The 56th Man (18 page)

Ghaith stopped and drew several deep breaths,
almost sobs. He dug the point of the scimitar into the ground and
listened to the mad rush of water from the canal outlets.

The prisoner took a deep breath. "What are
you going to do to me?"

Ghaith shook, as though startled out of his
dreadful vision. He went over to the young man and dropped to his
knees in front of him, letting the sword fall to the side. He
wrapped his arms around the boy and drew him in.

"What were you doing? How could you? You are
the last one! The last one! Don't you understand?"

"Father," the boy began to weep.
"Father..."

"I'll get you out of here," said Ghaith.
"I'll find a way. But for now, go home. You must take care of your
mother, who is sick unto death."

Ari awoke to the not-too-distant distant
sound of a motor. Rising, he looked out the studio window and
caught several glimpses of Howie Nottoway walking purposefully back
and forth across his lawn. Ari craned his head and noted the clear
blue sky. Perfect.

He switched on his computer, showered and
dressed, then sat down to read his emails.

There were two.

The first:

'$532.67 spent. $3000 limit. Do not
exceed.'

“
Mos
zibby!
” Ari swore.

The second had the old-fashioned,
unpunctuated immediacy of a telegram:

'Noon Wal-Mart Forest Hill I'll find
you.'

Ari did not recognize either sender's
address. There was no response to his request, but he was used to
anonymous indifference and did not dwell on it.

After eating his last gulab jamun and downing
a cup of tea, he went outside and did a quick tour of his yard.
There was no sign of Sphinx. He was about to go out on the street
and walk over to Howie's when a man and woman came scooting up the
small strip of beach that ran between the Mackenzie property and
what even Ari thought of as the Riggins' land.

"Hello!" the man called out.

Ari nodded amiably.

They were an attractive couple, as though
consciously selected for some optimal genetic configuration. Their
relative youth (late twenties) enhanced the prospects for beautiful
children. Yet Ari sense they were childless, probably through
choice, reserving their love for their reflections.

"I'm Matt Mackenzie," said the man as he came
up the slope. He held out his hand, then stopped. "Oh...I'm sorry.
Do you..."

"Shake hands?" Ari held out his right hand
and Matt Mackenzie took hold.

"This is my wife, Tracy."

Tracy Mackenzie was staring at the men's
hand-grip, her look of revulsion scarcely hidden. Shaking hands
with a fucking, jogging A-rab, when everyone knew they used their
bare hands to wipe the shit from their ass. No doubt she would
demand her husband take a shower before she allowed him to touch
her again.

When Ari let go of Matt's hand he touched his
chest over his heart. He allowed himself a small burst of chagrin.
Just as some habits were too-easily acquired, others were too
ingrained to dismiss.

Matt suffered the morning chill boldly in
shorts, T-shirt and sandals. He had the sleek muscular grace of an
Olympic swimmer, but a face that was curiously hairless, without
even a trace of stubble. Ari found this strange and effeminate. Did
the man use a depilatory?

Tracy was not so much in love with the
outdoors, taking cover under slacks and a light jacket that did
nothing to disguise her figure. A lot of care had gone into her
foray into nature, which began at her doorstep. She met the dawn
with a completely natural facial palette, with her strawberry
blonde hair scattered in a textured updo. Ari rather disliked her
immediately, but could not help feeling aroused. Even from ten feet
away her sex called to him like a hurdle to a horse. He subdued his
interest as best he could.

Tracy did not offer her hand.

"We saw you wandering around in the yard,"
said Matt.

"I was looking for my cat."

A veil of doubt fell over Tracy's face, as if
her worst nightmare had come to life right next door: an Arab with
a cat.

"We're not exactly cat people," said Matt
quickly, as though to curb a less neighborly comment from his
wife.

"What a shame."

"I was wondering..." Matt's smile was like a
beacon overtop of his hairless chin. "We're going to have a party
in a couple of nights. Could we borrow your barbecue?"

Ari had been on the verge of accepting an
invitation. A party at the Mackenzie’s would probably be most
informative. Fortunately, he did not jump the gun. No invitation
was forthcoming.

"I'm afraid I don't have a barbecue yet."

Matt's eyes bugged, as though he had just met
a man without a body.

"I'm quite new to your country."

"Really? You don't have any accent, and I've
heard some pretty wild ones." Matt nodded broadly, a man of the
world.

Gambling that they had not spoken to
Howie about him, Ari said, "I represent the
Cirque du Soleil
."

"No kidding!" Tracy gasped. Her husband gave
her a bewildered look. "You know, that super-circus. We saw a video
of one of their shows, remember? Saltimbanco."

"Oh...yeah," Matt said doubtfully.

"You said you'd take me to Vegas to see their
permanent show."

"Go to Vegas to see a
circus
?" Matt said even more
doubtfully

"I'm not one of the performers," Ari said
with a trace of sorrow. "I only help arrange the touring
shows."

"They perform all over the world," said
starry-eyed Tracy, who had very quickly forgotten about her
neighbor's cat and unseemly hygiene.

"Precisely. The
Cirque
required someone with a knack for
organization and a flair for the major languages."

"Oh wow."

Matt looked from his wife to Ari and decided
his fairytale grin was not misplaced. Ari was a great guy, and not
just because he was his new neighbor. His toes were tickled by the
perfectly managed lawn.

"What a lawn. Is this like fescue or
something? Mind if I borrow your mower?"

"Sorry."

"No mower?"

"It appears the Riggins had a prepaid
contract with a landscaper. I've inherited the service."

The Mackenzie smiles vanished. They seemed to
think Ari rude for summoning up memories of the crime. Or perhaps
it was their inability to sustain a coherent wrinkle that made them
seem callous. Their faces were imperfect forgeries of real humans.
Tracy attempted to close her jacket, but only succeeded in drawing
her breasts into a single, impressive lump.

"Yeah, well, it was a crying shame,"
said Matt, adding a
tsk
for
good measure.

"They were good people, I've been given to
understand," said Ari.

"From a distance," said Matt.

"I'm sorry?"

"You know, sometimes great doesn't look so
great from close up." Matt glanced at his wife, took note of her
accumulated bosom, and appeared to decide that from close up some
things were better than great.

"I did a little research after I moved in, on
the internet."

Matt brightened. "You've got a laptop?"

"Alas..."

Matt shrugged. The urge to borrow subsided.
"I guess you saw all the stuff about them. The awards and all.
God's gift to the Tri-Cities and surrounding counties."

"You don't seem--"

"Oh, they were okay," said Tracy,
feeling left out. "But
just
okay. I mean, they were average. I mean, I liked Moria...even
a lot. We were even friends maybe even. Jerry was a little less
than okay. He was kind of gung-ho on the boys and all."

As well he should be, Ari thought, though
Tracy made it sound like a vice.

"How long did they live here?"

"Don't know. Not real long." Tracy tried to
apply some lines of thought to her brow. Ari, who tried not to
think about sex, would have liked to massage that brow, as well as
to the body attached to it. It must be like skating on hot ice. "A
few years. I think she said Joshua was already three or four when
they moved in. Little Bill was still in diapers. We came...when was
it, Matt?"

Less than three years ago, and she couldn't
remember the year she arrived. How much of the kayakers' 'product'
had she been ingesting?

"Back in..." Matt Mackenzie struggled with a
time frame that extended beyond a week. "Almost two years ago."

Ari noticed that the monotonous, rolling
squall of Howie Nottoway's lawn mower had stopped. Unless he walked
down to the end of Beach Court, he would not be able to see his new
neighbor exchanging pleasantries with the Mackenzies.

"That long, y'think?" Tracy spent a moment
delving into the murky past.

"Where did they live before?"

"Up in Caroline County, about thirty miles
from here. Jerry had a so-called studio barn for his stuff. He'd
paint a square and call it Country Tree Number One Thousand. Moria
couldn't take it."

"The art or living in the country?" said Ari,
thinking that if Jerry Riggins' art was so universally despised,
even by his own wife, how could he have managed all of those
one-man shows before he was killed? Putting on a gallery display
must involve some expense. Or was Jerry's merely the talent of a
renter?

"The country," Tracy said. "Especially in
winter. They had a wood stove. She hated that. A lot of smoke and
no heat, she said. Then she started her own business and they moved
to the city."

Tracy, still dazzled by Ari's job
description, saw the Riggins' past more clearly than her own. She
moved closer, and a part of Ari moved closer to her. He prayed
neither of them noticed, but Tracy seemed to have a trained eye for
such things and produced a knowing moue.

"Then you moved in and became friends with
her." Ari passed an expansive glance over the river. He noted the
primary colors of several kayaks headed for the rapids, the
double-edged paddles flying, as though the rowers were intent on
self-destruction. "You were very fortunate to get such a scenic
view."

"Lucky as hell--" Tracy began. Her words were
cut short by a sharp glance from her husband. She let go of her
jacket and her breasts sprang back to attention, as much sentinels
as enticements. "Yeah," she concluded lamely.

"The view from this house is also quite
scenic," Ari continued. "I understand Moria Riggins purchased it
with money she inherited."

"Not that it helped them in the end," said
Matt with genuine bitterness.

"Besides," Tracy said, still warmed by Ari's
Circus of the Sun, "There isn't any inheritance. Not yet. The
Massingtons are still alive. The parents, I mean. They co-signed on
the house, and one day Moria..." She hesitated. "One day she would
have inherited."

"Have you spoken with her parents since that
night?"

"The police brought them out to the house. I
heard Heather Massington—well, it was more than crying. She like
totally lost control. They haven't been back. They have a villa in
Tuscany. That's where they are now, I think."

"Tuscany," Matt aspirated lowly, as though
all the luck in the world had landed on that piece of Italian real
estate, without a trace of grief. Then he started. "The people you
bought the house from...they didn't tell you what had happened? You
didn't ask why it went so cheap?"

Ari assumed the mask of a man foolish beyond
reason. "I saw a very good deal. I only asked if flooding was a
problem. By the way, is flooding a problem here?"

"We haven't been here long enough to know,"
Matt answered. "I hear every few years the James gets a little
wild. We don't keep anything valuable in our basement."

"I'll bear that in mind. So there have been
no major floods recently?"

"Nope."

Tracy emptied out the distance between them
with a long step that flowed like warm honeyed tea and placed a
hand on Ari's arm. It was his turn to go a little squeamish. She
was using her left hand.

At this close range he learned what fueled
her 'come hither' aura. Part of it, at least. The smell of gin was
potent on her breath. Ari was tempted to look at his watch. She
must have started drinking...well, very early. It was still very
early.

Loyalty, Ari.
Loyalty
.

But it was an oath that was already violated.
A touch from Tracy was like a night in a bordello.

"You've been to Paris?" she breathed. "And
Rome? And..." Her grasp of foreign lands rapidly faded. "All those
other places?"

"We've been there," Matt said in a griping
tone.

"Where?" his wife asked, still gazing up at
Ari.

"All those places. You remember." He was
aggrieved that she should so soon forget all the great landmarks
he'd taken her to, but he used the opportunity to tell Ari that he
was a systems analyst. This sounded like a very vague profession to
Ari. There were social welfare systems, weapons systems, solar
systems...the list was infinite. He assumed it had something to do
with computers, and suspected Matt had told him this as proof he
could afford to take his wife to all those swell places and buy a
house on the river, to boot.

"It was Howie Nottoway who told me about what
happened here."

If Ari had forced them to drink sour milk he
would have expected a similar reaction. But which did they find
more distasteful: the murders, or Howie Nottoway?

Tracy began to draw back, then decided Ari's
arm was too nice and strong to abandon entirely and left her
fingers draped over his sleeve. Ari had had no personal experience
with inebriated women and found it difficult to distinguish between
the woman who was loose and the woman who was tight. Smiling at
Tracy, he decided there was little to choose between them. Which
was entirely too bad. He had a great thirst.