Susan hadn’t been to Casey’s apartment in months. He knew she would only be there if she was looking for some help or comfort, but Casey didn’t know how to provide either right now. Based on his own personal history, Casey thought it was probably best for him to not say anything at all. He generally made things worse for his friends when he offered emotional guidance. At worst, he would end up saying the wrong thing and come out short one more friend. Casey didn’t have many friends, and he wasn’t ready to risk losing Susan because he was stupid.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Casey said. Let her talk it out and maybe he wouldn’t have to say anything, that was Casey’s reasoning.
Susan wiped the tear’s remains from her cheek. “May I have some water?”
“Sure,” Casey said. He got up and went to get a glass, happy to be doing something, anything besides just sitting helplessly next to his grieving friend.
“I met Mari during our first year at Berkeley,” Susan started while Casey filled the glass with tap water. “We were in Freshman Seminar together and became roommates the next year.” Susan stared at nothing, thinking of her college days. “We were about the only ones we knew who had declared majors as freshmen. We were in nearly every class together, so it made sense that we should room together, too.”
Casey gave Susan the glass and sat back down. “So you were both Middle Eastern Studies majors?”
Susan nodded. “There weren’t many of us, either. I was taking Farsi and Mari was taking Arabic. The difference was that I had grown up only hearing Farsi from the Iranian immigrants that lived near us and had to really study to learn the language, but Mari grew up speaking Arabic in her house. She took those classes to get an easy A.”
“Was she from America?” Casey asked.
“Yeah, but her parents weren’t. Her dad is a doctor, and he took his new wife to America as soon as he could. They came over from Lebanon in the late Sixties, and Mari was born here.”
“In New York?”
“No. In California. But she grew up near San Francisco, a bit farther north than where I did.” Susan smiled. “We did everything together. We were both so into our studies that we didn’t have time for anyone else. Any boys, I mean.”
“I guess y’all were lucky to have each other, then,” Casey said.
Susan’s smile faded. “I was lucky to have her,” she said. “The other way, not so much.”
Here it comes, Casey thought. He remembered Susan’s comment on the phone the day before about abandoning Mari once before. He didn’t press her then, and he had no intention of doing so now. Casey hoped she had decided to explain things on her own.
“It was toward the end of our first year of grad school at UCLA. I grew up outside Los Angeles, so after four years of living in Mari’s backyard at Berkeley, I thought it was time I showed her around L.A. a bit. Problem was, I was eighteen when I left, so I didn’t know what there was to do in L.A. after dark. I called a friend from high school who was still in the area, and she agreed to take me and Mari to her favorite college hangout.” Susan pushed her hair back behind her ears and leaned over. “It was the worst decision I could’ve made.”
Susan cupped her hands around the water glass, staring into the clear liquid like a gypsy looking into the future. Only, she was looking into the past. “I don’t remember the guy’s name, but I know he was a student at UCLA. He was really into Mari. We had all been drinking a lot, and the alcohol seemed to affect Mari worst of all. She never drank that much, even when we were at Berkeley, and that night was a little more than she could handle.
“At some point, she hit her limit and charged out the back door. I remember her covering her mouth and grabbing her stomach like she was going to puke. The group of us laughed like asshole college kids do, and I excused myself to go make sure Mari was okay. But then the guy who had doted on Mari all night stopped me and said he’d take care of it. I thought that was nice of him, and since I’d been boozing it up myself, I had moved into self-centered mode and didn’t want to deal with Mari right then anyway.”
Susan sat back and looked at Casey. “I didn’t see her again until the next morning when a cab dropped her off at our apartment.” Susan took a deep breath before saying, “She had been raped.” In a deadpan voice she added, “And I let it happen.”
Casey finally understood why Susan had been so anxious to meet with Mari on Friday morning. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Susan to carry that guilt for so long. She had done a good job suppressing those feelings, because Casey would have never known what his friend was dealing with if Mari hadn’t shown up. But while Susan had obviously needed to vocalize her anguish to deal with her demons, her confession ignited Casey’s own anger. “That’s bullshit, Susan, and you know it. Mari getting raped was no more your fault than it was Mari’s.”
Susan didn’t know what she was expecting when she came to Casey’s apartment straight from the hospital, but she definitely didn’t expect to be yelled at. The emotional strain of the past two-and-a-half days had finally broken her, and the tears she thought had all but ended after her encounter with Mari’s mother came back in full.
Casey felt bad for upsetting his friend when most people would have done everything they could to express sympathy and provide comfort, but the flame was lit. There were only three types of people that Casey vehemently despised—child abusers, human traffickers, and rapists. He hated them all for the harm they caused the victims, and he hated them for what their actions did to those close to the victims. In a word, they were bullies. And they were the epitome of the worst human nature was capable of.
“Did they ever prosecute this guy?” Casey asked.
“No,” Susan yelled back. “They didn’t prosecute. They didn’t even arrest him.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because Mari didn’t want to press charges,” Susan said, wiping her moist eyes and runny nose on a tissue she pulled from her purse. “It took me two days just to convince her she needed to see a doctor.”
Casey stood up and got a beer from the refrigerator. “So he just got away with it,” he said as he sat back down.
“Mari didn’t want her parents to find out.”
Casey took a deep breath to calm his nerves. “I suppose not.”
Susan saw how angry Casey still was, despite his efforts. But she wanted him to know everything, and in a calm voice she added, “Mari was a virgin until that night.”
Casey didn’t explode. He didn’t say anything. Only the flexing jaw muscles from gritting his teeth gave any indication that he was fuming.
“Now you see why I had to stay at the hospital? Why I at least owed her that much? If I hadn’t left her alone with that shithead out behind the bar that night, none of that ever would have happened. I ruined her life.”
“You didn’t do anything,” Casey said. “That guy who raped Mari is responsible, not you.”
“I didn’t do anything? It was my fault. I invited her out, and I should have known something bad was going to happen.”
“Not if you were drunk.”
“Don’t make excuses for me,” Susan snapped. “Being drunk had nothing to do with it. I was responsible for her.”
“Look, if you had too much to drink, you wouldn’t be able to think clearly. That’s not an excuse, that’s a neurological fact. It doesn’t make you guilty, so you should just drop that idea altogether,” Casey said. “And if Mari ever made you feel like it was your fault that she was raped, then she’s a bitch.”
Casey didn’t think Susan could hit that hard. He knew by the blood on his hands that he had probably crossed the line with that last statement, but he wanted his friend to get angry at someone other than herself. He just wished she hadn’t targeted his nose.
“Oh shit! Casey, I’m sorry.”
Casey gingerly fingered his nose, expecting it to be broken. Susan looked around for a towel and handed Casey a t-shirt that was on the floor by her purse. “It’s okay,”
Casey replied in a voice muffled by the blood in his nasal cavity. “I deserved that.”
Susan went to the kitchen and found a dish towel on the counter. She ran cold water over it and brought it to Casey as he weakly blew his nose in the blood-soaked shirt. “Here. Use this,” Susan said as she handed the towel to him.
“Thanks.”
Susan sat on the forward edge of the sofa next to Casey. They both sat in silence for a few minutes—Casey coping with his injured nose, Susan coping with her injured emotions. “Can I ask you a question?” Susan asked, finally breaking the silence.
“What?”
“Do you think some people are just magnets for bad stuff?”
“Well, stuff is a pretty broad category, but sure. Bad things happen to good people every day—things that are out of their control. But I think stupid people ask for it.”
“Mari wasn’t stupid.” Susan could feel the anger rising again.
“And neither are you,” Casey said. “My point is, sometimes we make bad decisions that we quickly regret. It’s the people that only make bad decisions that are magnets for bad stuff. Those are the stupid people, and nothing ever goes their way.”
Chapter 14
Joel Simpson put the last bite in his mouth only because he was hungry. He hated the ends of sub-sandwiches—nothing but bread. He sat on a park bench enjoying the late Sunday morning scenery. Summer was Joel’s favorite season. The days were longer, and the jogging shorts were shorter. He ogled an athletic blonde coed, changing his focus from her breasts to her ass when she jogged past.
“Bitch,” he said when she was out of earshot, noting that she didn’t even glance his way once. He wadded up the sandwich wrapper and threw it at the trash can five feet away, missing the target completely.
Despite the fact that the city had been attacked by terrorists just days before, the park was crowded. Joel marveled at the resiliency of Americans in general and New Yorkers in particular. He saw that New York fearlessness in his boss every day. Senator Bill Cogburn’s statement after the Friday morning bombings was a testament to that courage, and the pride he felt watching the man on national television was evidence of Joel’s heartfelt belief that he had backed the right horse in the race. America needed Cogburn at the helm, and Joel was going to get him there.
“Here, sir. You dropped this.”
Joel looked to his right and saw a boy of no more than twelve years in denim shorts and a faded Yankees jersey. The boy was holding a sandwich wrapper out, waiting for Joel to take it.
“You shouldn’t litter, sir,” the child added.
Joel’s temper rose, and he hit the boy’s hand, knocking the trash to the ground. “Fuck off, kid.” He watched the young do-gooder run away to join his friends who hooted and laughed after watching the exchange from a safe distance. The wind blew the wrapper further down the path.
“You really shouldn’t litter, Mr. Simpson.”
Joel flinched, startled. When he saw who it was, he took a deep breath. “Christ, man. Can’t a guy just have a quiet lunch in the park anymore?”
Mitchell Evans laughed, taking a seat next to Joel. “Maybe you just need to loosen up,” he said, taking a newspaper clipping from his suit jacket. “Did you see this?”
Joel took the paper from Evans. It was a list of names cut from an article printed the day before. There was one name highlighted. Joel wasn’t sure what Mitchell Evans knew, but he assumed the man knew everything. He knew Joel was eating lunch in Central Park—somehow. “What is this?”
“These are the names of the people killed or injured during Friday’s terrorist attack. At least the ones whose families had been notified as of Saturday.”
“Is she dead?” Joel asked.
“Yes.”
Joel didn’t know if Evans was waiting for him to exhibit any grief, but the New York lawyer would be disappointed if he was. “Well, that’s one less thing we have to worry about then, isn’t it?” Joel said as he handed the paper back.
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean? If she’s dead, she can’t talk, right? Case closed,” Joel said.
“She talked before she was killed.”
Joel relaxed. “Look, you should check your membership directory. Her boss works for you guys, so who cares what she told him?”
“I’m not talking about him, idiot. I’m talking about the woman she came to New York to see.”
Now Joel was worried. “What did she tell her?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”
Several scenarios flashed through Joel’s head on how to deal with the new situation. None of them were pleasant. “What do you want to do about it?” he asked.
“Nothing that you’ve got in mind,” Evans said. He knew about Joel Simpson’s reputation as a hot-head who often made rash decisions and somehow managed to escape the fallout. In the few months he had known the man, he could see that Joel’s reputation was probably well-deserved. He could also guess what Joel was thinking. “We don’t need a pile of bodies to start making their own links back to The Council or Cogburn. I guarantee that route will lead straight to the guillotine faster than any second-hand rumor mill accusations.”
Joel understood Evans’ logic, but not his decision. “So you just want to let this woman make accusations and fend them off as they come?”
“That’s exactly what I want to do. But first I have to know what accusations we might be facing.”
“So you need to find out how much she was told.”
“I’m glad you understand,” Evans said. He reached back into his jacket and pulled out another piece of paper. “Here’s her name and phone number.”
“Why are you telling me?” Joel asked, not sure why he was taking the folded piece of notebook paper in the first place.
Mitchell Evans stood up to leave and buttoned his jacket. “Contact her. Find out what she knows, and then get back to me.” Evans saw the reluctance on Joel’s face and said, “I’d get someone else on this if I had anyone else. Right now, you’re it. Besides, I hear you’re quite a ladies man.” He smiled and started walking. Over his shoulder he added, “Maybe you’ll have some fun while you’re in New York after all.”
Joel opened the paper when Evans was gone and looked at the name. He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “Well,” he said to himself as he began walking, “let’s see what we can find about Miss Susan Williams.”
Chapter 15
Gulf of Aden
Abdi Hussein finished wiping the salt spray from his face and tied the bandana around his neck with one hand. He knew these waters well, and despite the overcast sky that cloaked the quarter-moon, he piloted the 12-meter skiff through the early morning darkness like he was born for the job.
In a way, he was. The son of a fisherman in Dhul Hafun, Abdi grew up on boats and lived much of his childhood afloat, chasing fish off the north and east coasts of Somalia. War, pollution, foreign encroachment on the local fishing grounds, and a devastating tsunami changed things. Now, instead of mackerel, Abdi fished for ships.
“It should be here,” one of the pirates said with obvious frustration.
“Let me see that,” said another.
“What you going to do with that, Bilé?” Abdi called from the back of the skiff. “You can’t read GPS, Sheep Boy.”
The other two men laughed, and Bilé sank lower in the boat, cursing. He hated being the son of a sheep herder. Even more, he hated when the others made fun of him for that fact. At 16, he was the youngest of the four men in the skiff. He left his family for the coast, hoping to strike it rich in Somalia’s most profitable industry. In six months, all he had gotten was one insult after another. He removed a small pouch from his belt and put a khat leaf in his mouth—at least he made enough money for that. They had been at sea for almost a week, and the khat he had with him was already dried out, but Bilé chewed anyway, waiting for the natural drug to take effect.
Abdi throttled the motor down, ke
eping the skiff moving forward just enough to lessen the effects of the slow rolling waves. “Give it to me,” the 23-year-old fisherman-turned-pirate said. Abdi felt around for the button that would illuminate the handheld global positioning system receiver.
A loud bell rang in rapid succession from fifty feet away, frightening the men in the skiff. Before Abdi Hussein could make sense of the connection between the unexpected noise and the button he just pushed, the night’s darkness was broken by a blinding light, accompanied by an even louder, deeper rumble. Bilé saw the source of the commotion first and jumped overboard, despite the fact that he couldn’t swim. Abdi sat in awe as fire from the deck of the naval warship gave birth to a rising missile that shot straight into the heavens, tipped over, and disappeared to the north.
“Abdi, help us,” someone shouted, bringing Abdi back to the present. “Bilé is gone.”
Abdi looked over the side and strained to find a sign of the young sheep herder. His night vision was destroyed by the light from the missile launch, and he reached on the bottom of the skiff for a spotlight. Before he could turn it on, a second plume of flames erupted from the ship, exposing the skiff once more.
A chill went through Abdi’s body when he realized how close they actually were to the warship. He dropped the light and grabbed the motor’s steering arm, twisting the throttle. The other two men in the boat tumbled to the deck with the sudden change in the skiff’s speed and direction.
“Abdi! What are you doing? Bilé is out there.”
“Bilé is dead,” Abdi answered loudly.
“You don’t know that,” the other man shouted back.
Abdi glanced behind him as he put more distance between the skiff and the gray monster. He turned back to the others and said, “If Bilé did not already drown, he is sure to be killed by that navy ship. And if we stayed to find him, that is exactly what would happen to us.”
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