by Allen Kent
Matt knew Adeena had been a Palestinian transplant to Chicago and the daughter of a devout Muslim family. Though not practicing, she still thought of herself as Muslim. I’d used my Matt discussions to muddle through the worries about her death that lingered from my own fire and brimstone upbringing—so far, without resolution.
I glanced apologetically at Grace and frowned cynically. “Most around here would see that as meaning baptism and confirmation are essential to salvation.”
Matt nodded. “But . . . ?” he urged.
“But, I’ve heard it explained as meaning we need both a temporal birth—being born of the water, like out of amniotic fluid—and then needing some kind of spiritual birth, as through grace or something similar.” I winked at Grace who rolled her eyes.
Matt’s brow knitted thoughtfully. “And what do you think?”
I shrugged, not sure it was a good idea to pursue this line too much farther with my devout Catholic deputy listening in. But I couldn’t resist throwing out another idea.
“The early Christian Gnostics would probably have argued that baptism wasn’t needed at all, because the Spirit of God already exists within us all and simply needs to be discovered.”
“Hah! You really are a heretic, Tate,” the reverend said with a low chuckle. “But I’m not sure I’m ready to bring the Gnostics into a sermon. We’re a liberal congregation, but probably not that liberal.”
I gave him a tilt of the head. “You brought it up. You have the most open group of followers in Crayton, Matt. If anyone will listen without running you out of town on a rail, your people will.”
“But we’re still not open enough to draw you back into the fold, Tate,” he chided. That was my signal to get back to business. I gave him a brush-off smile and glanced again at Grace who was staring at me with a “Where does all of that useless stuff come from?” expression. Matt guided us to a sofa along one wall of the study.
“I really came to ask what you could tell me about the Syrian families,” I said, shifting gears.
He glanced sharply from me to Grace, then back to me. “Is there some kind of trouble?”
“No. But we’re investigating a case that by some strange twist involves the Syrian city of Idlib. If I remember right, the Haddads come from near there.”
Matt nodded, frowning suspiciously.
“Can you tell me how these three families happened to end up in Crayton? We’re not exactly the first place a relocation agency would think of.”
The pastor shrugged as if there weren’t much to tell. “We talked as a church council, decided that as a community of faith we’d like to sponsor some refugees, and submitted an application to AIRS: the American Immigrant Relocation Service. They’re a non-profit group that works with church organizations around the country. Our thinking was that it would be good for our congregation, for the community, and of course for the families we sponsored.”
I nodded. So far, all three seemed to have been true. “Any idea how these particular families were chosen?”
“No. I know AIRS works with immigrants from all over. We were asked if we’d be willing to sponsor three Syrian Christian families. They were our first offer, and we accepted immediately.”
“Was there ever any discussion about why these families should be placed in a small rural town in the middle of the country?”
Matt shook his head. “I’ve been told the family name means something like ‘blacksmith,’ though I guess you’d know that. These men aren’t blacksmiths, but all three were welders and metalworkers before they came here. All very skilled. Kilgore Homes was willing to give them all jobs right away. I think that sealed the deal.”
“How well do you know the families?”
“As well as any members of our congregation. Better than some. The wives are still unwilling to speak much. Their English was pretty poor when they came, and they don’t work as hard as the men and children do to improve. The men spoke some English, and it’s become much better. The kids? You know them through your school interpreting work. Excellent English.”
“Are you aware of them leaving any kind of trouble behind? Anything that might follow them?”
Matt sniffed. “You mean aside from a war that destroyed their town and killed half the people of Idlib, including a lot of relatives? And I’m sure you know they came from an area where gas was used.”
“Well, yes, I knew about that kind of trouble. I was thinking of something more personal that involved just these three families.”
Matt had been leaning back in his swivel desk chair and tilted it forward, planting his elbows on the polished mahogany top. “What’s going on here, Tate? Why these specific questions?”
I knew the pastor would honor a confidence. “I need you to keep this to yourself for now, if you would, Matt. Will you do that?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“The explosion last night? The one out at the new dam site on Mill Creek? It threw up a buried body. The damnedest thing is that from what we can tell, the man was Syrian—and from Idlib.”
Matt slumped back again in his chair. “That does remind me of something,” he admitted. “When I got back in touch with AIRS after learning who’d been assigned to us, I asked if they were sure the families would be okay with a fairly isolated community in middle America. The man laughed in a way I thought sounded kind of cynical.”
“And did he say anything?” I pressed.
Matt steepled his hands, with his thumbs tucked under his chin. “He said, ‘In this case, I think it might be exactly what they are looking for.’”
7
First Christian had purchased a dilapidated, repossessed fourplex on South Jefferson, given the new immigrant families a modest renovation budget, and turned the two-story apartments over to the Haddads to remodel. The families rented the fourth unit to a newly married couple in the congregation and, as a group, attacked the project with such fervor that the other rundown apartments on the other side of Jefferson had been forced to follow suit. Now both were considered reasonably habitable.
The oldest of the brothers, Yusef Haddad, had moved his family into the apartment on the lower right. As we approached the door, I gave Grace a quick lesson in Syrian hospitality.
“We will be welcomed even if they’re just sitting down to dinner,” I cautioned. “And probably invited to join them. If it isn’t dinner time, they’ll bring us tea and maybe some figs or dates and feel like we need to visit for a while about things in general before we get down to business. Let me take the lead on this.”
“Maybe we can discuss baptism and the Gnostics,” Grace suggested, refusing to let me know by her expression if she was teasing or being irritable.
I grinned over at her, deciding to assume teasing. “They’re Syrian Christians, one of the oldest Christian sects in the world. They could probably tell us a lot about both. But I think I’ll stick to how the men’s jobs are, how the kids are doing in school, and what they hear from back home. That might give us a natural lead-in to asking if they know anything about this guy. Don’t be surprised if his wife, Lilia, doesn’t join us. And don’t suggest that she should. Yusef will decide that.”
Grace sniffed. “You’re forgetting who you’re talking to. I grew up in a home where my father decided everything. He still hasn’t forgiven me for going to college and choosing law enforcement instead of getting married and having a houseful of kids.” She pointed to a stylized, hand-shaped amulet that hung on the inside of the Haddad’s doorframe, the palm displaying the cobalt eye in its center. “Look. Here’s one of those symbols.”
“It’s a hamsa. The Syrian Christians call it the Hand of Mary,” I explained. “To protect the house. It usually has that nazar in the middle of the palm.”
Their son Samir, a senior at Crayton High, answered the door, smiled brightly, and invited us into a living room that immediately swept me back into the Middle East. Though the furnishings were loaners and hand-me-downs from church parishioners, the air
smelled of lamb and eggplant, garlic, olive oil, and lemon. Otherwise plain walls displayed somber images of Jesus, Mary, and the Syriac saints. The one smiling photograph, centered over the sofa, was of a gray-bearded man in a black robe and hat the shape of an acorn cap. The Patriarch of Antioch. Three gold chains hung about the patriarch’s neck, the central one holding an ornate crucifix, the others images of the Christ and Mother and Child.
“Father, it is Mr. Tate,” the boy called. After a moment of muffled conversation in the rear of the apartment, Yusef Haddad emerged from a back room. He is a handsome man in his mid-forties with dark wavy hair streaked with silver that he combs back off a wide forehead. He has the solid, muscular frame of a metal worker, but the proud, upright bearing of a man who is comfortable with his role as head clansman. He studied his visitors with a fixed smile.
“Ah! Mr. Tate. Welcome to my home.” As I introduced Grace, he bowed slightly, ran a critical eye over her uniform, but did not offer to shake hands.
“Come. Please be seated. Samir, tell your mother to bring tea and biscuits. We have honored guests.”
Grace and I sat stiffly on the threadbare sofa, an appropriate distance apart. Yusef took a deep recliner.
“Is your family settling well?” I asked, forcing aside my American urge to get right to the point of the visit.
“Yes. Very well. And I am most grateful for the help you have given when Lilia and the other women meet with the children’s teachers at school. I know the children speak English very well, but the women? Ah, they have been slow to learn, and the men are not always able to come. The mothers must be told what the teachers say by someone other than a child.” His smile turned sly. “Sometimes a son or daughter may not want a mother to know everything. Your assistance has been such a blessing to us.”
“And the children are all doing well at school?” I knew they were. I heard the reports as often as the parents did and understood from teachers’ comments that failure was not an option among the Haddad children. All the Syrian kids were near the top of their classes. But we were still at the polite conversation stage.
“Yes. Samir is on the football team. Ah, no. I mean soccer.” He chuckled. “I grew up with it as a boy, and to me, it is still football. Samir has been playing all his life and is one of the best.”
“Yes. I’ve been told that by the coaches. And Miriam is a favorite of her teachers. She is very talented at mathematics.”
Yusef Haddad smiled proudly. “We had a very good business in our home city. Making gates and window coverings out of iron. The children helped and learned to do numbers in their heads. Algebra was developed by the Arabs, you know.”
I nodded my understanding, hiding a smile as I remembered all of the advancements in science and mathematics Adeena liked to attribute to her ancestry.
Grace sat patiently as we chatted about the Haddad’s oldest daughter Raca’s job at the Casey’s General Store, and that Yusef had been persuaded to let her enroll in a nursing program at the community college. “I still do not like her driving to Springfield alone each day,” he grumbled, the smile disappearing. “But everyone is trying to turn me into an American father.”
“Are they succeeding?”
“I certainly hope not,” he said without humor.
Raca appeared from the back of the apartment, carrying a platter with a tea kettle, cups, a plate of dried figs, and what looked like shortbread cookies. She smiled an acknowledgement, looked admiringly at Grace, and poured us each tea without speaking. Yusef also shifted his gaze to Grace.
“You must be the deputy I have heard the men talk about at work.” There was a note of disapproval in his voice. “The woman policeman in the town.”
Grace’s face turned a deeper shade of bronze, but she held the man’s gaze. “I do my best to be a good officer,” she said firmly.
Yusef nodded and again studied her with dark, critical eyes, then decided we had taken care of necessary formalities. “But you have come for some purpose,” he said. “How may I help you?”
I waited until Raca had returned to the kitchen, then briefly described the explosion at the dam and discovery of the body. Yusef listened attentively, his face a relaxed mask. Samir had taken another overstuffed easy chair and leaned forward with fists locked under his chin, captivated by descriptions of explosions and bodies being thrown into trees.
“We have come to see you, Yusef, because there was a label in the man’s clothing. In one of his shoes. It showed it to have come from Idlib.”
The calm on the man’s face disappeared in an instant, replaced by a focused intensity that told me the casual comment to Matt Frazee by the AIRS relocation worker had carried much more importance than the pastor realized. The Haddads had come here seeking remote isolation for a reason. Yusef recovered as quickly as the mask had crumbled.
“That is indeed a coincidence,” he said calmly. “What do you know about this man?” Lilia Haddad had returned with the kettle to refill our cups and paused beside her husband to listen.
“Nothing, really. I have a photo—but it’s not a pleasant sight.” I glanced over at Samir who had become even more intrigued.
Yusef waved away my concern. “We have all seen more death than anyone should endure in a lifetime. Let me see your photograph.”
I drew out the picture and laid it on the table in front of him. Yusef had prepared himself and his expression remained unchanged. But Lilia tried unsuccessfully to smother a loud gasp with her free hand. Samir looked up at his father with undisguised alarm.
“They have found us,” Lilia murmured in Arabic, forgetting for the moment that I understood every word. “The old women saw this. Death has come. And it is close to us.”
Yusef replied gruffly in Arabic, waving to indicate that his son should follow his wife from the room. When we were alone, he pushed the photo back across the table, smiling thinly. “Had you not seen the reaction of my family, perhaps I would have attempted a lie. They have forced me to be my better self and be truthful with you.”
I tucked the picture back into an inside pocket. “I see that you recognize the man. What did your wife mean? ‘They have found us?’ And about the old women seeing this?”
The Syrian planted his hands on his knees, his jaw tightening. “We left a country at war,” he said grimly. “Idlib was one of the last centers of resistance. But even within the city, there were divisions. We had enemies. This man was one of them.”
“An enemy who would pursue you here?” Grace asked.
Yusef sniffed dismissively. “You do not understand our culture, Deputy. Even in wartime, the ancient demands of honor and revenge remain a family obligation.”
I followed with the obvious question. “Why might this man be seeking revenge?”
Yusef had kept his dark eyes on Grace and quickly shifted them back to me with a cool gaze. “We were enemies. That was all the reason he needed.”
Somehow that answer didn’t explain a man hunting down a family that had hidden in the Ozark hills half a world away. “I know the codes of honor,” I said. “This man would not come here after you simply because you were his enemy.”
“In a war, enemies kill enemies,” he said curtly. “The Haddads killed some of this man’s family.”
“And what was the man’s name?”
“Farid Sayegh.”
“Had you or anyone in your family seen Farid here?”
Yusef’s gaze hardened. “You saw my wife’s surprise. Did it appear the reaction of someone who knew he was here?”
“It may have been a surprise to your wife, but not to everyone.”
“No one in my family knew he was here,” Yusef said firmly.
“What did your wife mean by ‘The old women saw this?’”
Yusef called back into the kitchen for Raca and Lilia. Lilia was still trembling when she entered the room, Raca holding her arm.
“What did you mean when you spoke of the old women?” Yusef demanded in Arabic.
R
aca glanced apologetically at her mother, then answered for her in English. “Mother worries about her family still in Syria. We were told the old women who live on the mountain can see the future. I took mother to their home. They said they could see that there had been a death. Someone from our home—and that it was close.”
Yusef spoke sharply in Arabic. “You have been to a fortuneteller?”
Lilia cowered behind her oldest daughter who straightened protectively. “You do not let us contact family. Mama worries about her family.”
Yusef began to reply, but thought better of it with guests in the room.
Grace had pulled a notepad from her shirt pocket and spoke to Raca. “By ‘old women,’ do you mean the Webber sisters?”
Raca shook her head uncertainly. “I don’t know their names. One of the women at the church English class mother goes to told her she should go see the ‘Old Women of the Woods.’ When I went to pick Mother up, the lady told me how to find them.”
“Down in the corner of the county? A long hike up the hill to the house? The women are twins?” Grace asked.
The girl nodded. Grace jotted a note on her pad and glanced over to signal she had what she wanted. I turned again to Yusef who sat brooding in the stuffed chair.
“And your brothers?” I asked. “Neither of them was aware that this Farid Sayegh was in the area?”
“I do not speak for my brothers. But they would have told me.”
“Do you know of anyone else who might want to kill Mr. Sayegh?”
The Syrian sneered. “I know hundreds who would like to kill him. But none are here.”
I nodded as if this made sense. It also meant that the likely killers were here in this fourplex.
“It looks like the man died about three days ago. Can you account for your time on Tuesday and Wednesday?”
Yusef shrugged. “I worked. My brothers worked. We went to a church meeting on Wednesday night. Then I was at home. We do not go out.”
