Final Winter

Henry had nodded in quiet excitement, thinking that he was being told something important, something no doubt to repay him for the small favors he had done over the years.

Yes, I understand the importance, Henry had said. You can always rely on me.

The Sudanese had smiled, his big teeth white and even. ‘We have relied on you for many things, my brother. So listen, and listen well. It’s true, is it not, that you have family in the United States?’

My wife does, Henry had said cautiously, not sure where the Sudanese was going with his questioning.

‘We thought so.’

And Henry had thought that he did not recall ever, in prison, telling the Sudanese any details about his wife’s family. The thought made him swallow hard. What was the Sudanese driving at?

Henry had told the Sudanese, Yes, my wife has a sister who lives in Detroit. Near Dearborn.

Jack nodded in understanding. ‘Very good. So I tell you this, brother. Do not travel to the United States anytime in the next few months. Do you hear me?’

A little shiver of something had made its way to his chest at the words the Sudanese had said. Truly? he had asked.

‘Truly.’ The Sudanese had nodded emphatically. ‘And that is all I will say about that.’

So that had been it. And now Henry was here, in the basement, fulfilling the latest request from the tall African. He remembered that chill, that—

Footsteps.

Coming down the stairs.

Working quickly, he worked a series of keys until the screen he had been working on was replaced with another. The sacred words of the Prophet.

He looked up. His wife Mariah was now there, plump and smiling hesitantly, black headscarf over her hair.

‘Yes?’ he asked.

‘Sorry to disturb you, husband. It’s just that… well, I have wonderful news.’

‘You do?’

Her hands were clasping an envelope with American stamps on it. She said, ‘It’s from Azannah. Her husband’s car dealership has had a wonderful spring. She wants to fly me and the girls to see her next month, and I—’

‘No.’

Mariah stopped, looked at him, and lowered her voice. ‘Henry, please, it’s been so long since I’ve seen my sister and my nephews and—’

He shook his head. ‘No. I will not allow it.’

‘But Henry, it’s—’

Another shake of his head. ‘The discussion is finished. You and the girls are not to travel to the United States. Ever. Understood?’

Her face colored and she nodded. ‘Understood.’

Mariah turned and went back up the stairs, her footsteps heavier this time, and Henry sighed as he resumed his work. No doubt there would be a week of cold meals and even colder words, but it had to be done. Others would have laughed off what Jack had told him, but not Henry. Not since that day in the prison shower when that tattooed tor-mentor of his had started bellowing like a bull, his hands clasped at his bleeding crotch. If Jack said something was going to happen, then Henry was going to believe it.

There. Finished. He shut down the computer and ejected the diskette, slipped it into a padded envelope. His work for now was done and he recalled that feeling he had experienced, that little shiver when Jack told him not to travel to the United States, that hated place, that cesspool of infidels…

The first time he noticed it, he had wondered: what was causing that shiver? And, of course, he had remembered that wonderful day, that September when he had watched with smiles and outright laughter those twin towers of Babylon burning and crumpling to the ground. The shiver was one of happiness, excitement, at seeing hammer blows struck against the unholy, and at the knowledge that somehow, with his work with Jack, he was helping to strike another hammer blow.

How wonderful.

Yet… Mariah’s sister and family. Could there not be a way of warning them?

Henry stood up, thinking. A puzzle, a quandary, that he would have to think and pray over for the rest of the day.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Brian Doyle was now fully awake, the little fog of exhaustion that had clouded his thinking having been dispersed with that one shocking word: anthrax. He recalled the mailings, right after 9/11, and how it had seemed as though a reeling country was coming in for another blow, with newspeople taking Cipro and postal workers wearing rubber gloves and face masks. After a while, the panic had ebbed away — what the hell else could you do? — but now the boogeyman was back.

He said, ‘Anthrax. All right. What else do you have?’

Adrianna said, ‘Observe the screen, please.’