“What do you mean?” said Mr. Conkel.
“Daddy, where did you park the car?” asked Kenan’s sister, coming down the hall. “It’s not in the driveway.”
Mr. Conkel went down the steps to the front door, pushing open the screen and stepping onto the stoop in his socks. Mrs. Conkel followed. If they were acting, thought Dean, it was an Academy Award performance.
Kenan got to Indianapolis a little after nine A.M. and managed to find the airport without having to ask directions. Worried that his parents might report the car stolen, he decided it was better not to park it at the airport, since if it were found there it might help them trace him. So he got back on the highway and drove east a few miles. He found an apartment complex, left the car in an open slot marked “guests,” then trudged back in the direction he’d come. He was way ahead of schedule — the bus wasn’t supposed to arrive until three in the afternoon — but he kept as brisk a pace as he could, constantly shifting his small suitcase back and forth. The bag had only a pair of pants and a sweater in it, but grew heavier and heavier as he walked.
There’d been nothing on the radio about the mosque or the sheik. The more time passed, the more it seemed as if it hadn’t really happened — as if all the police cars were just part of his imagination. Kenan almost believed that if he drove back to Detroit, he’d find the sheik waiting for him at the motel, probably concerned that he had missed praying with him before sunrise.
A car buzzed by the shoulder of the highway, so close that the wind spun Kenan off his feet. Fear seized him; he did not want to die before he fulfilled his God-given mission. But it was hard to get up. He hadn’t eaten since last night, nor had he slept. Finally, he managed to push himself upright and, watching the traffic more closely, walked the rest of the way to the airport.
Charlie Dean sat on the narrow bed, staring at the posters of players from the Detroit Tigers and Red Wings, interspersed with smaller pictures of rap stars and musical groups. Change the uniforms and faces, and Kenan’s room would look like a lot of boys’ bedrooms across the U.S.
Date the posters a bit, replace the rap stars with Hendrix, and maybe it would have looked like the one Dean shared with his brother when he was a kid.
“He was always a good student,” Mrs. Conkel told him, continuing to describe her only son. “But he drifted. It was like he wasn’t challenged much in school. Things came too easy at first, and then when they didn’t, he didn’t want to bother. You know what I mean?”
“Sure,” said Dean.
He and Sabot had searched the house; Kenan wasn’t there. He wasn’t here in a larger sense, either — everything in his room appeared to date from high school.
His parents bounced back and forth between denial and an almost unworldly numbness. Mrs. Conkel had mentioned twice that Kenan didn’t have a license and therefore couldn’t have taken the family car. Her husband wondered aloud whether he should find a lawyer, but made no move to do so.
“Are either of you Muslim?” Dean asked Kenan’s parents.
“Of course not,” said Mr. Conkel.
“Were you surprised that Kenan converted?”
“He didn’t convert. That nonsense ended two or three years ago.”
“Why do you say that?” Dean asked.
“Because Kenan stopped talking about it, that’s why. We’re Catholic, not Muslim.”
“What does being Muslim have to do with anything?” asked Mrs. Conkel.
“The man who was killed was Muslim, and he had been at a mosque just before the murder,” said Dean. “Kenan seems to have been there, too.”
“I doubt it,” said Mr. Conkel.
“Kenan went through a phase,” said Mrs. Conkel. “He was looking for something.”
“We go to church every Sunday,” said Mr. Conkel, his voice insistent. “When he’s home, he comes with us.”
Mrs. Conkel nodded. There was no point arguing with them, so Dean changed the subject.
“Why do you think he would take the car without telling you?” asked Dean.
“He wouldn’t. He doesn’t have a license.” Mrs. Conkel turned away, but not before Dean saw the tears she was trying to hide.
“Do you know where he would go?”
She shook her head. Her husband shrugged.
“Relatives?”
“We don’t have any nearby, and Kenan wasn’t close to any of them,” said Mr. Conkel. “These people — would they threaten my son?”
“It could be,” said Dean. “We don’t know who they are.”
“Is this some sort of radical group?”
“Possibly,” said Dean.
That wasn’t the answer Mr. Conkel had hoped for. The expression on his face, which had mixed anger and pain and disbelief in roughly equal portions, turned entirely to anguish.
“Kenan would never hurt someone. Never,” said his mother, tears flowing from her reddened eyes. “He wouldn’t kill this man. He’s not a murderer. He’s not.”
“All right, calm down, Vic. Let’s just calm down.” Mr. Conkel glanced at his watch. “How long is this going to be?” he asked Dean. “I gotta get to work. I work six days a week, just to send him to college. You know? It ain’t easy.”
Dean took another of the Marshals Service cards from his pocket. The number would be answered by the Art Room.
“If you remember anything, please let me know,” he said, handing it to Mr. Conkel. “You should report the car stolen with the local police department.”
“It’s not stolen if my son has it,” said Mr. Conkel. “Right?”
“It is if you didn’t tell him he could take it.”
“They’ll arrest him and throw him in jail,” said Mrs. Conkel between sobs.
“That may be best thing that ever happened to him,” said Dean.
CHAPTER 102
Dr. Saed Ramil lay on the bed in his suburban Baltimore home, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun in an endless circle. He’d been married for a few years after Vietnam, but the marriage had fallen apart for numerous reasons, and ever since then he’d lived alone, without even a pet to keep him company. He was used to silence, long ago realizing that it was composed of many sounds: the slow swish of a fan, a distant car door slamming, the flutter of a bird hunting for food before dawn.
The voice had not returned since he left Detroit. He was glad — he didn’t want to be insane.
If he’d had a blow to his head, a shock to his brain stem, he could understand it. Pulmonary disease, anemia, a central nervous system disorder — a wide range of conditions could cause auditory hallucinations. Unfortunately, none applied.
Lack of sleep, food or water deprivation — these
Psychological stress. Well, he couldn’t argue against that. But if it was stress, did it mean he’d never be able to do his job? Would he have to give up being a doctor entirely?
And if it was stress, why didn’t he hear the voice now?
He couldn’t argue that what the voice said was false. Asad bin Taysr
God spoke to the Prophet, Peace Be Unto Him. So why did Ramil dismiss the possibility that Allah was
