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  "Hi," she said, extending her hand. "Samantha."

  "Roger," he said, grasping her hand with his moist, clammy paw. "Good to meet you."

  The absence of an accent led Samantha to conclude he was American-born, like she was. Roger was a slightly chubby fellow, and his breath had a certain spoiled-fish bouquet to it. She hoped he worked in intensive care, where his patients would have been too unconscious to care.

  "You lucky man," Hisham said, clapping Roger on the shoulder as if he had won Samantha in a carnival game. "She beautiful, no?"

  Roger gave her the old eye elevator, up and down, and it gave her the willies.

  "Yes. Very."

  With some effort, she withdrew her hand and wiped it on the side of her slacks. She stood paralyzed, like a freaked-out gazelle on the African plains, while Roger continued to ogle her. She said a small prayer of thanks when she heard her mother's voice summoning them to dinner.

  * * *

  Samantha had barely touched the first toasted pita wedge to the hummus before her mother announced proudly that Roger Bouzein was, in fact, Roger Bouzein, M.D. He was an internist with Richmond Internal Medicine, a highly respected medical practice. She said it with such pride that Roger's own mother would have felt that someone else was muscling in on her proud mama territory.

  "Is that right?" Samantha said, turning her attention to the culinary spread before her. They were in the family's tight dining room, around the heavy oak table that her parents had purchased before she was born. On its surface was the ghostly residue of math problems and essays etched into the wood long ago. In the background, the voice of famous Lebanese folk singer Fairuz bubbled from the speakers. Samantha had heard enough Fairuz to last her a lifetime.

  "He's Nabila's nephew," Zaina said.

  Samantha nodded and smiled, not having the first clue who Nabila was.

  "So you're a lawyer," Roger said, turning to face her. Naturally, her mother had seated them side-by-side. He leaned in close, as if this connected them in some way.

  Samantha nodded. "Papa, can you please hand me the grape leaves?"

  Omar handed the plate to Mariam, who handed it down to Samantha.

  "What kind of law do you practice?"

  "Corporate."

  "What does this entail? I have many lawyers but I am not familiar with the lingo."

  "Well," she said, dropping half a dozen stuffed grape leaves onto her plate. "I help really big and rich companies get a little bit bigger and richer. It's very gratifying work."

  "I hear this is a lucrative field," he said.

  Who the hell used the word lucrative in a sentence?

  "It's fine," she said.

  "I also do very well," he said. "Internal medicine has been quite good to me."

  She smiled and shoved two grape leaves into her mouth. She was starving. Her display of gluttony, however, did not dissuade her intrepid pursuer.

  "I live in Stonemill, you know," he said, referring to a fancy subdivision in the western suburbs. "Last year, I bought a boat. I keep it at my house at Smith Mountain Lake. I would love for you to visit me there. I can take you for a ride on the boat."

  "You hear that, Sammy," Zaina jumped in. "A boat! How's Nabila, sweetheart?"

  "She is well," said Roger. "She sends her regards."

  While she continued to ponder who Nabila was, Samantha realized she had never heard anyone speak with such pinpoint accuracy. He was like a grammar ninja.

  Within a few minutes, everyone's plates were loaded with food, and the chatter was replaced by the sounds of silverware clinking plates and lips smacking against food. For this, Samantha was thankful. Maybe if she was lucky, she could get out of here without talking to Roger again. Whom, she noted with some dismay, ate like a hyena. He shoveled in hummus and kibbe by the palmful. And he was supposed to be trying to impress her?

  "Why don't you two go out for dessert later?" Zaina said, once everyone had started to slow down. As was typical of Lebanese dinners, a mountain of food remained, waiting for deposit into plastic yogurt containers and freezer bags for the kids to take home. "Go enjoy yourselves."

  "Mama, I have to get up early," Samantha said. "I have to work."

  "Look at you with the 'I have to get up early,'" Zaina said. "This is nonsense. Now Roger, he have to get up early. He's a doctor. I don't see him saying he can't go, he have to get up early. Tomorrow Saturday. Before Christmas. You don't have to work."

  "This is a grand idea," Roger said. "I know just the place. Exquisite desserts."

  She thought desperately for a change of subject and glanced across the table at her father.

  "Papa, how's business?"

  His head jerked up, his eyes wide, like that of a schoolboy who had been hoping not to get called upon. He had been happily rolling a chunk of kibbe in some pita bread. She noticed his eyes cut over to her mother, who quickly returned the gaze before looking away.

  Her parents operated an ethnic grocery store and deli called Mediterranean Express on West Broad Street, one of the Richmond metropolitan area's main arteries. The store was located in the Tuckernuck Square Shopping Center, a heavily developed commercial area, where it had been since her parents opened it when she was a little girl. The aromatic spices and meat and spinach pies they sold served as the olfactory background of her childhood.

  Her first real job had been at the store, starting in junior high school and continuing through summers and college breaks. But as the years slipped by, she started spending less and less time there, even after she moved back to Richmond. She didn't like to shop there because her parents insisted on her giving her all her groceries every week. Forget about Samantha paying for anything.

  Once, after her six-figure salary from the firm had started flowing, she had offered to help them catch up on some of their bills. Her father got so angry with her he didn't speak to her for a week. Instead, she funneled some money to an account her mother handled, which Zaina used to pay some of the bills that Omar didn't know about.

  "It's fine," Zaina said. "Who wants more tabouli?"

  "What?" Samantha asked.

  "It's fine," her father said. "Let it go, sweetheart."

  He said this almost in jest. She had a pathological inability to let anything go, and she knew her father was goosing her a little. Once her mind locked onto an issue or question, there was no letting go until it had been resolved to her satisfaction. It was what had driven her success through school and through her career. Well, the success up until this morning at least.

  Samantha pressed on. She knew that she probably shouldn't be airing the family's dirty laundry in front of Dr. Roger the Wonder-Doc, but she didn't care.

  "Is the store in trouble?"

  "It's fine," her father snapped. His voice cracked, ever so slightly, and Samantha knew instantly it had been a very bad year. Jesus, every year since the store opened had been a bad year. This time, though, she could tell that her father was worried that it would be the store's last year.

  Tension descended on the room like a heavy curtain. Even her nieces, who normally would be throwing food by this point in the meal, sat as quietly as dolls.

  "Things will be fine," Emily said to no one in particular.

  "What happened?" asked Samantha.

  The table was silent.

  "Ziad?" she asked rhetorically. "It's because of Ziad, isn't it? That piece of shit!"

  "Samantha!" her mother said. "Don't talk about your brother that way."

  "Why didn't you call me?" she barked at her parents. Her anger was rising like good dough. "I could've helped you."

  Neither of her parents answered.

  "Who wants baklava?" her mother said, after the silence had drifted into the deep space of discomfort like a lost satellite. She must really be worried, Samantha thought. In the mind of Zaina Khouri, food was a ready-made solution to the world's ills. Her mother got up from the table and headed for the kitchen, her two younger daughters trailing behind her. Samantha looked ove
r at her father, who picked absently at a hardening piece of pita bread.

  She wanted to go over and hug him, but she knew this would embarrass him in front of the other men at the table, undermine his role as the stalwart head of the family. He was a quiet, thoughtful man, and she knew, as she watched him deconstruct a piece of dry bread into tiny crumbs, that he was thinking about Ziad Khouri, her now-dead brother.

  The chirp of her phone ringing broke her from her trance, and she reflexively tapped the pockets of her sweater for the phone. When she felt nothing but fabric, a vise of panic clamped itself around her.

  Zaina returned from the kitchen and handed the phone to her.

  "You forget it in the kitchen," Zaina said.

  Samantha checked the caller ID screen, but she didn't recognize the number. She began to let it ring through to voice mail before she remembered she had given her number to Julius Wheeler just a couple of hours ago.

  "Hello?" she said.

  "Hey, this Julius."

  She cradled the phone against her shoulder, held up a single finger, and ducked out of the living room to take the call. Her father's bombshell was still reverberating inside her head, and she wasn't ready to deal with it yet. What was going to happen? These thoughts ricocheted around her skull like the six Ping-Pong balls that had delivered forth Julius' fortune.

  "Hi there," Samantha said when she was alone in the living room. "What's up?"

  "I can't talk long," he said in a hushed voice. This made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I thought you say I going to the Marriott," he said.

  "I did."

  "We ain't going to the Marriott."

  "Where are you?"

  "Pay phone just outside a bathroom," he said. "The Exxon at the corner of Parham and Brook Road. I made them stop, told'em I was gonna be sick from being so nervous."

  "Them? What them?"

  "Some guy from firm security came with us."

  "Firm security?"

  "Big white guy," said Julius.

  "Firm security?" she repeated.

  She said it more for herself, as if she couldn't believe it. Something sounded extremely off about this. Why would Carter move him somewhere else? Who was this guy from "firm security"?

  "That's what I said," he said. "I got nervous in the car and asked them to stop."

  "Which way are you headed?"

  "North, I think."

  "Julius, did they say where exactly they were going?"

  "No."

  "See if you can keep them there a while," she said, walking back into the dining room. "Stay in the bathroom as long as you can. Try to make it fifteen minutes. Then tell them you need some crackers or something from inside."

  "Got it."

  "I'm headed your way now," Samantha said. "I want to see what they're up to."

  She hung up the phone. The rest of the family – and Dr. Roger, of course! – watched her carefully.

  She started to dial Carter on his cell phone, but she paused over the Send button as a chill rippled through her body. After holding steady for much of the afternoon, her fever felt like it was creeping back up, launching a nighttime offensive against her body. What was the point of calling him? All that would do would tip him off that she suspected something, and that might really screw things up.

  "I have to go, Mama."

  "Why?"

  "Work."

  "I'm sick of hearing about your work," Zaina said, the volume of her voice escalating with each word. "I should've thrown that phone out in the snow!" She shook her head and left the room.

  "I'll try to be here for Christmas," she said to her father, leaning over to plant a smooch on his stubbly cheek.

  "I love you, sweetheart."

  She felt her heart crawl up into her throat. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she forced them back in. She didn't want her father to see her cry.

  "Good night, everybody," she said, giving the group a single all-encompassing wave.

  Roger was up like a shot, suddenly realizing that his promised date was really leaving without experiencing the full range of his charms.

  "When can I see you again?" Roger asked, trailing behind her as she made her way to the door.

  "I'll call you," she said. "Give me your number."

  "You need me to write it down?"

  "No, I've got a really good memory," she said, zipping down the front walk. "Look, I really have to be going."

  He followed her all the way to the car.

  "OK, OK, it's 934-7428."

  "Got it," she said, climbing into the driver's seat.

  She started up the car and pulled away, leaving Dr. Roger at the edge of her parents' driveway like a jilted prom date.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Friday, December 21

  10:45 p.m.

  Five minutes later, the Exxon station's familiar blue sign drew into view as Samantha sped west along Brook Road. At its intersection with Parham Road, she slowed and turned into the gas station. Each of the pumps was occupied. While scanning for an open slot, she recognized Carter's Hummer parked by the curb fronting the filling station's convenience store. She would recognize that thing anywhere; Carter was extremely proud of it. She knew it made him feel very manly. Leaning against the rear bumper was a large man who looked vaguely familiar. Despite the presence of about fifty signs prohibiting smoking, he was smoking a cigarette with the attitude of a man who wanted someone to point out the fact that he was in a No Smoking area. This had to be Mr. Firm Security.

  She pulled up to the island farthest from the Hummer and killed her headlights, but she left the engine running. Her Audi's windows were dark enough that she didn't have to worry about anyone recognizing her. She kept her eye on Firm Security, flipping through her mental Rolodex, but was unable to match the man's face with an entry in her head. Try as she might, his identity remained tucked away in a locked mental filing cabinet.

  A few minutes later, Julius and Carter stepped through the market's automatic sliding doors, and the three of them climbed back into the Hummer. She noticed that Julius was holding what appeared to be a package of crackers in his right hand. Nice work, Julius. Nice work. A moment later, the Hummer roared to life, its rear lights flashing briefly as Carter shifted into drive. Carter guided the big gas guzzler out of the parking lot and turned right onto Parham Road, running north away from the lights of the city. Samantha checked her gas gauge, the needle still at F, and followed her boss onto the dark highway. Christmas lights dotted the landscape like runway landing lights.

  Thanks to its yellow paint job, the Hummer was easy to track, sort of like an angry and horny rhinoceros. When she could, she kept a car in between hers and Carter's to provide some camouflage. When she couldn't, she dropped back a couple hundred yards. She drew these surveillance tactics from years of watching movies and television, so she had no idea if they really worked or not. For all she knew, Carter had spotted her at the gas station. But the hope was that Carter was so focused on whatever it was he was doing that he wouldn't notice a zippy little coupe trailing behind him. As they edged farther from the metropolitan area, the road grew darker. Small ranch homes dotted the landscape, which increasingly gave way to farmland.

  Although she kept a close eye on her quarry, Samantha's mind began to wander. She wished she hadn't had to bail on her parents' dinner. She had long feared that Ziad Khouri, her older brother, would reach out from the grave and stick his dead thumb right up their ass. And it looked like it had finally happened. It sounded like it had been happening slowly since that fateful New Year's Day, almost one year ago. Samantha lit a cigarette and opened her window. The cold rushed in like a tsunami. She didn't care.

  * * *

  On that chilly New Year's Day, Ziad Khouri, an energetic but misguided young man, had stepped onto a city bus on the south side of Chicago and blown himself up. With this angry and astonishingly unsuccessful act, Khouri entered the annals of American histor
y as the country's first documented suicide bomber. The college dropout and small-time thief had been planning this attack for about two weeks, rigging together a rather rudimentary explosive involving a plastic two-liter bottle and a witches' brew of ammonia and fertilizer, ignited by a simple homemade trigger. He had discovered the assembly instructions on the Internet.

  As evidenced by this unsolicited attempt at martyrdom, however, Khouri was not a terribly skilled bombmaker, and the explosion was limited to the rear half of the 2525 bus, on which he was the only passenger. Walter Guillen, the bus driver, thought he had experienced a backfire, but a peek in his rearview mirror revealed a cloud of black smoke, blood spatter and shattered glass. Guillen, shaken but unscathed, immediately knew that the odd young man he had picked up near U.S. Cellular Field had been the cause of all this mayhem. For years, in some small dark corner of his mind, he had wondered about the prospect of a suicide bomber on one of his buses. After the September 11 terrorist attacks, that dark corner had gotten a little bigger.

  A veteran with twenty-six years behind the wheel, Guillen calmly drew the wounded bus to a stop, stepped off the bus and called 911. When he used the word "bomb" in his description of the event, the dispatcher became very serious because the canned script dispatchers used in response to bomb-related incidents was itself very serious. He hadn't been on with the dispatcher but a few seconds beyond that when he heard a bevy of sirens screaming toward him.

  A small fire had broken out in the aisle, sending Guillen scrambling before the bus exploded. Checking himself for injuries, Guillen was relieved that no other passengers had been on the bus. This wasn't his normal route, but he was filling in for a younger driver who inevitably had called in sick on New Year's Day. This time of year, when the White Sox were enjoying the offseason, it was a fairly low-volume route with minimal service.