The Prisoner's Wife (15 page)

“Not that I heard. Of course, you know, wives are the ones who do not hear.”

Squirrel Man knocked on a French window. He was trampling tender plants, standing in a flower bed Henry Thackeray had planted with Japanese anemones. When Shawn opened the window, the room filled with the scents of freesia and jasmine.

“Got three, Mr. Maguire,” said Squirrel Man. “Little bastards.”

Two squirrels crouched on the floor of their cage; a third stood on its hind legs, gnawing with rodent teeth at the imprisoning mesh.

On the chaise longue, Ash pushed herself upright. “Let them loose.”

“Can't, ma'am,” Squirrel Man told her. “Against the law.”

“What law?”

“Tree rats,” said Squirrel Man, changing tack. “Rats with tails, that's all they are.”

“All rats have tails.”

“Furry's what I mean,” said Squirrel Man. “Furry tails. Let 'em go, little scamps, next thing, they be back up your roof space, chewing insulation off your wires. Dry's tinder up there, Mr. Maguire. Two bare wires, one spark, whooff, that's your house gone. Up in smoke.” He offered Shawn the laptop case he was carrying. “You must've left it in the roof. Don't know what you was doing. Not a lot up there. Wires and pipes.” He blew on the case. “No dust, hardly.”

Shawn had never been in his roof space. He considered the little case, the name
DELL
imprinted on it. He started to open it; stopped as it grew suddenly warm. He paused a moment, then, moving swiftly, went through the open window, pushing past the startled Squirrel Man.

The rodent hunter turned to watch his employer race across the croquet lawn.

Ash reached out to pour herself another drink. Drops spilled on the cream chaise longue. “Full of surprises, our host,” she remarked to Danielle. “Who knew he could move so fast?”

Danielle, too, was watching Shawn. “Or why.”

On the far side of the croquet green, Shawn spun the satchel like a discus into a dense grove of laurels. He was already running backward as the bushes turned to skeletal shapes limned against a white and blinding sheet of fire.

In moments, the laurels were blackened sticks. Something sharp and acrid mingled with the smell of wood smoke.

“Oh my God,” Ash said, entranced.

Leaving his cage and captives on the lawn, Squirrel Man ran for his van, arms arched over his head as if to protect himself from falling debris.

Shawn walked slowly backward toward his drawing room's open window.

“Jesus, Shawn,” Ash said, “that thing was in your roof space? White phosphorus? Someone doesn't wish you well. Should we get out of the house?”

“I doubt there's anything else,” Shawn said. He nodded at the smoking hedge. “That would have been enough.”

“In the right place, no question,” Ash said. “All the same.” She stepped cautiously into the garden, opening the squirrel cage. “I feel better outside.” She looked toward the roof. “Timer set. House burns. Electrical fire. Dodgy wiring. Squirrel damage. No questions; case closed. Smart stuff. Do we know who might want you dead?”

“Well,” Shawn said, “assassination's a bit like Dani's theory on wives and affairs. The person most concerned is the last to know.”

Danielle was still in the drawing room, at the window, listening. “May never know.”

“Unless what you said in Paris is right,” Shawn told her. “Death is where the pain starts.”

They stood in silence awhile as the hedge burned down. Smoke drifted toward the Grange.

Ashley asked, “You have any visitors? People alone in the house? Anyone I'd know?”

“Calvin McCord,” Shawn said. “Plus a sidekick. Pakistani. Hassan Someone.”

“Well, well,” Ash said. “Those boys.”

“It could have been me,” Danielle said. “I have been alone in the house.”

“Sure, sweetheart,” said Ashley. “You look like an arsonist. What would be your motive?” She nodded at Shawn. “You need this guy. Why would you burn his house?” To Shawn she said, “Will you follow up on Calvin and Hassan?”

“Tell the local cops?” Shawn asked. “Constable, I have no evidence, but I believe two intel agents tried to incinerate my house. Call D.C., will you? Ask them to extradite.”

“Mmm,” Ashley said. “Problem.” She turned to Danielle, who was watching the fire burn out. “If I was starting, looking for your man, I'd try Fes.”

“Morocco?”

“We have a jail,” Ashley said. “Shared establishment—near Temara. Good start.”

Danielle watched her. “If you have many jails, why this?”

Still considering the scorched laurels, Ash sipped the last of her drink. “Public knowledge,” she said. “We pay people in Morocco. Lot of Gulfstreams go there. If your guy's a frequent flyer, that's his first stop.”

“Fes?”

“Fes or Rabat. Temara. If you like, I'll check the file.”

Which, Shawn thought, you've already done.

Where the hedge had been, there was only white powder.

Though it was still warm, Danielle shivered, thin arms wrapped around her body. “For an immigration person,” she said, “you know a lot about rendition.”

The breeze shifted, blowing sour smoke back toward them.

“Ah, well,” Ashley said, “rendition. It's an area of interest. We all have things we're curious about. This happens to be one of mine.” She touched Shawn's cheek. “As for you—from what I hear, my love, you should take care where you travel.”

“Even in Morocco?”

“Especially in Morocco.”

 

17

FES, MOROCCO, 26 MAY 2004

In a twin-bedded room of the Riad El Medina Hotel, Danielle Baptiste stood at an uncurtained floor-to-ceiling window, considering peopled streets in the old-town quarter of Fes. It brought back memories of childhood. Level rays of early sun warmed her. Closing her eyes, she unbuttoned her jacket. From a minaret somewhere, a muezzin called. On a mahogany chest of drawers, she'd put a monochrome photo of her husband, Darius. In the photo, the man's eyes were not on the photographer but fixed on some point, some distant point, beyond him. Though Darius was young, that detached gaze reminded Shawn of a suspect he'd once interrogated: an old man; a man who at least seemed old. With Arabs, he'd found, it's hard to guess at age.

That man—the prisoner—saw some person who was not, in truth, within the room; a being who was, perhaps, dead. Shawn never discovered who it was, or what it was, that the man saw. Until the day of his death, under extreme interrogation, the suspect refused to confess, or even speak. For all the interrogators knew, he might have been deaf, mute, or simply stubborn. It was hard to tell.

Without turning, Danielle said, “We're sleeping in the same room?”

Shawn unpacked a black leather bag, which was all he carried these days, going abroad. “We're doing a lot of traveling, looking for your husband.”

She turned from the window then. “Tell me. You think that's a waste of money?”

“If I thought it was a waste of money, I wouldn't do it.”

Ayub Abbasi's money had settled some of his debts. Not, by any means, all.

“What I know,” Shawn said, “these days, I don't have a paycheck. I may never work. There's a limit, what I can afford.”

He wanted to share this room. No reason she should know that.

“I have money.”

“Okay,” Shawn said, “okay, rich girl. You have money. Go buy yourself another room. What do you think I'm going to do in here? Rape you?”

She knelt down then, trying to make the air conditioner work. A slow-moving ceiling fan stirred the room's torpid air without cooling it. She pulled off a sweater, making her shirt ride up. Her tan was fading. She rolled her sleeves. As a child, she'd loved this warmth.

“It's happened before.”

It took him moments to work out what she meant.

“Rape?”

“Rape.”

“Come on,” he said. “That was some asshole from Atlanta. I'm a sweet old guy from Alabama. I don't do that stuff.”

Somewhere in this town, Shawn had found a half pint of good whisky. He checked the time. He filled a tooth glass he'd taken from the bathroom.

“I don't know what you do with women.” Danielle pushed windows wider. “I'm curious.”

“Ask me,” he said. “I'll tell you the truth.”

She laughed and then was quiet, fanning herself with a travel magazine. She could feel her temperature rising. Across the room, he folded clothes, squaring them up, retying the laces, stacking them in the only closet.

He was neat, she noticed. More than neat. Military, maybe.

“All right,” she said. “We have time. Tell me how it started. First sex. First time in love.”

“Why would you want to know?” He thought for some moments, deciding what to say; deciding how honest to be. “Okay. First sex—a kid called Ann-Mistique, if you believe that. Ann-Mistique Proffitt. She was fifteen.”

“Even in Alabama,” Danielle said, “must have been—”

“Under age? Sure. Long story. Sheriff involved.” He thought awhile. “Then there was Venetia. Actress. After that, I married a stoner called Lala. I know. I know. Both mistakes. I thought, hell, that's it. I'm through with marriage.”

“What happened?”

“Meeting Martha, meeting her again, that's what happened.”

“The one who died?”

“Uh-huh.” He looked across the room. “Are you okay?”

“Mmm. Not sure. I'm hot. Tell me about Martha.”

“Jesus,” he said, thinking back, “where to start? She was smarter than me. I didn't know girls could be that smart. First date was after church. Church of Christ Betrayed, in Turkey Forge. Back then I used to dream about her—teen dreams. I'd buy her a ring, we'd marry, find a house, have kids, settle down.”

“You were how old?”

“Don't mock. I was nineteen. It's what people did, those days. Least, they did where I come from. Get married in church, buy a tract house, few hundred dollars down. Beds from the bed store. Move in, have kids. That's your life.”

She was sitting now, knees up under her chin. It took him back to the day he'd met her, in a Paris apartment.

“But,” she said.

“Yeah. But. Martha wasn't singing from the same sheet. Leaves Alabama—lights out for L.A. Broke my heart. She wrote a script, thought she could make a movie.”

Danielle put a hand over her mouth.

“Laugh,” he said. “Sure. We all did. Then it happened. Someone, some guy in that crazy business, he picked up her script. Blind luck.”

“Maybe it was a good script.”

“You still need luck.”

“The movie was made?”

“It was. We all—me and my buddies—whole big gang—we all hit the theater. This is Turkey Forge. There it was, up on-screen: ‘Script by Martha Semel.' I thought, damn, this isn't right. She's supposed to be back here, marrying me, having kids, not making movies in Hollywood.” He paused for a moment. “Maybe would have made me straighten up and fly right.”

Danielle was lying back now, listening, her face shiny with sweat. “She never came back?”

Shawn shook his head. “You're in Hollywood, why would you?” He stopped talking, watching her, then leaned across and touched her forehead.

“You sure you're okay? You're hot.”

She said, “I'm catching something. I felt it on the plane. Not serious.” She watched him, her eyes a deeper green in this light. 'You were telling me—what came next?”

“What came next? I told you—fell out with my daddy. Started drinking straights. Bad habit, so I found. Drove up to D.C., signed with the marines. That's when I married Lala. Great ass, meanest temper.”

“Ohh,” she said, “of course, not you? You were never wrong?”

“Don't start,” he said. “You sound like her.” Then he said, “No, take it back. Wasn't Lala so much, it was me. We couldn't ever agree what to do with Juanita.”

“Juanita was your daughter?”

“Still is,” Shawn said. “Except I never see her.”

*   *   *

Thinking back, it's easy to see what went astray. Juanita was Shawn's darling. He raised her like a boy: taught her to hunt deer and dive for fish. Then other things took over his life: money, women, work, whisky. One day, around her fourteenth birthday, Juanita stopped speaking. She continued with her daily routine as if nothing had happened. Shower, dress, cornflakes, fruit, milk, take books, pack bag, walk to school down the block. She just didn't talk. As far as Shawn could make out, Juanita did her schoolwork, neatly, precisely, without speaking to anyone. Lala said to leave her be: Kid'll grow out of it, she said. Whatever it was. Shawn couldn't do that. The longer Juanita kept silent, the more he felt he'd failed. He cracked jokes, played tricks, drew cartoons, bought gifts Juanita didn't want. He blamed Lala for what was happening. Lala fought back, refusing blame. She fought in other ways, refusing sex. Shawn felt bad about his wife, worse about his daughter.

He would have done anything for Juanita. In the end, there was nothing he could do.

“Except,” Shawn said, “it got worse. I split up with Lala.”

“What happened with Juanita?

“She blamed us both. Me more.” While Shawn spoke he was considering Danielle. Her eyes were unnaturally bright now: She glowed with inner heat. “You are catching something. Running a temperature. Get in bed.”

“Okay,” she said. “I think that's right.”

She headed for the bathroom. He took a swallow of whisky and went back to unpacking.

“So,” he said, raising his voice, “that was the first time I fell in love. That was the wife I missed back then. Martha. Took me twenty-some years to put it right. Find her, marry her. You wonder, don't you, how something like that might have changed your life. If you'd gotten the timing right.”