Page 64 of What Remains

Because if I go, if I get help, I’ll lose this place.

But there was a life at stake. Two lives, assuming the man didn’t die before he got back.

“It’ll be okay,” he said, backing up as the woman pawed at the stone. What was she doing? He didn’t want to turn his back on her. “I’m going, but I’ll be back. I’m going to get?—”

The rest fizzled on his tongue—and not only because she had managed to raise what lay by her side. Nor was it only because he was staring at the business end of a short, black, double-barreled shotgun.

He stopped talking because now he had a very clear view of the man’s face.

“Mr. White?” Poya said. “Mr.White?”

11

“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 thatshewould 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 wasgood. 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 ishere? 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 nowhere, where you are. How is that a coincidence?”

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