by Lee Child
“You’d better come in.”
John Martin said good afternoon to her grandfather and was ignored for his trouble. Rukshana whispered, “He’s watching the cricket, he doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
“I see.”
They sat down on a sofa. John Martin went through the preliminaries, explaining why he was there and giving Rukshana the chance to avoid wasting everyone’s time.
“Is there anything you’d like to tell me about the events of last Thursday?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”
John Martin sighed. He knew. But could he prove it?
“Could you tell me where you were last Thursday?”
“I was here all day with my granddad.”
John Martin looked over at the cricket fanatic. “Could you confirm that, sir?”
Martin was ignored. Rukshana explained, “He’ll confirm it when the cricket’s over.”
John Martin was disgusted. “I’m sorry, I’m not waiting seven hours for the cricket to finish.”
Rukshana shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
John Martin moved on. “You must have been very disappointed to be passed over for promotion at the bank?”
“Not really, no.”
John Martin feigned surprise. “Not really?”
“I’m a person of faith, Detective Constable. Do you know what that means?”
John Martin looked blank. Islamic theology obviously wasn’t his strong suit. Rukshana went on. “I accept everything as part of the divine plan. So, no, I wasn’t disappointed.”
“Very commendable, I’m sure. But you must have been a little upset when you were let go? Angry?”
She smiled at him. “That’s for atheists, I’m afraid.”
John Martin had the feeling he was being put down, but he pressed on. “Were you aware that the successful candidate was having intimate relations with your manager?”
“Jeff and Sarah? I certainly was not. I had no idea. People don’t pass gossip on to me. It’s because I’m a Muslim, you see.”
John Martin pursed his lips and produced a photo from a file. He handed it to Rukshana. “Do you know who that is?”
It was a CCTV still photo from the lobby of the bank. It showed Rukshana at the security gate in her heels, short skirt, low-cut top, and sunglasses. Rukshana passed it back.
“No, sorry.”
John Martin passed it back to her. “Have another look. Rack your brains.”
Rukshana studied it again before handing it over.
“Still no.”
John Martin moved in for the kill. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
Rukshana feigned outrage and tugged at her headscarf. “Certainly not. I’m a good Muslim. That girl looks like a prostitute. Totally inappropriate clothes for any decent Muslim woman.”
John Martin passed her another photo, asked her if she recognized the subject. This one was a CCTV still of Rukshana in her burka outside Al-Nutjobs. But Rukshana had hit her stride. “I doubt her own mother would recognize her. If it was a woman, of course; perhaps it was a man in disguise? We don’t wear burkas in this house.”
John Martin played her the tape of the phone call to the antiterrorist hotline. When it was finished he said, “That was you, wasn’t it?”
“It sounds more like a white comedian making fun of Asians. There’s too much of that sort of racism in our society. I don’t know why the police don’t crack down on it.”
And so it went on. For an hour, John Martin probed and Rukshana parried. But Rukshana could see the detective was getting frustrated. He knew, okay, but he couldn’t prove it. Eventually, John Martin accepted a cup of tea and a couple of Samosas that he found “very tasty.” Then, with obvious reluctance, he returned to the attack.
“Our inquiries have revealed—oh, I say, good shot!”
John Martin was looking over Rukshana’s shoulder at the cricket. A young Pakistani batsman had just hit the ball clean into the cheering crowd. Granddad turned around and said to him, “What about that kid, eh? What a prospect!”
John Martin returned to his questioning, but he began going around in circles. He admitted the photos could have been of anyone. He also confessed there was no fingerprint evidence and that the tape didn’t really prove anything. He admitted—off the record—that the police had quite a list of people who didn’t much like her ex-boss Jeff, so they had a lot of others to interview. In fact, some of his fellow officers suspected Jeff’s wife was the real culprit, and, frankly, they didn’t blame her. The wife was certainly a more promising suspect than a nice Muslim girl like Rukshana.
“Okay, Miss Malik, I think we’re about finished for now.”
But as he got up to go, he noticed something on the mantelpiece. He walked over and picked up the large pair of sunglasses that Rukshana had worn the previous Thursday when she’d framed Jeff. They were sitting where she’d left them when she’d gotten back. John Martin looked at the shades and then fished out the CCTV still of Rukshana in the bank lobby and studied it. They were obviously the same distinctive pair. Rukshana felt her stomach tense. She’d been so careful, and now this…
But before John Martin had a chance to ask Rukshana for an explanation, her granddad snapped, “What are you doing with my sunglasses?”
“Your sunglasses?”
“Yes. They’re medicinal, I use them to cut out the glare from the TV.”
Granddad got up, took the sunglasses from the cop’s hand, and put them on. He looked quite natty in them. John Martin was not convinced.
“You use them to cut out the glare from the TV?”
“That’s right.”
“So why weren’t you wearing them when I came in?”
“I was. But I take them off when we have visitors. I don’t want to look like a prat, do I?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but…”
Granddad angrily turned on the unfortunate police officer. “Are you calling me a liar? And by the way, the girl is right—she was here all day last Thursday and I was here all day watching cricket in my sunglasses and I’d like to see you prove otherwise. Now, why don’t you clear off and catch some real criminals?”
WHEN JOHN MARTIN was gone, Rukshana sat down in the front room by her grandfather.
“So you were listening then?”
“I can listen and watch cricket at the same time. I’m not stupid. And that was a very foolish thing you did. You could have gone to prison.”
“I know. And thanks, Granddad. For backing me up.”
Her granddad nodded and then said, “If you’d wanted revenge on someone, you should have spoken to me. I know all about that. When I was a child, a British prime minister came to our village and was a little bit rude and arrogant.” Rukshana’s granddad forgot the cricket for a moment and became lost in thought. Then he added, “Now, that was a revenge story…”
BLOOD AND SUNSHINE
BY ADAM MEYER
Most people don’t believe in pure evil, and neither did I until I met five-year-old Dylan Brewster.
Before I ever laid eyes on Dylan, I saw his nanny. She was barely older than I was, clearly much too young and pretty to be anyone’s mother. Her lush blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her toned arms pushing a heavy stroller. A few-months-old baby in a pink onesie was strapped inside.
“Can I help you?” I asked, trying for a mix of helpful yet suave. Not easy when your hands are covered with finger paint and you’re wearing a yellow T-shirt that says SUNSHINE SUMMER CAMP.
“Is this the Dolphin room?” she asked, turning back as if she’d lost something, or someone. About halfway down the hall I saw him: a small, dark-haired boy with his head stuck in one of the cubbies that lined the hall. “Dylan! Come over here, please.”
He did, and there’s no denying he was awfully cute. Long, straight hair cut in a neat line over his forehead, and a nose that looked like a button in a snowman’s face. He wore plaid sneakers so small I could’ve swallowed one whole.
“Hi, Dylan,” I said, kneeling down to look him in the eye. “I’m—” But he marched past me and into the classroom where the rest of the Dolphins were busy playing. This was midmorning during my third week of camp, but it was the first time Dylan had come.
“Sorry we are late,” the nanny said, and there was a precision in her words that hinted at a faint accent. “We had some trouble getting out today.”
“Trouble?”
The nanny glanced down at the baby in the pink jumper, then at Dylan. “Sometimes he acts a little”—she wriggled her fingers, searching for the word—“a little crazy.”
“That’s okay. I act a little crazy myself sometimes.”
At first I wasn’t sure she got the joke, but then she smiled. “I’m Britta.”
Before I could get my name out, Rebecca bellowed it from behind me. “Eddie! Where on earth have you—oh.” The frown on her face dissolved as soon as she saw Britta. “You must be Dylan’s caretaker.”
Britta nodded and Rebecca put on one of her biggest, phoniest smiles. She was in charge of the group and I was her assistant. She was pretty old—early thirties, at least—and a full-time kindergarten teacher, which seemed to require that she speak to virtually everyone as if they had the intelligence of a five-year-old. Especially me.
“Eddie, why don’t you go in and get the morning snack ready. Would that be all right?”
I glanced at the wall clock—it was half an hour before our usual snack time—but I didn’t argue. She clearly wanted to get rid of me, and maybe even embarrass me in front of Britta.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, saluting Rebecca. She didn’t look amused, but Britta did, and that was even better. I washed my hands, then slipped back into the room and saw the dozen boys and girls in our Dolphin group hard at play. Some had clustered in the toy kitchen, and others finger-painted at the child-size tables. The last few kids were in the corner stacking wooden blocks into what looked like a fort.
Dylan stood to one side, watching the block builders. I crouched beside him, lining up plastic cups for apple juice.
“We’re glad to have you here at camp with us,” I said. “Have you had a good summer so far?”
“I went on a trip.”
“Oh, yeah? Where’d you go?”
His eyes narrowed, his gaze still on the kids with the blocks. “Ug-land.”
At first I wasn’t sure what he meant. And then I got it: England. “Was it fun?”
He shrugged. “It’s far.”
“It sure is.”
I was from Queens and had never been farther than Newark. It burned me that kids like Dylan got to take trips overseas they didn’t appreciate while I worked all summer just to cover the cost of college textbooks. But that was how it was. Upper West Side kids like Dylan had nannies and European vacations and summer camp, and kids in Astoria didn’t.
“You want to help me pour the juice?” I asked.
“I wanna build a galley,” Dylan said.
I wasn’t sure what a galley was, but I let that go and unscrewed the top of the juice bottle. “Sure, go build whatever you want. I’m sure the other kids will let you play with them.”
“I wanna do it myself.”
I sharpened my tone. “Dylan, we all have to play together here. But if you ask nicely—”
Clearly Dylan had no intention of asking, nicely or otherwise. He was already headed right for the play area, and by the time I’d put down the apple juice and gotten over to him, it was too late. He had stomped right through there, blocks tumbling down and flying every which way.
Amber—one of the block builders—threw up her hands, showing off the Band-Aids stuck to each of her elbows. It was lucky the falling blocks had missed her because she always seemed to be getting hurt. “He knocked down our house.”
“That’s not very nice,” I said, pointing a finger at Dylan.
At first, he looked defiant, and then his face crumpled and tears appeared. “They said I couldn’t play with them.”
“Now, that’s not true,” I said. “You just went right over and—”
“Enough,” Rebecca said from behind me. I turned around. She looked sharply at me and then put on a smile, her mood changing as abruptly as Dylan’s. “It’s cleanup time, everyone.”
The kids grumbled, but then Rebecca held up a bag of sugar cookies, and that got them motivated. “Maybe you should finish pouring the juice now,” she said to me, using the same tone she had with the kids. I grabbed the juice bottle and glanced over at the doorway.
Britta was there. Her big blue eyes were aimed at me, and I smiled, but she missed it and focused on Dylan, who watched the other kids clean up while he stood by, doing nothing. Britta turned from him, her expression hard to read. It was only when she wheeled the stroller away that I recognized the emotion.
It was relief.
THE SUNSHINE SUMMER Camp was housed on the top two floors of a private elementary school on Central Park West and Seventy-Fourth Street. We had everything an urban camp for little rich kids needed: a rooftop swimming pool, an indoor playground, and classrooms chock-full of educational toys and games. A far cry from the Boys’ Club camps where I’d spent the summers of my early years, and a relatively easy way to make some cash before I headed back to Binghamton in the fall.
Or at least it had been, until Dylan showed up.
My next run-in with him happened during afternoon nap time. All the kids gathered their blankets from their cubbies and spread them out through the classroom while I stood watch. Rebecca had gone to lunch.
The kids were supposed to lie down without talking or moving, which of course isn’t easy when you’re five. Unlike Rebecca, I tried to be understanding when they began to stir. First Amber raised her Band-Aided elbow and said, “I’m thirsty.” Then Michael, who would wear only green socks, complained that Royce had kicked him. No surprise there. Royce never stopped moving, even when he was flat on a blanket half asleep.
After settling everyone down, I put on a CD, Peter and the Wolf. As the gentle music filled the room, the children seemed to relax. I did too. I pulled out my cell phone to check my e-mail—a no-no with Rebecca around, but she wasn’t there—and I saw a movement from the corner of my eye. Dylan was upright, gathering a stack of blocks from the shelf beside him.
The other children watched, wide-eyed. Royce leaped up, eager to get in on the action. “Can I play too?”
“Nobody’s playing,” I said, storming over to Dylan’s blanket.
But he didn’t seem to hear me. He continued to pile up the blocks, one after the other, making a tower as high as the table beside him. Then he added a long block and balanced it across the top, the tower threatening to topple.
I snatched away this last block and glared. “Put these back.”
“I don’t want to.” There was no anger, just a simple declaration.
“If you don’t, you’re going to have a time-out.”
This was a punishment the kids dreaded as much as losing pool time. But Dylan was unfazed. He reached out to the shelf and found another block the same length as the one I had just taken away. He added it to the top of his column of blocks to form what looked like an upside-down L.
“See, it’s a galley.”
I had no idea what he was talking about and I didn’t much care. Besides, I felt the eyes of all the other kids on me. If I didn’t establish authority over Dylan, and fast, they’d think I was a pushover.
“You need to listen to me,” I said firmly. “No playing during nap time.”
He looked up with eyes as dark as charcoal. “But my galley isn’t done.”
“Trust me, it is,” I said.
Music swelled from the boom box, the soaring violins that represented the wolf’s arrival. Dylan smiled then, as though he knew something I didn’t, and it made me so angry I started to pull my hand back. I wasn’t really going to hit him, of course, it was just my anger getting the best of me. And then I heard the door open.
&n
bsp; When Rebecca walked in, my hands were back at my sides, and Dylan looked at her. “Eddie and I made a galley.”
“That’s very nice,” she said, but the look on her face was stern. “But Eddie knows there’s no playing during nap time.”
“Of course I know that, but—”
Rebecca gave me a sharp look that said she didn’t care what I had to say and shook her head. Disappointed. Dylan had made a fool out of me once more, and I didn’t much like it. But then, it was my own fault. I promised myself that I wouldn’t let him take advantage of me again.
DYLAN WAS ON his best behavior for the rest of that week, at least until the encounter with the ice vendor. It was a Friday, and the promise of the weekend was bright—I’d finally have some time with my old high school friends and away from camp. I stood on the hot Manhattan sidewalk, the sun crisping my skin. There were kids all around, being herded by their mothers and nannies.
A middle-aged street vendor was selling Italian ices in paper cups. I waited in line behind some of the campers and then ordered a pineapple ice. I’d just taken my first lick when I heard a familiar voice. Britta. She was calling after Dylan, who’d stormed toward the ices cart. She was a dozen feet behind him, struggling to push the stroller over a large sidewalk crack.
“Tell the man what you like,” she said, wheeling up to the cart.
“Chocolate,” Dylan said.
“No chocolate,” the vendor said in what was barely English. “You want grape?”
Dylan closed his hands into fists. “No, I want chocolate.”
The vendor looked at Britta with concern. He didn’t want to be the cause of a full-fledged tantrum in the middle of Seventy-Fourth Street. “No chocolate.”
I glanced at Britta, who looked like she was about to have a meltdown of her own, and then at Dylan. “I’ve got pineapple. It’s pretty tasty. You want to try some?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Go ahead. I think you’ll like it.”
I held out my soggy paper cup. Dylan took it and lapped up a mouthful of pineapple ice.
