The Firstborn (26 page)
“Do you know what you’ve done?”
“He’s dying.”
“He was going to die anyway. But now there’s a terrorist on the loose.”
“We’re working on that right now.”
“He has to be killed. We have to send a message to these terrorist thugs. We’re not afraid.”
Devin’s jaw set. “Knock it off, Blake. This is serious.”
“Find him—and bring him to us.”
“No,” Devin declared flatly. “How’s that for an answer?”
“Pithy, but no good.”
“When we find this guy, we’re going to turn him over to the proper authorities.”
“On what charge? Criminal intent? What evidence do you have? A vision from God? He’ll go free—you know that. No one is safe until he’s dead.”
Devin slid through the crowd, making his way to the nearest subway train. “Still, I have no reason to hand him over to you.”
“Really?”
“Listen to me—” The line went dead. “Blake?”
Devin growled to himself and stepped onto the train as his phone buzzed again. He snapped it open:
New Picture Mail
.
Devin pressed the button and glared—
His heart beat fast, his hands clenched, his teeth ground, and his face burned.
There, on his phone, was the image of Morris Childs, bound and gagged, huddled in the corner of a basement.
The phone buzzed in his hand. He answered it.
“What do you want?”
“Give me the terrorist, and you can have Morris. It’s that simple.”
“You’re the one who kidnapped him,” Devin hissed quietly into the phone, trying not to attract attention to himself.
“It’s more complicated than that—but he is in our custody.”
Devin breathed in, calming himself, considering his next words carefully. “I’m going to find you, Blake. Do you understand?”
“You have twenty-four hours to see things my way,” Blake replied.
Devin clenched the phone. “In twenty-four hours you are going to be very sorry,” he snarled. “Consider yourself threatened.”
He punched the button and ended the call.
T
HE COFFEE CUP
was hot in Hannah’s hand, even through the cardboard sleeve.
They’d ordered their drinks. Tariq had paid for both of them, dropping ten dollars in the barista’s tip jar, and then asked her if she wanted to go for a walk. She followed. The business district melted away quickly, giving way to drab gray apartments.
“Tell me about yourself, Hannah,” he invited warmly.
She shrugged. “What do you want to know?”
“Where are you from?”
“I was born and raised in Colorado,” she said, wondering if she was giving away too much information to a man who was a potential terrorist. “I went to college in Missouri.”
“Kansas City?”
She nodded.
“What did you study?”
She shrugged. “I never decided. I guess I never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.”
“You weren’t looking to the future?”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “I just wanted things to go back to the way they were when I was younger.”
There was an awkward silence.
She’d shared too much. She’d embarrassed him. Now he was going to think that she was pathetic and desperate and childish. She panicked, looking for something to say that would sound interesting and exciting.
“Are you enjoying your coffee?” he asked, saving her the trouble of coming up with the next line.
“I’m afraid I enjoy it a little too much sometimes.”
“No,” he said, laughing, giving her a playful shove. “There’s no such thing as enjoying coffee too much.”
“I do.”
“That’s silly.”
She took a sip of her latte. “What about you? Where are you from?”
Tariq took a drink. “I was born in Philadelphia.”
“Philadelphia? But your accent—?”
“Do I still have it?”
She shrugged. “A little.”
“My father studied medicine in the United States, that’s when I was born, but then he went back home to Palestine to work as a surgeon in Gaza.”
“And you moved with him?”
“Yes—of course.”
“How did you get back to the United States?”
“When I was twelve—” Tariq stopped. He took a drink. “After my father passed away, we moved back to the States.”
“Philadelphia?”
“San Diego. I moved to Lebanon for college, so I spent three years there. That’s when I picked up the accent again.”
“What did you study?”
“Oral surgery.”
“Really?” she asked, excitedly. “That must be so fascinating.”
He nodded. “That was what my father wanted me to do, so that’s what I pursued.”
“Are you finishing your studies here?”
He shrugged. “I’m not actually in school right now. I took some time off to do some other things.”
“Like what?”
“Just stuff.”
“No,” she said, trying to prod him conversationally. “What have you been working on?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s—” He shrugged. “People don’t understand.”
Her heart skipped—he was building explosives, she knew it.
“What have you been doing, Tariq?” her tone was suddenly flat.
He smiled and scratched the back of his head. “I like painting.”
She considered. “Like houses?”
“No,” he laughed, “paintings—like art.”
“Of what?”
He shrugged again. “Everything—landscapes, still life, people—whatever inspires me.”
“What inspires you?”
Tariq stopped, nearly shrinking away, face getting rosy. “Beauty,” he said with a definitive nod. “Beauty inspires me.” His eyes looked at the ground, then moved up again, meeting Hannah’s. He reached out, touching a lock of her hair. “People like you inspire me.”
Hannah’s heart thumped in her chest. She laughed nervously.
“I’m sorry, that was cheesy. You’re laughing at me.”
She placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “No, I’m just not used to people saying things like that.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“You should be used to it,” he said with a nod, “because it’s true.”
Hannah smiled to herself. This man couldn’t be a terrorist. He was young and passionate and full of life—surely he wasn’t the one they were looking for. She had to have made some kind of mistake.
“Would you like to see my paintings?” he asked warmly. “My apartment is just around the corner.”
Maybe he was the man she was looking for. She didn’t know what that meant to her just yet, but she felt that something had culminated here.
She smiled.
“Sure.”
“Come on, God!” John shouted at the windshield as he pressed on the gas pedal. “I need something, anything. Show me what she’s up to!”
He was speeding—nearly fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit.
“Yes!” he shouted, suddenly convicted about his speed. “I know I’m driving too fast, but this is a desperate situation—just look past that for the moment and help me out!”
Ahead there was a stoplight—green.
He could feel her—nearby, but not certain where.
The light changed—yellow.
“No, no, no, no!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, careening toward the light—he wasn’t going to make it.
“I believe in You, Jesus!”
Still yellow—almost there.
“I believe in Jesus, I believe in Jesus!” He shouted his mantra over and over again, pressing hard on the gas.
The car accelerated—blasting through the intersection.
The light changed overhead.
“I believe in Jesus!” he shouted triumphantly, hoping that Devin hadn’t been given a vision of that.
“This is my place,” Tariq said as they walked in the door.
Hannah looked around. The apartment was starkly furnished with tarps laid across the floor and furniture. In front of a tall row of windows she saw an easel, a white cloth thrown over it.
“May I?” she asked, approaching the easel, pointing at the cloth.
“No, no. Not that one; it’s not finished yet.”
“Just a peek?” she asked with a giggle.
“I don’t—”
She moved the cloth back and looked at the painting.
Hannah gasped. It was a painting of a woman with a shawl over her head. “She’s beautiful. Who is she?”
“It’s my mother,” he said, reaching for a photograph set at the base of the canvas, “when she was twenty. I’ve been working off of this photograph.”
“She’s very beautiful.”
“Thank you,” he said with a nod. “You’re right—she is very beautiful. I’m painting it for her.”
“You’re going to give it to her?”
He nodded. “Yes. A gift. To show her how much I love her.” Hannah looked over the soft face, painted in loving detail. She’d made a mistake. This man was no terrorist; he was a loving son. “That’s so sweet.” She placed a hand on his arm. “She’s very lucky to have you as a son.”
“Thank you.”
She turned, looking around, and saw more paintings. Beautiful greens covered the canvases with words written in Arabic. The faces of children. Shattered houses. Burning buildings. Weeping mothers. Hannah touched one of them.
“These are so sad.”
“There’s a lot of sadness in Palestine.”
“Why?” Hannah said, looking over the pained images. “Why is there so much sadness?”
“Because Israel is a country of criminals and murderers. They oppress the Palestinians. They bulldoze our homes, kill our children and our fathers.”
“Why would they do that?”
“They kill young Palestinian boys so that they won’t grow up to become Palestinian men.”
Hannah shook her head. She was a Christian—she knew about Israel and the Jews, God’s chosen people. “That’s not true.”
“In 1982 the Israeli government helped Christian militants massacre over three thousand Palestinians. A butchery that lasted nearly two full days. They even provided flares at night so the slaughter could continue. The Israelis knew that men, women, and children were being massacred, but they did nothing to stop it, and even sent fleeing civilians back to be killed.”
Hannah shook her head. “Those must have been criminals. They were punished, I’m sure.”
“No,” Tariq said, shaking his head, “it was at the order of the government to let it all happen. Ariel Sharon was even tried for crimes against humanity—and found not guilty. So they keep on killing our sons.”
“That’s horrible. It can’t be true.”
“The Sabra and Chatila massacre. Look it up if you doubt me. It’s a disgrace to humanity and the freedom of Palestine.”
“Did you—” She stopped. “Have you lost anyone?”
He nodded again, pointing to a painting of a little boy. “This was my brother Abdoo. He was shot in the streets of Rafah. Martyred. He was carrying a white flag, but they shot him in cold blood. And this,” he said, pointing to another painting of a young man, “was my older brother Kamal. He wanted to end the oppression and the genocide, so he fought the Israelis. He was captured and executed.”
Hannah’s eyes began to well.
“That’s terrible.”
“After they killed my brother, they came to our home. We were eating dinner. The Israeli police took all the men outside—my eldest brother, Djamal, my uncles, and my father. They were placed against a wall and shot.”
Tariq looked at the floor, then looked up again. He saw her face and his expression changed to sympathy. “I’m sorry, I’m making you uncomfortable—let’s change the subject.”