ELEVEN
He looked around, peered into to darkness beyond the truck lights, then lay the M-16 on the ground and went over for the scimitar. The second prisoner, watching him return, bellowed fear and dismay.
"Be silent," said Ghaith, and used the blade to cut the zip tie binding the man's hands. "Take the Bongo."
The man rolled over, his eyes bulging. "Allah--"
"--has nothing to do with this. Take the Bongo."
"I don't know why they took me," the man sobbed, massaging his wrists. "I'm innocent--"
"There's a slight chance you are," Ghaith stopped him abruptly. Taking note of the man's accent, he added, "Use the Bongo to move out of Sadr City, and fast."
"I was a translator for the Americans," the man moaned, as though trying to ruin his incredible good luck with a confession.
"There you have it. Move to America. Now go!"
The man scrambled to his feet and ran with a limp to the Kia mini-truck. The engine was still running. Dragging himself into the cab, the man quickly shifted into gear and tore a wide circle in the clearing, nearly ditching in the canal before straightening out and disappearing up the farm road.
Ghaith in the meantime was gathering up the weapons and ammunition from the dead Mujahideen and tossing them into the pickup truck, watched silently by the last prisoner, who had worked himself back onto his knees. His hands still bound, he surveyed the corpses around him with awe and loathing. There was no need for Ghaith to explain what he was doing, but the steel edge of resolve that had made him a pure survivor had worn thin. He needed to talk. And he had a captive audience.
"This will bring in good money. A lot of the weapons caches have been destroyed. The uprising can always use more guns and ammunition. Pretty soon, the Revolutionary Guard will have a regular pipeline into the country. Then you’ll see. They think this is hell? Just wait. And they don't care who they kill. They're just priming the pump, so that the killing goes on. That man who went off in the Bongo--he wasn't one of them. He wasn't one of anybody. That's all that it takes. But I'll sell these back to the killers. Guaranteed income, eh? They kill, I kill them, I take the weapons for resale, and the circle remains unbroken."
He did not bother explaining who 'they' were. He was a little rattled, after all, and was mixing identities. But in the end it didn't matter. It applied equally to everyone.
Finally, with all the automatic weapons and ammunition belts and pouches secured under a canvas in the back of the Toyota, Ghaith took up the scimitar and strode over to the prisoner. He began walking circles around the young man, flashing the heavy sword back and forth as if it was a toy. He was filled with scorn, with anger, with a manic energy. The young man winced. He was all of sixteen.
"What were you doing, eh?" Ghaith demanded harshly. "Why did they choose you? Were you with the Americans? Have you joined one of those idiotic brigades? Did they want you for ransom?" Ghaith stopped for a moment. "I'm ranting. No, not ransom. Of course not. They wanted your head. More than any of these others, they wanted your head. And look where it got me. Are you proud of yourself?"
He resumed his circular pacing, whipping the scimitar back and forth.
"Who should we blame for all of this? The Americans? The British? The Iranians? The Syrians? Can we point at someone else? Of course we can. We point at everyone! But I've known all along...from way back. Long before the wars, before the gassings, before the missiles. Don't worry, I'm not going to blame Allah, who is so great that we're mere pebbles of shit on His ass. It's us. All of us. I'm not talking about Kurds or Arabs or Persians or dictators or democrats. I mean all who are here. We're animals. We can't help ourselves. You put us in a cage and lock the door, we eat ourselves alive. This is just a small part of the cage. You know, of course, that I'm talking about the world. It's a cage. One giant hopping-mad cage."
Ghaith stopped and drew several deep breaths, almost sobs. He dug the point of the scimitar into the ground and listened to the mad rush of water from the canal outlets.
The prisoner took a deep breath. "What are you going to do to me?"
Ghaith shook, as though startled out of his dreadful vision. He went over to the young man and dropped to his knees in front of him, letting the sword fall to the side. He wrapped his arms around the boy and drew him in.
"What were you doing? How could you? You are the last one! The last one! Don't you understand?"
"Father," the boy began to weep. "Father..."
"I'll get you out of here," said Ghaith. "I'll find a way. But for now, go home. You must take care of your mother, who is sick unto death."
Ari awoke to the not-too-distant distant sound of a motor. Rising, he looked out the studio window and caught several glimpses of Howie Nottoway walking purposefully back and forth across his lawn. Ari craned his head and noted the clear blue sky. Perfect.
He switched on his computer, showered and dressed, then sat down to read his emails.
There were two.
The first:
'$532.67 spent. $3000 limit. Do not exceed.'
“Mos zibby!” Ari swore.
The second had the old-fashioned, unpunctuated immediacy of a telegram:
'Noon Wal-Mart Forest Hill I'll find you.'
Ari did not recognize either sender's address. There was no response to his request, but he was used to anonymous indifference and did not dwell on it.
After eating his last gulab jamun and downing a cup of tea, he went outside and did a quick tour of his yard. There was no sign of Sphinx. He was about to go out on the street and walk over to Howie's when a man and woman came scooting up the small strip of beach that ran between the Mackenzie property and what even Ari thought of as the Riggins' land.
"Hello!" the man called out.
Ari nodded amiably.
They were an attractive couple, as though consciously selected for some optimal genetic configuration. Their relative youth (late twenties) enhanced the prospects for beautiful children. Yet Ari sense they were childless, probably through choice, reserving their love for their reflections.
"I'm Matt Mackenzie," said the man as he came up the slope. He held out his hand, then stopped. "Oh...I'm sorry. Do you..."
"Shake hands?" Ari held out his right hand and Matt Mackenzie took hold.
"This is my wife, Tracy."
Tracy Mackenzie was staring at the men's hand-grip, her look of revulsion scarcely hidden. Shaking hands with a fucking, jogging A-rab, when everyone knew they used their bare hands to wipe the shit from their ass. No doubt she would demand her husband take a shower before she allowed him to touch her again.
When Ari let go of Matt's hand he touched his chest over his heart. He allowed himself a small burst of chagrin. Just as some habits were too-easily acquired, others were too ingrained to dismiss.
Matt suffered the morning chill boldly in shorts, T-shirt and sandals. He had the sleek muscular grace of an Olympic swimmer, but a face that was curiously hairless, without even a trace of stubble. Ari found this strange and effeminate. Did the man use a depilatory?
Tracy was not so much in love with the outdoors, taking cover under slacks and a light jacket that did nothing to disguise her figure. A lot of care had gone into her foray into nature, which began at her doorstep. She met the dawn with a completely natural facial palette, with her strawberry blonde hair scattered in a textured updo. Ari rather disliked her immediately, but could not help feeling aroused. Even from ten feet away her sex called to him like a hurdle to a horse. He subdued his interest as best he could.
Tracy did not offer her hand.
"We saw you wandering around in the yard," said Matt.
"I was looking for my cat."
A veil of doubt fell over Tracy's face, as if her worst nightmare had come to life right next door: an Arab with a cat.
"We're not exactly cat people," said Matt quickly, as though to curb a less neighborly comment from his wife.
"What a shame."
"I was wondering..." Matt's smile was like a beacon overtop of his hairless chin. "We're going to have a party in a couple of nights. Could we borrow your barbecue?"
Ari had been on the verge of accepting an invitation. A party at the Mackenzie’s would probably be most informative. Fortunately, he did not jump the gun. No invitation was forthcoming.
"I'm afraid I don't have a barbecue yet."
Matt's eyes bugged, as though he had just met a man without a body.
"I'm quite new to your country."
"Really? You don't have any accent, and I've heard some pretty wild ones." Matt nodded broadly, a man of the world.
Gambling that they had not spoken to Howie about him, Ari said, "I represent the Cirque du Soleil."
"No kidding!" Tracy gasped. Her husband gave her a bewildered look. "You know, that super-circus. We saw a video of one of their shows, remember? Saltimbanco."
"Oh...yeah," Matt said doubtfully.
"You said you'd take me to Vegas to see their permanent show."
"Go to Vegas to see a circus?" Matt said even more doubtfully
"I'm not one of the performers," Ari said with a trace of sorrow. "I only help arrange the touring shows."
"They perform all over the world," said starry-eyed Tracy, who had very quickly forgotten about her neighbor's cat and unseemly hygiene.
"Precisely. The Cirque required someone with a knack for organization and a flair for the major languages."
"Oh wow."
Matt looked from his wife to Ari and decided his fairytale grin was not misplaced. Ari was a great guy, and not just because he was his new neighbor. His toes were tickled by the perfectly managed lawn.
"What a lawn. Is this like fescue or something? Mind if I borrow your mower?"
"Sorry."
"No mower?"
"It appears the Riggins had a prepaid contract with a landscaper. I've inherited the service."
The Mackenzie smiles vanished. They seemed to think Ari rude for summoning up memories of the crime. Or perhaps it was their inability to sustain a coherent wrinkle that made them seem callous. Their faces were imperfect forgeries of real humans. Tracy attempted to close her jacket, but only succeeded in drawing her breasts into a single, impressive lump.
"Yeah, well, it was a crying shame," said Matt, adding a tsk for good measure.
"They were good people, I've been given to understand," said Ari.
"From a distance," said Matt.
"I'm sorry?"
"You know, sometimes great doesn't look so great from close up." Matt glanced at his wife, took note of her accumulated bosom, and appeared to decide that from close up some things were better than great.
"I did a little research after I moved in, on the internet."
Matt brightened. "You've got a laptop?"
"Alas..."
Matt shrugged. The urge to borrow subsided. "I guess you saw all the stuff about them. The awards and all. God's gift to the Tri-Cities and surrounding counties."
"You don't seem--"
"Oh, they were okay," said Tracy, feeling left out. "But just okay. I mean, they were average. I mean, I liked Moria...even a lot. We were even friends maybe even. Jerry was a little less than okay. He was kind of gung-ho on the boys and all."
As well he should be, Ari thought, though Tracy made it sound like a vice.
"How long did they live here?"
"Don't know. Not real long." Tracy tried to apply some lines of thought to her brow. Ari, who tried not to think about sex, would have liked to massage that brow, as well as to the body attached to it. It must be like skating on hot ice. "A few years. I think she said Joshua was already three or four when they moved in. Little Bill was still in diapers. We came...when was it, Matt?"
Less than three years ago, and she couldn't remember the year she arrived. How much of the kayakers' 'product' had she been ingesting?
"Back in..." Matt Mackenzie struggled with a time frame that extended beyond a week. "Almost two years ago."
Ari noticed that the monotonous, rolling squall of Howie Nottoway's lawn mower had stopped. Unless he walked down to the end of Beach Court, he would not be able to see his new neighbor exchanging pleasantries with the Mackenzies.
"That long, y'think?" Tracy spent a moment delving into the murky past.
"Where did they live before?"
"Up in Caroline County, about thirty miles from here. Jerry had a so-called studio barn for his stuff. He'd paint a square and call it Country Tree Number One Thousand. Moria couldn't take it."
"The art or living in the country?" said Ari, thinking that if Jerry Riggins' art was so universally despised, even by his own wife, how could he have managed all of those one-man shows before he was killed? Putting on a gallery display must involve some expense. Or was Jerry's merely the talent of a renter?
"The country," Tracy said. "Especially in winter. They had a wood stove. She hated that. A lot of smoke and no heat, she said. Then she started her own business and they moved to the city."
Tracy, still dazzled by Ari's job description, saw the Riggins' past more clearly than her own. She moved closer, and a part of Ari moved closer to her. He prayed neither of them noticed, but Tracy seemed to have a trained eye for such things and produced a knowing moue.
"Then you moved in and became friends with her." Ari passed an expansive glance over the river. He noted the primary colors of several kayaks headed for the rapids, the double-edged paddles flying, as though the rowers were intent on self-destruction. "You were very fortunate to get such a scenic view."
"Lucky as hell--" Tracy began. Her words were cut short by a sharp glance from her husband. She let go of her jacket and her breasts sprang back to attention, as much sentinels as enticements. "Yeah," she concluded lamely.
"The view from this house is also quite scenic," Ari continued. "I understand Moria Riggins purchased it with money she inherited."
"Not that it helped them in the end," said Matt with genuine bitterness.
"Besides," Tracy said, still warmed by Ari's Circus of the Sun, "There isn't any inheritance. Not yet. The Massingtons are still alive. The parents, I mean. They co-signed on the house, and one day Moria..." She hesitated. "One day she would have inherited."
"Have you spoken with her parents since that night?"
"The police brought them out to the house. I heard Heather Massington—well, it was more than crying. She like totally lost control. They haven't been back. They have a villa in Tuscany. That's where they are now, I think."
"Tuscany," Matt aspirated lowly, as though all the luck in the world had landed on that piece of Italian real estate, without a trace of grief. Then he started. "The people you bought the house from...they didn't tell you what had happened? You didn't ask why it went so cheap?"
Ari assumed the mask of a man foolish beyond reason. "I saw a very good deal. I only asked if flooding was a problem. By the way, is flooding a problem here?"
"We haven't been here long enough to know," Matt answered. "I hear every few years the James gets a little wild. We don't keep anything valuable in our basement."
"I'll bear that in mind. So there have been no major floods recently?"
"Nope."
Tracy emptied out the distance between them with a long step that flowed like warm honeyed tea and placed a hand on Ari's arm. It was his turn to go a little squeamish. She was using her left hand.
At this close range he learned what fueled her 'come hither' aura. Part of it, at least. The smell of gin was potent on her breath. Ari was tempted to look at his watch. She must have started drinking...well, very early. It was still very early.
Loyalty, Ari. Loyalty.
But it was an oath that was already violated. A touch from Tracy was like a night in a bordello.
"You've been to Paris?" she breathed. "And Rome? And..." Her grasp of foreign lands rapidly faded. "All those other places?"
"We've been there," Matt said in a griping tone.
"Where?" his wife asked, still gazing up at Ari.
"All those places. You remember." He was aggrieved that she should so soon forget all the great landmarks he'd taken her to, but he used the opportunity to tell Ari that he was a systems analyst. This sounded like a very vague profession to Ari. There were social welfare systems, weapons systems, solar systems...the list was infinite. He assumed it had something to do with computers, and suspected Matt had told him this as proof he could afford to take his wife to all those swell places and buy a house on the river, to boot.
"It was Howie Nottoway who told me about what happened here."
If Ari had forced them to drink sour milk he would have expected a similar reaction. But which did they find more distasteful: the murders, or Howie Nottoway?
Tracy began to draw back, then decided Ari's arm was too nice and strong to abandon entirely and left her fingers draped over his sleeve. Ari had had no personal experience with inebriated women and found it difficult to distinguish between the woman who was loose and the woman who was tight. Smiling at Tracy, he decided there was little to choose between them. Which was entirely too bad. He had a great thirst.
Not since the week before the invasion. Astonishing.
"Were you at home the night of the murders?" Ari asked a little hopelessly, as if it was more likely that they had stopped for the night in Trieste before resuming their journey to Athens.
"We didn't hear anything," said Matt, cutting right to the chase.
In all likelihood he was telling the truth. Whatever cocktails of liquor and drugs that they assembled and consumed during a typical day would lead to a typical night of near-comatose oblivion. And since the killings took place during the holiday season, it was even more probable that the Mackenzies had been dead to the world while their neighbors were being slaughtered.
But they had been up and waiting for the kayakers.
Was there some kind of schedule? Ari doubted it. Last night's weather would have chased even hardened boaters off the river. But it seemed even less likely that Matt and Tracy would sit up night after night waiting for their shipments.
"We can't see Beach Court Road from our house," Matt continued. "We can barely see the Riggins house. When all the police hoopla began, we didn't have a clue."
"We heard about it on the news." Tracy seemed oddly pleased by this, aloofness from neighbors, even friendly neighbors, being the height of fashion. And she was fashionable.
Ari was weighing the pros and cons of asking them about the rockets on the island when a loud motor revved in the direction of the Nottoway house. Hearing a tremendous buzz, Ari lifted a brow of inquiry.
"That's Nottoway's wood chipper," Matt snarled, and for the first time since he had met them, the Mackenzies proved they could impose wrinkles on their faces when properly motivated.
"Do you have a problem with Mr. Nottoway?"
They had drifted over to the gazebo. Ari gestured for them to seat themselves, but they declined. They suddenly seemed aware that this conversation had wandered, when they had intended it to be brief and to the point.
"Actually, it's about Nottoway that we came to see you," Matt began uncertainly. Tracy nodded with some vigor. She had allowed her fingers to drift away from Ari, but they had left sensuous invisible vermin in the sleeve of his jacket. Ari was scarcely able to refrain from scratching his arm.
"We like to think of this as a live-and-let-live community," said Matt, looking towards the house as if the Rigginses were still there to nod agreement.
"And Howie Nottoway doesn't share your concept?"
"We call him 'Achtung Howie'," said Tracy, carefully nudging a bang out of her eyes, but not so far as to disturb her all-natural just-out-of-bed but ready-for-the-Great-Indoors coif. Tracy sent a howl of a smirk in her husband's direction. "Tell him about the petition."
"Oh yeah. We were only here a few months when Howie showed up at our door and asked us to sign this damn paper. He wanted to ban drinking in public--including your own yard--outdoor parties, shouting, swearing, public displays of affection...you name it."
"He even wanted to ban smoking in your own house," Tracy added, nodding at the pack of Winstons bulging in Ari's shirt pocket.
"No," said Ari, genuinely amazed.
"Oh, hey," said Matt, noticing the cigarettes for the first time. "Can I bum one of those?"
"Certainly."
"And a light?"
Both men lit up. Matt seemed to relish knocking ashes onto the fescue he so much admired. This close to Howie-land, it must have provided him with the ecstasy of social revolution.
"You don't mind us having parties or..." Tracy applied her mind. "You don't mind us having some fun every now and then, do you?"
"Isn't your country's motto 'the pursuit of happiness'?"
"You got it!" Tracy exclaimed in relief. Ari was one of those good foreigners who understood the underlying philosophical principles of his adopted country.
His cadging instinct satisfied, Matt leaned against a gazebo post and puffed away. Now that he was at ease, he could volunteer information without being prodded by Ari.
"You want my opinion, if Jerry and Moria hadn't been killed, they would have been in Splitsville by now."
"I'm sorry..."
"Separated. Divorced."
"I thought they were the perfect couple."
"Then explain why the same day those goons showed up and snuffed them, Jerry was going off like a maniac."
"You saw something?"
"We heard him screaming his head off."
"And whopping the hell out of something," Tracy said. "It sounded like..."
"Like he was slamming doors," Matt continued. "I mean really slamming. It went on for twenty minutes or so."
"What time was it?"
"It was just starting to get dark. That time of year? Maybe five-ish."
For something like this to happen in broad daylight, Howie Nottoway had said.
"Did you call the police?"
"Hell no." Tracy gave a start, as if realizing her spontaneous answer might be too revealing. "I mean, it was a domestic thing. You don't call the cops every time you have a tiff."
The look she shot her husband hinted that if such were the case, the police would have a permanent camp on their lawn.
"We don't know if it was domestic," Matt said uneasily.
"Well he wouldn't be yelling 'Moria' if he was chopping wood."
Ari thought a moment. "Did Jerry Riggins own a gun?"
Matt relaxed and chuckled.
"Jerry was terrified of them," Tracy answered. "He said more people were killed accidentally than ever shot a bad guy." She parsed her sentence, found it wanting, but let it stand. It was understood that people knew what you intended to say even if you didn't exactly say it. Ari smiled, but he knew better than to accuse the Americans of corrupting their own language. The plague of unfocused meaning was worldwide. Tracy continued: "Why do you ask?"
"In this case, a gun may have saved Jerry and his family."
"Yeah, I guess."
"Would you like to come inside?"
At first they thought Ari meant the gazebo. Tracy stepped back when she saw him look toward the house.
"Oh no," she said immediately.
"What's the matter, afraid of ghosts?" But Matt too seemed uneasy at the prospect and allowed himself to be drawn by his wife's reluctance. "I guess we don't have time."
"You need to analyze a system?" Ari said politely.
"Uh...something like that. We just came over to...uh..."
"Enjoy your party. It can't possibly disturb me."
As they walked away, Tracy suddenly stopped and turned. "You're invited!"
Matt stopped, too, and drew a visual line between his wife and Ari. "Oh. Yeah. Sure."
"I might take you up on that." The American phrase sat nicely on Ari's tongue.
Matt suddenly brightened. "Hey, did you see the news this morning?"
"I don't have a television," Ari said.
This admission floored Matt, who took a moment to recover. "There was a big shoot-out in the West End. Three people killed!" He grinned broadly. "Welcome to the U.S. of A!"
Howie Nottoway seemed prepared for any dangerous alien that came his way. Not Ari's kind of alien, but extraterrestrial. Yellow eye goggles would ward off retinal burn, as well as keep his eyes safe from any inanimate object an oncoming Martian might toss in his face. Large Husqvarna ear protectors (which might well double as a commando radio headset