Hard Beat(58)

I sit on the edge of my bed and then lie back, eyes trained on the ceiling and the cracks I’ve memorized as I mull everything over. I guess the military is pretty desperate if they’re calling me up, trying to get information. It’s flattering and f*cked up all at the same time. And not knowing what to make of it all other than Sarge is grasping at straws to get more information, I decide to do something that I never do. I text Omid.

Usually I wait for him to make contact with me; I don’t want to cause him any trouble should someone see a text, but I take the risk. The minute I hit Send, I wince and wish I could take it back, as my need to know doesn’t feel as strong as the need to not cause him trouble; in this place, that could mean the unspeakable. I don’t expect a response right away, and know if I lie here much longer, I’m going to go crazy.

Restless energy hums through me as I enter the lobby and look for Beaux to tell her what’s going on, but I can’t find her anywhere.

“Hey, Pauly?”

“Yeah. What’s up?” he asks as he looks up from his laptop with a cup of coffee in one hand and a Cup Noodles in the other.

“You seen BJ?” He twists his lips momentarily as his eyes try to gauge whether I have some hot story and I’m looking for her so that we can sneak off to cover it without anyone knowing. I don’t say anything further because he won’t believe me anyway.

All’s fair in friendship and reporting.

“Last I saw her was about two hours ago.” He sets his coffee down and glances at his watch. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. She’s been begging me to get out and do some human interest shots. And, man, I’m getting bored and antsy… Thought that maybe getting out in the city a bit would help some.”

“I hear that, brother. I hear that. If you go, just make sure one of us knows where you go… safety and all that,” he says with a wave of his hand.

“Thanks, Pauly,” I say with a smile, appreciating his friendship as I stride from the lobby.

By the time I reach Beaux’s floor, my texts to her have remained unanswered. A lick of panic creeps its way into my thoughts, but I shove it away, knowing she’s probably safe and sound in her room, in the shower or something.

But when I knock on her door and don’t get an answer, I immediately turn the handle. And the door is locked, but when I push against the door, it opens because the latch never clicked into place. I hesitate momentarily, the door a few inches open, deciding whether I should enter.

“Beaux?” I call out into her room, knowing damn well if she doesn’t answer I’m going in because it’s not like I’ve never been in her room before. Shit, I’ve slept in here on and off over the past few weeks, but it’s more the invasion of privacy factor that causes me to hesitate.

When she doesn’t respond, I enter cautiously and yet hopeful that she’s just so dead to the world asleep that she doesn’t hear me, but the bed’s made and the room is completely in order. I hate that I immediately worry, hate that for a split second I wonder if she’s with one of our other male colleagues.

Telling myself to calm down, that she’s perfectly fine and more than capable of taking care of herself, I wage an internal war over whether to leave the room and search the hotel floor by floor until I find her or slow the f*ck down, take stock, and sit here and wait her out. Make her come to me so that I don’t look like some sap losing his shit when I have no reason to feel so concerned about her safety.

But holding on to your dignity is a hard task when worry rules your mind. It’d be ten times easier if I were foreign to this environment and hadn’t seen the atrocities and disrespect shown to Westerners, let alone their own people. So I sit and wait. Bide my time by watching the world below outside her hotel room window as I sit in a chair next to a table cluttered with cameras.

Minutes stretch into what feel like hours although very little time has passed. My elbow hits a camera beside me and draws my attention. My original intention when I turn the Canon on is to pass time. See if there are any photos on the memory card that will allow me to get lost in the world as Beaux sees it until she gets back. Save myself some worry by looking at the beauty she’s captured.

And I do for a moment. I scroll through pictures of dirty-faced children playing ball in a dirt parking lot, of women at the market with their arms around small children while armed soldiers stand nearby. Groups of shots of men gathered around a table, playing a card game, and wasting away the afternoon.

She focuses on eyes and facial features, wrinkles etched in skin that tell a story all on their own. I get so lost in the images that I forget to question when she took them until I notice in the background of one of the images a minaret a few miles from the outskirts of town. The picture was taken near dawn, the sun rising over the mountains behind it and a group of men kneeling on their prayer rugs.

At first I notice the unique perspective of the shot; then I swipe the digital touch screen of the camera to get more details on the picture. And when I see the date is from two days ago, I immediately think the camera must have the wrong time stamp. It has to.

And then I become almost obsessive, going through the pictures on the camera card again to look at the time stamps. Again I see the wrong date that can’t be right. Once I’m done with the pictures on that camera, I pick up the one beside it and start the process all over again. Normally I’d get caught up in the new images that are just as incredible as the ones the first camera held, but this time around my mind is running a million miles an hour.