Tongues of Fire by Abrahams Peter

Author:Abrahams, Peter [Abrahams, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9781504016322
Publisher: Open Road Media Mystery & Thriller
Published: 2015-07-27T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“What does the Koran say about interest?”

“What did Ibn Khaldun think about nomads and civilization?”

“Who milks Baggara cattle, men or women?”

“How did Gordon die?”

After a few more days of this, and little whirlpools, and loons calling their sad unanswered calls across the water, Rehv and the boy paddled back to Lac du Loup, entering by a narrow stream at the northern end. The cabin, sheltered from the wind by dense spruce trees, stood on the southern side of a long point that almost cut the lake in two. When they came around the point they saw the red seaplane moored to the dock.

On the dock sat a man and a woman. The man was chewing gum and reading a magazine. The woman was pulling files out of a big briefcase and sorting them into two piles, one on each knee. Neither of them heard the canoe. When they were quite close Rehv let his paddle shaft scrape the gunwale. The man and the woman looked up.

“Oh good,” the woman said. “We’d almost given up.” The man went back to his magazine. Rehv could see the name: Aviation Now! On the cover was a photograph of a man beaming in a cockpit.

They tied up, unloaded the packs, and climbed onto the dock. The woman rose, putting the files back into her briefcase. She was stocky, with thick dark hair stretched tightly to her head by an elastic at the back; the huge round lenses of her glasses gave her the telepathic look that beings from outer space have in the movies.

“I’m Mrs. Hume,” the woman said. “From Social Services, northern section. This is Wes. He’s the pilot.” Wes nodded and cracked his gum. Rehv moved a little closer to the boy.

“Yes?”

“You’re Mr. Reeve, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And this is your son, Paul?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Here.”

“It’s not the kind of thing we like to discuss in front of the children.”

“What kind of thing is it?”

She looked at him carefully. Behind the lenses the sockets of her eyes were small and very shallow, almost flat with her face; the eyes inside them were small too. Ice floated to the surface of those little eyes; her voice turned cold.

“It’s against policy to have these discussions in front of the children. Ministry policy.”

“Go up to the cabin, Paul,” Rehv said. He didn’t want the woman in there, where the walls were covered with pictures of Kordofan and Darfur and most of the books were in Arabic. Paul slung one of the packs over his shoulder and walked off the dock.

“A fine-looking boy,” Mrs. Hume said.

“What is it you want?”

“First of all, Mr. Reeve, we like to get to know all the permanent residents. We stopped at the general store on Frog Lake and they said you’d been here for years. We’d had no idea.”

“It’s not a secret.”

“Maybe not, Mr. Reeve, but the fact is there’s no Prince of Wales High School in Toronto.” The great lenses loomed at him. Wes glanced up from his magazine.

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