Prayers for the assassin

CHAPTER 19

Sarah felt an ache in the pit of her stomach. “Keep going.”

The taxi driver shrugged and drove on.

Sarah covered a groan as they approached Marian’s house, the yard circled with yellow tape. Far too festive a look for such an overcast and dreary day. She was too far away to read the words rippling in the wind, but she knew what they would say: Police Line Do Not Cross. A couple of patrol cars were parked in front, along with a crime scene van, the officers leaning against their cruisers and talking to each other. Neighbors dotted the sidewalk, bundled up against the cold. “You can pull over here.” Her voice sounded hollow to her, bled of emotion. Rakkim wouldn’t even recognize the sound as coming from her.

The driver parked the cab against the curb. He turned around, peered at her through the clear plastic partition that separated them. “Do you want to get out here, sister?”

“No.” Though the windows of the cab were smoked for privacy, Sarah still adjusted her veil as the neighbors glanced at the cab. They quickly turned back to the house. There was no sound in the cab except the rumble of the engine. Something terrible had happened to Marian. Sarah was certain of that. She hadn’t called before getting into the cab. She had only decided to visit at the last minute, hoping to surprise Marian, to prevail on her to let Sarah borrow her father’s notebooks. Now she didn’t know what to do.

The driver rolled down his window. “What’s going on?” he barked at an older couple on the sidewalk.

“Woman was murdered,” said the elderly man, elegant in a blue suit with a yellow handkerchief matching his yellow necktie. He pointed at the house. “Professor Warriq. Taught at the university. A devout woman, may the mercy of Allah be upon her.”

“You don’t know that she’s dead,” said the woman, a prim, fine-boned lady in a cashmere coat. “You’re just showing off.”

“You don’t see an ambulance, do you?” said the elderly gentleman. “She got murdered. Her and the help. A regular slaughterhouse inside, that’s what the policeman said. Terrible thing. Probably a gang of Catholics hopped up on something, that’s my guess.”

“You and your Catholics,” sneered the woman.

“They drowned her in her own bathtub,” said the old man. “Probably told her they were baptizing her, laughing about it while she begged them to stop.”

The couple wandered away, still arguing.

Sarah took small, shallow breaths as she watched the house. Marian had been murdered, but she didn’t believe it was Catholics who had killed her. Redbeard had always said it was fine to believe in coincidences, but to always act as if there were no such thing. No, someone had targeted Marian because of her connection with Sarah. She should be scared, should tell the driver to take her out of here, but she didn’t want to leave. Not yet. She stared at the house. Strangest thing…she thought of Marian’s hands. She had lovely hands, strong and capable, but Marian said they were too big. Unfeminine. She kept her nails cut short, kept her hands clasped in company so as to not draw attention to them. Now she was dead and when Sarah thought of her…she thought of her lovely hands and wished someone had been able to convince her how beautiful she was.

The soft, sobbing sounds must be coming from her, because the driver half turned. “You mind if I turn on the radio, sister?” When Sarah didn’t answer, he switched it on. Out of deference to what he assumed were her traditional sensibilities, he put on a popular call-in show for pious Muslims, What Should I Do, Imam?

“Hello, Imam. I know that as a good Muslim I am not supposed to listen to music, but I was wondering if there are certain kinds of music that would be okay. And would it matter if I listened by myself?”

“Good question, my daughter. The Holy Qur’an is quite clear that music is forbidden. One of the messengers of Allah said. ‘There will be a nation who will make music their lot, and one day, while enjoying their music and alcohol, they will awake with their faces transformed into swine.’ In fact, this messenger said he was sent to destroy all musical instruments. And, no, my daughter, the sin is as great whether you listen to music in solitude or with another. Instead of music rather listen to the Holy Qur’an.”

Sarah watched the cabdriver as he idly scratched the back of his head. She was supposed to have had lunch with Marian last Friday, but that was before she’d gotten the e-mail. Even so, she had considered contacting Marian, just to let her know she would be away for a while. Then the bounty hunters had come…Sarah winced, remembering the bald man’s breath…his foul touch. She should have called Marian after that, cautioned her…Sarah shook off the thought. Refused to give in to despair. It was too late for recriminations. Marian was dead, Terry and his wife too, if the elderly neighbors were to be believed, and regrets weren’t going to bring any of them back.

She checked the sidewalks, looking for someone who didn’t seem to belong. The gawkers were mostly couples, middle-aged or older, a few mothers with children. No single men, but a couple of businessmen in suits were walking slowly past the house on the opposite side of the street. She wasn’t sure if the businessmen had been there when she’d arrived. She wasn’t sure if anyone in the crowd had just walked over. All the years of Redbeard’s teachings and she had failed his first rule. Observation is the key to survival, Sarah. Take in the big picture first, burn that snapshot into your brain, then focus on individuals. A few minutes later, take in the big picture again and notice what is out of place-what’s been added, what’s been taken away. She had let her grief distract her. Rule number two: Emotions are assassins of survival. Another failure on her part.

Redbeard had raised her and Rakkim the same way, making no excuses or allowances for her being female. Life is dangerous, Sarah. Complacency is for the innocent, the foolish, or the dead, and we are neither. Think, Sarah. She had allowed her attention to falter. Rakkim would not have made that mistake. She straightened, took a careful scan of the whole area, using the driver’s rearview mirror to see behind her.

Two of the policemen shared a joke and a smoke while they stood around, handsome lunks with their hands in their pockets and their hats pushed back. Sarah wanted to bolt out of the taxi and knock the cigarettes from their mouths, order them to show some respect. To at least act as if they were interested in what had happened inside the house, rather than just going through the motions. She stayed where she was. She had made enough mistakes today.

“Blessings upon you, Imam. Please settle a debate I’m having with my girlfriend. According to Islam, are women lacking in intellect compared to men?”

“Blessings upon you, my son. The teachings assure us that women have less intelligence than men; therefore it is the husband and not the wife who heads the family. The wife may be consulted, but final authority lies with the husband.”

Sarah winced behind her veil, infuriated by the imam’s smug certainty. The radio was another distraction to be avoided. Better to watch the house. Marian’s front yard was filled with her prize rosebushes. They were dormant now, all thorns, but come spring they would be bursting with blooms. Marian wouldn’t be there to smell their fragrance, or to keep them pruned, wouldn’t be there to prevent the rust and the mites and the root rot. The ones who had killed Marian had killed everything she cared for too, and the ones who had killed her had not acted on their own-Sarah had helped them.

Marian had died because of her connection with Sarah, there was no other explanation. Sarah had tried to downplay their friendship, particularly after starting the new book, but too many people at the university had seen them together. It would have only taken one person to talk, to mention seeing them having tea together. One person, that’s all the Old One would have needed.

It had to be the Old One who had sent the killing team. The government or the Black Robes would easily commit murder to stop her from writing the new book, but she doubted they had any idea what she was up to. If they knew, Redbeard would know-he had spies everywhere-and Redbeard had given no indication that he was aware of her efforts. It had to be the Old One’s hand at work, but why kill Marian? Why not just put her under surveillance and wait to see if Sarah showed up. Why not question her? Marian wasn’t worth anything to the Old One. Unless she had already talked.

Sarah fought back a sudden rush of fear, forced herself to examine the situation dispassionately. No, Marian had been killed because the killers had erroneously determined that she had nothing to offer. Sarah knew Marian. She was a woman of courage and loyalty. Even if she could have bartered her life by giving up Sarah, giving up what information she had, she would gladly have died first. Marian had faith, and her faith gave her strength. Sarah had no such illusions. She adjusted the veil again, annoyed; she would never get used to it.

Nothing was to be gained by staying here, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the house, hoping that somehow Marian would come walking out, and it would all have been a mistake. A miscommunication. That wasn’t going to happen though. Sarah had known that since she’d seen the crime scene van speed past their cab on the access road to the gated community. A premonition, perhaps. Or a guilty conscience. She set her jaw.

Time enough for guilt later; now she had to find out if the killing team had taken the journals. Did the Old One know the reason for Sarah’s regular visits? No way to find out now, but she would have to find out, and if the journals were still inside the house, Sarah was going to have to come back and get them. She felt the ache in her stomach again, the feeling of falling. It was fear. It didn’t matter though; regardless of her fear, Sarah was going to have to come back for the journals. The journals were the key…one of the keys. The only one she had been told of.

The wind kicked up, bent the surrounding evergreens, and Sarah shivered in the warmth of the cab. She needed to get some rest. Lying in a strange bed for the last week, tossing and turning…everything kept her awake; the wind, the rustle of branches on the window, her own thoughts most of all. She had money. She had bought clothes and a toothbrush, and in two more days she would go online and find out what she was supposed to do next. All she had to do was stay calm for the next two days. Stay calm and stay safe.

“Hello, Imam, I’m fourteen and, well…I know the Holy Qur’an says we can’t pluck facial hair, but my older sister has really, really bushy eyebrows and…and I wanted to know if it would be all right anyway so she can look prettier. Thank you.”

“Thanks be to you, my daughter. Is your sister married?”

“Yes, Imam.”

“Then you may tell her that though the Holy Qur’an forbids such practices, if the eyebrows have become so dense that her husband is repulsed, she may then trim them to a more appropriate and normal size.”

Sarah stared out the window. Last night she had almost called Rakkim. She had been dozing and heard running footsteps and woke up in tears. A false alarm. This time. She had picked up her phone, desperate to hear his voice…then put aside the cell. Too late for such weakness now. Too many lives were in the balance. She started to tell the driver that they could leave now, then Marian’s front door swung open. For an instant she actually thought Marian was going to walk out, then she saw Rakkim coming down the steps with that police detective friend of his…Anthony Colarusso.

“Is there a problem, sister?” asked the driver.

Sarah shook her head, so startled she couldn’t speak. It was Redbeard, of course. He must have called in Rakkim to help find her. She wasn’t surprised that Rakkim had been enlisted; she was surprised he had found Marian so quickly.

Rakkim was talking to the policemen. The uniforms must not have known who he was, because they kept glancing at Colarusso, who was busy rummaging in his ear with a forefinger.

She hadn’t seen Rakkim in six months. He looked handsome as ever, but exhausted and worried. His shirt had damp spots on it and she wondered what he had seen inside Marian’s house. A regular slaughterhouse the white-haired neighbor had said. A tear ran down her cheek and was captured by the veil, but she kept her eyes on Rakkim, hungry for the sight of him.

She still wondered if she should have told him what she was working on, maybe even asked for his help. She trusted Rakkim with her life, why couldn’t she trust him with the truth? He was talking to the technicians from the crime scene van now, and she noticed how he nodded when they spoke, how he patted their shoulders. He was intruding on their turf, and he knew he could get better cooperation if they were on his side. Redbeard would have been demanding, more forceful, but he wouldn’t have gotten any more out of them than Rakkim. He might even have gotten less.

She should go. It was dangerous to stay here. The cab would draw attention after a while-a curious policeman, a bored policeman, and things could unravel. Redbeard used to say it was the minor details that invariably tripped people up, because they had only prepared for major confrontations. No, better to leave now. She could come back for the journals later, when it was safe. Even if it wasn’t safe, she would have to retrieve them, more certain than ever that somewhere within their pages was what she sought.

Sarah stayed. She stayed and watched the wind ripple through Rakkim’s short, dark hair…he had such soft hair, even his goatee, and she blushed at the memory of it tickling her most intimate places. Rakkim ran a hand through his hair, as though feeling her gaze. She rapped on the plastic partition, rapped harder than she meant to. “We can go now.” She kept her eyes on Rakkim as the cab turned around. If she stayed here much longer, there was no way she could stop herself from going to him.