Controlling Interest (9 page)

The ironic thing was the biggest train wreck of his life had occurred after his decision to follow Christ — or, more precisely, because of it. If he'd kept George Field's crimes to himself, he wouldn't be in this fix.

A buried memory of one of his father's favorite sermon topics surfaced.
Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.
So far the truth had brought a hurricane of problems.

And Little Miss Trouble wanted to know about his history.

“I've never been arrested, if that's what you mean,” he said with a sidelong look. “I haven't done anything worse than most guys my age.”

“Well, there's a ringing endorsement.” She rolled her eyes. “I'm trying to figure out exactly what I've gotten myself into.”

“You should've thought of that before you weaseled your way into my agency.”

She caught her breath, and he immediately regretted his response. Talk about kicking kittens.

“Look, Natalie, my life is what it is. I haven't been a perfect Christian guy all my life. I could rake myself over the coals for all the mistakes I've made, or I can keep going and try to live the rest of my life for a better purpose. Right? Isn't that all anybody can do?” He made a face. “Look at the bright side. If Big Dean hadn't uh . . . accosted me, we might not've asked him about Yasmine.”

Her lips curved. “Yeah, but next time I might not be there to run interference. I thought the guy was going to go after you again. And he's twice as big as you!”

“Size isn't everything.” He looked at her sideways. “My frat brothers used to call me Houdini.”

“Somehow that doesn't surprise me.” Natalie sighed. “Just promise you'll warn me next time we head into one of your old haunts.”

At six o'clock Yasmine slumped on a bench in W. C. Handy Park, contemplating the big gray statue. She'd just walked all around the park, reading every plaque. Mr. Handy, it seemed, was quite a famous composer and trumpet player — though she'd never heard of him before today. Maybe the great blues musician's example of courage and creativity would inspire her to do the brave, perhaps foolhardy, thing she was contemplating.

All day she had wandered the streets of downtown Memphis, trying to summon the nerve to approach Rafiqah Akbar. Her boarding school chum's last letter had relayed her excitement at being chosen as a pre-doctoral intern at the University of Memphis Psychological Testing Center. The PTC was only a few blocks away from here.

Surely Rafiqah, an unmarried young professional, would sympathize with Yasmine and abet her flight. How many nights had they stayed up past curfew, giggling over movie stars?

Still . . . Rafiqah was traditional in her faith and family loyalties. She might advise Yasmine to return to her fiancé. What if she called Ammi and Abbi and gave her away? Was it worth the risk? If her parents made her return, she could not tell them why she had fled. The things she had learned about Jarrar after Zach's last letter iced her veins.

Shivering, she watched a couple of pigeons squabbling over a piece of waxed paper with a streak of mustard down the middle. Her mouth watered. Watching people walk by with those big, soft, yeasty-smelling pretzels had been exquisite torture. But until she found Rafiqah, she must be careful with her American money.

Unzipping her backpack, she extracted her leather coin purse and peered inside it. She still had the credit card and a few hundred rupees, plus about ten American dollars.
Why
hadn't she thought to exchange more in customs? Now it was too late. Banks were closed for the day, even if she'd known where to find one with a foreign exchange department. And tomorrow started the weekend. Clearly her gifts lay in languages, not planning.

Grunting in frustration, she replaced the purse and heard the soft papery crackle at the bottom of the backpack. She withdrew a sheet of hotel stationery, worn at the creases from being folded and unfolded, over and over, and scanned the bold masculine print.

Sweetheart,

I'm writing so you'll always know how beautiful you are to me — inside and out. You've changed me so that I'll never be the same. I understand why you had to say no, but you have to know that I don't leave you easily.
My job is taking me away from you, and I guess that's for the best. Otherwise I couldn't stand by and watch another man — especially a man like Haq — claim you. I've thought and prayed about what I should do until I can't sleep. I can only tell you to be very careful.

May the Comforter sustain you in what you have to do — as he sustains and keeps me. I release you from your promises, because your heart has to remain whole for your husband. It will be alright. I'll pray for you, and you know where I am if you need me.

Always and forever yours,
Zach

For a moment she stared at the folds of the letter, blinking away tears. It rent her heart in two, just like the first time she'd read it, three weeks ago. At first it had thrilled her aching heart. Then it had made her ponder some of the questions Zach had asked about her relationship to Jarrar. Questions about her fiancé's politics. About his religious faith.

And the letter made her wonder about Zach himself. His job that he never fully explained. A job that seemed to have something to do with the embassy, or maybe the U.S. military, but which sent him to odd places at odd hours so that she never knew when he might call, and the number was always blocked.

Only last week, after Zach was gone, did she put it together that he'd been as interested in Jarrar's movements as in Yasmine herself — and it wasn't simple jealousy.

She'd begun to ask questions herself. And what she'd discovered about Jarrar Haq had sent her running away from Natalie Tubberville at the airport.

Refolding the letter, she slid it into the back pocket of her jeans. She was not going back.

It was around nine p.m. when Natalie slipped inside Silky O'Sullivan's. Resisting the urge to put her fingers in her ears, she stopped just inside the door. Every table was full, the bar crowded; the walls were painted with neon yellow, red, and cyan blue, but otherwise dim lighting threw shadows in large corner pockets. Dueling pianos, Silky's normal late-night entertainment, competed with the clamor of conversation bouncing off the walls and old wood floors.

If Yasmine was here, she'd chosen a terrific place to hide.

When the dispatcher at the cab company confirmed that their cabbie took Yasmine to the corner of Union and Beale Streets, Natalie and Matt hotfooted it to historic downtown Memphis — home of blues, booze, and barbecue. As a homegrown Memphis girl, Natalie was quite fond of barbecue and the blues. Booze, not so much anymore.

After a couple of fruitless initial inquiries around the original address, they'd decided to split up to cover more ground. Matt took the north side of the street, Natalie the south. Silky's was about halfway down her side.

Odd to be on her own again. During the course of the long day, she'd gotten used to Matt's merciless teasing. There was a certain pleasure in feeding it back to him too.
Trouble
, ha. Shouldn't be hard to find an equally insulting nickname for him.

Meanwhile, she had a job to do. Interviewing inebriated blues aficionados. Memphis in May brought the oddest combination of pilgrims to the blues Mecca. Elvis freaks of all ages. College students seeking an escape from the pressure of final exams. Artsy Baby Boomers in love with classic American music forms. Bored businessmen from out of town. Young professionals out on dates.

Natalie's last time in a bar had been an awkward celebration of a college roommate's twenty-first birthday. She'd sat there watching everybody else get drunk, wishing she were anywhere else and promising herself she'd never do anything like that again. But this was business. She loved people and figured she could handle a little smoke and noise for another couple of hours. Pushing away from the wall, she skirted the room looking for Yasmine's bright costume.

A thought stopped her. What if Yasmine had changed her clothes? Arriving directly from Pakistan, she might be reluctant to wear American clothes. On the other hand, she'd worked in the embassy for two years. Maybe Yasmine had become more westernized than anybody would expect. After the conversations with Dean the Bouncer and the cab company, one thing was clear: Yasmine had not been kidnapped. Natalie and Matt were after a runaway.

Natalie approached the bar and smiled at an attractive brunette in a low-cut knit top and tight black pants. She gestured toward the empty stool beside her. “Hi. Is anyone sitting here?”

The woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, grimaced. “Unfortunately, no. My date didn't show up.”

“Uh-oh.” Natalie sat down. “Men are pigs sometimes, huh?” She sent mental apologies to her father and brother.

“You got that right.” The woman gave Natalie a wan smile. “You meeting somebody?”

“No. I'm looking for a missing person.” She opened her purse and took out Yasmine's photo, sliding it onto the polished surface of the bar. “Have you seen her?”

The woman shook her head. “But I've had my head down. Ask Wilson. He knows everybody in downtown Memphis.” She clonked her glass against the bar to get the bartender's attention. “Hey, Wilson, come here a sec.”

Wilson, stocky and bald, sporting a neat goatee, hurried over. “What can I get for you?” He smiled at Natalie.

“Nothing, thanks. I'm just passing through. I hoped you could tell me if you've seen this young lady today.”

Wilson took the photo, peered at it, then looked up at Natalie from under thick brows. “You from out of town?”

“Kind of. I'm moving back to Memphis after being away for a couple of years.” Natalie leaned in. “So have you seen her or not? Her name's Yasmine.”

“She's pretty. I'd remember her.” He gave the picture back to Natalie. “Nope. And I've been here since one this afternoon.”

Natalie swallowed disappointment. She'd been hoping to get a lead before Matt did. “Is there somebody else who might've been less . . . occupied than you? Somebody out in the main part of the restaurant?”

Wilson grinned. “You might ask Killian. He attracts all the ladies.”

“Killian? Who's that?”

The woman beside Natalie burst out laughing, slapping her hand against the bar. “Yeah, go talk to Killian. If he hasn't seen your friend, nobody has.” She made a sloppy gesture toward the rear of the room.

Natalie twisted to look over her shoulder. Ten or twelve customers had formed a line at a white picket fence running the length of the back wall. “Is that a goat?”

“Yes, ma'am. Killian loves to schmooze with the customers, especially when they give him a beer.”

“The goat drinks . . .” Natalie shook her head. “That's crazy.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to Beale Street.” Wilson turned when another customer snagged his attention. “If I can't get you a drink, you'll have to excuse me. Feel free to look around for your friend.”

Natalie nodded and slid off the bar stool. “Killian,” she muttered, heading for the back of the restaurant. It took her about twenty minutes of standing in line to reach the famous Irish goat — by which time she'd interviewed everybody she passed. Every time she showed Yasmine's picture, the universal reaction was “Pretty girl,” followed by “Nope, haven't seen her.”

Tongue firmly in cheek, she leaned over the fence and flashed the photo in Killian's whiskery face. “Have you seen this woman?” The goat bleated and gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek. Laughing along with several bystanders, Natalie wiped her face on her sleeve. “Down, boy. I don't pick up strangers.” She smiled at the jolly-faced old black man handling the goat's tip jar. “How about you, sir? She look familiar?” Natalie slid a dollar into the jar.

The man took the picture and held it close to his filmy eyes. “Hmm. Maybe. But it was early in the day.”