Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

Hanson shifted, cried out. Blood poured out of his mouth.

“Stay put. Down, boy. You’re going to die soon enough; you don’t need to be in a hurry. Let’s chat a bit. I so rarely get the chance to talk with someone who knows me…the real me. Inauthenticity devours the soul, Willy, but what can I do?”

Hanson bit his lip, trying to stay conscious.

“That’s the spirit.” Darwin watched the policeman’s blood trickle toward the drain. “I didn’t do this for your badge, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just that in my present job…there’s a high frustration level. Having to hold back, hold myself in check…it gives me a headache. I’m a man with appetites, Willy. Vast appetites. Terrible appetites. And I’m not allowed to satisfy them.” Darwin smiled. “You’ll just have to do for now. You don’t mind, do you?”

Hanson gripped the 9mm. His blue eyes were going muddy, but he held on to the pistol.

“I’m a Fedayeen assassin. You should be honored to die at my hands. You could have been run over by a bus or had an artery burst in your brain. You could have choked on a piece of tough steak or had an allergic reaction to peanut butter. Instead…here you are.” Darwin tapped the man’s front teeth as though he were playing a xylophone. “If you can get outside yourself for just a moment, get beyond the pain, I think you’ll realize that a certain amount of gratitude is in order.”

Hanson tried to focus.

“Perhaps that’s too much to ask.” Darwin watched the young policeman struggle to raise the 9mm. Blood ran down the drain faster now, curls and eddies. “That’s it…there you go. Just a little higher. Come on, you can do it. Pull the trigger, Willy. Pull it. Pull it.”

The gun wobbled. Clattered into the tub. Hanson took short, little breaths.

“Disappointing, isn’t it?” clucked Darwin. “Welcome to my world.” The wireless Cyclops inside his jacket vibrated. Still balanced on the edge of the bathtub, he slipped out the silver case, flipped it open. “Well, will you look at this?” He grinned, turned the plasma screen to Hanson. “This is the inside of the Warriq house. Real-time. It’s a night-vision image so there’s a green cast, but you can see her quite clearly. That’s Sarah Dougan standing inside the front door. Wearing a very elegant chador, I might add. The hajib flatters her features, wouldn’t you say? Hi, Sarah! Say hi to Sarah, Willy. No?”

Hanson eyes glazed over.

“What did you come back for, Sarah? It must be something very important.” Darwin pointed at the screen. “Look. She’s wrinkling her nose at the stink. They may have removed the bodies, but the fragrance lingers.” He watched Sarah start up the stairs and out of range of the camera in the foyer. He flicked to the living room camera. The sofa crusted with dried blood, empty now-sad somehow, like party candles guttered down. He looked at the handsome young policeman.

Hanson was drifting.

“Nothing on TV, nothing in the papers. What would I do if I kept a scrapbook?” complained Darwin. “Collecting clippings is gauche, of course, but still, don’t you think the news blackout is rather petty? I blame that fat detective who was with Rakkim. Someone should teach Detective Colarusso that it’s only fair to give credit where credit is due. I have to admit, Willy, I’m a happy guy right now. I thought she might come back to the house, and here she is. Nothing like being right. Best feeling in the world. Willy? You’re no fun. See, there’s something at the house that she wants. Pay attention, Willy. Find the focus of desire, that’s the secret. Remember that. I’ve just given you some wisdom.”

Hanson’s fingers twitched, but the 9mm was an inch away. It might as well be miles.

Darwin snapped the Cyclops case shut. “Time to go. I need to find out what sweet Sarah is so interested in.” He stood up, looked down at Hanson. The young policeman’s hand moved ever so slightly toward the pistol. Impressive. Darwin wished he had more time to spend with the handsome policeman, but he was already late. He carefully placed his foot on the man’s abdomen, right on the third button of his blue shirt. “Can I have your blessing? Yes? No?” Darwin stamped down. Just hard enough, the pressure precisely calibrated. Hanson’s scream was still echoing as Darwin headed for the door.

Sarah slumped on the worn leather chair in Marian’s library, her head in her hands. Too tired to cry, but more than enough anger to hurl every book on the shelves across the room. She didn’t do it, though. She loved books…and she loved Marian. Had loved her. Loved her clarity, her intelligence, her shy laugh. Loved the way she laughed when she poured tea, as though the two of them were children playing grown-up. Marian was gone now and so were her father’s journals. Sarah sat in the dark, the room lit only by moonlight. The loss of Marian was a stone in her heart…but the theft of the journals was even more devastating.

It had taken her a year to focus on Richard Warriq, a year of fruitless contacts with other China experts, engineers and seismologists and architects, men who had worked on the Three Rivers Gorge project, most of them retired now or, like Warriq, long dead. She had cultivated these sources or their survivors, cross-checked their information before discarding them and moving on to the next name on her list.

An owl hooted nearby and Sarah crossed to the library window, looked outside. Owls were a bad omen, but the security lights from the house next door revealed nothing. She paced the room, restless, the empty shelf on the bookcase mocking her.

Compiling the list of names had been relatively easy. She had run a computer model to track American Muslims who had worked on the dam, supposedly as part of a research paper to highlight scientific talent among the faithful. The Chinese had kept most of the work among their own citizens, but many of the engineering requirements were specialized, and the Chinese had been forced to use several American firms. Marian’s father had been a fractal engineer, a devout Muslim who had returned again and again to the project and who seemed to travel widely. Sarah had almost decided to move on to the next name until Marian mentioned that her father had made a pilgrimage to Mecca after finishing business in Asia, had gone to pray at the holy city less than a month before it was devastated by a dirty nuke. Marian had thought his timing a blessing, but Sarah saw a darker coincidence, convinced now that Warriq’s meticulously detailed journals were the key to unlocking the truth behind the Zionist attack.

Sarah stared at the empty bookcase, not knowing what to do. The Old One’s killers must have taken them after murdering Marian and Terry and Terry’s wife. No other books had been removed, just the journals. So the Old One knew. Which had to mean that Sarah’s theory was correct…didn’t it? That was something, wasn’t it? Sarah took no pleasure in being right. She wished that Rakkim had been at the Blue Moon club Wednesday night. She was sworn to secrecy, but Rakkim…their hearts were joined. She was ready to tell him the truth now.

The clock ticked away in the corner. Another couple of hours until midnight prayers, but she would be long gone by then. No reason to make the security guard suspicious. First though…she started up the stairs to Marian’s bedroom. The neighbors had told the cabdriver that she was found dead in the bathtub. Sarah wanted to see the spot where Marian had died, to pray for her there. Sarah owed her that much.

The stairs were dark, the rain beating against the windows as though someone were trying to get in. Her legs felt weak, and in spite of all her good intentions, her brave intentions, she slowed as she neared Marian’s bedroom. A stone the size of a fist was in her throat, and she had a sudden, overpowering fear that Marian’s body had not been removed, that unlike the bodies of the butchered servants, the police had kept Marian where they had found her, part of some complex forensic necessity. It was a ridiculous thought…but she could barely breathe as she stood outside the closed door to Marian’s room.