Page 46 of What Remains (John Worthy #3)

“Tell us again.” Amu’s stolid, square face was void of expression. He gestured at the other four men, the oldest in the clan, who were seated with him in a rough semi-circle like judges in a tribunal. “We want to understand. How is it you know that man? This Mr. White?”

“I already told you.” Poya felt as limp as a used rag.

The day was slipping toward twilight. These last many hours had been spent rushing back to camp, shaking Amu awake, explaining what he’d found, then leading Amu and seven of his clan into the mountains for a rescue.

This had gone slowly because they’d also had to bring yaks to carry out both the man and woman.

Although the yaks were sure-footed, the way was narrow and full of twists and turns.

Trying to get the woman to come with them without shooting anyone also had been a problem. Not only was she still twitching and jerking and twisting, she didn’t seem to understand the clan’s language.

On the other hand, that shotgun spoke volumes, however wobbly her aim. In response, the men raised their rifles, and for a split second, Poya thought this really end in a hail of gunfire, like an American western.

Stop! He’d stepped in front of the men, only vaguely aware of Amu yelling for him to get out of the way, to stay back.

Crouching, he held out a waterskin: an offering.

Don’t you remember me? I was just here. Granted, he had also backed out fast to avoid being shot full of holes.

Here. He proffered the waterskin. Are you thirsty?

His words seemed to mean nothing, but her eyes bugged at the sight of the waterskin.

Face twitching, she opened her restless, writhing mouth and for a split second, he got a look at her tongue which jumped and twitched and seemed more like a flaccid pink bag of worms than a tongue.

The thought did occur to him that, really, if she wasn’t rabid, she was very sick.

She got, maybe, a swallow down, choked, swallowed again—and then she fainted.

So, finding her was a problem, and now he had a much bigger one because he’d spoken to her…in English.

“How do you know this language?” Amu asked now.

“I lived in Kabul.” That should be answer enough. Kabul was a big city. “My parents spoke it. I learned from them.”

“And how did you know that she would understand you?”

“Because of Mr. White.” Who was, even now, being clucked over by Bas and several other women in another yurt.

Poya had no idea how bad the man’s gunshot wound was, although when the men had gathered him up from the floor, Poya had gotten a good look at Mr. White’s coat, which was sticky with congealing blood.

So maybe the bullet had gone straight through?

That might be good. He’d read somewhere that through-and-throughs weren’t as bad.

But, face it, no bullet wound was good .

There were some that were just less awful than others.

“He’s American?”

“I think so.” Although he might also be British; he remembered Mr. White’s odd accent. “Anyway, I told you. We met in the spring before the Americans left.”

“You met a man in Kabul and now he is here ? You hear shots and then these people suddenly appear?”

“I don’t know what you mean or want me to say. They didn’t appear. I found them. I’m as surprised as you are.”

“Then how do you explain it?”

“I can’t.”

“But you thought that since she was with him, that woman would know English?”

“Yes.” Although he probably shouldn’t have made that assumption. He and Mr. White had spoken to one another in Russian, after all. But he didn’t think the woman was Russian. Her accent was wrong, and Mr. White had carried himself like an American.

“And that was the first and last time you saw this Mr. White? That spring?”

“Yes,” he lied, without hesitation. He’d spent so much of his life as a liar, this wasn’t as hard as it might be for some. In fact, lying was so much easier than telling the truth.

Amu’s dark eyes narrowed. “Yet he is now here , where you are. How is that a coincidence?”

“Because it is.” There was coincidence, of course. But something like this? Gunshots rupturing a winter morning, his discovery of the people who’d been doing the shooting and one being a man he knew?

Wait, could it be that Mami had succeeded, after all?

Baba told Mami to go to Sarhad because that was where his American friend said for them to hide.

Poya knew that American had to be Mr. White.

There was just no other explanation. Granted, it had taken Mr. White a really, really long time to get here, but maybe this was a case of better late than never?

So, did that mean his mother had found Mr. White? Had discovered he’d been sold and told Mr. White where to find Poya?

How likely is that? Not very, he thought. Coincidences did happen.

There were also two undeniable facts. One: the woman. Who was she? Someone Mr. White had recruited to help? An odd choice, especially for a country like Afghanistan. A man would’ve been the more logical and better choice. Call it chauvinism, but that was the truth.

And two: the shots had come from the mountains to northeast. He didn’t know anything about those mountains except that there was a wide road winding into them on its way to wherever.

Given the distant gunfire and the fact that Mr. White was really hurt—and the woman was sick or drugged or something—the only logical conclusion was that Mr. White had been shot on a mission. He might even have been on a mission to rescue this woman.

The only thing he could be absolutely certain about, though, was that Mr. White was not here to rescue him.

“You expect us to believe that this is a coincidence, boy? A man who carries this?” Amu held up the black, boxy device which had been cradled in Mr. White’s hand. “An American with such a phone?”

“It’s not a phone. Even if it was, he wasn’t calling me.”

“Then who is he calling? This, how did you call it?”

“SOS.” No point in hiding that he could read as well as speak English. Amu had figured that out as soon as he got an eyeful of the books and made Poya read out the titles.

“Yes SOS.” Amu waggled the phone. “Clearly this is meant for someone.”

“ I don’t know who.” Although once Poya understood what Mr. White was clutching, he’d quickly volunteered his mother’s cell. He could not afford for Amu to search him. If Amu did insist he strip, Poya was as good as dead.

In spite of his fear, he was also curious.

Who was Mr. White calling? Maybe they would find out sooner rather than later.

Amu had not deactivated the SOS and Poya was certainly not going to show him what to do.

Although turning off the SOS was trivial, in all the excitement, the fact that the SOS was still being broadcast had been overlooked.

And if truth be told? Poya wanted to keep it that way.

Because Mr. White’s friends were more likely than not on their way.

The thought touched off a small flare of hope which he instantly tried to quash.

Not only was there no telling how far away Mr. White’s friends were, they had no reason to help him.

“Well?” Amu said. “Was he calling you ?”

“Me? No, I just said?—”

Amu cut him off with a savage swipe of a hand. “Is that how he knew where to find you? To take you away from here?”

“No.”

“But you don’t deny you were preparing to leave.”

“No.” How many times were they going to go over this same ground? There was nothing else he could say since, along with his books, Amu had found the odds and ends Poya had collected for an escape.

“You can’t leave. I own you,” Amu said. “I bought you.”

Since those were statements that didn’t require a response, Poya said nothing. Better that way. Would Amu beat him? Probably. He didn’t think Amu would turn him out. Poya had cost what the Americans would call a pretty penny. One didn’t throw away an investment.

“I buy you, I save you, and this is how you repay me?” Amu’s mouth worked as if he wanted to spit. “By plotting an escape? By gathering supplies so you could run?” Pawing at the pile of Poya’s things, he held up the passports. “With these?”

The way Amu brandished the passports reminded Poya of a movie where a character showed off an inside straight, which Americans called a gutshot. His father had explained: It means that the draw is very risky and likely to fail. Appropriate, too, given where Mr. White had taken a bullet.

“What would you like me to say?” The words sprang from his tongue before he realized what he was doing. “Yes, I have different passports. Yes, I was planning to run away. Yes, I know this man, but I don’t know why he’s here.”

This was what he got for doing the right thing.

He should have kept his mouth shut about Mr. White.

He should’ve backed out, left that woman alone, let Mr. White die.

Let them both die. However bad things were now, what would happen if Mr. White did wake and recognize Poya?

If he was weak and disoriented, Mr. White might… wait, what could Mr. White say?

He might say what he knows. Baba might have told him about me.

This was how people got found out. In movies and plays and books, people said things when they were sick and weak that they’d never say if they were feeling well or had all their wits about them.

Although he wondered now, too, if the friends Mr. White was calling had heard. Were they close? On their way to rescue him?

Because I could talk to them. Amu wouldn’t understand a word, but they would understand me. I would tell them about Baba and Mr. White and what I know.

There was something else he could tell the Americans. If he told them what he was…if he proved it…they would take him away from all this. Surely, his having saved Mr. White and that woman was worth something.

“He was my father’s friend,” he said to Amu. “I only saw him the one time.” Another lie, but what was one more now?

An older clansman named Kur stirred. “And that’s all?”