At exactly five minutes after one A.M., the police burst into the garage on Q Street, "Freeze. Everyone, freeze!" But the area was totally empty-other than a slick patch of oil in the middle of the garage and a few tires, there was nothing there.

"He must have been here. Search the place. Michael's GPS led us here. His phone has to be here somewhere."

The detectives didn't have to search far before they found the phone hidden inside a tire rim.

Just then, Danh rushed into the garage. He had been alerted earlier but hadn't been able to make the initial bust. He entered, sure that he'd be reunited with his lover, but now that he saw the empty garage, he broke down and cried.

"Okay, men, the owner of this garage is Nancy Gray. She lives at 2271 Q Street, that's just around the corner. I think it's time to wake Miss Gray up."

Nine officers raced through the alley and reached 2271 Q Street within moments. As four men covered the rear, the rest assaulted the front. "On three," Salmi said, "one, two, three." The officers kicked in the door and raced into the house. "Police! Freeze. If you move, we'll shoot."

For a moment, Danh wondered how many innocent people his fellow officers would kill; then he thought of Michael. God damn it, how much time does he have? Danh raced up the stairs, gun drawn, looking for the perps.

Room after room was empty . . . extraordinarily neat, but empty. The living room was immaculate, the fireplace clean of all ashes even though the wood box was filled to the brim. The mantles were dustless, the pictures hung evenly throughout the house. The dining room table was set with bone china and crystal glasses for a dinner party of twelve. The kitchen floor sparkled. There were no dirty dishes in the sink. The towels lay folded and stacked in the linen closet next to the pantry. Throughout the house, the curtains were drawn and the floors were vacuumed. Two black cats slept on their crocheted cushions by their half-filled food bowls. Something was horribly right with this house: this was not a terrorist's house; this was a little old lady's house.

The detectives hurried upstairs, kicking in bedroom doors, bathroom doors, closet doors. "Police. Freeze," but no one responded.

One more flight, officers looking up at the darkened skylight-wondering if someone had climbed up and out of the house as soon as they'd arrived. Three more bedrooms, two more baths, "Police. Freeze."

Finally, at the rear of the house, overlooking the Massachusetts Avenue side of the alley and the garage Nancy Gray had long since forgotten, the police found Miss Nancy's body resting comfortably on her bed.

"Oh my God, did we kill her?"

"No," Detective Salmi said. "She's been dead for hours. Look, rigor's already set in." Detective Salmi had no idea how long Miss Nancy had been dead, but he was not going to let the department take the rap for another useless death.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Less than a half mile uptown, David pulled We make Dead Bugs our Livelihood! van to a stop and motioned for Jason to get out. "This is perfect. We'll dump the carcass face down in the creek. If it's not dead now, it'll drown and, after the animals tear it to pieces, no one will be able to recognize or identify it." David was tired now. He wanted to destroy every homosexual who ever lived; but he longed to have enough time to get into each one's head and enjoy the moment-watching them suffer and die, one by one.

David opened the trunk and grabbed the upper torso of the Tootsie rolled Michael, as Jason grabbed its feet. "On three. One, two, three." The men pulled on the blanket as if it were a strand of taffy, popped it out of the trunk and the men rolled it on the rocky bank toward Rock Creek. When they got within five feet of the stream, Adman stepped on the carpet and Michael's body rolled out and landed face down in the water.

"Get the blanket. I don't want to leave any evidence."

Jason rolled up the blanket and tossed it back into the van as David, drawing his revolver out of his pocket, waded into the stream to take one more look at the body. "It's dead. It's not moving, but let me-"

Headlights lit up the road behind him.

"Move!"

Jason jumped in the driver's seat and started the car as David raced toward the passenger seat. "Were you fucking gonna leave me?"

Jason didn't smile. He knew better.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The police left Charles Dato no time to mourn the death of his daughter as they cuffed him and carted him to the Marion Barry Building, the main headquarters of the D.C. Metropolitan Police. Dato's children were taken into custody so they could be processed and placed in protective care and the coroner was dispatched to retrieve Fatima's body.

"I bet those kids are just as guilty as their God damned father," Hearne said, as she popped a pile of blue M&Ms in her mouth. "If you asked me, I'd send all the God damned aliens home-all of them-husbands, wives, kids . . . even their God damned dogs. There's no place in America for fucking foreigners." Angela found a red M&M and spit it out. "God damned wetbacks, let them swim back home to Mexico where they all came from!"

"The Datos came from Tunisia."

"Dagos, Datos. Same thing. We need to ship them all out of here."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Contrary to every movie Charles Dato had ever seen, there were no bright lights in the interrogation room. Instead, the room, part of a hundred million dollar District Office Building improvement plan, had teak wood floors, a walnut and burl executive desk, and three plush side chairs. At the moment it was dimly lit-at least until Assistant Chief of Police Phyllis Luckett and Officer Tommy Howard entered.

As the lights blazed full, Dato moved back from the desk, staring into the mirror, knowing it was the ubiquitous two-way thing he had seen in movies. That's what I expected. I bet it's time for the good cop bad cop game.

"So, Mr. Dato, talk to me. What have you been up to?"

"You killed my daughter."

"I didn't kill anyone, Mr. Dato. But, let me assure you, if you don't cooperate with me, you will cooperate with immigration."

"I have a Green Card. I am here legally."

"For the moment."

"For the moment?"

"Yes," Howard paused for effect, "for the moment. Either you cooperate, or you're on the next boat to Tehran."

"I'm not from Tehran. I'm from Tunisia."

"Tehran, Tunisia, it's all the same to me. You fucking foreigners think you own this country. Well," Howard banged his hand down on the table so hard it sent dust into the air, where it seemed to float forever, "you're going to tell me about this plot or I'm going to sell your nuts to Planters." Howard tossed a copy of the map onto the table. "Explain this."

Dato was scared. He had done nothing, but could think of nothing to lie about. Back home, when his friends were caught by the police, they made up lies-believable lies-and the police beat the crap out of them and sent them home. But here, in the land of the free, Dato didn't know how what lies would work . . . not yet, anyway.

"We're going to put your fat ass on the next banana boat back to Tehran and your kids will remain here as wards of the state. Is that what you want? Is that what you fucking want?" Detective Howard's voice rose with each question. "And we'll bury Fatima in an unmarked grave. IS THAT WHAT YOU GOD DAMNED FUCKING WANT?"

Dato rolled his eyes, "Tell me what you've got-tell me where to start."

"Why don't you start by telling me what this God damned red line means."

"I want," Dado started off slowly. One, he didn't know where he was going with his lie. Two, he knew the cops were so fucking stupid they'd have to write it all down. "I want my kids. I can have my kids if I tell you the truth, right?" Dato clamped his lips shut, knowing that, for the moment, he was in the driver's seat. If they agree, if they tell me where Fatima is going to be buried, if they give me my kids, I'll tell them anything they want.

"We can't make any promises until we know exactly what you know." Hearne pronounced the word 'ex-zac-a-ti-cally' as if she were the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland, her favorite movie of all time.

Dato looked Hearn in the eye. "Then find the person who can make a deal, you jerk!"

Hearne sprang out of her seat and left the room. She wasn't used to negotiating with Mexican Islamic atheists If everyone just believed in Jesus, we'd all get along.

Detective Tommy Howard, who preferred to play the role of good cop, felt relieved when she left. "Have a Pepsi," he said, as he pushed a sixteen ounce soft drink toward Dato. "Want a smoke?"

Dato shook his head, but he slipped the Pepsi Light, feeling as if he had won, yet wondering how long it would be before he'd be executed for a crime he didn't commit.

Captain Garner and Assistant Chief Phyllis Luckett entered. "We don't make deals with terrorists," Garner said.

"I'm not a terrorist, I'm just asking for protection for my children and a proper Islamic burial for my daughter."

Luckett started to move forward, but Garner held her back gently. "We'll make sure your daughter has all the dignity she deserves. We are not animals."

"And my other children? The ones you haven't killed? I want to take them home with me when I leave."

"Once we're done with the investigation, your children will be free to join you-wherever you decide to go." Captain Garner deliberately kept his answer furtive, you and your slimy brats can all go to hell for all I care.

Dato accepted the fact that he wasn't going to be killed-at least not yet. It's just like home, he thought, If I can make a deal, they'll beat me, but they'll let me and my children go. Dato put down the Pepsi. "Okay, you've got a deal. I'm assuming you're recording this, right?"

Garner nodded.

Dato had had enough time to formulate his lie. He knew the cops thought he was a terrorist. He knew they were insane enough to kill an innocent child. He knew they hated all foreigners. What he didn't know was the meaning of the red line on the map. Allah forgive me, but I must protect my children. "I've been plotting this for years," Dato said as Garner stretched, which was his tacit signal for the officers behind the two-way-mirror to copy the confession.

"I hate the United States, it's a land of bigots who only allow Christians to worship as they please. My children have been persecuted for their beliefs in the one true God. I . . . " Dato paused, more for effect than for the need to complete his lie, "I want to see America on her knees-like my brothers did on 911."

Phyllis Luckett, whose brother lost his life when the Boeing 757 crashed into the Pentagon, slapped Dato hard across his upper lip. Blood trickled down his face and his head snapped back.

"Get out of here. You're on report." Garner turned toward the two-way mirror and mouthed the words: Stop recording.

As Luckett left, Garner handed Dato his handkerchief. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to cause you any more pain. I just," Garner sighed, sometimes he really hated his job, "want the truth. The truth shall set you free."

Dato was confused now. I expected a beating. Isn't Garner man enough? Are all Americans weaklings and pigs? Dato paused, lifted the Pepsi back to his lips and gulped it several times, comingling the taste of Pepsi and blood and making him wince. "Let me see your promise in writing. Let me know my children will be freed and Fatima will get a proper Islam burial."

Garner grimaced and shouted to Howard who was on the other side of the glass. "Clean him up, I'll be right back."

Officer Howard sat across from Dato, wondering what he was supposed to do. I'm not touching a fucking Arab. Garner can put me on report, but I'm not touching a God damned terrorist.

Garner stuck his head in the door, "This will take awhile. My stenographer's typing; but this will have to be approved by the District Attorney, you know that, right?'

Dato pushed the Pepsi Light away and sat up straighter. "I know what you promised. I expect it in writing, signed, sealed and delivered before I say another word." Dato's English wasn't as good as that of his children, but he had listened to their pop music long enough to have memorized most song lyrics including Stevie Wonder's Signed, Sealed and Delivered. He had longed to find a way to work some of it into his conversations; now he prayed he'd be able to survive with his make-shift language skills and camel-boy education.

"Do you need a refill?" Howard wasn't exactly worthless; he was more of a warm body in a very cold room.

Dato nodded and Howard looked from the cup to the two-way mirror. A moment later, the door cracked and an arm, holding a jumbo sized 7-11 soda, thunked Howard in the back of his head.

Howard reached around for the Pepsi, "Are you hungry? Need to go to the . . . are you hungry? I can get you a hamburger. Some fries." Idiot! That's all I need-have him start thinking about going to the john and he'll lose sight of the deal.

"I haven't eaten since-" Dato thought of Fatima and started to cry. I don't want to cry in front of these infidels. I don't want to let them see me like this. I'll never see my daughter again. I must be strong. I must make the captain keep his promise.

"Get a hamburger." Howard shouted, "Stat." Howard thought about his medical training when he'd worked at the pediatric unit-dreaming of opening up his own health care clinic, wondering why he had chosen to take lives now instead of saving them. Then he shook his head. It's too late to go back; it's always too late.

Captain Garner and the cold hamburger and soggy fries all arrived at the same time and for an instant Dato was happy. He was winning . . . in this first round, at least, he was ahead of the game.

"Show me the words," Dato said. "Let me see your promise."

Garner handed the transcript to Dato, who read it slowly, opening and closing his lips as he read each word. "Sign it. Sign it here."

"I've already signed it and so has the Assistant District Attorney. Your children will be safe and Fatima-"

"The Assistant?"

"Has the power. I've fulfilled my end of the bargain. Now it's your turn."

Dato bit into the hamburger, realizing it might be his last taste of Mickey D's, relishing its flavor, wanting desperately to remain in the land he loved-to see his children become doctors and lawyers, to live the American dream-wondering what web he had been caught in, wondering how many dreams would die tonight.

"Please, tell us your side of the story," Captain Garner turned on the recorder he'd brought into the room with the contract. "But remember, you have the right to remain silent and if you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand your rights?"

"Yes," Dato said, sitting up straight and facing Garner squarely, "I've been driving without a license."

Behind the two-way mirror, Detective Salmi punched Corporal Angela Hearne in the arm. "I fucking told you this guy was hard-nosed."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Right Reverend Billy Able had ordered his flock to gather for a midnight prayer meeting so he could share the power of Jesus.

"Let us begin this Midnight Sermon with a song to the Lord. Sing with me, my children, sing with me."


Oh, come, come, come, come
Come to the church by the wildwood
Oh, come to the church in the vale
No spot is so dear to my childhood
As the little brown church in the vale.

For the first time since they had joined the congregation, neither Zeke nor Floanda Jones had the slightest clue as to what Reverend Abel was doing.

"Now, my brothers and sisters, let me tell you the meaning of those blessed words. Let me share God's vision with you as he revealed it unto me. Unto me, hallelujah! The church in the wildwood is the heathen Hottentots in Rwanda. And the voice of the Lord came unto me and told me I must minister unto them. God told me I must leave the United States of America within the next thirty-one days, and," The Right Reverend Billy B. Abel paused, relishing his power, "God told me that you, my brothers and sisters, will provide. Let us turn to Philippians 4:19. 'But my God shall supply all your riches according to his Blessings.'"

Zeke looked at his wife. This is it, this is where Pastor Abel turns into Jim Jones. I just hope it's not too late to get out of here. Zeke looked at the doors and the burley elders standing guard. Then he looked at the bars on the windows and wondered if he'd be able to squeeze through. He wondered if he'd be able to shake the dirt off his sneakers and run like hell. If Floanda wants to come with me, she can, otherwise I'll go it alone. I'm not going to end up like one of James Jones's sacrificial victims, poisoned by a glass of Kool Aid in the middle of the jungle. Zeke blotted out the reverend's message, praying for the strength to escape.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Perhaps it was the headlights or perhaps it was the gunning of the motor, but something caused Michael to heave up, spitting out water, choking as he turned himself over before he collapsed on his back in the shallow trickling stream.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

At 5: 10 A.M., forty-five year old spinster and early-morning jogger, Mellissa Cachee, ran along one of Rock Creek's overgrown trails. The sun still hadn't risen, but she knew if she wanted to beat her newly-diagnosed diabetes, she'd have to exercise every morning, until death do us part, she thought. At one hundred ninety-seven pounds and standing five foot two, Mellissa thought, this is the first day of the rest of my life. No matter what happens, nothing could be worse than dragging my ass out of bed and running in this God forsaken wilderness.

As she rounded the bend, ready to ford Rock Creek and head up to Connecticut Avenue, she saw something long and white in the water. Oh my God, someone shot a deer. She jogged closer, slowing to a walk as she bent down, adjusting her eyes to the body in the darkness; then she screamed as she dialed 911. "There's a body in the creek. A naked body . . . and I think it's dead. Oh, my God. I think he's dead."

Danh was among the first to reach the scene. He and the other detectives had heard the call as soon as it came in.


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June 3rd
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