“The winter’s hard.” She knelt and put her arms around me. In the fire’s heat, she was already dry, just a faint humidity where the top of her chest pressed into my ribs. I ran my fingers through her hair to soothe her. It felt like frayed wet rope.
Later, as she slept, I lay restless, panic rising in me each time I stopped thinking about the story. Reporters were trained to offer bright glimpses into a situation, but more often than not their pithy lines reduced it. I was no longer envisioning an article in an American magazine. Such an investigation would end where I wanted to begin. I would write a novel instead.
That night, I dreamed that I picked the hand up from the street and walked through a field of skulls knowing I would recognize Alexandra from the beauty of her bones. I dreamed that she spoke to me, fire inside her mouth, a perfect sun behind her teeth. I awoke, haunted by my memories of the car, the indiscernible mass of burning plastic and humans cremated in full consciousness.
The next morning, after Tam left, I examined the card Frank had given me. Calling would cast me into the story I’d been imagining. I would no longer be a bystander. I chose the handwritten number on the back.
I recognized Steve’s voice instantly. I’d considered various introductions. If I told him I was a journalist and knew about Clay’s disappearance, it would give me a sense of authority, but it might also carry a threat for him and danger for me.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m sorry to bother you. I was a friend of Alexandra.” I paused to see if he’d make a sound of recognition, but he didn’t. “She was involved with Clay. I’ve tried to call him, but his phone has been off. I was wondering if you would be willing to put me in touch.”
“Where did you get my number?”
“From Frank,” I said, since there was no other plausible explanation. “I was there during the attack, at your place.”
“Well, damn,” he said. “That was quite the party. Which one were you?”
“Michiko. I don’t believe we met.”
“Yeah. I remember. You were with the pretty redhead. Why don’t you come over?”
“When would be good for you?”
“Now,” he said, and hung up.
An hour later, when the taxi let me off outside a new gate and freshly plastered walls, I asked the driver to wait. The guard opened the door to a courtyard containing a 4Runner without evidence of bullet holes. My heart sped up, my pulse throbbing in my throat.
Steve had lost the radiance of that night. His pallor and fatigued blotches — his overly white teeth, blond hair, yellow and gray stubble, and the meaty redness around his neck — gave him a motley look. He led me on a tour. Many of the rooms lacked furniture, and traces of the firefight remained only on a small area of wall where bullet holes were patterned like a star, clustered in the center, diffuse at the edges.
“Jackson Pollock couldn’t have done it better,” he said as I followed him into the safe room. We sat across from each other, on the couches where everyone had huddled, the trunk of guns between us. I’d expected a smell of sweat or at least a residue of smoke. A flat screen showed the security feeds.
“I wish I could tell you something,” he said. “Clay’s a guy I hired who didn’t come to work one day. We sent someone over to his house. There were no clues. He owned nothing. He was a true mercenary.”
“Did he ever say anything that might help explain what happened to Justin and Alexandra?”
Steve had his blue eyes on me. They were unexceptional, a little bloodshot, something faded in them, like scuffed glass. His was the gaze of a soldier exhausted from hypervigilance, scouring a landscape he could never master.
He cleared his throat. “Frank told you about the video feed, right?”
“He mentioned that you thought Clay might have died in the car bomb.”
“That old meddler,” he said and rubbed his knuckles against his chin in a simian motion, scratching his stubble. “Clay’s dead. I wish I could tell you more. He’s gone — maybe kidnapped, but I doubt it. I’d call this one dead. He was probably just in the wrong place when the Taliban went after his friends.”
Still not swayed by the Taliban story, I asked, “So what about Idris?”
“Well, there’s the mystery. Someone walked away. I’d place my bet on Idris having been radicalized.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
“A little,” he said. “During the attack, Idris was here — under the bed in my room, hiding.”
“Why wasn’t he in the safe room?”
“That’s the question. Maybe he got scared, or he was digging around, robbing me, or he planned the whole thing. Clay and Justin vouched for him. Two days later they were all gone.”
Steve walked me back out, through the gate, his hands in his pockets.
“I’ve decided to take that wall with me,” he said. “I read it’s sometimes done in Italy with ancient frescoes. I’m going home. I’ll ship it out when I leave.”
“Where’s home?”
He sighed. “I don’t quite know yet.”
At the taxi, I thanked him for talking to me.
“Would you like to have dinner?” he asked.
“I have a flight tomorrow.”
He shrugged and opened the taxi door for me.
“One more thing,” he said.
I was halfway seated and twisted my neck to look up.
“Tell Frank to keep his mouth shut.”
JUSTIN
FRIDAY HAD BEEN quiet. Justin’s voice was still hoarse, but slightly better. That evening, he opened his notepad and entered the number in his cell, under Clay Hervey, making himself feel as if they’d seen each other recently. Then he went to the office to talk to Frank.
Frank turned from his laptop, swiveling in his chair. He threw one meager leg over the other, leaned back, pulled off his glasses, and picked up a tumbler of auburn liquid.
Come on in. You’ve caught me enjoying my Friday bourbon. My guts can’t take it, but a man needs a holiday even if it hurts.
I wanted to talk to you about Idris. He told me he’s worried he won’t get a scholarship.
You pick one kid, Frank said, and it’s favoritism. Then the others want to know why you didn’t choose them.
But you pick kids all the time.
They pick themselves. I just do the paperwork.
What do you have against Idris?
Nothing, aside from his arrogance. He’s not ready.
When will he be ready?
When he does the work without acting like he’s owed something.
You’re being unfair.
Nonsense. Idris has work to do before we can discuss scholarships. Our school is for those who help themselves. That’s our motto. Leaders don’t go asking for handouts. They fight their way to the top. And — let me finish here, save your voice — I’ve seen boys like Idris a hundred times. You get a thick skin. When I first came here nine years ago —
I was reading online, Justin interrupted, about funding for schools through the US and Afghan governments. If we set up a certificate program, we can apply and —
And this place will be just another school churning out kids who are going through the motions. I set out to build something different. I’m not going to throw