One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 17, page 6

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Emperor Bhanar adjusted his position on the cold metal chair. The interrogation room was decorated along the same theme as the holding cells. Concrete and steel. Nazhoro-ugly yellow paint. The room had two doors: one to the holding-cell hallway and one beside a one-way mirror, presumably to a listening room, just like on television.

The second door opened. Bhanar took a deep breath to calm his nerves. In walked a fat, balding man in an unstylish tweed jacket and paisley necktie. Bhanar thought he recognized him from when he was being hauled off by the cute policewoman, Nulıpésha. It was too bad she wasn’t the one interrogating him. This old Sorosotuzho didn’t look nearly as friendly; and Bhanar wished he could have more time to comfort Nulıpésha on the death of Pí‘oro.

The detective’s cold, gray eyes never wavered from studying Bhanar as he waited for the door to close behind him.

Bhanar’s mind flashed to wondering how Vata was coping with Pí‘oro’s death. He hadn’t seen much of their interaction, but he was sure that the death of one of an old couple like that would hit the other really hard. Pí‘oro may have been acerbic and treated Bhanar like a little kid most of the time, but surely his wife loved him dearly. Hopefully someone was there to comfort her. Maybe Nulıpésha was able to go be with her. That would be best.

The detective scraped the chair opposite Bhanar away from the table and sat down. Still watching the emperor with his piercing gaze, he laid out some papers and a notepad in front of him and cleared his throat.

Bhanar refocused on his own situation. Before the detective spoke, Bhanar said, “I want a lie-detector test.” He used the Zhuphíoan phrase, hoping it was close enough to Sarıman.

The detective narrowed his eyes momentarily. “We’ll get to that, if need be. I just want to talk to you for a while, first.”

“No, I need to prove I am innocent. I need the lie-detector test.” This old detective wasn’t going to trust Bhanar, he could tell.

Rubbing his chin with a sausage-like thumb, the detective replied, “Thank you for your desire to cooperate, but we don’t need the lie-detector test, just yet. Now. . .” He paused to find a certain place in his notes, although it seemed unnecessary. “Tell me what happened last night.”

Bhanar grumbled, glaring at the fat man. Careful, the imperial voice inside his head told himself. This detective holds power over you. Treat him with respect. Bhanar’s imperial voice sounded far too much like his father for his liking, but it was correct.

He straightened up in his seat and relaxed his scowling face. As the detective held his ballpoint pen poised above a blank section of his notepad, Bhanar began, “I drove along the highway, going to a motorbike race tomorrow--today. I was late. I was lost.” He took a breath. “And then Zhíno shot at me.”

The detective let Bhanar ramble on, telling his story as best he could in the Sarıman language, but when he got to the part about being hit by the police cruiser driven by Zhíno, the old detective interrupted.

“You do realize that your legs are not actually broken, don’t you?” The bald man smiled around the pen cap he was chewing.

Bhanar sighed. “Yes, sir.” He had known this was coming, but it was still a discussion he had wished he could avoid. “Zhíanoso healed my legs. The old woman, Vata Kılímí, called Him. I am the emperor of Narakamíníkı and Sarıma, so He responded.” But hadn’t the god said that Bhanar had called Him? Maybe Zhíanoso meant “you” to mean Bhanar and Vata together.

The detective tapped his pen on the desk, squinting with one eye. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” Bhanar replied without hesitation. “Completely.” There was no other explanation possible. His legs had been broken. Now they weren’t. “It was a miracle.”

The old man’s steely gray eyes studied Bhanar with all the warmth of Nazhoro, God of Coldness. The emperor held his jaw tight, refusing to rescind his statement. If the detective didn’t believe the truth, it was his own Pétíso-damned fault for not letting Bhanar take the lie-detector test. Bhanar glared at him. This whole situation was unforgivable, but Bhanar didn’t truly blame the detective. He wasn’t even inside when the police killed Pí‘oro. No, this mess was all Zhíno’s fault. That bastard was going to get his due, Bhanar promised himself.

. . . But only if this detective let Bhanar go.

The bald man tapped his pen a few times softly on his notepad and moistened his lips. “Continue your story.”

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