Falling by T.J. Newman

CHAPTER SIX

CAREFUL OF THE SUICIDE VEST, Carrie brought her arm closer to her face.

The skin was wet but unscathed.

The old tea bag, the one from Sam’s first cup, sat in a puddle on the desk. The rest of the old, chilled tea soaked the front of Carrie’s shirt and pants. Her own screams of terror echoed through her head, haunting her by how unnecessary they were.

When Sam grabbed her arm, her hands had still been tingling with warmth from the hot mug she had just given him. She knew how hot that water was. She expected incredible pain. So when the liquid hit her skin, her thermoreceptors went wild, sending shockwaves of reaction throughout her body. It was only momentarily, but it took that second for her brain to register the temperature sensations as cold, not hot. By the time she’d figured out Sam’s sleight of hand, the call with Bill had already been disconnected. The last image he had seen was his wife being tortured. Or so he thought.

Please don’t do anything stupid, Bill. I’m fine. Stay strong. Don’t give in. He didn’t hurt me. Babe, please. Don’t give in.

It wasn’t so much a prayer. More a plea she hoped he would somehow intuit.

The family computer made a noise.

“Did he do it?” Sam said from the kitchen. Carrie looked over at the screen. Her inbox had a new message with a large attachment. She nodded.

“Smart man,” Sam said, walking back to the family. “How about some entertainment?” Opening the email, he started the video. Her husband’s face appeared on the screen while his voice filled the silence of the family home. Carrie listened, but she couldn’t look.

Instead, she watched Sam.

Taking a sip of the fresh tea Carrie had brought him, he winced, blowing into the steam. Tossing the old tea bag into the now empty mug, he brought it to the kitchen, placing it in the sink like an overly courteous houseguest.

Sam returned with a dish towel, wordlessly mopping up the desk before taking her pale, slender arm in his hands. Wiping it dry, he worked the towel in one hand, while the other held on to the detonator. He looked down at her soaked jeans. Blinking, he turned away, placing the towel in her bound hands. He disappeared into the downstairs bathroom, but returned moments later with a tissue. Scott bounced his sister softly, the baby finally quiet after crying herself into exhaustion. Snot ran down the boy’s face onto the gag in his mouth. He had cried nearly as hard as Elise when Sam grabbed his mother’s arm.

Walking over to the boy, Sam placed the tissue over his nose.

“Blow,” he said. Scott blew and the man folded the tissue, wiping the child’s upper lip.

Bill’s voice, breaking with emotion, was unavoidable. Carrie turned.

“On behalf of America… and on behalf of my family… I come before you with Kurdish blood on my hands and ask the Kurdish people for forgiveness through my sacrifice and the sacrifice of Flight four-one-six.”

The video stopped and Carrie stared for a long while at the frozen image of her husband’s face. Looking away, she found Sam watching her.

She held his gaze. A charged energy filled the distance between them as they tried to read one another. Carrie could tell her reactions, or lack thereof, were not what he’d expected. What she couldn’t tell was whether that was a good thing or not. He didn’t seem angry or hostile, not with her or the children. No, he seemed… curious. That was as close as she could place it. He seemed to be putting her together like a puzzle, like he was gradually discovering what piece fit where.

“When I told your husband it wasn’t personal, I meant it.”

Her lips hugged the gag without moving.

Meandering through the kitchen, Sam seemed to consider the space at a sort of clinical distance. He opened the silverware drawer, closing it before repeating the step with the one that held the cooking utensils. Pausing at the fridge, he tilted his head to the side while looking at the pictures and children’s artwork. He studied Scott’s report card with an approving glance over his shoulder before leaning in to examine the family calendar. He pointed at today’s date.

“ ‘Internet repair. 11:30 a.m.’ Well, here we are,” he said, and laughed. “By the way, your internet’s fine. I put a jammer on the side of your house a couple nights ago. Clearly I already turned it off. Oh, I’m also the person who makes the technician appointments. That was me you talked to on the phone the other day. Your appointment also never made it officially on the books. Plus, today’s my day off. CalCom also thinks my name is Raj.” He smiled, clearly pleased with himself. “So what I’m trying to say is—there’s no reason for suspicion. No one is coming to help you.”

Carrie didn’t react. She just listened, giving a small nod to express her understanding. His smile slowly dissolved. She wondered what kind of reaction he wanted from her.

He continued on his personal tour of the kitchen and, upon reaching the sink, stared out the window for some time before turning to lean back against the counter, arms crossed.

“Carrie,” he said, “do you know where Italy is?”

At first she didn’t bite. Then hesitantly, she nodded.

“And how about Australia?”

Reluctantly, her head went up and down. He nodded too, looking down at the floor. For a long time he didn’t say anything. Finally, he looked up.

“I will let you and your family go, I swear to god,” he said. “Carrie, I will walk out the front door and never come back—if you can point Kurdistan out on a map.”

Carrie could sense an undertone of hope beneath his deadpan expression. But the longer she sat unmoving, the fainter it became. He shook his head with a cluck, tapping the detonator against his arm.

She tried to speak but the words came out as unintelligible sounds against the gag. Sam considered for some time, then walked over, bending, his face hovering in front of hers.

“I won’t regret this twice. Understood?” he said.

He untied the gag and the saliva-covered clump of fabric dropped into her lap. She stretched her jaw.

“How many,” she said finally. Hoarse, she cleared her throat. “How many kids do you have?”

Sam stared at her. “What?”

Carrie lifted her chin at Scott. “No one wipes a child’s nose like that unless they’ve done it before.”

A smile flickered briefly across Sam’s face. He considered her for a long moment before walking back to the sink, to his tea, to staring out the window.

For some time no one spoke. Sam finally gave in, choosing his words cautiously.

“I don’t have any children. I had siblings. I’m the oldest of six. I was eighteen when the youngest was born and I was planning to leave home not long after that. I was supposed—” Sam stopped himself. “Plans. I had plans.”

He took a sip of tea. Elise cooed. He regarded the baby with a forlorn glance.

“Four days before I was supposed to leave, my father died. My mother was disabled and while she could do most things, she would need help. Five young kids, Ahmad was only four months old—” He stopped and shook his head.

Ahmad. Carrie made a mental note of the name. The youngest sibling. The deepest wound.

“I couldn’t leave. I knew I couldn’t.” Sam shrugged. “So I didn’t. I stayed. For seventeen years I took care of my mother and I helped raise my siblings like they were my children. The younger ones barely remembered our father, if they could remember him at all. I was their father.”

Sam stared into his tea like he was staring into another world. Carrie didn’t intrude; she waited for him to come back on his own. When he did, his voice was soft and sad.

“And then I left,” he said, and told her nothing else.

“What—if I may—” Carrie said cautiously. “What happened to them?”

Sam cocked his head.

“You speak of them in the past tense,” Carrie said. “What happened to your family after you left?”

Whatever had happened to them, whatever memory or image it brought to mind, it hit Sam with such force that he actually took a step forward. He looked to Carrie, tears filling his eyes.

Carrie’s jaw dropped and she managed to stammer, “I-I’m sorry. I… I didn’t mean to…”

She’d crossed a line. Glancing at Scott and Elise, she worried about what Sam might do if he snapped.

Sam folded his arms across his chest in a way that appeared defensive and almost wounded. In any other situation, she might have felt the motherly urge to comfort him. He seemed exposed in a way that came off as unfair.

“I—” he began weakly.

The high-pitched whine of a braking vehicle came from the front of the house. Sam grabbed the gun off the counter and pointed it toward the hall to the entryway. His eyes were wide and he breathed through his mouth. Any softness or vulnerability Carrie had glimpsed only a moment before was gone.

Sam walked to the far side of the kitchen and stood across from Carrie, who was seated at the computer in the family room. “Can you see out the front window?” he asked.

“If I stand over there,” she said, pointing her bound hands toward the end of the family room. He motioned for her to move.

As she crossed the room, she heard the sound of a heavy engine rattling to a start. Reaching the far wall, she peeked her head out to see the left side of the picture window in the living room. Tall shrubbery covered their front yard, but she could glimpse the top of the brown UPS truck as it pulled away from the neighbor’s house across the street.

“It was a delivery truck,” she said, turning back to Sam. His eyebrows were pinched together tightly and he didn’t seem convinced. He thought for a moment and then pointed the gun at the children. Carrie’s breath caught in her throat.

“Go close the curtains,” he said, motioning to the living room. “Make it quick.”

Carrie’s heart pounded as she ran into the living room. She shut the curtains tight and then hurried back through the darkened room toward the kitchen. She’d been out of sight for mere seconds, but the relief she felt at finding the children in the same spot, unharmed, was overwhelming.

But she hid it all. She reminded herself that Sam would get nothing from her. He watched her walk coolly back to her seat at the computer and his scowl deepened. There was a deep confusion to his look. He watched her for a moment longer before speaking, his voice crisp. The gun was still pointed at the children.

“I’m not sure I like how calmly you’re handling this.”