A Catch in Time Page 17

  “Conrad,” Mohammed croaked. He felt his lips stretch into a smile. Conrad turned to him with his usual mild courtesy. “Conrad. Piss, hah?” Mohammed gestured at the door.

  “Nah, I’m okay,” Conrad said.

  Mohammed, sick with tension, shrilled, “Piss, Conrad. Piss. Out! Out! Out!” He waved frantically at the door.

  Startled, Conrad started laughing. “All right, Ali, don’t get your turban in a twist! I thought you were asking if I had to go.” He swung his legs out the door, stepped down and turned, a hand on each side of the cockpit opening. “Say it like this, Ali: I have to piss. You want to learn English, don’t you? Say I have to piss.”

  Mohammed’s eyes became slits and he erupted in a volley of guttural curses as he clambered into the pilot seat. Fool. Jackass. Brainless flea. Mohammed could have exited the plane from the other door. Stupid camel turd. He wanted to scream at Conrad to back away so he could close the door.

  Instead, he clenched his jaw and held Conrad’s gaze as he repeated, “I have to pi—”

  Conrad’s head turned, and Mohammed looked to see what had caught Conrad’s attention. It was Mack, coming from the shadowed interior of the hangar. Mohammed’s stomach flipped. Disappointment flooded over him. He slumped into his seat and ignored Conrad’s urgings to piss before they took off again.

  Mack, however, decided they would camp for the night. Gesturing Conrad back into the plane, he leaped inside and taxied the craft to the edge of the tarmac, where he parked a few yards from its lip.

  Mohammed beheld the dry brown land. Its simplicity, from the earthen tones and stubborn plant life, to the distant craggy outcroppings, spoke of home. Despite the tension that vibrated his thin body, he was uplifted by the vast stillness. He stepped off the hot blacktop, onto the warm brown dirt, and soothed himself with the primal expanse.

  The mellow afternoon light shifted toward evening and the ground shadowed to darker shades. Distant rugged mountains became highlighted with warm tones in the oblique rays of the lowering sun. He breathed deeply, his bony chest expanding to draw the majesty into his own small existence. “Allahu Akbar,” he whispered.

  Something large hit his back and nearly brought him to his knees. Stumbling forward, heart in his throat, he was certain the moment he’d expected had finally come. He whirled around, one hand on his turban, and saw his rolled sleeping bag lay at his feet, the surprise attacker. Mack lounged against the side of the plane, watching him.

  “Mecca’s thataway, pardner,” Mack said, pointing opposite the setting sun.

  One glance into Mack’s glittering eyes showed … what? An evil plan? An evil end?

  “Hey, Ali, come on.” Conrad’s voice jolted Mohammed.

  Mack walked to the other side of the plane. Mohammed drew a shaky breath.

  “We’re setting up camp the right way,” Conrad said. “Campfire, barbecue—the works. Get your butt over here and help me.”

  Mohammed picked up his sleeping bag and went to Conrad’s side on legs that trembled with every step. A small comfort, having someone between him and Mack. Minute by minute, the fading light was being absorbed, and the air chilled. He clung to the spaces through which Conrad moved, keeping Conrad between himself and Mack, as he helped set up camp. He was certain that Mack meant to harm him, tonight.

  His bowels turning to water, he cast another desperate glance into the increasing darkness. Praise be to Allah, but in all that open space, there was nowhere to run. The irony numbed him.

  When Mack killed him, it would be over. He would not go to the other place because that path had vanished in the blackout. Something dreadful now blocked the ancient path, the way home to the soul-living. The night the madwoman had approached him with her eerie, singsong insanity, he had known this with certainty. Faced with his own death, he’d known with awful surety that all those who died now were simply gone, unable to return to the energy-life.

  He had to stay alive. Perhaps, some day, the path would reopen, but he had to live now, to see that day. Mack could send him into a void from which there was no returning.

  In the moonless sky hung countless pinpricks of light. Conrad and Mack sat cross-legged near the grill and ate hot pieces of meat. Mohammed, in Conrad’s shadow, only nibbled. His churning stomach would not tolerate food. He awaited his fate, clutching the only weapons he had, his fork and a dull table knife.

  Mack saw Mohammed shrink into the shadows, tuck his feet away from the fire. Amused by Mohammed’s fear, of the way he clutched his puny fork and gripped his useless knife, Mack betrayed nothing. He held his steak in his hand, smacked his lips, licked the juices from his fingers, then chewed off another bite. The fire warmed his face, his chest, his knees. And at his back, he could feel the massaging waves of Mohammed’s terror.

  Let his fear grow until he snaps. Maybe Ali would do something to provoke him. He raised his piece of meat for another bite. Just as his teeth closed, he imagined Ali’s thigh. Eyes bright and sharp, he bit hard, and chewed slowly. Ali could be a toy for quite a while.

  Beneath his excitement, Mack felt annoyance because Conrad just didn’t get it. He began to explore and exploit the annoyance, because tonight he was going to let all of it out. And if it went the way he thought, this thing inside made manifest, the annoyance would evolve to anger, the anger into rage, and the rage into delicious ice-hot power.

  Conrad would learn. And Ali would watch.

  What would this thing do to Conrad? He couldn’t wait to find out.

  Conrad unfurled his sleeping bag near the fire. Mack waited for Conrad to trigger annoyance. Then Conrad glanced at him and smiled, and the firelight accentuated the Laura-like features Conrad shared. Anger boomed through Mack. Laura should be here. He’d asked her, and she’d refused. And there was Conrad with his Laura-face, mocking him.

  Anger speared into ice-hot rage, skittered to the edge of exquisite pain, then thrust him into the whirling dark vortex beyond. He flung his head back, spread his arms, rose to his feet. He was steel. He was turmoil.

  There was no subtlety to his attack.

  Conrad’s involuntary shout quickly became cries of fear and pain. Mohammed, lying stiff a few feet away in his own sleeping bag, was engulfed by Conrad’s panic, then frozen by Mack’s voice speaking directly to him over Conrad’s thrashing body.

  “Stay put, Ali Baba,” Mack threatened. He punched, quick and hard, at Conrad, just under the point where the ribs met. Conrad’s body spasmed, coiled to one side, and Mack grabbed Conrad’s waistband and thrust the pants downward with strong jerks. His voice growled with excitement. “Move one inch, you little shit,” he warned Mohammed, “and I’ll rip your fucking throat out.” He pinned Conrad’s flailing arms and began his vicious rape.

  Lying within arm’s reach of Mack, Mohammed didn’t move. The universe stretched above him. He could hold no thought. All but terror was sucked from his mind, the anticipation of his own fate. Conrad’s cries and Mack’s grunts sounded suddenly very far away.

  Morning chilled Mohammed’s face. He lay still, feeling the coldness. Something was wrong but the night had shrouded his thoughts. He strained to hear a telltale sound, but silence thrummed against his eardrums. His eyes swiveled and he saw red coals in the fire pit, indicating recent attention. Mack?

  Every cell shocked to attention. Silence was replaced by the pounding of his heart as he remembered the night’s violence.

  Bolting up, he looked around the campsite. All was still. The coals glowed silently. Conrad was inert, huddled in a sleeping bag close by. Mack was nowhere to be seen. Mohammed scrambled out of his sack and crouched, like an animal scenting danger.

  He finally saw Mack, far across the tarmac. Daylight was not full and it was only Mack’s motion that alerted Mohammed. He tried to determine if the evil man was approaching or retreating.

  In a few seconds, he saw Mack was heading toward the terminal. With a ragged sigh, Mohammed was suddenly aware of both bladder and bowels pressing for relief. Scramblin
g to his feet, he moved a few steps to one side, hurriedly scratched a shallow hole in the dirt, and relieved himself. After covering his mess, he squatted near the heat of the coals and watched Mack disappear into a distant building.

  He knew this was his chance. Even with time to warm the engines, Mack could not possibly cross the distance before Mohammed managed to begin the takeoff. Once the plane began to roll, Mack could not catch him.

  Mohammed was startled to see Conrad staring blankly at him. The bag covered him to the nose and he neither moved nor blinked. Mohammed cleared his throat and said, “Hai, Conrad.”

  No response. Was Conrad dead? Mohammed looked for the slightest movement of the bag. “Conrad?” he said hesitantly.

  The bag moved and Conrad moaned, though his blank stare remained unchanged. Mohammed looked again at the faraway terminal. Still no sign of Mack. He turned back to Conrad’s haunted expression and knew he couldn’t leave him. He searched his limited vocabulary, as a panicky sense of urgency drove him to Conrad’s side. Conrad’s eyes widened and he shrank away as Mohammed neared him. Mohammed ignored the flinching response. There was no time to coax, soothe, or worry about injuries.

  “Conrad,” he said. “We go. Now, Conrad, now. Come.” He tugged at Conrad’s arm beneath the bulky material. A strangled sound erupted from Conrad and his head twisted wildly, panic distorting his features.

  “Mack gone,” Mohammed hissed. He gestured across the slowly lightening airfield, his chest tight with need to explain their opportunity to flee. He pointed at the plane and then between the two of them. “Go plane fast, fast. Come, Conrad.”

  Grimacing in fear, Conrad looked at the plane and shook his head.

  Mohammed fumbled with Conrad’s bag, located the zipper, then struggled as it snagged on the material. Bent to the task, he continued his goading. “Conrad, out, out. Fast.” He glanced hurriedly over his shoulder at the building into which Mack had disappeared. It was no longer dim. He located the doors but could detect no movement.

  Conrad finally stirred, dragging himself out of the bag like a man swimming through mud. Mohammed yanked on Conrad, knowing that every move must be painful to him, but feeling the lightness of his own body. Alone, he could zoom like a hummingbird to the plane, but at Conrad’s side, burdened by the weight of Conrad’s arm across his small shoulders, he could only stumble forward. Mohammed threw one last nervous glance across the airfield just as they reached the plane and his view was cut off.

  Flinging open the passenger door, he pushed and heaved Conrad, who groaned in pain, up and into the seat, then scrambled after him, shutting the door as he clambered over Conrad. He looked through the windshield as he flung himself into the pilot’s seat. Clear, still clear. He straightened his skewed turban.

  Inspecting the controls, Mohammed’s hands trembled. This was his one and only chance; either he converted his observations into skillful movements, or he failed—to crash, or worse, to fall back into Mack’s murderous hands. Mohammed had no doubt that an attempted escape would provoke Mack’s full fury. He eyed the gauges and dials. He and Conrad were at his mercy and Mack had no mercy. They succeeded or they were both doomed.

  Placing one trembling finger on a switch, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think. Again he looked at the empty airfield—and suddenly felt the weight of a hand on his arm. His heart nearly exploded.

  “Aiiii! Conrad,” he croaked breathlessly, staring at him.

  “Suitcases,” Conrad whispered.

  Suitcases? They had no more need to worry about Mack’s stupid suitcases. Then Mohammed hit his forehead with his palm, uttering curses at his own stupidity. No! They must leave the suitcases behind. He had to throw them out of the plane, or Mack would be forever on their trail. He was obsessed with them and would never let them be taken.

  Mohammed sat, unwilling to leave the safety of the cockpit in order to remove one suitcase from each wing compartment. Maybe he would just toss out the third one, in the aisle behind him. Leaping from his seat, he grasped the bag’s handle—knowing nothing of the priceless diamonds sewn into its inner lining—dragged it forward, and pushed it out the door. He reseated himself and shut the door. What was Mack doing? Surely he would appear any moment, coming at them with his monstrous ground-eating gait.

  Mohammed had no sooner latched his door than Conrad shouted hoarsely, “Suitcases! Ali. Hurry. In the wings, Ali. Go!”

  Mohammed saw Conrad’s wild-eyed hysteria. Spittle bubbled at one corner of his mouth and flew from his lips as he fumbled at his door, moaning.

  Mohammed knew precious moments would be lost trying to help Conrad back into the plane.

  “No!” he yelled and grabbed Conrad’s arm. “Sit. Sit. I go, I go!”

  Conrad slumped into his seat as Mohammed jumped to the ground and scurried behind the wing, undid the catch, opened the compartment, grasped the suitcase handle and nearly fell over when he swung it out.

  Dropping the bag, he shut the compartment and ran around the plane to the other wing. Just as he snapped the compartment open, he heard a muffled shout from Conrad and thumping on the door. Conrad didn’t realize that the suitcases were being taken out, Mohammed thought, as he reached for the last bag.

  He yanked the bag out and, as he bent to shove it away from the plane, glanced toward the terminal, and froze. Mack was striding away from the building.

  Mohammed saw Mack pause and use one arm to shade his eyes as he stared in their direction. Mack shouted, then he was running. Mohammed wailed with fear. He scrambled on all fours under the wing, up and through the door, over the bruised and frantic Conrad, and into the pilot’s seat. Too frightened to glance through the window at Mack’s ground-covering lope, he fastened his gaze on the gauges and switches and began the starting sequence. Engines turned over, rumbled, caught, then coughed in rough misses.

  Conrad babbled nonsense and his hands smacked his own lap in rapid staccato, urging Mohammed to hurry, hurry, hurry!

  With unbearable anxiety, Mohammed, turban askew, hand on the throttle, waited, listening to the engines, knowing that until they changed to a smoother pitch, he could not put the plane into motion. The engines would die.

  And so would they.

  The pitch changed. Mohammed’s right hand eased the throttle forward even as he saw Mack, almost upon them, running hard now, close enough for Mohammed to see the rage in his eyes, the furious twist of his mouth. The engines revved louder, and he pedaled the plane into motion, turning it. Now Mack was visible only through Conrad’s window. His heart almost leaping from his chest, Mohammed eased the plane into a roll, as Conrad shrank away from the window framing Mack’s fury.

  They needed more speed. He pushed the throttle another notch and his stomach dropped when the engine choked. After an enormous backfire the plane lurched, accelerated, and then they were bumping over pits and cracks in the blacktop, headed for the runway. Fifty yards away, twenty, ten, he had to slow down, to turn onto the runway.

  Mack was behind them, but where? How close? He slowed, eased into a right turn, ears so tuned to the engines that the strange pop he heard, followed by a metallic ping, didn’t register. He was calculating where to stop, to rev the engines high enough to begin the sudden race toward flight, when the sound came again: a gun; bullets hitting the plane. No time for proper sequence. Pick up speed as they went; hope the engines continued, the runway was long enough …

  He glanced between instruments and runway, peripherally aware of the blurring ground, the sensation of acceleration. He stopped thinking about Mack. Gripping the yoke, he held his breath, tuned to the coming moment. Colors and noises blended as he held the shuddering plane on course. When he thought the moment had come, he pulled the yoke back, just as he’d seen it done many times, and felt the plane lift. A sudden smoothness filled his hands, and then he was riding the air, correcting the slight dip of one wing, then the other, and tilting to a steeper climb. His blood sang and his body swayed to the gentle bucks of air currents. He flew
the plane higher and farther, until he felt the plane was no longer a projectile in space, but his space above the earth, his world in the sky, in which he sat, free. His small body filled with exultation and he burst into laughter as he leveled the plane and scanned the clear blue morning sky with shining brown eyes.

  He grinned triumphantly at Conrad.

  Conrad’s face was stark white, his mouth open, his eyes dark and wide. Sweaty strips of hair clung to his forehead and his hands twisted together, white-knuckled and trembling.

  “Way cool, hah, Conrad?” Mohammed grinned wider, his twelve-year-old voice high with excitement.

  Conrad managed to shut his eyes and draw a breath. When he opened them again, they had brightened, as though, emerging from the brief darkness, relief had finally come. His smile, no longer sickly, was twisted a bit by pain. When he spoke, much to Mohammed’s satisfaction, his voice held admiration.

  “Way cool, Ali. Way, way cool. My God, I can’t believe it.” Conrad saw the ground far below and swallowed hard. “How’d you do it? When’d you learn to fly, Ali? Christ, we could have gotten away before—before last night.” He shook his head and with shaky hands rubbed his eyes, gently, then harder. He cupped his face in both hands, hunched his shoulders, and then he was crying, hard and loud, and gulping for air.

  Mohammed looked at the blue sky that contrasted so clearly with the earth tones of the strange land below. Distant craggy outcroppings bled angular shadows cast by the rising sun. The drone of the engines filled the spaces between Conrad’s harsh sobs.

  With great care, Mohammed banked the plane into a wide turn, an exploratory maneuver. He concentrated on feeling every vibration, dip, and buck of the plane as it rode the air. He had no destination; he simply put the sun behind him. As with the desert, this was a straight course. He thought that he’d figured out which of the strange dials indicated direction, but its shifts were erratic. He preferred his own sense of direction, a gift of the wind and shifting sand that had been handed down by so many generations before him. He did not know where he was, but every inch, every moment, added to ancient points of reference.