Jihad

CHAPTER 88

Kenan stood lost on the sidewalk as the door to the ambulance closed. Two policemen were pushing him back, saying something to him he couldn’t understand.

“Do you want to go with your friend?” asked a man behind him.

Kenan turned around. The man who had spoken was about his father’s age, perhaps even a little older, but in much better shape. His beefy arms flexed as he pointed down the street.

“I have a car,” said the man. “Come on.”

Kenan started to follow, then stopped. Would Asad have wanted this?

“They won’t let you in the ambulance unless you’re related to him,” said the man. “I’ll take you to the clinic.”

“He’s not my friend — he’s my teacher,” said Kenan.

“Come on.”

Charlie Dean led the boy to a Toyota they’d left in the area earlier as a backup. Dean found himself snarled in traffic after half a block, but that was fine — he wanted to prolong the drive as long as possible.

“Is he a good teacher?” Dean asked the young man.

“The best.”

“You in high school?”

“College.”

“Which one?” Dean said nonchalantly.

“College? Uh, Upper Michigan.”

“Good school?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are you studying?”

“Like, uh, engineering.”

“Good career.”

The kid shrugged.

“Probably make a lot of money when you graduate, huh?” suggested Dean.

“Money’s not everything.”

“Hell of a traffic jam, huh?” said Dean, unable to think of anything else to get the kid talking. He stuck out his hand. “My name’s Charlie Dyson.”

The kid took Dean’s hand. His nails were long, his grip weak.

“I’m Kenan.”

“Kenan?”

“Louis Kenan.”

“You from Detroit?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m from California,” said Dean. “Moved around a bit. Spent time in Arizona, back East north of Philadelphia.”

“Uh-huh.”

Dean thought of telling the kid he’d been in the marines but decided against it; that wasn’t the sort of thing that would interest a terrorist wannabe.

What would? He couldn’t think of anything to say to get him talking.

What he wanted to say was simple:

Listen, jackass, do you know what you’re involved in? Are you insane? You got about three seconds to straighten yourself out.

That would work real, real well. Dean even had the perfect model — his old man, telling him not to join the U.S. Marine Corps.

“So where in Detroit are you from?” Dean asked.

Kenan didn’t answer. The urge to take him and shake some sense into him almost overwhelmed Dean. He considered driving the kid to the police station, having him locked up, saving him, maybe saving some victim down the line.

But he didn’t.

“I’m just visiting Detroit,” Dean told him instead. “Any good places to eat around here?”

“Turn over there,” said Kenan. “My car is right there.”

“I can take you to the hospital,” said Dean.

“No. That’s okay.” Whatever daze Kenan had been in had lifted. “Thank you.”

“It’s okay, Charlie,” said Rockman from the Art Room. “Get the license plate. We’ll get more from him when he goes into the clinic. Good work.”

Dean, frustrated at how little Kenan had really told him, pulled to a stop and let the kid out.

The kid turned back to look at him, and it was all Dean could do to stop himself from grabbing him and shaking him until he came to his senses.

“God be with you, all praise be to him,” said Kenan.

“Yeah,” muttered Dean as the young man slammed the door. “Same to you.”

He shook his head, then read the plate number aloud for the Art Room.