by Tal Bauer
Kris swallowed. Looked down. “I thought you were dead. I didn’t know how to deal with that—”
David silenced him with a kiss.
Jealousy slithered up Kris’s insides. “You? Ten years is a long time…”
David shook his head. “Nothing. There was never anyone. Never anyone else.”
“Jesus, that makes me feel worse.” Kris covered his face with his hands. How many men had it been? He tried to add up the round numbers, the nights he’d spent, the weeks in a year multiplied. His face burned.
David kissed his chest, his collarbone, his throat. “Ya rouhi, it’s in the past. Don’t think of it again.”
Kris bit his lip. “Are you back? Are you here for good? You’ve just appeared out of the blue twice. What do you want, David?”
David’s hand splayed over Kris’s belly. “It’s Dawood, now,” he said softly. “I go by Dawood.”
“Dawood.” Kris blinked. “Are you… Muslim again?”
“I’ve always been Muslim. I was born Muslim.”
“Are you practicing?”
David—Dawood—nodded. “La ilaha illah Allah wa-Muhammad rasul Allah,” he breathed, whispering the shahada.
“What happened over there? What happened to you?” Kris propped himself up on his elbow, turning toward Dawood. He laced their hands together, fingers entwined. “Tell me, please.”
Moonlight glittered into his studio, curving through the windows. Pale light fell on the bed, between their bodies. Dawood held out his hand, as if he could catch a moonbeam in his palm. “Every night, I whispered to the moon. As if it could take my messages straight to you. Every night, I thought of you. Told you what happened during my day. Gave you my prayers. I thought you were with Allah and that you could hear me. I thought the moon was our messenger.”
Tears slipped from Kris’s eyes and fell into the moonlight.
Slowly, Dawood spoke. About how Al Jabal had dragged him free from the rubble of the mosque through an escape tunnel and driven him north, hundreds and hundreds of miles, to the footsteps of his father, Abu Adnan, in the remote mountains of Bajaur Province. “I was supposed to be a prisoner. In secret. One day, Al Jabal would come for me and finish me off.”
“Ryan killed him. Two weeks after your death. Ryan put everything and everyone in Afghanistan into the hunt for your murderer. Two drones obliterated him. I saw his death photos myself.”
Dawood winced. He muttered a prayer under his breath, Arabic too soft for Kris to catch. “Abu Adnan told me. And he told me his son’s death freed me. That his son had told no one, ever, about his home. That no one in the world knew where I was.”
“Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you find some way to reach out? Any way?”
“The mountain felt like the end of the earth. Like the oceans had been turned upside down and we lived somewhere entirely off the map. Maybe even a different world. Some days, I didn’t know if I was alive or dead, if anything was real. The only thing I knew, for certain, was that if I came off the mountain and you were dead, I wouldn’t survive.”
Kris squeezed Dawood’s hand until his bones hurt.
“Abu Adnan took me in. He took care of me. Nursed me back to life. Gave me a place in his home.”
“Al Jabal’s father? Your murderer’s father?”
“He became a father to me as well. Bismillah.”
Kris blinked, slowly. “I can’t even imagine…”
“I had a father again,” Dawood whispered. “I had a father, and I had Allah, too. I thought you were dead, in Paradise, and I gave my prayers to you through the moon. I was just waiting to see you again. That’s all I lived for.”
Hadn’t that been all Kris lived for, as well? But he had stopped believing in fairy tales of an afterlife, delusions of heaven or a hereafter. He’d stopped believing because David—Dawood—hadn’t come back for him like he’d promised he would.
But if Dawood was alive, then of course he couldn’t come back from the dead, from an afterlife, for Kris. Of course not. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? Why had he left his husband for ten years? Guilt twisted at his guts, slicked up his spine. Shame, the familiarity of it, curled around his heart. It felt like a homecoming.
“I’m sorry,” Kris whispered. He cupped Dawood’s cheek. “I’m so sorry.”
Dawood covered his hand and kissed Kris’s palm. “I’m not. It was good, being there. I was alive in a way I hadn’t been.”
“Spiritually?”
Dawood nodded. He glanced out the window, to the moon. “I need to pray, ya rouhi.” He kissed Kris’s nose and rose, striding out of bed and to the bathroom. Kris watched him, watched his naked body move, the long lines of his legs, the strength in his back.
Water turned on in his shower. Dawood stepped in, rinsed. He could hear him speaking softly, Arabic words, prayers. He’s doing his ablutions. After intercourse, after any bodily fluid had been spilled, a full washing was required.
Silently, Kris watched Dawood pad back out of the bathroom after the water turned off. Beads of water clung to his skin, the ends of his hair. He’d let it grow long and had brushed it back off his face. A towel wrapped around his waist, covering his hips and his thighs. Dawood lined up, facing east, and began his prayers. “Allahu Akbar.”
Kris sat up, the sheet pooling around his hips, their releases staining his skin, his bed, as his husband gave his prayers to Allah. Arabic whispered over his studio as Dawood bowed, kneeled, prostrated, and prayed. “Allahu Akbar.”
He finished with the tasleem. “As-salamu alaykum wa Rahmatullah wa barakatuhu.” Rising, he stretched, the moonlight carving around his body.
“I thought you believed Allah was dead.”
Dawood crawled into bed slowly. He lay beside Kris, one hand stroking Kris’s leg, his sheet-covered hip. “I believe Allah created you and me out of one soul. That we are meant to be together, before time and after time ends. If I believe that, how can I truly believe Allah is dead?”
“Your father?” Kris whispered.
Dawood blinked. He licked his lips. “I have tried to become a man my father would have been proud of. I try to do my part to make the world a better place.”
“There’s so much evil in the world. So much hatred. It seems to get worse every year, every day. Where is the justice?”
Dawood’s gaze skittered away. “Sometimes, justice is what we make ourselves.”
“And evil? How do we fight that?”
“If I have lived for Allah and lived like my baba, then evil will be fought.”
Kris lay back on the mattress. The pillows were long gone. His thoughts slid to Al Dakhil Al-Khorasani, the jihadi on his hegira for war. Where was he going? What were his plans? Was he coming to America to slaughter Americans, blaming them for the evils of the world? Americans were complicit, or so the jihadist sayings went, in the actions of their government, thanks to democracy. He chewed on his lip. “There are many people who say they live for Allah and fight against evil. But everyone points the finger at each other, saying everyone else is the evil one. Where is the truth?”
“The truth is complicated,” Dawood whispered again. His eyes were lost in darkness, only the shadow of the moon reflecting in slivers off his dark irises. “But there are objective evils in the world. Death, before someone’s time. Murder. Torture. Oppression. Betrayal. Some things are just wrong. I put my faith in Allah to help me find my center, as my baba did.”
“What about this?” Kris hitched his naked leg over Dawood’s. “Us. Doesn’t the Quran have a few things to say about people like us?”
“Allah made me this way. He made me, and He is perfect. He does not make mistakes. And, in the Quran, the Prophet Lot was aghast by the cruel treatment of strangers by the inhabitants of Sodom.” Dawood kissed the back of Kris’s hand. “If you go into the texts, into the classical Arabic, the meaning is forced sodomy. Rape of men. Specifically, the inhabitants of Sodom attacked travelers, blocked their way, and raped them.” He rubbed
his cheek, his beard, over Kris’s fingers. “The Quran is a book for all time, given by God to us for our learning. It is a book that renews itself, reveals itself deeper as we progress as human beings. How can we ever presume to understand His mind? Allah speaks in poetry, in science, in sunsets and sunrises and shooting stars, in planetary orbits and psychology. But He has made all things possible. If a line in the Quran seems to violate His world, His order, then that line is just more of His poetry. He made me.” Dawood kissed Kris’s fingers, the tips of his pads. “He made us. Made us out of one soul. He did not do that in error. Sometimes…” Dawood sighed. “I believe Islam has ossified under so many layers of human error. Of fatwas and rulings and dusty old men issuing their rulings. We have lost sight of the truth, and faith has become stagnant in our blood, in our souls. We, as Muslims, must go back to the beginning, to become closer to Allah.”
“Isn’t that what the fundamentalists say?” Kris whispered.
“Allah detests violence against the innocent. Wickedness. Why is so much of the world in collapse, now? Why has so much evil risen? Allah is trying to tell us something, but no one is listening.”
“Tell that to the jihadis. They think they have a straight line to Allah. Dedicated cell service.”
“Jihad comes in many forms. But, qitaf fi sabilillah. The holy war. That is only to be waged on the evildoers, the ones against God. Anything else is not allowed.”
Ten years had changed Dawood. The dead weight of his past, the silent scream he’d carried inside of himself, was gone. Something else was in its place, something Kris couldn’t quite put his finger on yet. Certainty? Or something else?
“I’ve missed you,” Kris breathed. He reached for Dawood’s hand as moonlight drenched their bed. “I’ve missed you so much.”
Dawood kissed his nose. Smiled. “I am here now.”
“Will you stay? We can figure this out. Go to the CIA, explain everything. You can be declared undead. Not-dead. Whatever it is.”
Dawood leaned forward again, kissing him softly. Like he’d kissed him the day they married and the day Kris had said yes. Like they’d kissed the morning before the Hamid operation had broken everything apart.
“You didn’t finish your story.” Kris pulled back. “You were living on the mountain with Abu Adnan. And now you’re here. Fill in the blanks.” He settled back and took Dawood’s hand, kissed his palm.
Dawood looked away, a million miles away. “’Bu Adnan died.”
“Oh, shit. Jesus, Dav—Dawood.” He fumbled on Dawood’s name, the shape of it unfamiliar on his lips. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Two fathers in Dawood’s life, gone. “Was it… peaceful?”
Dawood shook his head.
Kris tugged him down until Dawood’s head lay on his chest, right over his heart. He wrapped both arms around Dawood, cradled him close. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Dawood turned, rolling against him. Brought his body against Kris’s, their legs and hips and everything else pressed so tightly together. “Make me forget,” he breathed. “Make me forget, for tonight.” His lips closed over Kris’s.
Kris held him close, drawing him in, wrapping his arms and his legs around Dawood as Dawood crawled over and above him. His lips parted, and he kissed Dawood with everything he felt, every moment of loneliness, every night he’d cried himself to sleep, every dream he’d had of waking up with Dawood beside him once again. Every memory of his smile, his laugh. His fingers carded through Dawood’s hair as his legs fell open, as Dawood pressed against his thigh, his hip.
Yes, he wanted this, wanted Dawood. Wanted their love and their life back. He wanted Dawood to slide within him again, all the way in, until their souls merged and they drowned in each other, and all the darkness, all the pain, all the agony of every day of the past ten years, was erased. He arched his back, opened himself to Dawood. “Love me,” he breathed.
“Ya rouhi, I always have,” Dawood whispered. He slid inside Kris, into his soul, and shuddered. Kisses whispered over skin, hands, fingers, caressed. “Ana bahibak, my love. I always will.”
September 9
0710 hours
Kris woke to Dawood’s soft prayers, his calls of Allahu Akbar before the rising sun. Squinting, Kris shifted, standing on wobbling legs and heading for the bathroom. He was a mess. He hadn’t been loved this much, this hard, since—
Since their trip to Hawaii. Since their wedding night. Since their new house. Every one of his best memories were Dawood.
“I’m going to shower,” he called back. “Want to join me?”
“I’ll make breakfast.” Dawood appeared in the doorway, his jeans on but unbuttoned at the waist. “You still like your eggs over easy?”
“I always like everything you make me.”
Dawood smiled and disappeared.
Kris took his time in the shower, relaxing under the heat, letting loose muscles that hadn’t relaxed in ten years. He laughed out loud, smiling into the spray. How was this possible? How did happy endings happen? How did dead husbands come back?
He sobered as he washed his hair. What was he going to tell Dan? Last night, Dawood had shoved him away, had sent a loud and clear message to Dan. How had that gone down? He had, in the ancient wisdom of an old TV program, some ’splaining to do to Dan.
This was going to hurt, no matter how it went down. But, in his heart, Dan had always wanted the best for Kris. That had to still be true. It had to be.
Between Dawood and Dan, there was no contest, and there never had been. His heart, his soul, had always belonged to Dawood.
He toweled off, fluffed his hair, and pulled on a pair of skinny jeans and a loose sweater. He’d call out for the day, spend his time with Dawood. Figure out their plan together.
Barefoot, he padded out of the bathroom.
A plate rested on the kitchen counter. Two eggs, perfectly fried. A piece of toast. A glass of orange juice sat beside it.
But his studio was empty.
“Dawood?”
Nothing.
No.
This couldn’t be happening. His heart raced. He spun, checking the corners, peeking under the curtains. His gaze flicked back to the bed. Was Dawood hiding, or lying down, or…
The walls were closing in the faster he spun, the harder he breathed. No, no. Where had he gone? Where? And why? Why had he left, again?
Kris stopped, staring at his front door.
His bag, his laptop, everything he’d brought home from the CIA, was gone.
And so was Dawood.
Collapsing, Kris screamed, grabbing his hair, pulling on the strands, screaming and screaming until his voice went hoarse and his throat was raw. He flung himself forward, a mimicry of Dawood’s prayers only an hour before.
Dawood had stolen his CIA-issued laptop.
Dawood had robbed him.
Dawood had used him.
And he was gone. Again.
He had to call Dan.
Chapter 30
Crystal City, Virginia
September 9
0845 hours
FBI forensic technicians crawled over Kris’s apartment. Their soft chatter filled the empty spaces, the deafening silent scream that split Kris’s head in two. He huddled at his kitchen counter, slumped on a barstool, arms wrapped around himself.
Dan paced behind him, from the stove to the refrigerator and back, talking softly into his phone. “Yeah, it’s all gone. His laptop, his access card, everything.” Silence. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to tell these FBI guys, Ryan.” More silence. “Yeah, okay. Okay, thanks.” He hung up with a sigh.
He didn’t look at Kris.
Fingerprint dust glittered in the air, a dark grit that hovered, that caught in Kris’s throat. Techs flipped back his stained bedsheets one by one. Ran their flashlights over every inch of his bed, pulled fingerprints from his mirror, from his bed frame.
A tech with a set of tweezers grabbed a long, dark hair from the carpet where Dawood had prayed.
He dropped it in a plastic baggie marked EVIDENCE and sealed it, set it aside.
Kris’s stomach twisted, clenched. Bile crawled up his throat. He buried his face in his hands, exhaled slowly.
Everything burned. Everything in him burned, a searing shame, a fire that, if he believed in anything at all, he’d call the wrath of God.
He was so fucking ashamed.
How had he been so fucking stupid?
Anger bubbled, simmered with resentment, with regret, recrimination. He should have told Dawood to get the fuck out. He should have told him to call the CIA, the FBI, call anyone, and sort out his legal status—dead or not dead—before saying a word to Kris. He should have told him that ten years without reaching out was ten years too many.
He should have told Dawood that ten years changed a man.
Because it had. It fucking had.
What had happened to the man he knew? The man he loved?
Kris chewed on his upper lip, memories tumbling. Had that been his husband, last night? Had that really been him? It felt like him. Tasted like him. His soul thought it was his love, his partner, his husband.
But how had his husband, the love of his life, left him… again?
And stolen his laptop, his CIA ID badge, and his access card.
Nothing made sense.
Did Dawood love him?
Or was that all an elaborate pretense, a game to get what he needed? Get Kris’s access to the CIA, his files, his laptop.
Behind him, Dan cleared his throat. He stood as far from Kris as he could, and looked like he wanted to crawl the walls, stand on the countertop, get even farther from Kris. As far as he could. “Ryan has told the FBI this is a national security incident. Everything about this is being locked down. FBI will report direct to the CIA deputy director on this.”
“To George?” Kris picked at the dark granite of his countertop.
“Yes.” Dan blew out, slowly. “So… That was him? Last night? Who—”
Who had shut the door in Dan’s face when Dan had come to see how he was doing. Kris nodded. “I didn’t know he was here. He broke in.” Kris shrugged. He should have questioned that more. How? Why? When?
