Instrument of the Devil

by Debbie Burke

  She shook her head, miserable in her ignorance. “Afghanistan, maybe. He’s in Army intelligence. I never know where he might be sent.”

  Kahlil swiped and tapped the screen, moving so quickly she couldn’t follow.

  Watching his deftness, she knew without a doubt she’d never master Lucifer. It tormented her with tantalizing bits of information she tried to follow but blocked her when she needed it most. She felt like a hostage to the shiny device that held a single fragile thread connecting her to Neal. With one wrong tap or swipe, she feared she might break that thread, destroying the only lifeline to her son.

  Tawny hugged herself, trying to ward off the chill of fear.

  Kahlil looked up from her phone. “Why don’t you make us some coffee?”

  Grateful to have a useful task, she went to the kitchen. The carafe held yesterday’s dregs, so she washed it, filled the reservoir with fresh water, and opened a bag from Montana Coffee Traders. She scooped grounds into the machine, inhaling the aroma of the strong dark blend. Yes, a stout cup of coffee was what she needed.

  While the machine hissed, Tawny washed and dried a couple of glasses and plates that Kahlil had left in the sink. She opened cupboards until she found the right places to put them away. Still Ruth’s dishes. A wave of sadness brimmed, yet the simple familiarity of the kitchen reassured her.

  Tawny glanced at Kahlil, hunched over on the couch, elbows on his knees, brows drawn together with intense concentration as he continued to tap and flick. Dark hair covered his chest, with finer tufts reaching his shoulders and down his back. The intimacy of the scene struck her. This half-naked unshaven man just risen from his bed, coffee gurgling in the background, her standing at the kitchen counter like the wife she’d been for so many years.

  How many mornings exactly like this had she spent with Dwight? Worrying over one child or the other, sharing the trouble of life, supporting each other, together.

  Could she find that togetherness again with this intense man, working hard to help her in time of need?

  The brewing cycle finished. She poured two mugs then rejoined Kahlil on the couch. He broke concentration briefly to smile thanks for the coffee then resumed his work.

  By the time she finished her mug, his remained untouched and cold. When he at last looked up again at her, his expression made her hopes sink.

  “I’m sorry. I tried all the techniques I know. But the location is blocked. I traced back the cell towers where the signal pinged, but the last hub dead-ends. The phone is somewhere in the Middle East but I cannot pin it down more than that.”

  Tawny closed her eyes and leaned back on the couch. “Is there any other way to trace him? Can the Army…?”

  He pressed her hand. “You said your son is in intelligence? The Army may be the very ones blocking the signal.”

  Of course, that made sense. They didn’t want enemies to find Neal’s location. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Kahlil’s arm surrounded her shoulders and pulled her close. His lips moved against her forehead. “Do exactly what your son told you. Pray.”

  * * *

  That afternoon, Kahlil insisted on taking Tawny for a picnic, driving with the top down on his convertible. “I must distract you from these troubles that distress you so terribly. When I cannot fathom the answer to a problem, I leave it behind on my desk and go away for a walk. When I return, poof! The solution appears to me. That is the mysterious way the subconscious mind works.”

  “What about when there isn’t any solution?” she asked.

  He squeezed her hand. “It will come to you if you have patience.”

  Tawny gazed at the mountains ahead, where blinding sunshine melted the snow into thready waterfalls that tumbled down gorges. The wind tasted fresh, tangy with spring. Kahlil handled the sporty car skillfully, although he tended to speed.

  He meant well, trying to reassure her, but she recognized her powerlessness. She’d never found a solution to Dwight’s cancer. Now she faced losing her son. On top of that, she was probably under suspicion for criminal activity. Even if she came up with a brilliant idea for Neal, if she wound up in jail, there’d be no way to help him.

  The Hungry Horse Dam loomed, a massive arching concrete wall that held back miles of water in the reservoir. Kahlil turned on the road that ran across the top of the dam.

  “This is where I do my boring work,” he said but pride touched his tone.

  She smiled. He wanted to show off for her. A childish, but endearing effort.

  He slowed as they approached one of the two elevator towers. “The bowels of the dam go down more than fifty stories. Would you like to see inside?”

  She had to chuckle. “Not really. For years, my summer job was leading tours down there.”

  He looked momentarily chagrined. “Well, that makes me the fool. I thought I was offering you an adventure but you probably know your way around better than I do.”

  She shrugged. “Solly—Mr. Roth got me the job when I was still in school. I worked here part-time until last summer.” She stopped before saying when Dwight became too ill to leave.

  Kahlil stared quizzically at her for a long moment. Then he reached across, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a tri-fold brochure. “I knew you looked familiar the first time I saw you. And here you are.” He opened it for display.

  Tawny recognized a photo of her young self, pointing out a turbine to a group of school children. The rest of the pamphlet described the dam’s history and included long columns of specifications she’d had to memorize. “For goodness sake, I can’t believe they’re still giving out this old brochure. They really need to update.”

  Kahlil shook his head. “No, they don’t. It is timeless and beautiful.” He refolded the paper and started to put it back in the glove box but a sudden gust of wind tore it from his grasp. It blew past Tawny out of the convertible. She opened the car door to go after it.

  The brochure briefly dropped to the sidewalk but, an instant before she reached it, another gust whipped it into the air, sailing onto the waist-high parapet. There, it settled again. She grabbed for it, only to miss a second time as it flew over the side, whirling in the air like a butterfly.

  Kahlil joined her at the parapet. They bent forward, resting their forearms on the ledge, watching the brochure twirl in space. She felt him close, the current vibrating between them even without touching.

  “I had planned to send that to my mother,” he said. “I try to show her the various places where I work. I will have to pick up another one.” He gave her a mischievous wink. “Now I can also tell her I know the famous tour guide pictured in it.”

  The breeze tousled his dark hair, blowing it across his forehead. She wanted to brush it out of his green eyes but stopped herself. “Not a very impressive accomplishment.”

  He grimaced. “Better than my pitiful, embarrassing attempt to impress you.”

  She liked that he made fun of himself. “Your work’s probably more complicated and important than leading tourists around.” She cocked her head to the side. “Although, I do know how many cubic tons of concrete it took to build the dam, how many men worked on it, and how many kilowatts are generated every year. Would you like me to bore you with a lot of statistics?”

  He laughed. They returned to the car and drove across the remainder of the dam.

  A few miles beyond, Tawny motioned to a trailhead. “There’s a pretty spot to eat lunch up that trail.”

  Kahlil pulled over and parked. They strapped on two backpacks that Tawny had provisioned at home with water, sandwiches, a blanket, and coats. Kahlil didn’t have hiking boots, so she planned to take an easy route.

  She led the way. Although the spring sun beat down, when they moved into shaded sections, Kahlil shivered in the brisk air and pulled his tan canvas jacket tighter. He kept pace easily, although she heard his breathing. Not used to high altitudes.

  Two miles up the trail, they reached a rocky outcropping that overlooked the rese
rvoir. Fishing boats dotted the water, eager anglers out after a long winter cooped up. Snow still coated the higher mountains in the distance but nearby hills grew lush with new grass.

  “How about here for lunch?” she asked.

  Kahlil stood on a ridge, surveying the landscape, one hand shading his eyes. “It is very beautiful. So many trees, so much water.”

  Tawny smiled to herself. The scenery wasn’t new to her but she still felt the thrill of the wild vista, fold upon fold of mountains dense with trees, the clear blue dome of sky, the bright sun beating down on them. She dropped her pack and pulled out the blanket to spread on a flat rock, warmed by the sun.

  “The food is in your pack,” she said.

  Kahlil turned in a slow semi-circle, still taking in the view. When he again faced her, a smile lit his expression. “Thank you for bringing me up here. I have never seen such beauty.” He took a few steps toward her, cradled her face in his hands, and kissed her.

  Her knees quivered. In a husky voice, she murmured, “Aren’t you hungry?”

  Warm lips moved across her cheek, along her jaw, mustache brushing her skin. One hand swept hair away from her ear so he could nibble the lobe. His breath sent shivers through her. He worked down her neck. She wanted to embrace him but his pack was in the way.

  She reluctantly stepped back. “Hey, let’s get rid of this.” She tugged on the shoulder straps until they slid down his arms. He set the pack down and looked at her with that intense heavy-lidded green stare.

  Bedroom eyes. That’s what her mother used to say.

  A movement to the side captured Tawny’s attention. She caught a glimpse of a doe and a spotted fawn a few yards away. “Look,” she whispered and pointed.

  Kahlil turned with her. Together they watched the deer graze along the trail. The doe inspected them but didn’t shoo the fawn to safety. Instead, she allowed the baby to come within twenty feet of them. It lifted its head, curious about the intruders, then returned to crop tender new grass. After several minutes, the doe changed direction and skipped down a steep embankment, hooves clattering on rock, the fawn frolicking behind.

  “Wow,” Kahlil breathed. “I have never been so close to a wild animal. You have truly brought me to paradise.”

  Tawny unzipped his pack and took out sandwiches, apples, and bottles of water. They sat on the blanket, side by side, leaning into each other, and ate slowly.

  Kahlil crunched on an apple then said, “I have told you about my life but you have not shared yours with me.”

  She shrugged. “Not much to tell. It’s boring, compared to your travels.”

  “Tell me anyway.” He playfully bumped her shoulder. “I will stop you if I get bored.”

  She snorted. “Born in Montana, lived here my whole life, will probably die here.”

  “There’s more than that. What were you like as a little girl?”

  “Stupid. I struggled with reading, couldn’t even spell cat. My dad used to say, ‘Thank God you’re pretty, honey, cuz you sure are dumb.’”

  Kahlil’s brows furrowed with disapproval. “That’s a dreadful message to give a child.”

  His comment made her pause. She’d heard her dad say it so many times, the words long ago lost meaning, a running family joke. But, way back in the depths of her memory, maybe age seven, she recalled crawling under her bed to cry so he wouldn’t hear how much he’d hurt her. For the first time, Kahlil made her realize the impact of the casual words from her childhood.

  She shifted to a more comfortable position. “In any event, Dad was right. I was always on the edge of flunking out. I started modeling in high school because I got to skip classes. Did some TV commercials, local magazines, fashion shows, department store openings, that brochure for the dam. It was a lot better than school, where I was always behind, never caught up. When I graduated, I kissed books goodbye forever. At least that’s what I thought. Then I met Dwight.”

  “Your husband?”

  Tawny nodded. “He was fifteen years older. He’d finished his tour with the Army and opened a diesel engine repair shop in Kalispell. Pretty successful. He was sponsoring a fundraiser for the community college to start a diesel mechanic training program. The college had hired me to model for its catalog. Pretty funny, me, pretending to be a student, modeling for a college I could never hope to get into. Anyway…”

  She drifted backward in memories to the day she and Dwight had met. Everyone there for the photo shoot, student or professor, was smarter and more confident than she was. She’d felt horribly out of place, an imposter.

  Then she’d spotted a big, square-jawed, barrel-chested man in a dark blue mechanic’s uniform, leaning against the block wall. He was watching the photo shoot. And watching her. The name patch on his shirt read Dwight and his easy posture said he didn’t have to prove anything to anyone. He looked too old to be a student but maybe an instructor, although not one of the snobbish professors.

  He’d ambled over to her and made a joke, which she couldn’t even remember now, although she vividly remembered the crinkles of humor around his brown eyes. Despite her painful shyness, he’d put her at ease instantly. The rest of the crowd faded into the background and they stood together talking, the only two people in the universe.

  Kahlil’s voice brought her back to the present. “Then you married?”

  She nodded, took a sip of cool water, which didn’t quench the ache in her throat from remembering. “I told you I thought I was done with books. Well, I wound up keeping the books for our business. Had to learn payroll, general ledger, receivables, payables. But for some reason, the work was easier than school had been. Maybe because we were doing it together. Dwight always helped me when I’d get stuck. He didn’t get mad or impatient, just kept telling me I could do it. Little by little, I learned.”

  “You are far from stupid if you can master accounting.”

  “It’s not that hard. You just plug numbers in and the computer does all the calculations.”

  “Tawny.” Kahlil faced her. “You are not stupid. You are an extraordinarily intelligent woman. I know. I test intelligence in my work. Perhaps you had a learning disability, which is why you had difficulty in school. But you overcame it. You learned how to work around it, compensate, to figure out other methods that made more sense to your brain, your process of thinking. Not all people learn the same way. The important thing is that you learned.”

  She dropped her head low and murmured, “Dyslexia.”

  “I thought it might be,” he answered softly, as if he understood her shame. “To overcome it, as you’ve done, requires great intelligence.”

  Gratitude welled like a warm spring flowing inside her heart.

  Dwight had always tried to reassure her but she never quite believed him. He was smart but he was a mechanic, not a scholar.

  But Kahlil was educated, really educated, a doctor. He had just explained the mystery of why her brain struggled with some things, yet clicked easily with others. It finally made sense. She gazed at the reservoir, silently repeating his words like a mantra.

  Kahlil fingered her ponytail. She hadn’t bothered with her usual french braid that morning, distracted by Neal’s text. His hand twined in the loose strands, stroking, gently pulling. When her head lolled to his shoulder, she noticed black clouds in the west.

  “Tell me more,” he asked. “What was life like after your marriage?”

  She hugged knees to her chest. “Good. Not exciting but steady. The business grew, eighteen guys working for us. After a few years, it was the biggest shop in northwest Montana. Paid our bills, raised our kids, lived the American dream.” She paused, letting memories meander. Their life together had been good.

  Kahlil waited, quiet, until she was ready to go on.

  “Dwight wanted to retire while he was still young enough to travel, so we sold the business. Neal and Emma were on their own by then. We started looking at motorhomes, figuring we’d drive around the country, catch up on all the vacations and
weekends we’d missed while we were working six, seven days a week and me giving tours at the dam.”

  “Did you?”

  A lump lodged in her throat. “No.” Hoarseness roughened her voice. She blinked and swallowed, wishing he’d stop asking, now that his questions veered into the time of their lives filled with so much pain.

  Kahlil rubbed her back, comforting strokes that made no demand.

  She felt torn between not wanting to talk, yet longing to share the burden of sorrow with him. “Agent Orange came back to haunt Dwight. He was diagnosed with aggressive prostate cancer.” She pressed her lips tight together. “Never thought I’d have to learn to spell words like ‘prostatectomy’ and ‘metastatic.’ We spent the next eight years fighting it.” She had to swallow again. “But it won. Finally took him last July.”

  Kahlil continued to rub her back, saying nothing. She was glad because she didn’t want to answer any more questions, or relive what she already relived, night after sleepless night, alone in their bed clinging to Dwight’s teddy bear.

  She sensed Kahlil’s quiet understanding. No further explanations necessary. He had lost his love too.

  A memory returned, unbidden. Hospice had been called in, spelling the end to false promises of remission, promises broken by cancer. One night in bed, Dwight had said, “You shouldn’t have married such an old man.”

  She’d stroked the few remaining strands of his hair and tried to tease him. “I’m madly attracted to cradle robbers.”

  But for once he didn’t want to joke. “You shouldn’t be alone. You ought to find another man, OK? He’ll be a lucky son of a bitch, just like I’ve been.”

  Was Dwight watching her now?

  On the broad expanse of the reservoir, canoes and sailboats skimmed across the water. The sun warmed her face. The quiet felt peaceful, not lonely, as silence often did.