Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

Marian wasn’t in the living room, but Rakkim just had to follow the bloody footprints. It was like the diagrams of dance steps he had seen in old books, fox-trot and waltz and tango and rumba, party dances for good times that weren’t coming back. He followed the footsteps up the stairs, the blackened imprints getting fainter with every step. There were no clouds of flies in this part of the house, no flies at all. He found Marian in the master bedroom, found her submerged in the soaking tub, her hands and feet bound with electrical wire, her black hair drifting like seaweed. She was nude. Of course.

Marian’s chador was thrown into a corner of the bathroom, slashed apart, but there were no wounds on her body. Another indication of the killer’s skill with a blade. Rakkim sat on the edge of the tub, looking down at her. The tub was filled almost to the top, and water had sloshed across the floor from her struggles. Her face was underwater, turned shyly to one side, away from Rakkim. Her breasts and pubic bone broke the surface, an archipelago of sad flesh.

He stared at her profile, saw the bruises on her neck from when she had been clasped and held under, two small bruises on either side of her windpipe…he had a delicate touch, this killer, using just enough force to hold her down, not to strangle her. Marian had not been carved up like Terry and his wife, not posed in some horror show diorama, but her death had been even more cruel. Marian, who had loved only one man in her life, who had allowed only one man to see her nakedness, had been drowned slowly, thrashing and screaming and coughing up water, fully aware that she was to be left exposed for all the world to see. No wonder she had fought so hard, even tied hand and foot.

Rakkim should have told her the truth on the balcony. She had asked him if he believed that there was one love for each of us, one love and one love only, and he had told her he didn’t know. She had known he was lying, but he had stayed with the lie. Maybe the lie wasn’t meant for her, but meant to convince himself. He hadn’t fooled either of them.

He was going to have to contact Colarusso. This area of Seattle was out of the detective’s jurisdiction, but Redbeard could take care of that with a call to the police chief. Redbeard would have plenty of questions, but that was the price of getting him to make the call. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be long before the neighbors started wondering what had happened to the guard at the front gate, or the next security shift came to work, and then the local cops would be brought in to comb the area. Better to send in Colarusso; he would listen to Rakkim and would do what he was asked. A true investigation was out of the question. The forensic techs would tell him the approximate size and weight of the killer based on the bloody footsteps, and there might even be fingerprints and skin samples from under Marian’s fingernails, all sorts of DNA possibilities, but it didn’t matter. The man who had done this was outside the jurisdiction of the police. He was beyond the law. That’s where Rakkim would find him. That’s where Rakkim lived too.

Colarusso would have questions, of course, but he would accept the answers Rakkim gave him. The detective might even be able to help. First though, Rakkim had something more important to do. He walked out of the bathroom and over to the closet. He was going to find Marian a clean chador. He was going to lift her out of the tub, carry her over to her bed, and get her dressed. Then he would pray for her too.

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.”