Free Forsaken by James David Jordan Page A

talk.”
    “I thought you didn’t call it a show?”
    “Elise doesn’t call it a show. Everyone else does. It drives her crazy. Somehow I doubt if God gets very worked up over what we call it.”
    I looked at my watch. “When are you leaving?”
    “Right now. We don’t have to hang around here for anything. How about it?”
    “I’m here because you asked me to be here. If you want me to go, I’ll go. Elise put my suitcase somewhere. I need to take it with me.”
    Simon turned and waved at Elise. “Where is Taylor’s suitcase?”
    “It’s in your dressing room. We can get it on the way to the car.”
    Simon touched my elbow. “You can follow me.” He headed toward the back of the auditorium.
    When we stopped by his dressing room, I excused myself to use the restroom and took my suitcase with me. I opened the suitcase and pulled my pistol out of its travel box, then got a loaded clip from my ammo box. Once I’d loaded the pistol, I transferred it to a purse I’dpacked and slung the purse over my shoulder. When we left the dressing room, we wound through some tunnels to an underground driveway where a black Lincoln Town Car waited for us.
    I stopped at the curb. “Who provided the car?”
    “The same limo service that picked us up at the airport,” Elise said. “We’re meeting the arena person at the restaurant.”
    “Did anyone check them out?”
    “No, but they were recommended by the Mid America Center. Seems pretty safe to me.”
    “That’s a good start, but someone needs to check out the drivers and check the cars from now on. It’s easy to do and eliminates a big risk factor.”
    Simon and Elise looked at each other. Neither responded. Why on earth was I bothering? We got in the car.
    Elise leaned toward the driver. “We’re going to Pascali’s Taste of Italy, on the Loop. Do you know where it is?”
    He nodded. “Sure.” With that, we sped out of the tunnel.
    The snow had stopped, and the streets were mostly clear. The only lights in the car were the instrument lights and a pin light over the driver’s ID. I could see the back of the driver’s head, but not much else. His hair was curly and black. I looked at his ID and sucked in a breath.
    His name was Hakim Ahmad Malouf.

CHAPTER

EIGHT
     
    “SO, HAKIM, HAVE YOU been in the United States long?”
    Simon glanced at me, then at the driver’s ID. When he looked back at me, I could see Hakim had his attention.
    “Since I was twelve years old. I listened to your show on the radio while I waited in the car, Reverend Mason. Praise God for you, sir.”
    Simon raised an eyebrow. I leaned forward. “You sound a bit more open-minded than some of the Muslims we read about in the papers these days.”
    “I’m no Muslim, ma’am. I’m Baptist. My family is from Lebanon.” He looked at me in the rearview mirror.“There are many Christians in Lebanon. Always have been. During the civil war, when Syria got involved, many left. Things turned very bad. There are fewer Christians now, but they are still an important force in the country.”
    “I’m sorry. I just thought with your name and all . . .”
    “Do you know any men named Peter or Paul?”
    “Sure.”
    “Are they all Catholic?”
    Simon laughed. “Fair point.”
    “Do you want me to tell you a fact you’ll not believe?”
    I moved my head to the side so I could see more of Hakim’s face in the mirror. “What’s that?”
    “About seventy percent of Arabs in America are Christians.”
    “No way,” Simon said. “Where did you get that information?”
    Hakim smiled into the mirror. “I read it in one of the papers. People leave them in the car all the time. It’s one of the great things about driving for a limo service. I never have to buy a paper. It’s true, though. Only about twenty-five percent of Arabs in this country are Muslim.”
    Simon patted him on the shoulder. “I’m going to check you on that one. It sure doesn’t sound right to me.”
    Hakim shrugged.