Answered the phone. It was the Chief.
"Trish find you yet?"
"Yeah, just now. I'm heading back."
"I'm sorry, Ray. If we could've found you last night, you know. Trish left as soon as she could. It's shit. It's all shit."
"Thanks." What else could he say? "Yeah, thanks."
"Howie's already out talking to people. We'll get who did this." He was having a hard time even saying consoling things. All business, the Chief. "If you need time, I can give you plenty of time, if you need it."
Bleeker wouldn't know what to do with himself without something to take his mind off it. Paperwork. Small-time shit. "I'm good. I'd rather work."
"Really, a few days, then."
He could tell what the Chief was thinking. Last thing they needed was a cop with a gun set on revenge. If he didn't play it right, he'd end up on forced leave for a month, all paid, of course, just to get his ass out of the way. He said, "Maybe, okay. But not right now. Maybe after the funeral." Choked up saying that last word.
The Chief waited a moment while Bleeker cleared his throat. Then, "If you're up for it, there's, ah, something here. You can talk to a few people for us. A college kid is missing, a Somali from the Cities. His roommate doesn't know where he is, didn't come in last night. That's unusual for him. This is a very good student, very nice guy, not some whackdoodle muslim. Everybody agrees. Unless he's hiding it well."
That was how they got us every time. "So when was he last seen?"
"By the roommate, maybe eight or nine that night. A friend from Minneapolis came to visit, and they went out."
Bleeker had to white knuckle the steering wheel on a patch of unplowed road, thick with freeze, to keep all four wheels down. "That's not even a full night. What's the big deal?"
"This guy didn't have a car. His friend did. The way the roommate described it, we think it's the car Erik and Cindy stopped."
Bleeker's mouth went dry and he swallowed, got stuck, coughed. Heard the voice on talk radio say, "…losing what makes our country so great, and I don't want to live in that sort of America. I want it like it's always been."
It wasn't right. You didn't put the dead cop's lover on the case. You just didn't. Were they that hard up for people who knew how to talk to the Africans? Hell, Bleeker didn't even know the language except bits and pieces. He'd only learned the etiquette and culture by trouncing all over it, making every possible mistake until a Somali man who worked at a local soy processing plant had taken the time to explain it to him over a few weird dishes at a tiny Somali restaurant above an import shop downtown Bleeker had known nothing about. Since then, Bleeker had said the right things, showed the proper respect, and started getting some answers. And that made him the police department's "expert".
Bleeker told the Chief he'd check in after changing his clothes. Closed his phone. So they wanted him on this after all. Wanted him to go in shooting, it sounded like. Fine. He could live with that.
Bleeker started nodding his head along to the radio host, who was damn near crying talking about his ruined country like she was some sort of teenage whore who'd gotten knocked up. Not going to let 'em destroy what we all helped to raise!
What Bleeker was really thinking: God help that young man's soul if he was the one who pulled the trigger.
THREE
Waves of super-heated air rising from the tarmac. Adem squinted his eyes, shielded them, too hot to see, it felt like. Jibriil shoved him from behind, off the last step of the plane. He'd been at it the whole trip, calling Adem pussy this and pussy that because he whined half the way back to Minneapolis about how the cops would get them, and how Jibriil should turn himself in, and the gun, the fucking gun, why did Jibriil bring a motherfucking gun with him to New Pheasant Run?
"Cause you never know. And now you do."
"We were supposed to disappear. You don't disappear when you kill police! We won't be able to come back. Just…just…"
Unspoken between them: As an eyewitness, now Adem couldn't go home again. He would never rat out Jibriil. But there it was, the reason they couldn't split up. The reason Jibriil wouldn't let them.
They ditched the rental outside of Redwood Falls, found another car. People on the farms left keys in, stuck in the visors or under the wheel wells. Took five tries. The weather made it feel like more. Their plane didn't leave until six thirty-five a.m., so they could afford to take their time. The car was a Pontiac Grand Am, red. Thousands and thousands of them on the road. The police couldn't stop all of them, could they? And the owner probably wouldn't realize until morning.
Adem had finally stopped complaining when he feared Jibriil might lose his temper. His friend had gone stone silent, hand so tight on the wheel it kept squeaking. The pinch in his stomach went tighter. Couldn't ask Jibriil to stop the car, not anymore. Had to hold it in until the plane.
This wasn't supposed to be about killing anyone yet. That would come later. Righteous killings. God's work. Not small town cops doing their jobs. Didn't matter if they were jerks and almost certainly stopping Adem and Jibriil because they were DWB-Driving While Black. There was no reason to kill them. So what if they were harassed for a while, ended up talking to that Dutch cop all the Somalis in town knew? So what? They would've missed their plane. It was all kind of a joke anyway. Adem never expected it to get this far.
This far being Somalia. K-50 Airport. Two more spoiled Americans about to join the good fight, redeem themselves before Allah.
They flew from Minneapolis to New York and from New York to London and from London to Nairobi and from Nairobi, finally, mercifully, a small plane took them to this airport south of Mogadishu. Adem was amazed at how Jibriil had pulled it off. Navigated the myriad flights perfectly. Not once were they ever stopped and questioned. Jibriil had the whole act down-forged passports, documents, US cash, a few credit cards that couldn't have been Jibriil's, no way. But they slipped through every time. Only once did Adem ask where the money had come from. Jibriil cut him off, said not to worry about it. They were being looked after.
On the ground, a constipated and dry-mouthed Adem fought to keep sand out of his eyes. "What's next?"
Jibriil pointed. "He's holding a sign. By that truck. That's him."
Adem squinted and made out a tall man, maybe not even thirty, in a military uniform, rank unknown, holding a sign with Somali, some form of Arabic, and English on it. All three languages, the same word: Americans.
Jibriil pulled at Adem's shirt. "Come on."
"What about our bags?"
"What about your carry-on?"
Adem lifted the backpack he'd brought along. "This isn't my clothes."
Jibriil pointed towards the back of the plane. “You mean those?”
Adem looked-more teenagers with guns grabbing bags, opening and going through them before tossing the scattered remains onto an ever-widening pile. Like a party more than a job. His shouts were drowned out by the prop engine winding down.
"You forget why we're here. It's not a vacation."
Like he could forget that. Adem knew exactly why he was here. Because Jibriil had wanted it more than anything now that he studied at the feet of some freaky Imam in the Cities. He sold it to Adem like an adventure. Like Fifty Cent on the streets of L.A. but with bigger stakes and God on their side.
"I need underwear."
Jibriil smiled. "Go commando."
Adem gave up and walked behind Jibriil to the man with the sign. His truck was plenty old, ramshackle. The sand had blasted it shiny in spots, holes beginning to show.