He watched the windows as he approached the front steps. It was a two-story brick house with a mail slot beside the door, small, homey, the kind of place that would attract the neighborhood kids on Halloween. Khan could imagine a middle-aged writer settling here to write regional fiction, walking his dog in the afternoons and exchanging pleasantries with his neighbors along the way. Those same neighbors would describe him as a “local gem,” a real “hero of the community” whose art was just not understood by the rest of the country.
What Khan could not imagine was that his old friend, whose ambition had seemingly known no bounds, could have chosen to fritter away his life here.
That was why, when he reached the first step without seeing so much as the flutter of a curtain, relief blossomed in his chest. He did not consider that maybe he was relieved at the possibility of being unable to find his old friend and pass on the message he’d been given. That realization, along with its attending guilt, would come later.
He rapped lightly on the door. No answer. He tried the latch and found it unlocked.
“Victor? Victor, it’s me—Rashad. I’m coming inside, okay? I just want to talk.”
He stepped into the foyer, leaving the door open behind him. Leaves rasped as they scudded along the street. The interior of the house possessed more dignity than the outside, but not by far. The walls were a creamy yellow, the floor covered with a gray textured carpet worn in the middle by traffic. Khan had expected to find hardwood floors. It was becoming clear to him that he ought to adjust his expectations.
“Victor, you in here? It’s Rashad. Rashad el-Hashem. You remember me, don’t you?”
He kept talking as he moved past the stairway leading to the second floor, still worried he might startle his old friend. The kitchen was remarkably clean. A neat stack of old mail, mostly bills and credit card advertisements, lay on the edge of the table. The cabinets revealed nothing but dishes and cookware. A bookshelf stood against the wall, brimming with knickknacks and cookbooks.
He was about to return to the stairway and check the upstairs bedrooms when he heard a muffled sound come from the adjoining room.
He froze. “Is that you, Victor?”
Walker stepped into the kitchen, his Glock dangling casually in his hand. “What, you didn’t find him?”
“I told you to stay outside.”
“Yeah, well, I got bored of waiting.” He swiped two fingers along the counter top and studied the accumulated dust. “Looks like nobody’s been here in a long time.”
Khan nodded, trying to contain his annoyance. “He was here, though. His name’s on the bills.”
Walker scooped up one of the envelopes and studied the plastic window on the front. “What kind of a name is Gervasio?” he asked, pronouncing the G softly as in gym. “Are we really doing all this for a spic?”
Khan, a Saudi who had heard his share of racial slurs murmured behind his back, bristled at Walker’s words.
“Show a little respect,” he growled. “He and the Baron go way back.”
“Don’t forget about yourself. The three of you must have made quite a team—a spic, a sand nigger, and a Na—”
Khan had Walker by the throat before he could finish the sentence. He pinned the scrawny man against the bookshelf, knocking a bundle of scented pine cones to the floor.
“Easy,” Walker murmured, not even trying to break the stranglehold. But there was still a flicker of amusement in his eyes. It made Khan want to squeeze and squeeze until that laughing light disappeared once and for all.
Something pressed into Khan’s ribs.
“I’m still the guy with the gun, remember?” Walker said.
Khan relaxed his hands and stepped back, fighting to control the rage that had overcome him. It had seemed to come all at once. The truth, however, was that it had been building since Kassel, a mixture of guilt for leaving his family and anger at the incompetence of the men he was riding with. Or was he really angry at the Baron?
Walker straightened his coat. “You’ve been wanting to do that since you laid eyes on me. Ever tried therapy?”
Khan averted his eyes, ashamed that Walker had seen how easily his rage could control him. Walker brushed past him on his way to the foyer.
“Where are you going?” Khan asked.
“I’m going out front to have a smoke. Let me know when you’re done rifling through your boyfriend’s things.”
Khan made no reply. When the house was silent again, he leaned his weight on the bookshelf and took deep breaths. He had nearly killed Walker. He could have done so without facing any consequences—it would be simple enough to invent a lie, and he believed the others would fall in line.
What really bothered him was how easily the anger overtook him. There had been a time when he only acted that way after a few drinks. Now, however, that rage simmered just beneath the surface, always ready to boil over.
It was the stress, he told himself. The arguments with Eshe. The future of their girls. The Baron’s demands.
These things would pass in time. Once Victor reached Kassel, the Baron would have a new right-hand man. Khan felt no jealousy at the thought. If Victor wanted that burden, he was more than welcome to take it.
Once Khan’s breathing had steadied and his mind had cleared, he returned to the foyer and climbed the stairs to the second floor. He found a pair of bedrooms, a study, and a bathroom. One of the bedrooms was in the midst of a remodel. New sheetrock had been hung on the walls, but the drywall had yet to be applied. A number of tools were neatly sequestered in the corner of the room.
The other bedroom was where Victor had been sleeping. It gave Khan the feel of a hotel room—the bed made, not a single wrinkle in the blanket; no pictures or other mementos on the nightstand; a few pieces of nondescript furniture spaced around the room. It was almost as if Victor had known he would not be staying there long.
At last Khan’s tour took him to the study. This appeared to be where Victor had spent most of his time. A large bookshelf occupied one wall, filled with biographies, histories, a tasteful selection of Tom Clancy and John Grisham novels. A painting above the desk depicted a general in a field tent writing dispatches while officers looked on. The general’s pen was posed above a document, his brow thoughtfully creased as if the fortunes of thousands of lives weighed on him.
Khan sat down in the swivel chair at the desk, spun to the side, and studied the painting. He pictured Victor sitting in the same chair and imagining himself as that general, tasked with making the most difficult decisions. The title of the painting might have read, Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
“Where did you go, Victor?” he murmured.
He heard footsteps downstairs. The others were probably restless to get going. Khan checked the drawers on the desk and found nothing but old papers and stationary. The bookshelf, though it contained a number of titles Khan would be interested to read, proved equally fruitless.
What was he searching for, anyway? Some secret escape plan tucked away between a pair of David McCullough hardcovers? Why not bring a black light and see if Victor had written his plans on the wall in invisible ink?
Khan pushed the chair back beneath the desk, uncertain what to do next. Something beneath the desk caught his eye. Removing the chair, he sank to his knees and retrieved a small photograph. It must have fallen behind the desk.
The picture showed three men sitting at a fire, drinking beer. Snow clung to the windowsill in the background. One of the men was Victor. The man beside him might have been his father, though Khan did not see the resemblance. The third man, the youngest of the three, shared Victor’s dark hair and rugged looks.
Dante, Khan thought, remembering the dossier tucked into his saddlebag. Victor’s little brother.
Walker stepped into the doorway. “You finished?” he said impatiently. “Can we hit the road now?”
Khan looked up. Even Walker’s tone could not rob him of the excitement he felt, holding that picture in his h
ands. It was a bitter-sweet excitement, the joy of discovery and the uncertainty as to where that discovery would lead.
“Yes,” he answered. “I have everything I need.”
Because now he understood what the Baron had not.
Dante was the key.
Chapter 36
“And you did find him?” the girl asked.
Khan nodded. To say he had followed a trail of breadcrumbs to the cabin would have been misleading. Intuition had guided him—that and weeks of trial and error. The dossier had contained nearly as much information on Dante as on Victor, but that had only led them back to Rayburn, to a rundown apartment where, it seemed, Dante had been living off welfare checks with a few buddies.
“Grieving over mother’s death,” the dossier had read. Who the hell had typed that document up? And how long had the Baron been keeping tabs on the brothers?
“But Walker screwed it up,” Khan added. “He wanted the credit, so he made contact with the brothers before I could stop him.”
“Why didn’t you just introduce yourself?”
Khan chuckled softly. “If you knew Victor, you’d understand. It’s not a good idea to surprise him.”
The girl furrowed her brow thoughtfully, but did not reply. Silence filled the tent. Laughter trickled in from outside, followed by the grunt of an animal—it might have been a primate.
Khan took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet. “Sorry for wasting your time. I shouldn’t have gone on like that.”
The girl looked sorry to see him go, though he could not imagine why she would care about a drunk whose life was clearly spiraling out of control. He thought this might be the last night of his life. If that was his decision, it would have to be soon—he could not do it sober (he’d tried), and his mind had been clearing for the past half hour. But a bullet to the brain was not the only way. He kept a bottle of painkillers in his pocket, not to dull any particular aches but to numb his senses. There were plenty left in the bottle to numb his senses permanently.
A lonely street, a sky bright with stars, and a bottle of painkillers. He would have preferred to close his eyes on a better view than the ruins of the city, but he supposed suicide wasn’t meant to be romantic anyway. He would take the pills, then stare at the picture of his wife and daughters while the drugs did their work. Let his family be his sunset, his tranquil sea, his majestic mountain range. Let his eyes close, for the last time, on their smiling faces, a prayer on his lips that they would no longer be forced to suffer for his misfortunes.
“I do know Victor,” the girl said quietly.
Khan almost didn’t hear her, so absorbed was he in his thoughts. Not until he had reached out to sweep the curtain flap aside did he catch the meaning of her words. He stopped. His eyebrows pulled together as he turned and faced her.
“He helped me,” she continued. “I was with him when he was chasing his brother. My father…” Her hand flew to her mouth as her lips began to tremble.
Khan stared at her, dumbfounded. “The little girl in the window. Allen’s daughter.”
Tears began to run down her cheeks. He stepped toward her, his paternal instincts telling him to provide comfort, then stopped. “I did this,” he murmured. “I didn’t swing the blade that killed your father - no, that was Walker - but I led him there. I’m responsible.” In one stunning epiphany, it became clear to him that he was not just responsible for the misfortunes of his own family, but for two other families as well—Victor’s and this girl’s. He could tell himself the Baron would have sent someone else in his place if he’d refused, but that was a coward’s excuse. Besides, a better man would have been able to keep Walker in check.
No, he thought bitterly, a better man would never have left his wife and daughters in the first place.
He covered his hands with his face, stricken by the realization of his own mistakes. “I should have killed Walker when I had the chance,” he said, turning to anger because at least it was better than impotent self-pity.
“It’s not your fault,” the girl said.
He lowered his hands and studied her, noticing for the first time the listless gaze of her sightless eyes. “Oh, but it is, child. It is all my fault. And the horror of it all is that I can’t retrace a single step, can’t undo a single wrong. The future may be written in sand, but the past is set in stone.”
He sat down heavily in the chair. There were tears in his own eyes now—not rolling down his cheeks, but building a cloudy wall across his vision. “I never wanted to harm anyone. All that mattered to me was protecting my family. But look where they are now—prisoners of a madman, hostages held captive until I bring Victor to Kassel, alive and well, so he can take my place by the Baron’s side. I am a walking curse, a diseased pariah. Every life I touch falls to ash.”
In that moment, he fully believed his own words. He was not simply wringing guilt from his heart but hardening his resolve, because he knew that if he waited until the next sunrise he would convince himself he could change himself and amend his mistakes, when the truth he knew now was that he was flawed by more than a surface crack. This went all the way to his very center. He was broken, irreparably broken, and the greatest good he could do was to rid the world of himself so he could no longer harm the ones he loved.
“I’m sorry,” he told the girl, who sat stricken and silent. “If you ever see Victor again, tell him the same thing.”
“Where are you going?”
“To put an end to this and set my family free.” He swept the curtain aside and hesitated, knowing the next step would take him over the cliff. Then, choking back his sorrow, he threw himself out into the night.
Three names quivered on his lips.
___
He was sitting on the steps of a boarded-up apartment complex, a handful of painkillers in one hand, a cropped picture in the other. His eyes had a stupid vacancy, though this was more the product of weariness than anything else. It was nearly dawn. That was his deadline—either take the pills by then, or man up and make a plan. No plan came to him. That left the alternative.
The white coating of the pills was beginning to stick to his sweaty palm. The edge of the picture where he clutched it in a death grip was now discolored. The most convincing cry of protest was the one that sounded most like his younger daughter, Mariam. Eshe and Yasmin would no doubt mourn his death, if they ever learned what had happened, but they were also rational enough to understand how infinitely better their lives would be without him. Mariam, however, still believed in fairies and elves. She was no Descartes, that was for sure.
Mariam’s voice, a gentle whisper arising from somewhere between Khan’s ears, tried to convince him he could make things right. He was Father, after all, a giant among men, fearless and capable of anything. She had never known him to surrender to his fears before. Why did he intend to do so now?
“Because this is different,” he whispered, as if he were engaged in a real tête-à-tête. “It won’t make sense to you at first - you may even hate me for it - but in time you’ll understand. You may even thank me.”
He winced at the sound of these words. Did he really believe that? He pictured Eshe pulling the girls from their coloring books to explain why Father would not be coming home today or ever again. He saw their faces grow blank, losing the residual fun of their games, and then scrunch together in devastated grief. They would cry—oh, yes, for that night and many more to come. His name would become a phantom pain serving only to remind them of what they had lost. Eshe would distract them as best she could, but what about her own grief? Would she marry another or fade into an old spinster, slowly starving herself on the crumbs of stale memories?
It was too much to think about. Any more and his resolve would break entirely. He clenched the pills in his hand, breathing faster now. He had not thought to bring a cup of water, but they would go down just the same. And if he gagged in the process, what did it matter anyway?
Once more he held the picture before his eyes.
Once more he committed their faces to memory. Then he tipped back his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and threw the pills into his mouth. Yes, he did gag (his body had apparently caught onto the plot, and did not at all approve), and the alcohol sitting uneasily in his stomach seemed to slosh as his abdomen tensed, but the pills slipped down anyway, one after the other. It was like swallowing jelly beans.
Dread filled him, a profound understanding that this was the wrong answer, but it was too late to back out now. The pills would do their work. He could only pray his body would be thrown into a common grave so his family would never have to hear the unspeakable thing he had done. It would be better not to know, wouldn’t it? Far better, certainly, than to think of him this way.
The patch!
All at once, he realized the patch would give him away. The locals feared the Baron so much, they might even bring Khan’s body to Kassel for burial.
The Shadow Walker (The Last Colony Book 2) Page 24