Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

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.