The Bracelet

by Roberta Gately

  She hung up the phone and closed her eyes, her grip tightening on the bag that held the bracelet. She’d have to get through the night alone. Already, darkness had settled over the house like a shroud. Abby considered turning all the lights on, but decided that might attract attention. She wanted everything to seem normal to any outside observer. She returned to her room and shut the door behind her. She dragged the nightstand to the door and wedged it in between the door and her bed. She pulled on the door to test it, but her makeshift barricade worked. The door wouldn’t budge.

  She piled her stuff back into her bag, then took out and carefully refolded the newspaper before replacing it in the bag. She took one last look at the bracelet that had haunted her for so long before gently placing it in her bag. She cleared off her bed, laid the knife and the bag at her side, and pulled out her notebook and a pen. They may have torn out the pages that held the story of what she’d seen in Geneva, but she’d rewrite it. It would give her something to do instead of listening to every creak and groan in the house.

  Abby bent over her notebook and began to write. Her story flowed easily, and before long, she set her pen aside and looked at her alarm clock. Ten o’clock. Seven long hours before daylight. Abby dimmed the lights and stretched out on the bed. Listening for the slightest creak, she watched the shadows dance on the ceiling.

  She wouldn’t sleep, but at least she’d rest. She closed her eyes and prayed for morning.

  Chapter 27

  A sliver of sunlight tickled Abby’s eyes and she woke with a start. She hadn’t expected to sleep at all, and she sat upright, listening, but everything was quiet. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  She had to get to Nick, and she swung her legs over the side of the bed, contemplating her options. She couldn’t wait for him. She had to get to Green’s, and the sooner the better. She rose quickly, stepping around the debris that still littered the floor. She showered and dressed, pulling on a long cotton dress and winding a scarf around her head and neck. It would, she hoped, make her somehow less conspicuous in the streets of Peshawar. She reached for Nick’s card on her bedside table. On the back he’d scribbled Green’s Hotel—Saddar Rd. She checked her bag one last time. The photo and the bracelet lay safely within.

  Abby pulled the nightstand away from the door and took a deep breath. She knew she was about to jump off the cliff, but the time had finally come. She opened the door and immediately sensed the quiet that still lay over the house. She looked at her watch—7:00 a.m. Hana should just be arriving, but Najeela wouldn’t be here for hours. Abby stepped into the hallway. From the far end, where her office was, she could see a flood of light streaming down the hall. How could that be? She was sure she’d turned off the light last night. She craned her neck to see if anyone was there, and she gasped as she spied Najeela at her computer, so intent on something she didn’t notice Abby. Abby turned and tiptoed through the hall to the front entrance, pulling open the door and willing it not to squeak.

  “Where are you off to so early?”

  Najeela was right behind her, and Abby spun to meet her. She couldn’t think what to say, her mind was a jumble, but Najeela would know soon enough the bracelet was missing.

  “We were broken into,” Abby said quickly.

  “When?” Najeela asked, her eyes wide with fright.

  “Sometime yesterday. I came home late in the day, and my room had been ransacked. I don’t think there’s anything missing, but someone made a mess in there.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  Abby shook her head. “I was afraid. I didn’t know what to do, so I cleaned up and went to bed.”

  “I think we should report it now, Abby. You’re probably still upset. Sit. I’ll make us some tea.”

  Abby shook her head.

  “I’ll have to report this to the UN,” Najeela said. “This is a serious breach in security, even worse than that riot. It may mean that you get sent home. For your own safety, you understand. Stay, Abby, let’s talk.”

  “No, Najeela. I want to see Nick. I thought I could finally do that interview. That will relax me. I won’t be long. We can talk later.”

  “You don’t want to do the interview here or perhaps later in the day?”

  “No. I’d like to just get out of here, and I’ll lose my nerve if I don’t go now. I’ll see you later.”

  “But wait, there’s no car. Mohammed’s not here yet. Wait a bit, have some breakfast, and then I’ll go with you.”

  Abby shook her head. “I’ll just get a taxi or rickshaw,” she said, hurrying into the courtyard. She turned and saw Najeela just standing there, watching. “I’ll see you later,” Abby called as she pulled open the heavy gate and stepped into the road.

  The morning was quiet; no taxis or rickshaws in sight, and Abby knew she’d have to walk to the main road. She pulled her scarf over her head and quickened her pace. Considering the riots and trouble here, she didn’t want to be long in the road. A bony old horse clip-clopped by, his weary back covered with an ornate, sparkly blanket, his forehead decorated with flowers and ribbons, and his hooves adorned with tiny bells. He pulled a small carriage, and Abby’s heart quickened. A taxi, she thought. “Maaf karna, excuse me,” she called. The small man sitting atop the carriage pulled on the reins, and the horse stopped. The man turned.

  “Green’s Hotel on Saddar Road?”

  “Acha, okay,” the old man replied, and Abby pulled herself up to sit in the carriage. The driver turned and offered a greasy old blanket. She shook her head no. This carriage looked just like one of the hansoms that she used to see in Boston, steering tourists around the Common, but this old horse was slow, slower than any she’d seen in Boston. Impatient, she tapped her feet on the footrest, and her fingers on the cushion. She was worried that she’d miss Nick, and there was just too much danger right now. He had to know. The bracelet, the photo. Maybe Hana was involved after all. She spoke perfect English, and she could read despite Najeela’s assumption that she was illiterate. Maybe Hana had ransacked Abby’s room and hacked into her e-mail account. The very thought gave Abby a chill.

  Abby turned her attention back to the road, and she looked up just as the horse made a plodding turn onto Kohat Road. She could have walked faster than this damn horse moved. She drew in a deep breath. There was nothing she could do about it—she couldn’t just hop off and walk, not with the trouble here. She watched as the streets, shaking off the night, began to fill with the day’s workers and shopkeepers and even a few early-morning beggars.

  She reached into her bag and drew out the newspaper, peering for what seemed the hundredth time at the grainy photo of a smiling Lars Rousseau. Why hadn’t she looked at this before? How long had it sat crumpled at the bottom of her bag, and was this photo what her intruder had been looking for? How could she not have put it together before? She pulled out the bracelet that she knew so well. It shimmered in the morning light, just as it had the last time she’d seen it. She shook her head at her ineptness, but brightened at the prospect of sharing this with Nick. The bracelet and the newspaper were the final pieces of Nick’s puzzle. His Rousseau was Najeela’s fiancé, Lars, none other than her uncle’s business partner. Collaborators in crime and in love.

  The old horseman pulled up tight on the horse’s reins, and Abby was thrown forward.

  “Acha,” the old man said, nodding toward the hotel just across the road. Abby replaced the bracelet and the newspaper in her bag and pulled out her purse, holding a fistful of rupees for the driver. He picked through the bills and coins, taking just what he was owed. Abby smiled and poured the remaining coins into his hand before climbing down and peering across the street.

  Though the street was filling up now with screeching donkeys, speeding cars, and careening rickshaws, Green’s Hotel looked quiet. It was early yet, Abby thought, hurrying across the road. Just in front of the hotel’s entrance, she thought she heard Nick’s voice. “Hey,” he shouted, and she looked up, certain that he was leaning from
his window. But there was nothing to see, only the unremarkable front of the hotel.

  Abby pulled open the front door and squinted into the darkness before venturing inside. The bitter smells and piercing sounds of the street wafted in behind her, but the lobby was surprisingly bright and welcoming, quiet even once the door closed. Comfortable chairs were scattered around the lobby, and a crystal chandelier hung precariously over the front desk. The building’s exterior had been nondescript, but the interior was something else entirely.

  A smiling clerk looked up from the breakfast he’d arranged on the remnants of today’s Peshawar Daily News. He licked the grease from his fingers and rubbed them on the newspaper.

  “Yes?” he said, his voice unexpectedly friendly.

  “Nick Sinclair?” Abby asked timidly.

  The clerk stood and leaned over the counter. “And you are?”

  “A friend,” she answered, her timidity gone. “Is he here?”

  “You just missed him. He is perhaps just outside.” The clerk pointed to the door and turned back to his meal. Abby stepped outside and peered up and down the street, but there was no sign of Nick. She hesitated. Maybe she had heard him after all, maybe he was calling to her from a passing taxi. Maybe she should just leave a message, she thought. But no, she’d come this far, and she wasn’t going back to the house. She had to catch up with him, wherever he was. She turned right and headed toward the center of town.

  Just past the entrance to Green’s, she heard Nick’s voice raised in anger. Abby stopped and listened and caught the unmistakable sounds of fighting, scuffling feet, grunts, and the distinct echo of fists striking skin. The sounds were coming from the alley that ran alongside Green’s. The area was dark and menacing, and Abby hesitated. Just then Nick shouted again.

  She turned into the alley. “Nick?” she called into the blackness. The scuffling stopped. A chill passed through Abby, and she paused, unsure what to do. She blinked to adjust to the darkness, and then, her eyes wide-open, she spotted Nick on the ground, unmoving and bleeding. Two men stood above him, and she watched in horror as one delivered a swift kick to his head.

  At the sight of him lying helpless, Abby’s fear vanished.

  “No,” she screamed, running to his side. Slipping her bag from her shoulder to her hand, she swung it in a wide arc at the attackers. “Get out,” she roared. She swung the bag again, and the men stepped away from Nick. They stared at her, their eyes wide, and she remembered the words of a Boston police officer at a self-defense course she’d attended: If an attacker thinks you’re crazy, he’ll run.

  She struck wildly at the air, almost giddy with the possibilities. She shouted at the men, “Get back!” Her voice was firm, assured. She swung again, but this time, one of the men grabbed her bag, yanking it from her hand. Abby stood, helpless, unable to think. The second man pushed her up against the wall, the ragged plaster scraping her back. He seized the ends of her head scarf and pulled her face to his. His eyebrows, thick, heavy lines of black, hooded his eyes in a sinister shadow. Beads of sweat tracked along his cheeks before disappearing into his unkempt beard. Abby closed her eyes and turned away. He pushed closer, smelling of the streets, that unmistakable scent of sweat and misery and hate. She held her breath, and at that moment he spat in her face.

  Abby forced herself to remain perfectly still.

  A quiet descended on the alley. Everything seemed to stop, then almost as an afterthought, he shoved her roughly to the ground. She heard their footsteps as they ran, and she opened her eyes slowly. Tears stung her eyes as she wiped the spittle from her face. She pulled herself up and leaned over Nick.

  “Nick, can you hear me? Are you okay? Oh, God, you’re bleeding.” She pulled her scarf from her shoulders and wiped at his wounds.

  Nick groaned and pulled himself up, pushing her hands away. “Oh, shit,” he said, his fingers surveying the squishy softness of his cheek. “I think they broke my ribs, maybe my jaw.”

  “Come on, we’ve got to get you to the hospital.” She pulled him to his feet and he stumbled, his legs wobbly.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked as though he’d suddenly realized she was there.

  “I came to . . .” Abby stopped. Her bag, the picture, the bracelet, their proof—gone, all of it gone. She pulled Nick closer. She couldn’t think of that right now. The only thing that mattered was Nick, and getting him to the hospital.

  “I’ll tell you later,” she said as they stepped into the street.

  Abby hailed a small taxi and they sped off, Nick leaning into her as the car careened around corners and through a herd of goats to the Lady Reading Hospital, a one-story building that from the outside appeared to be a sprawling house surrounded by gardens. The car screeched to a halt just outside the Casualty Ward, and the driver rushed around, helping Nick from the backseat. Abby followed them into the lobby, where they were caught up in the morning crush—crying patients whose bandages were grimy with dried blood and dirt, wailing women, and children who shrieked in fear. The air here, thick and heavy, smelled of defeat.

  The driver guided them through the pack of injured waiting to be seen. “Here,” he said, pushing his way roughly through the crowd to the registration desk. He spoke rapidly in Urdu, gesturing wildly to make his point. The clerk came around and took Nick by the arm. “Doctor,” said the driver as the clerk led Nick away.

  Abby counted out the fare from the coins in her pocket and thanked the driver. “Shukria,” she said before taking a seat on the lone wooden bench in the corridor. She inhaled the metallic scent of old blood mixed with fresh vomit. Rusty stretchers, many held together with duct tape, and some still covered with the blood of the previous occupants, lined the hall. She felt a twinge of anxiety and hoped they were in the right place.

  She exhaled and leaned back against the wall, finally brooding over the loss of her bag with the photo and the bracelet—her proof, she was sure—that Lars Rousseau was the murderer. “Damn it,” she swore out loud, her frustration bubbling over. A small Pakistani nurse stopped and stared.

  “Sorry,” Abby muttered, and closed her eyes to shut out the place.

  • • •

  After an eternity of waiting, the nurse reappeared. “Come,” she said, her face a mask, no smile, no frown, nothing. “Your husband is in here.”

  Abby stood. “He’s not my . . .”

  The nurse was in front of her and seemed not to care or even know that Abby was speaking. Instead, she pushed open a large door and motioned for Abby to enter before she hurried away.

  Through the now open door, Abby saw a row of stretchers, all holding bleeding, half-dressed men. Visitors squatted on the stained floor, and Abby looked around nervously. In the corner she saw Nick lying on a stretcher, looking vulnerable, less sure of himself.

  Suddenly he turned, and seeing Abby, he sat up and waved her over. “There you are. I was starting to get worried. Hey, I didn’t even ask—are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

  Abby shook her head.

  “Did you see the men?” he asked, excited. “Could you point them out?” His fingers probed the wounds and stitches on his face.

  Abby reached out and pushed his hand away. “Leave those sutures alone,” she said firmly.

  Unperturbed, he lifted up a mirror to inspect his wounds. “Jeez, what a mess, huh? Doc says broken ribs and a concussion, and these damn cuts. Maybe a few scars will give my face some character. What do you think?” He peered again into the mirror.

  Abby smiled. “I guess you’re going to live, huh?”

  “That’s what they tell me, thanks to you. I have a vague recollection of you fighting them off.”

  “They did seem pretty intent on doing you some serious harm. Were they trying to kill you?” she asked, dropping her voice to a whisper.

  “No, I don’t think so, but I suppose if they had killed me, my story would have died as well, so maybe that was their plan. But you interrupted that. Killing me’s one thing, but kill
ing a pretty young aid worker, well, that’s some pretty serious headlines. So, I don’t know.” He seemed to be trying to convince himself. “Nah, they probably wanted to scare me off. They might have been looking for this”—he pulled out the tiny tape recorder that held all of his interviews—“but I still have it.” He kissed the recorder and returned it to his pocket. “Those thugs assumed I’m another thin-skinned journalist who’ll take their hint and get the hell outta here. They sure as hell didn’t count on you showing up. They must have some serious explaining to do to someone today, huh?” He smiled slyly. “But I’m not going anywhere yet, except out of here. You ready?”

  “I . . .” Abby started to tell him about her room and the photo and the bracelet, but she stopped herself. It could wait. There wasn’t anything else to do. “Do we need to settle your bill or papers?”

  “No.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket—discharge instructions and prescriptions. “I told them to send the bill to the New York Times.”

  The absurdity of the situation suddenly struck Abby, and a chuckle escaped her lips. It all seemed so funny now, which meant she’d probably be crying soon.

  Chapter 28

  Once outside, Abby hailed a taxi, and after they’d piled into the grimy backseat, Nick sat forward. “Khyber Road—the Pearl Continental,” he said before leaning back.

  Abby looked at him questioningly.

  “I think it might be a good idea to move,” he said. “The Pearl is bigger, has better security, not to mention the best scotch in Peshawar, which I think I’m going to need.”

  At the hotel, Abby whistled. “I’ve been here with Najeela, but today it looks even more imposing, gaudy almost, just out of place here in Peshawar.”

  “That’s because you’re with me. Makes everything look bigger.”

  Abby couldn’t stop the laugh that slid from her lips. “Glad to know the attack didn’t hurt your enormous ego.”