Free Flashback by Jenny Siler

Continental, I tried in vain to fit the pieces of the newly formed puzzle together. The case rested heavily in my lap, its implications weighing even heavier on my mind. I had come to Tangier for answers, but what I’d found was an ever-growing snarl of questions.
    The little red taxi veered to the left, and we rattled upward through the low, arched gate that marked the southeast entrance to the medina. I had to find the American, Brian, and no doubt he’d be keeping a low profile now that he knew I was looking. As we passed by the Great Mosque, I looked up to see Joshi’s Japanese flag glowing in the window of his apartment, the electric lights blazing brightly behind it.
    â€œLeft here, please,” I told the driver, directing him away from the Continental and toward Joshi’s building. Maybe Joshi did know where the man lived after all. At the very least, it was worth a try. Faced with the Beretta, the little man might find his memory greatly improved.
    The street to the building’s front door was far too narrow for the car to pass. The driver stopped at the entrance to the little alley, turned back, and eyed me skeptically.
    â€œIt’s not safe, Miss,” he said in French, shaking his head, and then in English to make sure I’d understood, “Not safe.” He was an older man with a neat nap of gray hair. A thick wool scarf was wrapped around his neck.
    I paid him and opened the door. “It’s okay,” I told him, but he didn’t seem reassured.
    He sat with his engine idling while I navigated the cobbled street, his lights casting the alley in sharp relief. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get past the locked wooden door, and I waved the driver away, knowing whatever I did to get in wasn’t going to look right to the old man. But the little taxi stayed stubbornly in place, the sound of its motor rattling through the medina.
    I ran through my options as I approached the shallow alcove, but as the door slid into view I could see that it was sitting slightly ajar, open just barely an inch, but open. Stepping into the entryway, I grasped the handle and let myself inside, out of the glare of the alley and into the darkness of the building’s foyer.
    Feeling the wall, I located the light switch I’d used on my earlier visit. The overhead bulb clicked on, the light flat and garish, the walls of the stairwell mottled and scarred where the paint had peeled away. I started upward.
    I found Joshi’s door closed, and knocked softly. There was no answer, and no sound from inside. The building around me was quiet as a tomb. I knocked again, louder this time, and pressed my ear to the door. Nothing. There was a soft click in the stairwell, and the overhead bulb switched off, plunging me into a darkness interrupted only by the thin bright bar of light that seeped out from under Joshi’s door. Sweeping downward with my palm, I found the knob and twisted. It was unlocked, and the door swung open at my touch.
    I stood on the landing for a moment and peered into the little apartment. From where I stood I could see straight down the narrow front hallway to what I guessed was the living room beyond. Just a part of the room was visible, one arm of a settee, a small wooden table and two chairs, Joshi’s Japanese flag in the window. And there, at the very edge of my view, lying motionless on the rug, were four pallid fingers, the hand they belonged to hidden behind the plaster doorjamb.
    â€œJoshi?” I called quietly, not quite sure what to do. My first and fairly certain guess was that the little man was dead. But it also occurred to me that he could be sick, or hurt, and in need of help. I thought of the taxi driver’s words. It’s not safe .
    Stepping into the hallway, I set my pack down, took the case from it, and pulled out the Beretta. I jammed the clip up into the stock and heard it engage; then, flattening my back against the wall, I started