considering how late it was. They studied the house for a moment. It was a ranch, sided with brick, and had a two-car garage. The lawn, though difficult to study clearly in the darkness, appeared well cared for. The neighborhood seemed a little older, prosperous, conservative.

  Connelly said, “Where’s your partner?”

  “Maybe she got caught in traffic.”

  Andine shrugged and angled her way out of the car. “Let’s go talk to these people.”

  Without waiting for Connelly or Derek, she trudged up the driveway and rang the doorbell. No response. After a moment’s wait, she rang it again. Again, no response.

  Derek watched a car roll down the street and stop in front of the house. It shut off and O’Reilly hurried over. He noted the arm in a sling and the general look of exhaustion on her face.

  “Everybody keeps telling us to pack up and go home,” he said.

  “Fuck ’em.”

  He nodded, satisfied. Andine, meanwhile, continued to knock on the door. Nobody answered.

  Andine looked at Connelly. “You want to discuss evidence and probable cause here?”

  Connelly, Derek saw, didn’t look very confident all of a sudden. He seemed to consider what Andine was saying and then decided he’d gone out far enough on the edge to lose his job if things didn’t go right. “I need to think about that a bit.”

  Andine turned to look at O’Reilly. “You’re National Intelligence?”

  O’Reilly seemed puzzled. “Yes, Agent Cassandra O’Reilly. Who are you?”

  Andine introduced herself.

  O’Reilly’s expression of puzzlement shifted over to one of skepticism. “Why are you involved?”

  Andine jerked her head at Connelly. “Favor. What makes you think Malika Seddiqi is the girl in the photograph?”

  O’Reilly didn’t respond immediately. Derek thought, uh-oh. After a moment O’Reilly said, “A piece of paper, math homework, was found near a crime scene in Griffith Park—”

  “What?” It was Connelly. “What are you talking about?”

  “LAPD is processing a murder scene, Imam Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad.”

  “When was this?”

  Derek sighed and edged away from the trio. Appearing as if he was just checking out the property, he glanced around the side of the house. Connelly was getting belligerent with O’Reilly, who was snapping back at him to mind his own business. Andine seemed lost in thought. Nobody was paying any attention to Derek.

  He slipped around the side of the house, jumped the fence into the backyard, sprinted across the yard and over the back fence. Nearby he heard a dog barking. He heard Connelly curse and call his name. Hoping he didn’t charge full-speed into some kid’s play structure, he ran until he was several blocks away, then settled into the shadows beneath a slide in an elementary school playground. Checking his watch, he decided to give them half an hour. Then he would head back to the house.

  CHAPTER 60

  Connelly and O’Reilly were squabbling. Betty Andine sighed and reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She slipped one between her lips and used a cheap plastic lighter to set it ablaze.

  “Look, O’Reilly, I’ll—”

  Andine took in a heavy lungful of smoke and blew it out in a blue flume toward the porch light. In a matter-of-fact voice she said, “Stillwater just disappeared on you.”

  Connelly started, staring around. “What? Fuck! Stillwater!” He sprinted around the corner of the house, reappearing a moment later. He glared at O’Reilly. “What the hell is that guy’s problem?”

  O’Reilly cocked her head and laughed. “What, are you saying you politely invited him into an interrogation room and he came willingly? Come on, Connelly. You forced him to cooperate when he’s in the middle of an operation, then you force your way into the middle of the op—”

  “He blew my op! And so did you!”

  “Yeah, and now Popovitch is dead and you can go focus on something—”

  Andine brought her hands together in a T. “Time out. I’ve done enough today. I’m going home. C’mon, drive me back to the PAB. I’m off the clock and as far as I can tell, we’ve hit a dead end with the little girl. I’ll swing by in the morning and see if anybody’s home.” She headed for Connelly’s car.

  Connelly stared at her, then turned back to O’Reilly, “When you see Stillwater, tell him we’re not done.”

  O’Reilly rolled her eyes. “If we need you, we’ll call you. Thanks for the help tracking down the Seddiqis.”

  “Fuck you.” He stormed past her and fired up the Marquis with a roar.

  O’Reilly sighed, walked back to her car, and waited for Derek to appear.

  Agent Dale Hutchins was sitting at his desk, picking at a salad, rereading the files on Kalakar, when his phone rang. It was Tehreema. “Honey, turn on the TV.”

  Scrambling for a TV on the opposite side of the office, he said, “What’s up? Is everything all right?”

  Tehreema didn’t sound particularly upset, but she did sound a bit annoyed. Through the glass walls of his office, Sherwood raised an eyebrow and stepped to the door to watch. Hutchins clicked on the TV and found the local station. The screen showed the U.S. Embassy compound surrounded by a crowd of what looked like a couple hundred protestors. They appeared to be mostly young men, possibly college students, typically bearded, some in western clothing, some in more traditional robes, many holding signs and chanting, some holding what Dale thought
was probably the Koran.

  He said into the phone, “I see it. How big is it really?”

  “Big enough.”

  “What are they protesting?”

  “U.S. presence in Pakistan, what else?”

  “Not aimed at Tarkani?”

  “Not specifically, from what we can tell. But any protest of the U.S. in Pakistan has to include Tarkani.”