Grainger bounced up to them, looking fit and trim. Of medium height and build, he moved with the quickness of a smaller man. He was alert and cheerful, his breath shooting out like blasts from a SAW.
"I'm glad to see you, Ari, but I'll admit to being surprised. What in the world could you be paying Ben back for? He told you this was the advanced trail, didn't he?" He gave Ben an arch look.
"Sure I did," said Ben, who then paused and frowned. "Didn't I?"
"Ben performed an inestimable service for me." Ari thumped his chest. "I am prepared to stay the course." He coughed.
"I see..." said the pastor doubtfully. "Well, it's obvious you two want to keep this under your hats." He turned to the group and gestured for them to gather round. "Listen up, now! As you know, I've already sent the beginner and intermediate groups ahead. We'll be passing them in short order. I'm asking you very nicely to refrain from your usual hooting and catcalls when we forge ahead of them. Certainly, no comments about 'lard-butts', which I would have said goes without saying, except our last run taught me otherwise."
There was some laughter.
"Otherwise, the wrath of the Lord will descend upon you!" Grainger finished.
The group did not seem to take the threat very seriously. Obviously, the Methodist pastor was no imam.
"Who takes point?"
His military phraseology made Ari wonder about his past. Had he been in the military? He knew nothing about the man beyond his clerical collar--which, at the moment, he was not sporting, unless it was hidden under his jacket. Several people raised their hands, including Ben.
"Draw straws!" someone shouted.
"That's gambling."
A collective joshing noise greeted this assertion. Grainger shrugged, and said "Rock-paper-scissors."
"But that's gambling, too!" someone else protested.
"No, that is a child's game," Grainger nodded beatifically.
Several rounds of rock-paper-scissors settled the issue and Ben led the way down the trail. Within ten minutes they had reached the beginners group, which had already been bypassed by the intermediates. Becky Torson was in this group and Ben threw her an air-kiss as he zipped past. She frowned and muttered something, then saw Ari and offered a tentative smile. If she had known what Ari had her husband doing the last couple of months that smile would not have existed. Ari gave her a 'bravo' toss of the hand as he trudged slowly through the beginners. Their huffing drew sympathetic gasps from Ari, who usually needed a mile or two to burn off the booze and catch his wind—if he succeeded at all. As it was, the advanced group was already almost out of sight, leaving him alone.
Or so he thought.
"Left!" someone shouted from behind him. Startled, Ari whirled. Two bicyclists were coming up full-tilt. He turned to shout a warning to the runners ahead and saw they had shifted to the right. Ari hopped out of the way, but the cyclists were already dodging off the very narrow path and forcing their way past stumps and through brambles. Their growls told him he had failed his first test in trail etiquette. Enlightened, he swept a lake of JD sweat off his brow and resumed his place, which was now quite a bit further behind than it had been originally.
"Doing all right?"
Ari had been so focused on tree roots and stones and sudden rises and falls in the path that he had not noticed Grainger dropping back to join him.
"I'm...fine..."
Running easily, practically hopping, Grainger fell in ahead, the narrowness of the trail preventing a tandem. He spoke over his shoulder.
"You seem a little worse for wear, if you don't mind me saying so."
"I don't...mind..."
"You look very fit, otherwise."
"That is...a compliment?"
"Of course. But...I've had some experience with men who are overly fond of the bottle."
"The...bottle?"
"Alcohol."
"Ah...'bottle'."
"Left!"
A quick learner, Ari bore to the right. A bike flashed by.
"This trail is very popular with mountain bikers," Grainger informed him. "I have another group that comes here."
"On bikes?"
"Don't sound so incredulous. This is one of the easier parts of the trail."
Ari frantically looked around for his second wind. Where was it hiding?
"I am fond of the bottle, as you say."
"You say that so matter-of-factly..."
"Well...it is...a fact."
"Is drinking to excess common...where you come from?"
"It is not...a sin. Only an occasional...impediment."
"What if it becomes a frequent impediment?"
"One then accepts the fact."
Grainger was not breathing hard. It was very annoying. Ari's tight gasps gave evidence against his argument. And what argument was that? That drinking to excess was a positive virtue? Well...wasn't it?
He felt like throwing up.
"I can see you're warming up," said Grainger casually. "I'll leave you to it. I have to catch up to my flock, make sure they don't intimidate the intermediates."
He scooted ahead so lightly he might have been a sparrow. Once he had disappeared in the trees, Ari coughed up an enormous dollop of phlegm and spat it out. Feeling a little better, he picked up his pace. The trail brushed up against a chain link fence dividing the woods from some train tracks, then broke onto a wide path leading to a wood-slat bridge. Ahead, everything looked clear and flat. Seeing a group ahead, he thought he was catching up. But as he drew abreast he saw no one he had met at the landing. He realized this must be the intermediate group. He grunted what he hoped sounded like pleasantries. It had taken him a minute to pass the beginners. After several minutes, he was still with the intermediates. Near the front of the pack was a young woman wearing a narrow orange baseball hat that hid her eyes. Ari would not have recognized her had she not glanced his way briefly as he came up next to her.
"Ah, madam…I again have the pleasure..."
"Hello, and I don't know what you're talking about."
She was not breathing hard at all. She belonged with the advanced group.
"But madam, surely it was you that I met in the paint department at Lowe's, where you were making that poor ex-soldier sweat for a living."
"I wasn't--"
"May I inquire as to why you find Mr. Torson so fascinating?"
"Are you with the Harriers?"
"I am here..." Ari drew a deep breath. "...by special invitation."
"I think you belong with the beginners."
They were running parallel to the Lee Bridge, its massive piles and parabolas looking formidable, the legs of giants. Overhead the traffic sprouted mechanical chaos that rained down harsh sounds on those below.
"That might...be so," Ari panted. "But I am enjoying this conversation..." His chest heaved and he stopped talking for a moment. Finally, he concluded, "…so much."
"I think you'd better move ahead or drop behind. This is starting to look like harassment. I'm sure the reverend wouldn't appreciate it."
"I forgot his name, alas. What is it, again?"
She didn't answer.
"But I can see the name 'Torson' rings a gong, which I find most curious."
"No bells and no thanks, if you think I want anything to do with you."
Another jogger, overhearing the exchange, pushed himself forward.
"Can I help you...uh...I'm afraid I don't know your name. Are you a new member of the church?"
"I'm fine," the woman snapped, relieving the Samaritan of further interest in her fate. He shrugged and dropped back.
"You excise me with your rebuff," Ari said.
"What? Just get lost, will you?"
"But how can..." Ari walloped another burst of air down his lungs. "When we both share such an interest in former members of the Iraqi government?"
She stopped so quickly that several joggers almost ran into her. Ari proceeded a yard or two further, then turned around.
"But madam!
You shouldn't stop so quickly! You'll cramp!"
Now she was breathing hard, glaring up at him from under her cap. She was waiting for the rest of the group to forge ahead out of earshot before responding. It was just overhead, on the bridge, that Ari had made his first stop in Richmond the previous summer to study his map. After staring down at Belle Island, he had browsed through a number of brochures about his new home. Ari had learned this was the site where Union prisoners had been kept during the Civil War. 'A scene of suffering' the brochure had informed him. Everywhere one looked, mass stupidity and cruelty left their traces.
The woman removed her baseball cap, placing one elbow on an historical marker as she turned to face Ari.
"Who are you?"
"The same question burbles on my lips," Ari said, openly studying her reaction. "You were at Lowe's. Now you are here. You belong up there..." He nodded at the advanced group, now no more than a jumble of bouncing forms at the far end of the foot bridge at the end of the island. "Yet you don't want to risk Ben recognizing you from the store, so you stay back here, using this..." He tapped the cap. "...to hide your face when his party went by."
"You're a friend of his?" the woman asked, unabashedly returning Ari's scrutiny. Her voice possessed a harshness that detracted from her striking looks, yet which befitted the odd menace that frequently hovers over beautiful women. She reminded Ari of an airline hostess on an Air France flight who, in an open display of contempt, snappishly commanded passengers into their seats.
"Ben and I run into each other on occasion," said Ari, inordinately pleased by his pun. He felt a stirring in his lungs. There it was, the elusive second wind. And he wasn't even jogging.
The woman suddenly smiled. She was not good at it. A lot of wariness in this country was directed against smiles like this, from people who wanted something out of you. But it was improvement over suicide bombers, who often offered friendly smiles as they approached their intended victims.
"What is your name, again?" the woman asked.
"Ari Ciminon. And you are Ms. Nike?"
She gave a puzzled frown, then smirked when he nodded at the logo on her jacket. A gust of wind numbed Ari's lips. He had to struggle to maintain his polite demeanor. The woman shivered.
"We'll freeze to death if we stand here another minute."
"The danger point is when we begin to yawn, which is a symptom of hypothermia," Ari observed. "I am not sleepy at the moment."
The woman attempted to reassemble her smile, but gave it up as a bad job. "What made you say that about Iraq?"
"Perhaps I made the association because Ben was stationed in Iraq for a time." Ari shrugged. "I was trying to get you to stop, so I said the first thing that crept into my head."
"You're lying."
"Indeed, I am, and so are you. That makes for unpleasant chitchat, don't you think?"
"Listen, if you want to fuck me, why not just say it?" the woman sneered.
"But there is no stirring in my loins," said Ari, not entirely truthfully. "That is a very feeble distraction, Ms. Nike. Am I to alert Ben to your interest in him? Is he the one you really want to fuck?"
She barked a laugh, then stopped herself. "How would you know? Maybe this is something personal. As in, 'none of your business'. Ben has a wife, right...?" She glanced at the beginner group, which had paused for breath on the south end of the island. "Maybe I'm just being prudent. Ben might not like you butting your nose into his business."
"Alas, I know him to be a sacred husband."
"You main 'faithful'? How do you know? Men are never 'sacred' when it comes to women."
"A sorry commentary, indeed," Ari shrugged. He found himself stifling a yawn. Hypothermia? "From which government agency are you extracted, Ms. Nike? Why are you pursuing Ben? I don't suppose you would want to show me some form of identification, would you? Such as a badge?"
Ari got what he was fishing for, but it was inedible. The briefest flicker of comprehension slipped behind the woman's eyes, followed just as quickly by calculating opportunism. His guess was a dramatic misfire.
"Like I said, Mr. Ciminon, it's none of your business." Her leer was actually more attractive than her smile, perhaps because it reflected her true self. "But you still want to fuck me, don't you?"
"On the contrary, Ms. Nike. I want to toss you into the river."
The leer vanished.
"But I believe in this country, such an action would also result in you being 'fucked'."
The woman slung the cap back onto her head and strode to the center of the trail. She hesitated. And then, as if to prove to Ari that she was not intimidated, she went through an abbreviated warm-up routine. Smoothly planting her hands on the path, she stretched out her legs. When she stood, she lifted her arms, one after the other, hooking them gracefully in the air.
Ari's mental vision snapped into focus.
Son of a bitch.
Without looking back, the woman took off—southwards. In short order she was passing the beginners, her head down in a pose of defeat, as if confessing she could not finish the course.
Ari resumed his run. He scarcely noticed the intermediates as he passed them again. His mind was racing faster than his legs. He was trying to make a connection. He had thought:
Uday. She's here because she had found out about Ben's involvement with Uday's kidnapping.
Now he wasn't so sure.
Elmore Lawson? But then why would she be following Ben?
Has she made the connection to me? Was she following Ben to reach me?
But that theory faltered, also.
The woman possessed an Anthony Quinn-like indecipherability. Quinn had played Mexicans, Greeks, Italians...and Arabs. Like Quinn, the woman was an Everyman, squeezing through the interstices of racial identity. She could even be French.
Ari left the bridge and soon found himself stumbling across hills and boulders. He scarcely noticed.
A little more than half an hour later he reached the Reedy Creek parking lot to find the advanced group congregating around Grainger and congratulating themselves on a fine run. Catching sight of Ari, the pastor gave him a thumbs up. Ari found Ben and took him aside. The vet seemed enormously pleased that Ari had finished the course.
"I knew you had it in you!"
"I have many things in me," Ari nodded agreeably. "Now listen, my friend, I am so sorry I have drawn you into my sordid business."
"What? Why are you thinking about that? It was a hoot."
"You should not hoot. You must lie low and watch your buttocks."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"I wonder if they got more out of you than you did out of them," Elmore Lawson said when he had finished laughing. Ari was sorry to see how much pain laughter caused him, but he was reluctant to forgo his carefully crafted recital of his dinner party. In spite of the awful things life and flung in his own face, Ari had never given up on laughter. And then he wondered if his wife, trapped in her mute, damaged body, had surrendered all laughter, and fell silent for a moment.
The story was heavily edited, with no mention of the three guests in law enforcement:
Mangioni: "Here's my card with all my contact information: work phone, cell phone, email, fax, and I've even written my home number on here. I know, I already gave you all these numbers, but I think you must have lost them."
Karen (accompanied by Fred, who seemed to think it was his job to keep her out of trouble): "You lousy fuck," etc., etc. "You goddamn moron," etc., etc. "Turn your back on me and I'll give you a kidney punch that'll lay you out for a week," etc., etc. "Who the hell is this Turnbridge character and why did he come here for all this abuse unless he's a masochist and above all, what the hell are you doing sticking your prominent nose in a missing person case?"
"We've had this discussion before," said Ari, self-consciously touching his nose. Many people were commenting on it, lately. Was it really so large? "It's a matter of tribe."
"Mrs. Wareness is your neighbor, not a member of
any tribe."
"I'm enclosing the definition."
"You're what? Whatever. If you're doing anything, it's stretching the definition—and I mean way out of reason. Remember that other little discussion we had, about me tagging you...?"
Etc., etc.
Nor did he tell Lawson about Pastor Grainger, who knew that Ari was an Iraqi, though little else. He had approached a shivering Ari in the garage with an offer to post pictures of Ethan Wareness on the church bulletin board.
"We're just up the street," he reasoned. "There's a chance one of my people may have seen him."
Rebecca came with accusations.
"You told me you would get help from the police, but you've done no such thing! You've obviously found something out, but you're doing it on your own. What you're doing might be dangerous, both for Ethan and for you. Have you considered that?"
Lawson did not seem pleased when it became apparent to him that Ari was glossing over much of what had happened, and Ari knew he would not let it go so easily. They would return to the subject. Soon. He skipped Ben's conversation with him in the garage, which was totally irrelevant:
"And what do you want?" Ari had demanded, his teeth chattering. Ben had been the last of those who wanted to hold a conversation with him in private. Ari had been in the garage for over an hour, and hypothermia was making inroads.
"Nothing. Just everyone else wanted to talk with you. I didn't want to be left out."
"Go away, Satan."
Lawson would have found plenty to laugh about and to mull over had Ari told him any of this. As it was, he had to make do with Turnbridge, who was staggering by the time he entered the garage. Ari had done plenty of his own staggering lately (of the Jack Daniels variety) and did not look down on him. But in his presentation to Lawson he could not resist hoking him up into a drunken buffoon. Ari was not quite sure why he did this. Back home, people with a strong comedic streak were looked at askance. Sometimes they paid the ultimate price for their flippancy. It was Ari's theory that the comedians of the Imperial Palace were jealous of their prerogative and destroyed the competition. In America, Ari had a new stage with an audience of millions. He could mock and mimic to his heart's content. Yet there was an odd, indefinable heaviness of heart here that puzzled Ari and made him wonder if his shtick was appropriate. Still, no one would shoot him for laughing out of turn—or, at least, not as readily as they would have done in Iraq, where a 'killer joke' had real meaning.
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