he might be linked to another killing a few months ago far away from here.”
“What other killing? Where?” Forensia asked quickly.
“I can’t tell you that. It’s under investigation. But don’t make yourself a target. That’s what I’m saying.”
Forensia nodded.
“We have a church service in about half an hour,” Sheriff Walker said, “so we have to get going, but please, everybody, please be careful.”
Forensia watched him gather up his family, turn on a flashlight, and leave. She looked at Sang-mi, took her hand, and glanced around for Richtor. Hard to see in the dark, but she guessed he must have left. Richtor disliked police on principle, and she figured he’d scooted away earlier to avoid Sheriff Walker. She and Sang-mi headed back.
“I can tell you now,” the Korean witch said softly.
“Not a good idea,” Forensia replied. People were crowding close as they funneled onto the trail. Familiar faces appeared in the light of candles and headlamps, but not many whom Forensia knew well. She wondered if any of the younger guys had been here with Jason two nights earlier, urging him on. Maybe they would report back to him now, or maybe Jason had been skulking somewhere near the back of the crowd. “When we get home,” she said to Sang-mi, “we can talk.”
* * *
The more she talked, the more he loathed her. Before, he’d noticed her tits and those awful witch tattoos, but he could have lived with that. She could have lived with that. But every word told him that he can’t live with her. Even when she stopped speaking, his ears were stuffed with her nonsense.
Look at them, crawling back to their holes like they’re filled with “inspiration.” That tall one, she could talk the stink out of a skunk. She talks too damn much for her own damn good.
He knows they live together, her and the Korean. Not many secrets in a town this size. He wonders what they do to each other, the sex they get up to once they lock up. As if that could keep him out.
If there’s one thing he knows, it’s how to go through a door.
CHAPTER 13
Adnan and the other jihadists slept in the fisherman’s house in Malé. Maybe their last night on Earth. Paradise beckoned.
The fisherman told his wife to feed them breakfast. The attractive, dark-haired woman never smiled, and seemed nervous, as she had when he returned early from his trip—even before she’d seen the heavily armed men. She certainly never questioned that he’d brought home no fish.
Her name remained unspoken until they started packing their weapons into the trunk of an old Renault, whose backseat had been ripped out to make room for rifles, ammunition belts, and the RPG with the rockets shaped like minarets.
The fisherman told his wife sharply, “You will stay and speak to no one, Senada.”
As he turned to leave, a cell phone rang, filling the immediate silence with a silly pop tune from the West, where godless men made videos of their wives having naked sex with strangers and showed them on the Internet.
Everyone stared at everyone else. None of the jihadists carried a phone, not on a mission where electronic records could destroy many others joined in the holy war against infidels. The fisherman’s cell was in his pocket, silent. He looked down, shaking his head.
The ring tone played over and over: “I love you baby, in every way. I love you baby, let’s go play…”
The fisherman followed the trail of pop love to a shelf above the single-burner stove.
“I love you baby, in every way…”
He smacked aside three brightly painted tin canisters, revealing the device. They crashed to the floor, spilling salt, sugar, flour. A silty fog whitened the fisherman’s feet as he grabbed the pretty purple cell phone. He shook it in rage and reared back to throw it at the wall where it had nestled and sung. A hollow-cheeked jihadist pulled the phone from the fisherman’s hand. Flipped it open. Handed it back to him.
The fisherman put it to his ear and shouted, “Who is this?” turning his furious gaze on his wife. His enraged voice drew no response.
Senada backed into the arms of one of the strangers. Her husband rushed over, shouting, “Who was that? Who?” When she shouted back, “I don’t know,” he punched her in the stomach. She doubled over, spittle hanging from her lips. He grabbed her long black hair, yanked up her head, and waved the phone in her face, demanding, “Who gave you