MARIEL

15~ The Horseman of Famine ~

Sunday, February 9th, 2020

The hand over his mouth felt large. Fr. Jerome had always had realistic dreams... nightmares, actually, but this one seemed very real.

Probably because it was.

The room was silent, save for the big man's breath. It was hoarse, and it pierced the silence of the small, dark room. It was odd that Harlow was not hissing as she normally did when she encountered a new stranger. He had a random image of the female officer holding Harlow, stroking the cat's fur. Tira had been the exception.

For a moment, as Fr. Jerome lay silent with the large hand covering his mouth, he wondered if this man had killed Harlow. Likely not, because Harlow would not go out without an adequately loud defense mechanism.

Then, Fr. Jerome thought of an irony: his mouth was covered to keep him from speaking or screaming, and Fr. Jerome could do neither right now.

His heart, however, was very loud. Could Haleef Kaseem hear it slam against his chest? How could Fr. Jerome possibly help this man when he was recovering from surgery and could not speak?

Haleef Kaseem's whisper sliced through the tension. "I'm going to release your mouth now. Please, don't scream. I promise I'm here in peace. I need to find my son."

The large hand released him. Fr. Jerome took a very small breath, trembling, afraid to make too much sound. The air in his nostrils was fresh, cool, and contained a hint of the Febreze he'd spritzed earlier. He needed to find a new place for Harlow's litter box. The fluffy rascal always took a mean bowel movement. For Heaven's sake, why was he thinking of this now? Why was he not running, or at least considering an escape route, when there was - A man in his room.

A man, seemingly friendly at the time, he'd met at the Chicago Airport just before picking up Mariel.

A man who might have killed Gabriel Donovan and Victoria Jameson.

Finally, Fr. Jerome gasped. Loudly. The inhalation he'd stifled a few seconds ago screamed into his lungs, tore his throat, and vibrated what was left of his tongue. It probably hurt, but he did not notice. As if to tell the man to wait, Fr. Jerome raised a hand towards him and sat up. He saw the large man's looming shadow, black in the darkness of his room. How could he tell the man that he could not speak without reaching for his phone? If he reached for his phone, Haleef might believe Fr. Jerome was making a desperate attempt to call 911. Then what? Another murder on the Haleef's hands?

Suddenly, Fr. Jerome felt very afraid.

"I promise, I do not want to hurt you," Haleef whispered again. "Can you speak? Nod or shake your head, I can see you."

Fr. Jerome shook his head. He tried to gesture towards the lamp on his nightstand. Would Haleef at least allow him light?

"No. No light, please. Your friend is sleeping in the living room and I do not want him involved unless I know I can trust you."

Thank goodness, Nathan was okay. For now, at least.

Fr. Jerome looked up at Haleef and shrugged, trying to convey that he was useless without some form of light. Did this stranger truly believe Fr. Jerome had the ability to move quickly enough to call 911, or even rush out of his room for help? He must.

"Do you remember me? Nod or shake your head, please."

It felt cold in the room. Trembling, Fr. Jerome nodded. He wanted to ask if Haleef was a murderer. Would it matter? Would that question save his life? Fr. Jerome often relied on instinct, and something about this stranger's demeanor suggested he was not a murderer. Then again, he would have never believed his own son would cut out his tongue.