“Please listen to him, Ms. Khoury. I beg you,” Nicole said.
“Actually, I’m getting used to this reaction,” Matt said, still smiling. “After you show people your new face and tell them who you are you develop a pretty thick skin. So I’ll say it one more time. I’m Matt Richards. And I really like that painting over there, the seascape with the rich violet tint. It’s where we used to gather after class, isn’t it. You captured the mood and light really well.”
Anne-Marie sat down. Paint smears decorated her smock.
“Are you all right?” Nicole asked, putting her hand on Anne-Marie’s shoulder.
“She’s all right,” Matt said. “She’s already using that artistic eye on my face. The scars are hidden under the hairline, Anne-Marie. What do you think? Am I still a handsome stud?”
A tentative smile bent her mouth upwards. “Whoever said you were good looking?”
Matt laughed and sat next to her. They hugged. Her cheek was salty as he kissed her.
Her hand came up to her cheek. “That was very strange…” She recovered. “I really missed you all these years, Matt. Every time I spoke with Todd he was always running you down. But we had such fun. You were so alive then.” She leaned back and examined his face. “What has happened to you?”
“Look, Anne-Marie. I’m in big trouble and I need your help. People are trying to kill me and they appear to be going after some of our AUB friends as well. Did you know Dr. Thomas died two nights ago?”
She collapsed into her chair, stunned, as he explained the possible connection between that death, Brian Walker’s, and his own kidnapping.
“Mia, do you remember that night we went to the Maronite monastery near Basharri on our way back from skiing? My diary puts it in February.”
“How could I forget?” she replied. “All those murals on the ceiling and the whole thing carved out of the cliff…”
“We were smoking hash and I must have passed out because I don’t remember much. What do you recall about that night?”
“I remember you coughed a lot, and then drank quite a few beers.” Her smile faded as she probed into the past. “You’re right. We did get pretty stoned, thanks to Demetrie and his ever present hash block. Let me think now… No doubt we talked about politics in the Middle East, we always did. That might have been the night… Come to think of it, yes, it was. That was the night we made a pact to try and stop the madness. Brian swore he would become a famous lawyer and defend oppressed people’s rights. And he did. Poor Brian, I can’t believe he’s dead.”
She squeezed Matt’s hand then pointed across the room to a tiny alcove. “I painted the Maronite Monastery. I had to. It was such a pivotal place in my life, a holy place that inspired me beyond words. But I’m not happy with the painting. I could never get the real feel of the place.” She gave a lopsided smile. “Anyway I promised that night I would raise money for Palestinian orphans. Karl
Mitchell and T.J…”
Matt jumped. “They were there? I don’t remember them going skiing with us.”
“They arrived at the monastery later. I guess it was after you passed out.” She stared at the teapot.
“Did some other people show up, two Arab men maybe?”
“Yeah, those two were weird.”
Just then the phone rang. Anne-Marie went into the kitchen to answer it. She called back. “I have to take this call. It’s the gallery in Boston. Won’t be too long. Why don’t you go out and take a look at the lake? It’s beautiful this time of year.”
Matt and Nicole put on their overcoats and strolled down the neat gravel path to the frozen lake. A flat gray light hit the surface, accenting the frozen, rippled texture. Cold air swept off the lake in gusts. Matt pulled his collar up. “Perfect place to inspire a painter,” he said. Nicole pressed close.
They trod the worn planks of the wooden dock, soaking up the peaceful surroundings after days of fear. Canadian geese honked overhead. Matt smelled smoke from a nearby cottage. “Someone is enjoying a leisurely morning by a warm fire.
A massive explosion turned the grey light into an orange hell. Splinters of wood and debris flew past them as if expelled from a cannon. The shock wave threw them from the dock onto the frozen lake. Matt landed on his hands. Screaming in pain he grabbed his wrist and twisted onto his back. The house was a wall of flames and billowing smoke. Burning shingles rained down on all sides, sizzling as they hit the lake ice. Samir Hussein’s blazing body seared through his mind. “Not again,” Matt groaned, but this time he forcefully pushed the paralyzing image away. “Nicole! Nicole!” He grabbed at her.
“Get down! Crawl along the edge of the lake,” he yelled in her ear. “They might still be watching. Keep hidden beneath the weeds along the bank. We need them to think we were inside.”
They dragged themselves toward the weedy bank. From there they rose into a half-crouch and skirted the lake until they reached a neighbor’s boat dock, 200 yards away.
Matt stopped. “I’ve got to go back.” He was turning around when Nicole gripped his arm.
“Don’t play the hero now, Matt. I need you alive, with me.”
“But I’m a doctor, I’ve got to try and-”
“You’re a doctor, not a miracle worker. She’s dead.” Nicole held him close, her body absorbing his pain. In a few moments he stopped shaking.
Sirens blared across the small community of Concord. “The volunteer firemen are responding,” said Matt. “They’ll be here soon. We’ve got to get away.”
They sprinted a short distance to the dock, scrambled through the reeds and up onto a snow covered lawn. In seconds they stood panting alongside a wooden garage.
“What is it?” Nicole asked, feeling Matt jerk as if struck by an electric shock.
“A phony gas company serviceman must have rigged the house. The timer was probably detonated remotely. They must have been watching the house.” Matt slid down onto the cold ground. “To top it all off I left my journal on the coffee table.”
“Not quite,” said Nicole. “Call it habit or reporter’s instinct, but I always carry important papers with me, even when I go to the bathroom. I crammed your journal inside my bag just before we stepped outside,” she pulled it out and held it up.
“Thank God!” he said. “Now what?”
“Let’s see what’s inside this garage. Maybe we’ll be lucky.”
Matt broke a small window with his elbow, reached in and opened the door. A shiny 1956 Packard caught the light.
“Matt, I can hotwire this antique. You’ll have to decide where we go.” In less than a minute she found a screwdriver, pried open the steering column and was arching two wires together. The motor purred to life and the gas gauge showed half full. She looked at Matt, some of the strain leaving her face.
The wail of the fire engines grew louder. “You are definitely your father’s daughter,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat. “Let’s pay a visit to Dr. Karl Mitchell. He’s all we’ve got. Our research had him pinpointed as a retired professor of geology at the University of Rhode Island. That’s on the way back to Washington. When we get clear of here call your father and ask him to track down Karl’s most recent address and phone number.”
The old Packard lumbered from the garage. The sirens were closer now. They watched the mirrors and checked the road ahead. No one seemed interested.
Rock Creek Parkway, Washington, D.C.
The usual joggers were out in the late afternoon braving the cold and wind of Washington’s Rock Creek Parkway, intent on getting their exercise fix for the day. “Running is one of the few positive addictions,” said the slim doctor, slightly winded as she approached her halfway mark and the endorphins began to kick in. Every day Dr. Margaret Khalid took a 5 mile run in the mid-afternoon and then went back to work, usually until late evening. It was a good thing her apartment was only a few blocks away from the office; daily runs helped keep her sanity.
As she ran along the asphalt path that wound through the canyon a lean male runner in blue leggings and a dark hooded jersey slowly overtook her.
“Just keep your natural pace,” he said. His breathing was easy and relaxed. “We’re moving the timetable
