by Jay Deb
He thought over and over. Option one, two or three.
Yes, he made a decision – option three. He was going to execute option three, which was to kill the girl, then take the key and run. Her mom and dad would come home in the evening, but by then, he would be long gone.
He stood up. Opening his briefcase, he took out a handgun and screwed the silencer to the barrel. He did not have much time to waste. He went straight to Zarin’s room and knocked. No response. He knocked again. Zarin opened the door and pushed her hair from her forehead. She wore a pair of blue jeans and a black T-shirt; she must have done something to her eyelashes earlier in the day, and her face was smooth—like a clear sky – no acne, not a single pimple. With his gun-holding hand tucked behind him, he realized her face looked beautiful to him.
“What? Feeling better?” Zarin smiled, and her brace-covered teeth could be seen.
Now. Faizan placed his finger on the trigger and was ready to shoot.
“Zarin, what’s that at the window?” Faizan said and pointed to the window in her room.
“What?” Zarin turned her head.
Faizan raised his gun and pointed at her head. There was no hesitation, no second thought. No compassion, and there was no feeling of guilt in his mind. He had to do it; Halim had said he had to do it – kill a Muslim, when needed.
Faizan pulled the trigger. The young girl’s body dropped to the floor. Blood oozed from the neat hole in her head. Faizan put a few items of clothing under her head so the blood would not seep into the carpet. He entered her room, looking for a large suitcase, but he couldn’t find one. He found a niqab; he picked it up and tucked it in his pocket.
He searched the entire house. Five minutes later, he discovered a large suitcase in one of the closets. He laid it down on the carpet in Zarin’s room. He didn’t have much time. The blood flow from her head had slowed to a lazy trickle. He wrapped her head with a piece of cloth and then put the niqab over her face.
Faizan dragged Zarin’s dead body near the bed in her room and tried to fit her into the suitcase, but the suitcase was too small. He thought of chopping the body into pieces, to make it fit, but after several tries he managed to cram the body into the suitcase.
Faizan sighed, not due to the sadness of killing but from exhaustion. He wiped the sweat droplets from his forehead. He took one last look at the dead girl’s crumpled body in the suitcase before closing the lid.
He tried to lift the suitcase, but it was too heavy, so he pulled it down the stairs. He opened the door and looked outside to make sure no one was around, and there was nobody. He dragged the suitcase and put it inside the professor’s van as quickly as he could. He chose the van over Zarin’s car because he knew he would be loading bomb-making items soon.
He went back inside the house and then straight to the kitchen, collecting things to clean the traces of blood from Zarin’s room. He took his things downstairs and wrote a new note, all in capital letters – MOM, DAD, I AM GOING AWAY WITH FAIZAN FOR TWO DAYS, TO SHOW HIM AROUND. DON’T WORRY. I WILL BE BACK. LOVE, ZARIN.
Faizan put his bag and briefcase inside the van and climbed into the vehicle. He cranked on the ignition and backed out of the driveway. As he switched the transmission from reverse to D, he saw two birds fly by the windshield.
“Action begins now,” he muttered. He pushed on the gas pedal, and within ten minutes, he was driving on Interstate 20 East. He drove the first ten miles slowly and carefully, holding the steering wheel with both hands, his eyes fixed on the road in front.
But as he drove, he relaxed and pressed the gas pedal further down; he loved the speed. The highway was lined on both sides by the oak and maple trees that had shed their leaves due to winter temperatures. A black pickup suddenly pulled in front of him, forcing him to slow down, and he cursed at the driver. He saw the blue board that said ‘Welcome to South Carolina.’
Shifting lanes, he pushed the gas pedal again; the speedometer touched seventy-five. He mentally calculated that he was driving at one hundred and twenty kilometers an hour. It was way faster than the hundred kilometers speed limit on the Desert Highway in Egypt. He got a thrill knowing that he had never moved so fast in his life, if he didn’t count flying.
He crossed a speed sign and slowed to a steady sixty. He looked at the fuel gauge; it held at slightly below the halfway mark.
An hour later, after passing Columbia, when the traffic thinned out, he took an exit. He saw three people walking into the McDonald’s restaurant across the street. For the first time, he felt lonely. In Mexico, he had been accompanied by those odd-looking guys, and at the professor’s house he had never been alone, and now he was accompanied by a dead body in the suitcase that lay in the back of the van. He looked behind, just to make sure blood was not seeping out of the suitcase. It was not. He let out a sigh of relief; he knew he had to get rid of that body soon.
Passing the McDonald’s, he could see the sign for a Shell gas station. Soon, he entered the gas station and saw a guy in khaki shorts pumping gas.
Is he a lunatic? Faizan thought. It must be below ten degrees Celsius.
As Faizan pulled up right behind the man’s car, the man gave him a curt look. Faizan reached into his briefcase on the passenger seat and discreetly pulled out the loaded 9mm. He opened the door and carefully put the gun in his right pocket and pulled his shirt down to cover the bulge. He walked to his vehicle’s fuel cap, his eyes fixed on the ground to avoid the man’s gaze. He inserted the gas hose into the tank and pulled the lever. He listened to the bubbling noise of gasoline running through the pipe. He wondered if the professor or his wife were back at the house and, if so, whether they would call the police right away. Faizan knew that even if they called the cops, the cops would do nothing for the next twenty-four hours. By then his job would be complete, and he would be dead and spending time with the virgins in heaven.
The gasoline continued to flow with a hissing noise. He could tell that the tank was nearly full. Faizan chuckled with satisfaction. Just then, he saw a white police car pull into the gas station. A feeling of panic spread through his body, but then he calmed down. Faizan knew that the cops in South Carolina had no reason to come after him. He took a deep breath and tried to look normal.
“The cops in most of rural America are stupid,” Halim had said. “And their stupidity is only exceeded by their arrogance. They know nothing about crime and simply sip their coffee in the morning, roam around harassing people or simply sit on their fat asses, hanging up their uniforms and holsters in the evening and collecting their overpaid salaries every two weeks. You know many American citizens there are in favor of eliminating the police force altogether.”
Halim, the wise man, had seemed to know a lot about America, though he had never set foot in the country, despite having a valid American visa on his passport.
Faizan heard a click, and the bubbling noise of flowing gas stopped. He knew his tank was full.
What if I just drive away without paying?
But then he decided against it.
He walked inside the shop, picked up two Snickers bars and a bottle of Coke, and then paid with cash. He returned to his vehicle, and within minutes, he was driving on the highway, again at sixty miles an hour.
Tomorrow would be the last day of his life. He was not scared. He could visualize an erect stone somewhere. Faizan Al-Sourie. June 13, 1989 to February 22, 2012, written on it. The question in his mind was how many of those stones would be erected throughout Muslim land? One? A few? A few hundred or thousands? There was no way for him to know.
Chapter 21
Professor Hassan was taking his last paleontology class of the day.
“Look at the picture of Sinosauropteryx, also known as Dino-bird,” the professor said as he pointed his laser pen at the image on the whiteboard. “Its fossil was discovered in China’s Liaoning quarry.”
The professor turned his head to face the students to make sure everyone was listening to him. “Who can tell m
e in which year the fossil was discovered?”
Five or six hands went up.
“John,” the professor said.
“1975.”
“Incorrect.” The professor felt a vibration in the chest pocket of his white shirt. He took the cell phone out. Seeing that it was his wife, he hit a button to send the call to voicemail. “Okay, Cindy, go.”
“1997.”
“Correct. Let’s take a break for five minutes.”
The professor walked out of the classroom and held the phone to his ear for the voice message. His face became clouded as the message played, and he immediately hit the callback button.
“Hello,” his wife said. “Something terrible has happened. Zarin is gone, and there is this note from her that says she is going away with Faizan!”
“What? What does the note say exactly?”
“Hold on.” There was a pause on the line. “It says ‘Mom, Dad, I am going away with Faizan for two days, to show him around. Don’t worry. I will be back. Love, Zarin.”
“Is it her handwriting?” the professor asked.
“It’s hard to say. It’s written all in caps. I’m so scared right now. It is so unlike her. I called her number, but her cell phone is in her room. Why did you tell her to show Faizan around? Please, come home right now. I’m so scared.”
“Okay, I’m coming.” A shiver ran down the professor’s legs. He knew Zarin never left home without her phone.
After telling the students that the class was over early, he rushed to the parking lot and drove his Honda Accord home like a robot. A few weeks back he had received a speeding ticket, which he thought had been more because of his race and the color of his skin than the velocity of his vehicle. Since then he had been driving at fifty-eight miles an hour only, but now he didn’t care; he floored the gas pedal.
AFTER A LITTLE debate, the professor and his wife went to the local police station and reported their daughter’s disappearance. The middle-aged officer took the details, then bluntly said, “We have to wait at least twenty-four hours before any search can begin. How old did you say your daughter is?”
“Seventeen,” the professor answered.
“Okay. After twenty-four hours, when we find the man, we can charge him with kidnapping a minor. But right now, I can’t do much.”
“Can’t you search for them anyway?” the professor’s wife said, crying.
“We will do everything we can,” the officer assured her, “after twenty-four hours. There really isn’t anything we can do right now. Just wait.”
Dejected, the professor and his wife left the police station and returned home to wait.
IN HIS REARVIEW mirror, Faizan could see the sun drowning in an orange horizon. He had been driving for hours since fueling. He needed gas again, needed to stretch his legs, needed to find a cell phone that he could dial an international number with. He needed a lot of things.
He pushed the gas pedal, passed a slower sedan, and switched from the left lane to the second, and watched the long silhouette of his vehicle. He passed a few more exits and then got off the highway and drove to a gas station. It was almost dark, and the light at the Exxon gas station barely lit the area.
Just like the last time, he proceeded to fill his tank, but as he pushed the lever of the gas hose, fuel didn’t flow. Then he saw notice on top of the price – if paying cash, pay first. He put the tube back and entered the shop to pay.
“I need gas,” Faizan said as he put his hand inside his pocket to pull out the dollar bills.
“What’s the number?” the short woman at the register asked.
Faizan frowned, not knowing what she was asking for. The woman peeked outside and pressed a button, and then said, “Okay, go ahead. Come back here to pay.”
Faizan walked back to his vehicle and started fueling. He saw the number three written in black and white at the pump. He understood what number the woman had been asking for. After the fueling was complete, he again had an urge to drive away without paying, and again he decided against it. He went back to pay.
“Where can I find a RadioShack store?” Faizan asked the woman while handing over a hundred-dollar bill.
“RadioShack…hmm, let’s see.” The woman looked up at the ceiling as if the directions were written there.
“You take a left outta here,” the woman said as she returned his change. “Then go about five miles, take a right on 560. Two miles down you’ll see a sign for Neumann Mall. Then follow the signs. What are you looking for?”
“I am looking for,” he almost said cell phone but realized it was better to say something else. “I am looking for a TV.”
“Oh, then better go to BestBuy. It’s right outside the mall.”
“Okay, thanks,” said Faizan and turned to the door.
“Good night,” the woman said. “Remember, Neumann Mall.”
Faizan walked out without saying anything. He was finding driving on American roads and running through American shops to be so easy. His training in Somalia was surely a factor, but Faizan thought the main reason for the ease was all those hours he spent watching those DVDs and devouring those books and magazines about American life after he had received the acceptance letters from the universities. At that time, he was sure he was heading for America, at least for a few years, if not more. But the day his visa was rejected by the Satan in the embassy, he burned them all. Eight DVDs, nine books and fourteen magazines – half of them were from the library, but he did not care. Everything had gone into the flames. It was his way of protesting.
Faizan drove out of the Exxon gas station and took a left. After around four and a half miles, he saw the sign for Route 560. He took a right at the next junction and saw a car sitting at the side of the road, with its lights flashing. It reminded him that he was supposed to change the license plates, and he cursed himself.
Once the other car disappeared from the rearview mirror, he pulled over and reached inside the briefcase and pulled out the license plate from one of its pockets. On top of the plate, the word California was written in red, cursive letters.
Armed with a torch and a screwdriver, he headed for the rear end of his van.
Halim is one heck of a planner, he thought.
He started unscrewing, and the first and second screws came off quickly. But the third one wouldn’t budge. He tried for five minutes; his hands became sweaty, and his fingers ached. He gave up. Darn!
He decided to ask Halim if changing the plate was that important. He was going to talk to him as soon as he could acquire a cell phone.
He put the two screws on the license plate back and returned to the driver’s seat. Ten minutes later, he located the mall and then the RadioShack.
Buying the prepaid phone went smoothly. He insisted to the salesman that he must be able to make an international call with that phone. Halim had told him that he might be asked for ID at RadioShack.
“Should that happen,” Halim had told him, “just pretend that you forgot your ID and then look for a second store.”
But that wasn’t even necessary as the selling clerk rang his purchase through without further comment.
Next, Faizan went to the mall food court and ate until he was full before heading back out to the parking lot. While pulling back to the road, he saw a sign for Home Depot. He tapped his knuckles on his forehead. He had almost forgotten – the propane tanks. He needed eight of them to surround the bomb that he would be making very soon. Faizan could almost visualize the bomb going off. And eight propane tanks around it would magnify the mayhem. He could almost hear babies crying, women screaming and see the people fleeing helter-skelter.
He went inside the Home Depot store and picked up four propane tanks and a twenty-five gallon orange plastic gas can and paid with cash. He decided to buy the rest of the propane tanks the next day, sensibly splitting up the purchases to avoid raising suspicion.
He pulled out of the store and followed the same road, going back the way he had come.
/> Faizan saw the taillight of a car about two hundred feet away. For no apparent reason, Faizan stepped on his brake, and the big suitcase, carrying Zarin’s body, rattled. That reminded Faizan that he needed to get rid of the girl’s body.
He pushed the gas pedal and picked up speed, peering outside for a suitable place to dump the body. He could only see the trees that lined the road. The car ahead of him disappeared out of view. And Faizan stopped in front of a bush.
He got out of the van and stood there, and he thought he saw something move in the bush. Knowing this area could have bears, raccoons, snakes and other animals, he returned to the vehicle, and then he realized that he would die in less than twenty-four hours. So why be afraid of anything? He returned to the front of the bush and decided it was not a good dumping site. He started driving again. A few miles later, he saw a pond and stopped his van and turned the headlights off. He dragged the suitcase to the edge of the pond and was considering whether to open the suitcase. He knew if he dropped the body into the water, it would sink – at least for now. But if he pushed the luggage into the water, would it go under or would it float?
He was not sure. He thought for a moment about what to do. In the end, he decided to push the suitcase into the water. Taking the body out would take time, and there was that chance that a car could pass by and see him in a precarious situation.
With his foot, he pushed the suitcase a few feet into the water. Its top was sticking out above the water surface. Not because it was not heavy enough, but because the water was not deep enough, Faizan realized. But he did not want to get into the water and get his clothes wet. He looked around and found a sturdy branch, which he used to push the suitcase deeper into the pond, and it disappeared from view. Faizan smiled and returned to his vehicle.
He took the recently bought cell phone out from his chest pocket. It displayed the time – 7:18 p.m., and the four bars on top indicated it had a good signal.