Shorts - Thriller 2: Stories You Just Can't Put Down (28 page)

“It’s important that you work with me, Sylvia.”

A bitter laugh rose in my throat. I swallowed it and kept quiet.

“We’re so close.” He spoke softly, but I could hear the threat that weighted his words. “Do you understand how important this is?”

I kept silent.

After my appointment with Izaan, Frank took me back to my room.

I wrenched the burqa over my head and threw it into the corner. I stood naked before the mirror, my boney ribs angled to a concave stomach. A purplish knot bloomed on my hip like a shriveled rose. I leaned into the mirror. Dirty green eyes stared back at me. My cheeks were free of bruise or blemish. A disfigured face would have defeated Izaan Bekkar’s political agenda. The face wasn’t to be touched. But that rule was about to end. The veil of a burqa would see to that.

“You must do exactly as I say.” Izaan’s orders and instructions permeated my mind.

Drip…drip…drip.

Fanaticism indeed had a face. President-Elect Izaan Bekkar. America would be brought to Allah, or die on her knees. Could I face the destruction I’d enabled? Turning from the mirror, I opened my suitcase. How could I have spent years married to this man without even knowing him? The answer was easy. I didn’t want to know the truth.

I worked a finger into the edge of the suitcase lining. The seam gave way, revealing the long-bladed knife that I’d sewn into the gap behind the fabric. I peered out through the window into the dusky darkness and the flickering lights of the White House. I laid the blade against my wrist.
How easy it would be to run a hot bath, settle into the soothing water, and slice my skin. How long would it take before I fell into an unending sleep? A gentle press and beads of blood popped up along the edge of the knife.

Drip…drip…drip.

The handle, mahogany inlaid with mother of pearl, felt smooth and reassuring in my grasp.

Not a chance.

I tossed it back onto the bed.

The bloodstained blade left a swath of pink on the comforter.

There was another way. Something Izaan would never expect from me.

Courage.

Inauguration day arrived with a flurry of snow and vibrant activity. I needed to move quickly. Not an easy task on icy ground clad in a burqa.

We walked out to the waiting motorcade and were ushered into limousines. Unable to see my feet and the floor of the car, I stumbled.

My knee clipped the door.

Another bruise.

Izaan and I were seated in separate vehicles. Snow coated my burqa and melted into the fabric. Wet material clung to my body like a cold, soggy blanket. Images swirled before me, pulsing forward, retracting. The saturated cotton clung to my face, threatening to suffocate me. I fought the urge to gasp for air. I wanted to rip the fabric off my skin.

The knife.

Focus on the knife.

Under the folds of cloth, I stroked it with my fingertips. It anchored me. Steadied my breathing.

But could I do it?

We circled the Capitol and entered the building through a private hallway behind the podium. Marble pillars towered over us, sleek and smooth. People scurried everywhere. I’d learned that no matter the amount of
money spent on coordination, planning and security, the Secret Service could never manage to completely control grand events, such as a presidential inauguration. The sheer number of bodies made that impossible.

If they only knew where the real threat lay.

I suppressed the urge to laugh at the irony.

An agent guarded me. The Secret Service thought they directed all my movements. Izaan thought he controlled me. As first lady, the agents acted as my protectors, my lifeline. But soon they’d have to kill me.

Through the veil of the chadri, I stared out at the crowd that scurried like ants in and around the seats. My gaze landed on a man wearing a dingy down parka.

“Now arriving…” an amplified voice boomed. “Take your seats….”

Down Parka stood next to a denim-clad teenager, who bent over to tie his shoe. A woman hurried past in a faux leopard-print coat and snow boots.

Why were they so poorly dressed?

I shivered.

A cluster of pain mounted behind my eyes. I stood in the wings, waiting for my cue.
Savage fluorescent lights hung low over our heads.
I squinted against the glare. Pain as sharp as the tip of an ice pick scraped behind my eyes. Nausea clamped down on my stomach. I rubbed my temples through the fabric of my headdress.

Too late to take a pill. The pills are gone, remember?

Music played. It didn’t sound right.
Pain distorted everything. The bass thrummed in my head like a boom box. Where were the Secret Service agents? Why didn’t they stop that racket?

Nonsensical chatter filled my mind as I told myself to follow Izaan.

We walked onto the stage.

A collective gasp whooshed around me as the burqa caused a stir. People dashed around us, taking their positions.

“This way, doctor,” someone said.

So much scurrying. So much rush, rush.

I expected to know everyone on the stage, but strangers filled the seats around us. Dignitaries. Izaan’s friends. Supporters. My gaze snagged on a police officer trailing a German shepherd. The dog’s nose led their progress through the crowd. Gazes darted in my direction. I tucked myself in close to Izaan.

He shot me a hard glance.

A vice of pain pinched my eyes. I closed them to fight the building misery. When I opened them, Chief Justice Deborah Steman stood to my left. The fine fabric of her black robe glimmered in the bright light. A large gold cross dangled at her throat. She looked like a nun.

Izaan nodded. I knew my role. His instructions were explicit. I took the Quran from Izaan’s grasp, and handed it to the chief justice.

Another gasp sucked through the crowd.

The chief justice’s eyebrows arched over her wide eyes. Her lips parted with a quick intake of breath. I bit the side of my mouth to quell my nervous energy. Trembling knees threatened to buckle.

Why did the chief justice’s robes resemble a nun’s habit?

Where was Frank? And the other agents? With my limited vision, I couldn’t locate them.

I fingered the knife hidden in the folds of my dress. The enemy burqa suddenly became my confidant, hiding my secret. What was the double-talk they loved to spout in political circles? Ah, yes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Izaan glared at Chief Justice Steman, then surveyed the crowd who’d come to celebrate. They’d voted for him but were now puzzled into silence.

The shadow of a new beard dusted his cheeks and chin. The audience’s confusion morphed into outrage. Distorted, angry faces stared at us. Shouts echoed around me. I knew what I needed to do.

My gaze followed the justice’s questioning glance as it darted over the faces of the other dignitaries. Many looked as stunned as the crowd. Others looked pleased. I focused on the knife, which sobered me.

“Raise your right hand,” the chief justice said.

Izaan obeyed.

He’d raised that hand to me countless times. Every time he did so, my body absorbed another punishing blow. Now the country would take his beating. Unless—

He reverently rested his left hand on the Quran, presenting me a perfect target.

“Repeat after me,” the chief justice said.

I flashed back to the countless times he’d repeated his message to woo the American people and me. The hypnotic song of the snake charmer.

“I do solemnly swear,” the chief justice said.

I moved in a bit closer to Izaan as he repeated the words.

“That I will faithfully execute—”

Pain arched through my skull from the depths behind my eyes to the base of my neck. My legs quivered. Nausea rolled over me.

“—the office of president of the United States—”

The crowd pressed in.

Were they straining to hear Izaan’s every word? Were they threatening the ceremony? Did they sense my intent?

I couldn’t tell.

“—and will to the best of my ability—”

“—preserve—”

“—protect—”

“—and defend—”

“—the Constitution of the United States of America.”

I withdrew the knife from the folds of the burqa. A slice of midday light glinted off the blade. I thrust it between Izaan’s ribs, aiming deep, twisting hard. He arched toward me, mouth gaping. His fingers reached for the knife protruding from his side. Blood oozed into the fabric of his dark suit.

I braced myself for the impact of the Secret Service agents’ bullets.

A woman screamed.

The body twisted. Knees buckled.

He crumpled to the floor.

A shoulder plowed into me. My chin cracked against the cold marble floor.

“Don’t hurt her,” a man gasped. “She’s my patient.”

Air whooshed from my lungs. Searing pain soared through my head. Shrill wails descended upon me. My hands were yanked behind my back and handcuffs snapped over my wrists.

The screaming continued.

“Got a stabbing at Union Station,” I heard a man say. “Need an ambulance.”

A radio squawked. “Man down in the main terminal. Ground level. I repeat. Man down.”

“She’s wearing a burlap sack over her head.”

The uniformed officer removed the burqa from my head and shoulders.

I stared at the burlap sack in his hand. Bold print declared, Pioneer Brand, Idaho Potatoes, 100 lbs. “That’s not a burqa,” I said as confusion engulfed me.

I glanced around. Trains? Union Station?

A second cop walked over. “The victim was talking to that nun over there. Looks like this woman,” he said, pointing at me, “knocked the nun down, then stabbed the guy.”

“What’s your name?” I was asked.

The first cop lifted me to my feet. “Do you know your name?”

I said nothing.

“Sylvia?” I heard a voice call out.

Frank shuffled toward us.

“She lives across the street with me at the homeless shelter.” Frank tugged at his unwashed beard. A tattered herringbone overcoat snugged tight around his rotund middle. “She just got out of the nuthouse.”

“Liar.” I spun toward him. “Why are you saying that?”

Frank continued, “We were in the shelter, watching the in
auguration on television. President Bekkar was taking the oath. Then Sylvia ran out.”

“According to the victim’s ID, he’s Dr. Truman North,” one of the cops said. “Psychiatrist.”

My mind reeled. No, no, no—not Dr. North. President Bekkar. Couldn’t they see?

“He’s her doctor,” Frank said. “I told him she stopped taking her medicine.”

“North refuses to go to the hospital,” the other policeman said, “without talking to his patient first.”

I squinted at the officer. “Dr. North’s here?”

He nodded and walked me over to a gurney. I stared down into North’s blue eyes and said, “I’m a hero. I killed the Islamo-fascist president.”

“No, Sylvia.” North paused to catch his breath. “You didn’t kill the president.” Racking coughs overcame him. “You stabbed me.”

“No, I—”

“We’ve got to go,” a paramedic said.

“You stabbed
me,
” North said again. His eyes rolled back in his head as his jaw went slack.

“No.” I shook my head. “I would never do that. I—”

Paramedics rushed North’s gurney toward the ambulance. Blood seeped through the blanket that covered him.

My God, what did I do?

Drip…drip…drip.

It’s almost four years later now. Dr. North made me see that I didn’t kill any president. Instead, delusional, I stabbed North. I understand what happened—my break with reality—and I’m all better.

Gray clouds coat the sky with a steady drizzle, and I listen to the relentless
drip…drip…drip
of rain off the nearby eaves.

Funny how some things never change.

I stand at the rope line waiting for President Izaan Bekkar to swing through his campaign stop in Fairfield, Virginia. Television vans line the street awaiting his arrival. A petite blond in a short skirt and matching jacket advances to the rope line and thrusts her microphone in front of the man next to me.

“After a controversial presidency, President Izaan Bekkar is determined to run for a second term. Sir, how did you feel four years ago when President Bekkar revealed he was a Muslim?”