“Get to the point.”
“That is the point. Elias Kenuda will do whatever he can to help.”
They stared with frozen smiles like a couple of gunslingers itching to draw.
“If?” Puppy asked softly.
“If?” Annette’s voice rose two octaves. “If you find someone.”
He exhaled very slowly. “And should I not discover the love of my life?”
“It doesn’t have to be the love of your life. Look at us.”
His eyes watered from an equal brew of anger and hurt. Annette’s lower lip quivered; she knew she’d gone too far, making her rage defensively.
“Anyone. Him.” She pointed at the guard, who recoiled. “One week, Puppy. Or else I will tell Kenuda every dirty filthy little thing you ever thought and did and they’ll bulldoze your beloved stadium right now. Understand?”
“I hate you so much.” Puppy kicked the chair across the room.
“And I hate you, too,” hissed Annette, crouching on the table.
The guard called for back-up.
• • • •
AZHAR STAYED AWAY from the orphanage for three days. He spent most of the time on his boat, washing the deck and gaining strange satisfaction out of dumping suds into the ocean. He couldn’t look at Omar, the sullen smirks of the teen pushing his father away from the table, so Mustafa ate in the basement until Jalak’s loud and constant marches to the washing machine drove him outside.
Last night he ate the kabsa laham under a tree. Jalak blandly took away his plate and fork as if this dining area were natural, leaving a bowl of pistachios and a clean napkin, then marching into the house and turning out the back light. When he woke the pistachios were gone; a breakfast roll with butter and figs had taken their place.
Finally he returned to the orphanage, switching to the midnight to six shift. He sat downstairs in the main waiting area, aimlessly polishing the wood. Around two, Clary came out of the kitchen holding a tray of fruit and tea. Her eyes were half shut, swollen from the purple bruises on her forehead and cheekbone. She dropped the tray, widening eyes stretching the puffy tissue like clay.
The bandage on her right cheek didn’t move.
“I must explain,” he said quickly.
Clary gave no sign she heard. He risked a step forward.
“It wasn’t me. My son Omar, he is with the Holy Warriors. He did this. Allah forgive me for such a child that I brought into this world, it was him.”
Her crooked smile scared him.
“I will do whatever I can to help. I swear by God.”
Azhar knelt and took her hands. Cold hands, drained of warmth, of life. He frowned at the bandage taped tightly to her cheek. He didn’t want to see anything that would deepen his shame.
“What did they do to you, child?” he whispered, gently pulling off one side of the tape. She stared with lifeless hate as he lifted the bandage.
A cross had been burnt into her skin. He wanted to cry.
“They will pay who did this.”
No child should ever smile like Clary. She moistened her lips, her voice a razor. “Mentiroso! ¡Me ha engañado desde el principio! Ahora voy a vengarme a todos. Un día, un día pronto voy a aparecer en el orfanato como un soldado desde infierno y matar a todos para todas que nos infligieron a mi y mi familia. Tu familia.”
She knelt very daintily, as if training to be a proper young girl in a proper home, and picked up the fruit, wiping up the tea and resettling the cup and plate onto the tray. Clary smiled once more, bowing slightly, and walked up the steps to serve one of the filthy naked mullahs who had already raped her twice that night with more promised.
Azhar left before the end of his shift. When he got home around four in the morning, the house lights blazed. Two glaring Warriors loitering by the hood of a black Lincoln in the narrow driveway.
Jalak greeted him in the hallway, nervously wiping her hands on her burqua. Omar stood by the steps like a guard, Abdul at the top of the staircase, staring down, the only one honest enough to wear fear.
“The Imam waits for you,” Jalak said.
“Here?” he asked stupidly.
She nodded at the closed study door.
Imam Abboud sat patiently in Azhar’s favorite worn corduroy chair, flipping through a football book. “Your son likes the game.”
“He’s just a boy,” Azhar apologized.
“Is he good?” The Imam closed the book.
Azhar shrugged. “Not enough to succeed. But it gives him joy.”
“And you?”
“Yes. We play together.”
“Then it is a success.” The Imam gestured Azhar into another chair. “You are a good man, Azhar. Returning the Crusader child wasn’t easy. I hear you took a liking to her. That’s understandable. You are a parent. That’s why Omar said you wanted him to get the credit for capturing her.”
His mind spun like a carousel.
“Allah tests us in many ways. Especially when dealing with the Devil. I am pleased.”
Azhar mumbled thanks.
“Speaking of Satan, what did you think of the Crusader woman’s words?”
It took him a moment. “The Grandma? Oh, I’m not for politics, Imam.”
“Still, you must have an opinion.”
“I would revere in yours.”
Abboud frowned. “They are weak. To apologize as if it would matter anymore. Still, the Messenger of Allah was asked, “Can the believer be a coward?” To which he said, “Yes.” He was then asked, “Can the believer be a miser?’ To which he replied, “Yes.” And finally he was asked, “Can the believer be a liar?”
Abboud waited, but Azhar thought better of answering.
“No,” the Imam snapped. “Truth, Azhar. Truth must be paramount.” He played with the edge of his white robe before looking up intently. “Do you know the Grand Mufti’s son Abdullah?”
Mustafa was thrown by the abrupt question. “Not personally.”
The Iman smiled. “Now you will.”
“But why?” Azhar blurted.
“For truth.” The Iman stood. “Enjoy your sons. Omar is a fine boy. Pious. Abdul plays football well. I also have children. Three girls. Yes,
