The 56th Man (11 page)

Turning to the house again, he followed the
hidden trajectory of the killer, or killers. Center left,
downstairs picture window. If the window curtains had been open, a
kayaker taking a brisk spin on a cold December night might have
seen the flash of gunfire in the living room. Ari leaned down so
that he could see the second floor beyond the gazebo roof. The
master bedroom windows could also be clearly seen from the
river.

It was suddenly darker than a moment before.
It looked as though the Mackenzie porch light had been switched
off. A flash and report announced the launching of another
Whistling Jupiter from the island, which was completely invisible
at this time of night.

The Mackenzie light came on.

Then went off.

Then came on again.

A kind of smirking sorrow filled Ari. He gave
a snort, then poured another snort. Tricks. Everywhere, tricks. You
could tabulate the world population by counting all the people who
had outsmarted themselves. And he should know. He was a genius at
it.

Should he go inside and put a seal on this
little plot of innocence? What the Mackenzies were up to in the
middle of the night was none of his business. But he did not move.
He would add to his knowledge of the foibles of his new land. He
was also curious to know if the rocket man out on the water was
using night vision goggles. Even here, where the water was calm, a
collision with a rock or driftwood could capsize a kayak or
canoe.

Besides...perhaps it was his business, after
all.

Once he decided to remain outside, he tested
the option of creeping up on the Mackenzie house. The trees seemed
thick enough to provide cover. But after taking a few strides
toward the edge of the yard he about-faced back to the gazebo
bench. Three-quarters of a bottle of whiskey had not stifled the
cold, inner observer that weighed the odds and enforced decisions.
It was too dark, and he had drunk too much, to guarantee a stealthy
approach.

He didn't see the two-man kayak until it slid
into the faint aura of light from the Mackenzie porch about thirty
yards from the shore. It was a little larger than the ones Ari had
seen doodling on the river the last couple of days. The two men
drew their doubled-edged paddles out of the water.

"Product!" one of the called out.

Someone must have signaled from the Mackenzie
yard. The kayakers vanished behind the tree border as they stroked
to the beach. There being nothing to see, Ari leaned back and
closed his eyes, hoping to catch a few more words. But all he heard
were a few indecipherable murmurs. He swore lowly, blaming Jack
Daniels for his deafness. He took another sip.

The kayak remained out of sight for nearly
ten minutes. Negotiation (if any) and the exchange of money for
'product' should take no more than a moment, especially for the
kind of transaction Ari was certain was taking place.

He had not turned on his own porch light, but
the kayakers would have seen the faint glow filtering through the
thick living room curtains.

Someone’s moved into the Riggins house?

Yes.

Know anything about them?

No.

Obviously, such a conversation would take all
of three seconds. What else were they talking about? The weather?
No, the kayakers would not linger for banal chitchat.

He tried to interpret the tone of the
murmurs. Not much there, either. They were perfectly neutral,
containing neither laughter nor argument. It sounded as if only two
men were talking. One of the kayakers was not participating in the
discussion. Still squatting in the boat, maintaining his position
in the water. A portable escape hatch.

And then a woman's voice chimed in, clear as
a bell.

"No, there's someone living there. I saw him
the other day. A fucking A-rab. He was in a jogging suit. A fucking
A-rab jogger!"

Ari smiled. The silly woman was completely
smashed, a fact confirmed by her shrill laughter.

Mr. Mackenzie must have told her to tone it
down. Her reaction was predictably belligerent.

"Fuck you! It's a free country!"

Ari mentally waggled a finger at the
invisible woman, in part for her language and in part for her
assertion. Outside of nationalistic propaganda, he had yet to see
or hear of a free country, now or ever. Above all, though, he
silently admonished her for the way she spoke to her husband.

The voices subsided. Ari found himself urging
Mrs. American Freedom to speak up again and assert her right to row
drunkenly, even at the price of male embarrassment. She did not let
him down.

"You've got to be shitting me! No way! The
first we heard about it was in the papers."

Some harsh skeptical sounds followed,
probably from the kayak spokesman.

"You think we'd do something like that?" Mrs.
Mackenzie shot back. "You're out of your fucking mind!"

"No, no, no, I didn't say..." The male voice
drifted off on a light breeze.

Why were they only talking about this now? If
the kayakers thought the Mackenzies had had something to do with
the murders, bringing it up nine months later did not serve any
purpose. Blackmail made no sense. If the kayakers had seen
something, they would have leapt on it immediately, threatening to
lead the police to fresh evidence. By waiting so long they would
have made themselves accomplices.

"What if
you
did it, huh?" Mrs. Mackenzie screeched. "You
were out here that night! Right? Right?"

Ari hoped the woman would not be smacked into
silence. She was providing the only open window on the topic at
hand. She had certainly provided him with an interesting morsel.
The kayakers had indeed been cruising the James the night of the
murders. But this posed the same problem. Why wait so long to make
the accusation?

Because no one had lived in the house all
this time? Why should that matter? Unless the house itself was what
triggered the argument.

Sphinx, you're going to have
to start earning your keep. This might be America, land of the
coddled cats, but your new master is not American. He expects pets
to work for a living
.

"Okay, okay! I've had a few drinks, okay? Is
that a crime?"

Well, Ari thought, fingering his glass...yes.
And no. Hard to say, especially after a few drinks.

"I said I'm fucking sorry, all right?"

She sounded more drunk than convinced. And
then, for the first time, Ari obtained a clear take on the voice of
Mr. Mackenzie:

"Hey Dude, she's drunk! Okay! We're
cool!"

Cool as a razor off the strap, Ari smirked.
This was really wonderful. He couldn't wait for fine weather. He
needed to talk to Detective Carrington. He needed to talk to the
kayakers. And for both discussions, a clear sky and calm waters
were necessary.

He watched as the kayak, black as coal and
sleek as a reed, vanished out of the halo of the Mackenzie's porch
light.

NINE

The unhooded prisoner turned and cringed when
he saw the scimitar. He lost control of his bladder. Courage could
only carry him so far.

"There's no need for this," Ghaith sighed.
"He's not worth your trouble. Besides, where's your video setup?
Don't you people usually film these things?"

"Not in this case." Omar looked at him
closely. "Why isn't he worth our trouble?"

Well...maybe it will
help
.

"Aziz Shahristani, a veteran of the first war
against the Americans. He fell on hard times during the embargo and
was caught pilfering...I don't know what, exactly." Ghaith closed
his eyes for a moment, matching the face to the file. "During his
stay in Abu Ghraib he met with a little accident during
interrogation, losing the small finger..."

"Which one?" Omar asked.

"Both of them."

"I noticed that when I tied him up," one of
the guards said.

"And there is no way Ghaith could have seen
them," Omar said, meaning the prisoner's bound hands had been out
of sight the whole time.

Aziz Shahristani's dread lifted momentarily.
He was staring at Ghaith.

"Do I know you?"

Ghaith shook his head.

"But he knows you," Omar said, turning back
to Ghaith. "So what they told me is true."

"Now you know. I'm a clerk, I file things
away."

"You supervised the Ministry database," Omar
added.

"There were many databases...at least, until
the fall," Ghaith observed, giving a mocking glance at the
scimitar. "Before the Americans got there, the looters took every
last computer server and paper clip."

"Everything but this." Omar once again tapped
his old friend on the side of the head. "I see now why the Ministry
wants you dead. They want to start from a clean slate."

“
And these…?” Ari nodded at
the bound prisoners.

"They meet the same fate," said Omar harshly.
"They were caught helping the Americans."

"Not me," Ghaith shook his head.

"It's only a matter of time." Omar made a
swooping motion with his arm. Using both arms, the guard raised the
scimitar over his head.

"Don't move," he told the first prisoner.
"That would only make it more painful."

The next morning the rain came. Cats and
dogs, was the meaningless analogy in English.

Ari scratched Detective Carrington and the
kayakers from his To Do List, at least for that day. Which was just
as well. He wasn't feeling particularly sharp. Gulping down cup
after cup of hot tea, he spent his pre-noon hours squinting at his
computer screen.

There was no need to purchase a bird guide.
He found what he needed at Wikipedia. Whoever was monitoring his
browser would be stumped by his sudden fascination with geese.
Particularly interesting was the tidbit about the Capitoline geese,
who alerted the ancient Romans when the Gauls were sneaking up on
their last citadel in 390 B.C. The Empire might have been snuffed
in its cradle, leaving the world to the Persians and fucking
A-rabs. The geese outside the master bedroom window (although he
couldn't see them with the rain bashing against the panes) were
Canadian. Many had abandoned the tribulations of migration and
taken up permanent residence in the Chesapeake Bay and on the James
River.

Leaving off avian research, Ari checked his
email. Nothing. He hadn't expected a reaction from his employer
this soon, one way or another.

Sphinx seemed to have nothing better to do
than to take up space on his camper mattress. Ari swiveled in his
office chair and gave the cat a baleful eye. Sensing it was being
observed, Sphinx opened its own eyes to find a menacing scowl
directed its way. The cat stretched leisurely and seemed on the
verge of going back to sleep when Ari stomped his foot on the wood
floor. Sphinx jumped up, pupils wide with alarm. Ari stood. Finally
recognizing the threat, Sphinx ran out the studio door, Ari hot
behind it.

Sphinx flew straight for the stairs.
Bleary-eyed, his temples pounding, Ari nearly went head over heels
as he tried to leap several steps at one go, only saving himself by
grabbing hold of the handrail.

"Sphinx!" he shouted. "I'll skin you
alive!"

He stopped and steadied himself.

"If I don't break my neck, first."

There was no sound. With a grunt, he
proceeded with yet another search of the house. On the first floor
he double-checked closets, stomped for hollows in the floor, tapped
on the trim work to make sure it was secure. A small makeshift door
the size of four playing cards laid out in a rectangle opened up on
a water valve, which apparently controlled the line to the bibcock
out front. Squeezing his arm past the pipe, Ari ran his hand along
the floor behind the wall. There was something grainy at the bottom
of the frame. Drawing out, he found his fingertips coated with
white powder. He sniffed at it gingerly. It was gypsum that had
rained off the sheetrock during the construction of the house, plus
something else. Some kind of oil. It reminded him of cosmoline.

"Here, Sphinx. Be a good girl. Talk to me.
Meow...meow..."

In the basement he tapped at the wall
paneling. Here and there he struck a hollow spot. It would be an
easy matter to pull out a section and bury something in the
insulation. But if the idea had occurred to him, it would have
occurred to whoever else had searched the house over the last nine
months. He scrutinized the heads of the small brown panel nails,
but it was impossible to say if they had been tampered with.
Besides, the theoretical searcher could have easily bought new
nails to hammer the panels back into place. In any event, the cat
had no access to the gaps in the walls--at least, none that Ari
could find.

He went into the kitchen and opened a can of
cat food. He tapped a spoon on the edge of the can, a signal Sphinx
had already learned to recognize. But Ari had thrown too much of a
scare into it. With a sigh of resignation that merged effortlessly
with the rain hissing on the roof, he doled out a couple of clumps
into the cat dish. The water had gone down in the second dish. He
topped it off.

Squeezed between a Big Lots and a lawyer who
specialized in divorces and traffic injuries--two very similar
types of accidents--Moria's Notions was a nondescript niche in an
anonymous cluster of shops along the mishmash of malls on Broad
Street, itself a salute to indiscriminate entrepreneurship.
Shoppers were undeterred by the weather, with every car shooting
off hip-high water wings, splashing themselves and other cars
(there were no pedestrians to spatter, which Ari found enormously
odd, even spooky). Shop-hopping was the universal pastime, and few
stores were excluded from the itinerary.

Moria's Notions seemed to be one of them.
Sitting in his car, working himself up for a dash across the
parking lot, Ari saw no one coming out or going in--unlike the Big
Lots next door, which attracted throngs of bargain-hunters.