The 56th Man

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "Done?" Saddam Hussein called out.

  "Hold on."

  Ari could see Carrington's face by the light from the dashboard, a blue, ghostly visage. He was still breathing. Tough old buzzard.

  "Did Mahmoud put the stuff in the trunk?"

  "Hold on!" Ari repeated peevishly. "And stay where you are! I don't want any more tracks around the car."

  "Okay, Colonel."

  Even if he was found alive, the detective would never speak again. But on this above all, Ari wanted certainty. And he could not use another bullet.

  Come on, come on, don't make it harder than it has to be. You want that pension for your wife and kids, don't you? And if the police refuse them the money, for one reason or another, there's always the widows fund for the End of Watch list....

  Blood dribbled out of Carrington's nose onto the passenger seat. One drop, two drops, then a trickle of red tears. Then he heaved a sigh, and the breathing stopped.

  "Bring up--" Ari stopped and turned. Saddam Hussein was running back across the bridge. Ari frowned. What was he up to? He took a pair of thin latex gloves out of his pocket and squeezed his hands inside of them. Then he reached inside the driver’s window and lifted Carrington's SIG Sauer off his lap. Good, no blood. He eased the detective's jacket away from the stout belly and slid the gun into its holster.

  Hollow footsteps on the footbridge. Saddam Hussein had returned, a rifle in each hand.

  "Look at these!" he exclaimed, looking like a mustachioed child as he held them up. "Beautiful! Stupid jackasses dropped them when they wet their pants. They're, uh..."

  "Tac-50 sniper rifles, produced by McMillan Brothers Rifle Company. Bolt action, .50 caliber."

  "Think they're worth a lot?"

  "I would imagine," said Ari. "So you didn't have any trouble?"

  "Got the drop on them. They were up on that ridge. They turned around and there was Saddam Hussein standing right behind them."

  "I'd probably wet my pants, too," said Ari, walking around to the other side of the Lexus.

  "The .38 helped," Saddam admitted. “By the way, they looked like someone had roughed them up not too long ago. That your doing?”

  "Go get the van. Pull up to the foot of the bridge over there."

  "Yes, sir!"

  Ari leaned down and pulled away the strips of duct tape dangling from the car frame just under the passenger door. Mahmoud had done almost too good a job. Ari had had a difficult moment loosening the tape off the gun. If they bothered to look, the forensics people would find traces of adhesive. And Ari doubted he would be able to cover any tracks he left behind sufficiently enough to disguise the fact that a second party had been at the scene. But he did not think it would matter.

  Still, he took the precaution of removing a handkerchief and wiping down every surface he had touched. He opened the trunk and removed the large canvas bag Mahmoud had placed inside. Little fellow was strong, Ari granted with a smile. Mahmoud would take after his father. Even if he grew up as the spitting image of Saddam Hussein, he would never be drafted as a lookalike decoy. Some things really had improved.

  He was taking great care in placing the red-handled .38 in Carrington's left hand when an old Astrovan pulled up across the creek. He was lucky the detective had been a southpaw. Being right-handed would have presented complications.

  When he was done, he gave the body one last cursory inspection. Then he performed a small salute and reached down to turn off the lights.

  He crossed the footbridge, the canvas bag over his shoulder. Abu Jasim greeted him at the other end. He had removed the moustache and beret, but the resemblance to the imprisoned Iraqi leader was still uncanny.

  "Where's Mahmoud?" Ari asked.

  "Probably halfway to that boat landing where we first met. Want me to call him on his cell?"

  "No. And I want you to leave me off there when you pick him up. My house is being watched. Better not let them see your van."

  "Okay." Abu Jasim looked across the wide stream at the Lexus. "Think it was a good idea to kill an American cop?"

  "It was necessary." Ari laid the bag down in the back of the van. "He was a threat to my family."

  "Ah. You know best. But still…”

  “As soon as they test the gun, the police will drop the investigation. It was used in a homicide. A whole family wiped out using the gun I shot him with and put in his hand. Remorse and suicide, clear and simple.”

  If they look close enough, they’ll say he murdered his own daughter….

  “What I’m saying, Colonel, is that those two clowns with the sniper guns…I don’t think they planned on doing any shooting. When I came up on them, they were making jokes. They hadn’t chambered their rounds.”

  “It had to be done. Rana and Karim…”

  “Okay, Colonel,” Abu Jasim said, and repeated, “You know best.”

  "It's too bad. He wasn't a bad man. I would have done the same thing as he did."

  "Too bad," Abu Jasim shook his head. “But you know the old saying: It’s better to have your enemy for lunch than for your enemy to have you for dinner.”

  "How is your English?"

  "About as good as my French," said the former Saddam Hussein impersonator.

  "At the end, he kept saying 'fuck me, fuck me'. You don't suppose..."

  "Colonel, I always said you could charm the pants off anything."

  "You did?"

  "Well, maybe not always, sir." Abu Jasim cleared his throat. "So your librarian came through for you?"

  "Yes."

  "You'll have to reward her," Abu Jasim ventured suggestively.

  “I’ll take her to dinner.” Ari opened the mouth of the canvas bag and began pulling out various items. Abu Jasim whistled lowly as he rested them on the van bed.

  "These, plus the .38 I gave you...how much can you get for them? I'll give you a 20 per cent commission if you can dispose of these."

  "The night goggles I don't know about. Probably not much. As for the guns...I'd never get across the Canadian border with an armory like that."

  "You don't know anyone in the States?"

  "There’s a man in New York..."

  "Try him.”

  “And the rifles?”

  “A bonus for you. Now, for this..." Ari zipped open the two pouches of cocaine, the one from the Jenn-Air stove and the one he had taken from the kayakers.

  "Oh...Colonel. Pardon me, but now I see why they call you the Godless One."

  "You can deal with this?"

  "Probably with the same man. But--"

  "Excellent. Send me 80 percent of whatever you make."

  "Pretty risky..."

  "Seventy-five per cent, then."

  Abu Jasim looked longingly at the Lexus across the creek.

  “No,” said Ari. “That stays. It can’t be helped.”

  NINETEEN

  Over the next two weeks, Ari noted an efflorescence of orange in the stores. When he inquired about it, he was told by a bemused clerk that Halloween was fast approaching. He looked Halloween up on the net and learned it was an American conflation of Celtic and Christian holidays. At first it seemed like a memorial for past Christian saints, which seemed rather dull. Then it looked to be a kind of memorial for the dead, which seemed appropriate. Third glance suggested a worship of evil, which Ari found intriguing, although he fretted over the tidbit that cats were sometimes abused during the event. He occasionally saw Sphinx, but the cat had snubbed him ever since Ari had evicted him from his hiding place under the stove.

  "Be careful, little beast," Ari would murmur, thankful that Sphinx was not black--black cats being the main targets of sadistic mayhem.

  He finally concluded that Halloween was just a fun time for kids, and he was delighted at the prospect of little tots showing up at his door and yelling, "Trick or Treat!"

  He bought some decorations and a pumpkin. He carved a suitably scary face into the pumpkin, then studied the gooey mess of pulp and seeds that he had excavated
from the shell. He reviewed several recipes for pumpkin pie, then threw the mess into the garbage.

  On the last day of October, Ari dragged a kitchen chair out to his front porch, lit a candle in his pumpkin head, and brought out a large basket of candy. He poured a small portion of whisky and hid it inside the door. The sun scaled away from the river and a clear night approached. Ari lit a cigarette, took a sip of Jack Daniels, and relaxed, filled with mellow anticipation.

  Five o'clock. Five-thirty. He heard groups of children up the hill, on Riverside Drive. They would arrive within minutes. He re-hid his drink and stubbed out his Winston.

  The voices faded.

  More voices approached, more voices faded. He went down the sidewalk to the road. A group was just leaving Howie Nottoway's driveway. A tiny angel turned and began to trot towards the river before her mother caught her and drove her back up the lane.

  Of course. This was the Riggins house. Children had been brutally murdered here. It was only normal that parents and older children would want to avoid it.

  He slumped to the porch and dropped in his chair. As he lifted his glass, he caught sight of a yellow smudge at the edge of the yard.

  "Beast," said Ari. "Spy. Traitor. Turncoat. Don't you look plump? Who's been feeding you? The same people who have been feeding me?"

  Sphinx's tail shifted slightly. Ari knew there was no point in going after it. The cat would come in its own good time, if at all.

  Ari stood nodding and smiling and nodding and frowning and shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders and in general following Howie Nottoway's rambling conversation with every physical gesture in his armory, save the non-neighborly ones. Ari had joined the Neighborhood Watch, and was already responsible for nabbing a young boy who enjoyed defacing lawn ornaments and an infamous dog that took some kind of canine pleasure over leaving its stools on innocent doorsteps. Howie was ecstatic over the new member's aggressive tactics, though they were counterbalanced by a grievous laxity when it came to the loud parties on the other side of the woods.

  "Howie, why don't you join us one evening? I'm sure the Mackenzies would be glad to have you."

  "You mean...you've been going..."

  "I enjoy the good fellowship, the bonhomie. And I find Tracy Mackenzie irresistible. Stupid, but irresistible."

  Howie laughed in spite of himself.

  "Bring the wife," Ari continued. "And if you can't make it...be patient. I know they get loud, and they smoke, and they can be quite obnoxious at times. But it's only once a week, and they usually pass out before midnight."

  "Well...you really think they'd like having us?"

  Matt and Tracy Mackenzie would probably suffer seizures if they saw Howie walking up to their door with a bottle of champagne in one arm and a bushel of good will in the other, but Ari was convinced a bit of diplomatic tact would settle the issue.

  They had only once discussed Carrington's suicide. Ari had watched carefully as Howie progressed from startled amazement to confusion. There was no trace of sorrow. If anything, there had been a hint of relief.

  No more being bullied by the Detective Sergeant into spying on his neighbor and breaking into his house. No more sickening exposures of his inadequacy, or of the frailties of law and order. His sphincter might be on a short leash--it always would be--but he could ease the rest of his persona into public life without fear or sarcasm. And without recriminations. Ari would not be asking him for the key to his back door.

  Yes, he would be on patrol tomorrow night. Yes, he would be sure his cell phone was fully charged. No, he was not yet ready to attend Howie's church. But who knew what the future held?

  Lynn the Librarian became Lynn the friend, but nothing more. Lynn tried to interest Ari in The Tale of the Genji. Ari wanted her to accompany him to a bowling alley, which he was reluctant to visit alone. They compromised by going to see Gigli at the Westhampton. They enjoyed the popcorn.

  She tried to learn more about him. He found her sweet and attractive, in a flat-footed way.

  "Whatever happened with your friend? What is his name, by the way? He didn't give it to me on the phone. Did your joke work?"

  "He was a little nonplussed at first, but in the end he died laughing," Ari answered.

  "That's amazing."

  "What, that he died laughing?"

  "That I've met someone who uses 'nonplussed' as part of his everyday speech."

  Fred, of Ted's Custom Lawn Care & Landscape Design Service, seemed to know whenever he was out of the house. The LoJack, of course. After the first visit, Ari did not see him again for a long time. He would arrive home to find his yard immaculate and a thumb drive on his kitchen table or already plugged into his computer. He wondered at this furtive technique. Why not just hand it to him in person? Was it pride in tradecraft? To show Ari this was serious business, and to impress upon him the need for caution? Or was it possible Fred could not trust himself to stay cool in front of his client after what Ari had done to Sandra?

  The pictures became a steady drain on Ari's soul. After an hour of looking at them he would pour a drink and continue working until he passed out. Eventually, he began pouring that first drink before he even opened the image viewer. The faces of terror became a single face, two eyes peering out of a kuffiah scarf with malevolent righteousness while standing over his victim or victims.

  In the occasional digital video (usually ripped off from Al Jazeera) the executors-murderers could be heard chanting the usual Koranic-Marxist inanities (certainly a weird combination) to justify their actions. There was usually a trace of hysteria in their voices as they struggled to make clear that they were not common killers, but warriors of a mighty cause. It was ever thus with young men struggling to make a name for themselves, whether before society or before God.

  Often on the street Ari saw young black men with their hoods turned up, even in warm weather. They were flaunting their dangerous anonymity. They were learning. The Crusaders had brought back etiquette and refined taste from their wars. The Americans returned home with something far more sinister, and they feared it.

  The men he fingered sometimes showed up on the news as part of the daily body count. Ari had no way of telling if this was due to his efforts or to the diligence of the Coalition and Iraqi authorities. But one day he received an email that merely said: 'Thanks'. The sender's address ended with 'dot gov'.

  The Great Satan appreciated his efforts.

  He bought a portable television with a combination VCR/DVD player. He checked out movies and documentaries from the library and watched lectures from the Great Teachers series. Greek Mythology, Mediterranean Civilizations, the Great Philosophers, Economics, the American Civil War. He also liked old Hollywood films, and enjoyed Great Expectations so much that he checked out the book and read it through in two sittings. He took out the Day the Earth Stood Still. The robot's first appearance sent a deathly chill through Ari. There it was...the hidden face, the fierce, destructive eye: al Qaeda in metal.

  On December 23, Ari pulled one of the kitchen chairs into the living room and sat where Jerry Riggins had sat one year earlier. He sipped at his Jack Daniels, staring out the picture window long after midnight.

  Christmas came and went. He exchanged small gifts with Lynn at the library reference desk. Lynn gave him a wary smile. She told him he did not look well.

  The knock came on December 30. Ari was on his mattress, having fallen asleep in the mid-afternoon after a particularly hard session on the computer in which he had not only identified a killer, but the decapitated head of a victim. The insurgency was feeding on itself. The Americans would probably find this a hopeful sign.

  Before logging off, he had checked out a news site. He spent an hour reading, watching streaming videos, and drinking before falling onto his mattress.

  He opened his eyes, then closed them, trying to ignore the visitor. But the knocking became louder, more insistent. Whoever it was would not give up.

  Rolling to his side, he knocked o
ver the glass sitting on the floor next to the mattress. There wasn't much whiskey left in the glass, but spilling even a drop was a sin. He swore in Greek and Farsi.

  Struggling to his feet, Ari pounded downstairs and threw open the door.

  "What!" he demanded.

  The man and woman on his stoup were taken aback as much by his appearance as by the violence of his greeting.

  It was an unseasonably warm day. The man and woman wore light jackets. She had dark hair and round, thick glasses. He wore dark sunglasses against a sun that was going down.

  "Good evening, sir," said the girl. "We were wondering if you had heard the Good News."

  She held up a Bible.

  "Good evening Fred," said Ari. "Good evening, Deputy Karen Sylvester."

  The girl lowered the Bible. "Shit," she said. "Okay, invite us in, and try to look normal about it. Look like you're a lost soul or something."

  "Howie Nottoway can't see my front door from his property."

  "There could be someone in the woods. There could be someone watching from the river, from one of those islands. There could be a fucking satellite focused on us. Will you invite us in before I bang you with this?" Sandra/Karen held up the Bible again.

  Ari stood aside and they entered.

  "You look like shit," said Karen after he closed the door. Then she peered at him closely. "Have you been crying? You?"

  "Forgive my appearance. I wasn't expecting company."

  "You mean you always look like this when nobody's around? I don't believe it."

  “You are wise not to.” He nodded at Fred. “It's not the season for yard work, is it?”

  “I'm not allowed to see you without backup, anymore,” said Karen.

  “Ah, Fred is your bodyguard.”

  Fred grinned sheepishly and cracked his knuckles. “I prefer it to trimming hedges.”

  Karen removed her wig and glasses. “I hate going in disguise. And we had to make it look legit. Went to a half dozen houses like this. They all slammed their doors in our face. That was great.”