by A. X. Ahmad
The man lies sprawled facedown on the landing. The back of his head has been crushed.
Anna. Anna. Thank you, Anna.
He tries to talk, cannot, groans. Blackness crowds in again. He feels cold hands slapping his cheeks, shocking him into consciousness.
“Don’t close your eyes. Stay awake.”
“… what are you … here?”
“Stay awake. You’re in shock. You’ve lost a lot of blood. We have to get back up there.”
“Kohonen. Shot me.”
She shakes her head. Strands of hair have escaped from under her knit cap and are plastered on her cheeks. “No,” she whispers, “not Kohonen. I know him. Jesus, I know him…”
She rolls the man over, grunting with effort, and pulls down the blood-soaked hood of his black sweatshirt. A pale face stares up, blue eyes open, mouth twisted into a rictus of death.
“Who…”
“It’s Norman Nash, he was there when we met that evening in the parking lot—”
Ranjit looks again. He pulls up the sleeves of the black sweatshirt and sees the tattoos on the man’s muscled forearms: dark, swirling fish, their fanlike tails looping around to meet their open mouths. He remembers these tattooed arms pointing a shotgun at him, and his mind swirls in confusion. What the hell is this man doing here, at the Senator’s house?
“Is he dead? Ranjit, is he dead?”
Ranjit doesn’t need to feel for a pulse. He’s seen enough corpses to know when the soul has evaporated into cold air, leaving a waxy shell. “Yes. He’s gone. Anna, check his pockets.”
She stares at him, then wipes her hands on her silver jacket, leaving dark streaks. She slides her hands quickly into the pockets of the man’s sweatshirt, then his dark pants, finding only a rectangular box of ammunition.
“There’s nothing here. Nothing else.”
Something is bothering Ranjit, but he can’t place the thought. He shakes his head to clear it, but the stars blossom again.
“Anna, I’m losing too much blood. We have to move. Can you get me up there?”
She nods her head dully. “What about him?”
“Leave him for now.”
When she pulls Ranjit to his feet, he howls in pain. The sound is lost in the crashing of the waves below.
He is dizzy as a drunk. She walks on the outside, surprisingly strong, her arm tight around his back, her legs straining to lift him up.
They stagger up one step. Then another.
“Don’t think,” she says. “Don’t look down.”
They are in lockstep. Time passes and he sees the toes of his own cracked boots, and her blue-and-gold running sneakers. The niggling thought lies in the recesses of his mind, and he tries to grasp it, but it evades him.
When they reach the top of the cliff, his knees buckle, and they both slump into the dead, rustling grass. He smells the salt of his own blood, hears her breathing in his ear.
“Where is Clayton?” she asks, as though remembering his existence.
“He ran away when the shooting started.”
She stops and gulps. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”
The thought that has been hiding in his fogged mind suddenly becomes clear: if the tattooed man is here, his older brother is sure to be close by.
“No time for that. This man’s brother, they’re always together. He has to be here. Bring the Mercedes as close as you can. We have to leave.”
“Are you sure? I didn’t see anyone—”
“Go. Now. Go.”
Anna takes a deep breath and disappears toward the driveway.
He must have passed out because when he gains consciousness the Mercedes is parked at the edge of the driveway, the twin beams of its headlights shining down on him.
“Turn off the headlights. Turn off—”
A shot rings out, smacking into the grass a few feet from his head. The headlights go off, and it is pitch black, all Ranjit’s night vision destroyed by the sudden glare.
Another shot, closer this time. He starts to crawl, and hears Anna’s breathing as she stumbles toward him. She hauls him to his feet, and they make it up the slope, the firing wild now, peppering the darkness.
He half falls into the backseat of the Mercedes. “Can you make it up the hill without lights?”
Her breathing is ragged. “I think so … I run this route all the time.”
The Mercedes surges into the darkness, the white gravel driveway a blur. She takes the first curve fast, almost goes over the next one, but makes the next two turns. The driveway straightens out, and they roar over the crest of the hill.
She is crying as she drives down Lighthouse Road, bawling like a child. “I’ve got to get you to a hospital. You’re losing too much blood…”
He shakes his head no. He tells her to go to the Red Heron Estate. He tells her that the override code for the alarms is BLUESKY, and then he goes back under.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
His mouth is parched. There is the sound of his own ragged breathing.
He lies in a vast bed, its sheets a dazzling white, stretching away on all sides like a field of snow. There is a large fireplace against the far wall, and a small figure sitting in a flowered armchair.
He is so thirsty that he thinks he will go mad. “Water,” he whispers. “Please give me water.”
“I can’t do that, Ranjit.”
“Please. Water.”
“Listen to me. I’ve bandaged you. The bleeding has stopped. But if the bullet hit something inside … we have to wait. When you pee, we’ll know it’s okay.”
“Need water. In the Guru’s name—”
He passes out, into blinding whiteness.
Snow goggles. He’s forgotten his goggles and the snow-light blinds his eyes. He can barely keep up with the line of men who march in front of him, their legs wading through the knee-deep snow. He tries to shout to them, but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.
He must have water. Stumbling to a stop, he scoops up a handful of snow. It is like eating glass, and the sharp points of the snow cut into the insides of his cheeks. His tongue desperately seeks a trickle of water, but finds only numbing cold.
“Captain, you know that will just make you thirstier.”
Khandelkar’s long face looks down at him, frowning in disapproval.
“Well, damn it, tell the men to stop. I need to catch up.”
There is a flicker of pity in Khandelkar’s brown eyes. He starts to say something, then just tightens the strap of his assault rifle and walks away.
“Take me with you! Goddamn it. Don’t leave me here!”
The Sergeant trudges on, deaf to Ranjit’s cries. The figures of the men dwindle against the slope of the mountain.
Ranjit staggers after them, falling and getting up and falling again. Soon he’s too tired to move and lies in the white snow as though it is a bed.
He wishes he could just fall sleep, fall into blackness, but his thirst is terrible. He must have water. Cool water pouring down into his gullet, his throat, coiling softly down into his stomach …
Someone is dripping water into his mouth. The fire is out and early morning light floods the huge room.
“More. Please more.”
“Take it slow. Small sips.”
Anna tilts a glass into his mouth. He drinks, looks up to see her dark eyes peering intently at him. Her short hair is pinned back on either side of her head with metal barrettes, her small, shell-like ears exposed.
“You’re all right. You peed. You can drink all you want.”
He feels the warm wetness around him and shame flushes through him. “Sorry, so sorry…”
“It’s okay. I’ll clean you up.”
Strong arms lift his legs, sponge him, slide clean pajamas up to his waist. He closes his eyes and feels the burn of fever.
Her cool hand rests on his forehead. “Your temperature is too high. I’m worried about infection. We have to get you to a doctor.”
“No.
No doctors. Too dangerous. Anna, listen—”
He mumbles into her ear, telling her about the house in Ocean Park, the tin box in the closet stuffed with vials of broad-spectrum antibiotics and syringes. He tells her to bring the rectangular case from under the bed.
Nodding, she straightens up. She is silhouetted against a backdrop of gauzy white curtains as she searches through his clothes, and there is the clink of his keys being picked up. He shows her the ones she needs, and she turns to leave.
“Anna. The alarms here…”
Her face is drawn and solemn. “Don’t worry. They’re all on. The gates, the perimeter, the cameras around the house. Nobody is going to get in while I’m gone.”
“Please, hurry…”
He falls asleep. Wakes, seemingly minutes later, to the cold swab of alcohol on his forearm, a hard flick of fingers on his skin to raise the veins. The stab of a needle sliding in.
Good girl. Anna, Anna, Anna.
* * *
He wakes in the dark of the night, desperately needing a drink of water, but his mouth is too dry to speak. A fire is burning low in the fireplace, and a charred log of wood suddenly crumbles, the flames flaring up before dying away. In the firelight he sees Anna: she is sitting motionless in the armchair beside the fireplace, covered by a thick wool blanket. At first he thinks that she is asleep, but then his eyes adjust to the darkness, and he sees her staring into the dying fire.
“Anna,” he manages to whisper, “Anna, water.”
She stares into the heart of the fire and does not seem to hear him.
“Water, please,” he whispers again, but she does not react. She seems to have gone from herself, leaving her body sitting in the chair.
A crystal jug of water is sitting on the side table by his bed, its cut-glass facets dim with reflected light. There is no way he can reach it, or lift the heavy jug. He turns his head away, banishing all thoughts of cool, clear water. He closes his mouth, and swallows, and somehow drifts back into sleep.
* * *
He wakes in a room full of late-morning light. Or is it the afternoon? How long has he been asleep?
He is wearing someone else’s blue silk pajamas and lying in a large sleigh bed, the ends of it curving upward in arcs of polished wood. The bed is at one end of a long, high-ceilinged room that must take up the entire front of the house, and at the other end is the dark, ashy mouth of the fireplace. Tall windows line the outside wall, their gauzy curtains pulled open, revealing wide lawns that slope down to the gray-blue water of Tisbury Great Pond. Even now, in the heart of winter, this room, with its thin curtains and vivid floral prints, speaks of summer, of warm breezes and windows flung open.
Except that it is freezing cold, and by the side of the bed is a metal trash can, filled to the brim with used gauze bandages, cotton pads stiff with blood, and empty syringes. On the floor next to it are the remains of his snowsuit, scissored into ragged pieces.
It all comes back: the tattooed man on top of him, fingers like steel jabbing into his throat, and then the sudden blow, the man’s skull smashed in. Then the hail of bullets as the other brother started shooting at them. He remembers the article he read on the ferry, how the burglars were thought to be hiding somewhere on the island, steps away from being arrested. Had the Senator hired them to kill him?
“Good. You’re awake. I was getting worried.”
Anna is coming through the doorway, wearing a man’s black sweater and a pair of brown wide-wale corduroys that are too big for her, kept up with a thick leather belt. Her hair is still clipped back with barrettes, and in her oversized clothes she looks very young.
She puts the tray she’s carrying down on the bedside table. “Well, Ranjit. I seem to be always bandaging you up.” He smiles wanly up at her, and she continues. “Don’t worry, the alarms are on. There’s no electricity here, but they are running on some sort of backup power. There are plenty of candles, though, and a woodstove, and the cabinets are full of food. I heated up some chicken broth for you.”
She stacks pillows up against the headboard of the bed and helps him to sit up.
“Anna.” His voice is a hoarse whisper. “How long have I been here?”
“Today is the second day. Two nights and one full day.”
He does the math. Today is the ninth day that his family has been in detention. What if Kohonen had been right, what if they’ll be deported after ten days, not fourteen? Panic rises in his throat.
She reaches for the bowl of chicken soup, but he gestures for her to wait.
“I’m trying to understand … what happened at the house.”
Her face darkens as she sits carefully on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know, Ranjit.” She picks up the bowl of soup in both hands. “You should eat this before it gets cold.”
“When did you tell the Senator that I was coming?”
“Clayton didn’t know till that evening. I told him right before you showed up.”
“Did you tell anyone else?”
“No, Ranjit, no. I thought you would be safe there. When I heard the shots, I turned back, I ran as fast as I could, I was so frightened…”
“You recognized those two men in the parking lot. Does the Senator know them too?”
She shakes her head. “I barely remember them. We were in the same high school, but they both dropped out. Clayton doesn’t know them.”
“Maybe they did some work for you? On the house?”
“I’d never hire them. The whole island knows they’re drunks.”
His head spins and he leans back into the soft pillows. None of this makes any sense. “I was watching the house with binoculars, I saw you arguing with the Senator. What happened?”
She sits silently, holding the bowl in her lap.
“Anna, please talk to me.”
She looks at him, and then looks away. “I’ll tell you everything, Ranjit. But please don’t hate me for it.”
He nods silently, and she looks away, staring out of the window as she talks. “I told Clayton that I met you at Harvard, and that he was lying to me about the dolls. He was furious, he said I was a fool, that I had no idea what I was interfering with. He accused me of … all kinds of things. And I was tired of being bullied by him, so tired.
“When he screamed at me, something inside me snapped. I told him we had slept together, I told him I was going to divorce him. He begged me to stop talking, but I was so angry, I couldn’t breathe. I had to leave the house. I put on my running clothes and got the hell out. I wouldn’t have left if I’d known this would happen.”
She stares out of tall windows at the thick, black-trunked trees, and her eyes fill with tears. Outside, a crow caws and rises up into the air.
“That man, Norman Nash. I killed him, didn’t I?”
It is Ranjit’s turn to be silent.
She grips the bowl in her lap. “I saw him on top of you. I picked up that piece of stone, I smashed it down as hard as I could—”
“Don’t think about that now.”
“I was nine the first time I shot a mallard. Clipped its wing and it fell out of the sky. My father said to me, Finish it off, put it out of its misery. Come on, you shot it, now follow through. I didn’t want to. He said, Damn it, don’t behave like a girl. I used the butt of my gun and its skull crumpled like an eggshell. It was looking at me when it died, looking right at me…”
Her voice trembles with hysteria. He has seen this in combat before. Once the fighting stopped and his men were back in safety, the shock of the battle hit them.
“We’ll talk later. Just don’t think about it now.”
Wiping her eyes with the back of one hand, she gestures at the bowl of chicken broth. “You must eat. Get your strength back.”
The chicken broth is very salty, and is now cold. She feeds him, her movements as regular as a metronome, and it seems to calm her down. He has no appetite, but he swallows every mouthful.
Death surrounds them now, and he knows that he can’t conti
nue the conversation. As he eats, a verse from the Guru Granth Sahib floats into his head:
Everything earthly is devoured by death
He sits and examines the accounts,
In the place where no one may enter with anyone else
Those who weep and wail might just as well bundle together stalks of straw …
When he finishes the broth, the fever has come back, and he closes his eyes, feeling the redness bloom behind his eyelids.
“Sleep,” she says. And even though he doesn’t want to, he does.
* * *
High up on the glacier there is the cawing of crows. They circle in the sky, small specks that swoop lower and lower.
He is still lying in the snow, looking upward, when a large black crow lands next to him. He wants to sit up and scare it away, but he is paralyzed. The crow hops around him, doing a strange jerky dance.
Go away, crow, go away.
It flaps its wings once and lands on his chest. Cocking its head, it looks at him, its beady eyes bright with a malignant intelligence. It opens its beak and says Caaaaw.
His eyes flicker rapidly, trying to see what it is doing. It lowers its dark head and he feels a sharp pain in his chest, a series of pecks that are moving upward.
The crow hops toward his face, its curved beak dark and dripping. He blinks furiously, shouting out loud, but no sound will come. Its beak flashes down, aiming at his eyes—
“Wake up, Ranjit. It’s just a dream. Wake up.”
A hand shakes him and the scream dies in his throat. He reaches out a hand and feels the bulge of his eyeballs under the hot, papery eyelids.
“It’s all right, I’m here, I’m right here.”
Anna lies down and presses into him, and he feels her heat seep into his chilled body. Preetam was always cold, always snuggling into him for warmth, but this woman is like a furnace. She must have been sweating in her sleep, because her white T-shirt is soaked through.
“Ranjit, you’re drenched. You have to change.”
He realizes that it’s his sweat, not hers. His silk pajama top is sopping wet.
There is a flare of a match as she lights a candle. In its blue flame he sees that her short hair is sticking up in the back, and she’s wearing a white T-shirt and black boxers. She sits him up, unbuttons his wet shirt, and slips a cool, dry T-shirt over his chest. It has the musty scent of long-stored clothing.
