The Godless One (24 page)

"I wonder who he thinks brainwashed me
against killing," Ben continued. "It wasn't the Iraqis, I can tell
you. They don't seem to have any problem killing each other or
anyone else. Uh, sorry, Mr. Ciminon, that's just how it looked to
me out there."

"No offense taken," said
Ari.

"I've tried to give up meat, once or
twice," said Ben with a self-deprecating grin.

"Hello, Veg-O-Matic," said
Karen.

"But I still love a good, juicy steak,"
Ben sighed.

"I can introduce you to an Indian I
know," said Ari. "They make excellent vegetarian meals. Pretty
soon, you won't miss meat at all."

"Sure, I can go Hindu. Then Pastor
Grainger will hate me, too."

They had gone seven or eight miles. Ari
noticed a sign at a small junction.

"'Powhatan Correctional Center'," he
read out loud. "I thought that was on the other side of the
river."

"There's a single lane bridge
connecting the north and south banks," said Ben. "It's easy to
close if there's an escape attempt. They have other prisons on this
side, too."

"You have many prisons
here?"

"More than you can shake a stick at,
and that's where all of us belong. Here we are." Ben slowed the
pickup at a small dirt road with a large 'Support Our Troops'
banner near the entrance. "As the pastor would say, 'gird your
loins.'"

"I've got my Smith & Wesson
cosmetic kit right here." Karen patted the side of her thick
jacket.

"Let's pray it doesn't come to that."
Fifty yards down the lane, invisible from the main road, they saw a
large building that looked in need of major repairs. "I don’t see
how he makes a living with that back-forty garage of his," Ben
observed. "But things are a lot cheaper out here in the boonies. If
he lived in town, he’d starve to death." He braked suddenly. "Whoa,
where did that come from?"

The lane made a circle around several
trees. A huge, gleaming pickup was parked in the shade.

"That’s a Lincoln Mark LT," Ben said,
amazed. "That’s worth $25,000, easy. I’d hate to be making the
payments on it."

"Unless it’s paid for already," said
Ari, looking back at Karen. She knew nothing about the story he had
concocted about a rogue al-Qaeda agent in the U.S. and wondered how
she would react if she found out about it.

"Only if he’s robbed a bank," said Ben,
switching off his engine. From the garage came the loud chatter of
a generator, interrupted by a hissing noise. "That’s the spray gun.
He’s painting. Listen, I should go up by myself, first."

"That kinda misses the point of me
being here, doesn’t it?" said Karen. "Are you having second
thoughts?"

"I’m looking forward to this…if
everything turns out all right."

"And if it doesn’t?"

"It’s the biggest mistake of my life,"
Ben said. "What’s your call?"

"It’s your show," Karen responded,
sounding unhappy. She turned to Ari. "Don’t you think it’s best
that he’s approached by someone he knows, first?"

"Certainly," said Ari.

Ben got out and walked towards a
clearing in front of a rusty trailer that was propped on
cinderblocks. His breath frosted in the cold air.

"The Rustpile Ritz," said Karen. "And
did you get a load of the license plate on the truck?"

"I did," said Ari.

H8-RAB.

"I wonder how that got past DMV.
Uh-oh..."

Ari had mentally 'uh-oh-ed' the moment
before, when he saw two German shepherds circling from around the
back of the trailer. Ben dropped to one knee in the clearing and
the dogs trotted up to him, tails wagging. In the garage, the
hissing of the spray gun stopped. A moment later, so did the
generator.

"Hey, Mutt, hey, Jeff," said Ben,
roughhousing the two dogs with a laugh.

"Ten will get you fifty they won't be
as friendly with us," said Karen.

Ten will get you
fifty
, Ari mused, and filed it in his
mental phrase box. Then he decided to test it. "If I bite them ten
times, it's true they'll bite me fifty."

"You need to go back to
school."

A man came through one of
the open garage doors. In spite of the cold, he was wearing only
jeans and a blue-streaked T-shirt. He was a sturdy six feet tall.
His head was shaved; it, too, was streaked blue. Around his neck
hung a bulky, dual carburetor respirator mask. Flashes of paint ran
up his unprotected cheekbones, giving him the look of some kind of
blue-streaked piranha. The paint on his arms imparted a comic book
glow to his prominent muscles. Ari sized him up and decided (even
after factoring in the hand-to-hand combat training Sid must have
received in the 101
^st
) that he would present a
moderate challenge if it came to a fight. But when Sid saw Ari and
Karen sitting in the Datsun and glanced down at an olive green
metal can sitting just outside the door, Ari's threat assessment
was instantly elevated.

"Hello, Veg-Head," he said to Ben,
removing the mask.

"Hey, Sid," said Ben.

Ari leaned back so he could experience
the comforting nudge of his Walther.

"May I ask you a personal question,
Deputy Karen?" he said to Karen.

"OK, Fred told me he spoke to you. I
killed him, but thanks for not...you know."

"I'm very pleased that you are pleased.
However, that is not what I wished to discuss."

"No?"

"Is your safety off?"

There was some rustling behind him. "It
is, now."

Ben stood. The dogs were not finished
with him, jamming him between them and whining over their
long-missing friend. He did not move. He seemed to be waiting for
Sid to come out into the clearing and offer a proper welcoming
handshake. Sid stayed where he was, in the garage door...near the
metal can. Ari scouted out the area. There did not seem to be
anyone else around.

"You going to stay frozen like a
statue?" Ben asked with a small laugh that was not nervous, but
sadly tentative.

"Who's in the truck?" said Sid. Ben's
analogy was appropriate. Sid did not move a muscle.

"Some people from my
church."

"Church!" From Sid, the word was like a
curse.

At that moment, Ari decided the man was
not totally bad.

"They have some questions regarding my
friend and his wife. You remember Mustafa and Akila Zewail? They
were my friends, I won't deny it. Did you hear that they had been
murdered?"

"Get lost."

Karen pushed Ari in the back. "Get out.
I'm stuck here until you move. Why’d you stick me back here,
anyway?"

"Because Ben was driving and I couldn’t
fit." He opened the passenger door and stepped out. Then he turned
and lowered the seat so Karen could join him.

The dogs were on them as soon as Ari
turned to face the clearing. Snorting, sniffing, they took
particular interest in their waists.

"Retired K9’s," Sid informed them.
"Still got plenty of bite in them." He dismissed Karen with a
glance. Into Ari he poured ocular lava.

"Hold on, Sid. This is Mr. Ciminon.
He’s from Italy. He was a friend of Mustafa’s and just wanted to
ask a few questions."

"And the tiny bitch?"

"Just settle down, Sid."

"Well?"

"I thought you might not take to Mr.
Ciminon, so I brought along a U.S. Deputy Marshal. She’s from my
church, too."

"
Federal
?" Sid was incredulous. "I
get too much Yankee meat on my property, already."

"Now, Sid—"

But Sid was flicking his fingers at
Karen. "Come on over here, show me the tin shit."

"I’d be glad to, Mr. Overstreet, as
soon as you get your dogs out of my crotch." Mutt (or Jeff) was
vigorously muzzling her midriff. Jeff (or Mutt) had stopped two
feet short of Ari’s crotch and was eyeing him warily, as though
weighing the risks of a sniff.

"Can’t you call off your hounds?" Karen
complained when one of the dogs pushed her against the
Datsun.

"Are they bothering you that much,
Miss? Looks like love to me."

She shoved off the fender in Sid’s
direction. "They’re sweet as can be, but I don’t believe in love at
first sight."

"Cm’on, Miss, I don’t have all day. I
have cars to repair, a business to run. Not everyone can afford to
take off Sundays."

Ben also began walking towards the
garage, using his familiarity with the dogs to lure them away from
Ari and Karen. His face was befuddled by the great American ‘why?’.
In Iraq, you trusted, you mistrusted, you were betrayed and you
betrayed in turn, you played your advantages, you counted your
losses. ‘Why’? No one thought to ask. But here, there was an
obsession with cause and effect. Did your father scorn you? Were
you picked on in school? Were you properly breast fed? Ari paid
little attention to the currents underlying the base and the good.
They might be real, they might be fictions. And if you pressed for
an explanation of something that was not real, were you wasting
your time? Or were you indulging in a fragile yet dangerous charm?
Americans were not Unbelievers so much in the Muslim sense, but
because of their persistent ‘why’s?’ It was their greatness in
science and their madness in everything else. You didn’t ask God
‘why’? It was impertinent. And if He ever bothered to answer, it
would be with a galactic, ‘Because.’

Sid was not asking ‘why?’ He wore the
old, practical expression of, ‘What now? And what am I going to do
about it?’ And from the way he stood near the olive-colored can,
his preferred option seemed clear.

Ari glanced from side to side, unsure
if Sid was alone in his forest hideaway. Fresh tracks in the snow
told him at least two vehicles had been here since the early
morning snowfall. Footprints led from the driveway to the trailer,
to the garage, to the edge of the clearing and back to the garage,
as if someone had been looking for Sid. Friend, enemy, lover,
fellow conspirator? Dog tracks were everywhere, too. Mutt and Jeff
had been sniffing a lot of crotches. It must have been an amusing
scene. But had any of these visitors stayed behind?

"Stop there," Sid ordered Karen. "Show
me the tin shit."

Karen stopped and took out her badge
wallet, flipping it open so he could see inside.

"Hand it over."

She handed it over. He raised it to his
eyes for a closer inspection, but Ari did not think he was
nearsighted.

"Well, it’s a change from the ATF." Sid
handed the wallet back to her. "But it’s still tin
shit."

Karen diplomatically compressed her
lips.

"I can understand why you’re packing."
Sid nodded at Ari. "But why the camel fucker?’

"He’s not armed," Karen
said.

"My dogs can smell a gun a mile off.
He’s packing."

Ari’s face bulged with innocence, but
Jeff (or Mutt) kept turning away from Ben and giving him the eye.
You couldn’t fool a dog. Karen turned and observed him from across
the clearing, frowning.

"Sid, you never had much in the way of
manners, but can’t you keep a civil tongue, for once?" Ben seemed
more afraid of losing his friend than his life, although he
probably did not realize the latter was at risk. Or maybe he did.
Maybe it was only now dawning on him that his childhood friend
might very well have chopped off Mustafa’s head. And, like a holy
fool, he was trying to find out why. It was so futile.

Hey Sid, why are you a
killer?

Because I’m a
killer
.

"You want some wop camel
jockey to ask me questions?" Sid asked. When a hard face like that
screwed up in disbelief it made quite an impression.
Carnival performers must grimace the same way
when they bite through nails
, Ari thought.
"Anyway, even if I knew anything about anything, I don’t care. Take
your A-Team assholes off my land. And you…" He jabbed a finger at
Karen’s chest. She reflexed back a step and just avoided getting
poked.

"Watch it, Mr. Overstreet. You’re
treading—"

"I’m treading on my property, where you
don’t have any jurisdiction. No puny twat is going to tell me—" He
stopped when he realized he had lost track of Ari. Swiveling
quickly, he saw him standing next to his Lincoln pickup. "Hey,
wonk-fuck! Get away from there!"

"But I can't help admiring
it!" said Ari with a broad smile. "Some of your American airmen
based in Sigonella have similar trucks. Please note the improved
grille, the sleek contours, the aerodynamic design, the optional
all-wheel drive..."
And it really is
nice
, Ari thought, reaching out to stroke
the metallic clearcoat.

"Get your filthy hand off my truck!"
Sid bellowed, striding forward—away from the olive-colored metal
can.

Ari sighed. "Ah...how many miles to you
get to the gallon? Five? Six? It's really wonderful!"