69

Inside the cave, Kareem prepared for the Maghreb prayer, placing his prayer mat on the rock floor of the damp chamber. The cave itself was a labyrinth of similar chambers filled with limestone stalactites and stalagmites, connected by numerous entrances from one chamber to the next, some nearly closed from centuries-old rock formations. The producers of the show had left a torch at the entrance, but it was mostly for ceremonial reasons. The day before, Gus had explored the cave. This evening, he used the bright light from his camera to lead Kareem through a few openings and into a large chamber with a flat limestone floor next to a large subterranean pool.

A bat flew overhead, startling Gus, who instinctively cursed. Kareem shot him a look. “Sorry,” Gus said. He swore again, but this time under his breath.

Kareem walked around the chamber, touching the walls and exploring the crevices. “You ready?” he asked Gus.

Once Gus gave him the thumbs-up, Kareem squatted next to the pool and began his ceremonial washing with the cold subterranean water while Gus recorded every move. First, Kareem washed his hands up to his wrists three times. Next, he used the bottled water he had carried with him to rinse out his mouth three times. He sniffed the clean water into his nostrils three times and then washed his face. Turning back to the pool, he washed his arms three more times, all the way up to his elbows. He passed a wet hand over his head, then washed his feet three times each, right foot first.

“Exhausting,” Gus mumbled.

Ignoring him, Kareem moved to the edge of his prayer mat. He faced Mecca and cried out in a loud voice, “Allahu akbar”—Allah is great. He repeated it four times, then folded his hands and quoted the opening of the Koran, feeling his skin tingle with the special significance of those verses tonight. Allah had chosen him for this task. Allah had blessed him as a finalist. His heart must be pure for the challenge awaiting him. He would not let Allah down.

He bent over three times, repeating with all the intensity he could muster: “Subhana rabbiya al azeem”—glory be to Allah the Great. He had never felt those words more passionately than he did right now. He sensed that much would be required of him in the hours ahead. If he survived the upcoming test, Allah would be glorified.

He dropped his hands to his sides and cried out, “Sami Allahu liman hamidah”—Allah responds to those who praise him. His heart overflowed with gratitude, defying words. Then he knelt and touched his prayer rug, paying no attention to Gus as the cameraman circled around him to test different angles. “Subhana rabbiya A’ala”—glory be to Allah the Most High. “Allahu akbar—”

Without warning, pain shot into his neck, like somebody had jammed a needle—a hundred needles—deep into his muscles, down his shoulder, surging with fierce intensity throughout his body. He groaned and fell facedown, fifty thousand volts of electricity from a stun gun crippling him. He felt as if his flesh were on fire, as if every muscle had been shredded, his central nervous system fried. A scream lodged in his throat.

He realized immediately what had happened and scrambled to rise from the mat. His muscles wouldn’t respond, but still he struggled to his hands and knees, tried to stand . . . and felt another searing jolt. This time Gus kept the gun in place while Kareem suffered and twitched, flopping to the mat immobilized. Even amid the dank mildew of the cave, the smell of burning flesh grew pungent.

“Move again, my brave friend,” Gus taunted. “Allah would be proud.”

Azrael. The Arabic angel of death. Finney had read about him the day he prepared for his cross-examination by Kareem. It stuck with Finney because the angel seemed to symbolize the unyielding wrath of Allah. In Muslim theology the angel of death is forever writing in a large book and forever erasing what he writes. He writes the birth of a man and erases the man dispassionately when it is that man’s time to die.

Azrael. Why didn’t he see it before?

Finney’s first suggestion was to have Victoria call resort security. But she explained that the cell phones provided by the show worked only near the resort property. It was shortwave technology, like a cordless home phone, that hooked up to a central satellite phone. There were, of course, no cell phone towers on the island. Out here and at the cave, the phones would be useless.

Out of options, Finney and Victoria started racing toward the caves—he in docksiders, she in sandals. Though adrenaline fueled Finney’s body, he struggled to keep up. He followed Victoria down this hill, around that corner, cutting a new path across shrubs and rock. He stopped once from sheer exhaustion and bent over for a minute to catch his breath. At least they were running downhill.

“See that large set of rocks down there?” Victoria said, pointing to a spot about a mile in the distance.

Finney nodded.

“The entrance to the cave is about a half mile from there. Just keep following the path.” She pointed down a bank, and he saw it. “I’ll run ahead.”

Finney started jogging again, but this time Victoria took off much faster. She was still in sight when he hit the path, but then he lost her as the vegetation grew dense. He veered off the path but then found it again. His lungs burned, but still he ran. A man’s life might be at stake. He prayed for strength.

His thoughts focused on Kareem. In hindsight it seemed obvious. Kareem’s cross-examination for the so-called worst-case scenario had always bothered Finney. How could somebody know about a one-weekend affair that had happened ten years ago? That wasn’t reality show research; that was obsession. Plus, Kareem said they had first asked him questions about representing criminal defendants. The same type of thing they had hammered Finney about with regard to the speedy-trial defendants. But with Kareem, there had apparently been no specifics.

Why? Maybe somebody wanted to confront Kareem about his past sins in a general way without providing a link to a particular person? Perhaps even a particular defendant Kareem had represented?

Somebody on the show’s production team sure seemed to be fixated on the issue of guilty men walking free. He recalled the background materials Hadji had discovered about the persons of interest and knew immediately who it was.

Finney could have kicked himself! He was so focused on his own cross-examination, his own humiliating history, that he didn’t focus on the others. Finney was right about one thing—ratings and religion were not the motive. This was far more personal.

It explained one of the first things on the island that had really bothered Finney: the questions asked by Javitts right after opening statements. Is it right to kill? Is it right to commit suicide?

Who wanted the answers to those questions? Who was contemplating an execution? Who was haunted by suicide?

Pieces of the puzzle came to Finney quickly, like decrypting the first two letters of a code and watching the others fall into place. Only one man had control over who would be on this show. That same man knew early on that the producers wanted it to look like one of the finalists was going to die. Maybe he decided to take it one step further. Maybe he handpicked Javitts, a man who always wanted to be a television judge, on one condition—Javitts agreed to select Kareem for the finals. Maybe this same man found an imposter to diagnose Kareem with liver disease.

Maybe he was used to orchestrating people and events, creating illusions to make the pretend seem real. Maybe this man was doing it even now, directing his most impressive show ever. But this time he was making the real seem fake.

A father loses a daughter to suicide, triggered in part by a rape. But why was the rapist free in the first place? Who was responsible for putting him on the street?

And what would a father do to avenge such a loss?

The answers, Finney believed, were in a cave that was now less than a mile away. He picked up the pace despite his screaming lungs. Victoria Kline had no idea what she was walking into.