Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

“Hollywood?” Jill knew immediately what he was talking about. She was probably weary of the question. One more reason to stay on the ranch, raise horses, go to the small mosque in town, and let the rest of the world go by. “Sometimes.” She sipped her tea. “What about you? Do you sometimes wish you weren’t retired?”

Rakkim smiled. “Sometimes.”

“I’ve got one more performance in me, although I have to admit I’m not thrilled with the role.” Jill watched him through the steam in her tea. “In a few weeks I’m being given a lifetime achievement award at the Oscars. So, I think we can conclude that I’m officially certified as a living fossil.”

“Lady, you don’t need to fish for compliments.”

Jill laughed. “I see why Sarah is crazy about you. You’re like a rough kiss.” She toyed with one of her braids. “Sarah told me so much about you. I feel like I know you.”

“That would be a mistake.”

“You make her feel safe. You and Redbeard both do, but with him there was always an agenda. Maybe that’s why Sarah and I became friends-we both know what it’s like to be in the public eye. To be judged. To be used. I can remember all those photo ops of her visiting shrines, the televised meetings with the president. Sarah Dougan, the child of the nation’s first great martyr-”

“Redbeard put a stop to that when she was six. No more photos. No nightly news segments. He was worried about her safety-”

Jill snorted. “Redbeard stopped it because he didn’t need her in the spotlight anymore. She had served her purpose.” Jill wandered over to the photo of her sons. “Nick is my youngest. His father was so proud when he became Fedayeen, but I’m a mother. I was worried.”

“He’s all right?”

Jill nodded, still looking at the photo, the boys young and silly with the Oscars balanced on their heads, eyes crossed for the camera. “Sixteen years since Nick took the oath. A few scars and scratches, that’s all. He’s posted to Chicago. Three wives. Ten children. A Fedayeen colonel…” She carefully replaced the photo above the sink, ran a finger lightly across the frame. “I’m proud of my son. He serves Allah and the nation…but when he visits, I don’t recognize him.” She looked at Rakkim. “Is it a sin for a mother not to recognize the fruit of her womb?”

The guard checked Sarah’s identification, his mouth moving as he read. “You’re collecting money?”

“For the United Islamic Benevolence Society, just as it says.”

The wind and rain battered the guard as he stood beside her open window. His green uniform looked brand-new, but the collar was wilting in the damp. He looked over the battered car she was driving. “You got permission to go door-to-door, sister?”

“Asking for donations is as much of a responsibility for good Muslims as making donations,” Sarah said piously. The chador she had borrowed from Jill was a deep plum color that set off her eyes. “I’m sure you know that.”

The guard scratched his puffy face with the card, the sound like sandpaper. He was a big, strapping fellow with slow eyes and a half-eaten sandwich waiting for him on the desk in the guard shack. “We had a problem here earlier this week. A…situation. Woman got killed. Two of her servants were butchered along with her.”

“I’m certain the neighborhood is safe now, Officer. After all…you’re on duty.”

The guard chewed his lip. “I got to be careful who I let in. I could get in trouble.”

“Do I look like trouble, Officer?”

The guard peered at her, taking the question seriously.

“This is a devout neighborhood,” said Sarah. “It’s after dinner. The brothers and sisters will be happy to have the opportunity to satisfy their obligations from the comfort of their own homes. What could be wrong with that?”

“I…I don’t know, sister.”

Sarah inclined her head, blessed him. “Then lift the gate, Officer.”

The guard backed up, stumbling, muttering a blessing in return.

Sarah drove on through.

“When Sarah arrived at the ranch…how did she seem?”

“I got a call from her at three A.M. We hadn’t talked for over a year, but I recognized her voice immediately. I’m a light sleeper…even if it hadn’t been the middle of the night, I could tell she was upset. She said she was at a gas station about five miles away. Protecting me again. So the man who dropped her off wouldn’t know where she was going.” Jill listened to the rain on the roof. “We stayed up until dawn, talking. She was very upset.”

“Was she injured?”

“She said she had killed a man a few hours earlier. Does that count?”

“No.”

Jill shook her head. Once Fedayeen, always Fedayeen. She didn’t even have to say it. “Sarah went to bed after dawn prayers, slept until late. We went riding the next morning, not talking, just enjoying the day. She seemed better. Then she left for a few hours and when she came back…she was worse than she was the first night she showed up. Sarah is strong, but when she came back, she couldn’t stop crying. She wanted to leave. She said everyone she was close to was at risk-”

“Where did she go Friday?” Rakkim’s voice was so soft that she wouldn’t have heard him except that he had moved closer, close enough to smell horses on her again.

“I don’t know. She said an old friend…a dear friend had been murdered and she blamed herself-” Jill pulled back as he jumped up, knocking the chair over. “Rakkim! Where are you going?”

“Excuse me, Officer Hanson…” Darwin carefully reached under the handsome young policeman, slipped his badge-wallet out of his pants. Flipped it open, “William Hanson. I like that. William. A good, steak-and-taters American name. Pleasure to meet you. I bet they call you Bill, don’t they? How about Willy? I prefer that. Willy. Sounds friendly. Innocent. Do you think of yourself as innocent, Willy? Most people do.” Darwin laughed, the sound echoing off the bathroom tile as he tucked the badge and ID into his own jacket. “A man like me…I have no illusions.”

Hanson’s right hand inched toward his sidearm, hanging half out of its holster.

“Well, look at you. Aren’t you the tenacious lawman.” Darwin reached down, pulled the gun free, checked it out. Standard police-issue 9mm semiautomatic, with a personal-ID grip. The weapon couldn’t be fired unless the registered owner’s thumbprint was pressed into position. The 9mm was useless to anyone other than Hanson. Darwin expelled a round, looked down the barrel, then jacked a fresh bullet into the chamber. “You keep a well-maintained weapon, Officer. You like those expansion slugs, I see. Give you a sense of security, do they? I wager you never fired your weapon in the line of duty, though. Am I right? That changes things, trust me.”

Hanson groaned.

“Let me help.” Darwin bent forward, placed the pistol in the man’s hand. “There you go.”

Hanson’s fingers curled around the grip, made contact. He tried to raise the 9mm, but it was too heavy for him.

“Take your time. Get your strength back. Just keep breathing. Terrible calculus-each inhalation tears you up a little more inside, cuts into the soft pink parts, but a man has to breathe.”

Hanson’s forehead beaded. A ball of sweat ran down into his eyes, sent him blinking.

Darwin daubed at the man’s face with his handkerchief, his movements strangely tender as Hanson’s eyes tracked him. “Don’t worry, I don’t have anything embarrassing planned for you. Homosexuals, heterosexuals…you each make your choices, the wheel of love and desire.” He stroked Hanson’s cheek. “Me…well, truth be told, men and women, they’re all the same to me. Flesh buckets. You can have them.” Laughed. “Take a note, Willy. You can have my share.”