"Baskin-Robbins, Forest Hill, 2 PM. Have what you want, but hoping this will alleviate your boredom. I asked for a better picture, but this was all that was provided."
He clicked on the attachment and drew in his breath.
"My husband, your son is doing well. He is working as a translator for our small community here. He is also taking many classes. You know how eager a student he has always been. As for myself, I am doing well. They have asked me to write this in English. I have never been as adept at languages as yourself, but as you can see, I still have some of my wits left. They treat me well, here. There is no fear. I have been asked to provide a picture. Here I am. Your wife."
He stared at the picture.
His roar of grief and rage sent Sphinx flying. It took every ounce of Ari's willpower not to smash the computer to the floor.
She hasn't forgiven me....
He sent the office chair crashing against the studio wall and stormed blindly through the house, bedroom to basement, flooding the vacant spaces with his despair. He slammed his fists against walls, ripped down the thick curtains of the living room, pounded the kitchen table into a rickety hulk.
It was only when he found himself in Joshua's bedroom that he found the control for his rage. His eyes narrowed on the spot where the boy's bed had been.
Joshua, why were you awake at that late hour? Was it fear that kept your eyes open? Or something else?
He would not know until he saw Sandra.
Downstairs, he found Sphinx crouched next to the front door. Apparently it realized its hiding place had been permanently compromised and understood the only safety lay outdoors. Ari had never paid much attention animal emotions, but Sphinx's terror was painful to see. He leaned down to pet the cat, but it drew back. He nodded, and opened the door. With a keen sense of loss, he watched the animal rocket away into the woods.
At two o'clock, Ari was seated in a strictly functional plastic chair watching a mother two tables down trying to control the ice cream dripping from her four-year-old's cone. He appreciated the friendly, apologetic smile she gave him as she wiped a green blob off the bright red Formica. It was all the more appreciated for being offered to a lone man, a foreigner, who seemed very much out of place.
What he didn't find so friendly were the wary glances of the high school girl manning the counter. What was he doing here? Why wasn't he ordering?
He studied a bulletin board loaded with 'Have You Seen Me?' flyers. Nearly half of the children pictured had been 'kidnapped' by their own fathers. Ari could not bring himself to take these seriously. Why shouldn't a man take charge of his own children?
For half an hour Ari twisted in the plastic chair. He had noticed similar buttock-cups in many of the American eating establishments he had visited so far. After going to great lengths to attract customers, some restaurants seemed to go out of their way to make them as uncomfortable as possible. He realized this was entirely subjective. The woman and her son did not leave prematurely, nor any of the others who came in, ate and departed while Ari sat mute near the entrance.
Sandra entered breezily, a large courier pouch under her arm.
"You ate already?"
Ari placed his hands on the table. "What you see."
"You don't like ice cream?" Keeping the pouch under her arm, she went to the counter and gazed lovingly down upon the containers of ice cream under the display glass, like a pilot trying to locate a landing field in the fog. She finally chose an off-white ice cream with thick caramel seams. She cocked her head and carried her dessert to the back, out of sight of the counter. Ari stood and followed.
Laying the pouch on the table, Sandra sat and immediately planted her tongue in the ice cream, following it to the crown with the sensuous innocence of a child.
"You don't know what you're missing," she said, smacking her lips.
"I'm not hungry." Ari gave her an impatient look. "If I can just take this--"
"Nuh-uh," Sandra shook her head. "It was hard enough getting copies. It was just as hard getting that email from your wife forwarded. You're super hush-hush, my friend." She cocked her brow. "Are you sure that letter and picture weren't enough? I can imagine you're bored."
"I want that file."
"Okay. It was worth a shot. It took about ten signatures before RPD would hand anything over, including a John Hancock from State. You really are one of their darlings."
"I thought I was here under the auspices of the U.S. Government."
"Well duh, that includes the State Department, which is pretty fuck--" Sandra stopped herself. "Pretty high." She took another tongue-swipe at her cone. "But this is as far as this goes. The RPD gave up a copy, but I have to have it back to them by four."
Ari glanced at his watch. It was almost a quarter to three. "How long will it take you to get this back to the police?"
"Half an hour."
"That gives me very little time. And you were late."
"Couldn't be helped."
Ari took the pouch and unzipped it. Inside was a manila folder that he immediately suspected was too thin by least three-quarters.
"Let's switch seats," Sandra said, seeing a family take up a nearby table. She wanted Ari's back to the wall. He squeezed out of his chair and took her place. He flipped open the folder and frowned.
"What's wrong?" Sandra asked with mock innocence. "Isn't it what you wanted?"
"These are report forms from Officers Jackson and Mangioni. I've already spoken to them."
"So you told me."
"Where is Detective Carrington's report? Where is the autopsy?"
"Autopsy? You didn't say anything about getting technical. Listen, I jumped through a lot of hoops to get even this much."
Ari glanced through the forms and came up with four spreadsheets.
“Matrix worksheets,” said Sandra when he held them up. “One for each victim. Usually they work those up when there’s a legitimate suspect. Compare the suspect’s story against the evidence. There’s no suspect, but this will come in handy if they nab someone.”
Nothing varied from what the two policemen had told him. Saturation stains, the positions of the victims, the extensive spatter patterns indicative of death at close range. Everything consistent with the thin gruel of police theory, lethal harm inflicted by person or persons unknown. It was grotesquely meager.
“’Ghosting pattern’…” said Ari.
“That’s a gap in a splatter pattern.”
“You mean, no blood where you would expect blood.”
“Right. Sometimes you can see the outline of the killer from the back-spatter on the wall. Sort of like leaving a stencil of himself. A lot more spooky, though.”
“There was an indication of a ghosting pattern on Joshua’s clothing.”
“That means someone lifted something off the poor boy after he was shot.”
“I see…” Ari paused. “There is no indication of spatter on any of their sleeves,” he mused out loud.
“Why should there be?” Sandra crunched through the last bite of her sugar cone, obviously aware of his growing agitation. She stood. "I want to try some pistachio."
Ari was able to finish the very brief--too brief--reports while she was at the counter. He closed the folder and thrust it angrily into the pouch. The back of his hand brushed against something rough inside and he widened the pouch. There was another zipper. He opened it. At first he saw nothing, but when he reached inside his fingers encountered a small square that felt like plastic. He removed it quickly and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He zipped up the inside pocket as Sandra turned the corner and took up her seat.
"I'm pleased to see that you're not chewing gum today."
"I didn't want to risk getting my jaw broken," she said with a scowl before digging her tongue into the green mass atop her cone. Ari did not see much improvement over the gum.
"This report gives me less information than the newspapers. I want to see the chief investigator's report, the coroner’s repo
rt, the pictures, the toxicology report."
"In your dreams." Sandra wiped away a small green moustache with the back of her hand. "What were you overseas, anyway? Some kind of CSI guy?"
"I was with Special Security," Ari said after a moment's thought.
"That sounds like a cheap comic book!" Sandra laughed disparagingly, then resumed working on her cone.
"Is it the city police who are withholding this information, or is it you?"
"I've done all I can," Sandra answered with surprising earnestness.
"Why would they do that?"
"You mean why would they want to withhold confidential files from a complete stranger who has nothing to do with the investigation? Why would they withhold evidence from someone who might be a foreign agent?"
"What did you tell them about me?"
"Actually, nothing," Sandra sighed. "But that's how they'd react if they knew. As it stands, they don't like the Marshals Service butting its nose into their business. It's a Federal-local thing."
"You mean like the interdepartmental rivalry that allowed the September 11 attacks to happen."
Sandra blushed. "Well, that was more Federal-Federal, actually. But it's the same principle."
"I understand," said Ari. And he did, all too well. "But I find myself asking why certain items have been excluded. For example, the officers' reports make no mention of what the neighbors heard that day and night."
"They didn't hear anything."
"That's not true. The day of the murders there was a tremendous row just before nightfall."
"At the Riggins house?"
"Yes. Their neighbor, Howie Nottoway, claims not to have heard it, but I believe he had a front row seat."
"What do you think it means?"
"That the back door to the Riggins house was smashed in at that time."
"That doesn't make any sense." Sandra gave a startled jerk. "I mean, the news said they were murdered around midnight."
"One of them was." Ari leaned forward. "That is why the toxicology report is all-important. I need to know--"
"Which one of them was killed at midnight?"
"One of the parents."
"And the others? Before or after? It couldn't be five in the evening. The coroner wouldn't make a mistake like that."
"Soon before the parent was killed. I've done some informal timing of kayakers on the river during the day. They must go much more slowly at night, and since sound carries so far at that time--"
"I suppose you know you've totally lost me."
Ari nodded, as though with nervous excitement. Sandra now knew as much as she needed to know. And so did he. Her eagerness and her annoyance betrayed her interest in a case over which she had zero jurisdiction. He splayed his fingers across the table in a display of self-control.
"I've said enough. This is idle speculation on my part." He nodded at the pouch. "With so little information, how can I reach any conclusions?"
"Right..." Sandra did not look convinced. "You know...if you found out something by chance...I mean about Moria and her family..."
Moria....
"I mean, maybe this copy is incomplete because there’s something personal about them in the report and the police don’t think it’s relevant."
"Something that might besmirch their good name?"
"Where did you say you learned your English?" Sandra waved the question away. "They were killed. All of them. It was unfair. Even worse, it was totally unexpected. Every family has its secrets, and maybe they had some..."
"They did not have the opportunity to brush up their image for posterity."
"Yeah..." Sandra practically jumped forward. "But that doesn't mean there was anything--"
"This censorship doesn’t surprise me. There are very few places on earth where 'freedom of speech' exists in fact as well as theory. Your country isn't one of them."
"Like where you come from?"
"Iraq, Ms. Sandra. Iraq."
"Keep your voice down," Sandra hissed.
"Saying what was in your mind in Iraq was a very dangerous proposition."
"Until we came."
"Before, we worried about government informers. Now we worry about everyone. Is that the meaning of democracy, Ms. Sandra? Everyone has the right to inform on the other? Is that little child over there going to run screaming to the authorities if she overhears my conversation?"
"Only if you patted her on the head, too," said Sandra, exaggerating a point to disprove it.
"Really?" Ari said, surprised. "Why?"
"What? The patting? Are you kidding? You'd be a pervert."
"But she's only a girl."
"Exactly."
"But...of course, if she was a young lady, I wouldn't think of it." Ari was momentarily stumped. "But a child?"
"You're not a friend or relative. If you touched her in any way everybody here would damn straight report you."
"Amazing. And if my wife..."
"Same thing." Sandra leaned forward and lowered her voice. "That little business with the gum would've landed anyone else in jail for a few nights, believe you me. I'dve liked nothing better than to see you..." Sandra sat back, deciding she had made her point.
Ari dwelled on this for several moments.
"Drawing profound conclusions?" Sandra asked.
"Not very profound. Only that it seems that it is the bitter and self-hating countries that go to war against each other."
"You're comparing the U.S. to Iraq?" Sandra crumpled the empty paper sleeve that had held her cone, took up the pouch, and stood. "I was told to vet that email from your wife for any hidden codes. You know what I saw? Nothing. And I mean nothing. 'Hi hubby. Everything's fine. Your wife.' Boy, you could bury the Manhattan Project in all that lovey-dovey, without even a 'wish you were here'. How do you even know that was your wife under that gook suit you make your women wear?"
"An abaya and niqab," said Ari lowly. Sandra was not looking at his eyes. If she had, she would have stopped.
"You couldn't even see her eyes! No thanks. You see me, you see what you get. I'm going. Don't send any more crappy demands to your boys on the glass ceiling. I'm not doing you any more favors."
She turned and stormed down the length of the ice cream parlor, ignoring the bemused glances of parents and children. This was the last place they would have expected to see a domestic spat.
Ari followed her into the parking lot. Hearing him behind her, Sandra turned, saw the killer in his eyes, and dropped the pouch. Ari easily parried her kick and used her own leg to vault her to the ground. He grabbed her by the scruff as she began to roll away.
"You listen!" he shouted.
"What," she gasped. "You're going to kill me with a sob story? I don't want to hear--"
He gripped the back of her small neck and lifted. She was a toy.
"Don't do this," she said. "Someone will call--"
He whirled her around. She brought up a knee and he knocked it aside. Taking her under the chin, he slammed her against a black SUV and raised her off her feet. His fingers dug into the fine bones of her jaw.
"Are you listening to me?"
He nodded her head for her.
"Do you hear?"
He repeated her nod.
"Excellent. Because you must understand, if you speak disrespectfully of my wife again, I will kill you. Do you understand?"
He nodded for her.
"Your masters have not fully informed you of the situation, or else you would not have spewed such filth. Yes?"
He forced another nod.
"My wife is the most beautiful woman in the world. Wouldn't you agree?"
A vigorous nod.
"She never before wore the abaya and niqab. She is a devout believer, the best woman, the most wonderful mother, but she did not feel the need to hide her beauty, for which I thank God daily. Don't you thank God?"
Nod.
"Choking..." Sandra's protest was a harsh squeak.
He squeezed her mandible hard
er. He felt her jaw hinge shift.
"You are not speaking, Ms. Sandra. Your words are filth. Can you still hear me?"
Nod.
"When the Americans invaded my country, they used many CBU’s. Do you know what those are?"
He shook her head for her.
"Cluster-bomb units with anti-personnel submunitions. They contain hundreds of bomblets. The bomblets are indiscriminate and scatter across a wide area. To children they look like toys. Many children tried to play with these toys. They were either killed or maimed by the thousands. By the thousands, Ms. Sandra. Would any civilized nation use a weapon such as this?"
A vigorous shake of the head.
"I agree. Only savages with peasants for leaders would employ such things. My eldest boy was killed by a bomb. But he died on the field of battle, honorably and heroically, while trying to blow up one of the machines you sent to conquer us. Isn't that magnificent?"
Nod. Then another nod. Then another.
"My youngest son was at home with his mother and my middle son. He went outside to play. He saw a bomblet. He thought it was a toy. His mother saw what was about to happen and raced out to save him. But it was too late. He was killed in the explosion. And my wife...my wife...would you like to know what happened to my wife?"
Sandra's feet were well off the ground. When he nodded for her, her head thudded loudly against the window of the SUV.
"Yes! You want to know!"
More concussive nodding.
"She was wounded grievously in the explosion. Do you want to know how badly she was injured?"
Nod. Thud. Nod. Thud.
"Her left arm was completely taken off. Whoosh! A miracle, a vanishing act! Her chest was filled with shrapnel. What remained of her breasts was cut away by the surgeon. Isn't that terrible. Don't you weep at this?"
Nod. Thud.
"Oh. Are you dying? I'm so sorry. But let me finish my 'sob' story. Do you want to know why my wife now wears the holy garment that hides her face and eyes? Yes? Then listen, you filth. It is because my wife no longer has a face! She has no eyes! She has no face! She has no eyes! She is hidden forever! You filthy..."
The 56th Man Page 24
