One Rough Man

mean by flyer.”

“Bullshit. I left a flyer on your doorstep. Go get it. I’ll wait.”

“I got the stupid thing. It’s in my hand right now.”

“Well, what do you say? Come on out. The condo’s already paid for, so it won’t cost you a thing.”

“Skeeter, you know how I feel about that scene.”

“Jesus, Jennifer! When are you going to let go? I get you had a rough time, but come on. This is your last year of college! Your final spring break. You’ll be able to sit in a cubicle and slave away to your heart’s content in a little bit. Think about it. I’ll call back and bug you later.”

Jennifer was going to reply when she realized that Skeeter had hung up. The truth of the matter was not a day went by when she didn’t think about her ex-husband and what he had done. Not a day without feeling sweat break out over the memory, wondering what her life would have been like if she had stayed in school the first time.

She had dropped out of the University of Texas after her junior year to marry the iconic frat boy son of a Texas oil tycoon, who had just graduated. Things had been fine for all of ten minutes before she realized he was sleeping around on her. It was as if her husband was trying desperately to hold on to his frat boy lifestyle while walking up the corporate ladder. Nobody held him accountable, least of all his trophy wife. Thinking about it now, she had been very shallow. She had been raised poor, but proud. The Cahill name had been drilled into her from an early age as something that mattered beyond wealth. She had believed it, then had thrown it away.

They held on for four long years, mainly because divorce wasn’t accepted by the in-laws. She made do with the finer things in life, all the while knowing that everyone was laughing at her behind her back. On the surface she had everything a girl could want, or at least anything that could be acquired with cash — cars, trips to St. Lucia, jewelry, you name it. She was only missing the things that money couldn’t buy, like respect. For a Cahill, this was worth more than wealth. She tried hard to get her husband to stop, then tried to adjust her pride to accept her lot, but neither worked.

It finally came to a head when she arrived home to find him in bed with his secretary. Cheating at a sleazy motel was one thing, but doing it in her bed was another. The scene was branded into her soul, still as raw as the day it had happened. The secretary covering up her obviously fake breasts, a small smile on her face, no fucking shame whatsoever. Her husband taking control, not even acting as if he had done anything wrong.

She had begun to pack her bags, telling him that it was finally over. He told her to stop. She told him to screw himself. He slammed her against her dresser and punched her viciously in the stomach, causing her to fall onto the floor. He calmly told her to unpack her things and left the room. She remembered lying on the floor in her own spit and vomit, gasping for air, the fake-tit whore stepping over her with a sheet around her body.

She fled the marriage with the clothes on her back, returning to her mother’s house in McKinney, Texas. The next few weeks were a nightmare. The punch seemed to have done something internally. She had cramps so bad she was left doubled over in pain. Her period came early, and very heavy. She went to the doctor and in the same breath he told her that she had been pregnant — and had had a miscarriage.

Jennifer shook herself. The memories always caused her to sweat, making her heart palpitate. That fucker… I should have… She took three deep breaths. Quit thinking about it. Think of anything else… Think of positive things….

After the miscarriage, her family had been her anchor. She had lost her way, but they didn’t care. They had rallied around her as soon as she had come home. She didn’t tell her family about the miscarriage, fearful of her brothers’ possible retaliation. Sometimes, when the darkness came, she toyed with the idea of letting them in on the secret, knowing they would kill that sorry sack-of-shit with a cheese-grater. Looking back, she was glad she never did, but a part of her waited for the day when she could get retribution. On days like today, when she was left clutching a counter, taking deep breaths to control her fear, she wanted nothing more than to cause him the same agony.

In the end, while it wasn’t a pleasant thought, she knew that the attack was the best thing that could have happened. She had understood that she could never win any legal battles in a system owned lock, stock, and barrel by the family, and that it was the fight alone that they were afraid of. It never entered their minds that something bad would happen to their son. They just didn’t want the embarrassment of the publicity. So, as they had been doing since robber baron times, they bought her off. They gave her an impressive little nest egg of two hundred thousand dollars, telling her never to talk about what had happened. She agreed. She remembered the moment well, thinking she should have crossed her fingers behind her back because if she ever got the opportunity, she would bury the family and sow their graves with salt.

Now, standing in her kitchen a thousand miles away, she had had enough of the hate and fear. Maybe a night out would help. Just because the Windjammer had a bunch of drunken college men didn’t mean they were all like him.

She glanced at her computer screen and noticed she had an e-mail from her uncle. She forgot about the Windjammer. He’s not supposed to come out of the jungle for at least three days. Obviously, once again he had failed to find the temple. She smiled to herself, thinking of him hacking his way through the jungle on yet another attempt. No matter how many times he failed, Uncle John remained optimistic. She admired that in him. Then again, she knew she’d find anything her uncle did something to admire. He had gone out on a limb to help her, getting her a fresh start at his own university based solely on the fact that she was his niece, telling white lies that could have cost him tenure. She would never forget that.

She opened the e-mail and saw that it was nonsense. It said nothing at all about his trip, or his return. It was just a few MP3s containing some local music. She found this strange, but not unduly so, as her uncle was always doing goofy stuff. Last time he came home he gave you a real shrunken skull. Be thankful this is just music. Whatever had happened, he would give her the full story on his expedition when he got back. She hooked up her MP3 player and began downloading the songs. Her uncle must have thought they were some pretty good tunes if he’d e-mailed them to her instead of just waiting until he returned. With the music downloading, she went to pack an overnight bag.

21

Abu Sayyidd was electrified by the story they had heard. “Did you listen to that? The boy found some sort of ancient weapon in the jungle. A weapon that can be used to kill the infidels. What we’ve been sent here to do, we can accomplish in half the time, a month instead of years.”

Abu Bakr wasn’t so sure Sayyidd was right. He was a pragmatic planner, a man who had escaped death precisely because he had predicted and counteracted contingencies before they occurred. This mission had taken close to a year to develop, and he was reluctant to simply throw it away on the story of a native boy.

“Sayyidd, please. We don’t have the time or equipment to go foraging through the forest for some sort of mythical weapon. We don’t even know if that boy was telling the truth. We’ve worked too hard to get where we are.”

Their purpose was to set up a mechanism to infiltrate the United States using the illegal immigrant pipeline already established. Once the cells were in place, they would conduct synchronized acts of terror that would dwarf September 11, 2001. The hope was for a sustainable, repeatable mechanism that would cause the U.S. to crack down harshly on all things Arabic (and even Sikh, Hindu, whatever was seen as “strange”), which would in turn plant a seed of jihad inside the U.S.

Sayyidd persisted. “You heard the description of the death. The weapon is something like the poison weapons we learned about in the camps. Something The Sheik has tried mightily to obtain. We might now have the ability to do what no other has done.”

“What on earth makes you think there’s a weapon in the jungle?” Bakr said. “I’ve heard children with more logical skepticism than you.”

“Have you never heard of the medicines that are found in the rain forest? It’s said to be a wonderland of ancient plants simply waiting to be discovered. What’s the harm of looking? If we find it, we may truly bring the far enemy to his knees! We were chosen for this mission based on our skills and judgment. We need to use both.”

Never having worked with Sayyidd before, only trusting that his superiors had selected the right man, Bakr