No True Believers

by Rabiah York Lumbard

  Inside the ambulance, the ringing in my ears started to subside and I could hear muffled voices.

  “Check the patient for secondary blast injury.” That’s when multiple hands inspected my body, lifting up my clothes. Once I heard words like “shrapnel” and “blunt trauma,” I passed out.

  I SLOWLY CAME to, feeling as though I were lying on one of those pool floaties, weightless over a body of water. There were muffled, whooshing sounds in my head like the radio was on but the reception was horrendous. I also heard the faint click of a keyboard. Was I in a hospital?

  How could that be? The Turners had succeeded. Was this the realm of barzakh? Had I crossed the great divide? Why would there be clicking sounds? I thought the hereafter was a completely different plane of existence, spiritual. Computers are anything but.

  “Well, look at that. Our hero is finally stirring.”

  I opened my eyes. A round-faced lady with rosy cheeks and curly hair was beaming at me. I glanced down at her nametag: NICKI. She pushed aside her mobile workstation. “You’re at the hospital. Arlington Inova. In-o-va.” She spoke deliberately, like English wasn’t my first language or she knew I was high on painkillers. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

  I nodded. “Sort of.” Enough to know that I failed, miserably. I reached to scratch my leg, but couldn’t. My arm was in a full cast. She scratched it for me.

  “Your burns are relatively minor. So is your head wound. The arm, however, will take several months to heal. But all things considered, you came out miraculously unscathed.”

  My throat was parched, but I creaked out an answer. “That’s really great. But…mentally, I, um, I’m hearing sounds. Whooshy. Like there’s a radio playing.”

  She smiled sympathetically. “What you’re experiencing is MES, a very common side effect of proximal exposure to a loud explosion. It’s usually temporary. A form of tinnitus.”

  “MES?”

  She launched into a textbook explanation.

  “Musical ear syndrome. It refers to a nonpsychiatric condition in which those with hearing loss experience a range of musical auditory hallucinations from ringing, hissing, and buzzing to more complex tunes like Christmas carols or patriotic music.” She leaned forward, her brown eyes sparkling with excitement. “I bet you’re hearing patriotic music. I know I am.”

  What the hell is this lady jabbering about?

  I lifted my arm to scratch my head, because that was bandaged, too, and itching, but I couldn’t manage it thanks to the cast on the one arm, the IV in the other. I rested my head against the headboard and sighed.

  “Another itch?” she said. “Let me. It would be an honor.”

  To scratch my head?

  “Bet you’re hungry, too. Just say the word. Nurse Nicki will get you whatever you want. You deserve it, sweetheart.”

  Why is she saying that? And how is it possible that this hospital is still wired? I was seriously tripping.

  My stomach grumbled. “Uh, buttermilk scones? Maybe some coffee?”

  “There’s a Starbucks across the street. I’m certain one of our staff members will be more than happy to do a run. Let me inquire.” She walked toward the door. “Dear me, I almost forgot. There’s a gentleman here who is eager to speak with you.”

  She shuffled out of the room, smiling and whistling and exuding all sorts of happiness. The door swung back open and in came the cop I’d only known as the Silent One. He looked more disheveled than the last time, but he was smiling, his eyes full of warmth.

  “Hey! It’s Salma Dihya Bakkioui!”

  Uh, okay. Did this mean I was no longer a suspect? I forced a smile. “Hey…you.” I frankly didn’t know what else to say.

  He pulled up a chair next to my hospital bed. “Apologies, never properly introduced myself.” He offered his hand. “Detective Hynds.” I shook it wearily. But then I noticed his watch. Nautical and blue.

  “That was you last night, wasn’t it?” I whispered. “Oh my God. I am so sorry. Thank you—”

  “Please.” He brushed my apology aside as if rescuing people were a daily occurrence. Maybe it was. “I came here to thank you, Salma Bakkioui. You’re a real patriot. Because of you, we succeeded in stopping what could have been a major catastrophe.”

  “Excuse my language, but what the hell is going on?”

  Detective Hynds hardly flinched.

  “The blast…this hospital…I’m so confused. I thought they blew everything up?”

  “No,” he said, pacing the room. “The blast we encountered wasn’t the real deal. It was a small IED, a theatrical technique to distract and evade. As far as the main explosives go, the bomb squad successfully defused them.”

  “Wait,” I croaked. “Evade?”

  As he opened his mouth to answer, Nurse Nicki came back into the room, carrying a tray full of food. “I’ve got good news for the both of you. They had plenty of scones, Salma. I got you three kinds—blueberry, buttermilk, and chocolate. And you, Officer, you’ll be pleased to know that your partner is out of surgery. They saved his lung. He’s a real trooper.” She batted an eyelash.

  Detective Hynds blushed. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s good news indeed.” He patted me on the back. “We can discuss this tomorrow when we get your official statement. Family and celebrations first.” He stood up to leave.

  “Please, Officer, just tell me.”

  “Kyle Sr. is in custody,” he said.

  “And Kyle Jr.?”

  Detective Hynds glanced at Nurse Nicki, who smiled uncomfortably. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she murmured, quickly ducking out the door.

  My mind was littered with so many fears and traumas and awful memories that I kept spewing questions. One after the other. “What about the guy in the ski mask? And the other Forty-Three-ers? And Mr. Fancy? And, oh my God, Mrs. Turner? Is she even alive?”

  “Shh,” he said. “I promise that we’ll continue this discussion soon enough. But I have some people here who have been waiting too long to see you.” He opened the door. My whole family—Mom, Dad, the girls, Titi in a wheelchair with a nurse at her side—poured into the room.

  I burst into a combination of tears and laughter. Detective Hynds slipped out the door. Yasmin, naturally in the lead, barreled straight into me, holding up this ridiculous teddy bear with a T-shirt that read HERO. The idea of being a hero was a strange thought indeed. A thought my nafs didn’t need. Detective Hynds was right, though. My questions could wait. Right now, I was safe. So was everyone I loved. Maybe I could reassemble the shattered bits of my heart. Some had already begun to dance inside my chest.

  The rest were waiting in Dubai.

  * * *

  —

  Titi and I were discharged early the next morning. Before I left, Nurse Nicki came up to me and squeezed me so tight I thought I was going to pass out. She handed me a plastic bag. “Sorry, dear, we had to remove your jewelry and personal belongings. But they are all here. We don’t normally do laundry, but we all chipped in. I insisted. It was the least we could do, all things considered.” I looked down. My clothes were beautifully dry-cleaned, pressed, and folded. In the corner of the bag were two rings.

  Later the following day, after a thorough debriefing with a cybersecurity team in which I finally handed over the Turner signet ring and they returned my recovered laptop, Mom’s minivan keys, and miracle of all miracles, my phone (sorry, Mr. Metro Man!), Detective Hynds at long last dropped by.

  After my family pampered him with all sorts of presents and food, when we finally had a moment alone I blurted out my remaining questions. He was wonderfully patient and surprisingly candid. Maybe, after all, I had earned his trust.

  So here was the thing: Detective Hynds wasn’t just a detective. He’s a member of a joint task force for counterterrorism and a mentor of sorts for Detective McManus. He’s al
so been privately researching the 43ers all along, even though he began his inquiry several months back with mere hunches and crumbs. Investigating far-right groups had almost become a side job, a hobby.

  “Why?” I asked, failing to understand this limited approach to counterterrorism.

  “Politics,” he said. “Most of our resources have been transferred over to…” He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, um…”

  “Muslim terrorists?” I said, finishing his sentence.

  “Precisely,” he said. “Or people who fit that category.”

  I twisted my ring. “Yeah, they are similar,” I murmured. “But white supremacy, from the founding of this nation to this very moment, has always been our greatest threat.”

  He nodded in quiet agreement.

  “I still don’t get it, though. The timing of it all. How did you all arrive at the IXP joint so quickly? Instantly, come to think of it. But no one is that lucky. The Turners have been one step ahead of all of us.”

  Detective Hynds leaned forward. “Yes, but in the end it was Mrs. Turner who played the last card.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She mailed a letter to our local chapter, knowing it was the only safe way to communicate, knowing that her movements both online and on the phone were being watched.”

  I nodded in sympathy. This entire time Kyle Jr. had his eyes on me—cloning my phone, invading my privacy, setting me up. “And?”

  With a sigh, Detective Hynds folded his hands. “What I can tell you is this. She gave the FBI enough convincing details about her husband’s role during the bombings on May third that the unit had to take her seriously. And to take me and my hunches seriously. It was a good thing her letter arrived when it did. By then her son had begun phase two. Remember the night you saw my partner in front of the Ammouris’?”

  “Pretty unforgettable.”

  “We were there because our cyber unit had picked up on suspicious online activity. Kyle Jr. had hijacked Mr. Ammouri’s router and was posting incriminating evidence online as if he were Amir.”

  I balled my hand into a tight fist. Hijacking routers was a trick I learned from Pulaski88. It was all coming full circle. Again and again. “Yeah, they’re pretty—”

  “Sophisticated?” said Detective Hynds, finishing my thought.

  I nodded.

  He broke off suddenly, biting his lip and looking me in the eye. “Like I said, it was a good thing Mrs. Turner flipped on them. Lord knows where we’d all be if she hadn’t.”

  I swallowed, remembering her smile, her bruises. Her limp body lying in the hospital. “Is she going to make it?”

  Detective Hynds cracked his knuckles. “I’m afraid that she passed away this morning.”

  After a long stretch of silence, in which I closed my eyes and rested the weight of my head in the palm of my good hand, Hynds finally admitted a second loss: Kyle Jr. had managed to escape. His father was in federal custody pleading the Fifth Amendment. Detective Hynds’s gaunt face creased in disgust, or maybe disappointment—or both.

  “Kyle Sr. was adamant. Said that we’d never locate his son in ‘Real America.’ He claimed that his network had allies all over the country and overseas as well.” He closed his mouth. It seemed that he wanted to say more but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. Maybe he didn’t want to frighten me.

  I glanced out the window at the empty Turner house, roped off with police tape. A deep shiver cascaded down my back. Detective Hynds must have noticed my unease, as he laid his hand gently on my knee. “Don’t worry, Salma. We have a unit posted to your house. I doubt that Kyle Turner Jr. will come back to this area. And believe me: we’re doing everything we can to locate him.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not the only one. Do you have any idea how vast their organization is?”

  Detective Hynds didn’t answer. He looked unsettled. Great, I’d returned him to Silent One mode.

  “Seriously, how many of these crazies are there?” I demanded to know. I’d earned it. “I mean, what about my principal, and Michelle and Chris? Were they part of this?”

  “No,” he said resolutely. “As far as the rest of the organization goes, we’re getting there. Us, the FBI, ATF.” He shifted in his seat and straightened his back. “I know you have considerable skills—assets, really—that I’d like you to develop in a safe and professional manner. No more solo investigating.” He lifted a brow.

  I laughed, and so did he. It was a moment of camaraderie that was admittedly satisfying. He leaned forward.

  “What I’m saying, Salma, is that I’d like you to consider joining us in some capacity once you’re done with college. We need bright minds like yours, especially since you have your feet in—”

  “Two worlds?” I interrupted. But I was smiling now, too.

  He seemed hesitant to answer. “I don’t want to put words in your mouth,” he said.

  “Well, I appreciate that.” And I did, truly. It was another first between us: the first time I’d told him something true, without fear or suspicion. That wasn’t to say that I was being fully transparent. As I walked him to the door, shook his hand, and waved goodbye, I still clung to a secret—as I’m certain he did, too.

  Mine? I’d made a copy of all the files on that USB ring. Just in case.

  A WEEK LATER, things were almost weirdly, freakishly normal. Normal in comparison to the roller coaster it had been. But still surreal. News had gotten out about the Turners, but no one knew about my involvement yet. I was forbidden from discussing it. Detective Hynds had explained the necessity of withholding my identity: Kyle Jr. was still on the run, and there was a broader conspiracy. I needed to remain anonymous for my own protection.

  It was weird, though…keeping these secrets to myself, lying to Vanessa and Lisa and Kelly about why I’d left that sappy message: “My new EDS meds screwed with my head.” (Detective Hynds had actually suggested that one. “Blame it on a neurological side effect from a prescription.” I told him it was funny that so much law enforcement involved lying. He didn’t laugh.) Of course, under the pretext of this phony EDS medication mishap and my real-life injured arm, I still hadn’t returned to school. Communication had occurred almost entirely via text, except for one time.

  Vanessa had been allowed to visit under parental supervision just once—to celebrate two straight-up miracles. The first: She had been accepted to Radford University, one of Virginia’s finest party schools (resulting in a full-blown natural high, for once). The second: my decision to get a tattoo. Yes, that’s right. Salma Bakkioui was getting inked.

  After everything that had transpired—from our worlds nearly collapsing, to my supposed act of bravery, to Kate Turner’s very real death—Mom and Dad relented. Fine, I milked them for it. Shamelessly. Telling them that even though tattoos were mostly considered haram, there were some religious scholars who disagreed, and that furthermore, it was heritage. Of the two of them, Mom was a little harder to crack, but once I brought up those unruly friends of hers (aka the Sufis) and how she couldn’t have it both ways—encouraging broader thinking and yet enforcing archaic rules upon her own daughter—she smiled. “Fine, sweetheart. But make it discreet. And don’t you dare tell anyone at the masjid.”

  In the end she even escorted us.

  So did Titi. It was a true all-girls outing, me and nearly all my favorite ladies this side of the Atlantic. I even invited Mrs. DLP. She laughed and said I was twenty years too late.

  And then she showed me the video of what she’d promised she’d do.

  * * *

  —

  Sitting in the back of Mom’s minivan, Vanessa and I swapped printouts. We had both agreed not to discuss our finalists until the day of. We wanted to heighten the excitement. I opened up her short list and immediately busted out laughing. “Oh my God, all weed tats? Seriously? You know this is a lifelong decision here…something you
can’t actually change unless you want to fork over some serious dough for laser removal.” I pointed to several, my laughter steadily increasing. One was a purple bud, gnarly-looking and fresh, with a white ribbon that read Forever free. Another looked like an EKG strip, but in the middle of the black cardio lines there was a single cannabis leaf. The last—my favorite—was an anthropomorphized bud smoking a big-ass doobie. Underneath were the words Devil’s lettuce.

  “You should totally get this one,” I said, trying my best to keep a straight face.

  Vanessa snatched the printout away from my fingers. “Ha! I had you!” she said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, these are definitely me, but I was thinking about doing something a little more bougie. And a lot more meaningful, you know what I mean?” She handed me a new short list.

  I unfolded the printout. There were a variety of Celtic knots—trees, hearts, endless circles—and a short description of their meanings. I smiled at Vanessa. “I love these, all of them. It’s a lot like my short list,” I said, handing her mine.

  She uncrumpled the paper. “Amazigh tats,” she said, smiling. “I knew it.”

  After a long study she asked me which one I had settled on. I paused, glanced up at the rearview mirror at Mom, who smiled back at me with her own growing excitement, then over to Titi. Titi looked peaceful, as if she was on the same wavelength as Mom. As me. We were two cultures, one family.

  I leaned in close to Vanessa and whispered, “Actually I’m going to get them all, down the middle of my back like a hieroglyph.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Oh my God, your mom is much cooler than I thought.”

  I smiled as Mom made a hat-tipping motion, but with her scarf.

  “Yeah, she is,” I said, wanting to explain to Vanessa why exactly my mom was awesome, as in tried-to-help-me-escape-the-country awesome, but I kept my lips hermetically sealed. “Do you know what else she’s done?”