Deadly Odds

by Allen Wyler

  Davidson stood to his left, hand on his shoulder. “Soon as I sweep the place, I’ll help you clean up.”

  Arnold gulped a breath, held up a finger. “Give me a few minutes. I feel… dizzy.” He stepped back outside to the porch, sat down on the steps, and buried his head in his hands, eyes clamped tightly shut. What he’d seen inside kept reverberating through his mind’s eye. He couldn’t get the image out of his head until, in a flash of clarity, he knew he would revenge Howie’s senseless murder no matter if it cost him his own life. He didn’t notice the sounds of Davidson working inside.

  A couple minutes later he became aware of Davidson clomping down the stairs from the second floor, saying, “Nothing up there, either. Feel a little better now?”

  Arnold raised his head from his hands, stood on shaky legs, went back inside. “Not much. Doubt I’ll ever feel better about what happened. Never. My life will never be the same.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose and blinked, trying to clear his head. “And I’m not saying that just to be dramatic. I really mean it. After my folks died—especially the way they did—life changed. All the security I felt as a kid suddenly vanished in one brutal, senseless act. Part of me died along with them, corny as that sounds. It’s like the entire experience repeated when Howie… Guess this is one of the reasons I’ll be happy to disappear into the relocation program, get an entirely fresh start in my life with nothing around me to remind me of Seattle.” Arnold stared at his interlaced fingers, feeling sorry for himself while at the same time angry at God, if there was one.

  “Life never is the same, after something like this.” Davidson waved toward the kitchen. “Come on, show me this basement room I’ve heard so much about, then let’s get this place straightened up.”

  They entered the basement stairs from the kitchen, the flight directly underneath and paralleling the stairs to the second floor. The basement had lived its long life as a large unfinished room with exposed overhead joists, large old-lumber supports, and a cracked unpainted concrete foundation with a lint-clogged drain near the old wall-mounted laundry sinks. Along the south wall stood a washer and dryer, with a natural gas forced-air furnace in the corner. A separate room had been built directly under the living room. Arnold opened the door and reached, threw a wall switch, illuminating a panel of bright overhead LED lighting. “Watch your step.”

  He stepped up onto a floor elevated three inches off the basement cement to ensure the room would stay dry if the floor accumulated any moisture during the wet Seattle fall months. Arnold had built the floor by fitting sheets of three-quarter plywood over a simple frame of three-by-fours. He’d covered the plywood with squares of linoleum, all of which had been purchased from Home Depot and fashioned with Howie’s father’s power tools. The only window was a narrow horizontal rectangle five feet off the floor but only a few inches above the ground outside, the confined view obscured by the flowerbed shrubs. Although the window was too small for anyone but a child to squeeze through, further security was enhanced by stainless steel bars securely bolted into the surrounding cement. Because the computer equipment generated heat, Arnold had also installed thermostatic air-conditioning to maintain a cool 65 degrees year round.

  “They’re LEDs,” he muttered, referring to the overhead lights. “I try to minimize wasted energy. Also, they run cooler.”

  Along the left wall stood two floor-to-ceiling gray steel racks with shelves spaced three feet apart. The shelves held two servers with numerous external disk drives all ganged together with a rat’s nest of cables. Snug against the adjoining wall ran a plywood workbench on which sat three additional tower computers in various states of repair.

  “Wow, now I appreciate what all the fuss was about.” Davidson stood in the center of the room, taking it all in. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to what looked like a portable generator under the left end of the workbench.

  “It’s a dedicated cooling and air circulation unit. Runs constantly to regulate the heat computers generate. Keeping the room at this temperature ensures they run well without overheating. They don’t like being too hot.” He realized he sounded like a parent bragging about his kids and felt his face blush.

  An hour later, Davidson exited through strike in the front door, paused and turned, right hand on the door jamb, left hand holding the screen door open, a concerned look on his face. “You okay?”

  You kidding? Hell no.

  Arnold glanced down, lips pressed tightly together, inhaled audibly through his nose. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Eventually… Just need to get my head straight, is all. Wow, just hit me that this will be the first time I’ve been alone since all this started. Boy, seems like it’s been going on weeks now,” and shook his head.

  Davidson glanced at his watch and appeared to make a decision. “Want me to stick around few more minutes? I got time if you want.”

  “Naw, I’ll be okay. I’ve taken enough of your time.”

  Davidson punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Okay. You’re a smart guy. You’re going to come out on top of this. Sure you’re straight on everything, have Fisher’s and my number?”

  “I do.”

  “All right, then, be strong and call the moment something breaks.” The lawyer turned, walked wearily down the cement steps to his car.

  Arnold watched Davidson’s Benz move slowly down the narrow curving road and disappear around the corner, leaving him feeling isolated and afraid of an uncertain future. Instead of going inside and shutting the door, he remained standing on the small porch, concentrating on each of the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of the beloved neighborhood of his childhood, embedding each in his memory for retrieval sometime in the future, when he knew loneliness would envelope him. In a few days—whenever that might be—he’d be forced to leave the only home he’d known. It was, he realized, a place he’d taken for granted. Soon he would never be able to return. This realization made it all the more imperative to burn these images into his brain forever.

  He was realistic about the odds he faced in going up against the Jahandars, and they were heavily stacked against him. But if he were going to die, he’d be damn sure to take as many of those fuckers as he could along with him.

  Finally, he gently shut the door and wandered into the kitchen to make a hot chocolate, an indulgence he allowed himself when feeling out of sorts. If Fisher were correct, his enemies would make contact tomorrow at the funeral. He needed to plan his next moves carefully. From this point on, he could afford no mistakes. His life depended on it.

  23.

  The dense pewter overcast—so characteristically Seattle—produced misty drizzle befitting Arnold’s mood. The deceased’s young age coupled with the violent and senseless cause of death amplified the solemnity of the gathering. Arnold stood among the graveside mourners, the smell of freshly overturned sodden earth unmistakably pungent in the chilly breeze. Drops of water glistened like diamonds on the freshly mowed emerald lawn as the rabbi’s monotone droned through the service. Arnold had dressed too lightly for the miserable weather and was now shivering in the marrow-penetrating chill, fists shoved deeply in his pockets, shoulders hunched so tightly his neck muscles ached. Only fitting, he decided, that he should suffer physically now, a menial penance for his guilt. He owed Howie a debt that wouldn’t be repaid until the Jahandars were killed. To make matters worse, he repeatedly caught himself stealing glances at Rachael. What kind of friend are you to be coveting his sister during his funeral? Jesus! Another wave of guilt swept over him. I’m such a jerk.

  As they began to lower Howie’s simple pine box into the ground, Arnold wished it were his body inside instead. If he’d been at home when Firouz and Karim arrived, he would’ve simply handed over the computer without any argument. Let them have the damned thing. For all the good it would do them. But he wasn’t home, and when he did return, Howie tried to warn him and in the process gave his own life to save Arnold’s. I’ll never forget you, brother. Never!

  Howard’s famil
y and friends began approaching the grave, bending down to pick up handfuls of damp dirt to toss on the coffin, each impact causing a gut-wrenching thump as the rabbi slowly recited Psalm 91 and El Maleh Rachamim. Arnold had purposely arrived at the last minute so he wouldn’t have to stand next to the grave and come face to face with Howard’s parents, but now he watched as each family member tossed a handful of clay into the grave. And now, to his shock, he realized the similarity between Breeze and Rachael. Jesus, did I pick Breeze because I want to fuck Rachael? He felt his self-esteem drop even lower.

  Service now over, the people began drifting into a line to Howie’s mother, father, and Rachael. Arnold shuffled into the queue and glanced toward the outer edges of the cemetery, searching for Firouz or Karim, but didn’t see them. Just as well. The sight of either man would only have upset him more. He considered what to say to Sarah, Howard’s mother. This would be his first words with her since… Christ, it was difficult to even think the word “murder.”

  Then he was next. He wrapped his arms around Sarah, hugged her tightly, mumbling, “I’m so sorry. I…” but words failed him. He squeezed a little more before releasing her. Seemed as though she was also reluctant to let go, as if holding on to the last living remnant of her son.

  She gently held him at arm’s length, looking deeply into his eyes. “Howard loved you, Arnold, like a brother.” He saw her red-rimmed tired eyes and mascara slightly smeared from tears.

  “I loved him, too,” he said, wanting to say so more. Instead, he moved on to Herbert. They shook hands without a word.

  Next came Rachael and their first encounter since Vegas. For a fleeting moment he flashed on Breeze and the things other than sex she’d taught him. He realized he was no longer intimidated by her presence and could actually speak with her. Without thinking he wrapped his arms around her and hugged. “I’m so sorry, Rachael, so sorry.”

  To his shock and pleasure, she nestled her head against his chest and hugged him tightly. “I know you are,” her warmth a delight against his shivering body. Without thinking, he kissed her on the forehead and, as he did, she hugged him closer. Then, he held her head in his hands to directly into her eyes. “This is awful for me to say under these circumstances, but when the time’s appropriate, I would love to see you, maybe take you out to dinner if you want.” And now you’re hitting on her? Jesus, what kind of friend are you? He bent down and kissed her forehead again, a move he never in a million years would’ve ever considered.

  She smiled, her eyes twinkling with an emotion he’d never seen before, but then again, had he ever really had the nerve to make eye contact? And at that moment he knew a nonverbal message had just passed between them. She liked him, too. He smiled.

  “I’d like that, Arnold, I’d like that a lot.” She squeezed his hand before turning her attention to the next mourner in line.

  For a moment he stayed frozen in place, marveling at what had just transpired between them. And, truth be told, he knew this was Howie’s final gift to him. A tear welled up, and he turned away. Then, eyes down, began trudging the winding path to the parking lot, making no attempt to acknowledge the smattering of friends and family doing likewise. No one talked anyway, they just moved wordlessly to their vehicles, the mood too solemn for conversation. That would change, he figured, soon as they were inside their warm vehicles driving away, trying to forget the message funerals impress upon us: death is certainty, leaving only the question of when and how it will occur.

  Having been one of the last to arrive, he’d parked at the far end of the rectangular asphalt lot. Now pausing to allow a car to back up and exit, he heard the overhead whine of a jet on landing approach to the nearby Seattle-Tacoma airport. Up until now, his plan had been to simply disappear under a new identity, go to Hawaii maybe, start a new life. But now, with the possibility of seeing Rachael…

  He paused and glanced around, reorienting himself, having wandered here so deeply in thought that he momentarily forgot which direction to go. About fifty feet ahead, parked at the end of the lot, was his green Jetta. Looked empty, but he couldn’t tell for sure at this angle because the front seat headrests obscured his view. Interestingly, the area immediately surrounding the car appeared deserted. And this was not what he’d expected. Fisher’s suggestion had caused him to anticipate running into a Jahandar sometime during the event, and it made the most sense that it’d be here and now. And now, looking, he didn’t see anyone at the other end of the lot coming his way, either. Then, as he moved closer to the Jetta’s front door, he saw the silhouette of someone in the passenger seat. Who? How had they gained access to the car? He distinctly remembered locking the door. His heart began pounding, engulfing him in the prickly flush of fear. Firouz. Has to be that bastard. His fear morphed into rage.

  Hold on, hold on. Take a few breaths. Isn’t this what is supposed to happen? Didn’t Fisher hope you’d make contact this way?

  He bent down for a closer look.

  Aw, shit, Breeze.

  And now he hated her, especially with the sight of her coming on the heels of his encounter with Rachael. He straightened up, scanned the area again. No, no one else nearby. Was the FBI watching? Sucking in another deep breath, he reached for the door and, to his surprise, found it unlocked.

  Slowly he slid into the driver’s seat. “What do you want?”

  She faced him. “Come on, Arnold, I think you know. Or do you prefer I call you Toby?”

  He slammed the door and fired up the ignition. His encounter with Rachael had temporarily distracted him from the chill now in his marrow, giving him shivers. The sooner the heater began pumping out warm air, the better. He turned the seat heater to high. His clothes, he realized, were soaked with drizzle. Stupid to come without an umbrella or raincoat.

  She seemed to be waiting for an answer, so he sniped, “What’s the matter, couldn’t get the computer to work?” He goosed the gas and checked the rearview mirror.

  Anger was churning his gut now that his initial shock was subsiding. He felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the mental image of them struggling to discover a way through the multiple layers of the laptop’s security only to watch helplessly as the hard disk destroyed itself. Yeah, that’s probably exactly what happened. He couldn’t suppress a self-satisfied smile. Assholes.

  Breeze glanced around as if looking for something. Like? Maybe she was looking to see if he had surveillance. Or perhaps it was a sign to her own people. Any number of possibilities. But the game had now officially started.

  “Why don’t you take me downtown and we can talk during the drive?”

  He muzzled a sarcastic reply and concentrated on driving his initial course to Aurora Avenue, also known as old US Highway 99. Once out of the cemetery and headed north toward the city, Breeze began running her hands over his chest and legs. He swatted her hand away. “The hell you think you’re doing?”

  “Just checking.” She pulled his cell phone from his pocket and slipped it under her flank, effectively muffling the microphone.

  “For what?” Then realized how stupid his question must sound.

  Apparently satisfied, she said, “Politics aside—because I know you don’t have strong feelings one way or the other—there is money to be made. Firouz can make you very rich, you know.”

  He can also make me seriously dead.

  “Since you’re calling me Arnold, why don’t you tell me your real name?”

  “Naseem.”

  Well, at least that’s truthful. He thought he’d mentally prepared for this moment, trying to script a tactic that would make him seem hard to get while at the same time convincing them he could be recruited. Now, his mind was awash in questions, most of which were inappropriate, and some just flat-out hateful. Shame on you for even thinking them. Yet several still surfaced, questions like: “What kind of man lets his wife fuck other men for money?” He realized his best strategy would be to just shut the hell up and let her do all the talking. He flipped the turn signal, pulled into
the passing lane and overtook a tractor-trailer freight truck. Finally, he said, “Go on, deliver your message.”

  She settled back into the seat, hands in her lap, eyes straight ahead. “I’m not the one to negotiate with. Firouz is. I’m simply here to set up a meeting. But what I can say is he’s prepared to make you a very generous offer; that is, if you’re willing to listen.”

  Arnold realized he’d been white-knuckling the steering wheel so tightly his fists were aching. He let go with his left hand and began to flex and extend his fingers, loosening up the muscles. He then repeated this with his right hand. It was all he could do to keep from verbally lashing out at her, but knew that would be counterproductive. Everything had changed and he was now an actor, playing the part of the stand-offish-yet-willing-to-listen geek for hire.

  “Why would I even consider working with you?”

  “Like I said, there’s a lot of money for you. Isn’t that enough? And then there’s the other thing. If you don’t wish to cooperate, we can make certain the FBI discovers your prior involvement. Is that what you want, Arnold?”

  For a moment he almost laughed. Knowing the FBI was actually behind him, talking to them gave him a sense of power.

  “You find this funny?”

  He realized his mistake: smiling. He shook his head, serious once again. “I think it’s funny you seem to forget something very important. Firouz and Karim murdered my best friend. Not only that, it was so cold blooded. Now you want me to work with you? How can any of you expect me to accept that?”

  Stupid question. Hey, don’t overact. Tone it down.