Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

Redbeard rolled his electric wheelchair through the crowd of schoolchildren visiting the War Museum, their voices hushed, glancing around as though they were in an unfamiliar mosque. He wore opaque glasses, his beard powdered white and extended, hanging over his belly. He rolled silently across the granite floor, his left arm twitching, useless. A single medal was pinned to his voluminous jellaba, a combat infantrymen’s badge. An honest medal, devoid of fame or favor, marking him as a wounded veteran of the war of independence. A businessman approached, bowed, and placed a $20 bill into Redbeard’s lap, joining the other bills that he had been given. Redbeard murmured a blessing, head lolling, and the businessman backed away, thanking him for his service.

Still no sign of Rakkim.

Redbeard liked the museum, particularly at dawn. The House of Martyrs was never closed and never empty. The people honored the dead, those who had paid the greatest price for their faith. He still remembered the old days, before the transition. Graveyards for the nation’s war dead had been overgrown, the graves untended. There had not even been enough buglers to play taps; the army had been forced to use recorded music to honor the martyrs. Military parades had played to empty streets, or worse, the color guard had faced catcalls from those whose freedom to jeer had been paid for with others’ blood. A terrible time for heroes. A world without glory, a people with their eyes on the mud instead of the heavens. No wonder the wisdom of the Prophet, may his name be blessed, had swept across the land like a wildfire, cleansing all before it. After all that had happened since the transition, after all he knew about the Old One, there was never a moment that Redbeard regretted the passing of the former regime.

Another man in a wheelchair glided past, nodding at Redbeard. A young man, wearing an army uniform, his legs removed above the knee.

Along the far wall, a woman in a bright blue chador led a young girl by the hand, led her along by the fingers as though they were on an excursion in the woods to pick wildflowers. The girl was young, five or six perhaps, but it was the woman who drew Redbeard’s attention. She looked like Katherine. Sarah’s mother. His brother’s wife.

Redbeard trailed along after them, heedless of who was in his way. People stepped aside, apologizing, as though they were in the wrong, but he kept his eyes on the woman. It was impossible of course, Katherine wouldn’t dare be here. He wasn’t even sure she was alive. She had fled after his brother’s murder, fled leaving Sarah in the hospital, run for her life. He had thought at the time she was afraid of the Old One. The early reports were that both he and his brother had been assassinated, reports that Redbeard himself had planted, hoping to draw out the conspirators. The ruse had worked. Even though he had been wounded, Redbeard had worked almost nonstop for weeks interrogating those arrested. He had rolled up the Old One’s network, most of them anyway, but the nation had paid a terrible price. James was a charismatic figure, loved and admired by the citizens and the politicians alike. Redbeard was merely feared. A few weeks after Katherine had fled, he realized she had been afraid of him. She had thought he had murdered his own brother. For power…and perhaps, for her. He had searched for her for two years, put all the men and resources he could spare into finding her. He had failed.

The woman in the blue chador and the child were swinging their arms gently as they walked. Redbeard had not seen Sarah smile like that until he’d brought Rakkim home. The street thief who had melted her heart. Melted Angelina’s heart too. Redbeard had been more careful with his emotions, but the boy had finally won him over too. It had taken years, but he had come to love the boy. The urchin with the eyes of a wolf. His only solace was that he had never revealed his feelings. Redbeard was experienced at such deception. He had never revealed his feelings for Katherine either.

Redbeard slowly wheeled across the great hall, getting closer to the woman and the girl. It couldn’t be Katherine. It had been over twenty years…surely she didn’t look the same. It couldn’t be her, yet he couldn’t stop himself from finding out.

The woman turned as he approached. His wheels were silent, but she turned anyway, sensing his presence, and his heart leaped at the connection between them…and just as quickly sank. The woman was beautiful, her mouth tender, but she wasn’t Katherine. The woman bowed to him. Her little girl scurried over, kissed Redbeard’s hand, and retreated. He blessed them and rolled on. Head high, his jaw clamped shut.

Rakkim closed in on Stevens, matching his footsteps to the pockmarked dandy’s. While Stevens hid his form and features within the hood of the burnoose, Rakkim had on a plain, gray suit and thin, knitted skullcap, as befitted the well-dressed modern. He had narrowed his goatee, his beard extending in a thin line from his sideburns down his jawline. His walk was poised, shoulders back, eyes sweeping the room-the best camouflage was to move as though unafraid of being observed, of inviting observation.

A man with a baby carriage cut across his path and Stevens went to cuff him aside, but stopped himself, allowed the man to pass.

Rakkim moved as Stevens moved, closing in. A tug on the man’s right earlobe…yes, that would be the perfect greeting. Turn him around by that clump of cartilage. Lead him like a lamb. Eye to eye. No permanent damage. Just a bruised ego. Keep hate alive.

Rakkim didn’t know why he had taken such an immediate dislike to the man. His preening at the Blue Moon had been part of it, but it was more than that. Their hostility had an instinctive, almost a cellular component, a mutual recognition. Rakkim had shared the last of his water with dying men who had tried to kill him minutes earlier, had held their hand and told them they were going to be fine. Stevens was different.

Rakkim was only two steps behind Stevens now, close enough to smell his aftershave. Stevens had enjoyed using the stun gun on Rakkim. Given the opportunity, Stevens would veer across three lanes of traffic to run him down, and Rakkim would welcome the attempt. Which was, of course, the reason that Redbeard had Stevens accompany him here today. Why Redbeard had sent Stevens to fetch Rakkim at the Blue Moon. Rakkim had thought it was just an accident that first time, but he should have known better-Redbeard didn’t have accidents. He had wanted to stir Rakkim up. To gain a faint advantage then…and now. Rakkim stopped, let Stevens walk on. It was too late though.

“Shall I slice your femoral artery or deball you, boy?”

Rakkim didn’t turn around. He could feel the tip of the knife pressed against his thigh, the tip poking through the fabric of his trousers. “Good morning, Uncle.”

Redbeard slipped the knife back into his sleeve, sat back in his wheelchair.

Rakkim slowly turned. A wheelchair. No gait to give him away. He bowed.

“Don’t just stand there, push me.” Redbeard waved Stevens back, the security agent sullen now, retreating. “You’ve embarrassed him again,” he said, as Rakkim got behind him. “I would have thought you had made enough enemies.”

“You should talk.”

“What have you found out about Sarah?”

“Do you want to talk here?” Rakkim slowly pushed the chair. “There’s a man with a briefcase eyeing the aerial photos of Indianapolis. He’s supposed to be a businessman, but he has faint stains at the corners of his mouth. Betel nut juice. A Black Robe-”

“I’ve got a blocking device in effect. You can say anything you want.”

“You’re certain?”

“It’s Russian. Sonic, subsonic, microwave, and ultrahigh frequencies.” Redbeard shook his head. “I remember when the best gear was made in this country.”