The Best American Mystery Stories 2020

Jake Lithua The Most Powerful Weapon

from The Odds Are Against Us

Ariya woke at dawn, carefully easing her way out of bed so as not to wake her so-called husband, Imran. He would wake soon himself; and if his breakfast of flatbread, bean paste, and fried egg was not ready by the time he was dressed, he would hit her. Perhaps I will kill him today, she thought. She always began her mornings with the thought of killing her husband, her master, her jailer. It made the rest of the day more bearable.

She stifled a grunt as she dressed in the long shapeless abaya dress demanded by Islamic State mujahideen of their women, the fresh bruises on her arms and back making her wince. In public she would also wear a double-layered veil, which would at least hide her ice-blue eyes and dirty-blond hair — ​rare features that marked her as Yazidi. Ariya had been only twelve when she was taken, with no time to cry over her murdered family. Yazidis could expect no mercy from the Islamic State. And seeing the brutality meted out to the other captives, she realized she had to make a choice. And so she did.

My goal is escape, she thought in her native Kurmanji, repeating the daily litany that she had created three years ago. To do that, I must survive. So I play along with Imran for now, so that I can be free in time.

How much time? came a mocking whisper from the back of her mind, but Ariya ignored it. Soon the smells of breakfast filled their tiny house, made of mud brick and scrap metal. It had once belonged to an Iraqi tailor and had been given to Imran by the Islamic State, part of his benefits as a mujahid. Once there had been money too, and Ariya could eat fairly well. But then the airstrikes began and the money tapered off, and so Ariya often went hungry so that Imran could be full. It had been worse when he had had two wives, but then Imran had strangled Zahra and it was just the two of them again.

Zahra had been foolish, Ariya thought with a pang. She got him angry.

“Morning of goodness, my wife.” Imran was up. He was short and had a pale, pinched face; his dark hair was close-cropped, but his beard was long and stringy. When he was given the girl Ariya as a wife, Imran had been eighteen.

Ariya flinched minutely. “Morning of light, ba’ali,” she replied in her now familiar Arabic, using the word that meant both “my husband” and “my master.” Imran insisted on it, no doubt to flaunt his power over her. (Most native Arabic-speakers would have used zawji instead, but Imran had grown up in a place he called Biljika, in Europe, and learned Arabic late.) “Breakfast is ready.”

They ate silently, cross-legged on the bare floor. Imran did not believe in luxuries. On the rare occasions that Ariya could talk to the other wives in the village, they sometimes gossiped about Islamic State fighters who engaged in fusuq by drinking alcohol or listening to Western music; but Imran was a true ascetic. When he was not on duty, he was usually kneeling on the floor, reciting haltingly from the Qur’an or the Hadith. Ariya was glad, because it meant that she only had to worry about his moods during meals — ​and at night.

When he was finished, Imran rose, went to the closet, and slung his battered AK-47 over his shoulder. “My company is going out today,” he announced. “We will not return until Thursday, maybe later.”

That meant a combat operation. “May you find victory over the enemies of Allah,” Ariya replied mechanically as she rose to her feet. I hope you die, she thought to herself without changing expression.

“Clean the house while I am gone,” Imran said. “Study the Surah of the Cave and be ready to recite it for me by heart when I return.”

“Nothing would please me more, ba’ali.” She despised reading the Qur’an. Ariya had been an indifferent Yazidi at best in her youth, but the book of her tormenters was like ashes in her mouth.

“Do not leave the house except to go to the market.”

He would check on her with the neighbors, of course. She would have no freedom at all, even while out of his sight! Her stomach churned at the thought. “Ba’ali,” Ariya said, “I will need to gather herbs in the hills.” She hesitated, bracing herself, then continued. “Money is scarce and we have little food left—”

He struck her across the face with his fist, as she knew he would. “Do not speak to me about money!” he snarled. Ariya fell back against the wall and made a show of whimpering in pain, which was not difficult; satisfied with this display of his power, Imran said, “Gather in the hills, then. But be back before dusk.”

Good. Now I can get some fresh air. Ariya had become skilled at exploiting Imran’s temper, by necessity. A few more hurts done to her battered body were a small price to pay sometimes.

Ariya waited an hour after Imran left, scrubbing the pots and sweeping the floors, checking that the door was locked and the window shuttered and tensely counting the seconds. Then, when she was sure he was truly gone, she stripped off her stifling sack of a dress and flung it into the corner of the room with a curse. Melek Tawuse, she prayed, not knowing or caring if anyone was listening; Give me strength to be free!

In her underclothes, Ariya bent down and heaved herself into a handstand, holding the position for almost two minutes until her corded arms were trembling violently and sweat dripped down her face onto the bare floor. Then she did squats; then a plank, moving from one exercise to another with savage focus. When she had first been captured, Ariya knew she was too weak to resist; since then, every chance she got she would do strength training. It made her thin as a rail but tightly wound with muscle. Perhaps one day she would be strong enough to kill Imran and escape.

(She had heard that overexercising made it harder to conceive. Good; the thought of carrying that monster’s child was abhorrent, and Ariya did everything she could to prevent it — ​exercise, herbs, disguising her cycles. If Imran ever succeeded in impregnating her, Ariya might just kill herself.)

When she was too worn out to continue, Ariya ate from her secret stash of parched grain, throwing a handful to the chickens in back when she was full. The rest of the day she spent practicing baking cigar-nut pastries, which she had heard were Imran’s favorite. In the evening she read from the Surah of the Cave, laboriously committing the hated words to memory.

The next day was the same, Ariya not yet willing to risk leaving the house. But on Monday the food ran out; she had to get more or go hungry. She swaddled herself in the abaya, took her canvas satchel, and headed for the hillside overlooking the village to the east. She took one of Imran’s robes with her; I’ll need a way to wipe off if I get muddy, she thought spitefully.

The day was cool, and a biting wind pierced all her layers of clothing. The scents of early spring rose from the moist earth around her. As she picked herbs, gratefully munching on sweet grasses as she went, Ariya could almost imagine that Imran didn’t exist, that the Islamic State didn’t exist, and that she was still a child of twelve gathering flowers for her mother. Can’t think like that. Can’t lose control. I am fifteen and a grown woman, and I have only myself to rely on.

The sudden crack-crack of gunfire. Ariya flinched and threw herself to the earth, squeezing her eyes shut. Then she swore; the gunfire was back in town. You stupid coward. Now your clothes are dirty. The shooting continued, the dull chattering bark of AK-47s along with the higher crackle of pistol fire. Faint shouts reached her ears, Arabic intermixed with something else, and Ariya’s eyes widened. Kurmanji? Are those Kurds? For a second a wild hope that she had never allowed herself to feel rose up in her chest. She ran heedlessly down the hill slope.

Most of the mujahideen had gone with Imran, but there were still some left in the village. Three of them were making their way around houses on the edge of the village, calling to one another and firing their rifles as they advanced. One mujahid staggered and fell; Ariya nearly let out a whoop before catching herself. Yet the others continued forward; the firing went on, but by the time Ariya reached the bottom of the hill, it had petered to a halt. Then came the cries of “Allahu akbar!” and Ariya’s stomach knotted. Sudden tears burst from her blue eyes. The Peshmerga couldn’t have killed all of them so quickly. Those are Islamic State cries, not Kurds.

Her rescuers were dead. No one would save her. No one even knew she was alive, probably. She was trapped here forever. Ariya squeezed her fists shut. Stop it, stop it, stop it! She would never escape Imran. She was being childish when she thought she could. Stop it!

When she finally worked up the courage to walk back into the village, Ariya passed seven bodies that had been covered with bloodied sheets and laid out in a row, just outside the marketplace. Four looked like Islamic State fighters, judging from their thin tan hiking shoes, which stuck out from under the sheets. Three, wearing thicker boots with stiff rubber soles, were not. God, give these poor men their rest, Ariya thought, and averted her eyes.

As dusk was approaching, Ariya was finally returning to the house through deserted dusty roads, carefully balancing a sack of barley on one shoulder and beans on the other, still carrying her satchel of herbs. She had just come in sight of her door when something out of the corner of her eye made her halt. The alley on her left was strewn with splintered boards and old furniture and discarded rusty metal, as always, but today it looked different than usual — ​almost as if someone had gathered some of the junk into a pile near the alley mouth.

Her breath caught. Fresh blood glistened wetly on one remaining leg of a ruined stool, almost invisible in the gathering dark. For a moment Ariya shrank back. Then her mind flashed back to the hillside. Are you going to grovel again, you coward? Was everything you ever told yourself for the last three years a lie, you weak fool? Gritting her teeth beneath the abaya, Ariya set down her sacks in the road and crept forward carefully.

One moment she could see nothing, but then her eyes focused and a man suddenly appeared behind the refuse, as if by magic. Ariya gasped. He was curled up in a ball, dressed in a faded tan military uniform without insignia, which was torn in several places and soaked with blood. He had dark hair and eyes but did not look Arab; his skin was pale, almost cream-colored beneath the dust and blood. His jaw was clenched in agony, but his eyes were clear and fixed on hers. So was a small black pistol, held in one trembling hand.

“Quiet,” he whispered in thickly accented Arabic.

Ariya frowned; the accent was strange. “Peshmerga?” she breathed. “Do you speak Kurmanji?”

He relaxed a fraction and lowered the pistol. His face was wider than Imran’s, though drawn in pain. His long, straight nose looked like it had been broken once or twice. “A little,” he said in hesitant Kurmanji. “Yes, I fight with the Peshmerga.”

Her eyes widened. He’s a foreigner! Maybe American? She glanced around her, suddenly afraid, but no one was nearby.

“Help, please,” he breathed. “I need a house. Healing.”

Ariya’s blood froze. If Imran caught her helping the enemy, she would be dead for sure! And not just Imran, but anyone else in the village. There would be no way to hide him for long.

A new thought came to her. True. But it might be just long enough. “If I help you,” she whispered slowly, “would you kill my husband?” The man frowned, and Ariya added, “He’s a mujahid.”

At that the man nodded. “I will kill him. If I can.”

Ariya licked her lips, amazed at her daring. “Can you walk?”

The man clenched his teeth on a piece of torn cloth and heaved himself to his feet, hissing and going even paler. Ariya saw that he had been shot in the right thigh and arm; blood oozed through the makeshift bandages he had tied around the wounds. He swayed but stayed upright. “A little. Slow.”

“Wait.” She pulled out Imran’s robe. Soon, wearing the robe over his bloodied uniform, the man was hobbling painfully toward the house. Miraculously, no patrol came by; perhaps the remaining few mujahideen were busy mourning their dead.

By the time Ariya had locked the door behind them and cast aside her veil with a snarl, the American’s wounds were bleeding again. His face ashen, he slumped down onto the cushions she provided. “Water, hot water,” he gasped in Kurmanji. “With salt. And cloth, for the — ​for the blood.”

Ariya understood. She lit the stove and put on a small pot of water to boil. As she waited, she gave the man water to drink and a small piece of flatbread. Then she laid out Imran’s best keffiyehs to clean the wounds with. Either he’s going to die soon or I will, so why not? She grinned a little at the thought.

The American had sunk back on the floor. He looked very weak, his eyes half closed. Ariya surveyed his bloody uniform. It would have to come off; there was no way around it. “Can you take off your clothes, or should I?” He hesitated, going pink. She snorted. “Imran has been my accursed husband for three years; I know what a man looks like.”

His dark eyes widened in shock; for an instant his face filled with fury, and Ariya reflexively shrank backward. But the fury passed and he gave a tiny shrug, then gritted his teeth and fumbled one-handed. By the time the water was boiling, he was dressed in only a thin white shirt that clung to his chest and short cloth pants that ended midthigh. The two gunshot wounds were exposed to the air, dribbling blood onto the cushions. Ariya felt sick in the back of her throat and had to close her eyes for a moment, remembering with awful clarity what her older brother had looked like — ​how the blood had poured from the gaping wounds in his chest that day.

Shaking her head sharply, Ariya brought the boiling pot down to the floor and poured a handful of salt into the water. Then she dipped a cloth and swabbed the blood away from the American’s arm. “More, make it clean,” he managed, breathing heavily; she winced but swabbed the wound thoroughly. She did the same to the other side of his arm, where the bullet had come out, then tied a thick bandage around the arm. Then she treated his thigh wound; before she was finished, the American mercifully fell unconscious.

She sat back on her heels and gazed at the man, this man who would rid her of Imran. In theory. Right now he looked weak unto death. He was bigger than Imran, more muscular too. But it would do him no good if he could not stand and fight. She bit her lip. What have I done?

Still, he was tough. That he had not cried out when she dressed his wounds was testament enough to that. Perhaps he could kill Imran after all. I will just have to nurse him back to health — ​and quickly. She covered him with a wool blanket and waited.

“What’s your name?” she asked later, as she knelt by his side and fed him warm gruel and milk.

“Tristan,” he replied, then coughed.

“Te-rees-tan,” she said slowly, hesitating on the unfamiliar syllables. “Why are you here? Are you Ameriki?”

He nodded. “I fought in the war, before Daesh.” Ariya flinched at the word Daesh; the Islamic State hated the nickname, which was considered a slur. Tristan hesitated, looking for the right words, then said something that sounded like green berei. “It means I teach soldiers. Kurds, Iraqis. Teach them to fight for home.” His eyes hardened. “Then Amerikis go. My students are alone, to die. Daesh kill them. So I stay.”

Ariya frowned. “Why not go back to Amrika? You almost died today. Why not go home?”

Tristan smiled briefly. “Too stupid. I want to stay with my friends. Rajan, Serhat, Alexander.” For a moment his eyes took on a faraway look; then he shook his head and said, “And you? What is your name?”

“Ariya.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Kurdistan,” she said shortly. She spooned out more gruel and thrust it into his mouth, suddenly wary of more questions.

He chewed, his dark eyes never leaving hers. Ariya tensed, but he finished eating silently. When the gruel was finished, he smiled and said, “Thank you for your hospitality. And for the bandages.”

She nodded graciously. “Rest now.”

Tristan was soon asleep. Still, Ariya felt too self-conscious to do her strength exercises, not with a strange man in the house. And she realized with a rush of elation that she would never need to read the Qur’an again. Because you will be dead soon, a nasty voice said in the back of her mind. She ignored it. Part of her wished that Tristan were still awake; she had so many questions about what life in Kurdistan was like now. Most important of all — ​she licked her lips — ​what would happen to girls like her? Would she be taken in by someone, the government perhaps? Or would she be cast aside, despised as the enemy’s whore? The thought made her stomach clench.

She heated more water for when Tristan would need his bandages changed, and prepared bean paste for them both. Once she was done, there was little left to do but wait.

His small black pistol lay in the bundle of his cast-off uniform. Ariya licked her lips. Tristan would surely hit her or even kill her if he saw her touch it; but he was still deep asleep. Quietly she knelt and picked it up. Her father had showed her how to use his old rifle when she was six; carefully she opened the action just to be safe, and nearly dropped the pistol in shock.

The chamber was empty. The magazine was empty too. Tristan had pointed an unloaded weapon at her, before. Ariya felt the blood drain from her face. How can he shoot Imran without bullets?

“Your gun is empty.” She said it accusingly, unable to stop herself.

Tristan shrugged. He had slept through the night, waking at dawn and hobbling to the latrine with muttered curses. Now he was lying back on the cushions, eating slowly. “I used my bullets in the fight. I did not have many. We did not want to be seen, so no rifles, no more magazines.”

Ariya slammed down her metal plate, her ice-blue eyes flashing. “But what about Imran? You said you would kill him! And now he’s going to kill you and me both!”

She felt her eyes sting. Grimacing, she wiped her eyes, then stared openmouthed at the tears dampening her fingers. It was the first time she had cried since Zahra had been strangled, more than a year ago. Suddenly she was sobbing, her thin body shuddering; ashamed, she tried to stifle her cries, but they only became louder. She rose to flee to the bedroom.

“Ariya.”

He said it firmly, as a command, in a hard voice that compelled obedience. She froze. He reached up, wincing in pain, and shockingly took her hand and pulled her back to a seated position. His hand was rough and callused, and she could feel its strength. He stared at her until satisfied that she would stay, then let go. She pulled her hand back toward her chest, sniffling.

“What is the most powerful weapon, Ariya?” he said, still in that hard voice. “Not a gun. What?” She hiccupped and shook her head. He pointed at his temple. “It is this. And this,” and he pointed at her head. “A gun is just one tool. If I want to, I can fight with many tools. But I have to want to, to know it in my head. In your head too.”

She shook her head again, suddenly terrified, and he leaned forward. “Yes, Ariya. You too. My wounds hurt; what if I’m—” He paused, then said in English something like enfektid. “What if I’m sick? What if your husband kills me? What are you going to do? Lie down and die?”

Why am I so scared? Shame slithered deep into her belly. Isn’t this what I’ve been hoping for? Haven’t I spent three years hoping for a way to kill Imran? Or was that all just an act? She firmed her jaw. No. I am not a coward!

Tristan saw the change in her face and nodded. “Okay. Now see, there are many weapons in this house. Knives. Wooden poles. Even your pots and pans. It is not easy; if your husband has a gun, you will have to hit him from behind. But you finish the mission, Ariya. You always finish the mission, always. There is always something more to do, some other way to fight. Because you have no choice, Ariya. We win or we die.”

Ariya breathed heavily. After an eternity, she rose and retrieved the carving knife from the cramped kitchen. Her hand trembled on the hilt. Could I really have killed him myself, all this time? In a small voice she said, “Teach me how to use this.”

It was Wednesday evening. Tristan was getting stronger, but his wounds had acquired an angry red color around the edges and were hot to the touch. Ariya cleaned them again and again, until the pile of bloody cloths was nearly a foot high, but it seemed not to help. The American did not complain, but she could see in his eyes that he was worried. Sipping cool water carefully, still lying on the floor, he said in his rough Kurmanji, “We have to take an auto and go, while I can still drive.”

“How?” Ariya turned up her hands. “You can’t walk very far, and we have no good way to steal someone else’s car without being caught. It has to be Imran’s Jeep.”

Tristan grimaced. “Then your husband needs to come soon.”

“Stop calling him my husband!” Ariya flared up suddenly. “He’s a murdering kidnapping pimp! He may have taken me into his bed, but he is not my husband! ”

“You called him that first,” Tristan said, and raised an eyebrow.

She flushed and looked down. “Well, I shouldn’t have.” The words echoed in her mind and she repeated more softly, “I shouldn’t have.”

The American gazed at her, then smiled approvingly. “Good.”

That afternoon when he tried standing up, his injured leg buckled beneath him and he pitched forward onto his face. Ariya cried out; Tristan grunted and forced himself to his knees but could not stand again. His face was sweaty and red. Ariya brought over his cushions and a blanket and gave him food and water, a queasy knot forming in her stomach. He’s very sick. There’s no way he can beat Imran like this. He might lose consciousness before Imran even gets back. A sudden thought chilled her. What if Imran doesn’t come back? What if he’s been killed or wounded in combat? That means no Jeep. Maybe I can find another way to escape, but it won’t be soon enough to save Tristan. He needs to get back to the Peshmerga soon, or he’ll die. Melek Tawuse, help us now!

Melek Tawuse apparently had a dark sense of humor. The low, heavy growl of Imran’s Jeep suddenly reached her ears, along with the crunch of tires on gravel in front of the house. Ariya’s pulse hammered in her ears. He’s early! She looked around the house wildly, seeing the pile of bandages against the wall, the discarded plates scattered over the floor, the pot of saltwater boiling on the stove — ​and most of all the groaning American stretched out in the middle of the floor.

Her wits frenzied, she grabbed a large white bloodstained sheet and threw it over Tristan, covering his whole body. “Lie still,” she hissed. “Quiet.” The sheet sank to the floor, contouring itself to his body. It was still obviously a person under the sheet, but maybe it was a dead person and hence not a threat. Not something Imran would expect, anyway.

Footsteps came up to the door, and the lock rattled. “Wife!” Imran called. “I’m back!” He sounded surly; perhaps the battle had gone against Daesh. Ariya’s chest seemed to freeze. Panting, she snatched up the carving knife with one hand and a heavy ceramic jar with the other and ran soundlessly behind the bedroom doorway.

The front door swung open. “Wife!” Imran called again, striding into the house, his shoulders slumped with weariness, his camouflaged robe stained with sweat and mud. Then his eyes registered the sheet-covered body, and he stopped dead. “Wha—” He stiffened and lifted his AK-47. Without looking away from Tristan’s body, he called again, “Wife!” Ariya said nothing, vomit rising in the back of her throat, her hands sweaty. Her heart was beating so fast, it felt as though it would burst.

Imran took a careful step closer to Tristan, his rifle trained on the center of the American’s body. God, let him stay still! Ariya thought. Imran took another step. Then Ariya leapt around the door frame and hurled the jar with all of her strength, right at Imran’s head.

He never saw it coming. The jar smashed against his skull and he staggered like a drunk, the rifle dropping to the floor. Letting out a shriek as if the spirits of her murdered parents had returned for vengeance, Ariya charged across the room with the knife clenched in her hand.

The best way is to stab hard, Tristan had told her. Like you’re punching him with all of your strength. Not just once, but do it again and again and again until he dies. He had made her drill with a wooden spoon, stabbing the wall for twenty minutes straight until her arm ached and her fingers chafed. Only then was he satisfied. Your instinct is not to hurt, he said. Good people have to learn to hurt, or bad people will win.

She slammed the knife into Imran’s side, below the ribs. It went in at a shallow angle but still sank deep into his flesh. She yanked it out and stabbed him again, this time more solidly in the belly as Imran turned to face her. His expression was rapidly turning from shock to fury. “Putain de merde,” he growled. She tried to stab him again, and he slammed his fist into her jaw. Her eyes went blurry, her knees buckled; the knife went spinning aside in a spatter of blood.

Seemingly not even noticing the wounds in his stomach, Imran wrapped both hands around Ariya’s throat and smashed her slim body back against the hot stove. She couldn’t breathe; her throat was being crushed. Pain throbbed through her jaw; the fire’s heat beat against her back. Wildly she scrabbled at Imran’s snarling face, at his inexorable hands around her neck, but it made no difference. Black flecks filled her vision. The world went dim.

Stop. Calm down. You only have enough air to do one more thing, so make it count. And then, in Tristan’s steady voice, came another thought: Finish the mission.

She allowed herself to relax and let her hands drop away from Imran’s. A feral grin spread across his face. He leaned forward, resting his full weight against her body.

And then he screamed. Ariya had grabbed the pot of boiling saltwater from the stove and flung the water into his face and eyes. Moaning, Imran reflexively let go and stumbled backward. Ariya took in a shallow breath and coughed horribly, but her vision was already sharpening and she did not hesitate. She swung the pot like an ax, bashing it against his head with all of her strength. Then she did it again. And again.

She didn’t stop until Imran’s body had stopped twitching and the pot was dented and bent, its bottom spattered with blood.

She stood there for a long moment, her chest heaving, gulping sweet air down her burning throat. Then she knelt next to the bloody corpse of her former captor. Ignoring the blood and the unsettling feel of his too-still flesh, Ariya rifled through his pockets until she found his key ring.

She loaded the car with food and tools and Imran’s weapons. Tristan was lucid enough to drive, barely, and they left the village under cover of darkness with the headlights off. Once they were ten minutes away, Tristan brought the Jeep to a stop. He was too weak to continue; instead, he coached Ariya through her first hour of ever driving a car and told her to keep driving until she saw Peshmerga, before passing out. She drove gingerly, her head barely making it over the dashboard, keeping the speedometer below 30 kilometers per hour and being careful to stay on the road.

I don’t know what my life will be like tomorrow, she thought. It could even be worse than before. But I don’t care anymore. I’m done letting things happen to me. My life is my own.

But not just her life. In the passenger seat, Tristan was breathing shallowly; he desperately needed the medical care he could only get in Kurdish territory. His life depended on her now. The thought actually made Ariya smile. She was no longer helpless; she mattered. Perhaps I will save more people tomorrow.

The Jeep drove on through the darkness. Dawn would come soon.