"He didn't know about the note? She'd snuck it onto the bike?"
"There was no note. I made a guess."
Adem went quiet. How had Jibriil become so smart so quickly? A week ago, he'd shot two cops for no reason. Now he was Sherlock Holmes, flushing out spies. Commanding an army. Right-hand man of the Sheikh.
"No one blames you anymore. You took your beating well. It was the bravest they'd ever seen you."
"Sure, thank them for me. I don't think I'll ever walk normally again."
A laugh. That was funny?
"Seriously, Jibriil. I'm a wreck. I can't fight anymore."
"You'll heal up. In the meantime, maybe you can train the new recruits. 'How to Survive'. Something like that."
"Stop already. It's not a joke." He pointed to the bandage on his neck. "They'd already started to cut. Would you have laughed if I'd died?"
Jibriil let out a sigh. Adem turned his head towards him. He was staring away, at the mosquito net, at nothing. More of the baby's cry. Another man's breathing ramping up nearby. He began moaning, then screaming for help. The pain. The fires of hell. Help. Unbearable. Crows screeching.
Jibriil peeked through the slit in the curtains. "He was burned in an explosion fighting government troops. Yesterday."
"Where am I?"
"This is where we heal our wounded."
"A hospital?"
Jibriil shrugged. "Our guys already bombed the hospitals. Weakens the resistance of the city. We'll control this place soon, you know. The whole city. All of southern Somalia. Our own government. Our own land. No more fighting."
"I don't see it happening."
"Whatever. I do. All of the blood will be worth it when everyone sees what we can do on our own."
Adem laughed, but coughed, swallowed hard. He shook his head. Rattled out, "Not a chance. You don't get it."
Jibriil stood, reached down to grip his friend's leg below the knee. A shock of pain nearly took Adem's breath away, but he held his tongue. "Get some rest. I'll be back as soon as I can and we'll talk about what to do with you."
"What are you going to do with me?"
"Sleep. Relax. We'll talk later."
He swept out, humming to himself. Barked a few commands at his guards. They answered, a clipped simultaneous reply. Bootsteps leaving quickly. Adem was alone again. But not really. He saw the shadow of the guard Jibriil had ordered to stay behind. Keep an eye on him. No more escapes.
*
He'd lost count of time. Lost count of sleeping versus waking, except that his dreams made more sense than when he was awake hearing labored breathing, screams, gunfire, muffled explosions, babies. A long dream, continual between fits of thrashing and pain. Adem was at an airport. An American airport, all the signs in English but he couldn't read them. He could never read anything in dreams no matter how hard he tried. The letters shifted before his eyes. He knew he was supposed to catch a flight to Paris. No idea why. But it seemed he kept missing flights, or he'd get lost, or he'd get to the plane and fly to a connecting airport but not remember the flight. One airport after another, always lost, always running late.
He woke after flying somewhere…Chicago maybe? Detroit? Next to a girl from school he liked. One of the RA's. They would never be more than friends, though. She'd made it clear, no matter how many times they'd kissed or she'd draped herself on him or spent time in her room listening to music.
Tried to close his eyes again to recapture the flight. Let me talk to her again. Let's take a trip together.
But he couldn't. Eyes wide. It was darker, setting sun making everything orange and shadowed. Someone beside him again. He didn't wait for his eyes to adjust. Reached his hand for whoever it was.
Soft fingers took his, moved his hand back across his body, laid it on his chest.
"Sufia?"
She blinked. Became clearer. She lifted a glass of water, held the straw to his mouth again.
When he'd had enough, she said, "You're lucky. The others here, if they don't improve, they'll be taken away soon. But you, lucky warrior, are protected."
"You've met my friend? Jibriil?"
"Your commander. Yes. I have. He asked me to take care of you."
That dog. Adem smiled.
"Sorry, but your English is perfect. How did you…where?"
"I studied in London. Lived there for several years before coming home."
"Really? And you came back?"
A look on her face like Adem was stupid. "Home is home."
Adem thought Yes it is. "Right now, where I'm from, there's two feet of snow on the ground."
"Sounds terrible." She lifted a cloth from a bowl of water. Wrung it out, then folded it. She wiped Adem's forehead and cheeks, careful around his bandages.
"No, not terrible at all. In fact, it's beautiful."
Like you.
No, not yet. That wasn't the way things were done around here.
She shook her head. "When I was in London, I used to dream of home. The trees, the colors, the food. It's pretty bad here right now, I know, but there are still all of those. And we owe Allah the praise for it."
A believer. Like Jibriil. All about God's will. Doing their part.
He changed the subject. "When we were in school, Jibriil and I were singers. He's a great singer."
She scrunched her eyebrows. "Singing?"
"Like show tunes."
Sufia laughed. Good, he could make her laugh.
"Really? Show tunes? Like West End?"
"Broadway."
"Those are forbidden."
Adem smiled. Cracked lips split wider, but it was worth it. "Yeah, maybe that's not a bad idea."
She laughed again. It was darker outside. She said she had to leave soon, but would be back tomorrow. That was okay, Adem told her.
When she was gone, he thought about her. He was feeling better. Even the pain felt sweet.
FOURTEEN
People back in New Pheasant Run were looking for Bleeker. Calling him day and night. He only returned one or two calls, told them he was ice fishing and to leave him the hell alone.
He worked out in the hotel gym. He was alone because it was after four in the morning and he couldn't sleep. More and more of those nights. It hurt but pain wasn't something you tried to get rid of. It was something you used to get you back to good. He needed pain, goddamn it, or he wouldn't know which direction to go. Cindy had been brutally cut down. To end that pain, Bleeker needed to see her killer's body on a slab.
He got tired of the weight machine, just bricks on wires. Not the same rush of free weights. He moved to the stairclimber. Would've been happy to take a run outside, but the wind was blowing like hell and the snow was coming down again. Didn't bother him out in New Pheasant, but here he was a fish out of water. Too much slick ice, too many cars. So he pushed himself up the fake stairs on the hardest setting, pumping, pumping. Gritting his teeth. Bring on the searing jaw pain. He'd push through that shit, too.
Mustafa. On his mind. Not what he expected. The gangsta mannerisms of that first meeting had slacked off. That shit was even infecting the Somali kids out west. Whatever video they'd seen, whatever music had been spewing from the speakers. A collage of it all, pasted all over these kids' fashions, language, attitudes. And the baddest of them all, supposedly, had turned a new leaf.
It wasn't the most comfortable feeling, pairing up with this guy, but the one thing he trusted was that Mustafa wanted his boy back safe and sound. And that he hated the cop-killing fuck Jibriil. God, a bit naive, thinking Adem was clean like spring water, but Bleeker would go along for now, see where it led.
After punishing himself on the stairs, legs like overcooked pasta, he walked across to the hotel pool, dove into the cool water, blew out as much breath as he could and did a few laps underwater until he was burning all over, the water around him going to boil if he kept it up. Then exploded up from the middle of the pool and sucked in as much of the room's air as his lungs could take. Stood shoulder deep, slicked his hair back. Finally noticed a housekeeper, middle-aged woman, Hispanic, watching him. Holding towels, hypnotized. They eyed each other a long time. She looked like she had worked so hard all her life that each hour had etched itself onto her skin, but she carried it with pride and a lot of eye make-up. She looked nice.