The Shelter for Buttered Women Read online

  Having seen Ari in action, Ben guessed the group's attempt to lift his spirits would leave a sour taste. Here was a man who might be able to flatten every single one of them in combat, including those with a military background. But Ben did not know the full truth. Had he seen Ari that night outside of Baghdad several years earlier, when he had confronted a gang of terrorists, his reassessment would have been dramatic.

  Because Ari had killed all of them.

  Even more remarkable was that Ari—Ghaith Ibrahim—had known every one of his victims, including those he had never met. He had seen their pre-war criminal records, and memorized them all at a glance. It was claimed by researchers that 'eidetic memory' was a popular myth, that no man or woman possessed a perfect mental snapshot of every face they had ever seen, every record they had ever scanned. But Ari came as close to disproving the disprovers as anyone could. CENTCOM, for one, put great faith in his talent.

  Pastor Grainger must have sensed Ari's discomfort. With good grace he drew the others away from him with reminders that, next week, they would meet in Farmville for a long-distance run on the High Bridge Trail.

  "No obstacles, but plenty of distance. Thirty miles out and thirty back, with brunch at Charlie's for the survivors. Meantime, I hope to see you—some of you, at least—at service Sunday morning."

  Ari was no church-goer, mosque-goer, temple-goer or synagogue-goer. His sunrise service usually consisted of trying to see the limits of his bedroom through the demonic angels of a hangover. In anticipation of his ride on the Buttermilk, he had spent the last two nights dry. He had an idea of making up for that while reviewing the latest images from Iraq that evening.

  "I have an idea you might not be making it to Farmville," said Ben once the others were out of earshot. He removed his helmet and gave Ari wary look, as if he wasn't sure he should raise the topic that was already out of his mouth.

  "I am thinking of having a bicycle rack installed on my car," said Ari.

  "Your Box? You think it'll fit?"

  "Indeed," Ari grimaced. At heart he was a Cadillac man, but the U.S. Marshal's Service had seen fit to saddle him with a Scion xB. The only good thing about it was that the GPS tracking device had been removed from the undercarriage. Even more heartening had been the removal of the tracking bracelet from his ankle, a device Deputy Marshal Karen Sylvester had convinced her boss was no longer necessary. She had not done this entirely out of the goodness of her heart. She suspected Ari had found a way to remove the bracelet at will, and was using it to mislead observers.

  She told Ari this as the technician removed the tracker. He shot her a 'moi?' look.

  "I don't see anyone else wearing a slave chain in this room," she had shot back. "Don't think this lets you off the hook. If I think you're up to no good, I'll replace the tracker on your car. And if that doesn't work, I'll have our tech put one around your neck."

  "That can be arranged," the tech had said with a wolfish grin as he rose with the ankle bracelet in hand.

  Ben tossed a discreet glance at Ari's banged-up knee. "You were planning to ride your bike home?"

  "The Nickel Bridge is free to pedestrians and bicyclists."

  "I'm not talking about the toll," Ben grinned.

  Unwilling to admit that his leg was beginning to throb, Ari said, "I live but a short distance away." He put some of his weight on his bike's handlebars. He had sprained his ankle while kicking in the door of an apartment where a doctor and his family were being held captive by a former Iraqi agent—one of Ari's peers, it seemed, although he had not known the man.

  "Why don't I put your bike in the back of my truck and give you a ride?"

  "I assure you—"

  "We need to talk."

  "Oh?" It sounded like business, which was unusual. Up to now, it had always been Ari who approached Ben for assistance. He surveyed the parking lot. Pastor Grainger was lingering with a pair of cyclists, discussing an upcoming church picnic.

  "I'd rather not be overheard."

  "This is something you do not want your own cleric to hear?" Ari asked.

  "The pastor's a great guy and all, but this is something…" Ben touched the side of his nose.

  "You are having sinus problems?"

  "Uh, no…"

  "Oh, I am familiar with that gesture. You want to inhale cocaine. I am sorry, that is not my giddy."

  "Ari!" Ben half-hissed, half-laughed. "It means a lot of things, but it's all context. Right now, it means not only do I not want him to hear, but he would not want to hear."

  "I'll bear that in mind," Ari nodded agreeably. "In that event…"

  Ari hoisted his bike onto the bed of Ben's pickup truck and the ex-marine slammed the tailgate shut. Ari winced as he scooted into the passenger seat. His knee hurt more sitting down than standing up. There was bound to be some swelling. He assuaged his injured self-esteem by admiring his naked ankle. His skin had been chafed where the bracelet rested, but not enough for anyone to notice.

  They waved to Grainger as Ben drove out of the lot. Turning right on Boulevard, they immediately came to the toll booth. Ben threw a quarter into the bucket. As they pulled forward onto the bridge, Ari said:

  "You did not spit into the receptacle."

  "I should!" Ben answered with some venom. "It's been a long time since they called it the 'nickel' bridge."

  "They should update its name," Ari agreed. "It's misleading. Switch and bait."

  "Reverse that and you're right." He cocked an eye at Ari. "You spit in the change bucket?"

  "It is procedural, am I correct? Similar to your Corps. 'Lock and load'."

  "I love talking to you. I really do."

  Ari was astonished by the absence of sarcasm. Karen Sylvester had said the same thing, but with a totally opposite meaning.

  Ben took out his phone and punched the speed dial. The volume was turned up just enough for Ari to recognize the gruff, slurred "Yeah?" at the other end.

  "We'll be there in a few…cm'on, we're not that late…there was a little…" Ben paused and glanced at Ari. "We took a little longer than expected." He rang off and looked at his passenger. "I didn't think you wanted me mentioning your accident."

  "I had no accident."

  "But the pastor said—"

  "I swerved to avoid a groundhog."

  "Oh? Grainger didn't say…" Ben shook his head. "I didn't know you were sweet on wildlife. But I totally understand."

  And he did. Upon returning from Iraq, Ben had given up hunting. Unless, as it turned out, it involved hunting terrorists.

  "Why are we meeting Elmore Lawson?"

  "He thinks you're underemployed."

  "He does? And this is a great concern for him?"

  "OK, I made that up. Personally, though, I think you're the kind of guy who could become…dangerous is too strong a word, but if you sat around all day moping with nothing to occupy you—"

  "I can become agitated, it is true," Ari acknowledged.

  "And I guess you don't wait for the fidgets to pass. I get them, too, the fidgets. But I can just tootle around the house and yard until it passes."

  "You have a wife."

  "That helps," Ben said with some uneasiness.

  "It is nothing to be ashamed of. I also have a wife, but she is too far away to lash me with her whip of common sense."

  Ben laughed. "Becky's no pushover."

  "I am pleased to hear that."

  "I'm surprised," said Ben as he slowed at the intersection of Westover and Forest Hill. "I always heard…" He made a joshing sound, cutting himself short.

  "Yes?" Ari inquired. "I have amazed you?"

  "No. Yes. OK, I don't want to sound like some backwater numbnut…but let's face it, from what I saw over in the Sandbox, Muslim women don't have much of a say in…well, anything."

  "You mean they are oppressed victims of the male establishment?"

  "Now you sound like a left-wing sociology prof."

  "I believe I comprehend," Ari nodded. "And there is
some truth to that. Muhammed had a great deal of respect for women. Without Khadija bint Khuwaylid, his first wife, I doubt he would have succeeded as he did. She was truly a saint."

  "Is that the majority view?" Ben asked.

  "She is not spoken of very often," Ari admitted.

  "And didn't Muhammed have tons of wives? Like a harem?"

  "He had thirteen wives, the Mothers of the Believers."

  "That's a ton."

  "There were many reasons for these marriages. Some of the women were widows of his companions. They would have been destitute."

  "Still…"

  "Many women hidden by the veil have great influence. A woman does not need to flash her bare ankles in the air to wield power."

  "Well yeah, but—hold on." Ben turned sharply into a drug store parking lot. Ari saw Elmore Lawson slouched in his van. He was parked in a handicapped slot.

  "Our friend here also had a wife," Ari said as Ben pulled up next to the van.

  "'Had'? They split?"

  "She could not live with his disablement."

  "Darn."

  "He does not blame her for leaving him."

  "They never do," said Ben bitterly.

  Lawson's passenger window came down. Ben lowered his own window and cut off his engine.

  "Mr. Ciminon!" Lawson called out. Ari leaned forward, looking past Ben.

  "Mr. Lawson!"

  "I am glad to see you are well and less bruised than when we last met."

  "We met last week, when I returned Luckless to you." Ari had been pleased when Lawson emerged from the VA Hospital after a series of operations, but was put out when he asked Ari to return his cat. The former marine captain had never spoken of Luckless with any great affection. Neither had Ari, for that matter, especially after the gray cat had slashed his cheeks as he fitted him with his ankle bracelet. An outsider would have assumed either man would have been glad to be rid of the surly beast.

  "Thanks for taking care of him," said Lawson. "I think I can take him off your hands, now."

  "Are you certain? He spits his wrath and ejects great quantities of fecal matter."

  "Yeah. I'm the same way. Maybe that's why we belong together."

  It had taken over a month for Ari and Luckless to grow accustomed to each other. In fact, the whole issue of human/feline bonding had remained problematic, with both parties growing cranky in each other's company. Yet Luckless had decided it was better to share Ari's mattress than to sleep alone. Like his predecessor, Sphinx, he had begun to sneak upstairs at night and slip behind Ari's knees. Ari found the warm pressure comforting.

  "Do you think yourself capable of scooping his food and the unspeakable consequences?" Ari asked. "His frequent vomiting is most unfortunate. He especially likes to spill his guts on the carpet."

  'As well as the furniture,' Ari almost added, then decided he did not want the cat to sound overly repulsive. Lawson might decide to take Luckless to the dog pound, which Ari had heard were no better than death camps for unwanted animals.

  "Sorry about that," Lawson said. "You've really put up with enough. I've got my nephew here to help. Believe it or not, he doesn't mind cleaning up the mess."

  Ari didn't believe it.

  "You almost sound like you want to keep the damn thing," Lawson continued.

  "What!" Ari had scoffed. "For a grown man to want to live with a cat is the pinnacle of…"

  "Idiocy?"

  "I did not mean to imply—"

  "No offense taken. It is idiotic. Which is why I think you should bring him back. I'll foot any medical bills you might incur while putting him in the pet carrier."

  Luckless had not been pleased when Ari released him in Lawson's living room. He dashed off to the back of the house.

  "I am afraid nothing pleases your nervous friend."

  "True that," Lawson nodded, but he seemed contented. "Damnedest thing, as skittish as he is, sometimes he comes up in the middle of the night and tucks himself behind my knees."

  "Remarkable," Ari said ruefully.

  "Cat spooning," said Lawson. "Next best thing to…"

  'A wife', Ari thought ruefully.

  "This is kind of a weird place to meet," said Ben to Lawson as he opened his door.

  "Do you mind, Ben? I need a private moment with Ari, here. Thanks for bringing him over, but…if it's any consolation, if Ari accepts my proposal, and he decides he needs some muscle…"

  "Yeah?"

  "I realize you are lucky enough to have a full-time job, but if you'd like to earn a bit of extra change…"

  Ben turned to Ari. "He's going to offer you a job."

  "So I have surmised," said Ari.

  "Take it."

  "You are not satisfied with your job at the hardware emporium?"

  Ben pulled a face. "See this?"

  "Yes?"

  "That's the look of boredom. You know it?"

  "Yes, indeed I do."

  "It's partly your fault. You gave me the taste for blood."

  "Hardly that."

  "And if you feel the slightest bit of guilt for giving me a lust for adventure, you'll call me as soon as Lawson finishes with you."

  "Put a cork in it." Observing Ben's reaction, Ari quickly added, "I believe I mis-applied the phrase."

  "I hope so."

  Ari got out and removed his bike from the back.

  "Am I leaving?" Ben asked.

  "'Fraid so," said Lawson. "Once again, thanks for bringing our friend here. I would have contacted him directly, but I am not privy to his phone number or place of residence."

  "That's because you're not a Methodist," said Ben, starting up his truck and pulling out.

  "You're a Methodist?" Lawson asked after Ari parked his bike in front of the Lawson's van and slipped into the passenger seat.

  "I am methodical," said Ari.

  "I believe that's how Methodists came by their name." Ari began leaning towards Lawson, then pulled back quickly.

  "You weren't about to kiss me, were you?"

  "Certainly not. American males of a normal persuasion do not condone such behavior."

  "Don't let Gay Virginia hear you say that. They'd be more than happy to eat your nuts." He gave Ari what might have been a skeptical glance, but his face was so damaged it was hard to say what he was thinking. "Those Arab boys kiss, don't they?"

  "I have told you, I am Sicilian."

  "Oh. Right. And those Euro boys kiss even more. Guess old habits die hard."

  Ari glanced in the passenger rear view mirror. "Ben was right. This is a very odd place in which to meet."

  "Not really. This isn't cloak and dagger. I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone. I'm here to pick up my sick pack."

  "I am familiar with 'six pack'."

  "You heard right." Lawson nodded at the drug store. "The docs at the VA signed me up for an FDC. That's a Fixed Dose Combination. I've got so many antibiotics and corticosteroids in me they would ban fishing for a hundred years if I fell into the James River. They do the same for AIDs patients. I call it a 'sick pack'."

  "And I am part of this 'pack'?"

  "Sorta kinda," Lawson slurred. The surgery had not focused on his speech impediment. Later, perhaps…in which case, Ari could again take in the reviled Luckless.

  "Do you wish me to go inside and pick up this pack?" Ari asked.

  "With that combo? They'd arrest you on the spot. Unless you're on the list I gave them, you're not authorized to copay my drugs. It's a short list, anyway. Me and my sister. No, I'll shuffle my way inside and pick up the shit, myself."

  "Then my presence here is as a proposition?"

  "No, we're not here to exchange vows," Lawson fumed. "I'm here to proposition you, right? But it's a business proposition. When you came to me last time, you were trying to find the husband of your neighbor. Unless I miss my guess, you weren't just moonlighting. Uh…"

  A young man was walking up the sidewalk, his back to the drug store. His fingers landed lightly on the handlebars
of Ari's bike. Ari cracked his door open and the young man walked away.

  "As I understand it, Mrs. Wareness did not pay you for your services."

  "I was being neighborly," Ari said blandly. Even the Luckless-loving Lawson would have laughed himself to the morgue had he known the truth. Ari had hoped merely to ingratiate himself with Rebecca Wareness and her daughter, Diane, in an attempt to lure back Luckless's predecessor, the faithless Sphinx.

  "You're one helluva neighbor to have," Lawson nodded. "You got shot at, bombed, mugged…. I'd say you pushed neighborliness to the edge of the envelope."

  "I do not believe a letter would have been sufficient."

  Lawson continued nodding. The jaw implant and other reconstructive surgery made the gesture unsettlingly robotic. "Is it why you're not wearing the ankle monitor anymore? Your good deed got you off the hook?"

  "You mean was it a tit for my tat?"

  "You might say that."

  "Perhaps…"

  "You don't want to tell," Lawson shrugged. "I get that. Here's our friend again…"

  The young man had returned, this time wearing sunglasses.

  "I'd never spot him in a line-up in a million years," said Lawson.

  When the young man again touched the handlebars, Ari opened his door. The young man sneered and walked away.

  "Under some circumstances, persistence is a virtue," said Ari.

  "Judging from your tone, I'd say persistence is going to get this guy killed. We don't kill people for misdemeanors, here. Not usually."

  "'Misdemeanor'?"

  "A low-caliber crime not worthy of attention," Lawson explained.

  "But it is my bicycle."

  "So I stand corrected. In this case, it's a felony. Do me a favor and pop open the glove compartment."

  Ari obliged.

  "See that envelope? Please take it out."

  Ari took the envelope and began to hand it to Lawson.

  "It's for you, if you accept my commission."

  It was not sealed. Ari opened the flap. "There is money in here."

  "$500. Dollars, not dinars."

  "You mean Euros."

  "You're about as Sicilian as Marlon Brando. That's just a down payment, to fill your gas tank and stomach and other such. There'll be more to come if you get anywhere, and a door prize of $50,000 if you crack the case."