After the Rain

by Chuck Logan

  Gordy stared at Dale, clearly exasperated.

  “Took me all night surfing all these websites about swearing in foreign languages, but I finally found nikomak.” Dale grinned slowly, his whole face lighting up.

  “Good for you,” Gordy said, starting up the steps to get the other boxes.

  Dale turned, sweeping his hand forward at mid-thigh level and jabbed the injector into Gordy’s thigh. “Fuck your mother,” Dale said contemptuously as he tossed the used injector in the dirt between them.

  “Oh shit!” Gordy grabbed at his punctured thigh, shook his head. “What the—?” He stared at the fat yellow dispenser lying at his feet. Anger came fast after surprise, and he swatted at Dale. Tried to grab him.

  But Dale fended off Gordy’s hand. “Fuck your mother—that’s what nikomak means. Don’t you wanna know in what language?”

  “I about had it with you. What’d you stick me with—some nail?” Gordy, angry now, balled his fists.

  “One question at a time. Get this: it was Arabic,” Dale said.

  Gordy blinked, stared. His knees wobbled slightly and he began to sweat.

  “You ever notice how Joe never hangs out with other Indians? That’s ’cause they could tell he was a fake. See, Joe was born in Beirut. He ain’t no Indian. In fact, his mom was Italian. He grew up watching reruns of American TV westerns. He said the Indians in them were always played by Italians. So he figured he could pass for an Indian. Then his folks sent him to stay with relatives in Detroit, ’cause of all the fighting over there. He graduated high school here, in the States. That’s why his English is so good. But he went back over there, was in the Syrian army for a while, but mainly he got into the family business, which was growing dope and hating Jews. The downside to messing with Jews over there is, they come back on you, big time. At some point, they shot him up pretty good.”

  Gordy shook his head, took several breaths, staggered back against the wall. Suddenly it felt like this bag of ice cubes was leaking through his chest. And his fingers were falling asleep. He tried to focus on this new information coming from weird Dale. Then the cellar started a slow spin, like a scary carnival ride.

  Dale extended his thick arm, placed the flat of his hand on Gordy’s chest, and shoved him hard against the wall. “You gotta pay attention. There’s two Joes, okay? Joe Reed was some Indian guy from Turtle Mountain. Our Joe, who ain’t the real Joe—his real name is Joseph Khari…”

  Gordy put out his hand on the wall for support, squinted. “That’s George’s…”

  “Yeah, they’re relatives. He ripped off some Indian’s identity, up in Alberta. I guess they kinda looked alike. Any rate, he killed the guy, had new ID made. He knows people that do all that shit in Winnipeg—false IDs, counterfeiting, this incredible computer shit,” Dale said, cocking his head to the side. “The thing about Joe and George is, they kill people if they have to. Hell, they almost killed me ’cause I heard Joe cussing in Arab.”

  “I don’t feel so hot,” Gordy said. For the first time his voice caught in his throat. He had a sensation that something very big now loomed over him, and he could almost hear the crack of fear start to break his night apart. His arms weighed a ton each. Couldn’t lift them.

  “Woulda killed me, too, if I hadn’t pointed out a few things.” Dale drew himself up and tucked in his shirt, which had been hanging out since they unloaded the whiskey at Lute’s garage. He smoothed his hand down his sloping chest and stomach. “They say killing the first one is the hardest. The second one is easier, they say. You think that’s true?”

  “Please,” Gordy mouthed weakly as his eyes rolled up, showing a lot of white.

  “Man, you’re sad. Ginny, at least she put up a fight,” Dale said. And then he kicked one of the boxes and sent it flying into Gordy’s face. It bounced away in the dark. “They been using us. You, Ace, me. Before us my dad. To study the border.” Dale slipped the board under his arm and smiled. “George has been doing a huge business in meth precursor. Joe handles the Canadian side…and the people they’re in with are way heavier than the biker clubs up north. Shit, man, they’re running dope to finance those suicide bombers over there.”

  Gordy pitched forward and dropped to his knees and Dale saw he was losing his audience. He talked faster to get it all in.

  “But then they met me and now they’re onto something a lot bigger than boxes full of cold pills. Oh, yeah, and zarba—that means shit. Just thought you should know.”

  Dale could see the wheels turning slower and slower in Gordy’s mind. See him struggling to connect the dots.

  “He’s an…Arab?” Gordy was drooling all over his chest as the ketamine really hit him. He fell forward on all fours. Blinking and shivering like a dog, he watched Dale lean over and pick up the yellow thing…

  Dale weighed the Epipen in his palm. “I stuck you with ketamine. It’s slowly paralyzing you. Some people say it feels like dying. Any comments?”

  Dale yanked the board up off the wall, wrapped his big hands around it, planted his stance, and drew it back.

  “Shit,” Dale said, “you’d think I’d be good at baseball, since Ace had such a good swing. But I always struck out.”

  Putting all his bulk into the move, he swung the heavy board like a Louisville Slugger. Gordy, bent over on his hands and knees, stared straight ahead through dull, uncomprehending, heavy-lidded eyes. Didn’t even see the pole-barn spike before it hit him in the center of his forehead.

  The spasm erupted out of Gordy’s head, an electric jolt that Dale felt momentarily in his own hands. Dale expected more blood than just the red masklike pool around the one eye that was filming over. The breath a deep rattle. The ketamine probably eased the pain a bit. Merciful almost.

  Dale squatted and held the light bar close to Gordy’s trembling face and studied the life growing dimmer in his eyes. “Told you. Shouldn’t call me Needle-Dick. But you wouldn’t listen.” He took a handful of Gordy’s hair and tipped his head back and up. With his other hand, he scooped up a fistful of the loamy sediment from the floor of the root cellar. Slowly he released his fingers so a stream of the sandy soil filled both of Gordy’s nostrils. Some involuntary reflex forced a deep cough, his tongue protruded as he struggled for breath.

  Handful after handful, Dale slowly poured sand down Gordy’s gagging throat until his entire mouth was full and his chest eventually became massively still.

  Dale took off the rubber gloves, reached down, peeled up one of Gordy’s eyelids, exposing the opaque iris. Touched it. Made a face. It felt like a grape. “In case you haven’t noticed, asshole, I’ve changed.”

  Dale stood up, dusted off his jeans, marched up the stairs, and closed the door to the cellar. He stood, taking deep breaths of the thick night air. Damn. I’m getting good at this. This was the first one he’d done all by himself.

  He went to Gordy’s truck, took out his bike, and then drove the truck into the empty barn behind the house. He closed that door, too. Then he got on his bike and pedaled slowly down the empty road, the long fields ticking with cicadas on either side. The orange dome of light glowing against the horizon guided him.

  And lots and lots of stars above. That meant the clouds were finally clearing out.

  Half an hour later he pumped up the driveway to his folks’ house, and there was Joe’s brown van. Joe was sitting on the front porch steps, smoking one of those French cigarettes.

  “Where you been? George is out there risking his neck for you, to throw them off,” Joe said, getting to his feet. Dale could see he was pissed, but holding it in.

  “I been looking for that woman,” Dale said. No need to tell Joe about Gordy.

  “She ain’t at the bar, I just came from there. Look, we got to get on the road. And you have to call Irv Fuller. Remember? He has to arrange for a security clearance and a time. It’s not like you can just walk in unannounced.”

  “Too late to call Irv, I’ll call him in the morning. And I ain’t going without her.”

>   “Listen, there’s other…women,” Joe said.

  Dale pointed his finger. “No, you listen. It’s this woman. I gave you this idea. I showed you how to do it. Without me you’d still be wandering around on the fucking prairie with a ton of explosives. I’m making this happen.”

  Joseph Khari studied Dale Shuster in the dark. Many things passed through his mind; mainly the irony of how a great event could emerge from such a disgusting piece of shit.

  “Nothing goes boom without me,” Dale reminded him.

  If it was up to him, Joe would shoot him and leave him in the driveway. But, in the end, practicality won out. The fat fool was right.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  George Khari, driving north from Grand Forks, was thinking numbers. When he looked up, the night sky sparkled with numbers instead of stars. Endless random numbers. It was like a big lottery, see, because, George was thinking, out there in the darkness, millions of people were touching numbers at this very moment. Pressing buttons on wireless telephones, sending signals to towers. Connecting.

  Why had he listened to Joe and wired the blasting caps to telephone pagers? Didn’t he have enough problems?

  The American agents were virtually on top of Dale and Joe. So close yet so blind, because they’d focused on Ace as a target. So George had told Joe to make a point of mentioning his meet with Ace in front of the female agent. He would draw the agents toward himself. He doubted they’d be interested in tonight’s petty contraband. If his plan worked, he’d be off the hook. It might even collapse their operation.

  George smiled. It was like the weapon itself; sometimes it was best to hide in plain sight.

  He’d know pretty soon. The van he’d spotted in his neighborhood and around his store was following him right now, at a discreet distance.

  George grinned and shook his head. As a youth he had commanded respect in the Bekáa Valley. Now he was down to running two killers, both difficult to control. He hunched forward and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

  I can do this thing.

  The lights, traffic, and general clutter of Grand Forks had faded behind him, and now he was alone with the huge sky and the empty ribbon of road. For more than two decades he had dwelled among these spoiled children; envying and despising them as they ignored the suffering of Arab peoples. Watching them as they busied themselves watching O.J. and Monica, eating bigger portions, driving bigger cars with bigger gas tanks.

  But 9/11 got their attention. Though they still didn’t really understand. That now it was their turn. For decades they had channel-surfed over mass graves filled with Rwandans, Bosnians, Chechens. A million Afghans. Now viewers in the Middle East would get to recline in their living rooms and watch Americans fester and die slowly on satellite TV for a change. Just like the children in the camps. Or burn fast, like his parents, like his own baby and his wife, who met their end in the Israeli napalm…manufactured in Midland, Michigan, U.S.A.

  It wasn’t just about the money.

  He turned left off the interstate onto State 5, the road to Langdon. An expanse of night sky now showed through the tattered clouds. The wind streamlined the clouds and gave the exposed heavens the appearance of a long, ragged black flag dotted with thousands of stars and a haunting crescent moon.

  He had never believed.

  Allah and Jesus were just two more storybook characters for the instruction of children and fanatics, like the people in the caves along the Afghan-Pakistani border. Or Mr. Ashcroft in his marble cavern at the Justice Department. Their faith reminded him of the Solomon Islanders who formed the cargo cults, who still believed building fires on their jungle mountaintops they could summon the jet airliners down from the stratosphere to land in their midst and deliver wondrous presents.

  The jihadists, for their part, believed that if they started a big enough fire in America, it would bring back the Middle Ages. In the end, they would fail. And when they failed, people would want rational answers again, and men like himself—like George Khari—would come back into style. Until then, he would watch for opportunities to make himself useful.

  If the price was right. Without the incentive of a payday, he wouldn’t be traveling this road. He wondered who would be there. FBI? Local police? Maybe the military? The woman Joe had mentioned, the one Dale coveted—would she be there?

  Getting closer; less than half an hour. George shook his head. He hoped Joe was getting Dale out of town. Dale. The brilliant, invaluable fool. He had picked the target. Anyone remotely Middle Eastern could never gain this sort of access.

  Parts of Dale were clearly missing. George believed that he was the real fundamentalist, the way he took Holy Writ literally and quoted the Koran to them: So what’s the difference if I kill one person or a million? Huh?

  Dale came up with the idea to put the explosives in one of his machines.

  At first the task had seemed impossible, how to make it work? Specifically—how to design the explosives? The answer was in the big tires. They didn’t inflate with air. They were injected with antipuncture foam that hardened. It didn’t go in an air nipple, like on a car tire, but in a large valve, about five inches across.

  So when Dale bought the machine at auction in Winnipeg he also bought a new set of tires. Because they were cheaper in Canada. The tires were empty when they came off the shelf.

  It had been one bitch of a job that took them most of a week, working in a rented garage in Winnipeg. The charges had to be configured in a symmetrical pattern. They’d used cheap garden hose, slit it down the middle and opened it up. Then they stuffed it with the Semtex in a continuous chain, taped up the hose, connected the pagers and blasting caps, and fed it in with this big glob of epoxy on the end so it’d stay anchored to the wheel hub. Then they’d jack up a tire, spin it on the hub, and reel the hose inside. They did that four times. Then they programmed the pagers, inflated the tires with foam, and capped them up.

  Eventually there were six separate charges, placed to avoid detection. All rigged to detonate simultaneously.

  He looked up at the sky. And the crazy sensation came back: that he was trapped inside the biggest slot machine in the world. Spinning round and round with millions of numbers.

  Those six separate pagers would be activated by a single group number he had committed to memory.

  He just had to laugh. He was a ruthlessly pragmatic man hoist on the petard of the thing he most dreaded: chance.

  The pagers were in place, activated, awaiting his call. All he had to do was press seven digits into his satellite phone. But not until the weapon was in position.

  And it wasn’t in position.

  What were the chances of some fool out in the big American night accidently tapping in the wrong number?

  His number.

  The weapon would detonate prematurely. In which case, there would be no grand reward. No triumphant story attached to his name. He would just be a nobody again, a nobody who had failed.

  So he had to hurry this thing along. He had to take Dale in hand himself and make it happen. George stepped on the gas.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  They were taking one-hour shifts, perched on top of the pile of air conditioners, keeping watch on the Missile Park. Gordy’s blue F-150 arrived at the bar and parked around back. Nina and Broker marked time, sitting side by side in a mist of mosquito repellent. She lit a cigarette to discourage the bugs. He got out his rough wraps.

  “When did you start smoking again?” he asked.

  “About the time this thing picked up speed.” She put out her hand in the graying light and squashed a mosquito on his cheek. It left a small dot of blood. Then she patted his waist. “So, where’s your club?”

  Personal joke. He was at best a competent shot with a handgun, and usually packed a .45 for its utility as a hefty “tamer,” for close-in thumping. “Don’t say anything,” he said softly, “but I think your Indian lifted it from under the front seat when I was parked across from the bar.”
>
  She laid her palm along his cheek. “Broker, Broker.”

  “Yeager brought an extra shotgun, in the back,” he said.

  “You won’t need it. Holly’s crew will handle any rough stuff.” She leaned back, then said, “So, did Kit get home okay?”

  Broker grimaced. “You know, I never called once this rolled out.”

  Nina nodded. “We’ll call tonight, if it’s not too late.”

  Just ordinary talk, like little building blocks. Repair work. Due diligence. Broker nibbled lightly on his cigar. After several false starts, he said softly, “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  She turned away, almost nervous to be close to him after so long. What if he really did see her in the window with Ace? She turned, faced him. Jesus, Broker. Impulsively she reached over and squeezed his hand.

  “Ouch.” He drew back.

  She cringed. Wrong hand. Story of my life, she thought.

  “You were never one for hand jobs,” he quipped.

  “Not like Jolene, huh?” she came right back.

  “Jolene, as I recall, had three hands.”

  They moved closer to each other so their legs and shoulders touched.

  Yeager passed around water bottles and energy bars from Jane’s bag. They ate, they smoked, they were bitten by mosquitoes as the light faded to dusk and then to darkness.

  Then Jane’s urgent whisper cut through the bug-spray stink: “He’s on the move.”

  She hopped down from her perch and said, “Okay, I’ll drive. Yeager rides shotgun. Nina and Broker can neck in the backseat.” They walked swiftly to Broker’s Explorer that was parked in the tall weeds a few yards away. As they got in they could see the headlights on Ace’s Tahoe swing as he turned onto the highway.

  Yeager said, “Give him a hundred-yard lead, then pull on the road. No lights.”