The 56th Man (32 page)

He sat up with a grunt. Ignoring the flour
covering his pajamas and arms, he puzzled over the cat's
disappearance. Was there a hole behind the counter? Ari opened the
bottom counter cabinet and peered past one of the few pots Sandra
had provided him. No hole and no cat. He grunted again and closed
the door.

Still seated, he leaned forward and grasped
the edge of the stove's bottom access panel. He lowered it on its
hinge and angled down for a peek underneath.

A yellow comet blasted past his face. Ari
just managed to avoid getting his eyes clawed as Sphinx howled out
of the gap and across the kitchen floor, vanishing in a cloud of
flour. After catching his breath, Ari rolled back onto his side and
held the flashlight under his chin.

More fur, some greasy dirt, and the shiny,
flexible tube of the stove exhaust. He swore at himself. How could
he have been so stupid? The futile sucking of the Jenn-Air fan and
the resulting houseful of smoke should have given him his
answer.

Maybe I didn't spend enough
time in field operations
.

Reaching in, he slid the tube off the exhaust
outlet. It dropped with a soft rattle, the end of the tube facing
him. He poked his hand into the wide opening and immediately found
what he was looking for. He pulled away and rolled up in a seated
position, laying the pouch on his lap.

It was identical to the waterproof pouches
used by the kayakers. No doubt they had given it to Moria, perhaps
as some kind of bonus, like a credit card company handing out a
cheap digital travel clock to anyone opening a new account.
Unzipping the pouch, Ari found it stuffed with small Ziploc
bags--quarter gram, half gram, gram. But why so much? Ari judged
there to be fifty grams total here, or more. Moria Riggins must
have been anticipating some brisk trade in product to build up such
a hoard. Or had she bought it all at once? Ari had no idea of the
street value of cocaine in this country, but what he held in his
hands must have involved a substantial capital outlay. Jerry
Riggins could not have been pleased. He had not been pleased, in
any event.

No money for Christmas gifts for the boys?
Because you bought all this shit?

But Jerry, with what I make
at The Shamrock, we'll be able to buy
them
--

Ari quickly terminated the imaginary
conversation between husband and wife. Although it led to the
expected conclusion, it was insufficient as a motive. But it
certainly provided Jerry with all the motive he needed to threaten
the kayakers with a gun.

Which reminded Ari that the day's labors had
only started. And he comprehended there were other home necessities
he had neglected, such as a broom and dustpan. Better yet, a vacuum
cleaner. He still had twenty-five hundred on his credit card. And
now, courtesy of Mother and her kayakers, nearly three times that
amount in cash--even more, if he could locate a proper fence.

He knew just the man, if he could only find a
secure way to contact him.

He tucked the pouch under the counter and
carried one of the kitchen chairs into the living room. Placing it
against the wall under the register, he was about to step up when
he spotted the cat peering around the corner at him.

"Ah, Sphinx,
merci beaucoup
." When he tried to approach,
Sphinx retreated to the front door and crouched. "You stay home for
a bit. Come in here."

His feet sliding across the flour, Ari went
back into the kitchen. At the sound of a can being popped open,
Sphinx appeared and emitted a meow of complaint and anticipation.
While Ari was scooping food into its dish, Sphinx sniffed at the
opening next to the stove.

"I forgive you for keeping secrets from me,"
Ari said convivially, putting the dish on the floor. Sphinx shook
off some flour and held its nose near the turkey giblets with
gravy. First it licked, then began devouring the cat food.

"Excellent. Don't forget where your poop box
is."

In the living room, Ari stood on the chair
and raised his arms to the register. He did not see any screws.
Working his fingernails under the rim, he gave a tug. The register
parted easily from the duct opening. Ari flipped it over and noted
the spring clamps that held the register in place. No need for a
screwdriver.

Taking up the magnet he had gotten at Lowe's,
he tested it against the side of the duct. It did not stick. He
tied the magnet to the end of the rope and lowered it into the
ductwork.

He had played out about ten feet when there
was a knock inside the wall near the foot of his chair. He pushed
the rope a short way and it slackened. That was as far as he would
get. Was it enough?

He drew the rope back slowly. For a moment it
seemed heavier than when he had lowered it. Then it suddenly
lightened at the same moment he heard the distinctive knock of
metal against the ductwork.

It was there, all right. How far was it from
the basement duct junction? Several feet? Or mere inches? If he
toyed with the magnet any more, the gun--and he was positive now it
was a gun--might drop through the gap. He did not know if that
would make his task easier or harder, but for now at least he knew
where to cut through the sheet rock if he was forced to adopt that
option.

It was obvious the magnet was not up to the
job. He tied a bungee cord around the end of the rope, with the
hook extending. For the next hour, without a break, he worked the
rope back and forth and sideways, trying every conceivable angle as
he perched on the chair, like a bell ringer searching for the
perfect, almost unachievable pitch. He had resigned himself to
battling his way through the wall when, while pulling gently, the
rope resisted ever so slightly. He paused, trying to work a kink
out of his back, then began to haul in his catch. Mild thudding and
scraping accompanied the ascent, but there was no abrupt slack, no
violent crash of the gun falling back to the L-joint. When the
bungee cord came in sight, Ari stretched as far as he could to
catch the gun as it slid out of the cut. An accidental discharge
could put a ludicrous end to all his labor.

He pulled. A moment later, he was holding a
.38 with a gaudy red handle, identical to the one he had taken from
the kayakers--with one exception. This gun contained four spent
cartridges—and evidence of drawback effect. He was sure the flecks
on the barrel were dried blood.

It was almost noon, but Ari was content.
Having considered the possibility that he might have to pound a
hole in his wall and cut into the duct, he had reserved the entire
day for this task. Now he could focus on other matters.

Upstairs he found Sphinx curled up on his
mattress. In the process of cleaning itself off, it had left traces
of flour on the blanket. Ari was confronted with the necessity of
doing a wash, a domestic chore as mysterious to him as cooking a
decent meal.

He sat at the computer and juggled the mouse
to bring up the screen. He logged on and checked the news. There
had been a particularly costly attack in Baghdad. A suicide bomber
had rammed a fuel tanker at a gas station. The resulting explosion
had killed over a hundred people. The number of wounded was as yet
unknown. Ari imagined the suffering, the ghastly burns. But what
pained him most was how the insurgents imposed a kind of complicity
upon innocent bystanders. Iraqis killing Iraqis made the victims as
guilty as the killers because they were being used to enforce a
vision of futility. Without the dead, there was no cause, only the
same meaningless babble that one got from around the globe. And
babble could be easily dismissed.

There was no idle babble in the Riggins
house. On a scale of one, one individual's death was all that was
needed to invoke a cause. Ari had four voices calling to him.

And when he checked his email he found yet
more voices calling to him, these from halfway across the
Atlantic.

They came via an attachment in one of
Sandra's emails. There was no question it was from the deputy,
although she did not sign the message and neither the user name nor
domain included anything about the U.S. Marshals Service--or any
other government entity.

"Baskin-Robbins, Forest Hill, 2 PM. Have what
you want, but hoping this will alleviate your boredom. I asked for
a better picture, but this was all that was provided."

He clicked on the attachment and drew in his
breath.

"My husband, your son is doing well. He is
working as a translator for our small community here. He is also
taking many classes. You know how eager a student he has always
been. As for myself, I am doing well. They have asked me to write
this in English. I have never been as adept at languages as
yourself, but as you can see, I still have some of my wits left.
They treat me well, here. There is no fear. I have been asked to
provide a picture. Here I am. Your wife."

He stared at the picture.

His roar of grief and rage sent Sphinx
flying. It took every ounce of Ari's willpower not to smash the
computer to the floor.

She hasn't forgiven
me
....

He sent the office chair crashing against the
studio wall and stormed blindly through the house, bedroom to
basement, flooding the vacant spaces with his despair. He slammed
his fists against walls, ripped down the thick curtains of the
living room, pounded the kitchen table into a rickety hulk.

It was only when he found himself in Joshua's
bedroom that he found the control for his rage. His eyes narrowed
on the spot where the boy's bed had been.

Joshua, why were you awake at that late hour?
Was it fear that kept your eyes open? Or something else?

He would not know until he saw Sandra.

Downstairs, he found Sphinx crouched next to
the front door. Apparently it realized its hiding place had been
permanently compromised and understood the only safety lay
outdoors. Ari had never paid much attention animal emotions, but
Sphinx's terror was painful to see. He leaned down to pet the cat,
but it drew back. He nodded, and opened the door. With a keen sense
of loss, he watched the animal rocket away into the woods.

At two o'clock, Ari was seated in a strictly
functional plastic chair watching a mother two tables down trying
to control the ice cream dripping from her four-year-old's cone. He
appreciated the friendly, apologetic smile she gave him as she
wiped a green blob off the bright red Formica. It was all the more
appreciated for being offered to a lone man, a foreigner, who
seemed very much out of place.

What he didn't find so friendly were the wary
glances of the high school girl manning the counter. What was he
doing here? Why wasn't he ordering?

He studied a bulletin board loaded with 'Have
You Seen Me?' flyers. Nearly half of the children pictured had been
'kidnapped' by their own fathers. Ari could not bring himself to
take these seriously. Why shouldn't a man take charge of his own
children?

For half an hour Ari twisted in the plastic
chair. He had noticed similar buttock-cups in many of the American
eating establishments he had visited so far. After going to great
lengths to attract customers, some restaurants seemed to go out of
their way to make them as uncomfortable as possible. He realized
this was entirely subjective. The woman and her son did not leave
prematurely, nor any of the others who came in, ate and departed
while Ari sat mute near the entrance.

Sandra entered breezily, a large courier
pouch under her arm.

"You ate already?"

Ari placed his hands on the table. "What you
see."

"You don't like ice cream?" Keeping the pouch
under her arm, she went to the counter and gazed lovingly down upon
the containers of ice cream under the display glass, like a pilot
trying to locate a landing field in the fog. She finally chose an
off-white ice cream with thick caramel seams. She cocked her head
and carried her dessert to the back, out of sight of the counter.
Ari stood and followed.

Laying the pouch on the table, Sandra sat and
immediately planted her tongue in the ice cream, following it to
the crown with the sensuous innocence of a child.

"You don't know what you're missing," she
said, smacking her lips.

"I'm not hungry." Ari gave her an impatient
look. "If I can just take this--"

"Nuh-uh," Sandra shook her head. "It was hard
enough getting copies. It was just as hard getting that email from
your wife forwarded. You're super hush-hush, my friend." She cocked
her brow. "Are you sure that letter and picture weren't enough? I
can imagine you're bored."

"I want that file."

"Okay. It was worth a shot. It took about ten
signatures before RPD would hand anything over, including a John
Hancock from State. You really are one of their darlings."

"I thought I was here under the auspices of
the U.S. Government."

"Well duh, that includes the State
Department, which is pretty fuck--" Sandra stopped herself. "Pretty
high." She took another tongue-swipe at her cone. "But this is as
far as this goes. The RPD gave up a copy, but I have to have it
back to them by four."

Ari glanced at his watch. It was almost a
quarter to three. "How long will it take you to get this back to
the police?"

"Half an hour."

"That gives me very little time. And you were
late."

"Couldn't be helped."

Ari took the pouch and unzipped it. Inside
was a manila folder that he immediately suspected was too thin by
least three-quarters.

"Let's switch seats," Sandra said, seeing a
family take up a nearby table. She wanted Ari's back to the wall.
He squeezed out of his chair and took her place. He flipped open
the folder and frowned.