“Naw. I’m out of it,” I said, “and I intend to stay out. Someone else can hunt ‘em.”
Having definitely and absolutely eliminated one of the ten thousand possible ways to spend the rest of my life, I felt better. I was making progress. Only 9,999 more to consider.
Sometimes I thought about Al Salazar and Rich Thurlow and Elizabeth Conner. Sometimes I wondered how Marisa Petrou was doing, how she was getting on with her life. Was she Abu Qasim’s daughter?
The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Yeah, I know, true believers sign up for paradise and they do whatever it takes to get there. Still, letting those clowns cut on her face… The women I knew would need more than faith to undergo that ordeal, even with an anesthetic.
Abu Qasim — willing to sacrifice his daughter and his friend for his vision of God’s war. Whew!
That reality was so alien to my world that I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted to watch football and walk on the beach and enjoy my moments with Sarah. Aren’t we all like that? Don’t we all wish to retreat occasionally from foul reality?
Finally I broke down and started reading the newspapers again. Mainly for the sports, you understand. More earthquakes, bankruptcies, volcanic eruptions, political shenanigans, terrorism; the French put a tax on international airline tickets sold in France to fund the war on African poverty. The Denver Broncos looked like the team to beat in the postseason.
However, one morning I found an interesting three-paragraph item on an inside page of The Washington Post: Richard Lewellan Zantz, an American expatriate, age twenty-eight, was shot to death the previous day at a sidewalk cafe in Rome. Someone walked up, pulled out a sawed-off shotgun, and blasted him four times with buckshot. Then the shooter walked away into the crowd. Eyewitness identifications were nebulous — no one got a good look at the killer. Too busy taking cover, I guess. Italian authorities promised to bring the villain to justice.
Ol’ Gator. Five ounces of lead administered in four doses. Adios, asshole.
Two months after Sarah and I arrived in Delaware we still hadn’t rented an apartment in Maryland, and I hadn’t figured out what I was going to do for a living. Sarah was getting very testy.
One Friday morning the telephone rang: Jake Grafton was calling from France.
“Hey, Tommy,” he said.
“Although my wishes are a little late, happy new year, Admiral. Your house weathered the holidays and is none the worse for it.”
“Had enough loafing yet?”
“Well…”
“Ready to go back to work?”
“What do you have?”
“UPS will bring you some airline tickets tomorrow. It’s snowing here. Pack accordingly.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said. We talked for a bit about Sarah and Callie, but it was a transatlantic call.
After we hung up, I called Sarah. “Hey, babe, you’ll never guess who called.”
“Let’s see… Your mother is in Hawaii, the president is in China, you said no to that movie producer and the ballet company… Was it Jake Grafton?”
“How’d you know?”
“He called me first. Wanted to know if I thought it would be okay to call you.”
“And you said yes.”
“I love you, Tommy, more than you will ever know. But you have to keep being you — I know that. I’ll be here when you come home.”
“Thanks, Sarah. See you tonight.”
After I hung up, I remembered her comment a few weeks earlier about Marisa. So when did she and Grafton have that little conversation?
The more I thought about it, the more amusing it was. She knew all along that Grafton would eventually call me. Women!
