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Page 38.
Chapter 22
 The air stank overpoweringly of rotting meat. Ibrahim Shoob’s body floated in the C&O Canal like a mass of dissolving bread, long drained of any blood. David got there as fast as he could. Tory had called his office from hers, to tell him the news. David felt a pang of remorse, a sense of failure as he stood staring at Ib’s body. Tory stared helplessly.
The corpse was the color of dirty canvas and bloated from days in the cool water, jammed in the dark under a bridge until a kayaker had dislodged it this morning. Small fish and maybe a turtle or two had nibbled at it. The eyeballs had probably been a delicacy—if the kidnappers hadn’t gotten them first. Tory turned away, retching, and David felt an overwhelming sense of loss in so many ways for the dead NCO. He felt a sense of loss at having lost this important witness, as well as the loss of his wife, his children, his unit, his co-workers, his profession—no limit to what the world had lost in this man.
Police divers searched the area for evidence. They sought a murder weapon, or any clue that would explain his grisly fate. A stainless steel wrist bracelet gave Ib’s name, rank, and blood type. “It’s official,” Tory said. “They’ll declare the case a likely homicide. Although”—she gave the dissolving sea cow-shape a last look—”it may be hard to learn much from that. Poor Ib.” She burst out crying.
That afternoon, David accompanied her and two Coast Guardsmen to the Shoob home. It was a journey he didn’t want to make, but he went to help Tory. Hala Shoob let out a wail as she saw the four uniformed persons step out of a U.S. Government vehicle—David, Tory, a Captain, and a Master Chief. A cousin, same age as Hala, appeared and chased a crowd of children out of the living room. Hala was more pitiful this time, anger overwhelmed by grief. A heavy person like Ib, clutching a hankie, she collapsed sideways on the couch and cried loudly and heartbrokenly. After a time, she composed herself and made coffee. The cousin helped, distributing sweet pastries at a living room table. It almost turned into a ceremony of welcome rather than a liturgy of bitter farewell. David supposed keeping busy afforded Hala some relief from her pain. As the many pictures of her and Ib around the room attested, they had had a wealth in family togetherness. There were smiling kids, a smiling Ib proud in his dress uniform, a smiling Hala proud of her husband and children. Tory excused herself after a while. Hala thanked her, wringing Tory’s hands and thanking her for having been a good officer. She wrung David’s hands also, gazing up at him with fiery Arab eyes: “My husband,” she said with a sob, “my husband loved the United States more than most Americans do. He was a fine patriot. You find those men who killed him, you find those men and bring them to justice. Do you promise me that?”
“We’ll help the police in every way.” Tory and David saw themselves out, while the Coast Guardsmen continued their vigil with the family. David and Tory walked to his car. Because they were in uniform, he had to remind himself not to touch her hand or kiss her. “Thank you for coming,” she said. Her eyes spoke kisses.
“I’d do anything for you,” he said, a flood of emotions boiling between them. She reached out and they shook hands, enjoying the lingering touch of one another. “I hardly know you,” she said in a very quiet voice, “but I sure like you a lot.”
He wanted to say something clever, but the words stuck in his throat. “Me too,” was all he managed. He took a deep breath and watched her walk away.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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