Читать книгу The Third Brother - Andrew Welsh-Huggins - Страница 13

5

ABDI’S PARENTS LIVED IN CAPITAL PARK Village, a complex of putty-colored two-story apartment buildings off Agler Road on the north side. A pair of little girls in bright orange dresses playing in what passed for a front yard eyed me curiously as I found a space in the half-filled lot near the Mohameds’ unit at four o’clock that afternoon. I glanced over at Cohen, who’d pulled in right ahead of me. He refused to make eye contact, staring instead at the pants and shirts and multicolored scarves drying on the fence surrounding the apartments. Fortunately for both of us, our host arrived a minute later.

“See tahay? How are you? I am Abukar Abdulkadir,” he said, introducing himself with a string of precisely clipped syllables. “You are the wonderful Andy Hayes. I recognize you from the TV. You’re a very brave man.”

“I did what anybody else would.” We shook hands. He was thickset, with short-cropped hair starting to gray, a slightly rounded head, and an engaging smile, wearing a suit and tie that made me feel hot just looking at him.

“That’s where you are assuredly wrong. Kaltun said you were the only person to help her. She’s very grateful.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Much better, thanks be to God.” Kaltun Hirsi had turned out to be a married mother of six—two other kids were at home with her husband at the time—studying to be a social worker. She’d been at the store picking up a few things for dinner when Tweedledum and Tweedledee approached and started taunting her.

“Have the police found those men?”

A cloud crossed Abdulkadir’s face. “Not yet.”

Cohen got out of his car and joined us, moving even more slowly than at Cunningham’s office that morning. It was hard to tell whether he shook Abdulkadir’s hand to greet him or to keep his balance.

“How are you doing today, Mr. Freddy?”

“I’ve been better. Let’s get this over with.”

The woman who met us at the door introduced herself as Farah, Abdi’s older sister. The schoolteacher, I deduced. She was dressed in tan slacks, a white blouse, and purple sandals that matched her headscarf. She showed us inside. Her parents were seated on a couch in the living room. A soccer match played out on an enormous TV on the other side of the room. An aroma of simmering meat filled the air.

Abdi’s father was thin, wearing a long-sleeve white shirt and gray slacks. Abdi’s mother was a heavy woman, enveloped in a black scarf and dress. They both smiled and nodded but didn’t speak. As Abdulkadir and I sat down, a girl, high school age, introduced as a cousin, appeared with cups of Somali tea. I had come to appreciate the sweet, cardamom-flavored drink the few times I’d had it. Cohen took his as if he’d been handed a witches’ brew and sat down carefully on a folding chair beside me.

Abdulkadir said something in Somali to the parents. They nodded and replied. He turned to me.

“The family appreciates your help finding their son. Are there any questions you’d like to ask?”

I took a sip of tea and considered my approach. I made eye contact with Farah briefly before she lowered her gaze. “I’ll start with the obvious one, I guess. Do they have any idea at all where he could be or where he went?”

They conferred for a moment. I waited for Abdulkadir to translate. But it was Farah who spoke next.

“None at all. He just vanished.”

“No one saw anything?”

She shook her head.

“His friends?”

“They saw him at school that day. They don’t know anything.”

“Which school?”

“Maple Ridge. It was the second-to-last day of classes. It makes no sense.”

I’d heard of the city school on the northeast side but didn’t know much about it. “He worked at Kroger. Is that right?”

Farah nodded. “He had a shift that afternoon. He never showed up.”

I took a moment to frame my next question. “The Facebook posts. Those were out of character?”

“Completely,” Farah said. “Most of the time he put up pictures of himself or his friends. Or stuff about the Crew. He was soccer crazy. The Crew and Juventus FC. It was almost like it was someone else posting.”

“Could his account have been hacked?”

“I have no idea.” She paused. “Hassan posted similar things, right before he left. But for him, it made more sense. He was very angry. And of course—”

When she didn’t finish, I said, “Hassan changed, if I’m not mistaken. But Abdi didn’t.”

“That’s right. That’s what makes this so difficult to understand.”

“What was Hassan so angry about, if I may ask?”

“Everything. He had a hard time finding a job. He said he was always being picked on for being Muslim. He said America was never held accountable for the things it did to other countries. That American soldiers were killing Muslims.”

“Was that true? That he was picked on?”

“Probably. We all are, to some degree. You get used to it, after a while. It’s just something you expect to happen now and then. The stares and the whispers. Or like those two men and Kaltun, who you helped. People shouting ‘Go home!’ even if you were born here. We try to ignore it, or report it to the police if it feels dangerous. But Hassan was thin-skinned. He had a real problem with it.”

“Hard to blame him.”

“I suppose. But he didn’t lose his job because he was a Muslim. He lost it because he came late every day.” She spoke with bitterness, glancing at her parents.

“Abdi wasn’t like that?”

“No, absolutely not. He loves America. And he loves Columbus.” For just a moment the worry in her face disappeared and she permitted herself a smile. “If people said something cruel to him he’d laugh it off. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. And he had no reason to disappear. His life was ahead of him. He’d already figured out who his roommate at Ohio State was. They were trading messages.”

Farah stopped and spoke to her parents. They nodded in assent.

“Is it possible he’s just holed up with a friend?”

“No. We’ve checked with everyone we know of.”

“The school?”

“They say everything was normal.”

“Freddy—Mr. Cohen—said the FBI was here. What did they say?”

“They were very rude,” Farah said. Framed by the purple scarf, her pretty face hardened. “They accused Abdi of many things. They refused to believe anything we said. They threatened us, told us we could be held responsible. We could lose our refugee status.”

“It’s a common tactic,” Cohen interjected. “Especially now, with everything going on in Washington. But in my opinion they don’t have anything to go on, other than some completely uncharacteristic Facebook posts and a few tweets and of course the disappearance right after Hassan’s death. On the surface, it’s reasonable they’d ask questions. But there’s nothing concrete. I’ve told them as much.”

“How’d they respond?”

He waved dismissively. “They reminded me they have to bat a thousand percent every time and a terrorist has to succeed only once. They can’t take any chances. Which means a kid who ran away is suddenly a dangerous extremist.”

“He didn’t run away!” Farah said.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Hang on,” I interrupted. I knew it was no use pointing out to Cohen, or Farah, for that matter, that the FBI had a damn good point. That, plus the fact Abdi’s brother had been a bona fide radical didn’t help matters. I had a bigger issue to bring up.

“I wonder if I’m the best person for the job.”

“What do you mean?” Farah said. She was sitting on the edge of the couch, mug of tea in her hands, watching me closely. She had arresting eyes the color of melted caramel that seemed full of wisdom and something more painful, far beyond a woman of her years—which couldn’t be much past midtwenties.

“It’s a complicated case. I don’t speak Somali, obviously.”

“All his friends speak English,” Farah said.

“I’m just not sure where I would start.”

“I thought you said this was arranged?” Farah said, looking at Cohen.

“I warned you. He can be difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult. I just—”

Abdi’s father interrupted, saying something in Somali. He spoke for nearly a minute. Farah said something else, then Abdulkadir, then Abdi’s mother. Abdi’s father replied in turn. I sipped my tea while I waited.

Farah said, “There’s the school, here. His teachers. Maybe they know something. Something they might tell you and not us.”

“Isn’t school over for the year?”

“That’s why we need your help,” Farah said, frustrated. “To work those things out.”

“I’m still not sure—”

“You were sure about Kaltun Hirsi. In the parking lot.”

“That was different.”

“Different how?”

Good question. Helping the beleaguered woman was part of a pattern in my life of rushing in first and asking questions later. How many times had a coach threatened to bench me for tearing up the plan at the last second and play-calling on my own from the line of scrimmage? The fact that my choice was often the better one was of little consequence in a rule-bound sport bulging with sideline egos. I also hated bullies, since you often despise that which you yourself have been. It had worked out OK in Kaltun’s case. But was I any more a hero than the person who’d called 911 as the pickup truck peeled out of the parking lot?

“I was just trying to help,” I said.

“Like nobody else did,” Farah said.

“I’m not sure that’s true—”

“We think it is.”

I took a sip of tea to buy some time. I thought about the family’s situation. I considered what it had cost Cohen to agree to their request. Saying we had a history was like noting that summer storm clouds are black.

“I’ll do what I can,” I said at last, meeting Farah’s caramel eyes, which were bright with indignation. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Thank you. I understand.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Andy Hayes,” Abdulkadir said, clapping his hands as he stood.

“Yes, thank you, Andy,” Cohen said, rising with difficulty. I moved out of instinct to offer a hand, but withdrew at the sight of his frown. “Thank you so much for everything.”