Prayers for the assassin

CHAPTER 14

Sarah awoke from a nightmare-Rakkim on his knees, a hand clasped to his side, blood leaking through his fingers. She awoke from that nightmare and found herself in another. This one real.

Sounds of bubble wrap popping woke her up. A scrap of packing material left in the shadow of the alley where the security light didn’t reach. A scrap she had placed in the funnel point where anyone coming in the back way would have to step. The nearby trash can overflowed with cardboard boxes, Styrofoam, and packing material. Anyone walking on the piece of plastic might think it just an unlucky break…a bit of sloppiness from the tenants, but the footsteps outside were hurrying now. Whoever was coming for her was not fooled.

She rolled off the couch, fully dressed, everything she needed in the loose pants and zippered jacket she slept in. The apartment was on the third floor, the window open to the alley below-she didn’t have time to get away, but she had time to unlock the door to the hallway and leave it ajar, as though she had fled in haste. She had time to remove the piece of wood paneling behind the radiator. It was an old building, pretransition, with thick outer walls to keep the heat in. Gas and oil had been expensive then. There was room in the wall for her to hide, a tiny space she had lined with insulation. Footsteps pounded up the stairwell as she squeezed into the tiny hiding spot. She locked the panel back into place and prayed that the seam in the dark pine was aligned with the others. She lay flattened in the dark, the radiator hissing. Waiting. Just as she had rehearsed so many times, except that in rehearsal she hadn’t already been drenched with sweat. She thought of Rakkim and wondered if he was still angry at her for standing him up at the Super Bowl. Probably. He held a grudge. Footsteps in the hallway. Creak of the front door being pushed open. Her heart was beating so loudly it sounded like thunder.

Sarah closed her eyes, fought off the fear and the claustrophobia. With her eyes closed she could imagine that she stood in an auditorium, gathering her thoughts before giving a lecture. There were voices in the room now, and the sound of furniture being knocked over. She opened her eyes. There was a crack in the paneling from the radiator’s heat, a crack that allowed a glimpse of the men ransacking the apartment. There were two…no, three of them. She didn’t think they were Redbeard’s men…they were too loud, too clumsy. Most of them. One of them though…her eye was pressed against the crack, eyelashes brushing against the rough wood. While the others darted around, a bald man moved to the couch and placed a hand on the cushion, felt the heat from her body still lingering. She shuddered as though he had touched her.

“Go check the roof,” ordered the bald man.

Sarah saw a man in a long leather coat rush out the door, heard his footsteps beating up the stairs, not even trying to be quiet. It was the middle of the night, but the neighbors knew well enough not to investigate sudden noises.

“The bitch is gone,” grumbled a tall, freckled scarecrow.

The bald man picked up a container of half-eaten Chinese food on the coffee table, remnants of her dinner. Sniffed it. “Thermal this shithole. I’ll decide if she’s gone.” He put his feet up on the coffee table, dug in with the chopsticks. A glop of chicken and bean sprouts fell into his lap on the way to his mouth. He went back for more.

Scarecrow circled the living room, using a handheld thermal imager to look for her. He scanned the stuffed chair, the hutch, walked out the ceiling and the floor. He hit the walls too, the unit beeping as he passed the radiator.

Sarah bit her finger to stop her teeth from chattering, sweat pouring down her face.

Scarecrow kept walking. When he finished, he started toward the bedroom.

“Don’t forget to get around the closet,” said the bald man. “And behind the shitter!” He started on the leftover sweet-and-sour pork, chewing with his mouth open.

Leather coat came back. “Nobody on the roof. It’s a jump to the next building, but she could do it.” He laughed. “If she was motivated.”

The bald man licked the chopsticks clean, stood up from the couch. “Toss the place. I’ll hit the bedroom and check her personals.”

Leather coat tore a mass-produced picture of the Great Mosque in Jerusalem off the wall, examined the back, then threw it onto the floor. He moved around the room. The desk was emptied, drawers overturned. Bent the TV screen in half.

Sarah turned away from the crack in the paneling, listening to the sounds of destruction, breathing through her mouth. Roasting. She had rented the apartment months ago, hoping she would never need it. Hoped she would never need the hiding spot either. She couldn’t believe they had found her. She had been so careful. These weren’t Redbeard’s men…it had to be the Old One who had sent them. She peeked out again through the crack.

“Little missy travels light,” scarecrow said to the bald man, as they walked back into the living room. “Just a toothbrush in the bathroom, no purse, no notepad, no papers.”

The bald man sat on the couch with a quart of milk in his hand, drinking straight from the carton, and the idea of him raiding her refrigerator enraged her out of all proportion.

“I don’t know about Ibn Azziz taking over from Oxley,” said scarecrow. “They say he don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t pump whores. How can you trust somebody like that?”

“That’s what a grand mullah is supposed to be like, you heathen prick.” The bald man shook his head. “All that matters is if he pays the bounty.”

“I’ll take Oxley any day,” said leather coat. “Man knew how to throw a party-”

The bald man chucked the empty milk carton onto the floor, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “This Ibn Azziz, he’s in a hurry. We’re going to work steady with this one.”

Sarah shifted slightly in the hiding spot and a raised nail scraped her arm. The Old One hadn’t sent these three men-they were bounty hunters. The Black Robes had a small army of mercenaries under contract for their dirty work, ex-army, ex-police, ex-cons. Even so, the Black Robes had never dared to challenge Redbeard directly. Now they were actually going after his niece?

“We got here five minutes sooner, we would have caught the bitch,” said scarecrow. “I could have bought a new car with my share.” He booted an antique mahogany bookstand, shattered the thin wood. “If asshole hadn’t stopped to take a piss…”

“I got a weak bladder,” said leather coat.

“Yeah, and if you didn’t have a weak bladder, I’d be riding in style tomorrow.” Scarecrow played with one of those Filipino flip knives that went snickity-snick. “Now maybe one of the other teams is going to collect the reward.”

Other teams? Sarah tasted dust in her mouth.

“We’ll find her,” said the bald man. “Little girl can’t hide forever.”

Scarecrow jabbed the couch with his knife, drove the blade in and out without passion. “What do the Black Robes want with her anyway?”

The bald man sat on the couch watching scarecrow play with the knife. “Don’t know. Don’t care, either.”

Sarah heard liquid splash on the floor, and leather coat saying, “Ahhhhhhhhh. That’s better.”

“You’re disgusting,” said scarecrow. Stuffing from the couch drifted across the floor.

The bald man stood up. “Let’s call it a night. She’s on the run now, scared and not thinking straight. We’ll catch little miss high and mighty another day.”

Sarah listened to them shuffle out, slamming the door behind them. She didn’t move. She stayed where she was, in the cramped darkness. She hated the dark. She had slept for years with a night-light on. Redbeard had tried to break her of the habit, but even he had been forced to give up. Rakkim…Rakkim had slept on the floor next to her bed when she had nightmares. It had been the only thing that helped.

The living room was quiet. She was half dozing from the heat. How had they found her? What mistake had she made? She changed outfits every time she left the apartment. Sometimes she dressed as a good fundamentalist. Sometimes as a modern. Sometimes as a Catholic. She never took a direct route to the apartment, never went to the same grocery store twice. Still, they had found her. Her eyes burned and she didn’t have room to wipe them. She was going to have to move again. The bald man had said she was going to be scared and not thinking straight. He was more right than she wanted to admit.

She craned her neck. Squinted at the luminous dial of her watch. It had been over twenty minutes since the bounty hunters had left. Her legs ached, and her lungs were heavy from the heat, but she stayed where she was. If you can’t be smart, be patient, that’s what Redbeard used to say, his insult the price of his wisdom.

She wished Rakkim were here. He would know what to do. She had wanted to tell him what she was up to, she had argued that he could be trusted, but the answer had always been the same. Trust no one. Sarah should have told him.

Her leg was cramping and her nose itched. A few nights ago she had walked within a block of Rakkim’s club, close enough to hear the music from the Blue Moon, close enough to imagine walking in and having a drink with him, her hand on his knee under the table. Instead she had turned away, angry with herself for getting too close. The Blue Moon would be the first place anyone would look for her. In spite of everything she knew, these last few days she had acted as though it were another game between her and Redbeard, just another round of hide-and-seek. The appearance of the bounty hunters tonight had put that lie to rest. Redbeard was the least of her worries.

Sarah checked her watch again. Over an hour since the men had left. She peered through the crack, then popped out the panel. Winced as it clattered to the floor. No sound from the hallway. She eased herself out from behind the radiator, joints popping, so stiff she could hardly bend. It was five minutes before she could breathe freely.

The apartment was trashed, drawers emptied, her few items of clothing on the floor. It didn’t matter; she wasn’t taking anything with her. She walked over to the small kitchen, picked up a knife. It was cheap and had a thin blade, but it made her feel better. She walked to the blinds, peeked out the corner. The alley was dark and empty. She crossed to the door, slowly turned the handle, and opened-

The bald man leaned against the opposite wall, big and blocky, arms crossed. “Jesus lady, I was wondering if you were ever going to come out from wherever you were hiding.”

Sarah slammed the door, but he kicked it open, and when she came at him with the knife, he slapped it away, sent it flying. Then he smacked her, almost knocked her out. He was inside the apartment now, carrying her forward, his hand on her throat. When she tried to bite him, he hit her again.

“Hope you don’t mind that I sent the boys home,” said the bald man. “I just hate to share the reward…or anything else, for that matter.” He laughed, threw her onto the couch.

Sarah struggled as he lay on top of her, and she smelled the Chinese food on his breath and milk…the milk from her refrigerator, sour now, warm and rank. His eyes were gray and terribly calm, as though a woman squirming under him happened every day.

“The Black Robes want you alive and kicking,” he said, his knee pressed between her legs. “So you don’t have to worry about me doing any permanent damage. I’m not about to hurt you.” He kneed her harder, made her gasp. “See, that didn’t hurt, did it?”

“-off me,” Sarah gasped, slapping at his face. “Get off.”

“That’s it,” said the bald man, one hand unbuttoning his pants. “I like a fighter.”

Sarah spit in his face. “My uncle…I’m Redbeard’s niece, damn you.”

The bald man pulled back for an instant, then grabbed her hair and twisted. “I almost believed you for a second there, sweetheart. Nice try.”

Sarah jerked free. “It’s true.”

The bald man pinned her down with one elbow, unzipped her pants. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Redbeard’s niece. I’m Mister Dave Thompson.” His eyes were like stagnant water. “You feel better now?”

Sarah screamed.

“Louder,” he said, grunting as he slid his hand into her panties. “I can’t hear you.”

Sarah arched her back, tore at his face.

“This is what I do,” he said, panting. “This is old Dave’s job. I find little runaways and I bring them back, and sometimes, sometimes”-he slipped a finger inside her-“sometimes I get the okay to ruin them a little. To make sure no one wants them back.” He wriggled his fat finger. “That’s nice,” he whispered as she kicked at him. “You’re tight as a new glove.”

Sarah thrashed around on the sofa as his finger slid deeper inside her. She tried to bite him, but he kept out of reach.

The bald man tried to pull down her pants with his free hand. “You know the more you fight, the better it’s going to be for me, don’t you? I like educating runaways about the real world, the world outside of their daddy’s house. I’m going to give you a grade-A schooling, little miss.”

Sarah knocked over the empty container of food, chopsticks clattering on the coffee table, and she reached out, feeling around.

“Most runaways…” The bald man was groaning now, his eyes eager. “Most of them just blubber and say their prayers the whole time, but you…I can tell you’re going to be fighting the whole time.” Sweat rolled off his sideburns. “Come on, fight me. Come on.”

Sarah fumbled around on the coffee table, fingernails skittering on the glass.

“I’m not such a bad guy. You’ll see. Old Dave is going to give you a fun time, whether you appreciate it or not.” He laughed, nuzzled her breasts, came up for air. “I’m gonna split you wide-” He blinked. His mouth worked but no sounds came out. He stayed in position on top of her, frozen, one hand still in her panties. His lips quivered, showed his uneven, yellow teeth.

Sarah looked right at him. The wooden chopstick was stuck in his left eye, only the end protruding from the ruined socket. Driven deep into his brain. Red Chinese ideograms were on the end of the chopstick. Probably Good luck or something. She didn’t move, didn’t hurry. She watched as a single spot of blood appeared in the white of his other eye. A tiny rose blooming in his gray eyes, and then he was limp on top of her. She rolled him off her. His dead hand flopped out of her panties as he banged his head on the coffee table and landed on the floor in a heap. She raced for the bathroom and washed her face, washed her hands. Tore off her panties, washed herself, washed herself again. She could still feel him inside her. She wasn’t nauseous. Her hands didn’t shake. What was even more surprising was how happy she was.

When she came back to the living room, the bald man lay there, a trickle of some viscous liquid running down his cheek. He might have grandchildren somewhere, fat, ruddy kids he played ball with, little girls he brought sweets to and read to sleep at night. She kicked him in the head as hard as she could. The hollow thud was music. No more sweets, no more stories.