Exiled Heart

by Jennifer Haynie

  “But didn’t part of that stem from the fact you had a common faith?”

  “I think I see what you mean. Sharing the same desires, goals, and values is crucial.”

  “And that usually springs out of culture, which comes out of faith, or at least it does in Saudi.”

  He had him there.

  Ben fell silent for a moment. Then he looked up and met his friend’s gaze. This time, his gaze glinted with earnestness. “Marriage is the only relationship where you truly share the deepest parts of your being. And if you don’t share the same faith, I think that would be impossible. Say if Em were atheist and I were Christian. I think we’d have this huge hole that couldn’t be filled because we’d have to agree to disagree on our deepest parts. We’d be missing that true intimacy. I think that’s what worried Claire.”

  Ziad nodded. He shivered as the first chilly air of fall began filtering into the area. His heart ached, but it came clear to him in a flash. He hunched forward with his forearms on the table. In low Arabic, he confessed, “I still love Claire. No matter what, I still love her. No matter how much we hurt each other, that won’t change. I think… I think hearing her say she loves her King more than she loves me hurt my pride. I don’t understand it.”

  Ben leaned back and swung his feet onto the chair next to him. He gazed at his friend, this time with no anger. “I think she was trying to say she loves you very much, but she loves God even more because he is her Creator. And her King.”

  Ziad considered that one. “It intrigues me.”

  “What?”

  “Her single-mindedness when it comes to doing Allah’s will. That she would set aside her personal desires to do his will.”

  “Maybe the Allah you know and the God she knows are actually different.”

  Slowly, Ziad stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward. “I would like to know more about the way she sees God. Perhaps you could tell me why this is so?”

  “This requires more coffee. My treat. You can buy me some later on.” Ben jumped up and headed inside. When he returned, he began speaking of a God Ziad hadn’t known all his life, a God who was personal, who knew him inside and out, who’d cared so much that he’d sent his Son to die for him. Ziad found himself fascinated but on a more intellectual level.

  Finally, Ben checked his watch and rose. “Look. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

  Ziad couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—let it go. “Can we meet more on this later? Perhaps with Bible and Koran in hand to discuss?”

  “Absolutely. Tuesday’s great for me.”

  As they returned to his apartment, a new peace Ziad didn’t understand draped over him. Maybe their meeting the following week would help him sort things out.

  They pulled into a parking slot.

  Ben faced him. “Hey, before you go, my friend. I meant to tell you this earlier, but we obviously got sidetracked. I talked to Angie about the raid we’re planning on that warehouse Thanksgiving night. She’s approved you to be an observer.”

  Disappointment nipped at him. “Just an observer?”

  “Yep.” Then his friend winked. “Kind of like I was in Jeddah.”

  For the first time in almost two weeks, Ziad smiled. “I see what you mean. Thank you. I appreciate your request.”

  “I’ll keep you posted. See you Tuesday.”

  Ziad headed inside. Yuck. It did smell, more than he’d realized when he’d holed up. Once again, he opened the windows and doors, then took out the trash, including the overflowing ashtray. The clothes he’d worn while smoking went into the wash, and he took a shower. Once clean, he scrounged up a supper of pita and peanut butter with the promise to make it to the store the next day.

  Did the cool air ever feel so good. So did clean skin and hair. Ziad settled at his laptop. How could he discuss Scripture without a Bible? He called Ben. “If I were to order a Bible in Arabic, what translation should I get?”

  Ben listed some.

  Ziad found what he was looking for and ordered it. Good. It would arrive by the end of the week. Finally, he crashed instantly into sleep.

  That dream came again.

  Sabirah, this time with Basil.

  Those scales.

  Those stones he’d learned to fear.

  And something new.

  A pedestal.

  Sabirah hugged their second youngest close. “Basil built it because he knows how much determining your fate means to you.”

  “It means nothing—”

  “It means everything.” Sharp words, especially for Sabirah. She glared at him as she ran her hands down her ebony hair. After dumping the gray stones onto the prayer rug in front of her, she placed a stone on the Sayia’at tray. “You hurt Claire.”

  “But she—”

  “She loves you so much, Ziad. And you’re good for her.” A stone went onto the Hasana’at tray. “You’ve helped her heal.”

  Another stone went on that tray.

  Protective anger flared in Sabirah’s eyes. “Yet you nearly destroyed her with your words.”

  His pride flared. “She was the one who wanted to break up!”

  “She has cried every day since then.”

  The accusations came.

  His arrogance.

  His rudeness.

  His lack of compassion.

  And his pride.

  His stinking pride.

  By the time, Sabirah fell silent, the Sayia’at tray nearly touched the pedestal. Anger replaced her sadness as she gazed at it. “I thought I knew you better.”

  Regret formed a hard knot in his stomach. “I thought I knew myself better. Please. I—I’m human!”

  “Does that really matter in God’s eyes?” With that, she rose and took Basil’s hand.

  “Sabirah, don’t go! Basil. Sabirah, please! I’ll apologize. I’ll make it better. No!”

  Ziad jerked upright. Sweat drenched him and dampened the sheets. He shook all over, and his chest heaved. He raked his hands through his hair. They came away damp. For a moment, he stared at the picture of him and Claire.

  Just another reminder of his massive failure.

  He placed it face down, then put his head in his hands as despair nearly drowned him. He’d failed. Utterly failed. And at that point, he saw no way to make things right.

  35

  Late Thanksgiving night, rain drummed on top of the FBI Ford Transit van. Only the sound of metal spoon on Pyrex penetrated the din as Ziad finished off the peach cobbler he and Ben had taken with them when leaving Thanksgiving dinner for the raid. Hmmm, mmmm. So good. “This is almost better than Claire’s. I did not know your mother could make such a good dessert.”

  “Mom’s the best. I’m glad she and Dad came to visit.” Ben sipped from his thermos of coffee and shifted on a camp stool as he peered out the back windows at the rear of the warehouse.

  “How is Claire?”

  His friend shrugged. “Don’t know. She’s worked practically every day since the first of October. Good for the bank account but bad on the body. Em’s worried she’s going to work herself sick.”

  Ziad understood the need to keep busy, to avoid the tougher parts of life. He’d done the same until the flu had sidelined him at the beginning of November. Then he’d had no choice but to lie in bed and think—or read, including the Bible.

  Interesting on an intellectual level, like those words had seeped into his head but not his heart. God could be personal? That’s what Ben had said. Hard to believe, though. God wanted a relationship with him? Impossible. Yet when he looked around him at those who he realized had become his family by choice rather than origin, he found that hard to deny. Obviously, Ben had talked freely with him about his faith. Emma as well. And those he knew on the force who loved Isa? Sure, they didn’t proselytize him, but the way they lived their lives, even dealt with criminals, reflected Isa just as surely as the sun on a mirror.

  “Hey, earth to Ziad.” Ben’s teasing brought him back to where they sat.

  “
So sorry. I was thinking.”

  “I was saying Claire really does love you.”

  He swallowed hard. He had no answer.

  “No, seriously. Like, she had all of us family over to her house last weekend and practically begged us to forgive you. That’s how worried she was.”

  Would the regret ever go away? Probably not. “I love her. I know I said differently, that I would give that pendant to a woman more deserving of my love. She is the one. After Sabirah,” he swallowed hard as he thought of her, “I never thought I could love someone again. Claire taught me differently. It will always be hers, even if we never get back together.”

  Ben nodded. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. “I know.” He stilled. “Hey, check out our ten o’clock.”

  Ziad focused his binoculars. Through the pouring rain, he noted two suspects slinking into the area. They made their way down an alley formed by two warehouses.

  Beside him, a camera clicked. Softly, Ben reported, “Angie, looks like two more potential dealers showed up.”

  The radio crackled before her voice came through loud and clear. “Taz and his crew noted eight. Add that to the four you’ve seen, and it sounds like all dealers are present but no product.”

  “Agree.”

  The van fell silent save for the incessant drumbeat of rain. Ziad began a scan of the surrounding area. Nothing moved. Even the stray dogs and cats had gotten wise and sought shelter from the Nor’easter as it blew inland from the Atlantic.

  Then he saw it. At the other end of the alley, a truck with its headlights off crept toward the warehouse. “Ben.”

  “I see ‘em. Looks like our product’s finally arrived. Show time.”

  Ziad smiled as he remembered those words from over a year and a half before. This time, he fulfilled the role Ben had taken previously.

  A few minutes passed.

  Ben tensed with his hand on the back door’s handle.

  His comrade reported, “Product has arrived. Repeat, product has arrived.”

  Angie murmured, “SWAT moving in. Stay put, you two.”

  Ziad ground his teeth. Did he ever want to be in the action!

  An FBI SWAT team, battering ram poised, M-4s held at ready, slipped by them and worked their way down the alley. Another team approached the back door. The clang of metal on metal echoed above the rain. Then came a flash and crump of flash-bang grenades igniting inside. The SWAT team poured through the doorway. Shouting ensued.

  Near the corner, a window popped open. Someone nearly fell onto the ground.

  A runner.

  Not this time. Not on his watch.

  “We’ve got an escapee. Let’s go!” Ben threw down his camera and pushed through the back doors.

  Ziad followed through the downpour. He’d forgotten how fast his friend was as they charged along the fence. The suspect darted between two warehouses.

  Ben accelerated and followed.

  They rounded a corner.

  Ziad skidded to a stop.

  Nothing. Only rows of warehouses on either side of the street with pallets and shipping containers stacked here and there. Where was Ben?

  His hearing and sight sharpened. Since he’d not been allowed to carry a gun as an observer, they were all he had to keep him safe.

  His heart ticked up a few notches.

  Ben, where are you?

  He didn’t dare call out and reveal his location.

  He pressed himself flat against the metal of a container.

  He was about to turn down another alley when Ben and the suspect sped past him like a falcon chasing a hare.

  He took off in hot pursuit.

  They skidded around another corner.

  Ziad’s lungs burned.

  Right. They went right.

  He turned in that direction, and they crossed another street, now far away from the center of the action.

  Ziad slowed.

  His lungs heaved.

  He peered around him.

  Over the pattering of rain that left him soaked, he listened.

  Whump. Crash.

  Someone grunted.

  Ziad bolted in that direction.

  Caught in the dead end of a warehouse and shipping containers, Ben grappled with their suspect like they were wrestling. He threw him to the ground.

  The man tackled the FBI agent at his knees.

  Ben hit the concrete hard.

  The man drew back his fist for a killing blow.

  Ben’s arm shot out.

  His fist glanced off Ben’s face.

  The agent stilled.

  The man knelt beside him and felt along his side.

  Ziad’s heart shot to his throat.

  He’s going for his gun.

  One chance and one chance only.

  Like a feline predator, he charged without a sound.

  He leapt into the air as the gun came free from its holster.

  Ziad slammed into him.

  The Glock flew off to parts unknown.

  “Get off me!” Daoud al-Rashid shouted.

  He lashed out with his foot and caught Ziad in the side.

  He winced. “Not on your life.”

  Ziad’s side hook connected with Daoud’s head. Pain shot up his hand.

  Daoud came after him with a forward kick.

  Ziad dove out of the way and rolled to his feet. He ducked a side punch, then jabbed hard against Daoud’s solar plexus.

  Daoud moaned and collapsed to his knees.

  Ziad needed cuffs.

  Fast.

  “Ben.”

  His friend groaned and pushed himself up on his elbows. “What hit me?”

  “I need your cuffs. Now!”

  That brought him to his senses. He tossed his pair to his friend.

  Ziad slapped them on Daoud, then hauled him upright. “I will let you Mirandize him.”

  Ben did as Ziad searched for the Glock. He found it in a pile of rotting fruit and vegetables that made the stink of his apartment a few weeks earlier pale in comparison. “Eh, you might want to wash this.”

  Though blood poured from a cut above his eyes and a split lip, Ben grinned, “Thanks, my friend. You saved my life.”

  “But you bagged the suspect.” Ziad winked.

  “Ziad.”

  “Your case, your glory, my friend.” A smile crossed his face. “I was just an observer, remember?”

  #####

  Early the next evening, Ziad rubbed a towel through his hair as he wandered downstairs. Nearly a day later, his hand still hurt, as did his side. No harm done, the paramedic had told him. Just bruising that would heal.

  “Em’s going to freak when she sees this,” Ben said after he’d gotten stitches for the cut above his eye. “Then she’ll really freak when she sees the bruising over my ribs.”

  That brought a smile to Ziad’s face. “Better you than I, my friend.”

  Now, Ziad turned the television to the local news station. He knew all about the leading story, had participated in it, albeit anonymously.

  He sat on the couch with his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his hands, as he watched the entire story, including the press conference. A smile fought its way loose as Angie and the Special Agent in Charge for South Carolina handled the press like pros. Ben stood in the background with the other task force members.

  The Zap ring? Shut down, at least through Charleston. They’d arrested a dozen dealers who’d fanned out throughout the Carolinas, including Daoud al-Rashid and Mike Winthrop.

  Ben’s case, Ben’s glory.

  Like a faint twinge from a sore muscle, his pride twitched. That should have been him.

  No. Ziad shut down that thought as well as the television. He rested his head against the soft cushion. Ben and the task force had done all of the hard work. He’d merely provided support where he could. Right then, he preferred the background.

  What with his sweats on and the gas fireplace running to chase away the chill, he was warm.
Comfortable. And tired after a hard workout at the gym. He dreamed.

  Sabirah.

  Those infernal scales of his life.

  And Khalid. His youngest snuggled next to his mother. He giggled at something she said, and she kissed his downy hair.

  Then came the stones.

  One went on the Hasana’at tray.

  “For your care about Claire and your love for her,” Sabirah said.

  Khalid leaned forward and added one to the Sayia’at tray.

  Ziad stared. “What…”

  “You envied Ben last night,” his son said.

  “I did not.”

  Sabirah added another stone onto the Sayia’at tray. Sadness reflected in her gaze. “And you lied about it.”

  Then went another. And another until once again, though he had several on the Hasana’at tray, the scales tipped in the other direction.

  Ziad couldn’t even remember his bad works.

  He jerked awake. Despair tugged at him.

  Hopeless. Totally hopeless.

  No matter how many good deeds he did, he would never right those scales. Never.

  No matter how hard he tried.

  36

  It happened. The second week of December, working nearly nonstop with barely a day off finally caught up to Claire in the form of a cold. As she crouched in the bay of the helicopter and counted quantities of the supplies they had, she couldn’t focus.

  Her nose twitched. A sneeze erupted, and she barely had time to aim it at her sleeve. She grimaced at the aftermath. “Gross.”

  Sniffling, she finished her work. With the bay doors shut, she headed inside to the helicopter crew’s offices located in the ED clinic. The night shift flight nurse chatted with the two pilots who were on call.

  “Meredith,” Claire croaked.

  Her coworker turned. “Boy, you sound terrible.”

  “I feel terrible.” She coughed into her sleeve. “I’m headed home. Here’s the list of supplies that need restocking.”

  She held out the note paper.

  Meredith took it with the very tips of her fingers.

  Claire cracked a smile. “Very funny. Have a great evening.”

  With that, she changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Time to head home and get some rest. At least she had four days off, four days to sleep, read, and baby herself back to health.