by Steven James
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“You’re not a very good liar.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She seemed to lose her bearings for a moment and then turned around and said with embarrassment, “Door’s that way.”
“Right.”
But her sudden distractedness told me something was up.
In all the time I’d known her I’d never sensed that she was fragile. Sensitive? Yes. At times. I hoped I hadn’t hurt her feelings or our friendship by something I’d said or done.
As she left for her car, I speed-dialed Christie, who answered on the fourth ring, just as I was expecting her voicemail to pick up.
29
“Hello, Pat.”
“Hey.” I didn’t mention Tessa’s concern for her, or the fact that she’d heard her crying last night. “I’ve been thinking about you this morning.”
“That’s sweet of you. What were you thinking?”
“Let’s see . . . Well, first that I miss you.”
“Okay.”
“Second, that I should have touched base right away when I got here last night. I shouldn’t have waited.”
“Well, I could have just as easily called you from this end, but thanks for saying that. I’ll count it as Sweet Thought Number Two. Anything else?”
“That I wish we would’ve had more of a chance to talk before I left.”
“To talk.”
“Because I want to make sure things are cool between us. Because upsetting you, making you sad, is the last thing I would ever want to do.”
“It’s the same for me.”
I searched for where to take things but ended up just asking what she had on the docket for today.
“A few errands,” she said. “I took off work for the next couple days. I had some personal time coming.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“So . . . how did it go last night? In your text you mentioned that you were thrown into the thick of things right after you landed.”
“A woman’s body was discovered.” I couldn’t give her case-sensitive details, but I could share as much as our OPA, or Office of Public Affairs, would have released to the media. “And an adolescent boy was stabbed—but it looks like he’s going to be alright. It’s not clear yet if, or how, the two instances are related to each other.”
“The homicide—that’s in addition to all the ones that’ve already occurred, that you flew out there to consult on?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. So much death.”
“Yes.”
“But you say the doctors expect the boy to recover?”
“He seems to be doing quite well—considering.”
“Well, at least that’s one thing to be thankful for.”
“Absolutely.”
I really wanted to find out what her tears last night were about, but I didn’t want to be too obtrusive about it. Also, if I asked directly, she might feel self-conscious about the fact that Tessa had heard her crying.
So, a different tack.
Christie has always loved tongue twisters, so I said, “Hey, here’s one that just came to mind: ‘blue jewelry.’ Five times fast. Let’s hear it.”
She went for it.
Crushed it.
“Nicely done. I am genuinely impressed. But that’s not the first time you’ve impressed me.”
“Thank you. I’m glad there have been a few others. You try.”
“Alright—Blue jewelry. Blue jewelry. Brue jewely. Bue jewlery. Bool—man, I don’t know how you’re so good at these.”
“Too much free time as a kid. Here’s one for you. It’s tougher than it sounds: ‘lit wick.’”
“Actually, it sounds pretty tough right off the bat.”
“Try it.”
I only made it through once before coming up with “Licked wit.”
A touch of silence spread between us.
So far, even though she seemed a tad guarded, she didn’t sound as heavy-hearted as I’d anticipated, based on what Tessa had said. Maybe she’d been mistaken about what she heard last night in her mom’s room.
“What’s that music?” Christie asked.
“Oh. I’m here at the café—hospital—there’s a coffee shop here. I was visiting the boy who was hurt last night. The one who was stabbed.”
“The one who’s doing well. Who’s recovering.”
“Yes.”
Stillness again.
“Oh, hey,” I said. “Thanks for sending the umbrella. There, in my suitcase. It brings back good memories.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
As the words pooled off again, I said, “So, you’re doing alright, then?”
“I’m fine.”
One thing I’ve discovered over the years: when someone says she’s fine, it’s a bad sign.
“Hmm. But ‘fine’ isn’t as good as ‘good,’ and it’s nowhere near as good as ‘great.’ Am I right?”
“There are just some things on my mind that I need to sort out, that’s all.”
“From the other night? What I said?”
“It isn’t that.”
“If you want, I can talk now. I have a little time.”
“Not over the phone.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
“Pat, I need to go. We’ll talk later. Tonight, maybe. Okay?”
“Sure. Alright. Talk to you tonight.”
Then we were both saying good-bye and a moment later we were hanging up and I was left with an even more disconcerting feeling than I’d had when I dialed her number just a few moments ago.
________
Outside the hospital, shredded cirrus clouds clung to the far horizon, wispy and stretched out in long strands across the base of the sky.
High, still clouds.
Clouds made of ice.
Usually, when you see those distinctive torn streaks of cirrus clouds, you can count on pleasant weather coming your way.
Calm summer days ahead.
That’s what I was thinking as I left the parking lot and directed the car toward the first of the houses where someone had posed a fresh corpse before waiting two days to notify the police that it was there.
Only when I was four blocks from the hospital did it dawn on me that Sharyn had taken off with that Glock still in her car.
30
10:34 A.M.
Dispersal in 28 hours
Ali was sitting on the hotel room bed, packed and ready to leave, when he got the call.
“Yes? Hello?”
“Mr. Saleem, I understand that there was a slight wrinkle at the airport.”
Ali didn’t recognize the voice. The man sounded more Western than Middle Eastern.
“Who is this?” he asked suspiciously.
“My name isn’t important. I am calling on Fayed’s behalf.”
“How do I know that?”
“How would I have gotten this number? How would I know who you are or about the incident at the airport?”
“No, no. I need to speak with Fayed.”
“Ali, I know about Yemen. About the four days in the room. About the man behind the building, the one kneeling between the two soldiers. I know it all.”
That confirmed it. Ali decided that the man couldn’t have gotten that information unless he really was working with Fayed. “I was afraid the border agents would arrest me or send me back to Kazakhstan. I didn’t want to compromise what we are doing.”
“Of course. We need you to drive up to Dearborn. We’ll contact you tonight and tell you where to stay. We’ll still move forward tomorrow, as planned.”
Ali had not been informed about the timeline, just about the symptoms.
“And you wish for me to make
the trip by car?”
“Yes. Leave your phone in the snack machine dispenser tray on the hotel’s ground floor. There’s another phone waiting for you in there. It’s encrypted. Take it. That’s the one we’ll use to communicate with you from now on.”
How could that phone have gotten there? Did they really visit this hotel? How many people are involved in this?
“Keep it with you at all times,” the man continued. “We’ve installed an instant messaging app called TypeKnot. That’s how we’ll be in touch. Do not contact anyone else. No other calls. Do you understand?”
“Yes. And my sister?”
Ali waited for a reply.
“Is Azaliya safe?”
When no answer came, he realized that the man had hung up.
++++
The voice of Blake’s pilot came through the intercom, requesting his presence in the cockpit, and he made his way past the three rows of empty seats to speak with him. “Yes?”
“I heard from my wife,” the pilot said. “The authorities have been asking questions about my whereabouts. There might be a BOLO at domestic airports. I’m afraid if we land in Detroit there could be a welcoming party waiting for us on the runway.”
“You think land north of the border, instead?”
“Yeah. Sarnia Chris Hadfield Airport. I’ve flown in there before. It’s about an hour’s drive from Windsor, so you can still get to Detroit easy enough. Sarnia is classified as an airport of entry. A lot of private and corporate jets use it. We won’t stick out.”
“That should work. You can get us in?”
“I’ll close the IFR flight plan and turn off the transponder before we cross the border. We land, you two take off before the customs guys show up. I’ll handle them when they do—it’s nothing I haven’t had to deal with in the past. I just don’t want a Detroit SWAT team swarming in on my plane and finding me here with you.”
It was a valid point.
“Take us to Sarnia,” Blake told him.
Returning to his seat, Blake checked his messages and found that Terry Manoji had run into some snags but was confident that he would be able to access the footage for them by the middle of the afternoon.
Alright. That would work.
They could review the footage once they were back across the border in Detroit.
31
At the snack machine, Ali did as directed, retrieving the new phone and leaving behind the one he’d been using.
At last, as he walked to the rental car, he thought of the day six months ago when the pathway to this moment had begun, when he first met the man calling himself Fayed Raabi’ah Bashir.
The long, winding road to today.
At the time, because of the economic downturn in his region of Kazakhstan, fewer foreigners were traveling to the area, and that meant less translation work. As a result, money had been scarce. The conversation with Fayed had started with an inquiry about Ali’s work and a possible job opportunity, but then Fayed had steered things toward Ali’s family.
“Your sister, her name, it’s Azaliya, yes?”
“How do you know that?”
“An associate of mine was researching you for this job. Her name came up as well. So, Azaliya?”
“Yes.”
“It is a beautiful name, my brother.”
“Yes. It is.”
“And how old is she?”
“She just turned fourteen last week.”
“Praise Allah.”
“Yes.”
“This can be a difficult city for girls that age.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I have heard.”
“What does that mean? What have you heard?”
“Oh, I am sure you have heard it too, my friend. The stories. Walking to school in the morning or back home in the afternoon can be dangerous. Girls are sometimes taken.”
Ali felt his muscles tensing. “Are you threatening my sister?”
“By no means. I am simply saying that with both of your parents gone, I am certain you are doing all you can to provide a good life for her.”
“What do you know about my parents?”
“You are a Muslim.”
“What is this about? Why did you mention my parents?”
“Your sister, has she been with a man?”
“What?”
“Girls her age are at a premium.”
At that, Ali grabbed him by the collar and threw him roughly against the wall. “Do not speak of my sister that way! I could kill you. I should kill you for saying those things.”
Fayed seemed unfazed. “But will that ensure her safety? If you are in prison, who will care for her? Who will provide for her? Who will protect her? Ali, you must know that if I am dead, others will come. Especially if you are in jail.”
“What is it you want from me?”
Then, the offer.
The promises.
The reassurances.
And the trip to Yemen. The training camp, the sand everywhere—impossible to avoid. The heat and the sweltering, unmerciful sun. The prayers. He had grown up learning some of the teachings of the Qur’an, but in Yemen he was given detailed instructions about the jizyah that The People of the Book must pay if they refused to convert to Islam, the rightly guided caliphs after the death of Muhammad, Peace Be Upon Him, and the inevitable, forthcoming establishment of the worldwide Caliphate.
And through it all, Ali had his questions. Yes, of course he did.
After all, who wouldn’t? To accept Fayed’s version of Islam was not easy.
Executing other Muslims who just happened to be Shia? Child suicide bombers? Beating your wife if she refused to have sex with you whenever you desired? Throwing acid in the faces of women for not wearing proper head scarves? Shoving homosexuals off rooftops to their death? How could any of that be God’s will? What kind of a God would put up with that? What kind of a God would honor it? What kind of a God would condone it—let alone demand it?
But Ali kept the questions to himself.
Throughout his entire time in Yemen he remained silent and obedient and compliant.
After all, he wasn’t doing any of this for God, either out of fear of Him or out of love for Him.
He was doing it all for his sister.
Out of love for her.
He turned on the phone, opened the TypeKnot app, and positioned the screen so that he would be able to monitor it for incoming messages during the eleven-hour drive to Dearborn, Michigan.
Scarlett Farrow–II
The Tree House
In the movie, after Millie’s dad died, she spent a lot of time in the tree house he’d built for her in the big ginormous tree just outside her window. The tree house wasn’t anything super amazing, but it was from him, so it was special enough.
All throughout that part of the movie, in order to make Millie believable, to make her seem sad, Scarlett had to act sad too.
And the longer you act sad, the more real sadness seeps into you, like when your shirt gets wet and then soaks through to your skin, but this time it didn’t stop at your skin. And the more pretend sadness you pile on, the deeper in the real sadness goes.
In the story, eventually, Millie’s mom starts dating this guy that Millie can tell right away isn’t very nice. The actor did such a good job of playing Harris’s part that Scarlett didn’t even want to be alone around him when they weren’t filming. He was that good. That freaky.
That good at being bad.
But Tracy—Millie’s mom—couldn’t see what he was really like.
In the movie, Harris had a terrible temper, but Tracy just ignored it.
It was like he was gonna explode, like a bomb just waiting, waiting, waiting to go off. Boom!
One night, after they were done filming for the da
y, Scarlett was eating dinner with the woman who played Tracy’s part.
They were in the tree house.
It was a good place to talk when you wanted to be alone.
When Scarlett asked her why Tracy couldn’t tell what Harris was really like, she told her that love in real life is sometimes like that too: “Tracy loves you so much—Millie so much, I mean—and wants her to have a loving dad, a loving family, that it’s blinding her to what Harris is really like.”
“But then how come Millie can tell?”
“She doesn’t love Harris. Love opens your eyes in some ways, but closes them in others.”
“I don’t get it.”
After a small pause, the woman said, “Neither do I, sweetie.”
Sometimes that lady called her that—sweetie—and it made Scarlett feel loved for real, not like when her actual mom called her those names that weren’t very nice at all.
PART 3
The Idols We
Gladly Embrace
The sword might be against my neck but it cannot be against the neck of us all. If I die, the world may turn its back, but if we die, the world will take notice and take action. And so, though today the government may target me, may kill me, they will not kill us all. What will you do with your life? Will you stand with me? Or will I die alone in this Courtyard of Blood?
—THE LAST WORDS OF SAUDI ARABIAN DISSIDENT AND SECULAR BLOGGER ASIM RASHADI BEFORE HE WAS BEHEADED FOR APOSTASY, ON JUNE 17, 2006. NO ONE IN THE CROWD OF MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED PEOPLE STEPPED FORWARD TO DIE WITH HIM. MOST CHEERED HIS DEATH.
The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?
—JEREMIAH 17:9, KING JAMES VERSION
32
The next few hours passed quickly as I navigated through Detroit, trying to get a feel for each of the five neighborhoods where the bodies we knew about so far had been left.
Whoever had killed those people had made sure to spread the crime scenes out over a wide geographic area.
