by Josh Lanyon
Stephen’s mirrored expression was one of disbelief.
“There haven’t been any further attempts. Besides, if someone was out to get me, I’d surely have some warning.”
“That’s just in the movies, isn’t it? Threatening letters and death threats spray-painted on your car?”
“That stuff, yes.” I was thinking more that I’d know if I’d done something to seriously piss off someone. I’m not completely lacking in social awareness. I was also thinking that part of how I’d managed to stay alive as long as I had was my built in sense of self-preservation. I’d had no sense of being watched or stalked in the days or even the hours before I’d been shot.
Stephen looked unconvinced.
“The sheriff’s department hasn’t come up with anything.” I smothered a yawn.
“Is that supposed to reassure me?”
“They seem to know their business.” Donleavy had called earlier that afternoon to inform me that he’d interviewed Bryce and was ruling him out as a suspect. The sheriff department’s current theory was that I’d been hit by a stray bullet. Not that there were typically a lot of bullets flying on the University of Shenandoah campus, but the school had an SCCC chapter. Maybe a member of Students for Concealed Carry on Campus had been aiming at a possum or a cat or some other perceived threat. My own theories hadn’t panned out, so that made as much sense as anything. A freak accident. Stranger things had happened to me.
“You’re taking this awfully calmly.”
I raised a dismissive shoulder. “There’s no point in worrying about it.” What I didn’t tell him was having done my own reconnaissance and come up empty, I wasn’t expecting the local sheriff department to do any better. “I’m more nervous about getting through this party tonight.”
Stephen gave a fistful of my hair a gentle tug. “It’ll all be over in a few hours. And then that’s it for the holiday social obligations. When we close the door on the last guest tonight, it’s just you and me, kid. From Christmas ‘til New Year’s Day.”
I couldn’t pretend it didn’t make me happy. “Do you mind?”
“I do not. Not in the least.”
I reached to pull him down. His mouth was warm and tasted of cinnamon from the wassail he’d been drinking. When our lips parted he said, “I wish I knew.”
“What?”
Stephen smiled, brushed the hair back from my forehead. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What were you going to say?”
He looked self-conscious for an instant. “I don’t know. There’s not a lot I can give you.”
I sat up. “What are you talking about?”
He laughed at my alarm. “I don’t mean it that way. I mean for Christmas. You don’t care much about worldly goods. When you do want something, you get it for yourself. You’ve pretty much been everywhere. There’s not much you haven’t seen. You’re hard to buy for.”
I relaxed. “Not in the least. It’s a novelty having someone give me presents. I like anything. Anything you give me, I’ll enjoy.”
“You remember you said that when I give you a hand-crocheted sweater with appliqué penguins.”
“You should give it to me now. I’ll wear it tonight and you can show me off to your posh friends.”
Stephen laughed so loudly he startled Buck awake.
Chapter Five
I hated parties.
This was not to say that I didn’t know how to behave at a social event. I’d been to plenty of them, state dinners and Id al-Kabir, and never disgraced myself or my government at either. But I was not what one would call a party animal. I couldn’t recall any party I’d been to in recent memory that I hadn’t been working, one way or the other.
That night was no exception.
I had, as always, a mission. That night my mission was to charm Stephen’s friends. To demonstrate to all what an intelligent, pleasant, well-balanced partner Stephen had found for himself. Perhaps a little young, but mature for his age. And what an adorable accent! Stephen didn’t care what his friends and colleagues thought of me, but I did—for Stephen’s sake.
So I smiled and made small talk and made sure everyone’s glass was topped up and that no one was left on their own for too long.
Bryce and his date arrived about an hour and a half into the melee. I didn’t recognize the date, a tall, handsome, black man. Bryce introduced us briefly and steered “Kenneth” away from me.
Anne Norton, another doctor at Shenandoah Memorial, tried to persuade me to sample a candy cane martini. Apparently you can get away with any alcoholic atrocity provided you slap the label “martini” on it. I managed to choke down a couple mouthfuls of peppermint and vodka.
“Stephen tells us you used to be in the civil service,” one of the old codgers from Stephen’s Civil War battlefield preservation committee said. “In my day that was code for spook.”
I replied, “In my day it was code for civil servant.”
Across the room, I spotted Bryce talking to Stephen. I saw Stephen’s gaze slide in my direction. I looked apologetic.
I saw Stephen take a deep breath before focusing on Bryce once more.
“Did you know Stephen’s father, the senator?” someone else was asking me.
“No. He died not long after Stephen and I met.”
“He was a real character. They don’t make them like the Senator anymore.”
And so it went. I tried not to look at the clock. Any clock. But as the hours ticked past I felt more and more cheerful. Soon we would close the door, turn off the porch light, and it would be just me and Stephen. The best Christmas present in the world.
Shortly before midnight I noticed the wood basket was empty. I grabbed my waxed coat from the mud porch and went out to collect more firewood.
A few flakes of white drifted desultorily down. The night smelled cold and clean, of snow and wood smoke. The full moon was sinking beneath the black tree tops but it cast bright radiance across the white blanketed yard. The lake was frozen and still, the geese gone for the winter. Music and laughter drifted from the house as I made my way to the neatly stacked woodpile.
As I rounded the corner of the house, a slim shadow detached itself from the siding. A woman. I had an impression of large shining eyes, long dark hair, a dark wool cap, a dark wool coat.
“Getting a breath of fresh air?” I said.
She didn’t answer immediately and I knew. The hair on the back of my neck rose in belated recognition. My survival instincts were not what they had once been. Too late, too slow.
She pointed a revolver at me. It gleamed in the moonlight. Too big for her small hands.
There was nowhere for me to go. Nowhere to run and nothing to use as a shield.
“I knew you would come out tonight,” she said. She sounded young. Younger than me anyway. “Somehow I knew.”
“Do I know you?”
“Don’t you?” She spoke English well, but she had an accent. Indo European. Afghanistan. Dari or Pashto?
“Not a friend, I’m guessing.”
“No. I’m not your friend.” She was careful to stay in the deep shade of the building, to stay out of reach. “I tried to shoot you the other night.”
“Was it something I said?” I kept my eyes on her hands and the revolver. She was not comfortable with firearms, but she did appear to know the basics. And the basics were all it took.
She said breathlessly, “It’s something you did. Something you did to me and my family.”
It was a good sign we were talking. A good sign she hadn’t shot me on sight. I said, “I’m sorry.”
“No you’re not. You don’t even remember me.” She took a deep, sharp breath. “I lost my nerve the last time. The gun was louder than I expected.” She glanced down at the weapon she held and at once—before I could move—back up at me.
“Why don’t you tell me what it is I did to you?”
The pale blur of her face twisted. “Do you remember Hamid Farnood? Dr. Hamid Farnood?”
/> Vaguely. “Yes,” I said. It had been at least ten years ago. One of those things I’d blocked out the best I could. No point brooding over what couldn’t be changed.
“You remember you betrayed him? Tricked him? Killed him?” Her hands shook and I braced for the shot. It didn’t come.
“I don’t remember that.” It was coming back to me, though. One of my earliest jobs in Afghanistan. Not my finest hour. Not the finest hour of any of us. Farnood was a respected cardiologist who had for a patient a particular al-Qaeda lieutenant that my section was intent on taking out. Farnood was our best way in. He was a progressive and a western sympathizer, but his kafir tendencies were tolerated because of his skill as a doctor.
“Because of you, my father was executed.”
“Anoosheh,” I said slowly. I remembered her now. A gawky schoolgirl with big eyes and a little-kid giggle. Smart and shy. She had adored her father. And—painful to remember—she’d developed a crush on me those summer weeks while we’d worked with her father to put our plans into action.
“Anoosheh. Yes. Now you remember.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.” I could have guessed though. By the time we’d pulled the plug on the operation, moved our sights to another target, it was too late for Farnood. We left him exposed. He’d stretched too far, shown his hand. His fate was sealed, inevitable. I believe I’d objected, argued, but not very hard or for very long. In the end I had coped, as I had learned to cope with many such situations, by not allowing myself to think of it.
And now it seemed my turn, my fate sealed, inevitable.
I heard the quiet bang of the back porch door, and I knew with terrified instinct who it was.
“Let’s go down to the pond,” I told Anoosheh. “We can talk there. You don’t want any interruptions.”
She shrank back against the house. “You think you’ll overpower me and throw my body in the lake.”
I’d thought it was a possibility, yes, but somehow watching her draw back, hearing the fear in her voice, I knew I wouldn’t be able to carry through. I couldn’t stop seeing her as that skinny, giggling girl with the solemn eyes.
“I just want to talk to you.”
“Mark?” Stephen called.
I called back, “Coming. I’ll be right in!” I never turned my gaze from Anoosheh and she never moved. I could hear the quick sound of her breaths.
But Stephen’s footsteps continued forward, that sliding smoosh of snow underfoot. “You’ve been awhile,” he said.
“Stephen, you don’t need to—” But it was too late. He rounded the corner and stopped in his tracks.
I thought she would panic then and shoot one of us. Her fear was a tangible thing. But somehow she controlled it.
“What’s going on?” Stephen said calmly, though I’m sure he had a pretty good idea.
“Just chatting with an old friend,” I said. “Go back and get warm inside.”
“Who’s your friend?” Stephen asked at the same moment Annoosheh said, “No!”
I said to her, “Be smart. This is not a complication you need or want.”
“But now he’s here. The doctor. Doctor Thorpe.”
“And you are?” Stephen asked.
I said tersely, “Someone I used to know.”
“My name is Anoosheh Farnood. Your…lover killed my father. Destroyed my family.”
To my horror, Stephen put his hand on my shoulder and calmly, coolly moved between me and Anoosheh. “And you think…what? That shooting Mark is going to make things right?”
“What the hell are you doing?” I said to him. I tried to keep my own voice quiet, reasonable. I didn’t dare struggle with him or make any quick moves for fear of sparking Anoosheh into action.
“What did he do?” Stephen asked her. I knew that voice so well, deep and unworried, and infinitely kind. I’d never known anyone fail to respond to it, and Anoosheh was no different. The story poured out of her, as much as she knew of it. Enough. She knew enough.
“And then when I saw him on campus. I couldn’t believe it was him. But it was him. I followed him a couple of times. Sat near him in the library. He never recognized me. He had forgotten me. Forgotten all of it.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
She ignored me. “My father died and he went on living. He was happy and my life was destroyed.”
“I’m sorry,” Stephen said. “No one should have to live through such things.
“No! They shouldn’t!”
“You’re a brave young woman. A resilient young lady. And now you’re living with your aunt and uncle?”
“Yes.” Anoosheh was crying. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. She kept that cannon trained right on Stephen’s midsection. He had a longer reach than me, but she kept her distance.
“And if you do this thing, shoot the both of us with your uncle’s gun, what do you think that will do to these people who love you so much?”
“I—” Her voice broke.
“You say Mark destroyed your family, destroyed you, but you’re not destroyed. Look at what you’ve done already. You came to this country and you’re going to school and making your aunt and uncle proud.”
Anoosheh said fiercely, “Only him. I’ll only kill him!”
Stephen sounded kind, “No. You’ll have to shoot me too, because I won’t let you hurt him while I can stop you. I don’t think you’d get far, but even if you did get away from here, you wouldn’t get over this. This would destroy you, and it would destroy the people you love.”
I made another effort to shove in front of Stephen but he blocked me with his shoulder. I didn’t dare struggle with him. Didn’t dare give her a reason to fire.
“He killed my father!”
“The men who shot your father killed him. I know the job Mark did and the way he worked. He’d have presented a choice for your father, and your father, being the kind of man he obviously was, chose to risk his life for his country and for his family. Because he’d want something better for you.”
“No! They tricked him. He tricked him.”
Stephen didn’t let up, quiet, relentless. “You say your father was a doctor. I didn’t have the privilege of knowing him, but I know he wouldn’t want to see you, his beloved daughter, standing here now with a gun in your hand.”
Anoosheh began to sob. Her head bowed, the revolver fell to the snow. Sounds of grief tore from her. Stephen stepped forward, took her in his arms, and held her while she cried.
* * * * *
It was very late—in fact, technically Christmas—by the time the last guest climbed into a taxi and trundled away, down the snowy lane. The caterers finishing clearing up, packed their wares, and left.
Stephen and I sat in front of the fire having a nightcap. The only light in the room came from the flames and the colored lights on the tree.
Stephen’s arm stretched along the top of the sofa. His fingers played idly with the ends of my hair, sending little frissons feathering up and down my spine. “Are you upset that I didn’t want to call the police?”
“You’re joking I assume?”
He shook his head.
“No. I’m not upset. I don’t regard the girl an ongoing threat.”
He smiled faintly. “Are you genuinely this dispassionate about it?”
“I wasn’t remotely dispassionate out there. Not when you walked outside.” I swallowed. “Don’t ever do that again, will you? Don’t ever walk between me and someone holding a weapon.”
The hint of humor was still in his voice. “It’s not something I plan to make a habit of.”
For a moment the firelight and the glitter of the brandy in our glasses and the twinkling amidst the tree branches were all too bright. I closed my eyes. My throat felt tight. I hoped Anoosheh was the last of my ghosts. What if she wasn’t?
“Mark?”
“Mm?”
“Let it go.”
I opened my eyes, turned my head. Stephen’s eyes were two mo
re shining points of light in the gloom.
“Of course.”
“I’m serious,” Stephen said. He sounded serious. “Dickens said it. Stay in the sunlight. Don’t look for trouble that might never happen.”
“Dickens never said that. Dickens never thought that.”
“Maybe it was Ben Franklin.”
I laughed a shaky laugh.
We were quiet for a time. Then Stephen said, “Would you like to open a couple of your Christmas presents?”
“All right.”
He rose, went behind the sofa to the tree and came back with a couple of parcels. He handed me the largest first. A large box wrapped in silver paper decorated with snowflakes.
I smoothed the paper. I felt absurdly moved to be sitting here, together. Not just to be alive—though I was certainly grateful for that—but to have love as well. What other gift could compare with that?
I opened the box, pulled aside the tissue. A brown leather jacket. Very similar to the one that had been destroyed. I smiled at Stephen. “Thank you. I like it very much.”
“Let’s agree to no bullet holes in this one.”
“Agreed.”
I opened the second smaller parcel. It was a book bound in leather that looked the color of blood in the firelight. I read the gilt letters embossed on the distressed face. “The Christmas Cake.”
“Since you weren’t able to buy the original.”
“How did you manage this?”
“It wasn’t difficult,” Stephen said wryly.
“It wasn’t? I had no idea it was going to be published.”
A lost Dickens manuscript, a Christmas story, had resurfaced the previous year. I and every other Dickens collector across the galaxy had tried to obtain it, but in the end the owner had decided not to sell.
“No? Well, there’s a romantic story behind the decision to publish the manuscript.”
I opened the book. In the wavering light I could just make out the first line. Our story begins with a fallen star. But the star is not the story.
I looked up, smiling. “Oh yes?”
