Body Surfing

hair-in-a-bun and uniform look was kind of sexy too.
    Stop it .
    “Master Mohammed had three friends with him,” Miranda said finally, her professionally neutral voice tinged with sadness. “I’m afraid two of them didn’t survive the accident.”
    “Jasper?” he prompted, trying to sound as if he didn’t know.
    “Yes. Jasper. I never could remember that boy’s name.”
    Thanks, Jasper thought.
    “And the girl. What was her name?”
    “Michaela?”
    “Yes! No, wait. She’s the girl in the coma. The girl who died had a silly name. Sila—that was it!” Jasper could see her blush. “Sila Patel. I’m afraid she and Jasper, Jasper von, Jasper van—”
    “Van Arsdale.”
    “She and Mr. Van Arsdale both died.”
    “But Michaela’s alive?”
    In the house, Miranda nodded. “In a coma, as I said. But yes, she’s alive. The Qusays have personally seen to it that she gets the best possible medical care,” she added in a slightly defensive tone. She smiled benignly at the security monitor. “It’s nice that so many of Master Mohammed’s friends have come round to see him, instead of just ‘texting’ the way you young people do nowadays.”
    She was speaking to the image on the camera, and in her expression Jasper could see the person she was looking at: dopey and unattractive. An object of pity. He could just take her, he thought. Could hop these gates and be in the house before she could dial 911. She wouldn’t be able to resist— Stop it! he told himself. Get control!
    “Q.’s friends have been by?”
    “Well, just you and Mr. Bishop.”
    “Bishop?” The name didn’t ring a bell with Jasper—and, given his capacity for total recall, that meant something.
    “Yes.” Jasper could see the maid fiddle with a slip of paper on a table. “Larry Bishop. The assistant coach of the football—pardon me, soccer team.”
    “Oh right. Larry.” There was no Larry Bishop associated with Dearborn’s soccer team, no Larry Bishop that Q. had ever mentioned. He sifted through his memories but nothing came up, then tried Jarhead’s. There was only one hit: a paramedic who gassed up at the Stewart’s, bought twelve-packs of beer and condoms in more or less equal amounts. The paramedic had never introduced himself, but his name tag read “BISHOP” and his partner had once said, “Hey, Lar, get me a case of Red Stripe while you’re in there.” Jasper had no idea if this was the same Larry Bishop or not, but if he was, how in the hell had he known Q.? Known him well enough to come by and see if he was okay?
    Jasper heard Miranda clear her throat through the intercom.
    “I’m afraid I really must be getting back to my duties.”
    “Oh, sure. Of course.”
    “May I tell Master Mohammed who called?”
    Jasper’s mouth opened. No it didn’t. Jarhead’s mouth opened, and there was the rub. It wasn’t Jasper who’d come to see Q. It was Jarhead.
    “Sir? I really must—”
    “Tell Q-ball Feldspar came by.”
    An image of Jarhead’s cell phone flashed in his mind. His host had dropped it in his friend Edwin’s car the last time they’d gone out drinking. He’d been looking for it for three days, but Jasper was ableto see it the minute he thought about it, one more bit of refuse amid a swamp of empty cans and cups and Ring Ding wrappers.
    “Feldspar?”
    “Don’t worry about it,” Jasper said to the intercom. “I’ll just call him.”
    He turned, got ready to run the fifteen miles to Jarhead’s trailer. He hadn’t gone ten steps when he saw the car.
    It was parked—well, dumped really—beside the gatehouse. A tangled mass of metal and broken glass. Jasper couldn’t imagine what Q.’s dad wanted with it. To rub it in his son’s face, most likely. Mohammed Qusay Sr. was not the most laid-back father in the world.
    The ruined Porsche was a sobering sight. It was practically his tomb, after all, and his steps were heavy as he ran toward Jarhead’s trailer. But even so, his heart was nearly singing. Michaela was alive! And so was Q.! His best friend was just a phone call away.
    The only thing that troubled him was the inexplicable visit by Larry Bishop. Unless he was Q.’s pot dealer, Jasper couldn’t think of a single reason a forty-year-old paramedic would pay him a visit at home.
    Well, no earthly reason anyway.

10
    A lec took her to a farm in the hills of southern Lebanon to recover. The air was sweet with the scent of orange blossoms and tangy with the smoke of cedar burning