Fanatics

Canadian journalist a few years ago. She was beaten to death! By the police!”

“That was in Iran.”

“Which is on the western border of Afghanistan. And Afghanistan is even more dangerous! The place is falling apart! And with their attitude toward women-let alone a woman reporter, a foreign woman reporter asking impertinent questions! Look, Annie,” my father said, forcing himself to calm down, “I’ve never interfered with your career before, even when you went to…” His voice hardened as it quieted. “Not this time, Annie. No. When I think of what happened in East Timor… Garnet and I-”

Standing there at the edge of the volcano, I quickly pieced together what was happening. My mother had been offered an assignment. Investigative journalism was her strength and-I sometimes thought-the most important thing in her life. In Afghanistan, this time. In the middle of a vicious civil war. And she wanted to accept the job. I knew her. She would sneak into the country if she had to-anything to get the story. Whatever the story was. She thrived on the adventure and, although she’d never admit it, the danger. And she was ambitious. Already well known, she was always afraid that she’d be pushed to the sidelines if she didn’t stay in the game.

“Don’t bring Garnet into this!” she yelled. “It has nothing-”

“Garnet’s already in it,” I said, stepping into the room.

My parents fell silent. My father, his face red with anger, and my mother, eyes flashing, features twisted with frustration-they seemed like total strangers, as if, while I was away, two impostors had invaded our home.

“Why should you leave me out of it?” I demanded.

“Because this is my decision,” she said quietly but firmly.

“Yeah, I guess it is, Mom. I guess you’re the only one who matters.”

“Garnet,” my father said.

There was a sticky silence in the room.

I didn’t mean that, I wanted to tell her. But I had meant it.

My father’s colour was returning to normal. My mother’s face softened a little. My mind was racing. How could I convince her to change her mind? Bullying her wouldn’t work. My father had already proved that.

“Can we discuss this calmly?” I asked.

“Not if-”

“Annie, please let him talk,” Dad said, throwing himself into a chair.

My mother tilted her head a little, a gesture of agreement.

“I… I have an idea,” I began, my thoughts forming quickly. “A sort of compromise.”

My father bristled. There was not going to be a compromise as far as he was concerned. I held up my hand. “Just let me say something, Dad.”

He settled back. My mother sat down slowly at her desk.

“Okay. Now, Mom, if you insist on going, I’d like to come with you. No, really,” I added, cutting her off again. “Hear me out. I’d be a help. I could carry your equipment. More important, we know that conservative Muslim men over there, not to mention the Islamists, insist that women should never go out in public unless they’re accompanied by a man-”

Mom’s face coloured with impatience.

“Their husband, or elder brother, or eldest son. I’m your son, right? So you see, I could go along. I’d always be with you, and you’d be… well, legal or whatever the word is. Besides, I’ve never had much chance to travel, so-”

My mother snapped, “It’s out of the question!”

“But why?”

“Because it isn’t-”

And she stopped.

“Safe?” my father said quietly, not so much as a hint of triumph in his voice.

The room went still again. After a moment, Mom got up and left the office. My father turned to look as the front door closed quietly.

IV

AS IF THE ATMOSPHERE in the sky above the roof was tuned to the squally mood of the Havelock household, thunderstorms began to hit the town early in the evening and rolled overhead like a succession of bowling balls for most of the night.

From my balcony, where I had retreated with a book right after supper, I watched the first storm cell gathering. Dark clouds poured from the sky and a cool wind drove the daylight into hiding. I turned pages, half-concentrating, for as long as I could in the failing light, then gave up and dragged my chair back into my room just as the thunder announced itself. I read in bed for a while, then turned in for the night.

As always, the dream came indirectly, padding into my sleep like a predatory cat, taking shape as if emerging from a dark mist. In the background, thunderclaps and rapid strobelike flashes of lightning ebbed away, revealing the now familiar prison cell shrouded in darkness barely diluted by points of yellow light. There were two candles on the long table this time. The only sounds were the gasps of the prisoner and the occasional scrape of a leather sandal on the stone floor.

The victim, his back twisted under his filthy shift, his shoulders misshapen, knelt on the floor before the table, forehead on the stone, mumbling repeatedly, “De profundis clamavi ad te domine, domine esuadi vocem meam.”

Partially within the glow cast by the candles, their faces in the shadow of their hoods, the three men were at their places behind the table. The one in the centre was shorter than the other two, his shoulders broader, and he was in command. He said something calmly, as if passing the time of day with his colleagues, and the jailers approached the victim. One held the leather thongs for the prisoner’s wrists, the other clutched the end of the hoisting rope. Still on his knees, the prisoner placed his elbows on the table’s edge, grunting with the pain, his hands together as in prayer.

“Credo in unum deum…”

The man at the table spoke again. The prisoner looked up, and as he did the candlelight fell upon his face, revealing sunken cheeks, thick lips, and a large hooked nose. There was no mistaking his identity.

He was the man on the medal hidden in Professor Corbizzi’s secret cupboard.

Four

I

RAIN BUCKETED DOWN for half the night, then slackened as the storm rampaged off to the east and beyond the lake. When morning light rose in my window I was able to sleep.

But not for long. Mom called me for breakfast at the usual time. When I slouched into the kitchen, yawning and knuckling sleep from my eyes, I found my parents at the table, their faces blank and cold. I poured a coffee and dropped two slices of bread into the toaster.

The only sounds in the room were the clink of cutlery on a plate or a jam pot and me slurping down hot coffee to kick-start my brain. Mom had the local paper open to the city page. I laid my hand on her shoulder and leaned over to scan the dramatic headline shouting that the city’s third drowning victim had been found at the north end of Cumberland Beach, near Greyshott Drive. The unidentified man was wearing sporting gear, the article said, and was unknown to locals.