Killerwatt (2 page)

In the frantic week before the Memorial Day weekend,
Rhetta was helping Woody with the paperwork to refinance Doctor Hakim Al-Serafi’s
home. The doctor’s mansion sat nestled in Woodland Crossing, a prestigious new
subdivision west of Cape Girardeau, Missouri.

A little over a year ago, Al-Serafi bought the
foreclosed house for cash when he arrived to start working as an emergency room
physician at St. Mark’s Hospital. The house had belonged to the developer who
went broke when the recession punched a hole in the housing market balloon.
Even with the depressed market, the house was worth $100,000 more than when Al-Serafi
bought it. Property values had mushroomed in that area since his purchase.

Although the photocopy of Al-Serafi’s alien
registration card, also known as a green card, proclaimed him a German citizen,
Rhetta noted that the dark skinned, black haired doctor didn’t speak with a
German accent.

Woody studied Al-Serafi’s picture intently. “I was
stationed in Germany for over two years,” Woody said. “I can tell you, he
doesn’t sound German to me. Al-Serafi speaks English with a British accent.”
Woody withdrew a copy of the doctor’s permanent visa from the file and examined
it. “We worked with a lot of Arabs who spoke English with a British accent.” He
slid both back into the file and closed it. “He sounds a lot like they did.”

Looking up from her computer, Rhetta turned to Woody.
“Why did Arabs speak English with a British accent?” She remembered that Woody
had also spent two years in Kuwait, and was doubtless familiar with all the
accents in that area.

“Most of the Arabs we worked with had wealthy
parents who sent them to school in England. When I asked Doctor Al-Serafi if he
had also gone to school in England, he got huffy with me. I took that for a
no.”

Because Rhetta’s desk was close to Woody’s, she was
able to overhear all of their conversation. The entire main office area was
barely sixteen feet square. Rhetta and Woody routinely heard conversation from
customers at each other’s desk. If more privacy was required, either of them
could move to an office in the back. Both she and Woody preferred to sit out
front near the windows.

Al-Serafi told Woody he graduated from the American
school in Munich before going abroad to medical school. He also explained his
affinity to a Western lifestyle. “I am a Muslim. But I am not Sharia.”

Sharia, Rhetta knew, was the strictest form of the
Muslim religion. In fact, if she remembered correctly, a Sharia Muslim wasn’t
permitted to borrow money and pay interest to a non-Muslim bank. His not being
Sharia explained why he’d come to Missouri Community Bank Mortgage and
Insurance. Besides that, there were no Muslim banks in Southeast Missouri.

Al-Serafi continued, “I do not approve of those who
say they are Muslims, but are bent on waging war against the West. I have
always lived in the West. Allah,” Al-Serafi then bowed in reverence, “is called
AS-SALĀM
,
the Bestower of Peace.” 

Woody withheld comment.

Seeing him turned out in crisp Dockers, tasseled
loafers—no socks—and a starched blue Oxford shirt, Rhetta conceded that Al-Serafi
dressed like many other western doctors she knew. She wondered what his wife
looked like.

Rhetta heard Woody reviewing the closing figures
with his client. “Everything’s ready,” Woody said. “Your closing is set for
next Thursday. Make sure your wife brings photo identification.”

Al-Serafi’s voice changed its tone, growing louder.
Rhetta glanced at Woody. She saw only the back of Al-Serafi’s head and couldn’t
read his expression.

 “My wife does not have anything to do with the
finances of our household,” Al-Serafi said. He sounded like a man accustomed to
being in charge. She swore she heard his neck hairs bristle.
Yeah, that
sounds real American. Right.

Woody answered in a calm voice. “You’re the only one
on the promissory note. That means you’re the only one responsible for paying
back the money.” Woody stared unwaveringly at his client. “Under Missouri law,
a spouse must sign the mortgage. She must agree to your home providing
collateral. That’s why she has to sign.”

Rhetta observed Al-Serafi as he turned sideways,
breaking eye contact with Woody and glancing down to the table at the
paperwork. “Very well,” Al-Serafi said. “I will have my wife here to sign the
papers at three o’clock on Thursday.” The doctor gathered up his own copies,
arranged them in a slim burgundy leather folio and left.

Rhetta separated the vertical blinds at the nearby
window to observe the doctor striding toward his tan Lexus ES 330. “That guy
sure doesn’t look German to me. I wonder what his real story is.” She sauntered
over to Woody’s desk, picked up the file and thumbed through it. “I can’t wait
to see his wife. What’s her name?”

“Mahata,” said Woody.

From the copy of the green card, Rhetta learned that
Al-Serafi had entered the U.S. at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago
eighteen months earlier. She flipped through the pages of his application.
Rhetta whistled when she saw the amount of cash he’d get. One eyebrow shot up.
She snapped the file closed. “Holy crap, what’s he going to do with $500,000?”
Her suspicions flared. She claimed her wariness intensified from being married
to a cynical judge for overfouryears. Judge Randolph McCarter, who retired two
years ago after he turned fifty, claimed that his mistrustful nature was due to
the preposterous stories he’d heard from criminal defendants and their lawyers.

Rhetta had met her share of liars and frauds over
the years in her line of work, too.

“Claims he’s going to buy a second home at Lake of
the Ozarks,” Woody said.

“Right,” Rhetta said. “Al-Serafi can go fishing
while Mahata sunbathes in a teensy-weensy bikini.”

Woody’s lips twitched in the tiniest of smiles.

*
* *

At
precisely three o’clock on Thursday, the twenty-first, Al-Serafi pushed open
the office door and strode in. The warm humid outside air followed him in,
along with the smell of impending rain. Rhetta swiveled in her chair to watch,
curious to see Al-Serafi’s wife. Mahata followed several steps behind the
doctor.

 After Woody greeted his customers, the men turned
to walk to the conference table. Although a shawl-like, gauzy garment covered
Mahata’s head, her face was exposed. She wore no burqa, the traditional garment
that Rhetta thought Muslim females usually wore. Black hair peeked out of the
head covering. Rhetta assumed her eyes were dark, although she’d yet to see
them.

Al-Serafi pulled out a chair and sat, then motioned
for his wife to sit. He did not hold out a chair for her. Mahata gazed
downward, avoiding any eye contact with Woody. It disturbed Rhetta that Al-Serafi
didn’t extend any courtesy to his wife. Woody slid a chair out for her. Mahata
took her seat in silence.

While everyone took their places, Mahata kept her
head down and fingered a fold in her black robe. Al-Serafi made no move to
introduce his wife. They sat without speaking until Woody turned to Mahata.
“May I please—”

Throwing his right hand, palm-up in a stop gesture,
Al-Serafi interrupted. “You must not speak directly to my wife, sir. It isn’t
proper. You must speak only to me. Also, you must not look directly at my
wife.”

Woody faced Al-Serafi, blinking rapidly, as though
trying to determine where to look. He inhaled, and let out a deep breath before
speaking. “May I please see your wife’s driver’s license? I need a photo ID.”
He extended his hand but didn’t look at Mahata, keeping his eyes instead, on Al-Serafi.

Al-Serafi glared at Woody. “Mahata does not drive. I
will provide you with her green card. It has her picture. Will that not do?”

“Yes, of course. That’ll be fine.” Woody continued
holding out his hand, waiting for the doctor to produce the card.

Al-Serafi turned and offered his open palm to his
wife. Mahata reached into a small dark cloth bag trimmed with colorful beads.
After a moment of searching, she withdrew a laminated card and dropped it into
her husband’s hand. Al-Serafi glanced at it before presenting it along with his
own ID.

Woody’s chair scraped noisily as he pushed it away
from the table and stood. “I’ll be right back. I, uh, just need to copy them.”
He disappeared around the corner, paperwork in one hand while his free hand
rubbed his head.

It was time to step in. Rhetta sauntered over to the
conference table and thrust her right hand at Al-Serafi. “How do you do? My
name is Rhetta McCarter. I’m the manager here. Is everything all right?”

Al-Serafi stared at her proffered hand then slowly
shifted his gaze to her face. Rhetta felt self-conscious about wearing her two
expensive rings. The facets on the princess cut diamond cluster ring that
Randolph had given her as a first year anniversary gift sparkled in the bright
lighting. The glittering ruby she wore on her middle finger had been a fortieth
birthday present to herself. Moreover, she wondered if the man had an aversion
to shaking her hand, a mere woman in his eyes, since he took so long to
respond. She presumed from his hard stare that began at her head and ended at
her hand, that he wasn’t impressed with her spiky, blond-streaked hair either.

Eventually, Al-Serafi offered his hand and brushed
hers in the briefest of handshakes. Then he snaked his right hand across the
table and snatched a pen. He began rolling it between his right thumb and
forefinger, avoiding any further physical contact. He stared straight ahead. Al-Serafi
wore no rings. Rhetta wondered if that was a Muslim tradition.

Rhetta smiled. For all his western talk, Al-Serafi’s
manners wouldn’t qualify under her definition of good manners. She offered her
hand to Mahata. The woman’s eyes darted to her husband, who nodded his assent.
Mahata slowly held out her hand. Rhetta grasped it, feeling the woman’s
reluctance through her limp response. Then Mahata quickly withdrew her hand,
folded it into her other hand on top of the bag in her lap, and resumed
studying the tabletop.

Rhetta pulled out a chair for herself and joined
them. Woody returned copies in one hand, their ID in the other. Handing the
doctor the cards, Woody assembled the documents for the closing.

When Woody began explaining the first of the many
pages, Al-Serafi waved him on. “We are in a hurry. I must return to the
hospital. Just show me where I must sign.” They completed the rest of the
transaction in silence. Al-Serafi didn’t ask any questions. Mahata never
uttered another word while she signed.

Wasting no time after they finished, Al-Serafi
immediately stood to leave. His wife followed his lead. Rhetta also stood,
turned to the doctor, and smiled broadly. Again, she brazenly extended her
sinful hand. “Thank you, sir. We appreciate the confidence you’ve placed in
Missouri Community Bank Mortgage and Insurance.”

Al-Serafi repeated his earlier reaction and stared
at her hand. He tilted his head sideways and afforded her the briefest of
smiles. He returned her handshake, then abruptly turned toward the door. Mahata
trailed him, silent, head still bent. Woody hurried to reach the door first,
where he held it open. Al-Serafi tugged his wife past Woody.

After they’d left, Woody closed the door and leaned
back against it.

“That sure was different.”

“He brags about being so westernized,” Rhetta said,
scoffing, pushing her chair back to the table. “Yet he subscribes to the
subservient wife channel. How western is that? Poor woman. I’d hate living with
a man like him. He stared at my hand like he was going to catch cancer.” She
eased behind her desk to the window and peered through the steel blinds to
observe the strange couple making their way to their car. The woman lagged
several steps behind her husband. They didn’t speak to each other. Al-Serafi
didn’t open the car door for his wife.

“What a jerk,” Rhetta commented, turning away,
letting the metal slats of the blinds snap back together.

“Whew, I’m glad that’s over.” Woody exhaled loudly.

Rhetta removed her glasses and chewed on the tip of
one of the arms. “What was it about him that rattled your cage?”

 “I’m not rattled.” His hand shot to his head.

On the contrary, you’re rattled
worse than a timber rattler coiled to strike.

Chapter
3

Tuesday
Morning Following Memorial Day, May 26

Returning to work after the long weekend, Rhetta
cruised through McDonald’s, seeking a large coffee for a badly needed caffeine
jolt. She and Randolph had spent Memorial Day weekend at their cabin at Land
Between the Lakes, Kentucky, fishing and relaxing. Exhausted from all the
relaxing, she’d overslept and hadn’t had time to make coffee at home.

The ride in had been spectacular. Well, to her it
was. The first working day after Memorial weekend was always the day she
brought out Cami, her beloved two-toned blue ’79 Camaro Rally Sport she drove
only in summer. She parked the Chevy Trailblazer she drove in winter, its
summer duties relegated to grocery shopping. Feeling the power of the restored
muscle car always made her happy. Cruising along with the sunroof open and the
oldies blasting was as near to heaven as Rhetta could imagine getting.

She arrived at her office before Woody and stole his
favorite parking spot—the one closest to the building.

After setting her briefcase by the door, Rhetta
transferred the coffee to her left hand and inserted the key into the lock. The
door, however, was already unlocked. Through the window, she noticed the lights
were on. She hesitated, glancing around. Cami was the sole car in the parking
lot. That reinforced her first impression that Woody wasn’t here. Who was
inside? Her heart felt like a bird’s wing caught in the bars of a cage. Just as
she put her hand on the doorknob, someone yanked open the door, causing her to
spill coffee all over her linen pants suit.

“Damn, Woody, you scared the living snot out of me,”
Rhetta grumbled while she edged past him, balancing the dripping cup out ahead
of her. “I’m sending you the cleaning bill.”

Woody ignored her comment. “Jenn dropped me off this
morning on her way to work.” He closed the door and followed Rhetta.

“Why did she have to get to work so early?” Jenn
managed the jewelry department at Macy’s, which didn’t open until ten.

“They’re doing inventory this morning. Besides, we
took the Jeep in to the repair shop. The tranny’s making a weird noise again.”

In spite of the air conditioning blasting from the
vents, Woody was dabbing sweat off his slick head. His complexion paled.

Still clutching the cup, Rhetta plopped her
briefcase on the floor, and bent over, allowing her purse to slide off her
shoulder. It landed upside down on her chair. She glared at it, cussed to
herself, then went to the kitchenette in search of paper towels.

Woody followed her into the small area. He pulled a
bottle of water from the compact refrigerator and gulped most of it in a single
swallow.

“Are you all right?” Rhetta asked, as she ripped a
handful of paper towels from a nearby roll, and began working at the splotches
of coffee on her pants. She wrapped her cup in another paper towel, muttering
the whole time. Woody tossed the empty water bottle into the trash and shook
his head. He followed Rhetta back to her desk.

 “What’s wrong with you?” She slid her cup to rest
on a calendar blotter and wiped the coffee ring from her desk. “Are you sick?”

“I’m not sick. You need to look at this.” He thrust
out his iPhone.

She stared at it blankly. “What am I looking at?”
She glanced from the phone up to his face as she reached down with one hand to
adjust the height of her chair, which, due to a weak hydraulic, gradually sank.
She yanked the handle upward. With the other hand, she clutched her coffee.

“It’s a voice mail from Al-Serafi.”

“Did he rescind? Damn!” She blew across what was
left of the steaming liquid and sipped carefully.

If the strange Muslim doctor had cancelled his loan
during the three-day rescission period, she’d be thoroughly ticked off.

“No, no, that’s not it.” Woody shook his head and
waved his phone, as though chasing flies away. He scrolled through his screen
until he found the speaker icon. “Listen to this.” He held the phone up.

She sat forward and listened to a familiar voice.
“Lawrence, this is Hakim. I was there yesterday for the flying lesson, and I
waited for over an hour. You know we are on a tight schedule.” He pronounced it
shed-yule,
like the British did. After he said, “Please call me right
away,” the message ended abruptly without him leaving a call back number.

Who’s Lawrence? Whoever he is, he
must know how to reach Al-Serafi.

They both stared at the phone in Woody’s large hand.

“What was—” Rhetta began.

Before she could finish, Woody blurted, “I got the
call yesterday but when I saw Al-Serafi’s number, I didn’t feel like answering.
I figured it could wait ’til I got back to work. The call went to voicemail.”
Woody began pacing. “I guess he didn’t realize he’d called me instead of
whoever this Lawrence guy is.” He waved his phone around as he paced.

“Flying lesson? Why is Al-Serafi taking flying
lessons?”

“Good question.” Woody returned the cell phone to
his belt holster. “I got a weird feeling and figured I was overreacting. Then,
I played the message for Jenn. She said to call the cops, since we had just
watched a television news story on Muslim cells in the US, which said that one
of the things to watch for, along with the cell members usually being here on
German visas, is when they take flying lessons. I reminded her that the report
said to call the FBI. Local cops wouldn’t care who’s taking flying lessons.” He
grabbed for a tissue. His head glistened.

“What did they say?”

“I didn’t call them. I wanted to let you hear the
message first. Besides, it was a Sunday.”

“What does Sunday have to do with it?”

“They’re closed on Sunday, aren’t they?”

“No, they’re not. Do you think bad guys don’t commit
crimes on Sundays?”

Woody, she felt, believed the misdialed message
meant that Al-Serafi was participating in something suspicious. Now he wanted
her to believe it, too.

She eyed Woody. Although he was impeccably turned
out in tan slacks and white shirt, his head was wet with perspiration. He once
told her he suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Was it kicking up?
Woody had related how sometimes stress caused an onset. He’d suffered shrapnel
wounds in his legs when an IED exploded in front of his Humvee in Afghanistan.
She’d never seen him in a full-blown episode of PTSD, but from the way he was
acting, she wondered if she was about to.

“Maybe you should’ve called the FBI,” Rhetta said.
“Who gives flying lessons on a Sunday? Besides, didn’t Al-Serafi know this was
a holiday weekend?” She could hear her own voice rising as she fired off the
rhetorical questions.

Woody didn’t answer. She went on. “I saw that news
report too. They said that those terrorists who bombed the Twin Towers took
flying lessons, and many of them were here on German visas. The talking heads
all say that’s a red flag.” The moment she said the words, she realized how
paranoid she sounded, but she felt herself on a roll. She wondered if paranoia
was contagious.

 “Could there be a terrorist cell operating here? I
know Al-Serafi is Muslim, has a German visa, and is definitely strange, but….”
She stared at Woody, letting her voice trail off.

Neither of them spoke. The air conditioner rumbled
on. In spite of the frigid air blasting out of the vents, the office felt warm
and stuffy.

Almost to herself, Rhetta said, “Could Al-Serafi
really be a terrorist?” She could barely say the word
terrorist
aloud.

Woody paled. “Here? In Cape? Terrorist? What’s to
terrorize? That only happens on TV or in New York, right?” His voice cracked.

Rhetta marched to her desk, opened a drawer, and
rummaged through the contents. Snatching a phone book, she flipped a few pages,
then scribbled a number on a sticky note.

“Here’s the number for the local FBI office.” She
thrust the note at him. “Call them. The news report said to call the FBI.”

Woody wavered. “How dumb are we going to look if we
report this, and it turns out to be nothing?” He tugged his chin whiskers.

Rhetta narrowed her eyes and pointed to the phone.
“How are we going to feel if he turns out to be a real terrorist? Call them.”
She felt her stomach quiver. Could Doctor Al-Serafi really be part of a
terrorist cell? True, she didn’t like the man, but a terrorist?

Still. . . .

Woody tapped the keyboard on his cell phone.

Rhetta pointed to the desk phone. “Use the office
phone. I’m sure the agent will want you to play the recorded message.”

“Right.” He set his phone down and snatched the
phone.

Once connected, he waited for over five minutes for
someone to pick up. Woody drummed his fingers, and twirled the phone cord. Once
whoever finally answered, he repeated the story. Then he shook his head. When
he finally had a chance to speak, his voice was clipped. “Don’t you even want
to hear it?” A moment passed while whoever answered. Then, he said, “What was
your name, Agent, in case we need to refer to this incident later?”

 Woody slammed the phone down, a little firmer than
was necessary. The receiver bounced to the desktop. He retrieved it and set it
down again. “I guess that’s our stupid maneuver for the day.” Then he mumbled
something Rhetta didn’t quite catch, but she thought it sounded suspiciously
like, “Freakin’ G-man.”

He pulled the curly phone cord taut several times
before Rhetta finally objected. “For goodness sake, stop doing that, Woody. You
know that cord isn’t rubber. When it breaks, you’ll be without a phone until I
can buy a new cord.”

Woody let the cord spring out of his hands. “The
agent told me I was an idiot. He acted like the FBI gets phone calls about
terrorists every day.”

“An idiot? He used the word idiot?”

“Not exactly. The guy yawned. A yawning FBI agent
tells me he must get calls about terrorists every day and that I must be an
idiot for bothering him.”

Rhetta steamed. “Did you get his name?” She stomped
through the office toward the kitchen.

“Cooper. He said he didn’t need to hear the
recording,” Woody called after her. “I can’t believe we’re the only ones who
think this is suspicious. After his attitude, now I’m not so sure, either.”

 “What did you say?” Rhetta said, reappearing with a
bottle of water. “You’re giving up that easily?” Twisting off the cap, she
tilted the bottle and drained half of it. She tossed the half-full bottle to the
wastebasket. She missed. It landed a foot away and rolled into the corner.
Snatching her shoulder bag and car keys, Rhetta strode to the door.

Changing her mind, Rhetta stopped, whirled around,
and returned to her chair with keys in one hand and purse in the other. “I’ve
got it. Maybe the FBI is already on to him.” Rhetta nodded, “Sure, that’s it.
They don’t want us to get too excited and maybe say or do something we
shouldn’t.” She sighed, retrieved the water bottle from the floor, and dropped
it in the trash.

She’d intended driving straight to the agent’s
office in Westerfield Center to confront Agent Cooper in person. She changed
her mind, reasoning that the authorities probably had everything under control.
What “everything” consisted of, she wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, there was
nothing more she and Woody could do. They’d done their duty. They’d reported a
suspicious call.

Woody shook his head. “If that’s the case, why
didn’t Cooper say he already knew about it?”

Rhetta pondered that. “You know, this is a damned-if-you-do,
damned-if-you-don’t situation.”

Woody furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“That agent can’t confirm or deny anything. By
brushing us off, I’m sure he hopes to discourage us from getting panicky.”

“Us? Panicky? What do you mean?”

Rhetta yanked open a bottom desk drawer and stuffed
her purse into it. “You know how closemouthed the FBI is. They don’t want us
civilians knowing anything. Especially, they don’t want us knowing anything
important. I bet they’re all over this. We did our civic duty. Let them take
care of finding out about this.” Rhetta almost had herself convinced.

“Yeah, we don’t need to get involved in—”

The phone rang, interrupting Woody. He answered and
kicked into full professional mode. “MCB Mortgage and Insurance. Yes, ma’am,
let me just get some information from you.” He opened a drawer and withdrew an
application form.

Rhetta was relieved that the call was from a
customer and not Wilfred Graham, III, who hated it when Woody abbreviated his
family-owned bank’s sacred name.

The phone rang again, and the business day shifted
into gear. Neither of them mentioned the unusual voice message the rest of the
day.

Rhetta had all the confidence in the world in the
FBI.

Sure, she did.

CHAPTER
4

Thursday,
June 25, late morning