Empath

by Caleb John Cushing

This damn heat. Dry and blistering, cooking the sand till it turns to coals under my feet. That Cairo sun beating down on my back like a hammer. Steady. Constant. I’m dripping sweat like a rag, head foggy from the strain. Can barely hear myself think. This is not a place for living things. 

She looks at me with that devilish grin. Of course she loves every second of this. 

“What’s the matter? Not having any fun?” 

It’s not what she says, but the way she says it. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to, it’s  annoying.” 

“Don’t be a grump. I want to keep sight seeing!” 

She pouts, leaned up against the pillar I naively hoped would provide some shade. I stretch over the counter, trying to get the bartender’s attention. These sort of drinking holes are common in the downtown area, at least here in the bazaar. Giant open spaces carved out from stone, seemingly by magic. Too perfect to have come from human hands. The blues and greens of the storefronts and restaurants pop out, contrasted against the browns and ambers of the sand and grays of the city steel. It truly is like an Oasis. Except there’s no water, just off-brand liquor served by shitty bartenders. 

“We saw the Sphinx and the Pyramids, what else is there?”

“I want to go swimming in the Nile.” She moves softly,  gliding over to me, draping her arms over my sweat-stained  shoulders. 

“I don’t think that’s something you can do.” Please, for the love of god, just give me a drink. “I’m starting to think we should just leave.” 

“No.” 

She jolts up, standing straight up. Even after all these years, that shift from silly to serious, child to adult, it’s jarring.

“It’s here. The next job. We’ll find it soon.” 

  When she gets like this, furrow-browed and dagger-eyed, there’s no talking sense to her. She’s more stubborn than I am. Doesn’t hurt that she’s always right. 

It always happens the same way. We won’t see each other for months at a time. After a job, I’ll fly back home to my Detroit loft, where the cold weather and colder people suit me better than anywhere else. Small space, but cozy. Just enough room for myself and some meager pleasures. A bed, a television. Small bookshelf, smaller wardrobe. 

One framed photograph of the two of us. 

I’ll go about my life. The books do well enough when I can be bothered to turn them in. It’s easy to write but hard to start writing. Maybe I’ll go for a run. Waste some time in whatever new coffee shop has opened up since I’ve been back. Spend a week or so in Grand Rapids to try and figure out in what new ways my parents aren’t taking care of themselves. 

Maybe if the latest book has done well, I’ll do an interview. If there’s a demand, I’ll do a signing. Nowadays, I get a lot of calls from California. Films and television, they say my stuff is ripe for it. The Silver Screen. Maybe this time I’ll fly out there and try and make a go of it, see if that’s really something that could be in the cards for me. 

But then, the chill. Spine tingling. Hair raising. Almost as if the very space around me has cooled. A premonition. At that point, I know. It’ll be any day. Possibly any second. 

She appears. She always comes back. Tells me it’s important. Tells me there’s no one else. It’s something only I can do. She cries, pouts, throws a tantrum. Not this time, I tell her. I’m ready to move on. For both of our sakes, this has to stop. 

But of course, that’s a lie. I can’t say no to her. It’s all a formality. We both know it. But we go through the motions. Do the dance. It’s ritual. We play pretend that we are anything other than two lost souls bound by fate, forever intertwined. As if there was even the slightest possibility I could disappoint her. 

She’ll tell me where to go. I’ll get my affairs in order and get on the next plane I can. London, Berlin, Athens, Tokyo, San Juan, Sao Paolo, San Francisco, Christchurch, Nairobi, Seoul, Saint Petersburg. The past few years alone I’ve travelled to places I’d never even dreamed of going before. I had no reason to.  

But she takes me. We waste time for the first few days. See the sights, eat the food. I’ve learned to let the tension from anticipation dissolve itself. I used to fear it so much I would throw up. It’s just a part of me now. Another step in the process. Another thing that happens to me. 

Usually, but not always, it will be a man. They will wear some sort of suit. They are a professional, a representative. They thought they might find me here, they’ll say. Heard a rumor that I was passing through. Wondered if I’d like to join their employer for dinner, maybe a drink if it’s late. They have a very enticing offer. A mystery that needs solving. A question that needs answering. A burning desire for closure. And since my  reputation precedes me, they want to ask for my help.

Of course, I say. It would be my pleasure. I have a gift, after all.

*

It’s hours later when he arrives. The sun has started to set, thank god, and I’m no longer fatigued. Now, I’m drunk, slurping the swill like a fish. Once the bartender found me, and saw that I was American, he suddenly couldn’t seem to leave me alone. 

“You’re going to get too drunk again.” I hate to admit it, but she is cute when she scowls.  

“No such thing.” It helps to scowl right back. She does this thing with the corner of her mouth. It scrunches, tightens up right before she loses it at me. It’s adorable. 

She is right. I shouldn’t drink. That’s when it hits the hardest. My yearning. I want to reach out and grab her, pull her tight, hold her to me. I want to stroke her hair and kiss her neck. I miss your taste, I would say. I miss feeling your chest on my chest. I miss our hearts beating together. I miss the way you smile at me in the morning. I want you. I need you. I love you so much. Forget this, forget everything. I’ll throw it all away in a second to have you back. Come back to me. Be with me. Just us. Forever. 

But of course it’s impossible. If I said any of that now, it would just be painful. For us both. It’s better not to say. She knows, anyway. I’m a pretty easy guy to read; that was her favorite line.  

So if I said it, all of it, out loud and made it real, it would just break her heart all over again. Because I know she feels the same way.  

I’m about to order another round when the Lamborghini pulls up. A garish thing, bright yellow Urus that screams new money. It cuts right through the street, carving through the crowd like a knife through butter. The people don’t move out of fear, or awe even. It’s almost like a polar reaction, a magnetic repulsion that pushes them away from the vehicle. It looks like magic. 

The car is certainly ugly, at least to me, but the man who steps out of it is even uglier. A quick size up tells me he’s gotta be pushing 6’5. Bald, of course. Black suit, black glasses. He clearly spends some time at the gym. His tan skin tells me he’s a local. Probably coming from the 777, all of these private sector types come from special forces. Which means he could pop my head like a balloon. Gotta try not to be a smartass.

He doesn’t wear a watch. I don’t clock any jewelry. He’s not a flashy guy; this is probably not his car. Bodyguard who takes his job maybe too seriously? His boss probably keeps telling him to settle down, but he’s worried his time in the Armed Forces will prevent him from being emotionally vulnerable- 

“You’re doing it, aren’t you?” There she goes again, reading me like a book. 

“Can’t help it. Might wanna use this guy in the next story.” 

“This is why you shouldn’t be drinking. You get so lost in your own head; you haven’t even realized this guy has been talking to you for the past five minutes.” 

I glance over, squinting. She’s right, he’s been talking at me. I can’t tell because of the sunglasses, but he’s probably angry. Big angry tough guys are no fun to be around. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.” 

He stops. It’s brief, but it’s a tangible pause. I wonder what he was saying? I should ask him when we - 

“Please, get in. We’ll cover your bill.” Flawless English, only the faintest trace of an accent. Of course, I happily  oblige.  

“Told you.” She smiles, genuinely, for the first time since we arrived. “Now try to sober up. This one is going to be tough.” 

The drive is long, but I suspect that’s not because we’re far from where we are going. I admit it’s nice to be out of the sun, even if the car itself is an ostentatious hunk of junk. The cool leather seat does almost too good a job of bringing me back to planet Earth; I’m worried I’m going to fall asleep. 

The big guy’s name is Youssef. He’s the only one here, which is odd. There’s usually at least three guys. He’s driving the car. I’m in the seat next to him. There’s a bunch of boxes and crates in the back. Probably shouldn’t ask him what’s in there. I have a feeling I really don’t want to know. 

Youssef is nicer than I thought he’d be. He’s serious, but patient. I can tell he has a personal investment. It’s a job, but not just a job. 

I was prepared to ask him the usual questions, but he makes it easy for me. He’s clearly read up on me, knows the routine. Who I am, what I do. So he offers me the narrative in as clear and concise a manner as he can. 

He works for the Mansours, Egyptian billionaires who made their fortune mostly in the automotive industry, but also have their fingers in real estate and telecommunications. He doesn’t disclose which brother he works for. Probably wise, especially if he assumes I’m going to write a book about this case as well. Two weeks ago, his boss’s daughter went missing. Eight years old, cute as a button. Their private security team found  somebody they think took her, but he has a rock solid alibi and they can’t get a confession out of him. So far, they’ve managed to pass her off as being sick and confined to bed, but things are reaching a critical juncture. Two weeks is a long time, and they need to find her before word of her disappearance gets out. Something about a public facing scandal getting in the way of  whatever shady business deal their mega-conglomerate is working on behind the scenes. I refrain from asking the obvious question of why her safety isn’t their primary concern.  

“Youssef is a nice guy. Listen to the way his voice shakes. It’s so subtle, but you can hear it.” She whispers in my ear softly, as if not to disturb him as he explains. 

I nod, agreeing with her. “I picked up on that, too. And the way his knuckles turn stark white when he grips the wheel…”

“He’s really worried about her. I bet they were close.” She suddenly turns sad. This is the part of her that always gets us in trouble. She’s too soft.  

“Were?” 

She turns away from me. Goddamnit. An eight year old girl. “I have two questions.” I turn directly to Youssef, cutting him off. That’s the second time I’ve caught him off-guard. He nods, signaling me to ask. 

“The first is, how legal is this?” 

Youssef smirks, something I didn’t know was possible for him until just now. “That’s not something you need to worry about here.” 

Makes sense. I imagine these people have palaces and mansions all over the country. With their wealth and power, making one guy disappear is probably easier than it was for me to book my flight. 

“I’m assuming you also want to know why we suspect this  man?” 

“Actually, I hadn’t really thought of that. You must have something on him.” 

Youssef raises an eyebrow. “Yes. He is her private math tutor. He had access to her schedule and all of her residences. His wife is currently sick in the hospital-” 

“-So you think he wanted to get ransom money. What, you guys don’t pay him enough?” 

“I don’t pay anyone. I am not his employer.” Spitting the words right through his grit teeth. I do not envy him, working under a guy who makes all the wrong decisions.

“Well, there’s motive. But what about his alibi?” 

“He is on security camera tape visiting his wife in her hospital room during the estimated timeframe of the abduction. That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have orchestrated it, used accomplices, but it is highly improbable if not impossible he was the one to physically abduct her.” He sounds almost disappointed. I can understand. Usually, when people in these circumstances feel with their everything that they have their guy, that they’re close to an answer, they bend their minds to whatever the narrative is. When closure is in reach, some pesky little thing like the truth is an inconvenience. I see it all the time.

“And he’s tight lipped?” Asking questions I already know the answer to. I flash an apologetic smile to her, knowing she’s cussing me out as a hypocrite in her head. 

“He’s been flat out denying it. We’ve tried…several methods. He won’t budge.” 

“Yeah, I’m usually the last resort.” I lean back, closing my eyes. The quiet hum of the motor as the car speeds down the winding roads in the Egyptian night soothes me to sleep. It’s better if I can get some rest before hand. The part that comes next is always draining. 

“What was your second question, then?” A soft melody of genuine inquisition lifts Youssef’s voice from his normal deep register. Do I, perhaps, have a fan? 

“How do you know she’s still alive?” 

There’s no other way to ask than directly. Youssef’s posture straightens as all of his muscles tighten. The rest of the car ride is extremely quiet. 

She looks at me, disappointed, but also sympathetic. “You big dummy.” She pats my head with her hand. Not a bad way to fall off into dreaming. 

If the day was too hot, the night is too cold. We step outside the SUV into radically unfamiliar territory. Away from the desert sands, the crunch of city nightlife, or really any other hospitable place. A secluded stone temple of some sort. Hidden away from the world. I’m sure if I hadn’t fallen asleep, I would have been black hooded on my way here. 

She tugs at my sleeve behind me. I look at her, taking her in. She’s afraid, nervous. Sweating and fidgeting. She doesn’t want to go in. This is a bad place. A place of death. 

Youssef beckons me to follow. I do. He leads me down underground. The black swallows us whole.  

“Stay right behind me. Whatever you hear, just know that I will keep you safe.” The words are oddly comforting despite the horrible reality they paint. Whatever type of private prison black site this place is, it feels more dangerous than I’m used to. 

Good thing it never takes long. I don’t belong here. I need to go home. 

It feels like hours, the march down into hell. Youssef’s warning proved useful. Screams and cries and guttural exclamations of pain. Like animals begging for death. 

I try to tune it out. Focus. It’s almost showtime. We finally stop. Youssef pushes open a steel door. He  stands, inviting me to step inside. 

“You will be paid well for any information you can get out of him. You will be paid extremely well for a confession.” I nod. Youssef can’t be trusted to enter the room with me. I understand. An eight year old girl. 

I’m surprised at how simple the space is when I step into it. There is a faint candle light illuminating the space. It’s a sparse cell, sandstone all the way around. Just a sleeping mat and a shit bucket in the corner.  

And a man. Clearly beaten and broken. Bloody and bruised. Malnourished.  

He looks up at me with desperate eyes. Eyes that scream for mercy. They’re the most alive part of him, darting about. Searching for an angle. Any means of escape. 

As soon as our eyes meet, I can tell that’s not something I’m able to provide for him. 

I feel bad, always being the one to take credit. It really is all her work. All she has to do is walk over and touch him. It’s a simple, beautiful gesture. She reaches out her hands and grabs his face. She presses her forehead against his. 

He is overcome with peace, as they always are. He starts to cry simple and slow tears. It only takes a moment, but it always weighs heavily on my heart. 

“She’s wrapped in her old blue baby blanket. It’s stained purple around her head. Buried under the floorboards of his father’s shed. It was an accident. He’s sorry.” 

The words are hers but they come from my mouth. I can hear the sound of Youssef’s heart breaking from the other side of the  door. 

Outside, the cool air fills my lungs with stillness. We wait for Youssef to take me back. I hate this job. It never gets any easier. And this time there isn’t enough material for a full book. But when I see her, bathed in the moonlight, looking at me with so much love, I really think it is the most beautiful job in the world. I’ll do it forever, to be with the girl only I can see.