Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

Sarah made no move to take the box.

Jeri Lynn replaced the lid. She looked at Rakkim. “Cameron told me some things about you. He said he saw you kill a man with your bare hands. Said he never seen anything like it. I want your promise. I want you to promise that if I give you this medallion, you’re going to find this Darwin. You’re going to find him and you’re going to kill him.”

“It could take a while,” said Rakkim.

“Just promise that you’ll do it. I’m not asking for a schedule.”

“I promise.”

Jeri Lynn turned to Sarah beside her. “Can I trust him to keep his word? Fancy never had much luck with men, and I had even less.”

Sarah stared at Rakkim. She was thinking about what he had told her about the assassin. That he had no chance against him. “I trust him.”

Jeri Lynn handed her the case. “I hope this does what you think it will.”

Sarah tucked the box away.

“I don’t know if it makes a difference to you, but I would have killed Darwin anyway,” Rakkim said to Jeri Lynn. “I would have killed him for Fancy and a few others he’s butchered. I made up my mind about that a long time ago.”

Cameron wandered out from the back of the house. His hair was combed. He was wearing clean pants and a frayed L.A. Ramadan 2035 T-shirt. He sat in Jeri Lynn’s lap and didn’t even look embarrassed. “You sure I can stay?”

“Long as you want, baby.” Jeri Lynn put her arms around him, but kept her eyes on Rakkim. “You keep your promise, and if you can make this Darwin suffer, that’s all the better. Make it hurt. Make him howl so loud the demons in hell will know he’s on the way.”

“You said we were to meet tomorrow,” said Professor Wu. He looked from Sarah to Rakkim, unsettled by the lack of harmony a broken engagement engendered. “We were to meet at the King Street Café, not here. Not at my home. We were to have dim sum, Sarah, and-”

“Could we come in, Professor?” said Rakkim. “I’d rather not stand out in the cold.”

Wu glanced at Sarah, disappointed, although she wasn’t sure if he was annoyed at their unannounced arrival or at Rakkim’s interruption of him. Wu backed away, waved them inside. “Please.” He led them into a small, sparsely furnished living room, moving slowly. The bare spot at the back of his head had expanded in the years since she had last seen him and now encompassed most of his liver-spotted skull. He waited for them to sit on the clean but threadbare sofa, then excused himself, said he had to retrieve the photos of the medallion that they had onlined him.

Rakkim and Sarah had driven straight through from Southern California, keeping to the main roads, lost in the traffic. According to a jeweler in Long Beach, Fancy’s medallion was slightly radioactive. Not enough to pose a danger, but still more proof of its connection to the planting of the fourth nuke. The trip had been uneventful, except for a multicar accident in the Bay Area that threatened to detour them into San Francisco, a rabid fundamentalist stronghold. Terrible place, the old Golden Gate Bridge renamed for an Afghan warlord and decorated with the skulls of homosexuals purged after the transition. A section of the bridge had collapsed two weeks ago. Zionists or witches blamed. Any cars entering the city would be searched. Cells with picture capability or Web access would be confiscated, women dressed immodestly beaten. If Rakkim and Sarah’s forged marriage papers had been questioned, they would have been arrested for suspicion of fornication, and worse.

It had been raining in Seattle for the last five days, a cold, steady downpour that drove people off the streets and sent cars sliding into ditches. Sarah missed the heat and freedom of Southern California, but it was still good to be home. Or what passed for home. A warehouse in the industrial section south of the Sheik Ali Mosque. Another one of Rakkim’s hiding spots. Three days ago she had sent photos of the medallion to Wu, a Chinese scholar dismissed a few years ago during a bout of campus politics.

Wu shuffled back into the living room, slowly lowered himself into a reading chair. His fingers curled against the leather arms of the chair. His neck was so thin it could barely support his head. “Tuesday is the best day for dim sum at the King Street Café,” he said, Adam’s apple bobbling. “Madam Chen is only able to work one day a week, but her spring rolls with black mushroom are still the best in the city.”

“Perhaps next time,” said Sarah.

Wu had a laugh like the bark of a seal. He looked at Rakkim. “A brilliant student, but she seemed to delight in flaunting proper procedure. Always going her own way.”

“I’m shocked,” said Rakkim.

Another laugh from Wu, and then his expression slumped. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Professor Dougan, but I am unable to help you determine the origin of the medallion. There are tens of thousands of small villages in China, and each one of them takes pride in minting their own medallion to celebrate the yearly plum festival.”

“No apology necessary,” said Sarah, trying to hide her disappointment. “I didn’t realize the enormity of the request.”

Wu clung to the arms of the reading chair. “I did what I could. The medallion commemorated the 2015 plum festival, the year of the sheep. The workmanship is crude, but that’s part of its charm to collectors. I assume that’s where you got it?”

“Yes,” said Sarah.

“The collector had no idea what village it came from?”

“No,” said Sarah.

Wu nodded. “The slogans on your medallion, longevity and prosperity, are a common hallmark of such items, I’m afraid. From the style of the ideograms, I would guess that it came from Sandouping, Yichang, or perhaps the Hubei province, but again, that is a lot of ground. China is vast.” He lowered his eyes. “I deeply apologize.”

Sarah clasped her hands in gratitude. Those three areas were all in the vicinity of the Three Gorges Dam, and the date, 2015, was the year the other bombs had been detonated. She stood up, bowed. “Professor, we appreciate your help.”

“Very little help.” Wu struggled to get to his feet. “A retired professor enjoys nothing more than to be called upon by a favorite pupil.” His eyes sparkled. “Other than sharing lunch with her and her companion.”

Rakkim helped him up. “Thank you again, sir.”

“I wish you could have waited,” said Wu, walking them to the door. “I still haven’t heard from Master Zhao.”

Rakkim stopped. “You forwarded the photos of the medallion?”

“Of course. When I realized my own poor knowledge was insufficient-”

“We asked you not to do that, Professor.” Sarah felt Rakkim’s tension, his eagerness to leave. He had been the one who had insisted they drop in on Wu unannounced.

“I thought…well, often collectors have been known to import historical objects without permission, but this is of such recent origin…” Wu looked from one to the other. “I was trying to help.”

“How many people did you send the photos to?” said Rakkim.

“Six.” Wu grimaced. “Including my son, Harry Wu, adjunct professor at the University of Chicago, who could not be bothered.” He caught himself. “I hope I have not caused a problem. Master Zhao may still be of use to you. He is quite knowledgeable.”

“There is no problem at all, Professor,” said Sarah. “May you be well.”

Rakkim lightly clasped Wu’s hand, felt the man tremble. “Professor, Sarah and I would like to invite you for dim sum a month from now. The fourteenth. That’s a Tuesday too.” Rakkim smiled. “We’ll see if Madam Chen’s spring rolls are as good as you say. We’ll meet you at the King Street Café at one P.M. on the fourteenth.”