Swift Vengeance

2

“Two and a half weeks ago I went out with a guy,” Lindsey said. “First time. I’d met him a little over a year ago, through work. A widower, like you. He was the father of one of my new fall students. Nice guy, and nice looking. Almost formal, but just enough off-center to make me smile. Well groomed and well off. Gave me his full attention. He reminded me of someone, but I didn’t know who. I started getting this funny feeling when we were in the same room. I liked it. He’s a landscape architect. Designs golf courses all over the world. Shows horses for fun.”

“The downside?”

She watched me through her dark glasses.

“He’s Saudi by birth,” said Lindsey. “His parents both came here on student visas in ’78. Married very young. Rasha Samara. Born in Riyadh after they had graduated and returned home. He went to Saudi schools until he was six, then came here with his parents. Became a naturalized U.S. citizen. His extended family lives in Saudi Arabia. Of course.”

I thought about that.

“Roland, I spent almost a year learning how to kill violent jihadists in the Middle East, and another year and a half doing it. So when I met this guy, I didn’t know if it was morally desirable — or even possible — for me to have any kind of relationship with him. Muslims aren’t Christians and vice versa. But I also know that people of those two faiths can get along fine. On account of something that happened to me and I experienced firsthand.”

She took off her sunglasses again and leveled her chocolate-brown eyes on me. “I’ve never told you this, but my mother is an Indian Muslim. Shia. Dad’s a Methodist. They’ve been married for thirty-eight years and they’ve never said an unkind word to each other in my presence. Silences, yes. They met at Rice in Houston. Her English was very English from school in Delhi, but she took the time to learn to say ‘y’all’ perfectly. Practiced it. She became the most Texan Indian you can imagine. Loves her Cowboys. Loves her Longhorns. Loves her dancing and her turquoise and her country music. Loves Dad and his Fords. Still quietly observes the Muslim holy days, too, and she prays and believes and fasts. Observant but not devout. Hasn’t worn a headscarf since the day she was engaged, except to mosque a few times a year. Used to tell me Christmas was more fun than Ramadan but Ramadan left her feeling closer to God. So with Rasha I thought, Okay. You can look back at him. I saw some of Mom in there. And I thought he might be solid, Roland. So when he asked me if I would like to ride horses I said yes.”

I’d always been taken by Lindsey’s dark eyes and lustrous hair, her striking facial structure. “So that’s where you got your good looks.”

“Mom’s an Indian goddess with a Texas drawl.”

“I’d say I’m happy for you meeting Rasha Samara, Lindsey, but I get the feeling there’s more to this story.”

“Oh yeah. Isn’t there always? He lives outside of Las Vegas, a swanky development called Latigo. Big custom houses, pools and clubhouse, tennis courts, golf course, and landing strip. Stables and livery. And of course equestrian trails so you can ride just about anywhere you want. Guys in quads with trash cans and shovels to keep up with the horse poop. You can take the trails right out to the foothills. He’s got Arabians, of course. Mares. Very nimble. I grew up on larger mounts, so I wasn’t comfortable at first. Got over that pretty quick. We brought them to a gallop, then gave them a long cool-down. Watered them, then sat on red rocks and had salami and cheese and wine and watched the sunset. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. We talked like you do when you don’t know the person but you like them — respectfully and not too deep because you don’t know what’s there. He seemed honest and gracious and he was very much interested in me and the world around him. Not just himself. And that was about it. The Monday after the holiday he came by my school after class and asked me out again. Another ride. I declined. Two days later I got a nice thank-you card from him, with a pen-and-ink sketch on the front that he’d done. Some nice words inside.”

“Why no second date?”

A pause from Lindsey. Then, “I’d thought about him a lot. But I told him I wasn’t sure I wanted to take things any further. That I would call him when I was ready. I didn’t tell him this, but I liked him and thought that I could go further with him. That thrilled me. Scared me. And I had John to think of, and my petition before the court, and what complications might ensue if Rasha became party to that. He was hurt but... still gracious.”

Lindsey sighed and worked her sunglasses back on. “But then I was thinking about seeing him again. I turned that idea over and over. Changed my mind every hour or so. Felt like such a schoolgirl.”

She brought her purse close and pulled out a small square envelope addressed to her PO Box in Las Vegas. Postmarked Las Vegas, Monday, November 26. It was heavy for its size, and I had to worry the card out a little at a time. When I finally righted it I looked down at a skilled ink drawing of two horses cantering along together, heads high, proud. No ground, no background. Sky horses. Arabians, with their short backs and wedge-shaped heads. They were done in just a few lines and would have seemed casual and dashed off if not for the attitudes that the two animals displayed.

“His thank-you card,” she said.

The note looked computer-printed, a common Roman font, ten-point, maybe.

But Rasha was signed by hand and looked a lot like the writing in the death threat. It jumped at me. Not quite the same straight up-and-down posture, but close. Graceful, full-bodied letters. Similar calligraphic flourishes — the varying thickness of line, the graceful lead-ins and tails. I unfolded the death threat and held the thank-you card beside it. Lined up Rasha and Rakes. A similar marriage of English and Arabic.

Lindsey was watching me closely. “Ten days later, when I got the threat and compared the signatures, I completely freaked out.”

“This makes me unhappy,” I said.

“I have to tell you something else. When Rasha and I sat up on the big red rocks and had our wine and cheese, he cut that cheese with a sharp-looking folding knife. Very deftly. Then he served the wine in two silver goblets with calligraphic engraving on them. They were in his saddlebag with the food and wine, wrapped in white napkins. They looked old. Maybe passed down through his family. Nice. When I got the threat letter, the writing on those goblets rushed into my mind, and the way he used the knife. And rushed in again when I got this note from Rasha. Roland, I get people. I know right from wrong and good from evil. So if Rasha wrote that threat, I’m the most wrong-assed I’ve ever been about anybody in my life. But still...”

I let my vision track back and forth between the two R’s. Let the letters blur, then squinted them back into focus. Subtle differences, but my first and persistent reaction was: same writer.

“Have you communicated with him since you got the threat?”

“Hell no. Where are you going to start, Roland?”

“Where you probably should have.”

“You know a local FBI agent?” she asked.

“We worked the federal counterterror task force together. Before I went private.”

San Diego FBI special agent Joan Taucher would curse me — a former San Diego County sheriff’s deputy who should definitely know better — for contaminating the letter and the thank-you card. But Lindsey had beaten me to most of it. The contamination, that is.

More important, Special Agent Taucher would want to interview Lindsey. Lindsey could refuse, up to a point. That’s why she’d come to me. And Taucher would briefly tolerate me — as a conduit. But I could run interference between Lindsey and the feds for only so long, and I’d never known Joan Taucher to show much patience.

If I had won any leverage at all with Joan Taucher, it was knowing that she was a woman possessed.

And that Lindsey might be holding a piece of what possessed her.

“Brandon Goff know about Rasha?”

“No. Roland, am I just one giant fuckup?”

“You’re not giant at all.”

She set her hands over mine and looked out at the spangled pond.