SIX
"Watch this," Omar chuckled to the policeman who had ordered Ghaith out of the white pickup truck and marched him to the canal bank. He pointed the way with the muzzle of an M-16, either stolen from or issued to him by the ever-helpful American army.
Set on automatic. No regard for marksmanship.
Omar nodded at one of the guards standing over the three prisoners brought from the back of the Kia Bongo truck. The prisoners were hooded, on their knees, their hands bound at the back. The guard returned Omar's nod and yanked the hood off the prisoner nearest him.
Ghaith stood silently while the bound man blinked around him. He was terrified when he saw the three guards from the mini-truck, their heads swathed in kuffiah scarves, but he said nothing. Ghaith stonily admired his mute courage. The prisoner was about thirty, a time when a man's strength ebbed in the stream of family and responsibility, when he had something to lose. The men standing guard over him were probably ten years younger, on average, than their captive. Poor, clueless, dangerous.
Omar, nearly forty, was an exception. It was hard to jibe him with the scruffy kid who screamed laughingly at incoming rockets during the Whirlwind War, somberly declared he would kill a million Iranians with his bare hands, then cried in outraged misery when his favorite shop ran out of sweets.
But how many of them hadn't changed? Ghaith doubted he would have recognized young Ghaith, that astonishingly skeptical boy who took luck and disaster in stride, unconvinced that fear should be a ruler of souls. Only years later, on the Highway of Death, while American tank-busters roared with impunity overhead and men were roasted by the bushel all around him, did Ghaith finally have it beaten into his head that fear, on some occasions, was a valid guiding principal.
Ghaith had missed the key moment in Omar's transition from a pint-sized hellion to a dour takfiris--one of those self-appointed assassins (who had formed a kind of club of the self-anointed self-appointed) who took it upon themselves to decide who was righteous and who was not, with the intention of inflicting the ultimate penalty upon those found wanting.
Omar had been arrested and tortured under the old regime, but no more than anyone who wanted to wipe out most of mankind deserved. Ghaith had been in a position to check the file on his old chum, who had not exactly flourished as a killer of lukewarm Muslims. But he had a big mouth (hence his arrest), and when the new chaos came and all the restraints were thrown off he was ready to settle down to business and discard hope for his immortal soul. The takfiris understood that destroying people on a large scale might be misconstrued not only by their victims, but by the One True Power, as well. So be it, if that meant the salvation of humanity--or what was left after they were done with it.
Unfortunately, Ghaith had not understood any of this until Omar told him about the power shift in the Ministry and pulled a gun on him.
He arrived home at midnight--an iconic moment for this house. After placing a kettle of water on the stove he changed into the jogging suit that served double duty as pajamas, switched the computer on, then returned downstairs. Packing a small wad of black Assam tea into his steeper, he dropped it into a coffee mug (should I invest in a proper tea cup?), and relished the brownish red swirls of infusion. He looked slightly devilish as lowered his head over the cup to savor the aromatic steam.
He rested the cup on the kitchen table (still the only furniture in the house aside from the computer desk and two smallish chairs), went to the back door, and studied the strip of clear tape he had stretched between the top of the door and the frame.
Broken.
With a satisfied chuckle he sat at the table and sipped his tea.
His complacency was disrupted by a faint thud. Upstairs, perhaps, but he couldn't be sure. Was it possible that he--or they--was still here? Lowering the cup onto the table, he rose and moved silently to the front of the house. Turning the corner to the living room, he saw a large yellow cat descending the stairs.
Ari bellowed with outrage. The cat stopped, as though amazed, then took off, squirting through the banister rails and vanishing into the den. Ari gave chase, racing into the den only to see the cat flitting into the kitchen, running into the kitchen only to see it scoot down the hall, taking the hall only to catch the briefest glimpse of it popping into the living room, arriving in the living room to see it complete the circle, bouncing up the stairs and disappearing from the top landing.
Ari followed. He stopped in the upstairs hallway and looked both ways. The doors to the Riggins boys' two bedrooms were closed, as were all the closets. That left the master bedroom, the bathroom, and what Ari thought of as the studio as possible escape hatches. There was no furniture beyond the computer desk and office chair. No place for the animal to hide. It should be an easy matter to locate and evict it. Or strangle it and toss it in the garbage.
A single glance told him the master bedroom was clear. He went in anyway, to check the windows. Then came the bathroom and the studio. All the windows were closed, but where was the yellow devil? As he came out of the studio he saw the flick of a tail as the cat whipped downstairs and back into the living room.
Ari swore loudly and pounded down after it. He circled the rooms, then saw the door to the basement standing open. He hesitated at the top of the stairs, breathing hard. With another oath, this one lower, he went back into the kitchen and dropped into the chair. He would deal with the beast in his own good time.
After a few more sips of tea he was able to regain his equanimity. He dwelled on the possible identity of his unannounced visitor. He was fairly certain all the first floor windows were closed. There was an outside chance the cat had sneaked into the garage while Ari was pulling in, but he was certain he would have seen it spurt past his legs as he entered the kitchen hallway. Unless there was a large hole in the wall somewhere, the cat had to have entered with the intruder.
He had been sitting at the table for over five minutes when the cat appeared at the entrance of the kitchen. Ari restrained himself from leaping up immediately. He watched.
The cat stepped out cautiously onto the linoleum floor. It glanced at the refrigerator, then stopped when it spotted Ari. Having decided to wait and see what it did next, Ari did not move. It backed away very slowly, then stopped again, watching him. After another minute, it sat and took a few long swipes at its fur with its tongue, shifted its front legs, then watched him some more. Seeing no more threatening gestures, it rose up and walked a few feet into the room before sitting back down to watch him some more. Once or twice it met Ari's eyes, after which it would look away, almost as if out of shyness--or insolence.
Ari nearly lost his self-control when the cat rose and leapt on the counter. He found it revolting to have the animal tread on the cutting board he used to divide his chicken. But he waited.
The cat sat on the cutting board and stared at the refrigerator. It obviously knew this was a place where food was stored. This was no feral animal but one wise in the ways of humans. A pet.
It meowed once, a short, almost harsh sound. Rising on its rear legs, it pressed its front paws high up on the side of the refrigerator and meowed again. Then it sat back down on the cutting board and stared at Ari.
"Don't tell me you haven't eaten in nine months."
On hearing a voice far less dangerous than the one Ari had used while chasing it, the cat rose, lifted its tail, and emitted a pigeon-like trill. It seemed healthy enough, in no way underfed. Ari drew out a Winston and lit up. He was still using the ash tray from the car.
He no longer felt so keen on throwing the cat out. It belonged here as much as he did. More so, maybe.
It jumped to the floor and put a prudent distance between them when Ari went to the refrigerator and took out the milk. He poured some into a saucer and placed the saucer on the floor. The cat did not come. Ari reseated himself at the table and took up his cigarette. The cat approached the saucer, sniffed at the milk, then crouched and began to drink.
Ari finished his tea and smoke. The cat backed away when he stood and walked past the saucer.
"Smart cat," Ari nodded.
He stopped in the center of the dining room, then called out over his shoulder. "Hey cat, do you think they found what they were looking for?"
He had planned to do this the next day, opening the thick curtains and letting sunlight assist him in his search. But the chase had shaken off all trace of evening lethargy. He did a quick tour, looking for anything amiss, registering possible hiding places for future investigation. At first glance, in a house without furniture, there appeared to be few options.
Back in the living room, he took up the same speculative stance he had assumed on his first night, next to the invisible easy chair in which the body of Jerry Riggins had been discovered. The scene sprang to life--or death--in his mind. But there were too many gaps in his mental reconstruction. The Christmas tree--had there been gifts underneath it? Often Christians who celebrated the season put lights on their trees. Ari had seen this in pictures. Had there been lights on Jerry's tree? Had they been switched on? Had there been a fire in the fireplace? And there was the blood. How much was there? What was the splatter pattern like?
He looked again at the fireplace. Something was hanging down in the back. Ari had a reliable memory, and he didn't recall seeing that when he last stood here. Resting on his haunches, he saw it was the chimney’s damper handle. Ari went down on his hands and knees and leaned inside the hearth. Twisting his head, he tried to peer past the open damper and smoke shelf. Too dark. He reached inside as far as he could and encountered nothing more than the cool lining.
Pulling out, he began to knock his hands together, then stopped. They were still clean. Everything about the fireplace was clean. Not so much as a smudge on the log rack, the brass andiron, the little black poker, shovel and broom. He looked up to find the cat watching him from the bottom of the stairs.
"Ah. You're wondering, too. Why would the damper be open if the fireplace has never been used?"
Weariness overtook him. He went up to the studio to find the computer humming loudly in the bare, enclosed space. In the heat of the cat chase he had forgotten he had turned it on. Dropping into the chair, he went online and checked his email. He did not find it surprising to find a message in his inbox, but the heading startled him:
A FRIENDLY REMINDER.
He opened the message.
‘Ted's Custom Lawn Care & Landscape Design Service wants to remind you that you will soon be due for a lawn manicure. Thank You!’
Ari glanced at the sender's address: tedslawncare.net.
Junk mail? Spam? Or some form of American humor?
He spent a few minutes perusing the news, the gruesome mayhem of bombings, shootings and beheadings in the Middle East. Then he logged off and lay down on his mattress, his bones settling in with a slight ache as he stretched out.
He was just drifting off when something tucked itself in the crook of his knees. He controlled his reflex with the memory of Carrington's glower as he read his text message in the restaurant. Was someone telling him that he had been unable to find the secret buried somewhere in the Riggins' house? Or could the message have been:
"The cat got in."
The cat was kneading the mattress, purring softly. Ari let it stay, accommodating himself as best he could.