CHAPTER 19

Sarah felt an ache in the pit of her stomach. “Keep going.”

The taxi driver shrugged and drove on.

Sarah covered a groan as they approached Marian’s house, the yard circled with yellow tape. Far too festive a look for such an overcast and dreary day. She was too far away to read the words rippling in the wind, but she knew what they would say: Police Line Do Not Cross. A couple of patrol cars were parked in front, along with a crime scene van, the officers leaning against their cruisers and talking to each other. Neighbors dotted the sidewalk, bundled up against the cold. “You can pull over here.” Her voice sounded hollow to her, bled of emotion. Rakkim wouldn’t even recognize the sound as coming from her.

The driver parked the cab against the curb. He turned around, peered at her through the clear plastic partition that separated them. “Do you want to get out here, sister?”

“No.” Though the windows of the cab were smoked for privacy, Sarah still adjusted her veil as the neighbors glanced at the cab. They quickly turned back to the house. There was no sound in the cab except the rumble of the engine. Something terrible had happened to Marian. Sarah was certain of that. She hadn’t called before getting into the cab. She had only decided to visit at the last minute, hoping to surprise Marian, to prevail on her to let Sarah borrow her father’s notebooks. Now she didn’t know what to do.

The driver rolled down his window. “What’s going on?” he barked at an older couple on the sidewalk.

“Woman was murdered,” said the elderly man, elegant in a blue suit with a yellow handkerchief matching his yellow necktie. He pointed at the house. “Professor Warriq. Taught at the university. A devout woman, may the mercy of Allah be upon her.”

“You don’t know that she’s dead,” said the woman, a prim, fine-boned lady in a cashmere coat. “You’re just showing off.”

“You don’t see an ambulance, do you?” said the elderly gentleman. “She got murdered. Her and the help. A regular slaughterhouse inside, that’s what the policeman said. Terrible thing. Probably a gang of Catholics hopped up on something, that’s my guess.”

“You and your Catholics,” sneered the woman.

“They drowned her in her own bathtub,” said the old man. “Probably told her they were baptizing her, laughing about it while she begged them to stop.”

The couple wandered away, still arguing.

Sarah took small, shallow breaths as she watched the house. Marian had been murdered, but she didn’t believe it was Catholics who had killed her. Redbeard had always said it was fine to believe in coincidences, but to always act as if there were no such thing. No, someone had targeted Marian because of her connection with Sarah. She should be scared, should tell the driver to take her out of here, but she didn’t want to leave. Not yet. She stared at the house. Strangest thing…she thought of Marian’s hands. She had lovely hands, strong and capable, but Marian said they were too big. Unfeminine. She kept her nails cut short, kept her hands clasped in company so as to not draw attention to them. Now she was dead and when Sarah thought of her…she thought of her lovely hands and wished someone had been able to convince her how beautiful she was.

The soft, sobbing sounds must be coming from her, because the driver half turned. “You mind if I turn on the radio, sister?” When Sarah didn’t answer, he switched it on. Out of deference to what he assumed were her traditional sensibilities, he put on a popular call-in show for pious Muslims, What Should I Do, Imam?

“Hello, Imam. I know that as a good Muslim I am not supposed to listen to music, but I was wondering if there are certain kinds of music that would be okay. And would it matter if I listened by myself?”

“Good question, my daughter. The Holy Qur’an is quite clear that music is forbidden. One of the messengers of Allah said. ‘There will be a nation who will make music their lot, and one day, while enjoying their music and alcohol, they will awake with their faces transformed into swine.’ In fact, this messenger said he was sent to destroy all musical instruments. And, no, my daughter, the sin is as great whether you listen to music in solitude or with another. Instead of music rather listen to the Holy Qur’an.”

Sarah watched the cabdriver as he idly scratched the back of his head. She was supposed to have had lunch with Marian last Friday, but that was before she’d gotten the e-mail. Even so, she had considered contacting Marian, just to let her know she would be away for a while. Then the bounty hunters had come…Sarah winced, remembering the bald man’s breath…his foul touch. She should have called Marian after that, cautioned her…Sarah shook off the thought. Refused to give in to despair. It was too late for recriminations. Marian was dead, Terry and his wife too, if the elderly neighbors were to be believed, and regrets weren’t going to bring any of them back.

She checked the sidewalks, looking for someone who didn’t seem to belong. The gawkers were mostly couples, middle-aged or older, a few mothers with children. No single men, but a couple of businessmen in suits were walking slowly past the house on the opposite side of the street. She wasn’t sure if the businessmen had been there when she’d arrived. She wasn’t sure if anyone in the crowd had just walked over. All the years of Redbeard’s teachings and she had failed his first rule. Observation is the key to survival, Sarah. Take in the big picture first, burn that snapshot into your brain, then focus on individuals. A few minutes later, take in the big picture again and notice what is out of place-what’s been added, what’s been taken away. She had let her grief distract her. Rule number two: Emotions are assassins of survival. Another failure on her part.

Redbeard had raised her and Rakkim the same way, making no excuses or allowances for her being female. Life is dangerous, Sarah. Complacency is for the innocent, the foolish, or the dead, and we are neither. Think, Sarah. She had allowed her attention to falter. Rakkim would not have made that mistake. She straightened, took a careful scan of the whole area, using the driver’s rearview mirror to see behind her.

Two of the policemen shared a joke and a smoke while they stood around, handsome lunks with their hands in their pockets and their hats pushed back. Sarah wanted to bolt out of the taxi and knock the cigarettes from their mouths, order them to show some respect. To at least act as if they were interested in what had happened inside the house, rather than just going through the motions. She stayed where she was. She had made enough mistakes today.

“Blessings upon you, Imam. Please settle a debate I’m having with my girlfriend. According to Islam, are women lacking in intellect compared to men?”

“Blessings upon you, my son. The teachings assure us that women have less intelligence than men; therefore it is the husband and not the wife who heads the family. The wife may be consulted, but final authority lies with the husband.”

Sarah winced behind her veil, infuriated by the imam’s smug certainty. The radio was another distraction to be avoided. Better to watch the house. Marian’s front yard was filled with her prize rosebushes. They were dormant now, all thorns, but come spring they would be bursting with blooms. Marian wouldn’t be there to smell their fragrance, or to keep them pruned, wouldn’t be there to prevent the rust and the mites and the root rot. The ones who had killed Marian had killed everything she cared for too, and the ones who had killed her had not acted on their own-Sarah had helped them.

Marian had died because of her connection with Sarah, there was no other explanation. Sarah had tried to downplay their friendship, particularly after starting the new book, but too many people at the university had seen them together. It would have only taken one person to talk, to mention seeing them having tea together. One person, that’s all the Old One would have needed.