Prism (Story of CI Book 1)
Page 26
And just like that, she scooped up the fallen ice cream with a wad of tissues and tossed it into a trash can standing against a pillar in the middle of the small room. Stalin felt his mouth hang open as she raised her hand and he saw long, perfectly-manicured nails painted lilac and silver.
Most importantly of all, he saw no wedding band.
“I’m Shannon,” the amazing creature said, holding out one perfect hand towards Stalin. “My father always loved Ireland so he gave me an Irish name.” Her accent told Stalin she was all Spanish, however. He forced himself to close his mouth and reached out to shake her hand with one of his own sticky ones.
Many smooth things to say flooded Stalin’s mind at the moment, but unexpectedly, all of them seemed out of place here in the middle of this Christian bookstore, surrounded by the surreal sound of churchy music floating from a stereo. Instead, he said, “Don’t they have any books here that talk about something…serious? I feel like I’m in the self-help section of some bookstore. Where can I find books about something like…the atonement, for example. Or the theological arguments for why Jesus was divine.”
Stalin found himself taken aback when Shannon chuckled again, a deep, full-throated laugh. “You won’t find anything like that in here,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “If that’s what you’re after, the man you want to talk to is my father.” Stalin blinked in surprise. “He’s the pastor of an evangelical church here,” she explained, “but he’s also quite a scholar. My daddy has written three books, and he has a whole room for a library with all kinds of fat books about everything you can imagine. There are a lot about the atonement.”
Stalin felt himself staring. “Have you ever read any of them?”
“A few,” Shannon flicked her hand dismissively. “Ok, quite a few. I’m working my way through them. I’m getting my PhD now and my thesis is quite…theological. So I get some studying time in, yes.”
Shannon pulled a purple cell phone out of her purse and glanced at the time. “Daddy’s waiting for me at home now, so I’ve really got to go.”
Heart sinking, Stalin pressed his lips together so his jaw wouldn’t hang open again, gawking at Shannon. Then, in a magical, wonderful moment of awe, Stalin saw Shannon’s full lips open again and the words that she said were: “Why don’t you come home for dinner tonight? A guy like you, interested in learning more about Jesus and theology…my daddy would love to talk to you.”
Stalin felt as though the flaming arrow of Cupid had pierced his chest.
“I’ve really got to run, though, so make up your mind quick.” Shannon placed the phone into her purse and half-turned towards the door, beginning to walk out. Stalin took in the skirt, the legs, the high heels, and one millisecond was all it took for him to propel himself forward, like a dog hooked to a leash, towards Shannon and her daddy the pastor who would tell him all about Jesus.
THE END
S
0
Cotton Candy Sky
Tehran, Iran, 2017
TO SAMI, THE WHITE-HOT EXPLOSION OF SUN that staggered him as the blindfold was ripped from his eyes was more brilliant than the glory of any starry spotlight where adoring fans screamed his name.
A rubber boot connected with his back as the rush of light hit his wide-open eyes, slamming him to the pavement. Rivers of radiant colors stormed his vision as Sami lifted his head, and he vaguely made out the city park and the crowds gathered, absolutely silent.
His life had been lived surrounded by multitudes, but today no one reached frenzied hands towards him in the hope that his own fingers would briefly connect with theirs between wild chords strummed on the electric guitar. No one was rapturously snapping photos of him with their cell phone camera, plotting to show the blurry concert images to their friends. Sami’s eyes cleared enough to realize that he was encircled by uniformed police bearing the thick Plexiglas shields that were synonymous with riot control. They formed a writhing barrier between him and the crowd, an ominous warning to anyone who tried to capture the scene on a cell phone camera. But still the crowds stayed, fixed eerily in place behind the police line, silent.
For nearly ten years Sami had heard his fans’ hysteric screams and cheers, accorded to him as the lead singer of Iran’s most popular rock band, Ashavan. Today, under a baby blue sky sprayed with cotton-candy clouds, the last sound Sami would hear from those fans, warily planted behind the police in the park, was their silence.
Today, while children raced up the slide in the distance and the ice cream man with his cart strolled by gaping, Sami would be publicly beheaded.
Kneeling on the asphalt, Sami closed his eyes and felt as if he were watching himself from the sky, only a spectator to this gruesomely comic event: a thirty-year-old literature major-turned-rock star, sentenced to beheading in the park for a list of unpleasant crimes. But Sami knew why he was really here.
Something rustled behind him and Sami snapped back to reality. A guard yanked on the cuffs around his wrists, checking if his arms were secured. Sami’s ankles were also chained together, as they had often been in the four months he had spent in the maximum security prison.
“Get up,” the guard ordered, dragging him to his feet. A slimy smudge of perspiration marred the young guard’s right eyebrow as he avoided the prisoner’s eyes. It was more than obvious he didn’t want to be here. “Over there.”
A dozen feet away, circled by a dreary ring of hoary stones, a cement block protruded from the park square. A murky stain began at its heart, spreading snaking tentacles across the surface of the block and down its sides: lifeblood, spilled here under the sun after afternoon prayers in the past.
Sami stumbled to his bare feet, barely aware of the sensation of his soles on the burning pavement. Once he had worn trendy Italian leather shoes and jeans from Paris that had cost three hundred Euros. Today, Sami’s feet were bare and bleeding. He wore tattered cotton pants, stained from the floor of his cell, and a simple white t-shirt. The shirt hung loosely over his frame, muscles wasted away from days of doing nothing but praying in his cell instead of working out at an elite gym club. Even so, he still towered over the two guards at his side, tall and broad-shouldered.
A collective gasp rise up from the myriad of dark eyes staring at him in the park and Sami thought that probably the people gathered here today barely recognized him.
Sami didn’t mind. The old Sami was gone, and he was a different person now.
The new Sami didn’t mind standing barefoot in dirty white, sans Ray-Bans and without beautiful women following his every move. In a few minutes he would be dressed in pure white, screaming the name of the One who had made him able to sing in the first place.
“C’mon. I’m sorry.” The young, sweaty guard who had a death grip on Sami’s arm was named Hourmazd. “They’re waiting,” Hourmazd said reluctantly. “You have to come now.”
Sami felt his feet slap across the hot, soiled square in slow motion. Next to the chipped concrete chopping block, the executioner waited in a crisp black uniform and aviator Ray-Bans, gripping a Saudi Arabian scimitar. At attention a few steps behind, two doctors in white coats stood watching the proceedings. One of them held a dove gray tarp, folded neat and square; this would be to wrap Sami’s body. At the prison, it had been explained to him that after the beheading his body and head would be carried off by the doctors, who would then reattach the two items and bury Sami in full accordance with Islamic burial laws. None of Sami’s family had any intentions of burying their wayward relative in the Christian manner.
At the moment, whether his dead body would be laid in the ground facing Mecca or not was the last thing on Sami’s mind.
Standing before the executioner’s block, Sami’s eyes blazed across the gathered crowd one last time, not surprised to see neither his mother nor his father here to witness the gory sight. Several feet behind one of the policemen’s opaque shields, a pale face peeped out from under a nondescript black chador veil.
She came.
&nb
sp; Sami’s heart surged within him and he stared at her, taking in the last beauty he would ever see in this place called earth. He met her weeping eyes calmly, intensely begging her not to cry and give herself away.
I’ll see you again, my sister.
And then time for scanning the solemn crowd was up; Hourmazd and the other guard forced Sami to his knees. Hot fingers grabbed his temple like a vise, twisting his head to one side, plastering one cheek against the icy concrete. A filmy coating of dust and pebbles had settled onto the block, and Sami’s hand instinctively jerked forward to swipe the scratchy debris off his cheek, then pulled up short against the biting metal cuffs.
Urgent hands still held him down, kneeling, and Sami realized he was facing the crowd, saw that Ava was looking up towards heaven.
I could have married you. Sami swallowed and his Adam’s apple grazed the abrasive stone. We could have gone away to Germany or Canada together. We could have had six or seven little Iranian babies, who would have grown up hearing about Jesus every day and playing whatever kind of music they wanted, for Him. You would end up wide-hipped and disheveled from all those children, and I would get bald and wrinkly. But we would sit together by the fireplace every night with our children, singing with the guitar and loving each other.
A ream of black cloth descended in front of Sami’s vision and cinched in a hard knot behind his skull. The blindfold pressed his lashes tightly against his cheeks, leaving him blind, each beat of his heart echoing slowly in the darkness. The pressure of the hands against his head and back disappeared and an unearthly hush descended upon the park.
The charges against him were read out loud, a list of things Sami could never imagine becoming. Rape. Treason. Worship of Satan A mullah began to pray loudly in Arabic, and Sami waited with his temple to the icy block. In prison he had been warned; if he moved, the blade could miss and he wouldn’t be killed at the first fall of the scimitar.
A dove cooed overhead. Heart pounding in his chest, Sami waited in the darkness, knowing that in just a minute more he would see the light.
1
Karate Gone Bad
SHE LAID THE GUITAR CASE ON THE SMOOTH TREE stump among the pines and cried, knowing only the trees would hear. A few tears later she stopped, scrubbing her face on her soft tiered skirt, never one for prolonged weeping. She let her eyes run over the battered case, balanced on the ancient stump like an offering, then carefully opened the dented clasps. The honey-colored Taylor guitar still nestled in emerald velvet.
This had been Noah’s guitar. Wara sniffed loudly and smiled, remembered him grinning from the stool at the front of the café, playing this guitar and singing his heart out. She cradled the Taylor across her lap and began to pick her way through a few chords.
It had been three months, and it still hurt. His arm had been around Wara when the bus went over the ravine, but she was thrown out the window to safety.
Noah hadn’t made it.
Since then she had been here in Montana, living with her parents on the ranch that was her childhood home. Life as a missionary in Bolivia was over, dreams smashed to pieces with the shattered glass of the bus where Noah died. A new chapter was about to begin, and honestly, Wara really didn’t think she was ready. Staying here on the bench in the little sheltering circle of trees on the ranch was sounding better and better all the time.
A sharp crack sounded in the foliage.
Wara tensed and huddled into the comforting familiarity of the guitar, totally aware that her reaction to the sound was overkill. This was a ranch, after all. Squirrels and birds did live in the trees that surrounded her, and yellowed leaves were constantly crunching their way to the ground now that fall was in full swing. But after the bus accident in Bolivia she had been kidnapped and nearly killed by the Muslim group who had bombed her bus. So unexpected sounds made her a little nervous. That was ok, wasn’t it?
“Holy cow!”
She shrieked without meaning to, nearly dropping the guitar on her toes. Because all of a sudden, defying her expectations that the little noise would end up being a stray squirrel scuttling around in the trees, a solid male figure emerged from the shadows. She fizzled with adrenaline, vision full of a broad-shouldered man, skin the color of a mocha latte, wearing a black shirt and brown corduroys.
“Holy cow!” she gasped again, less fear and more irritation lacing her voice now. The intruder was now out of the shadows, holding up two tan hands in a gesture meant to calm her down. The dark curls that had hung around his collar were gone, but those clear hazel eyes were unmistakable. All the seven Martir children had them.
“Wara. It’s me,” he said, only adding more fuel to the storm of adrenaline and annoyance lashing her insides.
Alejo Martir. Was here. At her house in Montana.
The ex-leader of the Prism, the group that tried to kill her. He had been behind the bomb that killed Noah on the bus. And then he had left everything to behind to save Wara.
“You…you scared the beejeebers out of me!” she managed, feeling herself scowl. She had never imagined she would see him here. Sure, in Bolivia they had both been recruited by a man named Rupert to work with an organization called CI. Wara had known she would see Alejo again, next week when they set off on an exploratory trip to make their final decision about working with CI in the future. But for goodness sake, she was supposed to have the weekend still to deal with this before seeing Alejo again!
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. Yes, this was the friendly Midwest, but Wara recognized not the tiniest hint of welcome in her voice. Now, she was just plain irate.
And scared.
Some of the spark in Alejo’s hazel eyes faded. “Last week we said we’d meet up on the trip, since we’re both headed the same way. And in Bolivia I said I’d find you. And here you are. In Montana.”
Well. Because Alejo had asked her to forgive him, they’d talked on the phone for a few minutes every couple weeks since Bolivia. It gave Wara the opportunity to say something decent to the brother of her best friend Nazaret, instead of simmering with anger and resentment towards him for what he had done.
“See you soon, then,” Alejo had said over her cell a week ago.
“I—I’m sorry,” Wara exhaled slowly and closed her eyes. They opened to Alejo crossing the space between them tentatively, then offering a hand in greeting. They cheek-smooched mechanically, Bolivian-style, and Alejo cautiously took a seat on the other extreme of the bench. He looked younger with his hair shaved, face smoothed of many of the tortured lines that had marked it three months earlier. The light in his eye flickered, begging Wara to let it come back to life as she had promised him through forgiveness after what he’d done.
She could let the light live, or blow it back out.
Her heart hurt as she crossed her arms over her gray Henley top and tried the hint of a smile. “I’m…really sorry. I just really wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know,” Alejo’s lips twisted into a smile. “I just thought I’d drop by so we could take the trip to Morocco together. I could carry your stuff. And I, uh, thought I could see where you live, maybe meet your parents.”
Wara fought for polite words, all the while nearly swallowing her tongue. “Meet my parents?” She blinked hard against the memory of Alejo’s first connecting with her face, the sudden gravity as she spun into the dirt and collapsed. Alejo pressing the hunting knife to her throat and dragging her into the forest.
This guy was a killer.
And her best friend Nazaret’s brother.
And, insanely, her possible future co-worker.
A little panicked, her gaze flitted around her little sanctuary of trees, the cedar bench that had been there as long as she could remember. Beyond was the house she had always known, her childhood bedroom, the living room where she’d ripped open presents on Christmas and drank coffee over a good novel.
“Ok,” she blurted. “My parents aren’t here now, though. They’re both still at work.”
It was making her crazy.
“I’ve been taking karate. Per your instructions,” she informed him just to break the silence. Alejo’s eyes lit up in surprise and he tore his gaze from the nearly-naked trees.
“Good. I hope you never have to get in a fight, but I feel better knowing you’re learning some tricks to keep up your sleeve.” Alejo raised one eyebrow and grinned dangerously as he eyed Wara’s long plaid skirt. “Think you can show me some of what you’ve learned? In that?”
“Why not.” Wara frowned. “Right now? Like, fight with you? Are you serious?”
“Sure. I’ve got to see if you’ve been slacking.” His tone softened, and Wara suspected he didn’t really think she had learned anything but had only assigned her to learn martial arts to keep her mind off the unpleasant past.
“Besides,” Alejo’s tone was quiet yet challenging. “I don’t think you’ll turn down the chance to give me a few good kicks.” Suddenly he was off the bench and a few feet away, feet planted firmly on the ground. “C’mon, don’t be nice.”
Arching an eyebrow that said she really didn’t plan to be, Wara slowly stood up, pulling a rubber band off her wrist to twist her hair into a rough ponytail. In the three months since she had left Bolivia, her dark hair was growing long and straight, looking a little more polished than the uneven cut she had sported before.
“Now,” Alejo was grinning solemnly, “I don’t want to be too mean to you, either, since this is our first fight. So for today I’m just going to use beginner skills. Just show me what you’ve got.”