in Women’s Fiction…
Semifinalist, Kindle Book Review’s 2013 Best Indie Book Awards…
and 68 rave reviews!
A young widow makes the disconcerting discovery that someone has left flowers on her husband’s grave…
A Widow Redefined is the moving story of a young woman’s journey through grief — and the transformational power of friendship.
in its Audible Audio Edition, Unabridged!
On a cold Valentine’s Day in Chicago, Amy White, a young widow who lost her husband to cancer, visits the cemetery and makes an unsettling discovery: a bouquet of fresh daffodils lying in front of her husband’s grave.
Curiosity grows into obsession as Amy searches for the stranger who left the flowers, while keeping her activities a secret from her live-in mother and seven-year-old son. The search leads to an unusual friendship that transforms her world and redefines her life.
5-star praise for A Widow Redefined:
Absolutely lovely
“…a beautiful love story as well as a story of healing. A very touching and sweet story about grief, love and laughter.”
First book — no way
“It is not easy writing about grief even for seasoned writers. Kim Cano handles the subject with insight and compassion…“
Great read!
“…a poignant look into the…intricacies of marriage and the conflicting emotions that come with losing a loved one.”
an excerpt from
A Widow Redefined
by Kim Cano
Standing in the snow in front of my husband’s grave, I came to an unexpected realization. What used to be a romantic tribute had become something disconcerting.
As I kneeled down to lay a pink rose at the base of Justin’s headstone, I noticed a bouquet of yellow daffodils in the spot where I planned to place my flower. Daffodils? From whom? I tried to wrap my mind around why they were there, to solve a mystery I hadn’t anticipated.
Then a strong gust of Chicago wind slapped across my face. And with it came a new level of comprehension. Today was Valentine’s Day. These flowers were fresh.
Confused, I began to look around. I scanned the cemetery for others and saw a lone groundskeeper cleaning near the entrance. I dropped my rose and began running in his direction.
Arriving short of breath, I asked, “Have you been here long? Have you seen anyone else here recently?”
“No,” he said, eyeing me with caution. “I just come from break.”
Out of frustration I grasped for anything. “Okay, well is there a log of some kind? Of the people who come and go each day?”
My visitations had never been recorded. I knew this.
The man could see its importance to me, so he gave it some thought before responding.
“No,” he said. “No records.”
Disappointed, I stood there, staring at him. He gazed back at me, with a polite smile on his face. Then, after an awkwardly long pause, the groundskeeper’s look changed from pleasant to irritated. He mumbled something about being busy and walked away.
My mind began racing and I felt the pulse of a headache starting in the back of my skull. When I left work earlier, I’d been happy to find it wasn’t cold and gray. Driving into the cemetery, I had been captured by the particularly brilliant sunset; the sky blazed with pink and purple streaks.
Now, as I stood alone, the sky was dark.
Suddenly, I couldn’t leave fast enough. I began running toward my car, somehow managing to not trip or fall, then hopped in and slammed the door shut. A little flustered, I dropped my keys as I went to start the engine. I felt around and finally discovered them jammed between the front seat and center console. I pulled them free, started the car, then peeled out of the parking spot like a teenage drag racer.
As I turned left onto the main road to head home, I considered the possibilities. Maybe Justin’s parents were in town and had gone to the cemetery. They popped in from time to time, not always stopping by to say hello. The rare trip to see their grandson was the only reason they ever seemed to bother with me.
I knew it wasn’t my mom. After the funeral she never went back, although she was respectful of my visits, which were many over the last two years. Since the funeral, my routine—coming on holidays and his birthday—had always been the same. Only the seasons changed. But today my world tipped slightly off its axis, and I couldn’t help but recall what my older co-worker Barb had once told me, that the only constant in life is change.
Something in the pit of my stomach didn’t like it.
As I got closer to home, I tried to forget the flowers. I wanted to seem normal to my son, Tyler, and my mom. He’s only seven, and believed I was out visiting a friend. Mom, on the other hand, is quite perceptive. Nothing gets past her. Stressed out and feeling a migraine coming on, I turned right onto the street where I live.
“Hey honey, I’ve got your plate in the microwave,” Mom called out, after she heard me come in.
I set my keys and purse on the sofa, took off my coat and hung it up. Then I walked into the kitchen.
“Amy,” Mom said, “You look terrible. Are you okay? You have sweat beads on your forehead.”
I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “Oh,” I replied, “I’m fine, just a little cold.”
She gave me a funny look and put my food on the table. I sat down to eat right away, hoping she wouldn’t ask more questions. Then Tyler ran in.
“Mom. Grandma and I went to the library. I got a DVD on bugs of the desert southwest. You wanna watch it with me?”
“Sure honey.” I somehow managed to eat dinner and hold a coherent conversation, but the whole time I felt like I was sinking in quicksand. Luckily, no one seemed to notice. Afterward, Mom returned to her novel, and Tyler and I watched the bug program; at least it appeared like I did. Mostly I just stared at the TV while thinking about the daffodils.
“Scorpions are so cool. Don’t you think?” Tyler asked, interrupting my thoughts.
I despised bugs, but I didn’t want to disappoint my son. “Yeah, I guess they’re pretty neat,” I agreed. “You know, it’s almost time for bed soon. I’m going to take a bath, and then I’ll come and tuck you in.”
Tyler frowned but didn’t put up a fight. He was well-behaved that way. He put the disc back in its case while I left to go to the bathroom. Once inside, I dimmed the lights and locked the door. I turned the tub faucet on to as hot as I could stand it, added some aromatherapy salts, undressed and climbed in. As the water level grew, I sunk deeper into its protective womb. I closed my eyes and let the warmth slowly relax me. As so often happened when I relaxed, an old memory surfaced—one I try not to remember—of the day my dad moved away, leaving my mom and me for another woman. I was just a kid.
Tears began flowing down my cheeks and into the water. It was a silent sobbing so as not to disturb anyone else. Then my mind began to race again. Daffodils! Soon my head throbbed with unbearable pain. I couldn’t allow myself to think about any of it a moment longer, so I released the drain, grabbed a towel and climbed out.
I must have lost track of time, because when I went to tuck Tyler in, he was already in bed, asleep. I leaned over and kissed him on top of his head, then gently closed his door. When I got to my room, I noticed a bottle of Excedrin lying on the dresser, so I took two, without water, and collapsed into bed.
While lying in the dark, I decided to think of something happy. A good memory. A previous Valentine’s Day. Justin always took me to Francesca’s, our favorite Italian restaurant. I could almost see us sitting at a candlelit table, drinking wine and eating pasta.
Justin raised his glass, “Someday I’m going to take my kitten to Paris.”
I flushed. Even after years together, he still had that effect on me.
“We’ll eat at the Eiffel Tower restaurant for your birthday. Then we’ll go on one of those Seine river cruises. What do you think?”
“Say the word and I’m packed,” I said.
We spent the night talking, sharing tiramisu. Justin glowed with health and his blue eyes sparkled as he described plans to expand his carpentry business. Soon we’d be financially set. We’d be able to afford to travel the world together, like we always talked about. I don’t think I’d ever seen him more excited about anything as he was about this.
People shouldn’t die of cancer at thirty.
Every good memory eventually ended up there… in reality. There was no escaping it, no matter how hard I tried. And now there was the mystery of the daffodils. I didn’t know what to think, but I desperately needed rest if I wanted to make it to work in the morning, so I shut my eyes and willed my mind to stop racing.
I dreamt of Justin. We floated peacefully together on a lake in a rowboat. The sky was clear and the sun shone bright. He said something funny that made me laugh, causing me to lean over and clutch my belly. When I regained composure and tossed my head back up, still smiling, clouds had filled the sky. They had an ominous look about them, angry. Lightning sparked followed by loud claps of thunder. I looked at Justin, wondering what we should do, but his expression was blank. Then the waves grew choppy. All at once, swells the size of skyscrapers surrounded us. One moment we were in their trough, the next we ascended their foamy crest. Terrified, I looked over at Justin, seeking some kind of help. He remained blank-faced and unresponsive. Then, as we began descending back into the dark cavern of the wave, the boat tipped over, and I woke up, choking.
Chapter 2
The next morning I woke up late. Disoriented, I jumped out of bed and scrambled to check on Tyler before getting ready for work. I found him in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal.
“There you are,” I said, relieved. “Thank God you’re up and ready to go.”
“Did you oversleep?”
“Yeah. But I’ll be ready in ten minutes, and then I’ll take you to school.”
I rushed through my morning routine quicker than I ever had. On the drive to school, I remembered promising my son I would take him shopping for colored pencils and paper. Drawing was one of his favorite things.
“We’ll stop after dinner to get you those art supplies,” I told him, smiling.
He smiled back, then I kissed him goodbye before he got out of the car. I felt so happy, seeing him excited about a hobby and enjoying life again. It had taken a long time–too long, I’d thought, but he was almost back to himself.
I managed to make it to the office, clock in and be at my desk just before my boss, Dave, walked past. He had some new clients scheduled today, so it was important we looked organized. It was a busy time of year for tax accountants, and, even though we did well, Dave never stopped drumming up new business. He was a real hustler.
Luckily, Dave never gave me any trouble. He told me once that I accomplished the work of two people. Although I appreciated the compliment, what I really needed was a raise. Things had become pretty tight with only one income.
Fatima walked up to my desk and stood silently for a moment, the way she did when she was about to ask a question. “Did you happen to see Dancing with the Stars last night?”
“No,” I said. “I went to the cemetery.”
The words were out before I could stop them. I had over-shared. Again.
Fatima opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it. She shifted her weight—all ninety pounds of it—then finally said “It was a pretty good episode,” and continued on to her seat behind me, next to Barb, the third member of our accounting trio.
“Everything okay?” asked Barb. I thought I detected a tiny bit of exasperation in her voice. I knew they both wished I’d stop reminding them how much I miss Justin. They’d never say it, of course, because even though they were pretty much opposites—Fatima, a just out of college, stick thin beauty, and Barb, a woman who embodied the dictionary definition of “matronly”—they both were much too kind to complain. But they were probably right. Two years is a long time to grieve out loud.
I mumbled, “I’m fine,” pressing the words through a forced smile.
“I think this morning needs some music,” Barb said. She patted my shoulder as she walked past me to the ancient radio that was balanced on the tallest filing cabinet. She turned the knob in search of a static-free station, but the reception predictably faded in and out. We could only count on two channels: Oldies and a Spanish station. Today she chose the former. On the way back to her desk, Barb smiled warmly at me. Her sweet round face and closely-cropped hairstyle reminded me of a garden gnome. She was the kind of person it felt comfortable and safe to be around.
As the day went on I cranked out one document after another, working like a machine, but my mind still managed to wander. I decided to take a break and email Justin’s mom in Phoenix. I had stopped trying to reach her by phone when she started replying to my voicemail messages with an email. I got the hint that it was her preferred form of communication… at least with me.
I sent her a message asking if she had been in town, and telling her I had been thinking of her recently. I didn’t mention the flowers. Since Justin died and they retired and moved away, we hadn’t managed to stay close.
Later in the day I read her reply. She hadn’t been in, but would let me know if they planned on coming up to Chicago. No “miss you,” no “how’ve you been?” She was an odd bird that way. Always somewhat distant with me, she was a bundle of sunshine and laughs with her son. A split personality, I thought, but I’d never shared that opinion with my husband. I liked Justin’s dad, though. He was sweet. Unfortunately, he never made calls or went on the computer much. He was more of an “in person” charmer. Once you were out of his sight, it was like you didn’t exist.
As I drove home from work, I thought about the flowers again. Knowing for certain that Justin’s parents hadn’t left them stirred an uncomfortable sensation in my gut.
Tyler greeted me at the front door. “Grandma says we’re going out tonight. Mexican food.” Then he held up a drawing of an eerily realistic tarantula.
“Sounds good.” I eyed his work and nodded approval. “Beautiful picture. I’m afraid it’s not gonna make it to the front of the refrigerator, though. It’s a bit of an appetite killer.”
Tyler giggled, rolled his eyes and took off down the hallway.
The three of us piled into the car and headed to the restaurant. Once seated, the waiter approached us, asking if we would like drinks before ordering our meals.
“I’ll have a margarita. On the rocks with salt,” I said.
Mom glanced my way, raising an eyebrow. “Letting your hair down?”
I gave a half smile back. “Trying.”
I wished the drink were for fun, instead of an attempt to settle my frantic nerves. I no longer knew how to have fun. I had always been the most serious person in the room. It was Justin who had taught me how to laugh. His humor kept us all in stitches.
After he got too sick to work and Mom sold her house and moved in with us, she continued to remark about how funny he was. The complete opposite of my dad.
The drinks arrived and I took a sip. The salt stung an open cut I didn’t realize I had on the inside of my mouth. I watched Mom drink her soda and remembered what she always used to say to me: “You’re so lucky, Amy. You and Justin have the perfect marriage.”
I ignored the brief stab of heartache and took a bigger gulp. Then I turned my attention to Tyler. “How was school today? You have any homework?”
He munched on a chip dipped with salsa. “It was fine. I finished my assignments before you got home.”
Of course he had done it. He always did. His teacher had recently spoken with me about the possibility of moving him up a grade. I didn’t want to cause him additional stress, so I decided against it.
Soon the waiter showed up with our meals. I took a bite of my chicken enchiladas. “This is delicious.”
Mom and Tyler—both with food in their mouths—nodded their agreement. It was nice being out together. We used to do it once a week with Justin. Sometimes Mom would join us; sometimes she’d babysit so we could have a date night.
As I reminisced about Justin, my mind wandered to the daffodils again. I needed to solve that mystery. Alone.
“Hey Mom. Remember that gym membership I never use?”
She looked up from her meal. “Yeah.”
“Well I was just thinking. I’d like to go swimming. I never do that anymore. They’re offering an aqua aerobics class this Sunday and I can bring a guest. Do you wanna come?”
My mom hadn’t been seen in public in a swimsuit in over a decade. She said she felt too old and out of shape; that her days of hitting the beach were over. I thought she was incredibly silly. But I knew she’d decline. The cemetery was on the way to the health club. I still intended to work out, but I also was making secret plans to investigate the mystery of the flowers.
“No. I’d rather not,” she said. “I can watch Tyler for you while you’re gone though.”
Just the response I had hoped for. A big part of me felt terrible for being so manipulative. Another part of me thought, “How could I tell you something might be wrong with my once perfect marriage?”
I’d have to deal with the guilt in order to find out more.
For the rest of the evening, Mom chatted about her lady friend, Tyler discussed his new teacher, and I weaved in and out of the conversation, listening and responding as appropriate. But a portion of my brain continued to work on solving the problem at hand. Who could have left those damn flowers?
After we left the restaurant, we stopped at the art supply store.
“Gauguin,” Mom said, addressing Tyler. “Which colored pencils do you want?”
Tyler loved being called that name ever since he’d seen a program about the South Pacific with Justin and me. We used to sit together watching the Travel Channel, planning future trips we’d hope to take. Tahiti was number one on our list. And once Tyler found out a famous artist had lived there and seen his paintings in a library book, Gauguin became his idol. He wanted to be just like him.
With a serious expression on his face, Tyler replied, “I think these would work best,” then handed my mom his selection.
He cracked me up, but I didn’t laugh out loud. He was like an old man sometimes. Now and then my mom and I would be discussing a topic, and he’d interject, saying something oddly profound. It never ceased to amaze us.
*****
Saturday night, after our monotonous weekly routine of chores and grocery shopping, we all sat down to play a board game. We chose Monopoly Junior, a simplified version of the regular game. Within an hour my son had kicked our butts. Mom ran out of money, which is technically when the game is supposed to end, but we fight until the last man is standing. Since I only had a few dollars left, I threw in the towel.
“It’s getting late,” I said. “We should go to bed.”
Tyler frowned. He didn’t want to sleep, but was up past his bedtime and he knew it.
“What a wonderful idea,” Mom agreed. “Let’s put an end to this embarrassing defeat.”
Once validation came, Tyler stood up and stretched, a proud smirk crossing his face. I wondered if maybe it was time to upgrade to the adult version of Monopoly, to give us half a chance at winning.
“Better luck next time,” he joked.
I was surprised I fell right asleep Saturday night. Sunday morning was when the dread set in. I took a shower, dried off and brushed my teeth. While staring at my reflection in the mirror, I noticed something: I looked different. But I didn’t know how.
As I blow-dried my hair I began drifting off, thinking of Justin. I still missed him so much. It hadn’t gotten easier with time. But it was something I lived with, something I understood. The flowers, though, they were something new. Their appearance unsettled me. In spite of my fears, I had to find out. I had to know who left them. And why.
I went into my room and stuffed my swimsuit and towel into my gym bag. I was probably overreacting. The flowers could have simply been left by the wrong grave. I decided I was being dramatic and silly over all of this. I’d just go to the health club, workout and come back home.
After eating a small breakfast, I said goodbye to Mom and Tyler.
“Enjoy yourself. Work those muscles,” she said to me.
I gave Tyler a quick kiss goodbye, then found myself driving toward the cemetery anyway. No matter how much I tried to pretend it was nothing, I couldn’t deny my curiosity… and concern.
On my way there my sense of awareness was heightened. I noticed details I hadn’t paid attention to before: a for sale sign adorning a neighbor’s yard; a new Korean restaurant on the street corner. This wasn’t a typical day, grocery shopping in a half hour or less or droning through punching a stack of documents, working on auto-pilot. This was a genuine mystery that needed solving.
And I didn’t look forward to it.
When I pulled into the parking lot and got out, I realized I hadn’t worn boots. I wore gym shoes. Cursing myself, I stepped into the dirty slush and looked around. Apart from a grieving family gathered on the far side of the cemetery, I was alone.
I began walking around, reading the headstones. There was an equal number of older men and women who had lived a long life. Mixed in were a few middle-aged folks and sadly, some children. And then, of course, there was me, the idiot hanging around with them on my day off. I shook my head, realizing how foolish I was. Then I walked over to Justin’s grave.
As I got closer, I couldn’t believe my eyes. A fresh bouquet of yellow daffodils lay in front of my husband’s headstone. I began shaking. From the cold, but also from fear. Anger rose in me. “What’s going on here?”
I expected some kind of answer from Justin, in the form of telepathic communication, perhaps, but there was nothing. The only sound was sniffles from my runny nose. I wiped it and inhaled an icy breath. Then I quickly glanced around.
Whoever brought these flowers was gone. But they had shown me one thing; it wasn’t a mistake. Someone was putting flowers on my husband’s grave. And if I came often enough, accompanied by my good friend—Irish luck, I would find them.
Chapter 3
“Mom. How was swimming?” Tyler asked as I walked in the front door.
I was so upset I’d never gone. But I had to say something. “It was good, honey. I’m on my way to getting into shape.” I inwardly cringed as I spoke the words.
White lie upon white lie. They began to compound so quickly, I feared they’d bring some kind of return.
After dinner, Tyler had me critique some of his drawings. He was really getting good. And I had a thought, one that I blurted out before analyzing the affordability factor.
“What would you think of taking a weekly art class? From a private instructor?” I asked.
My son shot me a look filled with wild excitement. I hadn’t expected such an intense reaction.
“Can I really take one? Can we afford it?”
The worried look in his eyes broke my heart. He shouldn’t know these things. Mom and I would have to take better care to discuss finances in private.
Not sure how it could be done, I responded, “Sure honey, we’ll just find someone who’s offering a special deal for new students.”
My reply was casual, dismissive of the ins and outs of how it would all come together, but it brought the mood back to where it was supposed to be: positive. And for the rest of the evening I scoured the internet, searching for art teachers.
I found an ad for a local woman and clicked to her website. She looked like just a kid. She offered one-on-one classes out of her home, which conveniently happened to be less than a mile away. Her rates were reasonable too. I didn’t know how good she would be; no reviews had been posted. But after looking over her qualifications, I noticed she had recently graduated from a prestigious art college in Savannah, Georgia. She’ll do, I decided.
*****
Monday morning I woke up on time, showered, and then dropped Tyler off at school.
“I’ll give that art teacher a call tonight. See when you can start,” I said, winking at my son.
He smiled. “Thanks Mom,” then gave me a peck goodbye.
After punching in at the office and sitting at my desk, Fatima approached me. I could tell she was upset about something.
“What’s up?” I asked. “You look angry.”
Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed and her wavy, jet-black hair swished as she shook her head. “Angry is an understatement. You wouldn’t believe what I had to deal with this weekend.”
Usually, when young people ramble, I zone out, but with Fatima it was different. Her exotic beauty captivated me, and her slight accent made me pay closer attention when she spoke. I listened for a full ten minutes without interrupting to the story of how her supposed best friend was trying to destroy the relationship between Fatima and her boyfriend of two months.
I had just planned to respond when Dave opened the office door. Fatima and I nodded to each other. This would have to wait until later.
As I began working, I noticed Barb wasn’t in yet. I worried about her sometimes. She was a senior citizen without any retirement savings. She came back every Monday because she was broke and had no choice; a fate I feared would be my own someday.
At 9:15 a.m., Barb finally walked in. After she sat down and opened her computer, Dave walked past.
“Everything all right?” he asked her.
Noticeably embarrassed, she responded, “Yes, thank you. I just got stuck in traffic.”
“I know how that feels,” he said, letting it go.
We were lucky to have a boss like Dave. He was easygoing. All that mattered to him was efficiency.
During our lunch hour, the three of us sat in the cafeteria, chatting and eating. Fatima recapped her whole story while Barb and I listened.
“I’m sure you’ll get it all straightened out,” Barb told her.
If I had made that generic comment it wouldn’t have been helpful. But when Barb said it, with that soothing tone she used, the simple words took on real meaning. When she told you something would be fine, you believed it.
“I hope so,” Fatima sighed. Then she turned to me. “So what about you? What did you do this weekend?”
They both stared at me, waiting for an answer. I felt like a game show contestant, clueless and wondering what to say. I had to respond, so I told them about my rediscovered love of swimming. I don’t know if this lie was white or pathological, but I was thankful they both agreed exercise was a good thing to do in our spare time.
After lunch, I kept busy at work, trying to stop my mind from wandering. Detail-oriented and precise, it wasn’t like me to make a lot of punching errors. Today, though, it seemed nothing wanted to balance to zero. I had to pay closer attention. I was losing it. My mind wanted to use its capacity not for work, but for putting pieces together in a puzzle. The only problem being I had too few pieces to work with. I’d have to get more.
In the evening, I called the art teacher. I liked the sound of her voice right away; it had a musical quality to it. She said Tyler could begin this Wednesday. All we needed to do was bring some current drawings so she could assess his education level. Then she’d put together a teaching plan.
Later on, when night fell, I couldn’t sleep. I ruminated over the past with Justin, wondering if I had missed anything, maybe not paid attention to some important detail. I thought I had gotten things right. We were happy. I know we were.
Could there have been another woman?
I didn’t think Justin would ever disappoint me like that.
I remember him talking about my dad’s affair. “He’s just a dick,” he’d said, while shaking his head in disgust. “Only a fool would leave his beautiful wife and family.”
He’d made his opinions on the matter quite clear: I’d never relive my mother’s life.
The phrase “history repeats itself” echoed in my mind. And I worried if I didn’t find out what was going on soon I’d go mad. I didn’t like secrets. I recognized the irony of that truth–considering the little lies I’d started to tell. But I was in control of my world at all times. At least until God took my husband from me.
I prayed He wouldn’t take my perfect memories too.
*****
The next morning I woke up with bags under my eyes. Not even concealer could cover it up. The evening was more of the same, lying awake, worrying. When I did finally fall asleep, I’d wake up again, thinking some new thought, trying to reinterpret events from the past. I almost preferred the vivid nightmares I struggled with from time to time. At least in them I got some sleep.
Wednesday night, Tyler and I got his drawings together and we headed to his new art class.
“You nervous?” I asked.
He looked at me like I had said the strangest thing. “Nope,” he responded, shrugging his shoulders.
Of course, it was only me that created psychosis around simple events. Instead of enjoying them, I stressed out. Luckily, Tyler was different. He enjoyed the opportunity to learn and looked forward to it, without apprehension.
We walked up to the front door and rang the buzzer. The woman from the picture answered, an old yellow Labrador sat behaved at her feet.
“You must be Amy,” she said, reaching for my hand. “And this must be Tyler, my new student. I’m Josephine.”
Her demeanor was oddly professional for a young girl. It didn’t seem to match her eclectic style, which made her look like a modern, hipper version of Mrs. Roper from Three’s Company. She had long blonde hair and wore barely any make up. She was what they call a natural beauty.
“Hi,” Tyler said. “Nice to meet you.”
Just then her dog barked, almost in complaint at not being introduced.
“Soleil. Quiet please. Be a good boy.”
She waved us both to step in out of the cold. Tyler couldn’t keep his eyes off the dog. He had always wanted one, but we couldn’t get a pet because of Justin’s allergies.
Josephine offered me a seat on a nearby sofa and handed me a magazine. Then she and Tyler went into the next room to get acquainted and begin the lesson. Once seated, I became so comfortable I managed to nod off for a little bit. Luckily, I heard them wrapping up the class and talking about next week’s assignment, so I sat up straight, ready to greet them.
They both walked in, grinning.
“We’re all done for this week. Your son is further along than I expected for his age. And what a creative spark. We’re going to work well together. Seems like the Universe has sent me the perfect student.”
I stood up and smiled back at her. I didn’t how to respond to her last comment, so I reached for her check instead, digging it out of my purse.
“Thanks for the compliment,” I said, handing it to her. “I’m glad we found you as well.”
We said our goodbyes, and Tyler hugged Soleil once before leaving.
“See you next week,” Josephine said, waving.
We drove home and Tyler went right to his grandma, telling her all about his new class. I did the dinner dishes and inwardly smiled.
*****
That night I hoped to get restorative sleep, but no such luck. My mind still raced. And I began to feel angry that I couldn’t have some kind of real control over it.
Hoping to bore myself to sleep, I reached for a fashion magazine Fatima had given me. I thumbed through the pages mindlessly. All I saw were ads upon ads for skin care products, jewelry, purses. Then I got to the main fashion spread. The first outfit was cute. I squinted to read the fine print. Floral printed silk blouse–$800.00, trench coat–$1,500.00, flat-front wool slacks… I didn’t even bother to read on. If I had I would’ve found out what I already knew—just one ensemble costs half as much as my Dodge Neon. Who really wore this stuff?
I woke up in the morning feeling rested. When I rolled over, I realized I had fallen asleep while reading the magazine. It was crumpled between the sheets. I stumbled out of bed, thankful the week was ending soon. I couldn’t wait to sleep in on Saturday.
When I got to work I noticed Barb was already at her desk. She was early. I sat down after saying hi and immediately began working on my own stack of files.
“Amy,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” I said, turning back to face her.
“I don’t know if you’d be interested, but this Sunday we’re having an event at my church. There’s this nice young man who’s right about your age that I’ve gotten to know—”
“Oh, you know what. I can’t. I have that swimming class I signed up for. Thanks for inviting me though.”
Barb smiled her famous warm smile. “I understand.”
Her gaze lingered just long enough for an unspoken conversation to occur between us. Then I broke eye contact, returning to my work.
She had good intentions. They all did. It started after the first year and a half. Fatima had a divorced uncle she thought I might like. My boss had a single buddy from his poker game. And now Barb. It was official. They all had tried. Maybe, I thought, they would finally just give up. No one could ever replace Justin.
I continued working, not giving what she had said any further thought. There were a lot of files to be punched, and accurately. I didn’t have time to dilly dally. Before I knew it, it was time to leave.
On my way home I thought about what I had told Barb, about going to the swimming class. Maybe I would do just that.
Saturday morning I slept in, as I had hoped. When I woke up I found my family still hanging out in their pajamas, too.
“Hey Mom. Did you guys eat?”
“No. Not yet.”
“You want me to make some breakfast?”
My mom smirked. “You mean do we want oatmeal?”
I flashed her a smile. “It’s like you’re psychic.”
“Sure,” she replied. “That sounds good.”
I didn’t know what she had against oatmeal. It tasted great, was proven to lower cholesterol, and you never got sick of it. At least I didn’t.
I poured some water into a pot, and then I stared at it, watching it come to a boil, thinking about our plans for the day. We’d grocery shop, clean, and Tyler would do his homework, both for school and his art class. In the evening, after dinner, we’d play a game or watch a movie. A typical Saturday.
Later on, after Tyler went to bed, I could tell my mom wanted to stay up. She had that anxious look on her face that she sometimes wore. I wasn’t sure if it was hormone changes or if she was being haunted by something. Either way, she’d never discuss it with me. But I knew when she wore that expression she needed me, and didn’t want to be alone.
“Hey Ma. Why don’t you pick a movie. We’ll stay up late and watch it.”
Her faraway look disappeared and she came back to the present. With the excitement of a youngster she said, “How about Scarface?”
We’d seen it I don’t know how many times. I was surprised the DVD hadn’t cracked. But I knew how much she loved Al Pacino, and how she felt he’d been screwed out of an Oscar for the role, so I said. “Sure, why not.”
As I grabbed the disc and took it from its case, I remembered how Justin used to sit with us while we watched it, mimicking the lines in a fake Cuban accent as the scenes unfolded. Somehow it added to the experience.
Mom missed that too. Whenever we watched it now, she also tried to recite some of the better lines along with the actors. I joined in even though my accent stunk. It was fun. Almost like a sport. Plus, I liked making my mom laugh.
*****
The next day was Tyler’s friend Sally’s birthday party.
In the morning, Mom asked, “Are you going to your swimming class today?”
I gave it a moment’s thought. “I’d like to. Since Tyler has that party in the afternoon. I could drop him off beforehand and pick him up on my way back home. You could finally have some time to yourself.”
“Sounds good,” she said. “Maybe I’ll do a spa day.”
After we ate breakfast, I showered and got ready to go to the cemetery. It was a numbers game. That was what I’d told myself.
Lost in thought, I realized I hadn’t seen Tyler in a while. I searched the house and found him sitting in his room with a wrapped present on his lap.
“All set,” he said.
“Did Grandma wrap your gift?”
“No,” he replied. “I did.”
I didn’t remember showing him how to do that, but I didn’t ask questions.
On the drive over Tyler seemed unusually quiet.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“No.”
Silence lingered. I could tell this would take more work.
“You’re not saying much,” I noted.
He sat for another minute, unresponsive. Then he blurted out, “Oh… I was just thinking.” But he still didn’t elaborate.
“About what?” I asked.
“Sally’s mom.”
He left me hanging again. I decided to wait for him to go on, only if he chose to.
Luckily, he did. “Sally’s mom came back from the hospital yesterday, just in time for her birthday party.”
I hadn’t known she was ill. “What was wrong with her?”
We pulled up to a stoplight and Tyler looked directly at me. Returning his gaze, I listened as he said, “I don’t know… But she came back.”
His face was filled with a sadness I hadn’t seen in a long time. It broke my heart into a thousand pieces. I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t want to upset him more than he already was and ruin his party.
“Sometimes people get better,” I replied. “Thank God for that.”
Tyler nodded while holding back tears, determined not to let them spill. Then we walked to the front door and I rang the buzzer. Squeezing his hand in mine I whispered, “Try to have a good time, okay.”
He forced a smile. Then the door opened to a bunch of screaming kids and he went in and waved goodbye.
Just when I thought he was doing so well, he revealed a new level of his pain. And there was nothing I could do to take it away.
Saddened, I got back in the car and began driving to the cemetery. On the way there my mood grew darker. I was glad Sally’s mom had recovered, from whatever her ailment had been. But at the same time I was upset that Justin hadn’t made it. Even being under the care of Dr. Friedman—one of the best cancer doctors in the country—wasn’t enough to save him.
After pulling in to the parking lot, I got out and looked around, and was disappointed to find I was the only visitor. I noticed the original groundskeeper whistling as he worked nearby, the sole moving object in a landscape of gray sky and dirty snow. I ignored him and walked through the frigid air toward Justin’s grave.
The closer I got, the more I filled with overwhelming grief. Maybe it was Tyler’s reminder that we were still broken; that we only pretended to be fixed. Maybe it was the stress of why I was here. I didn’t know.
Once I reached my husband’s grave, I sighed. The ground was bare; no yellow flowers. Unsure what to do next, I decided I might as well hang around and look for clues.
I walked the rows, reading the headstones again. Same people as last time. The hilarity of the thought caused me to laugh out loud. At the same moment, the groundskeeper passed by. Once he saw me giggling by myself, he scurried away, muttering something under his breath in Spanish.
I headed back to Justin’s grave. I stood there, staring down. “I hope you’re not hiding something from me,” I whispered. “Remember… no secrets.”
In my quest to find the flower bearer, I’d forgotten to bring my own pink rose. All of a sudden the area looked desolate. The only items on the ground were a few pebbles, lying next to a golf-ball sized rock. On impulse I kicked it. With unexpected force, it flew through the air and ricocheted off a nearby headstone before smacking back on the ground.
The sound snapped me out of my mood, bringing clarity. I should go. I was destroying the place. Then I glanced back one more time to say goodbye to Justin.
*****
After picking up Tyler from Sally’s birthday party, I noticed his sadness appeared to have lifted. He told me about all the fun games they’d played and what kind of cake they ate and about Sally’s presents. I was glad one of us was in a better mood.
Once home I plopped down in a kitchen chair to look at yesterday’s mail. There were catalogs for stores I couldn’t afford to shop at, credit offers for cards I didn’t need, and one last piece of mail that caught my attention. An envelope from The American Cancer Society.
I ripped the letter open to read its contents. As I did, I felt my stomach drop. They were inviting me to take part in one of their annual programs, something called Daffodil Days.
Chapter 4
Later that night, after everyone had fallen asleep, I dug the envelope out of the kitchen drawer. I’d stashed it away so I could take a closer look at it later, when I was alone. I suspected it had something to do with my dilemma, but couldn’t chance reading it and have my mom walk in. She’d sense something was off and ask about it. And I didn’t want to share anything with her. Not until I knew more.
I sat down and re-read its contents. The Daffodil Days program happened every spring. And in appreciation for one’s donation toward cancer research, daffodils were sent to donors thanking them for their contribution.
I knew this had to be it. A puzzle piece.
I got up and headed to the computer, then sat down and did a search for Daffodil Days. A link popped up for The American Cancer Society, so I clicked on it, and arrived on their home page. It said pretty much the same thing as the mailing I’d received.
I wondered how come I’d never heard of the program before. I’d given money for cancer research in the past. As I continued reading down the page, I discovered there were other opportunities to help, as a volunteer or program coordinator.
A feeling in my gut clicked.
I did a zip code search and tried to find a campaign in my area. But there were no matches within a fifty mile radius. Then I saw a button to search for a coordinator. I punched in my zip code and again, nothing.
I guess I was hoping to find a list of names—of volunteers or coordinators—and recognize one of the people and then everything would make perfect sense. Then I would tell Mom and we’d laugh about this whole silly situation.
Unfortunately, my browsing led nowhere. All I came away with was the knowledge that there was such a group. And that the daffodil flower represents hope.
*****
Monday morning I was surprised to see Barb in such a bubbly mood.
“You’re extra perky today,” I commented.
There was a swagger to her step as she walked past. She wore a silly smirk.
“What gives?” I asked. “You’re not yourself.”
After she sat down at her desk, I turned to face her. She couldn’t hold out on me for too long.
“I went to dinner last night with a man I met at church.”
“And?” Fatima asked, raising both eyebrows.
I blushed as if I had been the one on a dinner date, but Barb wasn’t the least bit flustered.
“Oh, it was no big deal,” she said. “I think he’s just looking for a friend. We had a nice time.” And then a big smile trickled out—one that she’d obviously been keeping to herself.
“Good for you,” I said. And I meant it. But somehow it made me feel a little sad.
After I turned and began working, I remembered the story of that other young man she’d mentioned.
I dismissed the thought as soon as I had it.
The rest of the day flew by. The only gossip was when I’d overheard Dave on the phone with his wife. From what I could make out, she wanted him to take time off so they could go somewhere for their anniversary, and he was making the “next year” promise. I felt bad for her. Dave never unplugged from his business. He lived and breathed the place.
Later on, when I got home from work, I found Mom standing in the kitchen. “You know what happened to Sally’s mom?” she asked.
I shook my head no.
“She had a heart attack. That’s why she was in the hospital.”
“My God!” I gasped. “Mrs. Pembroke is so young.”
“Yeah,” Mom replied, nodding her head. “Tyler is taking it very seriously. He spoke to Sally about it at school today. I guess the doctors said she’s got to change her diet and start exercising. I think he took the advice to heart, too, because he’s been asking me what foods are healthy.”
Oh no. This was bad. Not just for Sally’s mom, but for us. I knew my son all too well. Once an idea took hold of him, he’d never let it go. I decided I would try to downplay the whole thing.
As soon as I had the thought, Tyler walked into the kitchen.
“Hey honey. How was your day?”
He reached for an apple and said, “It was fine.” After taking a loud bite, he added, “I’ve been thinking though… ”
Mom and I simultaneously glanced at each other.
“… You know how you’ve been going to the health club, working out and stuff?”
Oh that, I thought. Sure, I remembered it clearly.
“Uh huh,” I nodded, feeling awkward.
“Well I’ve been thinking. I want to come with you and exercise too. Sally said it would be smart to start now.”
I wasn’t working out at the gym because I was hanging around dead people in my free time. But I needed a reasonable response. And fast. Luckily, I remembered they didn’t allow children to exercise there.
“You know what honey. I think that’s a great idea, but the fitness center is only for adults.”
Tyler looked genuinely confused. “Well where am I supposed to get in shape at?”
“I don’t know. I think since you’re a kid you’re supposed to just run and play outside and climb trees and stuff.”
Mom giggled.
Tyler let that soak in, then spun on his heel and pushed the curtain aside, gazing out the window. He didn’t need to make his case. I could see it. It was freezing cold out there.
“In better weather, perhaps,” I told him.
Knowing I’d need to find an alternative, I made a suggestion. “How about we buy some jump ropes and start a routine at home?”
Mom shot me a look that could kill. It was like I had lost my mind.
“Can we Mom? That sounds awesome.”
“Sure,” I replied, with reluctance, knowing I couldn’t take it back. “We’ll stop at the store after we eat and get some ropes.”
Throughout dinner, Mom didn’t look up from her meal. I felt bad, because I knew she despised exercising, but what was I to do? I couldn’t just leave him hanging. This was important to him.
After dishes Tyler and I went to the store and bought three red jump ropes. One for each of us. “Grandma,” Tyler called out as we walked in. “Look what we got you.” He reached into the shopping bag and handed her one of the ropes.
Mom gave me a dirty look, which quickly morphed into a fake smile as she looked down at Tyler. “Thanks honey,” she said in a sugary tone as she accepted his gift.
I think even Tyler knew it was forced, but he didn’t care. He wanted us all to be healthy. He wouldn’t take a chance on losing anyone else.
That night, while doing the new workout routine together, I remembered that Justin’s birthday was right around the corner. As we did sit ups and pushups and skipped rope to all Tyler’s favorite songs, I thought about the mystery person. They’d show up for that. I’d bet money on it.
*****
Wednesday night I had a headache, so Mom offered to take Tyler to his art class. I think she wanted to meet Josephine anyway, so I accepted.
While they were gone, I laid in bed, staring at the calendar. Justin’s birthday. He would’ve been thirty-three. We would’ve taken the day off work to do something special, maybe visit the Museum of Science and Industry or check out antique stores. He loved seeing how old furniture was constructed and frequently reminded me they didn’t make it like that anymore.
Justin used to say it was a sin to work on your birthday, so he never did. I didn’t either… until after he died. The last couple of years I just visited him at the cemetery.
This year, his birthday fell on a weekday. I’d have to call in sick. Use a personal day. As I lay there plotting, I heard the front door open.
A few minutes later, Tyler, mindful of my headache, whispered through the bedroom door. “Mom. Can I come in?”
“Sure,” I said.
He opened it and began walking toward me. He had some books under his arm.
“Look what Josephine lent us,” he said, showing me the stack. “She knows all about eating healthy. They’re vegetarian cookbooks.”
I sat up, took the pile from him and began looking at the covers. I could almost hear the verbal lashing I would take from Mom. She was a true red meat lover.
“That’s great honey,” I replied, patting his shoulder. “We’ll give some of the recipes a try.”
Tyler left my room psyched. He couldn’t wait to get started. I forced myself up and out of the covers. I had to go and find my mom.
She sat curled in a wing chair reading her book from the club.
“Hey… thanks for taking Tyler,” I interrupted. I rubbed my scalp and groaned. “My head still hurts.”
She set her book down. “Sorry to hear that.”
“So how was your visit to Josephine’s? Did you like her?”
“I guess she’s nice, for a new-age hippie,” she said, an edge of sarcasm coloring her tone.
I was prepared for her to go on and on complaining, but she didn’t. Maybe she could see that Josephine was only trying to help. And, of course, she was just being herself.
During the week we tried two of the recipes and were surprised to find they were pretty decent. We didn’t plan to alter everything about our lifestyle for Tyler, but we did just enough to make him feel good.
*****
A few days before Justin’s birthday, I started planting little hints at work. I began coughing and mentioning my throat felt sore. The night before I planned to call in, I checked the next day’s weather forecast. Cold, rainy, gray.
I’d need an umbrella. After everyone went to bed, I rummaged through the closet. While digging, I noticed an old pair of binoculars stashed on top a box of shoes. I pulled them out and dusted them off. I decided it couldn’t hurt to bring them along. I’d add them to my bag, along with lunch.
That evening, I couldn’t sleep. I thought of Tyler drawing in his room, and the three of us laughing and jumping rope, trying to get in shape. Then I thought of my mom. I loved her so much, and it was getting difficult to keep these things from her. I prayed to God if I found out something, that it would be a mistake, a miscommunication of some kind. Then I could write the whole thing off to my own personal craziness, and she’d be immune to it all.
It would be awful for my mom to doubt Justin’s integrity.
I felt awful doubting him too.
*****
The next morning I got ready for work and gathered my lunch, umbrella, and binoculars. After breakfast I waved goodbye to Mom and dropped Tyler off at school.
Before starting on my journey, I called my boss and got voicemail. “Hey Dave. It’s Amy,” I said in a scratchy voice. “I’m not going to be able to make it in today. I’ve got the flu.” Then I hung up, and began driving the familiar route to the cemetery.
On the way there, my senses were heightened again. Only this time there was one I didn’t want to be on high alert. My abdomen began to twist, but I willed myself to ignore it and keep driving. I couldn’t deal with something like that—not today. I whistled to take my mind off the pressure, but I only made it a few more miles, then had to give in and pull into a McDonald’s parking lot. I raced to the restroom, where I lost my breakfast. Shaking with the chills, I gave myself a moment to take some deep breaths and relax before starting out again.
The closer I got to my destination, the more I managed to calm myself. I was focused. Then I pulled into the cemetery, parked the car, and looked around.
I didn’t see anyone.
I put on my hat and gloves, then stepped outside and landed right in a soggy mud puddle, remnants of yesterday’s rain. (This time I was smart enough to wear boots.)
I trekked over to Justin’s grave, looking over my shoulder from time to time on the way there, making sure I was still alone. His space looked even lonelier today. No flowers, just dirty ground.
I stood in front of his headstone and sighed. “Happy Birthday,” I said out loud. It came out sounding forced, awkward.
As I continued standing there, I felt anger slowly brewing inside me. This was supposed to be a happy occasion. Now it was ruined. I almost launched into a whole list of complaints, detailing my aggravation and sleepless nights, but then I realized that was not what I came here for. Paranoid, I looked over my shoulder to make sure I was still alone. Then I headed back to my car.
I had parked it in such a way that I could easily see anyone coming or going. The first hour staring across the parking lot wasn’t bad. I had my iPod and at least managed to listen to some decent songs. Other than that, there was no movement.
The second hour someone pulled in and a man and woman got out. I was crouched down in my seat, hidden from view. As they started to walk away, I slid back up to watch them. They were heading in the other direction, but I decided to watch them anyway. They stood close to each other and talked. Then the man held the woman, who was visibly upset. Within a short time they came back toward their car. I don’t know why, but I slid back down in my seat again so they wouldn’t see me.
After they left, I got out and stretched my legs, moved around a bit. Then it was back in the car for more surveillance. Another hour passed, and I realized the very definition of boredom. Worse still, I felt I might have to go to the bathroom soon. I tried to block it out of my mind, but then it began to drizzle outside. I’d have to focus on forgetting about it.
Another hour passed. I was sick of listening to music, my butt hurt from sitting in one spot for too long, and I really had to pee. Since I’d lost my breakfast, I was also beginning to get really hungry.
Just as I was deciding between eating lunch and heading to the restroom, a car pulled in. I slid back down in my seat and looked out the bottom of the window. It was a limousine or luxury car of some kind. They parked, and then an older, well-dressed man stepped out and opened the rear passenger door. A woman appeared, and before I could get a good look at her, an umbrella popped open, covering her face from view.
I fumbled for my binoculars and adjusted the focus. The woman was tall with long, dark hair, and wore a black coat. Her gait was oddly graceful. As she got closer and closer to Justin’s grave, I felt my stomach clench. Then I saw her bend down and set a bunch of yellow flowers on the ground.
Holy Shit! I thought. This is it!
My car was turned off and the windows had fogged up. I scrambled to wipe the inside of the window with the sleeve of my jacket. Trying to hold the binoculars steady while crouched in my seat, I continued to watch her.
She stood alone, facing his headstone. The old man had returned to the car. With her back to me, I noticed her shoulders moving up and down. She was crying.
Once she turned, I tried to get a good look at her, but I couldn’t because her umbrella again blocked her face. As she walked back to her car, it began to downpour.
Panicked, I wasn’t sure what to do; I hadn’t planned this far. I started my car and turned on the heat and defroster. I watched as the older man stepped out, opened the back door for her, and the woman got back in.
Before I knew it, I was following them.
I tailed them from a respectable distance, but almost lost them as a light changed to red and I had to race though it. My heart pounded as I drove faster through the pouring rain, no longer caring if I was detectable. I made sharp lefts and rights and drove close enough so as not to lose them.
Eventually, we arrived in a wealthy North Shore neighborhood. As they turned onto a residential street, I slowed down so I could follow from further away. Within a few minutes, the car turned into a long driveway that led to a house that couldn’t be seen from the road.
I stopped and turned off the engine. I sat there–stunned–for a full ten minutes, and then I began to cry. I wanted to think the best of Justin, but instead I assumed the worst. I became furious with him. He’d disappointed me. He’d let me down. Dripping with sweat and nearly hysterical, I struggled with what to do next. Then I realized the best thing to do was to confront her.
I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. I looked like a monster. My face was puffy and red with black drippings of mascara running down it. I took a few deep breaths, then cleaned up my face with McDonald’s napkins from the glove box. I brushed my hair, patted on some pressed powder,
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Sometimes you have to get lost in order to be found…
I’m needy. I’m broken. Cutting breaks through my numbness, but only opens more wounds.
Depression, self-harm, bullying….that’s my reality. Sex and guys….that’s my escape.
The space between the truth and lies is blurred leaving me torn, lost and confused. And while the monsters that live in my head try to beat me — the two men that I love try to save me.
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an excerpt from
Therapy
by Kathryn Perez
PART ONE
DARKNESS
“Depression is a sneaky, evil bitch. She creeps in when you least expect it and snakes her way throughout the corridors of your mind while feeding on the light of your soul. She shows up during your most difficult times, only making them harder to shoulder. Sometimes, I wish depression was a living, breathing, tangible being, so I could wrap my hands around her throat and squueze ’till all that’s left in her pools of darkness is nothingness, rendering her powerless to ever hurt me again.
– Jessica
Chapter One
“The small words hurt the most.”
—Kris Harte
Jessica
Gripping my journal, I flip through the pages of my written pain. Putting pen to paper is comforting to me; my journal is the only place I can really be myself, the only place I can release my demons and voice my fears. Trying to forget summer break, I push away the thoughts of Brian and the other guys that used me for sex these past couple of months. The heartache they caused is nothing compared to the pain I’ll face today.
Senior year. My last year of hell on earth is upon me. This morning I have to step inside the hallways of my own personal nightmare. The fear I feel is almost tangible. Writing will help ease it, but I know it won’t be enough. I place my hand over my lower stomach and run my fingers across my scars. I focus on the blank page before me and start to write.
Faces
Familiar places
Trapped within these walls
Taunting me
Trapping me
Laughter filling the halls
Not much longer
It will soon end
Can’t let them know
They win
Broken
Beat down
Their derisions
Circling all around
Block it out
Push it down
Keep building these defenses
Brick by brick
My emotions bound
Seeing a stranger
When I look in the mirror
Lost and alone
My soul pleading
Desperate to find a home
***
I sit in my car, staring at the front steps of Jenson High School as dread washes over me. The drive here was nothing but minutes filled with anxiety.
Only one more year. I can do this. Just one more year and I’ll be free of this hell on earth forever.
The past three years were nearly unbearable, and I can’t imagine this year will be any different. I grab my backpack and push my car door open. The parking lot’s filled with people milling around, chattering about senior year, eyeballing each other’s outfits, and sizing each other up. One clique bleeds into another clique, and so on. Keeping a low profile is important to me, so I’ve chosen to wear a plain pair of skinny jeans and a simple white T-shirt; I don’t belong to any of the cliques.
Because I’m invisible.
I barely exist.
A loud engine rumbles as a huge truck pulls up in the
parking spot beside mine, startling me. I look over to see that it’s none other than Jace Collins, superstar athlete and megapopular boyfriend to my worst enemy. His door opens and he jumps out, throwing his backpack over his broad shoulder. He might be with the biggest bitch in school, but God, the guy is like a huge magnetic force made up of sexual tension and dimples. By the time I realize I’m staring, it’s too late; he’s noticed me ogling him. A small grin stretches across his face and I blush, snapping my eyes away. I turn and start walking toward the school when I hear her.
“Oh look, it’s Jenson High’s school slut. How lovely!” Elizabeth shouts, loud enough to draw attention my way.
I clench my backpack strap, keeping my gaze forward. I can feel her eyes gunning a hole through the back of my head. This is the only time of day when I’m visible. When I’m in the cross-hairs of Elizabeth Brant’s clique of mean girls, I’m a huge blaring bull’s-eye. Engaging with her is pointless. She never gives in or lets up. Now, everyone within earshot stares and laughs at me. Taking in a deep breath, I try blocking it all out. I can hear her spitting more venom my way as she gets closer, and her sidekick Hailey joins in the taunts.
“How was your summer, Jessssssica? How many guys did you add to your list, huh?”
Their laughter fills the air around me, and then I hear him. Jace. He’s been stepping in for the past couple of years to shut them up when they talk shit to me. The first time he did it, I was stunned. Why would he care what they said to me?
I’m no one.
I barely exist.
“Okay, enough of that bullshit. It’s the first day of school. Do you both have to be such assholes?”
I don’t turn around or acknowledge his act of kindness. I’m thankful, but I can never tell him that. If she saw me talking to him, it would be a disaster. I don’t know why, but every time I make eye contact with him I get butterflies in my stomach. Of course, he’s never flirted with me like so many of the other guys do. I know why they do it, and so does everyone else, but Jace has never treated me like a slut or piece of trash. He’s as close to a gentleman as a teenage guy can be.
Last year, when we were paired together in chemistry class, Elizabeth was pissed off. She pinned me down with her stare for the entire hour, but Jace ignored her and rolled his eyes. When class was over, he got up and gave me a small smile before walking away. It was the one time that I hadn’t felt like a nobody. For that one hour I’d felt present and not so closed down. It was easier to breathe—it felt like what I assumed school should feel like.
Jace remains a mystery to me. I have no idea why he treats me like a normal girl, but every time he does, my heart beats a little stronger and a little faster. I hope one day I have the opportunity to thank him. Until then, I’ll keep my gratitude safely tucked away.
Chapter Two
“Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets.”
—Paul Tornier
Jessica
I close my eyes as the blood runs down my stomach, the pain oozing out with it. This is what I want, what I need. Otherwise I’m numb, feeling nothing. The pain and depression stays suppressed until I can release it. It gives me a high and a rush that I crave every morning before I go to school. I know when I walk through those doors each day that I have to flip a switch inside and turn it all off just to make it through. My mom drinks coffee with a shot of liquor to start her day.
I cut myself.
I shove my notebook in my book bag and mentally prepare for day two of dodging Elizabeth Brant and her posse of mean girls. Some days, I wish I could just meet them all somewhere and let them beat the hell out of me; they could spit all of their poison my way and be done with it. If I knew it would make them stop, I’d do it in a minute. My senior year of high school has barely begun, yet I’m already counting down the days ‘til it ends. For the past three years, school has imprisoned me.
I just want it to be over.
Every day I pray that they’ll forget about me, and I’ll really become invisible. But they never do. I do everything I can to keep attention away from myself in order to avoid their radar. It’s always futile—Elizabeth is merciless. I’ve never understood how a girl who is so beautiful on the outside can be so ugly and evil on the inside. How all of her admirers can’t see her for what she really is will forever be a mystery to me. But I know better than anyone how easy it can be to fool people and hide your darkest secrets inside.
Because I do it every day.
I head into first period English and sit at the back of the classroom like I always do. I shuffle through my book bag and get my notebook out just as I hear them. Their banter is unmistakable.
“Oh my God, Hailey, did you see him this weekend? Jace was on fire in the game, although he always is. I rewarded him afterward, of course. Then he was really on fire.”
The bitch posse giggles as Elizabeth goes on about her boyfriend and the school’s quarterback, Jace Collins. They’re the “it couple” around the school. Jace is Mr. Popular and, of course, Elizabeth is Ms. Popular. What he sees in her, I have no idea. Well, aside from her long, luxurious blond hair, flawless bronzed skin, perfect body, and crystal clear blue eyes. But she radiates bitch, regardless of her appearance.
Elizabeth glances back at me as she takes her seat. “So, Jessica, how much slutting around did you do this weekend?”
I dart my eyes down toward my notebook, refusing to reply to her taunts. Trying to stick up for myself only makes it worse. My long jet-black hair falls down around my face, creating a curtain of defense, and I doodle aimlessly on my notebook, ignoring all of her comments.
Something hits my arm and falls onto my desk, then again, and again. I look up and Elizabeth is laughing as Hailey, her partner in crime, balls up another tiny piece of paper. I roll my eyes at them and look back down at my notebook, swiping the pieces of paper onto the floor.
Brian Wheeler turns, looking at me with an assholish smirk on his face, and waggles his eyebrows up and down suggestively. My stomach rolls along with my eyes as I look away from him. Brian is yet another example of a relationship gone bad. The fact that I’ve slept with him makes me want to puke.
Elizabeth turns around, mumbling something about what a skank I am just as Jace walks in and sits down beside her. Hailey flicks another balled-up piece of paper at me and he scrunches up his eyebrows, glaring at her. She grins back at him and shrugs her shoulders innocently.
“Hailey, don’t be such a bitch,” he says in an obviously irritated tone.
Thank you, Jace.
You’re a mystery to me, Jace.
Why do you care, Jace?
Jace, Jace, Jace.
“Jace Collins, don’t talk to my best friend like that! Hailey is only warding off the infestation of STDs sitting behind us,” Elizabeth hisses.
He looks back at me and mouths the word sorry. I don’t reply; no expression, no all-knowing look, nothing.
He’s the epitome of male perfection with his sandy, dark blond hair and light blue eyes. He’s toned and muscular, but not in a bulky way, and he’s tall with wide shoulders. Not only is he the star of the football team, but also the baseball and male swim teams too. He’s an athlete and pretty much has a clear-cut future with an athletic scholarship to a major university of his choosing.
The only reason I think he’s ever nice to me is because I’m on the girls’ swim team. I steer clear of all team sports, for the most part, and I’m definitely a loner. I’ve been competitively swimming for four years now, and it’s the only thing that I really enjoy besides writing. School is a means to an end for me, and I can’t wait for it to be over. This place is like a sick form of karmic punishment for something I must’ve done in a former life.
After English class, we all file out. I walk slowly, allowing Elizabeth to exit first. Hopefully she’ll forget that I’m behind her. I make my way to my locker only to find notes reading WHORE, along with other expletives in big bold letters, taped to it. I rip the papers off quickly just before Elizabeth walks by, shouldering me hard into the cold metal lockers.
“Oh, excuse me, Jessica. I didn’t see you there,” Elizabeth jeers. “You should wear a slut warning sign that lets the rest of us know you’re there!” she laughs as her followers surround me.
I look to the floor, hugging my books to my chest and shut it all out. This is how I deal with her, with all of them. I lock down, shut it out, and wait for it to be over. She flicks a strand of my hair from my face, and I flinch.
“We all know you slept with Harrison this weekend. You know that Hailey has been seeing him for quite a while. Did you really think you could keep that from us? Huh?” she demands, inching forward. “You better keep your skanky ass away from him. Do you understand me, Jessica?” She’s so close that her words spray flecks of spit onto my face. “He doesn’t want you! None of them want you, bitch!” She slaps her hand on my locker mere inches from the side of my face, and whispers quietly as she leans in closer to my ear.
“Don’t you ever just think about ending it all and sparing us the repulsion of looking at you every day? You’d be doing everyone here a service.” She glares at me with hatred burning in her pools of ice-cold blue. My eyes quickly dart back and forth, looking for an out. I feel hot, too hot, and my skin is clammy.
Breathe.
Then I hear his voice.
“Liz, leave her the hell alone already!” he scolds, gesturing for her to make her way to second period. “Remember what I said, skank,” she exclaims as she struts off down the hallway.
I look up to see that Jace is still standing here looking at me, his hands shoved into his jean pockets. I feel vulnerable and embarrassed. Why is he causing this awkward, silent moment to happen? I look away nervously and turn back to my locker, opening it quickly with shaky hands.
“Hey, I’m sorry about Liz and her tribe of bitches,” he says as I rustle through my locker, stalling so I don’t have to turn around and make eye contact with him. My hands are trembling, and I’m trying to regain some form of composure after the face-off with Elizabeth.
Just breathe, Jessica.
“Don’t let her rattle you so much. I didn’t hear what she was saying, but I promise you her bark is far more scary than her bite.”
He has no idea what his girlfriend is really like on the inside.
“Are you ready for swim this year? I hope we kick ass like we did last year,” he says, and I wonder why he’s trying to carry on a casual conversation with me. The bell rings.
Thank goodness.
I spin around and look at him with my mask of fake confidence. “Thanks, Jace. And yeah, I’m ready for swim team. I really have to get to class, though,” I mutter. His mouth turns up into a grin and he walks away in the opposite direction.
What was that all about?
Why do you care, Jace? Why?
If Elizabeth sees him carrying on a full-blown conversation with me, she’ll go apeshit. I’m like the plague around here, and the star quarterback talking to me is definitely not a good idea.
The day moves at an arduous pace, but I continue to avoid Elizabeth. I’m not sure what’s worse—this place and the way I seem to be the butt of everyone’s jokes or home where I’m invisible to everyone.
I go to my car and drive home, blasting Seether out of my speakers. I wonder what kind of day Mom is having. She’ll either be drunk, or be Martha Stewart; it’s a fifty-fifty chance.
I stopped caring a long time ago. When she’s not drunk, she tries too hard—it’s smothering. She overcompensates for her lack of parenting on the days she’s drunk as shit. I pull into the driveway and see her sitting on the porch, smoking a cigarette, and holding a glass of wine. There are kids outside playing next door where new neighbors are moving in. Their ball is in my way as I try to park, so I maneuver around it the best I can. A little girl smiles and waves at me as she retrieves the purple ball. I look up as I get out of my car and see Mom smile and wave sloppily at me.
Drunk day today…
“Hi, Mom,” I say hurriedly as I walk past her.
“Hi, sweetie. How wassss your day?” she slurs.
“Great, Mom. It was great!” I say, lying straight through my teeth. Telling her the truth is pointless.
I go inside to my room and slam the door behind me. After locking it, I reach over and pull out my hidden box of razors, alcohol swabs, ointment, and bandages. I flip my iPod docking station on and fall down onto my bed. Hinder plays as I pull up my shirt. Unbuttoning my jeans, I pull them down just barely enough to expose the fresh cut from this morning. I have to be really careful not to let the cuts get infected, so I clean and bandage them daily. It’s a normal routine for me.
I know I’ll have to put on a happy face when my dad gets home. He doesn’t really pay me any attention, but I always feel like he has me under a microscope, looking for any imperfection or mistake. I do my best to avoid him like everyone else in my life. The weekend is the only time I socialize, and that usually involves a guy. Sneaking out every night on the weekends is the norm for me. I’m usually cruising the back roads with whatever guy I’m seeing at the time, which changes often. I’m always too clingy, so they always run scared after they get what they want from me. Sex is my way of connecting, another way to feel something. I guess sex equals love for me since I have no idea what love really feels like. It’s my version of love and it fills a void, so I continue the vicious cycle of sleeping with every guy I go out with. The fact that guys have never noticed my scars really should tell me that they don’t care at all. I know it’s usually dark and they aren’t that visible, but to this day not one guy has noticed. If they have, they’ve never said anything.
After cleaning up my cut, I place a bandage on it and button my pants back up. Placing the box of items back in my nightstand, I pull out my journal and decide to write. I rarely understand why I feel the way I feel every day. Writing is my only true form of expression free from the fear of judgment. I can pour all of my feelings, fears, and frustrations into the pages of my journal and know that they’re all safe from the bullies that make my daily life a living hell. My secrets must stay hidden, just like my pain.
Pulling the cap off of the pen with my teeth, I chew on it anxiously as I write.
You only know the mask I wear
Who am I?
Do I even know?
Black…White… No gray
I either love or I hate
When I want to hold on, I claw instead
No sense of purpose
Eyes that are dead
Regret and rejection I swallow down
I just want someone to love me
Emotional pain creeps all around
When someone hurts me, it hurts forever
Be. Me. For. A. Day.
Let me walk beside you
Let me look over
See the me you see
Then you can walk beside me
See the you that I see
I’ll keep filling the hole in my soul with IOUs
While you keep filling it with I Hate Yous
I shut my journal and text Harrison. We had a good time this past weekend, no matter what Elizabeth had to say about it. Having someone makes me feel happy, even if it’s always short-lived.
Me: Hey, I had fun last weekend. You want to hang out this weekend?
He texts right back, and I instantly feel better. Happier even.
Harrison: Hey, babe. Yeah, I had a blast with you. You really know how to show a guy a good time! I’m not sure about this weekend. Jace and the guys invited me out. It’s just some sort of guys’ night out thing, but I’ll catch you some other time. 😉
My smile fades along with my happiness, and I instantly feel rejected. I want him to want to be with me, not the guys. Why does this always happen? Why do I need them so badly? Why do I want them so badly?
It’s always the same. Every guy I date, I feel consumed by some sort of freakish need. I know it’s not normal, but I can’t make it stop. In the end it either pushes them away, or causes me to go off on an emotionally charged rant toward them. I regret it every time, but the cycle is on repeat nevertheless. I usually talk with them online because they don’t speak to me at school. No one really does—I’m bad for everyone’s reputation. Elizabeth makes sure of that. One day last year, Brian sat with me at lunch and Elizabeth and her group made him sorry he ever did.
My phone buzzes and I see that I have fifteen notifications on Instagram. That’s weird. I never get much action on any of the social media sites. I have no real friends to speak of. I tap the icon and open the app. I touch the little notification bubble and fifteen comments or likes pop up. It’s a picture of me. Shock freezes the blood in my veins as I scroll down. SlutPics123 posted a picture of me hanging myself. A quote bubble above my head says DEAD SLUT HANGING.
They follow me everywhere I go; I can’t escape them! I know Elizabeth and Hailey did this, but this is a new low. Their weapons aren’t illegal, yet they cut me deeper than a blade ever could. Hiding behind electronic shields, they use their words like swords. I wonder what’s worse—the invisible scars they leave or the visible scars I inflict upon myself?
Chapter Three
“I have no one. I need someone.”
—Amanda Todd
Jessica
Another week of school has inched by and I’ve done my best to ignore the picture they put up on Instagram and the ridicule that’s followed it. Being silent may seem weak, but staying silent takes more strength than they’ll ever know.
I’m hoping Harrison will be able to see me this weekend. I’ve tucked a note in his locker, letting him know I’ll be home waiting for his call if he decides he wants to hang out.
He doesn’t really talk to me much at school, which I guess I understand. It would only cause him unwanted drama. Elizabeth and her minions have everyone at school convinced that I’m an infestation of STDs.
Mom is Martha Stewart today, which means a cooked meal for dinner. She’s humming and prattling around in the kitchen like we’re the Cleaver family. Dad will be home soon. He’s having a business partner over for dinner, which also means Mom will be on her best behavior. I’ll stay huddled up in my room for as long as possible until I‘m forced to smile and interact with everyone.
My brother is the star of the family and can do no wrong in Dad’s eyes. Jeff always gets the attention from Dad that I crave. I had hoped that when he left for the University of Texas Dad would finally begin to see me, but that didn’t happen.
I hear my phone buzzing and grab it, hoping it’s Harrison. I swipe the screen, revealing his sexy, tan face.
Harrison: Hey, you wanna hook up tonight after all?
Me: Sure! Where and what time?
Harrison: Meet me down at the parking spot by the water tower at 9 p.m. C you there.
I’m instantly excited, and start rummaging through my closet to find something hot to wear for him. I grab a black miniskirt, red halter top, and my laciest underwear. He never has condoms, so I’ll have to stop and get some at the 7-Eleven on my way there. It’s a given that we’ll have sex. I know it sounds horrible, but I don’t feel bad about it. Guys want it, and if you don’t give it to them, they don’t want you. I want him to want me, so sex is necessary.
I just want to be wanted.
Loved.
After a painstakingly boring meal with Mom, Dad, and his business partner, I change and head out. I tell my parents I’ll be back by curfew, but they won’t notice if I’m late.
I go to the 7-Eleven and buy a pack of condoms. A few get shoved in my purse and I toss the rest in my glove compartment. I check my makeup in the mirror and run my fingers through my long dark hair. I stare into my hazel eyes and wonder what other people see when they look at me.
Do they only see a slut?
A weird girl?
Are they really even looking at all?
I shake the thoughts away and save them for a later time when I can write them in my journal.
I put my little Honda into drive and head out to the town water tower. It’s always been a popular parking place for the local teens. As I get closer, I notice a couple of different cars and wonder why there are people out here so early; it’s usually later before anyone starts showing up. I pull in farther and park.
I scan the area and see a couple glowing cigarettes, but can’t make out who the people are smoking them. My heart rate kicks up; I hope they aren’t I Hate Jessica club members.
Me: Harrison, where are you? I’m here.
About five minutes pass by, but I hear nothing back from him. I decide to wait a little longer, because I really want to see him. I jump when I hear a knock at my window, and turn to see Elizabeth staring back at me with a smug grin on her face. My heart jams into my throat, and my breathing speeds up into high gear. At least when she corners me at school there’s usually an out. It’s a crowded, public place with adults around to prevent any serious situations. But this? This is very different. I have no idea why she’s here, how she knew I was here, or what she wants with me.
She beats on my window as her friends circle around my car. I quickly start my engine and throw the gear in reverse. I need to get the hell out of here. Just as I start backing up, Harrison pulls in right behind me, blocking my exit. I’m now completely boxed in. Maybe this is best, like I’ve always wanted. She can do whatever she wants to me and be done with it.
I really don’t care anymore.
“Get out of the damn car, whore!”
I turn and glance toward the front of my car just as Hailey pours a beer all over the hood. Harrison walks up puts his arm around Hailey affectionately, and my stomach clenches in anguish.
How could he do this? Did he trick me so that I’d come out here and they could torture me? Why would he be so cruel? I’ve always done everything he’s asked of me. I’ve always tried to make him happy. How could he do this to me? Tears start to well up in my eyes, but I quickly get myself under control, not wanting them to see me break. I reach over and open my door, step out, and am instantly shoved back against the cold metal of my car.
“I told you earlier this week that Harrison was Hailey’s. You just wouldn’t listen, would you, skank? Hailey saw your texts to him. Did you really think he was going to keep seeing you? He’s not going to lose the captain of the cheerleading squad for the captain of the blow job team,” Elizabeth hisses sarcastically.
Everyone laughs as I stand there. Just before I open my mouth to antagonize her, Bentley comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her, kissing her neck. Has she broken up with Jace, or is she being the whore that she always claims me to be? Bravery finds its way to my tongue, and I do the stupidest thing I could ever do.
I poke the snake when it’s ready to strike.
“Where’s Jace, Elizabeth? Does he know you’re out here screwing around on him with Bentley? Maybe I’ll let him know and he can be my next fuck. I bet I can show him things he never dreamed of when he was with you.” I smirk and cross my arms over my chest. Adrenaline courses through my veins as I await her response.
Her eyes grow wide and she gasps as everyone starts laughing and heckling her over my comment. “Bentley and I are just friends, you stupid bitch. Mind your own damn business. Who the fuck do you think you are anyway?” She slaps me with all her strength and heat creeps across my face. Grabbing me by the shoulders, she slams me into the car even harder.
“All of a sudden you’ve got some newfound courage tonight, huh? You’re going to regret ever saying that shit to me. And if you insinuate that I was doing anything other than hanging with friends to Jace, tonight will feel like a walk in the park compared to what will happen to you next.”
She grabs me by my arm and yanks me away from the car.
“Hailey, get your ass over here and help me. This shit is all your damn fault anyway. Your boyfriend’s the one that can’t keep his dick in his pants!”
I look into her evil eyes defiantly, practically begging her to beat the hell out of me.
Don’t do it, Jessica. Don’t make it worse.
“Go fuck yourself, Elizabeth,” I reply in a raspy, nervy voice. I make it worse.
I feel like I’m moving in slow motion as I let her manhandle me, not trying to defend myself at all. I don’t care, so I just let her and Hailey do whatever they want.
Maybe Harrison will feel sorry for me and want me afterward.
I squeeze my eyes shut at the pathetic thoughts rolling through my equally pathetic mind. Their laughter ebbs away slowly as I slip into my locked-down world of numbness. I open my eyes, and despite my efforts to block it all out, my stomach twists in anticipation of what will happen next. Harrison glances up at me, his eyes full of mockery and disgust.
“Act like a whore, Jessica, and you’ll keep getting treated like one,” he spouts.
How I thought he liked me, I don’t know. Hailey and Elizabeth are dragging me along while everyone else hoots and hollers. I look back at Harrison with hatred in my eyes, in my heart.
“I hate you, Harrison!”
He laughs and grabs his crotch. “You sure weren’t hating on this last weekend, baby,” he mocks. Joe Fitzer, another guy from the football team, pats Harrison on the shoulder and laughs. “Hey, Jessica, I’m single. Maybe you can show me the same TLC you showed my homeboy Harrison.” Joe winks at me as he takes a draw from his beer.
Hailey grips my arm tighter, hearing the guys’ words. “Shut the hell up, you horny bastards! No one cares how you let this skank-ass tramp blow you or how you want to get into her STD-infested panties!”
Elizabeth spins me around, grabs my wrists in her left hand, then rears up and slaps me on the left side of my face again. The only fight I put up is the one to gulp down the sobs trying to escape my throat.
“How’s that, whore? You like that?” Hailey hisses. “Think about that next time you want to fuck someone else’s man!”
She spits in my face, and they shove me to the ground. I can feel the sand and rocks dig into the flesh of my bare knees. My neck cranes, and I grimace at the pain before my head is jerked back violently by Elizabeth yanking me by my hair.
“Apologize, you slut! Tell Hailey you’re sorry for screwing around with her man!”
The thought of me owing her an apology is such a joke. What about him? He chose to be with me over her.
“Do it, bitch!” Elizabeth screams as she tightens her grip and pulls my hair harder. Hairs are ripping out of my scalp, but I don’t answer. I won’t give her what she wants. Not yet, at least. Then she reaches down and rips my earring from my left ear, throwing it to the ground in her rage. I let out a small cry at the pain as warm blood from my earlobe trickles down my neck. Things are no longer comical—not that I ever thought they were—and I know they’re far from finished with me.
I glance up and see the lights of several phones all pointed in my direction. They’re videoing all of this like I’m some freak show type of entertainment.
“Get your phone, Hailey. Take some pictures of this bitch getting what she deserves.”
Closing my eyes, I try to keep myself under control before looking back up at them. The unspoken challenge in their eyes taunts me; it begs for me to antagonize them further. I shouldn’t, but I do. I say words that mean nothing to me anyway.
“I’m sorry for making your man come more times in a few weekends than you ever will in his lifetime!” I shout smugly.
I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it. My impulsivity won over. All I want to do is hurt her; humiliate her in front of everyone, even if it means putting my promiscuous ways on display.
I hold back the tears that want to come, realizing just how humiliating all of this is for me.
Hailey kicks me in the chest, forcing me backward onto the dirty ground. She holds her phone out, taking pictures of me as I try to gain my bearings. I hear my heart pulsate in my ears, and anxiety rushes through me. My instincts say to get up, but I don’t. Any bravery I had is long gone, but, to tell the truth, I don’t think it was ever really there.
For once, I wish I were invisible. I don’t want this. I know that now. I thought if they could have their way with me that they’d somehow lose interest, but looking up at them I can plainly see that this is only adding fuel to their fire.
Elizabeth reaches down, digging her nails into my arm and screaming wildly at me as she struggles to pull me back up. “Get the hell up, you whore, and fight back! You’re making this way too easy. Where’s the fun in that?” She laughs, looking back at the small group crowded around us.
Grabbing another handful of my hair, she lifts her right hand up and backhands me again with all the force she can garner. I fall to the ground, bracing myself with my hands. My face is inches from the dirt and rocks, and before I can push myself back up her knee digs in between my shoulder blades, pinning me down. My face collides with hundreds of little jagged edges, and the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.
Giving up, I don’t struggle under her or try to get away. I completely detach from all the pain, all the degradation, and lie there in defeat. For the moment, the humiliation and shame I should feel is absent, but I know it will come. It always does. Searing blows to my ribs on both sides rock my body and I realize they’re kicking me. After long minutes of pain my body goes still, and I hear the rocks crunching beneath their feet.
“Next time you think about fucking someone’s man, remember tonight, whore! We’ll happily kick your narrow ass again any day!” Elizabeth shouts as car doors slam shut. The sounds of wheels kicking up dirt and gravel as they rev their engines and speed out onto the dark blacktop road fill the air. The grit slides beneath my nails as I dig my fingers into the dirt. With shaky arms, I struggle to push myself up, but my body rejects my efforts. I cough and the pain that seizes me is too much to bear. Allowing my body to drop back down heavily, I close my eyes. The dim light from the moon disappears slowly, bleeding into blackness behind my eyes.
***
My eyelids begin to flutter open when I hear a soft male voice. I hear words, but my brain can’t register their meaning. I can focus only on the pain shooting through my entire body and the taste of blood in my mouth. Gentle hands roll me over, warm arms envelop me, and soft fingers brush the hair from my face. I breathe in intense warmth and the smell of peppermint. My eyes can’t focus, but even in this foggy state the immense pressure of his gaze upon me is undeniable. My body wants, but fails to respond to the embrace.
“Hey, open your eyes. Look at me, Jessica. I’m going to help you, okay? It’s me, Jace,” I hear him whisper as my mind starts to resurface from the depths of darkness. He pulls me up, supporting me when my knees buckle. “Come on, it’s okay. I can carry you.”
… Continued…
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Five romantic novellas by five different authors make up this poignant, sexy and sweet anthology set over centuries in one stately residence on North Carolina’s Albemarle Sound.
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Bliss: An Anthology of Novellas (Bliss Series)
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One stately residence on North Carolina’s Albemarle Sound. Five stories of heart-warming romance. Told against the backdrop of the Civil War, the loss of an unsinkable ship, the patriotic zeal of the second world war, the heart-rending conflict of Vietnam, and the thrill of modern day Nascar, Jamie Denton, S. K. McClafferty, Kathleen Shoop, Marcy Waldenville, and J. D. Wylde deliver a variety pack of poignant, sexy, and sweet.
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an excerpt from
Bliss:
An Anthology of Novellas
Marcy Waldenville & J.D. Wylde
HOME AGAIN
by Kathleen Shoop
ONE
Autumn, 1969
APRIL HARRINGTON FINALLY arrived. Nine hours, straight through. After everything that had happened, she was simply drawn there. She swallowed hard—her raw throat ached as she stared in the direction of her brother, Andrew’s, memorial site. She missed him so much that she hadn’t been able to return since the service. Nothing had been the same since he died in Vietnam.
She stood where the cypress trees bowed to one another, forming a lace canopy of foliage that led the way to the dock. Her mind worked like a camera, snapping shots into neat frames that she filed away in mental drawers. Without trying, she compared all that she saw in present time with all that she recalled about Albemarle Sound. The call of the osprey that nested above the water drew April’s attention upward. What had she done to her life?
She looked down at her French silk wedding dress. She whisked her hands over the fabric, not believing she’d driven straight from New York in full bridal attire. She pulled her veil from her hair, peering at the fine creation that an elderly woman, with her bent, bulbous fingers, had lovingly fashioned for April’s special day.
The great blue herons screeched, their throaty voices as familiar as her breath. The toads, woodpeckers, hawks, and wolves—they set the rhythms of Bliss—the home where her family had spent every summer of her life before she left for college. She was sure she’d made the right decision to abandon Mason at the altar, but sharp guilt that she’d also left her parents at the wedding stabbed at her. She knew her parents would understand her not marrying Mason in the end, but they would not approve of her fleeing the scene.
She had worked so hard at Columbia University. A journalism graduate, she’d found her camera was her favorite way to observe the world, to tell a story. All that work—the elation she’d experienced when she crafted the perfect photo essay or framed the perfect shot, revealing someone’s soul in a single image—had been so fulfilling.
Yet she’d driven away from all of that and more. And standing there, April knew the deep regret of failure was dwarfed by what she’d seen in the photos from Woodstock, what she’d learned about life since Andrew died.
The hollow tone of wood thudding against wood made April head down the dock. The rowboat that had been carved 60 years before, shaped from one of the biggest cypress trees on the property, bobbed at the end of the dock. What would it be doing out of storage this late in the year?
She looked around as though there’d be someone there to answer her thoughts. A stiff wind dropped in and forced the waves to stand in sharp rows like soldiers marching toward the dock, bullying the boat. The gusts pressed April’s dress to her thighs, making it hard to walk. She raised her hand, the veil flapping in the wind. She opened her hand and the veil swirled around her fingertips, and then soared away.
At the end of the dock, she tried to squat, but the dress was too tight. Dammit. The dock creaked beneath her. She reached behind her and worked the buttons. It had been the one concession she’d made to her future mother-in-law; she’d had exquisite antique buttons sewn onto her otherwise decoration-free dress. She’d never imagined she’d be trying to wiggle out of the sheath on her own.
The woodpeckers and crickets performed as April reached up, then down her back to get at the last of the buttons. A wave tossed the rowboat upward, smacking it against the dock again. She took a deep breath and pulled at the dress, scattering buttons around her feet. A fresh wind broke over the mooring and blew the buttons in every direction, dropping them into the water below.
Another crash of the rowboat, and April refocused. She shimmied out of the dress then bent over and yanked the rope that tethered the boat.
The wind dropped away, bringing an eerie stillness that draped the water like a blanket. The boards creaked again. She froze. Her right foot pushed through the wharf. The dock couldn’t be breaking. Her father would never let that happen.
She pulled her foot out of the cavity and resumed pulling the rope. The creaking wood escalated into a whine, then a groan, and before she could react, the end of the dock collapsed, dropping April into the water.
It stung her skin. Its coldness made her feel as though her lungs were solid, unable to allow air in or out. She kicked hard; pulling toward the top, telling herself to be calm, a little chilly water wouldn’t hurt.
As her head broke the surface, the stiff waves pushed her up, throwing her nearly out of the water. She could see the boat was still roped to the piling—it was safer than her.
The sprays fell away as fast as they rose, and she plunged under water, brushing by a submerged tree stump. The punch of the severed cypress on her ribs almost forced her to inhale under water. She willed herself to ignore the pain and swim for the top again. She broke the surface and gasped as she stroked, head out of the water, toward the remaining part of the dock. A figure on the dock startled her. For a second she thought she was hallucinating—a man was there, kicking off his shoes and pulling his shirt over his head.
She waved and yelled before going under again. She struggled to stay above the rough water and fell back under as she felt hands around her. The man grabbed her waist and set her on his hip while he used his free arm to sidestroke toward the narrow beach.
He kicked hard, bumping her body up and down. Eyes squeezed shut, she panted and coughed up water. Once on shore, he threw her over his shoulder and headed to the veranda of the great summer home, where he settled her on the wooden floor. Lying there, her breath began to calm and the dizziness released her. She squinted at the man who was now lifting one of her arms, then the other, then one leg at a time, asking if this hurt or that.
It was him. She couldn’t believe it.
“Hale,” she said. Hale Abercrombie.
He raised his gaze from her leg.
They locked eyes. Those indigo eyes.
“Hi there.”
How long had it been since she’d seen those eyes looking back at her?
He flinched and rubbed his shoulder.
Her teeth chattered. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing,” he said.
April slowly pushed herself to a sitting position. The movements made her inhale sharp and loud. She felt awful to have put him through such trouble. He had scrapes across his broad chest where she must have scratched him. She touched one of his wounds.
He pulled back. “Just a branch. Got a little too close to the tree cemetery.” Hale took her hand and turned it back and forth. His muscular arms tensed and relaxed as he moved. “Does this hurt?”
She drew her hand back and rubbed her arms to stave off the chills. “No, I’m fine.”
“You sure?” he said.
She nodded and pulled her knees up to her chest. This move caused her to groan. She covered the spot where it hurt with her hands.
He put his hand over hers. “Lie back,” he said.
She hesitated as she considered the fact she was dressed in only wet underpants and bra. Then flashes of their childhood came to mind—they’d spent countless summers running the grounds in nothing but bathing suits. He was Hale, her brother’s best friend, not some stranger.
He shifted his six feet two inches to get a closer look. His wavy, golden hair was cut close to his scalp, as any officer’s hair would be. He pressed her ribcage where the red skin was already blackening. She winced.
“Just a bruise,” she said.
“That’s not.”
She lifted her head to see what he was pointing at now. “Appendectomy.”
His eyes widened.
“A few months old.”
He ran his finger down the center of the crosshatched stitching. She pushed it away.
His gaze slid up to meet hers. His expression bore concern. He’d always been serious, but this concern was a darker, more troubled kind of somber. That made sense when she considered what he’d been through with her brother.
“I…” he said.
April felt connected to Hale—she always had. But this was an entirely new sensation—so strong and confusing to her that she had to order herself to stop feeling it. “It’s fine, Hale. Just a bruise.”
She struggled to sit up again. He took her hands and pulled.
“I didn’t mean to touch you. Your scar.” He ran his hand through his hair but wouldn’t look at her.
“You’ve touched me a million times, right?”
He nodded. “A long time ago.”
Indeed, today’s touches had evoked far different feelings than the ones that had marked their childhood.
“You’re okay? Really?” he said.
“Fine. Fuddy-Duddy,” they both said at the same time.
He met her smile with his, making her stomach quiver.
“If you’re okay, I’ll get your suitcase,” he said. “I’m on leave for a month, and I came to fix the kitchen sink. I figured since I was here, I should…well, I ought to check over the place. I took the rowboat out earlier. When the winds kicked up I came back to bring in the boat.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Your parents—they didn’t say you were coming.”
She looked away. She couldn’t start explaining all that had happened.
“Well, your suitcase.” He started down the steps toward her car.
She scrambled to her feet, grimacing, following him.
She looked down at her barely clad body and stopped. “No luggage.” Heat rose in her cheeks. “Just the dress, my purse, my camera.”
“That white thing on the dock is your dress?”
April nodded. She should at least try to recover some of the precious buttons, if possible. He took her hand. His fingers squeezed hers, sending a chill up her spine. She looked away from him, embarrassed at the excitement that swept through her.
“It’s gone,” he said.
April raised her eyebrows. She felt dizzy.
“The wind took it. Right over the sound.” He whistled and pushed his hand through the air. “Took flight like, well, remember that big old heron we used to call Matilda?”
April smiled. Their familiarity, the tales, the troubles—all of it made her feel as though they’d crossed paths just the day before.
A fresh wind whipped the trees. April and Hale looked to the sky.
Hale’s face grew troubled. “Storm’s coming,” He squeezed her hand once more, then dropped it. She clutched her hand to her body, feeling the spot where the engagement ring no longer encircled her finger.
“I’ll grab my stuff and get the rowboat.” Hale pushed his thumb in the direction of the water.
She looked at his wet jeans, the way they molded to his thick legs. Him saving her was really no big deal. Hale had lived his entire life saving others quietly, so circumspect and aware of what people needed. So old-fashioned, she’d always thought when she was younger. Not much fun, she’d always teased him. Now she just felt grateful—fortunate that Hale had been there to comfort Andrew as he had died, and glad he happened along for her sake a few minutes before.
She couldn’t help comparing Hale to Mason. Mason and his family were philanthropists, but when they sprung into life-saving action, it was with a checkbook, not their bare hands. Who would have jumped in after her if Mason or his parents saw her struggling in the water? They wouldn’t let her drown. They’d send the butler, Henri, but of course. Hale’s family, year-rounders at the sound, had nothing in the way of money, but they were strong, steady, and loyal.
“Go in. Get warm,” Hale said.
She nodded. No clothes, no family, no husband, no job. She needed more than to simply get warm.
“I’ll come back tomorrow to fix the dock and the tile in the blue bathroom,” Hale said.
“Thank you,” she said. “For Andrew. For everything.” She’d thanked him before for having tried so hard to save Andrew, but for some reason, she felt the need to say it again.
He nodded, and then headed toward the sound, humble as ever. April made it as far as the front door and stopped. She couldn’t believe what she saw. Like an old man’s mouth, the pointing between the bricks that faced the grand mansion was gapped and jagged, leaving the house vulnerable to wind and water. She slid her finger into a hole between the red brick and released a shard of aged plaster. She turned it back and forth as though it could explain how or why her father would have neglected to maintain the house.
The wood trim around the door was pitted, the paint lifting off, curling in sections. She examined the sturdy oak door. It seemed to be the only part of the house that wasn’t falling in or marred with age. She swept her finger along the carvings that depicted the nine rivers that fed the Albemarle, still amazed at the gorgeous work a family ancestor had done.
April sighed. She had to be honest about what she was seeing—utter neglect. Regret coursed through her. In living the silver-spoon life in New York, she’d ignored her parents, their pain, what that meant for this house. She hadn’t meant to be blind to what her family needed from her. She should have made sure the house was being kept up—it had been in their family for two centuries, after all.
She shook her head. She knew the cost of the wedding had been high, that her father had had some rough times with some real estate deals over the years, but she never imagined those things meant her parents might let the house suffer. Perhaps they’d just been focused on the inside of the home and had let the outside go until…until what? She didn’t know. The guilt she felt right then twisted at her soul. What had she done?
She turned the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. She checked behind the planter for the spare key. Nothing. She swallowed a sob, and then turned her back on the door. Hale must have the key.
She turned and saw him coming with the boat over his head.
She ran toward him as quickly as she could with the sore ribs. Thunder cracked, making her move faster.
He stopped and nearly buckled under the weight of his haul.
“I can get the bow,” she said.
“I have it,” he said through clenched teeth.
She reached to lift one end, but all she could manage was to blanch at the pain that emanated from her ribs and follow behind like a little kid.
When they reached the veranda, Hale stopped. “We’ll stow it in the crawl space for the night. I have to get going.”
He appeared irritated. He flipped the boat and set it gently down on its bottom. Together, they gripped it, shoulder to shoulder, pushed it under the veranda and reset the lattice that served as a door for the space.
“Oh. The key,” April said.
Hale appeared confused. She ignored his unasked question. She wasn’t ready to explain her flight from the altar to anyone, least of all old-fashioned, always-do-the-right-thing Hale.
He reached into his pocket, and then pressed the key into April’s palm.
The thunder rumbled. She hoped she wouldn’t lose electricity.
Hale looked to the sky again, then began to move quickly, fussing with the lattice again. “Shouldn’t be too stuffy inside the house. I had the windows open earlier.”
She started toward the front steps.
“I’ll let your dad know he doesn’t need me here anymore.”
“No!” April turned back to make sure he got the message.
He snapped his attention to her, eyes wide, before his expression turned to relief.
“Don’t do that.” She straightened and crossed her arms over her chest.
She needed time to sit with her decision, to be strong and decisive when she spoke to her parents next. She needed to reassure them she could handle her life alone.
Hale raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, sure.” He cleared his throat. “Careful there. The fourth stair is disintegrating. I’ll fix that, too.” He started up the stairs to show her the rotting board.
Thunder rumbled and he looked into the sky again so April couldn’t hear everything he said until, “Don’t suppose an accomplished Ivy League lady like you has much time for carpentry.”
April forced a laugh. Hale drew away. Her hands shook. Ivy League lady. Images of Woodstock, of the wedding, of the blurred faces she saw as she ran down the aisle and out the door snapped through her mind as though she were photographing the scene.
“Hey, what’s the matter?” Hale reached out but didn’t touch her.
April shook her head.
“You’re crying.”
She touched her cheek and studied the tiny puddle of tears that she collected on her fingertips.
She felt Hale’s gaze slip down her body, reminding her she was nearly nude.
April covered her chest with one arm. She needed to get into the house so she could fall apart in private. The thunder interrupted their silence, and he abruptly started down the steps.
When he reached the bottom stair, he turned back and poked at something. April moved closer to see what he was doing. Inside a tiny circle of pebbles was a furry, black caterpillar. Hale plucked some grass and sprinkled it into the miniature fortress.
April squinted at him.
He shrugged. “Little guy just needs some shelter. ’Til the storm passes.”
She looked into the mottled sky. “I guess so,” she said, not wanting to embarrass him.
He shrugged. “I’m really glad to see you.”
April nodded. She was comforted, relieved that someone on that day would be happy to see her. The air sizzled with the coming storm. “Come in, stay for tea.” But as she spoke those words, a clap of thunder broke, and he didn’t hear.
He hopped into his Chevy and drove away, his truck winding around the house and disappearing. April pushed the key into the lock and turned it. She opened the door and faced the great marble staircase that rose up from the worn, but still stunning, cypress floors. You’ll be fine alone, she repeated to herself.
The echo of silence between the thunderclaps embraced her. She wondered if it was going to be too quiet at Bliss, if she should have just slipped into a women’s hotel in Manhattan and gotten lost in the crowd. No. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She would go on with her life, and she would do so in memory of Andrew and how right he’d been about everything.
She started toward the kitchen and passed the mirror in the hall, glancing at herself. Some of her golden hair was matted against her face and the rest was plopped on top of her head like a loaf of bread, still held in place with pins and elastics. Strands sprung out all around her scalp from where she’d pulled the veil off. Mascara ringed her eyes like the great owls that serenaded her summer sleeps.
No wonder Hale had run away as soon as he knew April was fine. She considered his Ivy League crack. She knew she’d hear that, coming back to Harrington. But she hadn’t expected it from Hale. She hadn’t expected him to be on leave at all.
April took her attention from her reflection to the empty space beside the mirror. She pinched one of the naked picture hooks between her fingers, twisted, then pulled it out. She turned slowly, surveying the fifteen-foot tall walls.
Her mouth fell open. Every single one of them was gone. Each of her mother’s treasured Albemarle Sound paintings had been removed. Only the silver picture hooks remained, scattered, winking at her in the soft foyer light. Where were they? Maybe Hale knew. She touched her belly where his fingers had traced her scar.
She gasped at the thought of his hands on her, the way he cared for her. She realized the sensation sparked by his touch—this quiet luring—was not new, but now, as a woman, she recognized the sentience for what it was.
There was and had always been a special bond between them even if she’d forgotten it was there for years. She wrapped her arms around her middle. Of course they were connected. They’d shared summers, her brother’s life and, most importantly, his death.
TWO
HALE DROVE THE Chevy back toward the road but had to stop. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, then strangled the steering wheel to make his hands stop shaking. His heart pounded so hard, he was sure he could track the rushing blood through his body from start to finish. He pushed his head back against the seat and clenched his jaw until the panic stopped.
The thunder. He hadn’t expected it to still bother him so much, not after two years. It had been a while since it had had this affect on him. He willed the terror to subside. It must have been finding April in the water, needing help. Yes, she was fine, but it had scared him. All it took was an unexpected hand on the shoulder, a door slamming, a clap of thunder… Any small, startling thing could trigger fright so vivid that sometimes, he threw up.
Dear God, please make it stop, make it stop. He pressed his feet into the floor of the truck, told himself he was grounded, he was safe. He re-gripped the wheel and said aloud, “You’re in the truck. You’re home.”
Gradually, his heart decelerated, his breath calmed, and the heat that scorched him from the inside out retreated. He could do this. He was okay.
He didn’t know how much time had passed before he opened his eyes. He looked at the back of April’s house. There were lights on upstairs. Had April seen him sitting there? He imagined her calling her dad to tell him she had arrived. He gripped his knee. The lie had been out of his mouth before he’d even consciously formed the thought. He had not been invited to take care of April’s family home.
No. He was on a month’s leave. A chance to get his head straight, his commander had ordered. So he’d come to the only place he might be able to do that…Bliss. The place he’d always found peace and plenty. Hale’s father had died when he was a baby, leaving his mother to cobble a living by watching over all the homes on the sound when the summer season was over. April’s family had become his in too many ways for him to parse. But he never thought he’d have to face April before he was ready to tell her the whole story.
It hadn’t mattered that he was awarded a Silver Star and a Purple Heart. He’d buried the medals inside the sweeping skirt of the giant cypress tree outside Bliss, near Andrew’s memorial. The idea that someone would award him for valor when his bravery hadn’t resulted in saving Andrew, well, Hale knew an empty gesture when he saw it, and he would never forgive himself for being the one who was alive.
He couldn’t sleep at night. Nearly every hour, he shot awake. The sharp screech of the missile hitting the plane rang through his head as though he was still in the rear of the F-14. He would wake standing in the middle of the room, or on the bed, feeling as though he’d just punched out of the plane. There amidst perfect safety he experienced the sensation of the entire seat rocketing out of the plane, his body shuddering as it had the very day it had happened. And as he came back to consciousness, he heard Andrew’s easy tone calmly narrating how he’d maneuvered them away from the missiles. That was what had happened every time, but once. Just once.
The part that affected him most was what happened after punching out. The ground fire. He couldn’t bear to envision it, but couldn’t shake it from his very being. The divot in his leg was nothing compared to the grooves that had been forever worked into his brain, his skin, his soul. Those memories—the missile, the odor of the fire—were creased into his core, which held onto that day, grasped onto the experience, making Hale sure that if he managed to pass a day without Andrew entering into his mind, every cell in his body would still recall his loss.
In fact, the events of that day had left him with the only thing that let them know he was still alive—pain. A fly buzzed near Hale’s ear. He swiped his hand through the air, capturing the insect. He opened his fingers and the fly flipped over on his palm and staggered back into the air, escaping to the back of the truck.
Hale put his hand over his chest. His pulse was even. He drew a deep breath. He would put his mind straight as he’d been ordered to do. He would. He put the truck in gear and started home. Glancing in his rearview mirror, a lightning strike made him jump as it lit the air and revealed the form of April at Andrew’s bedroom window.
His nerves leapt as he considered the attraction toward her sweeping through his body. He pushed away his misplaced feelings. No, April was just his best friend’s sister, and there was never any good to come from something like that. Not when she’d probably been left at the altar, and not when Hale was the reason her brother was dead.
In the kitchen, April threaded her fingers through the metal cabinet handle. She tugged and the hinges pulled right over the screws as though they were made of gelatin instead of metal. Her sadness deepened. What had been going on in this house? Had she spent too many spring breaks and summer vacations in Cayman Island resorts with the Franklins? Had Bliss always been run-down and she just never noticed?
She set the door aside and chugged down several glasses of water. She rubbed her chilled arms and went to find clothes. In her bedroom, she wiggled her toes on the worn Oriental rug. She jiggled the top dresser drawer then tilted it at just the right angle that would allow it to slide out. She dug between half-a-decade old undergarments. Girdles, for goodness sake. She’d sworn those off within the first five minutes of being in New York City.
She tried the next drawer. She held up some plain t-shirts. She was tall and angular and for the first time, seeing the small t-shirts as her only clothing option, she was grateful for her lean lines. Her closet was empty, and she needed pants.
She went to Andrew’s room. The light bulb was burned out, so she used the hall light to illuminate her quest. She excavated his drawers and found jeans she could cut into shorts. She went to the closet. Thunder continued to crash and rumble, bringing bright flashes of lightning with it. She fished through the closet and found an old tie of Andrew’s to use for a belt. She pulled a shirt from the shelf.
She held it to her nose. The aftershave smell she associated with her brother should have been long gone, but in the folds of the fabric, she swore there was a hint of him.
She buried her face in the shirt and sobbed. Her Andrew, her wise, fun-loving brother, had taught her so much about life. But it was his death that had educated her the most, that had helped make it so clear that choosing to marry Mason would mean a lifetime of awful.
She told herself not to cry that leaving him had been right, even if in the short run, it had felt so terrifically wrong. She gathered her new apparel, plucking Andrew’s old Converse sneakers off the closet floor. They would work until she figured out how she was going to reassemble her wardrobe, rework her entire life.
She sat on the edge of the tub while the water ran. She reached for the glass vial with the cut-glass stopper and opened it, inhaling her mother’s homemade orange oil. She turned it into the faucet letting the water carry the emollient into the bath.
Tucked into the water, she poked at the shiny islands of oil that floated on the surface. She patted at the bruise that formed where she’d hit the stump, then traced the appendectomy scar, thinking of Hale’s caring expression as he had stared at it.
This reminded her of the way Mason had gaped at the incision, turning grey, retching and nearly passing out, declining to assist her ever again.
It was true—the stitches had been relatively new. But with years of snapshots flipping through April’s mind, she realized how often he chose to turn away from her needs rather than step toward them.
She reclined further into the tub, her long hair floating like spider legs around her. The warm water cushioned her sore body. She would not let the loss of her almost-marriage feel like a death. Andrew’s absence and the experiences of soldiers who came home injured or simply forgotten were tragic. But April’s life, her loss? She shrugged at the thought. That was nothing.
She hadn’t felt so free in ages. Probably since the summer she’d left for college, when all was hopeful and everything she could imagine was possible. It had been at least that long.
… Continued…
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An Anthology of Novellas
Marcy Waldenville, J.D. Wylde
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Hunter Gamble is an idealistic young attorney in a very special area of the practice: arcane defense. Funded by enigmatic billionaire Charles McClain and aided by shy-but-energetic research attorney Kirsten Harper, he’s making the world a better place–one vampire, zombie, or werewolf client at a time. After all, they deserve their day in court too, right?
When a young zombie walks into Hunter’s office accused of murder (by brain-eating), Hunter’s idealism is tested as never before as he struggles to secure the man’s freedom. To do so, he must square off against a savvy and ambitious district attorney, contend with a judge who is deeply biased against arcanes, and stand up to a human-supremacist group which will stop at nothing–not even Hunter’s own death–to see his client convicted.
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an excerpt from
Atticus for the Undead
by John Abramowitz
Chapter 5
Sabrina’s impromptu display of magical ability put an abrupt end to the gala. The museum staff quickly announced that it was closing early and herded the patrons out into the parking lot. Hunter had intended to leave immediately, but catching sight of Sabrina’s terrified face convinced him to stay with her in the parking lot while they waited for the police to arrive. Though he found the girl annoying, he knew that it was difficult for anyone to come to grips with their new life as an arcane, and she didn’t need to face a prosecution on top of everything else. Kirsten, who felt her evening had been quite exciting enough already, opted to take a cab home.
The police arrived ten minutes later, and Hunter found it relatively simple to convince them that there were probably better uses for police time than prosecuting a seventeen year old girl over a momentary loss of control. Sabrina, still looking stricken, heaved a great sigh of relief and threw her arms around Hunter, catching him off guard. He’d never seen Sabrina be affectionate before — but then, he’d never seen her terrified before, either. Hunter did notice that, throughout the process, Mr. Orr stood several yards away, his back against a wall, watching them with a stern expression.
—
With all the activity, Hunter did not get home until almost midnight, and when he did, he promptly fell into bed. Given that Hunter tended to be an early riser, he was still quite tired when he showed up at work the next morning. “Hey, Kirsten,” he called, waving to her as he passed her office.
“Morning, Hunter,” she called back.
He dropped a stack of papers for an upcoming case onto his desk, then turned and walked back toward Kirsten’s office. “So,” he began, standing in her doorway, “hopefully most of our nights won’t be that interesting, huh?”
Kirsten’s lips quirked upward in a smile. “That would be nice,” she answered. “You clear things up for Sabrina?”
“Yeah, I convinced the police not to press charges. I felt bad for her,” Hunter said. “Nobody deserves to go to jail for doing something they didn’t even know they could do.”
Kirsten nodded. “Yeah.” And then a thought struck her, and with a playful grin on her face, she continued, “Just think, Hunter. Now she may become a regular client.”
Hunter looked alarmed at the prospect. “Oh God, I hope not.”
“Well, you are an arcane defense lawyer.” She grinned.
“Yes, I am, but that woman isn’t just an arcane. She’s also really damn annoying. I’d be just fine never having to see her again as long as I live.” As Hunter spoke, he could hear the door behind him open, and he saw Kirsten cover her mouth to stifle a giggle. “What?” he asked, unaware he’d said anything funny.
“I don’t think you’re gonna get your wish on that one,” Kirsten answered, pointing to something beyond Hunter. Hunter turned to see what she was talking about.
In the doorway stood Sabrina Orr, tear tracks streaking down her face.
—
“The whole way home he wouldn’t even talk to me,” Sabrina explained as she, Hunter, and Kirsten sat around the conference room table in the law office. Sabrina was visibly distraught, and Kirsten left the conference room for a moment to find her a Kleenex box. Sabrina accepted it gratefully, grabbing a tissue and blowing her nose before continuing. “He just had this … this horrible expression on his face.
Hunter nodded, his expression thoughtful. “What happened after you got home?” He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“He … he made me sit at the kitchen table while he went and got Mom. It was a few minutes before he came back — I guess he was telling her what had happened, or whatever. Anyway, he came back with Mom, who looked like I’d just killed her pet dog or something. And he started saying all these … these terrible things.”
“Like what?” Hunter asked.
“He — he said he couldn’t even stand to look at me anymore,” Sabrina told him, visibly forcing herself to keep talking, “that he’d never been so ashamed of anyone in his life. He said if he’d known what I was gonna turn out to be, he would have encouraged Mom to —” She stopped there as fresh tears welled up in her eyes.
Hunter didn’t know what Sabrina had been about to say, and was about to ask when Kirsten supplied the next word for him. “Abort.”
Sabrina nodded, rubbing at her eyes. “He even tore up some pictures of us together.”
“And then he threw you out of the house?” Hunter asked, and Sabrina nodded again.
“Your mom didn’t stop him?” Kirsten sounded nearly as horrified as Hunter felt
Sabrina shook her head. “Not a word. She just stood there next to him.”
“What would you like us to do?” Hunter regarded her evenly.
“I — I don’t even know,” Sabrina answered. “I just — I couldn’t think where else to go.”
Something occurred to Kirsten. “Where did you sleep last night, Sabrina?”
“Best friend’s,” Sabrina answered. “But that family’s got three kids and there’s no room for me. I can’t stay there again.”
“Well, you’re seventeen, right? We could go to family court — you’re not eighteen, so your dad still has a legal obligation to support you.”
Sabrina’s expression grew terrified at the thought of being sent back home, and Hunter saw it. “Kirsten?”
“Hm?” She turned to face him.
“Can I talk to you in my office, please?”
For a moment, Kirsten looked back and forth between Hunter and Sabrina, as if she was reluctant to leave the younger woman by herself. Then, finally, she nodded, said, “Sure,” and followed Hunter out of the room.
“I think one of us should take her in for a while,” Hunter told Kirsten when they reached his office. “I nominate you.”
Kirsten’s eyes went wide. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve got a spare bedroom at your apartment, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to —”
“Why not?” Hunter knew he was pressing, but the terror on Sabrina’s face had left a lasting imprint on his mind. “She’s not our client anymore, we won’t get in any trouble if we give her a hand.”
“She might be our client if we’re going to family court on her behalf,” Kirsten pointed out.
“Did you see her face in there?” Hunter asked, giving his colleague a meaningful look. “She’s terrified of being sent home. Besides, even if we got the court to order her parents to take her back, who’s to say they wouldn’t just kick her out again a week later? Or she could run away.”
“Believe me, I feel for her, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be taking on a roommate right now,” Kirsten said.
“Why not?” Hunter raised an eyebrow at her.
“Remember the part from last night about how I’m not good with people?” Kirsten asked.
“So it’ll be another learning experience,” Hunter smiled wryly.
“Don’t you think I should learn with someone a little less … umm … obnoxious?”
“Think of it this way,” Hunter responded. “If you can learn to deal with her comfortably, then all the people who don’t have heads the size of Texas? They’ll be a cinch.”
Kirsten chuckled, but she still didn’t seem quite convinced. “Why don’t you do it?”
“Because you’re a girl,” he said.
Kirsten stiffened and put her hands on her hips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hey, easy, easy!” Hunter raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I just meant that she’d probably be more comfortable with you, that’s all.”
“And also, you don’t like her,” Kirsten added.
“That has nothing to do with it.”
Kirsten shot him a disbelieving glare.
“Well, okay, maybe that has a little bit to do with it,” Hunter conceded. “Look, I can’t make you do this, obviously — it’s well outside the bounds of your job description. But —”
“No,” Kirsten shook her head. “I’ll do it. For a little while, at least. But can I ask you a question, Hunter?”
Hunter’s expression invited her to do so.
“Why is this so important to you?” she said. “You just said you don’t like her much, and it’s not like she’s the only homeless arcane out there ….”
For a moment, Hunter considered telling her that he wanted to help Sabrina out of his own sense of good fortune. That he wanted to do it because, much as he and his father locked horns, he had never for a moment wondered if he might end up on the street, unsure where he would sleep or what he would eat that night. What he actually said, however, was, “There are a lot of homeless arcanes out there, you’re right. But we’re lawyers. We take the case in front of us.” Then he turned, and headed back toward the conference room.
“All right, Sabrina, tell you what,” Hunter said as he pushed open the conference room door. Her eyes fixed on him. “Kirsten’s agreed to let you stay with her for a little bit, just until we can find something more permanent for you. Okay?”
Sabrina’s face immediately filled with relief and gratitude. Then she frowned. “I — I don’t think I can impose on you that way.”
Hunter regarded her skeptically. “Would you rather sleep in the street?”
“No, of course not,” Sabrina said in a rush, “but … I wasn’t raised to be a freeloader. You carry your own weight, I was taught.”
“Well, I have a few succinct opinions right now about how your parents raised you, but that’s for another time,” Hunter said. “For now, let’s focus on getting you out of the ranks of the homeless.”
Sabrina nodded, but she still looked uneasy.
Hunter thought for a long moment. “Well, I’m sure Kirsten would appreciate any help you felt like giving her with keeping the place clean.”
“Or she could work here,” Kirsten said.
Hunter whirled around so quickly he almost fell down. “What?” he asked, eyes wide.
“She could work here,” Kirsten repeated, “for a few hours every day after school. Her salary could go to help with my rent.”
“I, uh —” Hunter squirmed, “I’m not sure this is the best time to be taking on a new person ….”
“Think of it as a learning experience,” Kirsten said icily, giving him a significant look.
Hunter gave her an answering look that suggested he was contemplating the most painful method by which to kill her, but pressed his lips together and turned back to Sabrina. “This sound like a plan to you?”
Sabina nodded. “I could handle doing that. Not like homework takes up very much time.” Her tone gave a clear idea of how challenging she found her homework.
“All right. You know anything about legal stuff?” Hunter asked.
Sabrina shrugged. “I was cast as Demi Moore’s character in a production of A Few Good Men once.”
Hunter sighed again. “I can see this is going to go brilliantly. Okay, we’ll give you the tour of the office today, and you can start tomorrow after school’s out. All right?”
Sabrina nodded. “Yes. Thank you.” The gratitude in her eyes seemed entirely sincere.
“Don’t mention it,” Hunter answered. Mentally, he added: Please. Ever again.
—
It was after dark when Kirsten pulled her car onto the street where she lived, Sabrina in the seat next to her. She slowed down as she passed her apartment complex, and swore under her breath. Sabrina turned to her. “What’s wrong?”
“No parking,” Kirsten muttered. As usual.
Sabrina looked out the window. “Is this where you live?” she asked.
Kirsten nodded. “That apartment complex right there.” She pointed to a brightly lit high-rise apartment complex. Sabrina gave her a surprised look. “What?”
“Well, it’s just, from dealing with Mr. Gamble, I expected you’d be more … .”
“What?” Kirsten arched an eyebrow at Sabrina.
“Poor,” Sabrina said candidly, without embarrassment.
Nothing fazes her, does it? “You don’t think Hunter’s a good lawyer?” Kirsten asked, resisting the urge to point out that it was rude to imply that the person who’d just taken you in was not professionally successful.
Sabrina shrugged. “He’s all right, I guess. He handled my case okay. But he … I guess he doesn’t seem to take it very seriously.”
Now Kirsten was the surprised one. “What makes you say that?” she asked, pulling into a parking space several blocks from her apartment building. The meters didn’t run this late, so she didn’t need to worry about getting a parking ticket.
“Well, like, the first time I met him,” Sabrina said, “he showed up dressed in clothes like you’re wearing now.” She pointed to Kirsten’s green Tulane sweatshirt. “He looked more like one of my dad’s poker buddies than a successful attorney.”
Kirsten laughed knowingly. “Yeah, that’s Hunter. He hates dressing up — or anything else that smacks of taking himself too seriously.”
“Doesn’t that cost him clients?”
Kirsten raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so. Why would it?”
“Appearance is three fourths of reality. That’s something my Dad always —” she broke off, her expression growing somber for a moment. “Anyway, don’t they end up thinking he’s a … well, a slob, and leave?”
“A few of them might,” Kirsten said, “but you don’t have to know Hunter long to see that while he may not take himself very seriously, he takes his clients’ lives and rights very seriously. This job is like a mission to him, or a crusade, and most of them find out pretty quickly that they’ll never find a more dedicated or harder-working lawyer.”
Sabrina regarded Kirsten closely enough that she began to feel uncomfortable. “You certainly think highly of him,” she commented.
Oh boy. This conversation was rapidly heading in a direction that Kirsten didn’t like. She shrugged, hoping casual indifference would make Sabrina lose interest in the subject “He’s my first employer,” she said. “He gave me my start. Come on, let’s get your bag out of the trunk.”
She got out of the car without giving Sabrina the chance to say another word. She walked to her trunk, popped it open and slung Sabrina’s duffel bag over her shoulder. Inside, according to Sabrina, was everything the young woman had been allowed to pack before her parents had thrown her out. It was surprisingly light.
“Come on,” she said, beckoning the younger woman to get out of the car and follow.
Kirsten didn’t initially give much thought to the two large men in hooded sweatshirts that approached them as they walked, coming from the opposite direction. It was quite common in Austin for people to walk the streets long after the sun set, especially when the university was in session. But when one of them catcalled, “Look at the little witchy!” from two blocks away, Kirsten took notice.
“Where’s your pointy hat?” crowed the other one.
Kirsten didn’t look at Sabrina as she whispered, “Just walk on past them.”
Sabrina’s face showed the barest traces of fear, but she nodded, pressing forward. She and Kirsten walked side by side, acting as if they hadn’t even heard the calls. But when they were within arm’s reach, the man on the left reached out suddenly, grabbing Sabrina by the forearms. “Now,” he said, voice frighteningly calm, and slammed her roughly against the wall of the nearest building. “Let’s see if witches squeal when they die.”
Sabrina cried out as her back hit the wall. Her eyes went wide, and she trembled slightly in her attacker’s grasp.
“Let her GO!” Kirsten shrieked, taking a defiant step toward Sabrina’s attackers as the wheels in her brain turned furiously. Adrenaline coursed through her as her survival instinct screamed at her to run away, far away, as fast as she could. She forced herself not to listen.
The other man tsked at Kirsten, wagging his finger at her. “Now, now, honey, no need for you to get involved.” A combination of the hood over the man’s head and the night sky made his face invisible, but somehow, Kirsten could tell he was smirking. “This is between us and the little witch over there — unless you guys travel in packs?”
The man holding Sabrina snarled, pulled back one arm, and before Kirsten could even react, punched Sabrina in the gut. “Dirty little whore.” She doubled over, and he spat in her hair. “Freaks like you got no place in this world!”
“Stop it!” Kirsten grabbed the man’s arm at the elbow as he pulled it back to punch Sabrina again. The man threw Kirsten backward, and she landed on the concrete as Sabrina took advantage of the distraction to claw free of him and scurry away.
“You stickin’ up for this freak show?” asked the man Kirsten had just attacked as he rounded on her, radiating menace. “The hell kinda traitor are you?”
The other man stalked toward Kirsten. “I’ll take care of ‘er.” He drew a pocketknife A knot formed painfully in Kirsten’s gut, and Sabrina looked almost nauseous. The man stopped in front of Kirsten, leaning downward and thrusting the knife toward Kirsten, not even particularly aiming, but simply trying to hit any part of her that he could. And as he did, she let her reflexes take over, her leg lashing out and striking at her would-be assailant.
Kirsten was aiming for his crotch — the classic move — but she missed, striking him in the gut instead. He still doubled over, his pocket knife clattering to the concrete as his hands flew involuntarily to his gut. As he gasped, trying to recover the wind her kick had knocked out of him, Kirsten screamed “Go!”, shooting a desperate look at Sabrina, who needed no telling twice. Sabrina took off running toward Kirsten’s apartment building, and Kirsten quickly scooped up the fallen pocket knife and followed.
“Come on!” Kirsten heard one of the men scream. “You wanna get aced by a goddamn witch? We gotta finish this!” She didn’t even look behind her, just continued to run, picking up speed.
Sabrina reached the front door of Kirsten’s building first, and made no attempt at subtlety, flinging the door open and running through it to the elevator. “Which floor are you on??” Sabrina called desperately to Kirsten, her finger jabbing the “up” button repeatedly.
“The fifth!” When no elevator had arrived by the time she reached Sabrina, Kirsten grabbed the younger woman by one arm and took off for the stairs. Their pursuers couldn’t be far behind.
Sure enough, one of the men called out “There they are!” a moment later.
Kirsten and Sabrina scrambled down a side hallway, flinging open the door at the end of it. Sabrina bounded effortlessly up the stairs, but somewhere in the run, Kirsten’s shoelace had come untied. She tripped and fell forward, dropping the pocket knife as her face impacted painfully against the stairs. Before she had a chance to pick herself up, she felt hands grabbing her arms, hauling her to her feet, pressing her roughly against the wall.
One of the hooded goons picked up the knife she’d dropped while the other held an identical weapon mere inches from her stomach. In the light, with him standing this close to her, Kirsten could see white skin, stubble, cold grey eyes. His companion joined him, holding his own knife in a threatening gesture toward Kirsten, leering at her beneath his hood.
“Where the hell do race traitor rats like you get off, sidin’ with unnatural scum against your own kind?”
“For all you know I’m one of them,” Kirsten answered, voice trembling in a way she was sure her attackers could hear. “I’m a witch just like her. I’ll cast a spell on you!”
“Uh huh,” said the man, his tone making clear exactly how seriously he took that threat. He moved closer to her, leaving their bodies only centimeters apart, and she could feel the edge of his knife against her sweatshirt. “Well, why don’t you do it, then?” he taunted. “Go on, hex us.”
A moment passed in silence. Nothing happened. They’d called her bluff, and she knew it. “Only question to me,” sneered the other man, looking Kirsten up and down with a leering glare, “is whether we just kill her, or have a little fun first.”
Tears welled in Kirsten’s eyes. “Please …” she whispered, not even trying to conceal the hint of a plea in her voice.
One of the hooded men looked at the other. “How many of our kind d’you suppose sounded like that right before they got sucked dry of blood?”
“Good question,” the other one smirked.
The questioner turned his pitiless eyes to Kirsten. “I hear it’s a slow process. Slow and painful. I think we oughta show you what that feels like.”
The other man nodded. “Turnabout is fair play, and all,” he said. He put his knife to the neckline of her sweatshirt and began to cut it open.
“Please,” Kirsten repeated, a tear falling down one cheek as the man began to cut into her sweatshirt … .
And then he disappeared.
It took Kirsten a moment to realize what had happened. At first, it seemed that her tormentor had simply vanished, disappeared into thin air. It was only when Kirsten heard a low “Ribbit!” at her feet that she looked downward — and saw a small, dark green frog there. The other man apparently heard it too, looked down, saw the frog, looked back up at Kirsten in anger …
And before he could do or say anything more, she punched him in the face.
The man staggered backward, moaning in pain. Then, visibly frightened by the unexpected reversal of fortune, he turned and ran away at top speed. When he was gone, Kirsten ran up the stairs to where Sabrina stood, an embarrassed look on her face. “Sorry,” the younger woman blurted out.
“Sorry?” Kirsten asked, incredulous. “For what? You probably saved my life.”
“I did the spell wrong,” Sabrina muttered. “I was trying to say ‘toe of frog,’ not ‘turn to frog.’”
Kirsten actually laughed, in spite of herself. “You’re forgiven,” she told the younger woman dryly.
“So, where’d you learn to kick like that?” Sabrina asked, looking impressed.
“I’m a five-foot-four woman,” Kirsten shrugged. “You think I’ve never taken a self-defense class in my life?”
Both women laughed.
Then there was a moment’s silence.
And then they threw their arms around each other, each unbidden but both at the same time. Kirsten and Sabrina stood there like that for several long minutes, tears rolling down their cheeks.
Chapter 6
Hunter barely even stopped for red lights on the way to Kirsten’s apartment. Kirsten had been close to hysterical when she’d called him, so much so that all he could make of what she was saying was that there had been some sort of emergency and that he needed to come over right away. In two years of knowing Kirsten, the closest he’d seen her come to losing her composure was at the museum gala, and this was clearly far worse than that.
So he was already more than a little worried when he knocked on the door, and the sobbing he could hear through it didn’t help. It took a moment for her to answer the door, and in that moment, he could hear sobbing from behind it. Then the door swung open, to reveal Kirsten standing in the doorway, dressed in a tank top and jeans. She wasn’t crying, but her face was flushed and tear tracks were streaked down her cheeks. Beyond her, Hunter could see Sabrina curled into a ball on Kirsten’s couch, her head on her knees, sobbing.
He looked back and forth between them for a moment and asked, “What happened?”
“Salvation Alliance,” Kirsten croaked out, voice practically a whisper. “They were waiting … I think … they …”
“You were attacked?” Hunter asked, eyes widening in shock and horror. Then he noticed the marks on Kirsten’s bare upper arms. Angry red blobs, with a few splotches of purple and black. It took Hunter a moment to realize what they were. Hand prints. The fingers of his left hand clenched into a fist so tight that the fingernails pressed painfully into the palm, but Hunter didn’t care. He stepped closer to Kirsten, taking one arm gingerly in both hands and examining it. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
Kirsten shook her head. “I’m — I’m all right,” she said slowly. “More shaken than anything.”
“I bet you are.” Without even thinking about it, he pulled Kirsten into an embrace, and they held for a long moment before she spoke again, voice just above a whisper.
“Sabrina’s worse,” she said.
Hunter looked over and realized that, in his concern for Kirsten, he’d completely forgotten about the young woman curled into a ball on the couch. His usual irritation with the girl did not even enter his thoughts as he walked over and sat down next to her. “Sabrina?” he spoke to her quietly. She did not immediately respond.
“Sabrina?” he tried again.
She looked up, though she didn’t seem to actually see him. Her eyes merely looked ahead as she said, “They … the way they acted … it was like I was some kind of … like I was an animal …. “
“I know.” Hunter reached out and tentatively put a hand on her shoulder. She recoiled, and he removed it immediately.
“What did I ever … what did I ever … “ she said, her face flushed bright red and her eyes still unfocused.
“You didn’t do anything, you didn’t do anything,” he said softly, soothingly. “Some people are just … well … bullies,” he finished, the words sounding pathetic and lame even to his own ears. They did nothing to change the look on Sabrina’s face.
Hunter’s mind cast about desperately for something he could do or say to bring the girl a measure of peace. Unable to think of anything, he scooted away from Sabrina on the couch and beckoned for Kirsten to come sit between them. She did, and when she put an arm around Sabrina, the younger woman did not reject it, instead leaning against Kirsten for support. An unpleasant feeling stirred in Hunter’s gut, and it took him a moment to recognize it as jealousy.
That doesn’t make sense. Sabrina was a pain — why should he care if she liked Kirsten better than him?
Shame burned in his gut, replacing his confusion. His closest colleague and a former client had been attacked, and he was indulging petty jealousies? What was wrong with him? And yet he could think of nothing useful to say, so he sat there in silence while Kirsten held Sabrina, stroking the girl’s hair and trying to calm her. Not that he felt like he was doing anything particularly useful, but Kirsten clearly wanted him here, so he stayed.
Finally, Sabrina fell asleep, still leaning on Kirsten, and Kirsten gently eased the younger woman off of her, then put a hand on Hunter’s arm with a grateful look. “Thank you for coming. I’m sorry I dragged you over here on a Friday night.”
“I’d be mad at you if you hadn’t.” Hunter smiled at her warmly. “I’m just glad you’re okay. And that she is.” He looked down at Sabrina for a moment, and it struck him that the girl’s sleeping face held an innocence that belied her recent experiences. He glanced back up at Kirsten. “You think you’ll get any sleep tonight?”
Kirsten shrugged. “No idea. I hope so, but …” She didn’t need to finish the sentence — he’d still be shaken too, in her shoes.
“Well, hopefully you’ll be fresh in the morning.”
“Why?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “You want me to work?” She did not sound particularly upset at the prospect of having to work on Saturday right after having been attacked. It was typical Kirsten, and that brought Hunter some relief from the evening’s tension.
But working on Saturday wasn’t what he had in mind. “No,” he said, setting his jaw. “I want you to come with me. We’re gonna go see Chief Garrison.”
… Continued…
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KND Freebies: Compelling legal thriller KAITLYN WOLFE: CROWN ATTORNEY is featured in today’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt
Central and Eastern Canada 2009
“…intriguing, well-written…legal thriller…“
When prosecutor Kaitlyn Wolfe faces off against the defense lawyer who is her arch enemy, drama in the courtroom uncovers long-buried secrets from her past, including her father’s murder.
Kaitlyn Wolfe: Crown Attorney
by Jacqui Morrison
Teenager Kaitlyn Wolfe, of First Nations descent, almost died in a racially motivated drugging. To her dismay, the perpetrator only received probation. However, Kaitlyn overcomes this tragedy, as well as growing up without her father–a policeman killed in the line of duty–to graduate as a lawyer, then to become an Assistant Crown Attorney.
Hired as a prosecutor, in Vaughan, Ontario, Kaitlyn faces off with defense attorney Maxine Swayman over two related cases: one a murder and the second a failed armed robbery. Her opponent is known as the “barracuda” and is the defense attorney who successfully defended the racist who nearly killed her.
Sparks fly as Kaitlyn Wolfe and Maxine Swayman wrangle over cases in court. Avenging her father’s murder is the farthest thing from her mind when Kaitlyn Wolfe is assigned the prosecution of the armed robbers. In court, Kaitlyn is suddenly interrogating the man who mercilessly murdered her dad. Will she rescue herself or send him to prison?
an excerpt from
Kaitlyn Wolfe:
Crown Attorney
by Jacqui Morrison
Chapter One
Susan Waberay spied the bedroom entrance, then, in a conspiring tone, asked Kaitlyn Wolfe, “Can you sneak out of the house Saturday night?”
After a two-week hiatus, the two teenage girlfriends had re-connected, and that afternoon on a dreary Wednesday, Kaitlyn’s friend had come over for a joint homework session.
Having never felt the urge to sneak around her mother, Kaitlyn was utterly puzzled. “Sneak out? What the devil for?”
Susan leaned toward her, mischief written plain on her face. “Brad Collins, the captain of the football team, is having a party at his parents’ house,” she breathed and declared, “…and we’re going.”
“Why don’t I just ask?”
Rolling her eyes, the teen’s universal expression of ‘duuh?’ Susan explained with strained patience, “Brad’s parents will be away for the weekend.There will be no one to chaperone the party. Knowing your mom, she’d call Mrs. Collins. And that will screw it up for all of us.”
“I could tell her I’m going to a movie with you and then sleeping over at your place.” But Kaitlyn was uncomfortable; the lie was eating up at her insides already.
A victory smile spread on her friend’s face. “That’ll work! She’ll never check with Ida and Ida won’t care if we come back late.”
Having never heard anyone her age call a parent anything but mom or dad, Kaitlyn felt Susan was being disrespectful. “Why do you call your mom Ida?”
“If she was a real mom, she’d handle her problems instead of making me cover up for her. If she can’t respect herself, then why should I respect her?”
“You have a point,” Kaitlyn said with reluctance while shaking her head sadly. “Margaret is a great mom.” Uttering her mother’s name for the first time felt so grown up.
* * * *
Saturday quickly rolled in, and carrying a change of clothing in a duffel bag, Kaitlyn arrived at Susan’s house. They both rushed to her friend’s bedroom, and changed.
Sue ditched her jeans to slip on a form-fitting, mid-thigh length skirt with a tight shirt that accentuated her burgeoning figure.
“You look hot, Sue!”
Her friend grinned broadly at the compliment then grimaced, sighing aloud at the sight of her overalls. “You don’t. Wait there.” Sue went rooting in her closet. She pulled out another of her skirts and chucked it at her. “You will too with this.”
Kaitlyn pulled on the offered skirt and her tight T-shirt. She caught her reflection in Susan’s mirror. She’d never dared to wear a mini-skirt before.
My tanned legs look really long. Mom would kill me if she saw how skimpily I’m dressed. But for this time, one time….
Even with prodding, Kaitlyn refused to smear on make-up while Susan’s chocolate brown eyes shimmered with aqua eyeshadow and her lips glistened the color of a red fire engine.
Both heard the honking of a truck.
“That would be our ride, my cousin Vern,” Susan said, reaching for her purse.
They slipped outside and into the front seat of the truck. As if to impress them, Vern peeled off from the rocky driveway. Once he had merged unto a two-way lane, he cleared his throat and spoke in his new, deep man’s voice, “Don’t forget for a moment that some of these guys are pigs who only want to get into your pants. I’ll watch out for you, but don’t go into any of the bedrooms for any reason, you hear? If you like a guy, give him your phone number and meet up with him another time. Under no circumstances do I want either of you making out with any of the football players.”
Susan whipped around to Vern. “How pompous can you get? Under no circumstances…. “She gave him a shove. With a tone that mimicked his previous authority, she reminded him, “You’re my cousin, not my mother. I can handle things myself.”
Vern took the shove with good humour but sobered. “Oh, yeah. And another thing, don’t leave a drink unattended. Have you heard of acid?”
Kaitlyn’s stomach went into a knot. Had she made a foolish decision in agreeing to put herself at risk? “Oh, my God, are you serious? Could they … burn our tongues!”
Vern spared her a quick glance. “Kaitlyn, for such a smart girl, you’re really a goof. Acid is a street name for L.S.D. The drug makes you hallucinate. If it is slipped into your drink, you would totally lose your inhibitions. Only God knows what you’d do then.”
Kaitlyn relaxed and the drive continued in agreeable silence until Vern turned the vehicle onto a side road. “One girl from River Deer Territory took some LSD, then she made it with three guys.” He shrugged, laughing a little. “She was kind of a skank to begin with. Now she’s fifteen, knocked up, and labeled a slut on her reserve.”
“Enough, Vern,” Susan warned, adding, “That’s so gross!”
Vern pulled into an empty spot near the party house, turned the ignition off, and turned to both girls. “Not only gross, but she pretty well wrecked her life.” Avoiding Susan’s friendly slap, Vern went on. “Just dance, have fun, and I’ll watch your back. Don’t do anything with any guys, or you’ll get a reputation just like that girl.” He gave them a curt nod, and as if it were agreed upon, he opened the driver side door and slipped out.
Susan scooted over to Vern’s recently vacated seat and reached out a hand. “We hear you, brother protector! Now help me out.” Vern assisted Susan out of the truck and gave her a big, wet raspberry. Kaitlyn followed suit in exiting the vehicle.
Vern knocked on Brad’s front door and entered. Susan went in next, and Kaitlyn closed the door behind her.
Kaitlyn scanned the crowd within. Well over twenty-five kids, ranging from fourteen to eighteen, were already in a partying mood and mingling. Wisely, Brad had removed the breakables, the cluttering furniture from the living room, and covered his mom’s sofa with a blanket. Her gaze fell on three massive guys in football jerseys. They took turns in pouring beer from a keg into plastic glasses.
Vern quickly rounded up three glasses for their small group. As he handed one to each of them, he gave them a reminder. “Remember what I said.” He nodded curtly then left them on their own.
Kaitlyn raised her glass, peered through the golden liquid, and sniffed at its head of foam. She shrugged and ventured a sip of the beer for the very first time.
“Yuck! It tastes disgusting,” she gasped, unable to mask her disgust. She watched in amazement as Susan took a deep swig, then chocked some after she swallowed it.
“Eww! You’ve got that right!” Susan was still trying to shake off the awful taste. “Let’s control our disgust,” Susan added, “so we don’t look like losers. Let’s just pry sips down our throat. When it’s done, we’ll dance.”
They nursed their beers, watching the dancing moves of the others on the makeshift dance floor until Kaitlyn’s spirits fell. She’d spotted Stacey Cummings and her best friend, Gwen Gleeson, coming through the front door.
Stacey, her nemesis, was clutching Mike Smith’s arm. Even from afar, her eyes seemed glazed over. Kaitlyn’s first thought was that she was likely already drunk. Gwen, Stacey’s puppy, strolled in solo behind the couple. She was dressed to pick up guys.
Mike ditched his date and her friend nearby to fetch drinks. Stacey panned the room, and her glance fell on Kaitlyn.
She elbowed Gwen, a disgusted look evident on her face, and let out for everyone within earshot to hear, “God, those scuzzy welfare people are here. Can’t get away from them.”
Determined to ignore the bullies, Kaitlyn held her head high.
Lowering her voice to what she thought was a whisper, Stacey conspired, “I will make it so they never come to one of Brad’s parties again,” she added in a whining tone, “it’s only supposed to be the popular people here.”
“Stacey,” Gwen pled, moving to block Stacey’s view of Susan and herself. “The party is big enough. We can just ignore them. Don’t stir it up, have fun with Mike. Just leave them be.”
Hatred filled Stacey’s facial expression. “No way, they need to learn a lesson, learn their place.”
Kaitlyn mentally shook her head. She had expected such an answer, having been the victim of Stacey’s streak of meanness and stubbornness since the first grade. And Stacey nurtured her qualities on a daily basis.
Visibly shaking her head and raising a hand in defeat, Gwen relented, distancing herself. “Whatever. Sometimes you can be so cruel. Leave them be.” But hearing Gwen’s words did not soothe Kaitlyn’s mood.
Stacey verbally attacked Gwen’s retreating form. “You were nothing before I let you hang with me.”
Knowing how Stacey operated, Kaitlyn cringed at the drilling Gwen was about to get.
“You’d better shut up, Gwen, or you’ll spend the next four years at the library instead of at parties with me.” Poor Gwen looked as if she had been slapped.
She froze then returned to her friend’s side. “I’m sorry, Stacey. It must be the beer talking. I just want you to have a good time with Mike and not worry about scummy people.”
Kaitlyn couldn’t believe the sight before her. Gwen was desperate, sucking up to Stacey.
Stacey gave Gwen a long stare as if reconsidering her threat. “Apology accepted,” she said loftily.
Kaitlyn was so saddened to see how much control this bully exercised over even her own best friend. She sighed heavily, letting the matter go.
Susan and her finished their bitter beer and coaxed each other to join a fast dance they liked. Stayin’ Alive by the popular Australian band the Bee Gees had everyone in the middle of the room doing their best moves.
Nobody else seems to mind their Native status. Kaitlyn filled her lungs with a soothing breath. Evidently, there were still young people who had not yet been trained in the fine art of discrimination.
Vern left his football friends and joined them on the dance floor. “I’m parched,” Susan claimed between dances—Vern’s cue to get them two more beers.
Despite feeling a bit light-headed from the first one, Kaitlyn accepted the second beer. She would have much preferred a Mountain Dew, but a previous glance to the table where drinks were lined up for the taking confirmed no soft drinks were being served. Maybe Mountain Dew was for dweebs.
She was sipping, forcing the vile stuff between her lips when Brad, the host, grabbed her arm. “Come on, let’s dance!” He coaxed her until she relented.
Pleased at being asked by the greatest catch of the football team, Kaitlyn put her beer glass on the nearest table, and with elation, she followed Brad into the dancing crowd. After the second fast dance, Brad thanked her politely and then took a turn on the floor with Susan.
Her mood fell. Brad was just being nice to all his guests. That was fine with her; she could appreciate a touch of class when she saw it. She sipped more beer, distancing each sip but still trying to re-hydrate herself without any head-rushes.
Despite Stacey’s presence and nasty disposition, Kaitlyn was enjoying herself. Until her head began spinning. She plunked herself in the first available seat, in the nick of time as she was about to fall flat on the floor.
To her dismay, even seated on the sofa, the room kept on spinning. Had she drank the beer too quickly? Remembering the bitter taste, she quickly dismissed the notion.
Mere seconds passed and she felt the color draining from her face. She’d never felt this horrible before now. Panic usurped her earlier fun feelings. Something was terribly wrong.
Susan must have noticed her state because Kaitlyn became aware of her presence when she dropped to her knees before her. “Kaitlyn, what’s the matter? You look like crap.”
“I’m sick, real sick. Get Vern. Oh, God…. “Kaitlyn closed her eyes and grimaced against a bout of nausea.
Susan patted her knee, reassuring her. “I’ll get Vern.”
Susan returned with Vern who took charge immediately, carrying her out to the truck. Despite the fact that Kaitlyn had ordered Vern to take her home, he sped away in the opposite direction from her house. Right to the emergency department, he’d told her.
* * * *
Vern gently placed her onto the first available gurney in the hallway. She was so grateful for his care.
Kaitlyn caught sight of the duty doctor bent over a file at the nurses’ station. He raised his glance and looked them over with disdain.
“What kind of drug is this girl on?” he called to Vern in a contemptuous manner over the whimpers of other patients. Kaitlyn shook her head to convey that she hadn’t taken drugs, but her poor state got the better of her and she gave up in her protest, lying prone on the gurney.
“Nothing,” blustered Vern who visibly swallowed hard as the doctor neared. “We were out at a party and she just started to get dizzy, feeling sickly.” Vern stepped aside.
The doctor pulled out a penlight from his shirt pocket and shined a light in her eyes. “She’s on something.”
Vern shook his head vehemently. “She’s had two beers. She doesn’t do drugs.”
The doctor’s declaration horrified Kaitlyn. “How could that be?” she mumbled weakly.
The doctor motioned for a nurse to assist. As she neared the group, he explained to her. “I’ll have to pump her stomach.” He whipped around to Vern. “Where are her parents?”
Vern looked to Susan for guidance but she remained silent. “At home,” Vern provided with hesitation.
“Get them on the phone,” the doctor snapped at Vern, as if the entire situation were his fault. “I need their permission to pump her stomach in order to save her life.”
Back in a foetal position, Kaitlyn watched Vern hurry to the nurse’s station. After a short exchange on the phone, he called the Doctor over and passed him the earpiece. The doctor was likely explaining her situation. The doctor’s nod told Kaitlyn that he’d gotten permission.
She was quickly wheeled into a treatment room, and without any delay, the doctor started the procedure.
Less than thirty minutes later, voices in the hallway revealed that her mom with younger brother Nathan had arrived at the emergency department.
* * * *
With a sullen-face, Vern greeted Margaret along with a petrified Susan. Next to pull through the emergency doors were two police officers. Panic filled his chest.
Constable Crewman rounded Margaret to reach the E.R. counter. He gave her a curt nod adding, “Hello, Mrs. Wolfe.” Then all business he turned to the nurse in charge.
Margaret smiled briefly at the officers who had been co-workers and good friends of her late husband.
To Vern, it was evident from the head nurse’s address to his Aunt Margaret and the constable that she knew them both. She motioned the constable to a private area and asked Margaret to take a seat.
Despite their low voices, Vern overhead their conversation. The nurse explained how Kaitlyn had perhaps attempted suicide. Vern became livid. The head nurse was also adding her personal suspicion that the cause might have been due to her recent loss of her father.
Vern’s outrage waned when his aunt bee-lined toward him. She grabbed at his arm. “What the hell is going on, Vern?” She eyed him with suspicion. “Kaitlyn went to a movie. How can she need to have her stomach pumped?”
“Aunt Margaret, I think Kaitlyn parked a … soda on a table, left it unattended. A kid might have put some drug in her drink as a joke. I don’t think it was meant to hurt her, Aunt Margaret.”
His aunt glared at both of them in turn. Suspicion that the whole story hadn’t yet been revealed became glaring by her narrowing stare.
“Just where were you tonight? And don’t give me any more nonsense about soda! The doctor smelled beer on her breath.”
With a guilty demeanor, Susan explained about the unchaperoned party. They had gone only to have a night of dancing, not to get wasted, she’d insisted.
Susan then admitted sharing Vern’s theory, having witnessed Kaitlyn putting down her beer to share a couple of dances with Brad, the host.
Outraged, Margaret marched to the nurse, leaving him and Susan standing guiltily in the waiting room. “My daughter’s friend thinks someone spiked her beer as a joke.”
The nurse looked around Aunt Margaret’s frame, her lower jaw hanging wide open. She quickly recovered from her shock adding, “Some joke. I’d better tell the doctor.”
Ten minutes later the doctor emerged from the curtained area and went straight to Aunt Margaret. “Mrs. Wolfe?” She rose, nodding. “We administered activated charcoal to your daughter to purge the drugs out of her system before much more of it found its way into her bloodstream. She should begin throwing up at any moment.”
Already, preliminary moans from behind the curtains reached their group.
“Mrs. Wolfe.” The doctor pocketed his hands in his lab coat. “Regulations dictate that the police be notified.” Aunt Margaret nodded toward the constables off to the side. “I called them in. They’ll take a sample of the discharge. If someone did indeed try to poison your daughter, the discharge becomes evidence to charge the culprit who did this to her.”
Constable Crewman approached the group. “Mrs. Wolfe, I had no idea that the case involved your daughter. The dispatch service never said the name of the patient.”
“Call me Margaret.” She waved her hand in the direction of Susan and him. “Question her friends and track down the creep who did this to my daughter.”
* * * *
Margaret’s nephew, Vern, and Susan Waberay, sang like birds when questioned. Constable Crewman radioed a second police car and appraised that officer to the situation. He turned to Margaret with compassion in his regard. “Another police team has been dispatched to this Brad Collin’s house.”
* * * *
From the open doorway to the house where the alleged drugging took place, the staff sergeant witnessed a clumsy teen attempt to hide the beer. “The beer could be the least of your problems, son,” he hollered over the chattering guests who now cowered in the farthest corner of the living room. His subordinate officers and he entered the room.
Having garnered their full attention, the staff sergeant ordered, “Listen up.” The chatter went dead. Having all eyes on him, he instructed, “This is what’s going to happen. First, my officers and I will search all of you. Anyone found with drugs will immediately be arrested.” A few brazen teens edged toward the kitchen doorway. The staff sergeant whistled, gaining their attention and stopping their defiance. “Anyone trying to take off will meet the same fate.” He motioned them to cluster with the other teens. “Everybody stays in this room. Officers will call your parents to have you picked up. No one leaves the premises without a parent or an adult. If you don’t have someone that can pick you up, I’ll arrest you for underage drinking. Got it? This way no one can lie and say their parents are away.”
“That’s not fair!” whined a young man.
The staff sergeant locked gazes with him. “What’s your name?”
With reluctance, the senior answered, “Duncan Cross.”
“Well then, Duncan, you won the search lottery. Officer, search that boy.”
Constable Fletcher finished patting Duncan down and returned a curt nod. “He’s clean, sarge.” He then moved to the Cummings girl standing next to the Duncan boy.
She resisted. “Do any of you goons know who my father is? He owns this town.”
The staff sergeant shook his head at the misplaced display of power while he neared her. “Ms. Cummings, you just said the wrong thing to the wrong people at the wrong time, just like your lippy friend there. Your father has no jurisdiction, authority, or influence over the Ontario Provincial Police.” He gave her a don’t-give-me-any-lip look. “You will be treated like any of the other underage drinkers present. Hand over your clutch purse.”
The still-fuming girl reluctantly reached out a hand, handing over her purse. He grabbed and opened it. He soon spied a suspicious clear plastic bag and pulled it out. On further inspection, he mentally labeled six tablets as LSD.
He fixed the young lady with a lengthy stare. “You have the right to remain silent—”
Her ill-advised bravado back, the Cummings girl screeched, interrupting her being mirandized. “My dad will have your badge for talking to me like this. Gwen, call my dad now. Right now!”
He sought who the defiant girl was addressing. He gave Gwen a stare that stopped any action she might have intended. “Sorry, Ms. Cummings, but your friend is next in being searched. If she’s clean, she may use the phone.” He returned to the Miranda warning on the Cummings girl while his partner searched Gwen’s belongings.
Young Gwen carried no drugs and she held herself together, appearing sober. He allowed her to use the telephone as a ranting Ms. Cummings was escorted to a police car.
Mike Smith, young Ms. Cummings’ date, also carried illigal drugs in a front jeans pocket. A small bag of marijuana. No LSD was found on his person. He was also arrested and joined his date in the police car. By his bewildered expression, he obviously hadn’t envisioned his date with Ms. Cummings ending in this fashion.
* * * *
Kaitlyn awoke during daylight, a lunch tray left forgotten on her hospital table. Her headache was so intense that she wished she would die. Her mouth felt and tasted like a rat sewer.
So this was a hangover.
She recalled hearing school chums boasting about their epic hangovers during recesses, as if it were some sort of contest, but, if this ranked as one of life’s great accomplishments, Kaitlyn wanted no part of it.
Feeling the need to tidy herself up, she sought the bathroom. She gazed at a frightful image of herself in the mirror, thinking of the moment when she first woke up in the emergency department. A sensation like coming up from a deep dive overtook her then.
The sound of footsteps had her turn around. Seeing her mom, she rushed to her and embraced her, only too aware of the look of shame on her face.
After they both recovered from a bout of crying, her mom drew her back, shaking her head sadly. “Child, First Nations people have to stay away from alcohol, for the sake of both health and reputation. Your presence at this infamous party embarrassed all the people of Wanitou.”
Having heard quite enough already, Kaitlyn rolled her eyes in teenage eloquence.
Her mother wept quietly until she regained her composure. “I just lost your father, and if I lost you, I’d die inside. Kaitlyn, you and Nathan are all that’s keeping me alive.”
Those words deeply affected Kaitlyn. Feeling the goose bumps on her arms, she knew without a doubt that she would never forget them.
Kaitlyn embraced her mom for what seemed like an eternity. Once she released her mom, she was grounded from seeing her friends after class, for the next two weeks.
What would she do with the two weeks that she would be housebound? That meant no sports, no Susan, and no television. Her Mom meant for her to remember that mistake, forever, and learn from it.
* * * *
After being released from the hospital, they drove home silently. Her mother seemed to drive the station wagon over every bump and pot hole along the dirt road.
Once home, a thorough brushing of teeth and a scalding hot shower improved her hangover and her state of mind. After a plain toast and an apple juice, Kaitlyn got her mom’s permission to take a walk in the fresh air to clear her stubborn headache.
She hurried over to Susan’s house without phoning ahead, as was her custom, so she could let her friend know of her grounding.
Susan opened the front door and grimaced. “You look like crap.” She motioned Kaitlyn inside the house.
“I know.” Kaitlyn was all too aware of her tear-stained face. “I had to get out of the house. Mom’s so mad at me; I feel so ashamed at having lied to her. Her pleading eyes are killing me. This morning when I entered the kitchen, she looked up at me the way she did after dad died.” She swallowed a sob. “I just had to tell you of my grounding.”
“I expected you to be grounded.”
“For the next two whole weeks. No Friends, no sport, no television.” Kaitlyn shook her head at her fate. “I’ve really messed up. Plus, that might cost me a spot on the cross-country team. I trained so hard for it.” Kaitlyn choked up.
Susan patted her shoulder. “It’s not your fault. It’s Stacey’s.” She huffed in hatred. “It has to be her that put the drug into your beer.”
Kaitlyn lifted a guilty gaze to Susan. “But Vern warned us not to leave our drinks unattended and, well, I was having so much fun dancing. I screwed up.” Kaitlyn felt the weight of her stupidity. “Are you grounded as well?”
“Nope. Remember it’s Ida. She yelled at me and then she went off brooding. She’s such a loser.”
“Don’t say that about your mom, Susan. She’s not that bad.” Feeling minutes were ticking off, Kaitlyn quickly added, “Anyway, I better get back before mom finds out I used the walk to speak to you. She’d ground me for life then.”
Susan nodded reassuringly and with a parting, “Yeah, you better.” She closed the door.
* * * *
Life went on, and her two-week grounding period expired. Kaitlyn attended her next running practice, fully expecting to be let go from the team. She thought the moment was upon her when Coach Stinson motioned her aside from the group.
“Natural ability is wonderful,” Coach Stinson said then she paused while assessing Kaitlyn. “But it is nothing without commitment, focus, and self-discipline.” She smiled at Kaitlyn. “You, my dear Kaitlyn, have all of those things, so keep on doing what you’re doing.” Walking away from the exchange, Kaitlyn breathed a sigh of relief. Someone must have tipped Coach Stinson of her ordeal and subsequent grounding.
Kaitlyn casually told her mom about making the team, as though it were a trivial matter, over supper. Her strategy was she didn’t want to draw undue attention to herself following the dreadful incident that caused such pain to her mother.
* * * *
The following Friday, Kaitlyn competed in her first cross-country run. Despite stomach flutters, she came in third in the grade nine category. Coach Stinson assured her that with more practice and seasoning, her potential to win many more meets was all but certain.
The only sad moment of her day came when Connie refused to talk to her. Stacey’s older sister and team member, who had been giving Kaitlyn the odd lift home after practice, now averted her eyes every time Kaitlyn got near her. Connie had become a supporter of her spoiled sister and her new behavior spoke of blame as if Kaitlyn were responsible for her young sister’s arrest.
Blustery cold days followed and then a warm, golden haze settled over the northern countryside. Indian summer was the popular designation, but in Wanitou, it was commonly referred to Aboriginally-enhanced Climatic Preservation.
Her mom had started a new job, which she loved. Isobel, the supervisor, let her mom work from nine to three Monday to Thursday. Even without the death benefits from the O.P.P., their family could get by on her mom working the four days a week. Kaitlyn assumed her mom wanted to keep her mind busy.
Early, on the second weekend in October, the day was cool but sunny. Her entire family, including her best friend Susan, Leslie and Buck, Susan’s siblings, all packed into a borrowed minivan while her mom, a large picnic basket in tow, settled in last. They drove to Sudbury where the regional track meet was hosted. They arrived at the conservation area by nine that morning, well in time for her race scheduled for ten that morning.
Kaitlyn introduced Coach Stinson to her mom. Her coach boasted that she was an asset to the team, which elated her.
She dedicated the next hour to all of the warm-up stretches, a necessity to avoid any muscle injury. It was boring, but a necessary evil, like washing dishes. The preparation was also part of her self-imposed regimen that so impressed her coach, who briefly interrupted her to give her a short word on her main competition and a run-down of the course.
The run consisted of a five kilometer tract that included steep hills, shallow streams, and narrow nature paths.
The call for her age group came quickly to Kailtyn. In a daze, she found herself at the start off line amongst fourteen other athletes from a wide variety of schools throughout northern Ontario. The bang of the starter pistol had her sprinting off the starting gate without a conscious effort on her part. She and her main adversary, a competitor named Rose Carter, took the lead, feet thudding frenetically and breath whooshing rhythmically.
Once her rhythm was established, Kaitlyn glanced at Rose. She was wiry where Kaitlyn was slender and lean.
Rose Carter had arrived in Sudbury back in September from Toronto. A seasoned competitor, she had been in cross-country racing since grade five. She had compiled a formidable reputation for her stamina and solid performance. Per Coach Stinson who made it her business to know the competition, Rose was particularly adept at handling hills.
Kaitlyn kept up neck and neck for the first mile. A hill loomed and she gathered her inner strength, forcing herself to take the lead up the hill, a move to deter the competition mentally, but Rose also put on extra effort, tail-gating her so closely that she expected to be overtaken at any moment. Kaitlyn now silently agreed with Coach Stinson’s assumption; Rose’s experience showed.
The top of hill led the way to a nature trail which ran through scraggly brush in much need of trimming. Kaitlyn ducked and weaved so as to avoid scratches from the branches. Rose seized the opportunity, capturing the lead and maintained a short lead for the next kilometers.
In the final quarter of the race, Kaitlyn’s perseverance at practice paid off. She went into a sprint, pulling on every ounce of strength left in her being, lungs burning, trails of clammy sweat dripping everywhere on her body.
Rose went into her own dash, but her stride could not keep up with Kaitlyn’s. She went through the finish line, her family cheering along with her team mates.
She’d won! By a good two meters.
After a short recovery, Kaitlyn gave everyone a clammy hug. To her elation, even Josh Recollent from grade eleven came bounding up for a hug of his own. Her face still heat-flushed from the race likely turned a deep crimson when Josh hugged her, but she did her utmost to remain nonchalant.
Once all of the results had been compiled, Kaitlyn received a gold medal for her win. It was decided that the family would go out to an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet to celebrate. During the meal, young Buck stared right at Kaitlyn, and in an irritating singsong voice, began to tease her. “Kaitlyn’s got a boyfriend, Kaitlyn’s got a boyfriend.”
When Nathan chimed in, her mom stepped in to stop the harrassment. The more she interferred, the sillier and louder the boys became.
“Stop being so stupid!” Susan ordered the boys with a warning look that meant possible reprisals later.
“Who? Us?” More shrieks of laughter erupted.
“Yes, you. Now, smarten up. Look, there’s a video game over there….”
Chapter Two
Having graduated from law school in the class of 1989, Maxine Swayman went out on job interviews, seeking a position as an articling clerk to start her new career as a lawyer. Many of her friends from her study group had already acquired jobs.
Richard was leaving the Toronto area, having scored a spot in a Crown Attorney’s office in London, Ontario. Three others were going to work as articling law students throughout the Toronto area. When they learned that she had secured a first interview with the prominent Bay Street firm of Curzon, Horowitz, Hough, Lympany, and Hess, her friends showed jealousy, mentioning how beautiful the firm’s quarters were. All wished aloud they could hold a position in such a beautiful old brownstone building in Toronto.
From her perspective, the Monday afternoon interview went really well. She believed she delivered an eloquent and well-crafted performance. Both Mr. Hough and Mr. Horowitz knew her father well.
It was never clear whether it was because of, or in spite of this fact that, the next day Maxine learned the position had been given to another incumbent. Granted, it had been her first interview, but nonetheless, she sank into a blue funk. Not even Nicola, her sister and roommate, could raise her spirits.
The following Friday evening in anticipation of a planned gathering, Maxine put Billy Joel’s beloved Piano Man on the stereo, mixed a pitcher of strawberry daiquiris, and set out corn chips, salsa, and guacamole on the veranda terrace.
Didi, Maxine’s secondary school pal, and Samuel, a new friend from England, were due at the waterfront apartment within the hour. The evening plans involved cocktail hour with their guests, followed by dinner at North of 49, and a night of dancing in clubs.
Her preparations complete, Maxine lounged on the balcony, sipping on a diet soda and warming her body in the heat of the July sun as she admired the several yachts on the harbour criss-crossing the shimmering water like water beetles.
She sighed. It was a beautiful evening, but one shadowed by the fact that she was still jobless. She could rely on connections through her dad, however, she aimed at making it on her own merits.
The telephone rang, interrupting her mulling. She uncoiled herself from her chaise lounge and hurried inside.
“Maxine?” At her acknowledgement, the other party went on, “It’s Uncle Stan. Congratulations on your graduation. Now that you’re a lawyer, the family could use you.” The man paused. She figured Stan was pooling on his courage to go on. “Can you come up north tonight or tomorrow?”
First, Maxine was astonished to hear from her father’s second cousin of the Cummings side of the family. How was she even related to him? She didn’t even know, but one fact remained: His voice was downright pushy and it irked her.
“Uncle Stan … I haven’t talked to you in … over two years. What’s happening? It sounds, uh, important…. “The anticipation of her evening dissipated like air gushing out from a balloon.
“I’ve got to call your dad more often. Here’s the thing: Your cousin Stacey is due in criminal court on Monday. We need a lawyer who isn’t from this God-forsaken little hick town to defend her.”
Despite having met Stacey only a handful of times, Maxine was not surprised or concerned at this latest development. Stacey was a stuck-up little brat. “When was she arrested?”
“Two months ago.”
Maxine bit her tongue, stiffening at the gall of the man. Then in true Swayman form she had inherited from her dad, she blurted out, “So why are you calling me the Friday before court?” Overhearing his deep intake of breath, she detected an embarrassment, a lengthy hesitation from him.
“I fired the last lawyer,” he confirmed at last. “You’ll be better. You’re fresh out of school and, I’m sure, want to establish yourself professionally. I want you to take on the case.”
She wondered what exactly had transpired that Stan had to resort to calling her, making Stacey’s trouble with the law known to the entire family. “Why did you fire the last one?”
“He wanted my Stacey to plead guilty and take a plea bargain, like a common criminal. Could you believe that? Plus Stacey didn’t relate well to the man. He even claimed that Stacey is a spoiled child who needs to grow up.”
Maxine silently praised and agreed with the gutsy lawyer. Curiosity got the best of her. “What’s she charged with?”
Stan’s voice became hushed. “Well … Personally, I think it was a girl’s prank that went desperately wrong. Stacey fell under the influence of a no-good boy. Both went to an unchaperoned party together. A Native girl threatened my Stacey, and she retaliated by slipping LSD into her beer. You know those Indians; they’re drunk all the time anyway.”
The roundabout admission triggered a memory: why her dad hadn’t spent much time with Stan over the years, and the hair on the back of her neck prickled uncomfortably.
As children, Nicola and her had always referred to Stan as their uncle even though he was only their father’s second cousin. Stan Cummings was a successful businessman who bragged openly about locating his factory up north to avoid paying the workers a decent wage. She distinctly remembered how her father had then been horrified at his cousin’s avarice.
Obviously expecting Maxine to jump at the chance at being in court, Stan pursued with his convincing argument when she remained silent on the matter. “The Indian girl was brought to the hospital by a male relation who told the cops where they had been that evening. The cops went to the premises to investigate, entering the house without a parent present.They searched the others and my Stacey looking for drugs. Only two people were arrested; Stacey and her boyfriend, Mike Smith.”
“What is Stacey’s take on all this, Uncle Stan?”
“She admits doing it. But only as a joke. Stacey claims this Native, one of those rough types living on a reservation without toilets, has goaded her for years. The girl is … fatherless as well.”
In light of the obvious discrimination going on, she wouldn’t take the case. “Uncle Stan, you’d better get another lawyer, not me. Or Dad.”
“Listen, Maxine.” Her Uncle Stan’s voice took on a nasty edge, as if he were talking to an errant mill-hand. “I’m giving you the break of your life time, and you’re throwing it away? Without even talking to your cousin? What’s the problem?”
… Continued…
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an excerpt from
Allegiance
by Derek Blass
P A R T O N E
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T H E B O R D E R
O N E
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Blown sand stung his face like tiny darts shot from an invisible enemy. He lay prone in the desert, his tan and chocolate fatigues doing little to combat the heat that emanated through the earth. A row of ants marched just beyond his shadow, providing him a distraction as he waited for his targets to crest the hill in front of him.
He turned his head when he heard the howl of wind from his left—the incessant source of the sand. Grainy pellets struck the back of his cap and then subsided. He looked back at the hill and thought he saw the hazy outline of a person’s head, surely a mirage. With a quick snap, he pulled binoculars from a side pocket and propped up on his elbows.
Sure enough, it was the top of a person’s head, the molecules around the figure shimmering in the distant heat wave. The rest of the body appeared slowly as the head bobbed from side to side. Bushy, caterpillar eyebrows poked up. A glossy, heat-soaked face took form.
He put the binoculars down and whispered to the woman next to him, “¿Hay más?”
She put her own binoculars down and pulled the bandanna from her mouth. “Many more.” He looked back at the hill and four other people surrounded the man struggling up the incline. They all panted and struck various poses while catching their breath—hands on knees, hands behind head, crouched down with head between legs.
“Go time?” she asked.
“Let them get closer,” he answered. The group of people was about four hundred yards away. He watched them as they battled the intense heat and worked to recoup their energy. The sun’s unrelenting rays beat down on them. Their lips were chalky white and their normally brown skin was pale and sickly—initial signs of heat exhaustion.
They managed to press forward though, a testament to the oft-forgotten or unused human will. When they neared a little over two hundred yards away, he turned to her, gave a quick gesture with his head in the direction of the group of people, and picked up two jugs of water. She grabbed her bag of food and jogged toward them. He followed behind her, the water sloshing in the jugs and making balance challenging over the uneven desert terrain.
The people froze when they saw these two figures coming in their direction. A man, the same one who first crested the hill, put his hands out to his sides to get the rest of the group to stop. He stood alone, the tip of a triangle.
When they were just about to reach yelling distance from the group, they all heard a crack, like a distant tree branch falling. Both he and the woman froze. Another crack and one of the jugs of water spun out of his hand. Water gushed out onto the sand, creating a silhouette on a golden background. Then it seemed as if a shooting gallery erupted. He fell face down, the desert floor grinding against his cheek.
The lead man in the group of people waved his arms in the direction of the firing until one of the bullets connected. He screamed as his hand was ripped off. A second shot and he was silent, lifted into the air, angelic for a moment before crashing to the ground.
With the jug of water by his side, the man in fatigues grabbed the woman’s foot. She glanced at him, a look of terror in her bloodshot eyes. The bandanna had fallen off of her face, revealing her trembling lips.
The sound of firing ended as abruptly as it had started and was replaced by the crescendo of engines. The grumble grew louder until he worried they were going to get run over. Without moving his body he shifted his head to look in the direction of the engines.
Three tan jeeps bellowed across the ripples in the desert sand. He could smell trace exhaust fumes. The jeeps closed on him and the woman until the last moment. The unrefined roar of the engines deafened every other sound, including his own breathing. The lead jeep braked, spun sideways, and sent up a plume of dust and sand which enveloped them.
The crunch of several footsteps was all he could make out in the dust around them. Then, nothing but a face emerged from the brown cloud, peering at him from several inches away. A copperish-brown stream of spit shot from the person’s mouth.
“Well, look like we got two-of-’em angels.” The man couldn’t see the butt of a rifle swing up and then come down toward his own face until the last moment, which coincided with the world turning black.
* * * *
A hand pecked at the back of his head, bringing him out of one darkness and into another. Stench permeated the air. A mix of disease and bodily fluids filled his nose even when he didn’t breathe. There was no sense that air had moved in this place for decades. He must be inside. That’s when he felt the cloth wrapped around his eyes loosen and fall to his neck. More darkness—no indication of light. It was as if he sat suspended in a vast, pitch-black vat.
Click. A light barreled over his face. He threw his head back and then down, using the top of his head as a shield. The burn of the light on his eyes stayed for several seconds before fading back to black.
“Your name.” The words didn’t reach him, only their echo. As if they were uttered from some holographic voice beyond the edge of his space. He managed to choke out half an expletive before the echo reached him again, this time with a hint of force and urgency. “Your name.”
He got the expletive out, “Fuck you!” The light switched off and he raised his head. Footsteps rasped against the floor into the distance. “Hey! Where’d you go?!”
That was the last contact he had for an indescribable period of time. Unbeknownst to him, his captors waited an exact time—three days—before returning to his cell. The body can survive for a week without water at the temperature they kept him. Three days was the beginning of a breaking point, which was marked by his transition from vehement cries, to pleas, to gut-wrenching screaming, to low and long moans.
With no sense of when he was placed in the room, he also had no idea how much time had passed. His hands were tied behind his lower back, his feet bound to the legs of his chair. Initially, he contemplated breaking the chair. He gently rocked it to test its sturdiness. One of the legs wiggled. The thought of falling to his side and dislodging the leg crossed his mind, but so did the thought of being bound to the chair and stuck on his side. Somehow, being upright was critical, a last modicum of control.
The torture began with the absence of hypnotic daily events. The standing, stretching and looking out a window to see the weather that marked the beginning of days. Those involuntary acts, like breathing, violently removed from his life. All he wanted to hear was a gust of wind or the smack of a raindrop. Something to tell him he wasn’t hundreds of feet below the earth, in a chamber hardly wider than the shaft leading to it.
He screamed questions which he answered before the echo stopped.
No noises came from his captors. His eyes served no purpose. Only his nose remained on duty, and in time he was able to pick out the different bodily functions, his own and those of previous inhabitants. Oftentimes he spent hours with his head tilted back, eyes shut, briskly wafting in the smells. Without this he would have gone insane—the smell of his own shit somehow served as a ground.
He bit off a corner of his lip when the hunger and dehydration began to toy with his will.
Somewhere deep in the onyx fog around him a sound was created. He stopped breathing at once. Even the sound of his heart could drown out something that faint. He turned his head left and then right, having determined sometime in the last few hours that his left ear, indeed, was his best ear. Then there was a click and he could smell body odor, not necessarily pungent or offensive—manly.
“Hello?” he whispered.
“Your name,” replied the voice, like a robot programmed to deliver those two words and nothing else.
He screamed and started to wail, thrusting alternate shoulders forward and back. “You! You!” he sobbed. “You…”
Patiently, calmly, the voice reiterated its request, “Your name.” The persistence made him want to vomit. Then the voice quadrupled its output, “That there was three days. Next time, four!”
“Okay!!” he spat, a mixture of tears and saliva. “Cruz Marquez!”
Wooden chair legs chattered across the cold floor. Cruz heard a grunt and then creaking of the chair as the man settled in.
“Some water, please,” Cruz gasped, trying to conserve what felt like precious few remaining breaths.
There was a click and then the man said, “Reach out directly in front of you.”
“My hands…”
“That’s right,” the man recognized with another grunt. He untied Cruz’s hands and held the canteen out. “Right in front of you again.” Cruz’s hand met the smooth aluminum body of a canteen. “Drink ’er slowly,” the man added.
The water filled chasms in Cruz’s tongue, which seemingly soaked up the water before it could reach his throat. The impulse was to gorge on the water, not knowing when the next bit would come. But, his body could not tolerate the water in any quantity greater than a slow flow, the normally innocuous liquid having become harmful. Cruz set the canteen down on the floor when he was done with the arduous task of drinking.
“Better?” Cruz nodded his head. “Name is Arnold Lampert. I’m fifty-eight years old, ’bout five-foot-eight, one hundred and sixty pounds. Graying hair, and I don’t mind ’em. That’s just how the shit goes.”
“What? Why are you telling me?”
“I served in the military, Nam. Marines. Whooo-ahhh! Just a grunt, a private, nothing special, but we saw the most. The jungle spread out from our dirty fingers in that place. Spent three years there, then the next thirty-two years working civilian jobs, ’cause I was too messed up in the head,” he said. “Military had no use for us after the war, ya know? Worked as a bartender in various Wisconsin holes, tryin’ to get back some of Nam’s glory—the whores, the drugs, the booze. Spent a long time doin’ that and other easy-access jobs. Insurance agent. Car salesman. Realtor.”
“Then the early two thousands hit and ya know what I started to see? More of y’all,” he seethed. “Country started to go to piss. Was used to dealin’ with the blacks. Hell, I fought and boozed and fucked next to ’em in Nam. Then all of a sudden your Mexicans were in my insurance office, asking me if I spoke Spanish. Mexicans at my car dealership, speaking their spic around me while I sat in the backseat for their test drives. First it was just something I noticed, and it gradually became something I hated, something to be dealt with. That’s why I started all this around ya—Allegiance.”
“Why?”
“Why tell you? Maybe it’s that you’re my captive, subject to my whims, including tellin’ ya ’bout certain personal aspects of my life. Maybe it’s I wanted to give ya some illusion of control. If ya know something ’bout me, ya can create judgments, definitions and categories. Maybe it’s ’cause you’re blind and I wanted to paint myself in your dull, useless eyes.”
“Since we’re doing introductions…”
“I know who you are. There ain’t a Minuteman who doesn’t know you, not if I have any say in that. Cruz Marquez, social activist, lawyer, non-practicing at this point, defeater of the great Sergeant Colin Shaver.”
“That was Raul, not me.”
Arnold grunted. “Sure, in the end, but ya ended him before that, with your work on that trial, with your publication of the video.”
“I disagree.”
Which is your right,” the man said, his words beginning as soon as Cruz’s fell off. “Ya know where you’re at?”
“In a hole with some smooth-talkin’ honk.”
“Ouch! A hole, of some sorts. Geographically though, you’re eight hundred feet inside the Mexican border. This is our deprivation room. I designed it, a room carved out by hand at the end of an eight-hundred-foot passageway. Serving as reclamation of our border.”
“A hidden room in the ground is the best you can do—speaks volumes.”
“Squatting on foreign land is not easy, Mr. Marquez,” Arnold said, some agitation building in his voice. “Except…except if it’s your kind, ain’t that the truth?”
“What do you mean, my kind?”
The legs of the chair chattered and Cruz could feel breath against his cheek. It was well-scented, fresh, and unexpected. His eyes were beginning to recover some of their utility, and he could make out the vague contours of Arnold’s face. A strong brow hovered above two eyes which sunk back into darkness. His face reappeared at the jaws, which jutted out sideways and seemed to be moving, grinding from side to side.
“I know ya want to reach out and grab me, take my neck into your hands and press down with all your strength, crushing my larynx. I’ve done it, it’s not easy. Definitely not for someone where you’re at.” Arnold got even closer. “Your kind—don’t play dumb, Mr. Marquez. You Mexicans, Hondurans, Guatemalans, El Salvadorans, Nicaraguans. The fuckin’ pit of the world, throwin’ up into our country. You know what I mean. How come ya don’t send some goddamn Argentinians over, at least they got a speck of European blood. But no, we get the workers, the indigents, the burnt crust of an old piece of bread.”
Cruz let his head fall to his side, not prepared to engage in a philosophical debate after three days without food and only recently having received water.
“Nothing, Mr. Marquez?”
He raised his head, “Give me some food, water, and let me out of this dungeon if you want to talk about immigration policies.”
Arnold emitted a burst of choppy laughs. “This is far from over, Mr. Marquez! Once I leave ya for another three days, you’ll understand why what I’m doing to ya is a favor!”
Cruz could tell that Arnold stood up, the scrape of his feet moved in the opposite direction. “No, wait, I’ll talk…”
“It don’t matter,” Arnold called back over his shoulder, now at the exit of the panic room. “This process is just startin’.”
T W O
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The gleaming edge of the razor sparkled. Martinez tilted it back and forth, watching the overhead light reflect on the bathroom wall. The feeling gathered like a storm cloud in his chest. He put the razor to his wrist, shaking again. He pulled the blade away and the indent filled with sluggish drops of blood.
Nothing existed around him. The littered floor, used toilet paper rolls, magazines, food. He had spent so much time in the bathroom. It was the only noble place for him to do it. The easiest place for everyone else. They could just come in, pull his body out, spray cleaner on the white tile floor and walls, spruce up other parts of the house and sell it to a cheery couple looking to expand for their first baby. The inevitable rattles of death, the messiest parts of the transaction, all squeegeed away. Considerate to the end.
Martinez had been trapped in that bathroom for months, as that feeling gnawed its way through his resistance. It owned him.
T H R E E
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Sandra listened to the deputy sheriff’s words like they were a eulogy. Five days had passed since Cruz was last seen. She knew he was in the desert, where he had spent so much time since the trial of Sergeant Shaver, which had concluded with a thud. Cruz trying to escape the results of his subsequent investigations into Sergeant Shaver and the depths of his crimes.
The months following the trial were the most difficult, as Cruz received death threats on a weekly basis. Voicemails, emails, notes left under the windshield wiper. He eventually decided to take a hiatus from his practice, which initially flourished with the notoriety of the trial. They moved into an old home in the Mexican desert, and Sandra received permission from her news station to serve as a visiting reporter on the local Mexican news station.
Slow, rhythmic nights, chilled morning breezes, and sunsets that burned the sky mellowed Cruz out awhile. The fickle celebrity spotlight altered its gaze and he returned to the crevices of normalcy. Then the sonar pulse hit him, like a wave of energy that had traveled hundreds of miles. The drive to do more hit him—never fully gone. Excursions into the desert began as hushed visits, too short to be noticeable, until Cruz was returning just as dawn broke.
Sandra asked him where he went, but he just shrugged the inquiries off and fell asleep. One night she feigned sleep and waited for the covers to stir. They didn’t. After waiting several minutes, she was startled by Cruz standing next to the bed, wobbly, with a hand buried in his hair. A breeze through the open French doors pulled the delicate smell of flowers into their room and shook Cruz from his sleepwalk.
She squinted her eyes until they were barely open and waited for Cruz to make his next move, which was toward the closet to sleepily step into his hiking boots. The weight of the boots triggered recognition of his surroundings, and he swiveled his head to look at Sandra. She kept still, and he slid out of the room.
Under the covers, Sandra was prepared for the hike. Several years of marriage and a hot summer night were enough to keep detecting hands away. The front door made its usual creak when opened and Sandra eased out of the bed in that direction. She looked through the glass in the front door, a sliver of the moon refracting into her face. Cruz was nowhere in sight. She shouldered open the door and was met by the symphony of nocturnal bugs.
A three-foot-tall stucco wall surrounded the house, separating them from the wash. The cackle of coyotes dismembering a fallen rabbit often launched out from that wash, twenty seconds of audio chaos, disappearing as quickly as it appeared lest the coyotes give their location away for too long.
Cruz’s silhouette was visible well in front of her. The moon’s pale white light turned him into an inky blob, cutting a direct course into the nether of the desert. Then he stopped, lifted his head to the invisible scent waves moving throughout the world and began a more diagonal path. Wonderment crept into Sandra’s mind. Was he sleepwalking? Was he meeting someone out in the desert, some secret, sandy affair? A red-dressed woman, idling by a midnight oasis, waiting for Cruz to arrive and ravage her.
He stopped again, this time not lifting his head but staring intently. In a slow and smooth motion, he knelt down and then came to rest on his stomach, propped up and focused on the black tidal wave in front of him. Sandra moved closer, until she could see more detail in Cruz’s apparel. She took cover behind a cluster of saguaros, whose symbiotic desert shrubs created a green veil lightly illuminated by the moon. She hid there, periodically poking her head out from the cover to determine Cruz’s position. He hadn’t moved and was still gazing into the nothingness.
She sighed and switched from a kneeling to a sitting position. An owl broke the still night with a soulful scream. Sandra looked out toward Cruz again and jumped back when she caught him looking right back at her. She peeked out again, and he was still looking at her. She swore his mouth was moving, and after a dreamy interval where her vision was not enough to confirm her apprehensions, Cruz made an abrupt, almost violent gesture at her to come in his direction.
The urgency of the movement overcame her and she placed her hand on a saguaro to stand up. A stifled whimper escaped from her lips and then she scurried to Cruz’s side. She held her hand out to Cruz, which had several embedded spines. He grabbed her by the wrist and began yanking out each spine while tears ran down her face. She bled and burned, but could not object to the efficient removal.
“You touched a saguaro,” he whispered. She nodded and he went on, “There is a champion saguaro a quarter of a mile from here. I touched it once—I know your pain.” He pulled the last needle out and turned his attention back to the desert in front of them.
Tiny stones littered the ground and jabbed into Sandra’s softest spots no matter which way she tried to get comfortable. She wondered how Cruz remained so still, but then saw that he was outlined by the same stones. Sandra quietly swept the offenders away from her body, creating a bare patch to lie down on. Through her fog of tears, the desert remained motionless in front of them. The expansiveness so visible in the day turned into claustrophobia in the pitch-black night. A sea of stars glimmered above them, bringing a soft luminousness to the harsh desert features.
Then the obvious question spilled from her mouth, “What the hell are you doing out here, Cruz?”
He ignored the question, enveloped in his singular focus on the desert. A mind-numb trance, all thoughts falling before the eyes, ears and nose. Every data point registering in a web of sense registry. Sandra’s mouth began to form its next question, but Cruz quickly placed his hand on her back and pressed her farther into the ground.
Then she saw them. Three dark-skinned people, alert-looking, not knowing what country they scampered through, but understanding that this was day six of their trip from Chihuahua and that if they weren’t already in the United States, it was surely imminent. They stopped, and one of them lifted a jug of water from the ground. For the first time, Sandra was able to make out a little box above the floor of the desert. She looked at Cruz, who continued his unwavering gaze, like a young child enraptured by the unbalanced ballet of moths around a light.
This is what Cruz had been doing when he was captured, according to the deputy sitting across from her. He was detached, relaying facts in a slow plod, enunciating each syllable with brutal precision, to avoid any accusation that he possessed emotions—positive or negative—as to what she was going through. Ticking off known facts, probable offenders, possible outcomes. Divining, forecasting, reiterating, connecting. Never committing to a conclusion. A la carte policing.
“What are you guys going to do?” she asked the deputy sheriff with some frustration.
“Nothing we can do, as much as we would want to. We have combed the desert and found nothing for five days. Studies show that after the first forty-eight hours, our probability of success decreases to fifteen percent. A quick chill.” She looked at the man. His face was nearly free of wrinkles—in fact, his face hardly moved. He had dark black hair, medium length and plastered to his forehead.
She plucked her purse off of the ground. He meticulously tapped the sides of the stack of documents in front of him on the desk.
F O U R
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Psychosis became his friend in the dark. The man, Arnold, had left his hands free. This wasn’t necessarily good. Idle hands, without a properly functioning central computer, did strange things. Hair tugs, scratches. They developed tics. Their shake was an anchor in this world, a reminder that the normal bounds of physics existed somewhere in the room.
Cruz paced off the dimensions of the room. Side to side, top to bottom. Diagonal. Concentric circles. Twelve by twelve. He searched the walls for seams, handles, loose bricks, fake books on shelves. But they were maddeningly smooth to his touch. A perfectly square room without an exit, as far as he could tell.
The perfection of the construction exhausted him. With some sort of defect, the room would develop so much more character. The flaws could somehow connect him to the outside world, some evidence that his fellow man had been here, toiling underground just like him. Instead, he was in a relentless cube, spinning, until he finally relinquished and let the madness spread. Everything about his resistance to that moment had been grounded in control—control of the situation, control of his mind, control of his environment. The slowly rotating vortex of our lives, which when stopped reduces its owner to a mess of fear and uncertainty.
He gave in and it was so much better.
The sound of clicking came from one of the walls around him. He couldn’t move anymore. The body had relinquished long before the mind. Lights flooded the room and Cruz could hardly close his eyes. He saw someone standing next to him through the fuzz of his eyelashes.
“Come on, drink some of this.” It was Arnold again. When Cruz didn’t respond, he leaned down and poured some water onto his mouth. Cruz’s lips pulled back to his teeth and he sputtered water onto his face. “Drink it.” Cruz shook his head. This wasn’t real, it was another mind game. He had been through this before, a thousand times over and over. Arnold bringing him water. Arnold bringing him food. Arnold escorting him out of the room.
“I’ve got some food for you too, here…” He hooked his arms under Cruz’s and lifted the upper part of his body against the wall. It wasn’t difficult, Cruz had lost significant weight since being captured. All of his water weight was gone, and the skin around his bones looked shrink-wrapped. His face was drawn in, gaunt, replacing the healthy luster and strong shape it had before.
For the next two hours, Arnold got Cruz to hold down some water and food. He opened his eyes and looked at Arnold, then at the room. A manageable amount of light was on. The room was constructed of concrete; the walls were painted black and had long, diagonal scratch marks all over. His own waste covered the floor. The shame of that, with someone else present in the room, was still real. Perhaps one of his last normal feelings. Arnold pulled something from his army jacket pocket. It glimmered and before Cruz could determine what it was, he felt a pinch and his head rolled onto his shoulder.
Somewhere deep in the medicated darkness, Cruz heard himself say, “Didn’t have to do that.”
* * * *
Sandra stood in front of the house. What a sad state of disrepair. Weeds overran the front yard, newspapers crowded the front porch; the only square of grass was yellow and sucked dry by the sun. She straddled the newspapers to reach the front door and rapped on it three times.
“Martinez?” she called out.
There was no response so she knocked again. She tuned her ears to the inside of the house, but heard nothing. A sense of uncertainty crept up as she stood in front of the house, not knowing whether to stay there. She grabbed the doorknob and tested to see if it was locked. It turned, but she had to force the door open.
Stench greeted her first. Piles of clothes, food wrappers and paper covered the entrance to the house. The last moments of a fight with depression are almost always accompanied by a deluge of papers—invoices, letters from friends and family, bill collectors, junk mail. The nonsensical tedium of documents that go unattended in those stages. The smell, something Sandra had never encountered before, made her eyes tear up and burned the inside of her nose. There was no clear path in front of her as the only bare patch on the floor was around the door’s arc.
She wobbled as she stepped onto pudding-like piles of objects. Some were firm, others the heel of her shoe went right through. The most discomforting part of the situation was quickly becoming the fact that Sandra did not hear any sounds other than her own. No television. No low-level buzz of a refrigerator or other kitchen appliances. She finally made it to the living room, which seemed to be the epicenter of the junk collection. Two halls emptied there, so it only seemed natural that all of the refuse would make its way to that location. Sandra stood there, trying to catch her breath through her mouth and beginning to expect the worst. Although, one smell she did know was the smell of a dead body, and that wasn’t something her overwhelmed nose picked up on yet.
The walls were covered with yellow and brown stains. Filth multiplied in an environment like this. Sandra teetered on another pile and had to put her hand on the wall for support. She touched something damp and gagged. Light filtered out from underneath a door to her left and she heard labored, heavy breathing.
“Martinez?” She opened the door halfway and saw Martinez in the tub. The terror of the scene amplified by the contrast between the white tub, toilet and tile floor and the blood running all over it. Martinez was slouched to his left, his hair hanging over the edge of the tub. It was stringy and long. Every few seconds a drop of blood fell from his ring finger into a pool on the floor. Sandra’s first instinct overcame her and she rushed into the bathroom. Her left foot created no resistance as it flew out from under her. The ground rushed up and met her before she could grab onto any support. With a thud, she landed on her shoulder and lay there in Martinez’s blood.
The long, dark hair fell across his chin and obscured his mouth. Sandra was only a foot away from his ashen face. She looked up at him. His eyes were lifeless, mucous ran from his nose. A beard with an energy and being of its own covered the visible parts of his face. Tears filled Sandra’s eyes to see him like this. Then he blinked.
“Sandra…”
F I V E
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Octavio contemplated a marshmallow horseshoe floating in his milk while the news trudged on in the background. He flicked his spoon with a deft, aggressive motion and whisked the bloated cereal piece into his mouth. The family’s old couch creaked as he changed positions to lie on his side. His mother came into the living room and posed there, hands on hips, the eternal conflict between parent and late teenager blazoned across her disapproving face.
“Te vas a vestir así?”
“Mom, this is how I dress. And don’t speak Spanish to me.”
She puffed out air and transitioned to broken English, “Those pans are too tigh’, they look li’l jean for girls.” His mother’s accent always carried over to English in the strangest way. All of a sudden she sounded like a gay guy from Miami. He egged it on.
“Besides the pants, everything else is okay, no?”
“Ayyy, que no! Esa camisa…” She stopped because he held a finger up, foreclosing the possibility of further Spanish. “That shirt, black with a death skull? Que te pasa? Are you so sad an’ so deprimido that you had to show the world today? What you so sad about, my little boy?”
The expression on his face changed as the tables turned, his mom teasing him now. No longer doling out the sarcasm, and always sporting the insecurity teaming in his nineteen-year-old character, he scowled and waved his mom away.
“Tienes que vestir como un hombre! You go to the university, no more kid dress for you.” With that salt thrown on the open wound, his mother seemed satisfied that she had carried another argument.
He caught the tail end of a sentence from the television, “…the first country in Latin America to legalize gay marriage.” His mom sauntered back into the room, punch-drunk from her recent win.
“Esperate, mama,” Octavio said with a raised hand. She stopped and tracked his gaze to the television. The anchor changed to another news story and he switched his attention to his mom. It was as if the anchor held up a mirror to his face. Held it up to the world. Octavio never imagined that a country in the clenched hand of Catholicism would take a step like this—a step against intolerance and for humanity.
The television rattled his train of thought again. “A nationally known figure for attacking corruption in his state, Cruz Marquez has now been missing for nearly a week.” Octavio had seen this man’s face before. Crisp, penetrating eyes and jet-black hair flashed at him from the television. “…his last known location was in the desert of…” Most often, Octavio saw him in interviews, advocating for some sort of social justice. Nothing over the top, but his eyes hardly concealed his smoldering passion. Octavio liked the way his face hardened when discussing vital issues. As if to brace against the critics, the retort, the counterattack.
A higher power placed this man on his screen at this exact moment, to stimulate a certain region of his brain which moments ago dealt with his mom’s guilt trip. If Cruz Marquez was fighting, then he should be doing fighting too. Uplift and inspiration quickly replaced the emotions related to his mom’s guilt trip. The youth’s ability to turn on a dime.
“Mama…I’m going to the desert.”
The youth’s propensity for making rash decisions.
S I X
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Cruz saw his lap; then his head bounced off his chest and rolled back behind his shoulders. The fuzzy edges of the world and his mind began to collect and focus on his surroundings. With a groan, he saw it was a different room. There was a presence behind him, and as soon as he felt it, Arnold spoke.
“It’s time to test resistance.” The recent food and water had helped Cruz regain some of his physical strength, but his mind was not his own anymore. The shock of the kidnapping, the extreme sensory isolation, and the food and water deprivation stripped his core away. It annihilated the probing mind that once existed. All he could think of was obtaining more food and water. The now familiar cracking lips, depleted of all moisture, were returning. His stomach cried out for nourishment, a cry previously muted when all of his systems nearly shut down. Survival became his singular purpose.
“We live in the middle of lies, Mr. Marquez. Illegal immigrants contribute to our country. Black people don’t have higher rates of crime and lower abilities to be educated. Gays can serve in the military. Women successfully runnin’ corporations and even runnin’ the world.” Arnold stayed behind him, these thoughts slowly falling from his mind to his mouth and out into the room. “The question ya gotta ask yourself is how did things change so fast in the past fifty years? Did things change? Do ya really believe that the dominant race in this world for the last thousand years rolled on over? Ya stupid enough to believe that?”
“Y’all forced us to rule a different way is all, Mr. Marquez. Unfortunately, the days of holdin’ y’all down looks like it’s over. That was the easy way, for everyone. Both sides knew their places. Now, it’s a cat-and-mouse game. We give as little as we can, but enough to keep y’all idiots satisfied. And, ya know the crazy thing we’ve found out? It’s ma proof that none of y’all were ever supposed to be the dominant race. What we’ve found out is that y’all are so used to being the inferior race that with the little we give ya, the crumbs pushed off a table, you’re happy. Sure, y’all get angry sometimes, fight back sometimes, but those bits of resistance are so small and isolated we usually just ignore ’em.”
“But, some of us think the game has gone a cow’s tit too far. We do got gays in the military, and every other fucking place ya can imagine. People do believe blacks can be educated and civil, noncriminal citizens. We do have women runnin’ important institutions and companies in this country. And finally, for your people,” Arnold started as he moved to lean on a wall and study Cruz’s profile, “we do have a shit-ton of illegal immigrants in this country.”
“Why me? I’m nobody.”
Arnold picked at a hangnail before responding. “Been waiting for that question. Why you? You were in the middle of the desert, helping illegal immigrants live through that shitty trip.”
“But I’ve seen you guys do the same. You give them water and then turn them into ICE.”
“Sometimes, when the cameras are around, or when ICE is there. Don’t confuse our organization though. We’re a different type of Minutemen. Not that pansy, bullshit once-a-month border campout to get on television. We’re on that border, automatic rifles in hand, body armor, full camo, ready for the real illegals. The drug runners, gang members.” Arnold stopped wrestling with the hangnail to focus on Cruz as he spoke. He returned to his seat and clasped his hands. The room was bare except for the desk and two chairs. A single overhead light blasted rays that bounced around the room into Cruz’s eyes.
“The answer to your question is wrong place, wrong time. I was surprised when I found out who ya were though. Which gets me to my next point. We was already looking for ya.”
“Looking for me?” The words fell sluggishly out of his mouth. A dense shroud still entrapped his mind. The brutal transition from six days of total blackness to this luminescent room. It was as if he was a stranger to himself. Parts, largely the basic, cognitive parts, were functioning at a diminished capacity. Cruz’s next question was honest, and the surprise genuine because of his current state. “But, I wasn’t hiding.”
Arnold couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re right, Mr. Marquez. That was sloppy. We knew where ya were. We were looking for the right time and place to…collect ya.”
Cruz nodded his head in apparent agreement with this distinction.
“Ya took something very valuable from me,” Arnold said. His tone changed, as did his posture. The casual, relaxed pose was exchanged for a rocky, stern look. “A valuable person.” Cruz glanced up when the pause seemed to extend for too long. Arnold was demanding his attention. “Aren’t ya gonna ask who?”
Cruz shrugged his shoulders, “Who?”
“Colin Shaver.”
The name elicited a chuckle from Cruz. His face lifted into a smile and Arnold’s dropped in proportion. “That fuck,” Cruz slurred out.
With cat-like precision, Arnold bounded over the desk and slammed Cruz onto his back. The impact wrenched most of the air in Cruz’s lungs out, and the rest was being held in by Arnold’s clenched hand around his neck. “That fuck was my progeny, ya worthless shit. I found him. I turned him from a worthless thug into a commander.” Cruz’s face was beginning to turn blue, his eyes bulging from the pressure. “And your scaly brown ass killed him.” Arnold released his neck and Cruz wheezed in a long breath.
After several seconds, Cruz managed to say, “It was Raul.”
“That cripple was just the last domino. Ya set the whole game into motion.” Arnold was slightly out of breath and got off of Cruz. He grabbed the top of Cruz’s chair and tilted him back up. Two deep thuds, like someone banging their head against the wall, sounded from the only door to the room. Arnold circled back to his side of the desk before directing the person to enter.
A man came in, dressed in black and white digital camouflage, and holding fingers up to his face to indicate a number. “Ah,” Arnold said, “Number Twenty-Three.” The man stood silently next to Cruz, wisp-like and occupying some region between the living and the dead. All parts of his body were covered by the camouflage except for his rain-cloud gray eyes.
“Take off your head gear, Number Twenty-Three. I think you two may just surprise the shit out of one another.” Number Twenty-Three had not looked at Cruz yet, and removed his headgear before doing so. Cruz looked up at the man, who had oily, black hair. There was a deformity on his face; his right cheek was actually indented. The skin there was thin and taut, indicating some kind of prior trauma.
The men sensed knowledge of each other. Their minds told them they had faced each other in some form at another time in their respective lives. Number Twenty-Three was the first to recognize Cruz, but he gave no indication other than a gleam in his eyes. He waited for Cruz, whose rusted mental wheels were just starting to turn. The image of a home, Shaver’s home, coalesced in his mind. That night when they stormed the home, he had seen a living ghost.
That’s when Cruz made his first quick movement since being removed from the black room. He did a double-take and analyzed the face. But, the face would not have been enough. It was the eyes, and the look, the energy of death that buzzed from the edges of this man.
“Tyler?”
The other man’s mouth twitched. Muscles that in a normal person would have generated a smile.
S E V E N
__________________________________________________
Sandra trailed the ambulance by inches as they raced through stoplights, traffic and city streets to the hospital. The crackle of Martinez’s nearly dead voice had sent Sandra into a panic. A panic to find her cellphone, and then a panic to open the phone and dial with bloodstained fingers.
She saw the entrance to the emergency room and screeched to a stop behind the ambulance. The paramedics hopped out and walked quickly to the back of the vehicle—they never seemed stressed enough. At Martinez’s house they asked her a series of questions which seemed entirely irrelevant.
“When did you get here?”
“Who cares, he’s dying.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, that’s his blood. He’s dying. Do something.”
“Has he ever done this before?”
“Who fucking knows!” she wanted to scream.
Their calm agonized her. She wanted all of them to scream together, to pull their hair out and carom off of barricades in the street as they disregarded all notions of caution and care.
“Get him to the goddamn hospital,” came out of her mouth on two occasions. Both times were met by another question. Perhaps the paramedics thought that since Martinez had lasted this long, another ten minutes wouldn’t change a thing.
Finally, they loaded Martinez into the ambulance and imbued some urgency into their drive. Or, it could have been the thrill of driving a multi-ton van through busy streets and intersections like it was a slalom course. Either way, they got to the hospital quickly. Once there, they whisked Martinez away behind a set of discreet white doors, leaving her alone with no sounds and a slightly acrid smell in her nostrils.
The hospital was relatively clean. As portals to the next world, they should be, she thought. Those discreet white doors behind which lies an eternity of nothingness. A single smudge on those doors and the fourth curtain drops—leaving angst and confusion that death can happen under those conditions. That passing is anything but pure. In reality it rarely is anyway, Sandra realized. Covering news, she had seen the drunken teenager behind the wheel with half his head torn off. The young girl found in low, boggy water, the victim of an everyday abduction. The old man who shit himself when the heart attack pounced on him, smothering his chest and sucking the life out of his eyes.
A woman came out from behind the doors. A petite, blond woman in light blue scrubs with a ponytail that mimicked the perk of her breasts. This could not be death himself, she thought. His sense of irony could not run this deep. They would not send this ray of blinding white happiness to tell me Martinez is dead. That would have to be the fat, sloppy nurse. And, yet, what better way to deliver disaster than with a cheerful, round face.
“You came here with Mr. Martinez, correct?”
“Are you even a doctor?”
The woman’s eyes squinted and her face puckered into a half-grimace, half-smile. She put her hand on Sandra’s forearm. This was death.
“Of course I am. Been a practicing doctor for two and a half years.”
“How is he?”
“Ohhh, he’s stable now,” the little blond thing answered. A sigh of relief escaped Sandra. “He lost a lot, and I mean a lot of blood,” the woman said while shaking her head with a disbelieving ponytail. “But, you found him just in the nick of time. You can visit him now if you want.” The doctor gestured with her head at the white doors.
Sandra hesitated. The doctor just took off. Sandra instinctively followed and used her shoulder to prop open one of the doors. The doctor was about to disappear around a corner. Sandra bit her lower lip and scurried to catch up.
“He’s in here, miss,” the doctor said with an open hand leading the way.
She straightened her skirt and walked into the room. Martinez was connected to tubes which swung up from his body to a system of IV bags. Thin, insulated wires connected him to monitoring machines. A faint beep sounded in what seemed like a regular, healthy manner. Sandra noticed there was no tube in his mouth. Tube in the mouth meant serious, very hurt, coma, near death. A machine controlling breathing—that’s a sure sign of death. She was relieved not to see that tube.
Martinez, suddenly aware of another presence in the room not poking him or adjusting something around his body, let his head fall to his right.
He repeated his last word, “Sandra.” This time he said it with a flicker of happiness. The death rattle was not present.
Sandra went into attack mode. “What the hell are you doing, Martinez? Suicide? I called Carmen. She told me you two haven’t been together for four months? When were you going to tell us?”
The word “us” reminded both of them of Cruz. Martinez asked, “Where’s Cruz?”
She hadn’t intended on breaking the news to him that quickly. Referring to Cruz was an error of habit. So she lied, “He’s working out of state.”
“Bullshit. He wouldn’t miss me dying.”
“Don’t be so goddamn vain, Martinez,” Sandra said as she took up a seat next to his bed and crossed her legs. “You almost died alone, in a tub wearing filthy chones, don’t you ever forget that.”
“Where is he? Where is Cruz?”
“Why do you care so much, Martinez? It wasn’t like you let either of us know when you were checking out.” He turned his head from her and held his arms up. White bandages covered the cuts on his wrists, which were horizontal to the veins. “You did it wrong.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t cut lengthwise. You did it for attention.”
He put his arms down slowly and pulled the covers up to his shoulders. It was a vulnerable act, certainly out of the ordinary for him. She stood up and poured them both a glass of water.
“Get your act together, Martinez,” she said into the cup of water, her scowl curling its waxed edges.
He coughed on the first sip of water. “Realize that I almost died…”
“By your own hand. There’s no forgiveness for that in our culture.”
“Where’s Carmen?”
“Your Virgen? She’s the last one that’ll forgive you in this state. The way you were…”
Martinez slammed the cup of water down on his nightstand. He eyed Sandra for several seconds before saying, “Where’s my wife, and where’s your husband?”
Thanks for that, Sandra thought to herself while scanning the mound of unkempt, out-of-shape brown mess in front of her. Martinez was back.
E I G H T
__________________________________________________
“Ir al desierto?!” Octavio’s mom exclaimed. “Al pinche desierto?!”
They stared at each other for a few, long seconds. This was the first time he had ever heard his mom swear. It caused a small change; a ripple in her normally flawless facade. His perspective correspondingly changed, and simultaneously gave him the courage to say, “Yes, to the desert.”
You can’ be serious, Octav. You just nineteen years old. I make your food, clean your ropa. What you know about the world? It’s ugly, mijo. You not ready.” She cast a stern look in his direction. Being told no wasn’t the way to persuade him—she should know this by now.
“I’m going. I’m needed.”
His mother deftly changed her tact. “You are needed here, with your mama. I need you to be my little hombre, go to college, help your mama.” She repeated the tenderized version of “mother” to underscore her feelings.
“Mama—mom. You love me, I know that. But if you loved me, you would know that the life you have led, and the dreams that you have for me are not right. We can wake up at any moment in our lives and be someone else, be the person we always wanted to be. If I stay here with you, I will never be that person. No way, not me, mama.”
The red, apple-shaped contours under her eyes quivered, as did her fluorescent red lips. He knew this was the inevitable result. Octavio also knew that this moment had loomed on the horizon for years. Husband and father had abandoned them both nine years ago, leaving a single mother to raise an unruly ten-year-old boy. And here he was, breaking this woman’s heart all over again. Leaving her desolate, robbed of her child. To create and nurture something only to see it lift high on the first breeze that passed through her already empty house.
Octavio watched her eyes puddle with tears and his stomach turned. No hardened attitude could face down her sadness. For a moment he reconsidered his decision. And then he was packed, driving fourteen hours straight through the night and into the next morning. Staring at a girl with dirty blond hair, spinning like a pulsar, a singularity, thousands of tons on the tip of a needle in the direct center of her head. A beauty, power and fluidity unimaginable. She stopped spinning with a kick in the ice and her hand raised in the air like a serpent dangling in front of its entranced victim.
Fourteen hours of driving, no air conditioning for the last three hours, and he needed to stop somewhere cool. Somewhere he could empty his protesting bladder and get some food. Somewhere he could get a momentary break from his companion on the trip—his best friend, Wayne Pravo. The ice skating rink was the only structure they had seen for miles, and he wasn’t going to chance another few miles.
His gray shorts hung low, revealing a sliver of black underwear. Octavio’s face had taken on the pasty color of long road trips. He was grimy, pale, malnourished and sleep-deprived. Watching this girl, this bright center of the micromoment, while looking like a homeless pedophile. He came to the desert and ended up in an ice skating rink.
The youth’s distractions.
N I N E
__________________________________________________
Cruz almost choked on what little spit he had remaining. “You died, on that damn street. The SUV ran your ass over!”
The black SUV, ya mean?” Arnold asked with playfulness in his voice. A dog spinning in the sun with a squirrel in its mouth. Glorious. Cruz could only look at him. Arnold burst out laughing. “That was ME!” Tyler was dead…supposed to be dead, Cruz thought. Tyler couldn’t be standing there.
Cruz pounded his fists on the desk and laid his head in between them. The reverberations from the pounding bounced around the room. Tyler’s upper body shook. Cruz wanted to reach over, grab Arnold’s head and turn it into a pulpy melon.
“Wow,” Arnold went on, “priceless. Shoulda recorded this! I think there’s a camera in the viewing room ova there.” Arnold lifted his head and delivered the next thought with an uncanny seriousness, “Let’s pray to our good Lord it is recording.” Then he burst out laughing again.
Cruz shook his head, hardly able to grasp the intricate weave of deception.
“Is he bent yet?” The first words from Tyler. His voice was high-pitched, raspy. A snake’s hiss through pale pink lips.
The smile dissipated from Arnold’s mouth. “Watch what ya say in front of our guest, Number Twenty-Three. He still has a long way to go. In fact,” Arnold said while holding his arms out, “as a guest, I believe we owe him a tour, ri’?”
“A tour of the hanging room—just like all of…”
Arnold was at his throat before he could finish the sentence. “Where’s your sense of surprise, Number Twenty-Three? You’re like a fucking four-year-old, blabbering all my secrets away.” He mocked Tyler with a dancing and talking puppet hand. “Best thing to do? Shut up and help Mr. Marquez to his feet.”
The request was pointless, however, as there was no chance Cruz could stand up. Tyler had to carry Cruz. Their faces close to one another. Cruz turned and stared at Tyler. Analyzed the milk-white skin and slate-gray eyes that looked like they were picked from a rock quarry. Total lack of empathy in those eyes. An incurable malaise drove his every step.
T E N
__________________________________________________
The decision to pack up and leave seemed natural to Octavio. Someone ten years his elder would have balked. Someone twenty years his elder would have been rendered a blob of fits and starts, nervousness and concerns. Someone thirty years his elder would simply have discarded the notion with a backwards wave of a hand.
“You said we was gonna go to the desert.” This decision to bring his best friend with him seemed natural and sensible at the beginning of the trip. Now, not so much. Octavio dropped his head and pulled his hoodie over his face. Fucking Wayne. Li’l Wayne. Wannabe. Fuck me for bringing him.
“Yo, bro, this ain’t the desert. There’s fuckin’ ice, man.”
Octavio turned his shoulders slowly until just his left eye cast a stern look at Wayne. “This is the desert. I told you, I had to stop somewhere to go to the bathroom!”
“Sooo, you came to the desert to go to Canada. What’s wrong with you, dude?”
Now Octavio swung all the way around. “Listen, Wayne. First, you’re white, and honestly, it makes me uncomfortable to feel like I’m whiter than you. Just talk normal. I listened to doo, and bro, and playa, and cuz for thirteen out of fourteen hours. We grew up on the same block. I know you. I know fraud. You’re an Italian, far from your people on the East Coast, but not a banger. Wayne Pravo. That’s your name; sit in that for a second.”
Wayne gave Octavio the old roll-up drawbridge middle finger.
“That’s childish,” Octavio said with a sigh. The public skate was just beginning. The lights dimmed accordingly and a fast-paced hip-hop song belted around the rink.
“Look—Octavio Jesus Terranueva—look who coming.”
A mama hippo was charging them. Trailing close behind was the figure skater he had been watching. The woman coming after him was large, but agile. She squeezed sideways through parents watching their children struggle to lace up skates without taking her eye off of him. This charging monster marked her arrival with a series of grunts and puffs. Short, curled hair hardly fit on her massive head. Her cheeks were crimson from the effort. Arms and legs were like short pipes with stubby fingers. A healthy stomach and side flanks provided a resting area for her arms, which she appeared ready to swing.
“Why you watch my Mona?” She sounded Russian, or generally Eastern European.
Octavio had stumbled backwards by this point, until his knees hit on the child-height benches that lined the rink and he fell to a seated position. “Who’s Mona?”
The woman reached the point where the tip of her finger could flick the hairs on Octavio’s upper lip. Her face was blotchy and spotted red. Some sort of musk-like odor followed her. A green, low-quality cotton dress clung onto her various folds, always at the risk of exposing her upper thighs. Red nail polish flashed as she gestured in front of him. Like a Christmas ornament from hell.
Octavio leaned to his right to peer around this monster at Mona. “Who’s Mona?!” She slapped the side of his face to regain his attention. “What you look at!!?” She turned around and Mona’s cheeks blushed red. A breathless tirade of Russian words spilled from her rounded mouth. Mona clattered a few steps backward in her ice skates, but then apparently regaining her Russian sense of pride, stopped backsliding and stood up straight, her chin lifted high.
Now that Mona was not eclipsed by the woman, Octavio was able to get an even better look. She was everything her Russian counterpart wasn’t. Slender, but not skinny. Her navy blue figure-skating costume revealed long, sinewy legs—albeit, covered in nude stockings. A ponytail and bangs played around her boxy face, and then she smiled at him, briefly, minute, one tenth of a second of revelation, because her guardian flipped around to glare at her at the second tenth of that second.
“Baba, the glass around the rink is clear for viewing.” Her voice was clear and the words were well-enunciated. Crisp and matter of fact. Like a crystal glass ringing without the reverberations.
“Not just viewing. I see him doing. That is different glass. Showing the peep.”
Mona let out a shriek and then doubled over laughing. Baba looked confused, and more frustrated as Mona continued to laugh. Her control and authority over the situation was eroding. Octavio glanced at Wayn
KND Freebies: Intense technothriller QUBIT is featured in today’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt
In this multilayered technothriller, an elite hacker, a beautiful CIA agent and an ambitious gangster circle each other in a dangerous game of international intrigue — where the stakes are higher than anyone can imagine.
An ambitious Singapore gangster recruits an elite hacker to steal a devastatingly powerful quantum computer and hijack the world’s financial markets. Meanwhile, a beautiful streetwise CIA agent is determined to foil their plan in a case that could make or break her career.
With settings ranging from Detroit to Singapore to the slums of Bihar, India (the “Sicily of India”), Qubit examines both the vulnerability of our cryptographic infrastructure and corruptibility of our financial systems. The story features international intrigue, a violent gang war, an unlikely love story, and an intricate cryptographic chess match that takes place as the global economy teeters on the brink of collapse.
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an excerpt from
Qubit
by Finn Mack
Drinks Are On Me1
Renaissance Center (Detroit Riverfront)
Wednesday, January 17th
2:00 p.m. EST (Eastern Standard Time)
Lock hunched his shoulders and dug his hands into his pockets, a futile defense against the whip-cold wind rushing angrily towards Jefferson Avenue from the icebound Detroit River. Dark and soaring cylinders of glass and steel loomed over him like implacable gods. Their very name — collectively,The Renaissance Center — was a promise of a future that had never come, a fitting monument to a city that had lost its way.
Perhaps parking in the garage farthest from his destination was thus a fitting, if entirely accidental, ritual. After all, weren’t he and the city self-similar parts of a mysterious socioeconomic fractal? Anyway, it was a costly mistake when it was twenty degrees below freezing. At last, he approached the 200 Tower, eyeing the revolving glass doors longingly. Beyond those doors lay warmth.
And a job interview.
Lock clenched his jaw at the familiar sensation of rusted gears grinding up his intestines. Why did he bother with these things? Before he even finished the thought, he knew the answer. The email inquiry had gotten his attention with those two magic words: quantum cryptography.
Lock found himself coming up behind a small, round figure that appeared to be wearing at least two heavy coats and three scarves, one of which secured a woolen cap, and another of which might have been a tattered blanket. A few curly white locks of hair had tumbled out from the top of this bundle, which Lock belatedly realized was an old woman. He forced himself to slow down to match her gait, reaching forward to help her push the door forward. The old woman turned back to him slowly with something that looked at first like a sneer, but after a moment, Lock realized she was trying to smile. Her face was moist with tears, perhaps from the cold. Lock nodded at her and forced himself to smile back — it was probably more of a grimace — barely restraining himself from pushing her forward towards the warmth.
With the old woman shuffling steadily forward in the wedge in front of him, Lock pushed against the door, hearing the frustrated gasp of the wind as the door sealed behind him. He paused for a moment to savor the relief — and to let the old woman get clear of the door.
What was he still doing in cold, wintry Detroit? Why not move somewhere warmer? Somewhere he could find a decent job? Of course, he knew the answer to that question, too.
Sophie was here.
Lock made his way to an open elevator and got on, unbuttoning his coat, being careful as always with the third button, which dangled from the jacket by a single worn thread. And, as he always did, he reminded himself to take the coat to the cleaners to fix the button. He felt the gears grinding again as the floor number displayed above the door measured his ascent.
Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
He’d never used his real name in connection with his interest in quantum cryptography, which meant someone had gone to no small amount of trouble to find him. It wasn’t just a matter of tracing his IP address because he anonymized all his Internet activity using a program called Tor, for which he’d proudly submitted several patches.
He walked down a poorly lit hallway with dingy blue carpet before arriving in front of glass doors, upon which were etched the words “Patel and Associates,” and through which he recognized what appeared to be a reception area. Lock took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
In stark contrast to the hallway outside, the office itself was surprisingly well-appointed, featuring burnished wood floors, a perky ficus tree that nearly reached the twelve-foot ceiling, and a thick Persian-style carpet that made Lock want to take his shoes and socks off. The air smelled vaguely of…incense? Whoever these people were, they weren’t recruiters.
He introduced himself to a caramel-skinned receptionist with a mole on her cheek and silky black hair that was pulled back tightly into a bun. She forced her mouth into a semblance of a smile and told him to have a seat. Lock guessed that he’d interrupted a riveting Facebook session.
He settled his lanky frame into a comfortable brown suede couch and picked up a copy of that morning’s Wall Street Journal. He took in the headlines with morose-orbed blue eyes and attempted to run his fingers through what would have been stringy blond hair, before remembering that he’d shaved his head. Kafka had convinced him it would look sexy. He ought to have known it was a prank. It was Kafka’s way of encouraging him to get over his breakup with Mandy. As he pretended to read an article (“Buggy Trading Systems Put Markets At Risk,” warned the headline), he wondered if he ought to have worn something besides a sweatshirt and jeans. At least they were freshly laundered. And he’d worn his new bright-blue Converse hi-tops.
Lock caught himself tapping his foot. There really was only one reason why anyone would be interested in an ex-con with a penchant for quantum cryptography. Especially in the wake of the announcement of the Wave Nine. Well, if the Feds were going to pin something on him, he might as well deal with it. Maybe he could be like DJB or Aaron Swartz and take the government head on —
“Mr. Cairnes, Mr. Patel will see you now,” chimed the secretary.
Lock looked up from his paper with an affected arching of his eyebrows. He folded the paper back up, set it down, and stood, discretely wiping his palms on his jeans. He walked to the office door, which was closed, and looked over to the secretary — was he supposed to simply open the door, or knock? She nodded wordlessly. Lock opened the door and walked in.
“Ah, Mr. Cairnes,” said a man in a shiny gray silk suit, standing up behind a large desk made of a dark, heavy-looking wood. The muscles of his round face were relaxed. He blinked slowly and smiled with a faint air of condescension, as though he were amused by a child playing. He gestured toward an even larger black leather couch across the room. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Lock took in his surroundings, which were entirely consistent with the lobby, and included the addition of two wall-sized pieces of art and a spectacular view of Detroit’s west side and the snow-muted expanse of its frozen river. If he had an office like this, maybe Sophie would look up to him more, like she did Dennis, her stepfather. This office was even nicer than the one Dennis had in Bloomfield Hills.
“You can call me Lock,” he offered, easing himself into the couch. “What is it you guys do again?”
“We’ll get to that, I’m sure,” replied Kirin, strolling over to the couch. His heels clicked on the wood floor until he reached the border of a thick intricately patterned carpet. Lock noticed that his shoes were immaculately polished. He looked down at his new blue Converse, which suddenly seemed tacky. Kirin reached out and offered his hand. “Kirin Patel.”
Lock looked up and took his hand, shaking it awkwardly. Shaking hands was one of those strange customs, like wearing ties, that seemed to be from another time and place. He did his best, certain that his gawky handshake was unimpressive.
However, Kirin seemed unconcerned as he sat down in an expansive chair, his jacket parting to reveal a slight paunch, his hands placed casually, palms down, on the wide, flat armrests. Lock decided he needed a chair like that for his living room. His vibrating recliner suddenly struck him as…juvenile.
“Mr. Cairnes — Lock — I’d like to offer you a job,” began Kirin. He reached down to adjust his bright-blue pocket square, as though he’d suddenly noticed that it was out of place. As he looked up, Lock thought Kirin looked like a man who felt as if he’d gotten away with something. “It pays quite well,” continued Kirin, “and I think you’ll find the work very interesting.” He paused and leaned forward slightly. “How does that sound?”
“A job?” Lock heard himself echo dully. He looked out the far window at the cold blue sky, darkened by the window’s tint, and rubbed his hands together slowly. Perhaps this really was just a job interview. However, Kirin had skipped past the usual pointless questions and gone right to offering him the job. And there was still the question of how they’d known about his interest in quantum cryptography. “Sounds good, I guess,” Lock mumbled.
Kirin leaned back, looking surprised. “Don’t you want to know what kind of job it is?”
“Sure,” said Lock, his eyes wandering to the paintings on the wall. The one on the left was white with what looked to him like a brightly colored whirlpool viewed from above — various shades of reds and blues, with a smattering of yellows. Lock decided he liked it and wondered how much it had cost.
“I’d like you to build me a quantum computer,” said Kirin, an expectant smile on his face.
Lock laughed, partly because of the sheer absurdity of the statement and partly out of nervousness. What the hell was this guy up to? “A quantum computer?” he parroted, his eyes coming back to Kirin’s, his eyebrows raised.
“Yes,” said Kirin, looking mildly offended. Lock realized he must have sounded dismissive. Kirin elaborated. “What if I told you that we had licensed the technology from Coherence Technologies?”
Lock stopped laughing. Kirin didn’t look or act like he knew Shor’s algorithm from a brute-force dictionary attack. And no one actually called them Coherence Technologies. They were CoTech, or maybe Coherence. “For the Wave Nine? The NSA locked that up.” Hadn’t they? One rumor on the message boards was that the Wave Nine would be released once the Internet’s cryptography infrastructure had been upgraded to use algorithms that weren’t vulnerable to quantum computing-based attacks. Another rumor held that the NSA already had a quantum computer, and simply didn’t want anyone infringing on their monopoly.
Kirin ignored his objection. “What I’d like to do is hire you to build a quantum computer based on the specifications from Coherence Technologies.”
Lock’s eyes narrowed. “I can think of several folks in Ann Arbor alone who are probably better qualified than I am for something like that.”
Kirin waved his hand. “Nonsense, Lock. We need someone with, shall we say, practical hands-on experience, as much as we someone who understands the physics. Just like the Chief Scientist at Coherence Technologies. There really aren’t that many people like him. Or like you. At least not who would be interested in this job, mind you. The private sector isn’t for everyone. And, again, we’re happy to pay you a generous salary.”
Lock sat back and took a deep breath, his eyes wandering again to the view of the river outside. Maybe this was for real. Maybe he was so accustomed to failure at this point he couldn’t even trust an opportunity when it was handed to him. He took another breath and tried to focus on the pieces that didn’t yet fit. “You seem to know an awful lot about me.”
“Of course!” Kirin clapped his hands together as if something had been agreed on, showing his teeth with a Cheshire-cat smile.
Lock stared down at the glass-topped coffee table, which had one of those interactive magnet sculptures, presently featuring the outline of someone’s hand. Lock guessed it was the receptionist’s. He pursed his lips. The heel of his foot began moving up and down, seemingly of its own accord. He stopped breathing. “I get it,” he intoned, looking up slowly. “You haven’t actually licensed their technology.”
Kirin’s smiled slipped away for a moment, but then he began to laugh and rub his hands together. “Yes, you’re very clever. Not surprising, I suppose. That’s rather the point, isn’t it? Anyway, right. We haven’t actually licensed the technology. So we also need you to…ah, how shall I put this?”
“You need me to steal it,” interrupted Lock, his eyes closed.
“Yes, that’s it,” said Kirin, emphasizing the point with a ringed finger.
Lock slapped his hands on his thighs, preparing to get up. “Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Kirin — ”
“Kirin, just Kirin is fine. My last name is — ”
“ — but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“We haven’t even talked about the money — ”
“It’s not the money. I just can’t help you.” Lock stood up.
Kirin quickly rose too, moving a step toward Lock. “Don’t you want to build a quantum computer? Wouldn’t you find that exciting?”
Lock raised his hands as if to defend himself from Kirin’s advance. “Sure. It’d be interesting. But…well, I’m going to go.” He began walking toward the door.
“How about a salary of a…a million dollars annually?” asked Kirin.
Lock was halfway across the room. He turned. Even Kirin seemed surprised by the offer. He was apparently desperate — although Lock now understood why. He was being offered everything he’d wanted — but he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t risk going back to jail again. He couldn’t risk losing whatever was left of Sophie’s childhood. And, hell, it was probably a sting by the FBI or something anyway. “The answer is no. Got it?” He turned back toward the door and walked out of the room.
Donning his jacket in the elevator, he exhaled, his weight lifting slightly off his feet as he descended. He glared up at the descending floor numbers displayed above the door. “God dammit,” he cursed, slapping the burnished aluminum elevator wall, and wondering why he’d bothered coming at all.
Sentosa Cove, Singapore • The Li Home
Thursday, January 18th
9:00 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Vipul Rathod felt a bit giddy as he shifted the black Acura SUV into park. Traveling without his usual entourage was liberating. And especially so since he’d just pulled into the ample driveway of one of his family’s chief rivals. If there was ever a place he was supposed to have his bodyguard, this was it.
He got out and walked along a curving sidewalk toward Li Mun’s sprawling estate. The morning sun seemed to make everything shinier, and there was a nice breeze blowing in off the ocean. It seemed like an awfully nice day to be contemplating murder.
He reached the porch and noticed a child’s scooter lying on its side. Did the old fattie have grandchildren? He pressed a button next to the large double doors and heard chimes playing a pleasant, familiar-sounding tune. He stepped back and waited, crossing his arms and looking askance at the neighboring lot. It was just as impressive as Li Mun’s. Perhaps I should get one of these places for myself, he thought.
The door opened just wide enough for a tall, severe-looking man to glare at him. “You’re Vipul Rathod?” he said with a heavy Chinese accent. Fresh off the boat.
“Yes,” replied Vipul.
The door opened a little wider. Vipul stepped into a large tiled foyer. “Raise your arms,” said the first man. He raised them and felt two sets of hands patting him down. They found nothing, just as he knew they wouldn’t, because he carried no weapons. He didn’t need them.
“Right this way,” said the stockier man, leading him into a large living room that was almost completely white, with white marble floors and patches of white rugs, as well as a white suede couch that formed a cushioned perimeter around the room. Light streamed in from two large sliding doors, offering a view of the ocean, which glimmered like a vast display-case of diamonds. He made his way into the room slowly, taking in the various details. A telescope. A large painting of a black circle on a — what else? — white canvas. A glass table with obsidian carvings of…something.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” said a woman’s voice behind him. Vipul turned. The stocky man was gone. The woman before him was so beautiful his knees nearly buckled. Waves of black hair cascaded down to her elegant neck. She had high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes with golden irises, and lips that made him think of fresh raspberries. “My father will be with you shortly,” she said, and Vipul became light-headed. She was still talking. “Can I offer you a drink? Some coffee? Orange juice? Or mineral water, perhaps?”
“No,” Vipul managed to croak, his tongue sticking momentarily to the roof of his mouth. “Thank you.” He tried to smile, but realized that it hadn’t quite come off. It never did. He wasn’t much for smiling. Or women, for that matter. But this one…he wondered if she thought he was too small, too boyish looking. Or maybe she went for that. Women often told him he was —
“Very well, then. Like I said, my father will be in momentarily.” She turned and walked down a hall that led out of the vast living room. Vipul’s head tilted as he watched her hips sway with each step. She disappeared around a corner, and Vipul was two steps into the hallway himself before realizing he’d started following her. That was Li Mun’s daughter? To hell with my brother, he thought. I should be proposing a dynastic marriage. Maybe his brother had the same idea. Maybe that’s why he’d never mentioned the daughter. There was already enough bad blood between them as it was, without throwing Helen of Troy into the mix.
The thought of his real reason for coming focused him. He turned back toward the living room and sat down in a corner section of the expansive couch, then leaned back and mentally rehearsed the imminent encounter. A few moments later, he heard a shuffling sound. He turned and saw the old man entering the room; he was impressively rotund, with dark pockets of flesh beneath heavily lidded eyes, and sported a disastrous comb-over. Hard to believe, thought Vipul, he’s one of the most powerful men in Singapore.
Vipul stood up. Li Mun waved his hand as though to say Vipul needn’t have bothered. He shuffled over to a large lounge chair directly opposite Vipul and fell slowly backward into it. He stared at Vipul, raising his eyebrows and frowning slightly. Vipul said nothing.
They stared at each other.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” asked Li Mun finally.
Vipul attempted a smile again, but this time the icy overtones were intentional. “Nice to see you too, Li Mun.”
Li Mun glared, motionless.
Vipul found himself looking down at his brown loafers. He wasn’t accustomed to being stared down. Usually, he was the one doing the staring. He forced his eyes up to meet Li Mun’s gaze. “I’ll get to the point,” he said, his voice sounding too wispy. This is it, he told himself. Get it together. “We have a dispute, correct?” He paused, but Li Mun simply kept staring at him. “But I think we can both agree that my brother is a stubborn man.” His tone was sounding better now, a bit lower. “We can probably also agree that stubbornness is not a trait of a good leader.” Ah, that’s too low. Don’t want to sound like you’re trying too hard. “Resolving disputes like ours requires a willingness to come — ”
“I’m not going to kill your fucking brother for you.”
Vipul could feel his heartbeat accelerate. Li Mun had skipped ahead of the script. How would his father have responded? Of course, that was an absurd question. His father was dead. And even if he’d been alive, old Bikram would have surely grabbed Vipul by the earlobe and — focus. “Ah,” was all he managed to say.
“Anything else?”
If nothing else, the old man had taught him not to give up. And Oxford and Harvard had taught him persuasiveness. In theory, anyway. “I understand. You’re concerned about the cost.”
“The cost? It’s the heat. Are you a child? In this town? I gotta lay up for months for something like that.”
“Which…costs you…money,” prompted Vipul, trying to conceal his impatience.
“Exactly,” said Li Mun.
Vipul watched the old man. He had barely moved since he’d sat down. Even his lips barely moved. He reminded Vipul of his old Zen master, Yuan. Except that Yuan wasn’t vain enough to bother with a comb-over and wasn’t obese. “But…if I were running things, you and I…I think we’d get along much better.”
“You’ll concede the points if I kill your brother. No. It’s not worth it.”
Vipul suddenly realized Li was bargaining with him. For a moment, he wanted to play just to see if he could win against such a formidable opponent. But then he remembered why he was really here. The points meant nothing to him. Let the cranky old bastard think he’d outwitted Bikram’s overeducated younger son. That actually made things easier. Vipul knew that the dispute between his brother and Li Mun was a complicated affair that came down to how they divvied up the profits from selling whores, mostly from India and China. Li Mun wanted a larger share of the Rathod organization’s profits because he provided most of the political protection. “Three points, then.”
Li Mun blinked slowly and shook his head.
For God’s sake, man, Vipul wanted to yell. He took a deep breath. It’s just a game. And none of this matters anyway. “Four,” replied Vipul. I have to at least make it look like I’m trying.
“Five.”
“Four is plenty. With all due respect.”
“With all due respect, go fuck yourself. We both know you’re a dead man without me. You’re lucky I don’t ask for points on your whole fucking business.”
Vipul sat back. A crooked smile played across his face. Li Mun probably understood his situation better than he did. He was a master. When this is all over, he thought, I’m going to marry your daughter and then study everything you do. “What’s your daughter’s name?” he asked, surprising himself.
“What? What do you care?”
“She’s very beautiful.”
“Yeah.”
“Five?”
“Give me five on the rest, and I’ll throw in my daughter.”
Vipul tried to laugh. He wasn’t good at it. He always risked sounding like a bleating sheep. He’d need to work on that. The important thing was that Li’s joke meant they had a deal. It was an awful deal by any ordinary standards. He’d have a hard time selling it to Anand. But they had a deal, nonetheless. Now he just needed to —
“How do you know your brother wasn’t here first?”
Vipul had begun standing up and so was caught half-sitting and half-standing. He hesitated for a moment and decided to stand. Further discussion just created unnecessary risk that the deal might go sideways. “I don’t,” he replied crisply and began walking toward Li Mun to shake on their deal.
Of course, if Satish had already proposed a deal, either Vipul had just made a better one, or he’d be dead momentarily. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t played hardball — and certain that he was going to walk out of Li’s home alive.
Because there was no way his stubborn brother would have agreed to five points.
Jurong East, Singapore • Katya’s Apartment
Thursday, January 18th
9:30 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Katya Brittain absentmindedly stirred her coffee with a spoon, even though she hadn’t put any sugar or cream in it yet. Her compact figure was curled up in the corner of an undersized yet abundantly cushioned sofa that she had selected specifically so that she could curl up in it each morning. Her Medusean black hair was pulled tightly back into a pony-tail, specifically so that she could feel the air-conditioning caress her neck. She stared into the screen of her laptop with dark and curious eyes, while balancing the laptop itself expertly across one of her thighs. She held her World’s Greatest Daughter coffee mug with one hand and stirred nothing into the coffee with the other. The mug had been specifically chosen to remind her of home, since, by necessity, almost nothing else in her modest apartment could.
A grainy black-and-white video was playing on her laptop. She watched as a man approached the entrace to a large resort home. She set the coffee mug down on the end table next to her, which itself had been carefully selected specifically so that it would serve as an extension to the sofa and allow her to set her coffee mugs on it without needing to pay too much attention to what she was doing. Several mugs’ worth of coffee had been spilled over the years because of tables that were either too high or too low, and Katya had been determined to bring an end to that particular tragedy.
She dragged her finger across the trackpad, effectively rewinding the video, and then hit the spacebar on the keyboard to allow her to advance, frame by frame. Once in a while, she would stop and fire off an exotic sequence of keystrokes and mouse gestures that resulted in sending the captured frames to her printer, which was on the other side of the room next to a dying fern, a plant she’d selected specifically because it wasn’t supposed to die.
She hopped up from the easy chair and slid across the floor in her stockinged feet, skidding in front of the printer in a practiced move. She picked up the photos and studied them for a moment. She found their subject to be boyishly handsome. Maybe he’s dating the daughter, she conjectured. She walked over to a bare desk in front of a window, a plastic-and-metal affair that hadn’t been selected specifically for any reason at all because Katya rarely used it, except to set things on it, which is what she did with the photos. She stared out the window, which gave her a view of the rooftops of a number of other apartment buildings and then, peeking out from behind them some distance away, the lush green of the parks surrounding Jurong Lake. Beyond that, she mused, where the wharfs and the Singapore Straight, and then, of course, Malaysia and the Indian Ocean. She looked back at the grainy photo that lay on top of the others, at a young man squinting in the sunlight, his shoulders slightly hunched. He looked vaguely haunted. Probably just another cad chasing after Li Mun’s daughter. Still, she’d ask Ong Goh about him, just in case.
2
Corktown, Detroit • Mad Dog’s Tavern
Thursday, January 18th
11:00 p.m. EST (Eastern Standard Time)
“A million dollars?” asked Kafka incredulously, shocks of black hair emerging at unexpected angles from the top of his oblong head.
“I could have probably gotten two,” replied Lock, finishing a sip of beer. He looked across the bar at the old photo of “Mad Dog” Sullivan, an angry-looking Irish gangster who was the bar’s namesake. Lock loved the antique feel of the place — the bar had originally been a speakeasy back when Detroit was the principal port of entry for liquor coming in from Canada. With the red brick walls and the gaslights glowing in their frosted sconces, it was as though the bar was part of some hidden, timeless alley.
“Two million? Are you kidding me?” Kafka stared straight at Lock through his thick-framed glasses. They’d fallen out of fashion a few years earlier, but Kafka hadn’t cared. He’d been wearing the same glasses since before they were in fashion to begin with.
Lock gave him a sidelong glance and couldn’t suppress a wry smile. “Yeah, he threw out a million when he realized I was walking out. Hell, maybe I could get him up to three. Or five.”
“Lock, you guys need another round?” asked Vicky from farther down the bar, a towel thrown over her shoulder. She wore her dark-brown hair back, and Lock admired the creative ways she found to accentuate an already prominent bosom. Tonight her strategy involved a black T-shirt, torn open at the neckline to form a ragged V-neck, with the words “Ask me if I care” emblazoned across the front in white gothic script.
“Sure, Vicky, but when are they going to get some real Irish girls in here?” asked Lock.
Vicky gave him an exaggerated frown but said nothing, grabbing two glasses from beneath the bar and filling them from a tap.
“So are you going to take it?” asked Kafka.
Lock leaned sideways and sneered. “Really? You have to ask me that?”
Kafka shrugged, as if protesting his innocence. “I don’t know, man. You just get in and get out. Also, fuck man…building a quantum computer? You’d do that for free.”
Lock shook his head vigorously. “I just can’t risk it.”
“I get that, when we were talking a few Ben Franklin’s to change someone’s grades. But…this is the real deal, man. This is…how’d they get your name, anyway?”
“Here are you are, gentlemen,” offered Vicky, setting the two full pint glasses in front of them.
“Vicky, does my friend Lock here look like a criminal to you?” asked Kafka.
“Nah. He just looks tragic.”
“Tragic?” asked Lock, straightening his posture. “I look tragic?”
“Yeah, you got those tragic eyes.” Vicky gave him a sly smile before wheeling and heading back down to the other end of the bar.
Lock shook his head slightly and took a swig from his beer, marveling at the myriad tip-maximizing tactics that Vicky had mastered.
“So how’d they get your name?” Kafka pressed.
“Don’t know. That’s a good question.”
“Message boards, maybe?”
“Maybe. The thing is…”
“Yeah?”
“You’re right. I would do it for free. Imagine having your own quantum computer. That’d be something. I’d love to try Grover’s algorithm on something besides a simulator. You know, for real. Actually see what kind of crazy things I can do with it.”
“What’s the big deal with quantum computers again? I mean, I know that they have qubits instead of bits, but I always sort of forget the details…”
Lock gazed at the back of the bar as though a movie were projected on it. “Well, the easiest way to get it, is to think about simulating quantum mechanical interactions. We can model them with wave functions, but, on a transistor-based computer, running those models is relatively slow because we’re translating wave functions into a bunch of logic operations.”
“Ones and zeroes…”
“Right. On a quantum computer, however, we aren’t using transistors, we’re using the state of a quantum particle directly. For example, the spin — ”
“Is that Black Irish playing? I think that’s Black Irish.”
“ — of an electron or the polarity of a photon. Yes, that’s Black Irish.”
“I thought so.” Kafka returned his attention to Lock, with mock seriousness. “Continue, please, professor.”
“You asked the damn question. Anyway, naturally, our simulation runs much faster, because, in a sense, it’s not really a simulation anymore. We’re actually changing the state of quantum particles.”
“Like if we wanted to model the effect of weed on the brain, the best way to do it would be to actually smoke some weed.”
Lock smiled in spite of himself and sipped from his pint glass. “Sure. I guess. The thing is, lots of things are based on wave functions, not just quantum particles. To use your analogy of the brain, we know humans are really good at pattern recognition. Like I can recognize you or Vicky. I’d probably recognize you even if you grew a mustache and put on a hat.”
“Or if you were really stoned.”
“Also, yes. But…where was I? Oh, yeah. Pattern recognition is useful for other things, too, like diagnoising medical conditions. So it’d be real useful if we could hook up transistor-based computers to brain-based computers to do pattern recognition. But we can’t because we don’t know how to build brains.”
“Which is too damn bad.”
“But we do know how to build quantum computers. Thanks to CoTech. It was hard problem because quantum particles are really small, obviously, and really unstable.”
“This is all coming back to me now. Each qubit can have more information than a bit on transistor-based computers. Because it’s a wave form? So lots of qubits allows for really complex wave forms.”
“Exactly. It’s like an MP3 file. It’s just a big, complex wave form. But there’s enough information there for us to hear Black Irish.”
“And then you can use a different set of algorithms, like Fourier transforms.”
“Right, because they operate directly on wave functions. Those algorithms run blindingly fast on a quantum computer because the computer’s state already is a wave form, not a bunch of switches that are pretending to be a wave form.”
“Ah, that’s right. And we know how to use Fourier transforms to do things like integer factorization, which normally take exponential time — “
“Well, not exponential, but…almost, yeah.”
Kafka frowned disapprovingly. “As I was saying. Finding prime factors takes a long time on transistor-based computers. But on a quantum computer, since we can use Fourier transforms, we can use a different algorithm, and it runs much faster.”
“In polynomial time. For really large numbers this is a big difference. Seconds, instead of years. Most of the cool things you can do with quantum computers are based on that idea: algorithms that use wave functions, which we have to simulate with bits and bytes, run much faster on qubits, because qubits are wave forms already.”
“I remember you running those simulations. What was that language?”
“QCL. Yeah. I was always trying to show you some cool new algorithm.”
“Yeah,” said Kafka. “But I just wanted to play Super Mario.”
Lock laughed and looked down into his beer. “Yeah, and that fucking game where you had to rescue Zelda and never did.”
Kafka chuckled. “Yeah. That game was awesome. Dodongo dislikes smoke!”
Lock shook his head. “We thought we had it all figured it out.”
“Hey, we had a good time.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Right. Sorry. I just meant — ”
Lock waved his hand without looking up. “Forget it. The thing is…”
“What?”
Lock took a long draught from his pint glass. “Stealing it. That’s a different story. And I’m not even sure I could build it, even if I had the plans. I mean, you need diamond crystals, finely calibrated magnetic fields — ”
“But that’s the whole idea of stealing the specs. All that stuff would be in there.”
“Yeah. Maybe. But if there’s one detail left out…”
“So…you’re thinking about it?”
“No, man. I mean, of course I’m thinking about it. You know, like I think about maybe one day I’m gonna sleep with Vicky. But not really. I told you. Too risky.”
“Two million dollars is a lotta cheddar, though.”
“Hell, for all I know, it’s an FBI sting or something.”
“A sting? Wouldn’t that be entrapment?”
Lock looked up and found himself amused by Kafka’s earnestness. “You don’t think they’d just lie about it? I’d rather not be the martyr.”
Kafka lifted his glass. “I hear that.”
Lock sank into the aural ambience of laughter and hushed voices and another indie band that he couldn’t quite place playing on the jukebox.
“Hey,” said Kafka. Lock felt a wiry hand on his shoulder. “Isn’t it your fucking birthday?”
Lock shrugged.
“So what are we doing to celebrate?” demanded Kafka.
“Not much,” answered Lock. “I’m opening tomorrow.”
“Aw. Why didn’t you ask for the time off?”
“Need the hours. Every time I do that, Rich cuts my damn hours.”
“Come on, man.” Kafka sat up and looked around the bar. “We need to at least get you laid.”
Lock frowned. “You make it sound like that only happens once a year.”
“Well, since Mandy dumped your ass…”
“I dumped her,” insisted Lock.
Kafka raised his hands in the air. “Okay, okay. I just remember you sitting on my couch — ”
“Oh, like you’ve never had a weak moment.”
Vicky seemed to appear from nowhere. “Hey, what about Sophie?” she asked.
“What about her?” asked Lock.
“Are you guys doing anything?”
Lock puzzled over Vicky’s apparent ability to participate in a dozen conversations at once. Yet another tip-maximizing skill. “Yeah. I’m taking her and Krista snowboarding.”
“That’s so sweet.”
Lock nodded and took another sip from his beer. “If I’m lucky, she’ll come over afterwards and we can rent a movie and order a pizza. She used to love that. But now…”
“She’s sixteen, Lock,” counseled Vicky. “That’s all. She’s just outgrown it.”
“She’s outgrown me.”
“Nah,” said Vicky. Lock looked up just as she winked at him and scampered away again.
“Two million dollars,” mused Kafka, cocking an eyebrow. “You could buy Sophie her own slope.”
Lock regarded his friend warily from the corner of his eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Or maybe I just work for the FBI.”
Pioneer Wharf, Singapore
Saturday, January 20th
4:30 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Katya put down the field glasses and wiped her brow. Her black Lycra tights felt constricting in the night’s thick, damp heat. She leaned back against a large shipping container, concealed in its shadow. After counting ten deep breaths, she peered cautiously from around the corner, raising her field glasses to her eyes.
Li Mun was speaking to a dozen men in black suits who stood around him in a semicircle. Behind them were four black Mercedes SUVs. Katya found Li Mun’s presence here puzzling. The day before, she’d noticed a spike in the chatter from Li Mun’s lieutenants. They never said much, and what they did say was nearly impossible to make sense of, even after months of listening in. But in her years in the field, she’d learned to infer a great deal through context. How many calls had been made? How far apart were they? Did the speakers sound tense? She knew something was happening tonight, even if she didn’t know what.
She’d picked up Li Mun’s cavalcade after they had crossed the bridge leaving the Li Estate on Sentosa Island. The use of a private wharf like this one would normally have suggested to Katya they were smuggling in young women. But there was no reason for Li Mun to concern himself with such a routine event.
Two more black Mercedes SUVs pulled up, and more men in black suits began spilling out of them. There was a strange tension in their movements, but Katya couldn’t quite identify what it was. Abruptly, she recognized the man who got out of the rearmost vehicle: Satish Rathod. Now it all started to make sense. The Rathods were a relatively small-time crime family, not nearly as influential as the Li Triad, and certainly not Triad. But they were players, nonetheless. Probably here to negotiate some sordid business arrangement.
The two men shook hands, encircled by what amounted to a platoon’s worth of nervous soldiers. In their midst, the two principals chatted easily, like old friends. Katya hadn’t bothered setting up mikes or cameras — the place was too wide open. She was probably too close as it was.
She leaned back against the shipping container and took another deep breath. This was something of a letdown. She’d been hoping for a breakthrough — perhaps a meeting with the trade minister, or at least the deputy minister. She considered just packing up and leaving. But then she thought of Ong Goh. Another trick that nearly a decade in the field had taught her — information was currency. Maybe she’d learn something that would be useful to the SPF. After all, they needed a warrant to do surveillance here. Whatever was happening, she was the only way they’d ever know about it. And although the CIA was on friendly terms with the SPF, and she was on good terms with her contact, Ong Goh, it never hurt to come bearing gifts.
She squatted down to fish around in a black canvas bag she’d brought with her. She pulled out a small black camera and then slowly peered around the corner again. She heard the rumble of a boat and then saw its outline as it approached the dock. The running lights were off. She heard voices calling out — they were guiding the vessel in. Everyone was now facing the shore, which meant there wasn’t much point in taking pictures because there were no faces. Still, she held the camera in position. They’d turn around eventually. She’d snap a few pictures proving the meeting between Li Mun and Satish Rathod had taken place, and then she’d split.
It was girls after all. The catcalls started even before she could see them. Perhaps they were a gift to cement some business deal? The first of them appeared at the front of the barge, alighting unsteadily on the dock with the help of several of the gangsters. Then a second and a third. Satish and his men were acting as though they’d never seen women before. Li Mun’s crew had actually withdrawn slightly. Curiously, they weren’t looking at the girls —
Gunfire flashed and cracked and the women screamed and nine men were thrown backward, falling to the ground. Katya’s arms fell to her sides before she remembered the camera. She brought it back up, focused, and held the button down. She took a round of photos and put the camera down again, watching with naked eyes. Li Mun’s men advanced, divvying up the slain and carefully firing one round into each of their skulls.
Kill shots. Take no chances.
And leave no traces. Weapons dangled from shoulder straps or disappeared into holsters. Keys were taken from pockets. Bodies were picked up and thrown aboard the barge that had brought the girls, who in turn were loaded into the newly orphaned SUVs. The motor of the barge fired up, grumbled a bit, and the ship drifted back into the darkness. The SUVs efficiently formed a parade of tail lights leading back out to the main highway.
Within ten minutes of the first shots, the wharf was empty.
Katya slid down behind her container and realized she wasn’t breathing. Calm down, she told herself. It was just another gangland execution. Li Mun had, for some reason, decided he’d had enough of Satish Rathod. No big deal, not her concern. But still, her hands were shaking. Even though she had some military training, spook fieldwork was mostly surveillance and relationships. She’d never witnessed anything this violent firsthand.
She looked at the camera and began flipping through the photos she’d taken, partly out of curiosity and partly just to calm herself. Neither Li Mun nor Satish Rathod’s faces were identifiable in a single photo. Satish, of course, had been on the ground by the time she’d starting taking pictures. Li Mun had quietly lumbered into the back of one of the SUVs, never once turning toward the camera. She wondered if perhaps he’d known she was there. She looked around nervously, but there was nothing but looming shipping containers and shadows upon shadows. She placed the camera back in the bag, hoisted it over her shoulder, and hurriedly disappeared into the darkness.
Tally Bar, Singapore
Saturday, January 20th
10:30 p.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Katya worked her way through the crowd at the legendary Tally Bar and climbed up the spiral staircase to find Ong Goh at his usual table in the far corner. She sat down across from him and smiled. He always managed to look at her like she was the only woman on earth. She admired the Clark Gable mustache and the confident look in his eye and the impeccable way he dressed, with a cravat and neatly turned-out collar, his silver hair always slicked back — and his whiskey glass never empty. Ong Goh was truly a man from a bygone era.
“Hello, my darling,” he growled, his voice somehow cutting through the sound of the drum solo fromSing, Sing, Sing. “Will you marry me?”
“You’re already married.” Ordinarily, Katya would have merely tolerated the harassment, taking the high road in the name of some larger goal. She believed she had pretty thick skin. But coming from Ong Goh, it was somehow, if not charming, at least inoffensive.
“I’ll get divorced.”
“Ask me again when it comes through.”
“I will.”
A waiter appeared. Ong Goh ordered for her: “Whiskey sour for my beautiful companion.”
“Just a soda water with lime,” corrected Katya.
Ong Goh frowned. “How can I take advantage of you if you’re always sober.”
Katya smiled patronizingly. “I have some interesting news.”
“There are no words you can speak that would not be interesting, my darling Katya.”
“Right. Last night — well, I guess it was early this morning — Li Mun’s thugs shot and killed Satish Rathod and…eight of his men.”
“Not seven or nine?”
“No. Eight.”
“My, my. Where?”
“There’s a private wharf they use, west of the airport. They use it mostly for girls. But this time there was some kind of meet. Apparently, it didn’t go well.”
“Satish dead. And the little brother isn’t even in the business.”
“The little brother?”
“Vipul. Their father sent him off to Oxford. Sort of the runt of the family.”
“Hmm. So he’s like Michael Corleone.”
“A Godfather reference? Sure. Except his father’s already dead.”
“That brings me to another question.” Katya delved into her purse and pulled out the photos she’d printed from the video capture outside Li Mun’s home. “Is this Vipul, perhaps?”
Ong Goh put down his whiskey and examined the photos. Katya’s soda water arrived, and she took a sip. “Could be,” said Ong Goh. “I’d have to run it by someone to be sure. Can I keep these?”
“Sure. I have some others from the wharf last night, but they don’t show much except a bunch of guys in suits lying on the ground.”
“I can see that in the alley beside the hotel any night of the week.”
Katya smiled.
Ong Goh leaned back and took a long draught of whiskey. He stared at Katya. “In all seriousness, why won’t you run away with me?”
“What do you make of all this? Why is — what’s the brother’s name again?”
“Vipul. Don’t you know, I’m very unhappily married.”
“No, you’re not. Do you think Vipul made some kind of deal with Li Mun? Was it a power play? Did he arrange to have his brother killed?”
Ong Goh leaned forward and took Katya’s hand. “You mustn’t overthink these things, my love. The criminal mind is rarely complicated. Anyway, who cares? The Triad is our real concern.”
Katya withdrew her hand. “I know. I just thought it might be useful intel.”
“I’ll pass it on. Thank you. Do you have anything else?”
“Not this time. You?”
“Not much. As expected, our minister is planning to support the quota proposal.”
“That’s good.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Except that I have his cell conversations with Li Mun. So it proves Li Mun is influencing him.”
“It proves nothing. We have nothing to go after him with and nothing to show Triad influence. You know I can’t use your surveillance.”
“Not directly, no. You know better than I, this is how it always starts. A piece here and a piece there.”
“If it means dragging this case out so I can spend my evenings with you, I’m all for it.”
Katya smiled wearily. “Not quite what I meant.”
Chinese Garden, Singapore
Sunday, January 21st
5:30 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Had anyone been surveilling Katya, they would have known that every morning she went for a long walk, all the way down to the Chinese Garden and then back. And every morning she’d meet with what they might guess was a retired gentleman who had a fondness for Panama hats, guayabera shirts, and perhaps attractive young women of ambiguous ethnicity. They would meet a little after sunrise on weekdays — perhaps thirty-minutes later on weekends — on a bridge near the twin pagodas overlooking Jurong Lake and have a chat. They were creatures of habit, it seemed, as they rarely missed a day. Perhaps they’d become friends, in time, meeting each morning like that. Maybe it was just knowing that the other was going to be there, looking forward to saying hello and hearing the latest news.
Or maybe…
ψ
This particular morning, as on most mornings, Haruo Quartan arrived before Katya. He leaned over the railing, appearing to stare out at the calm surface of the lake.
Katya walked to the apex of the bridge, taking her place next to him, and assuming the same posture. “Good morning, Haruo,” she said.
“Good morning, Katya. I hear Mr. Li has been a bad boy.”
“I saw it myself.”
Haruo paused. “What tipped you off?”
“Chatter.”
“Cell phones?”
“Yes.”
“They never learn.”
Katya smiled to herself. “I’d like to think perhaps it has something to do with listening patiently for nearly two years. Not to mention Hong Kong.”
“There’s that,” acknowledged Haruo.
Katya smiled again. “Thank you.”
“What’s he about?”
“Li Mun? I think it’s actually a coup happening in another family. Li Mun was just the trigger man.”
“Which family?”
Katya straightened up, leaving just a hand on the railing, and turned toward Haruo, who was still looking out over the lake. “Fairly small-time. The Rathods?”
Haruo made a slight humming sound.
Katya wondered if that meant he’d heard of them. “The younger brother, Vipul, got rid of the older one, Satish,” she added helpfully.
“For Li Mun to intervene…”
Katya was eager to show Haruo that she had explored all the implications. “Vipul must have conceded something.”
“A great deal, I would imagine. This is Singapore, after all.”
Katya was silent. Haruo apparently wasn’t impressed by her analysis. This is Singapore. Murder was rare in the island city-state. Of course, that was partly because it was so easy to get rid of the bodies. The murder of Satish and his men would very likely never show up in the official statistics.
“The younger brother is up to something. Li must realize it too.”
Katya took a different angle. Haruo was always telling her to stay focused. She wanted to make sure he knew that she had. “Given our mission here…”
“You’re probably right.”
They were silent for a few moments. Sometimes, there just weren’t any new developments worth talking about. Katya prepared to say good-bye.
But apparently it was okay for Haruo to get distracted. “What do we know about the younger brother?”
“Not much. Ong Goh is going to send me the SPF profile. Western education. Oxford. Was not directly involved in the family business.”
“You see the problem?”
Katya did not. What had she missed? She waited for Haruo to continue.
“In medieval Europe, the nobility sent the younger sons into the clergy. Today, gangsters send their younger sons to Oxford and Harvard.”
Katya desperately wanted to see the connection.
Haruo’s mind continued down whatever rabbit hole it had fallen into. “The father, then, he’s passed on?”
“Yes,” confirmed Katya, recalling Ong Goh’s observation from the night before, and wondering what had inspired Haruo’s guess.
Haruo made a low humming sound. “Let’s set up on Vipul.”
“I don’t understand.” Katya stared intently at Haruo as if she might be able to see into his mind and learn the secrets of how it worked.
“There’s nothing to understand, Katya. That’s exactly the problem.”
She turned back toward the lake and stared at a family of turtles swimming past, feeling stupid.
“Katya. You’re looking for connections. Sometimes you have to look for disconnections.” Quartan paused. “I’m not talking about the whole works. Just the basics. A radio scanner. A few cameras. Just to have it. Just in case.”
“Okay.”
“Anything else?”
“Ong Goh proposed to me again.”
“I wish you both the best.”
Katya laughed in spite of her frustration. “I didn’t accept!”
“Ah. Well, you should. He’s a fine old cadger.”
“He’s married!”
“To a fine woman, in fact. Until tomorrow?”
“Good-bye, Haruo.”
“Good-bye, Katya.”
3
Little India, Singapore
Sunday, January 21st
9:00 a.m. SGT (Singapore Time)
Vipul wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as he scanned the faces of the family’s lieutenants, seven of whom had recently been promoted. The chairs at the tables were all occupied, and there were still another dozen men standing. They were all packed into the back room of Desi, a restaurant whose real purpose was to launder money and give them a place to meet discretely. It was hot and dank, and the smell of sweat and curry made Vipul’s eyes water.
Anand’s imposing figure loomed over his own, even though Vipul was standing as tall as he could. He never stopped being impressed by Anand’s stature. Everything about him was oversized: his bald head, his broad shoulders, his ring-clad, claw-like hands. His eyes always seemed to be narrowed and his jaw clenched. “Everybody’s here,” he whispered to Vipul.
Vipul had no way of knowing. The faces looked familiar, but that was all. His father had sometimes brought him along to meetings not much different than this one. “Watch and learn,” he’d growl, “but say nothing.” Sometimes he would go to the office of his brother, om shanti, to engage in another round of their interminable arguments…and someone would interrupt, waved in by his brother, striding into the office past him like he wasn’t there, leaning forward to whisper something into his brother’s ear. And then there were the family gatherings, where he’d see them lurking in the back, mere shadows consorting at the fringes of the laughter and conversation, occassionally exchanging whispers with each other or his father or his brother. So he had a uneasy familiarity with them, but that was all.
Thank goodness for Anand. Or, rather, for his father’s foresight in asking Anand to take Vipul under his wing. His father had known this day would come. And Anand had embraced the role, just as his father had known he would. Anand understood what his father was trying to do. But the rest of the organization saw Vipul as a threat.
Just like his brother had.
Vipul leaned over to Anand. “In the green shirt, there, that’s Paresh, right?” he whispered.
Anand looked down at him from the corner of his eyes. “Right.”
“And the one with the scar is Sameer?”
“Yes.”
Vipul straightened up. “Good to see you again, Paresh.”
Paresh nodded respectfully. They were going to at least give him a chance, apparently.
“And you, Sameer. How have you been?”
Sameer shrugged. Vipul could see immediately that he’d made a mistake. Sameer must have been close to one or more of the men who’d “disappeared” last night. Vipul didn’t want to appear too cheerful. After all, his brother had just died. Om shanti.
Vipul decided it was time to begin. “Quiet please,” he said in Hindi. No one seemed to notice.
“Quiet please!” yelled Anand. Instantly, the room went silent.
“Thank you,” said Vipul, continuing on in his normal speaking voice. “As you know, early this morning my brother and several of our family were to meet and negotiate terms with the Li Triad for the girls we provide to…establishments in Geylang and other areas. They did not return.” Vipul let his words hang in the air for a moment. He decided that his voice was wavering too much. He needed to sound more forceful. “We were able to confirm via other sources that, as we suspected, Li Mun executed them and dumped their bodies in the strait.” Vipul looked at the faces staring back at him impassively. He tried to meet their eyes, each in turn, just as he’d watched his father do. These were the kinds of nuances Satish had never grasped. “We must obviously retaliate.”
There was a sudden burst of oaths to avenge their fallen brothers. Vipul held up his hand. The room gradually fell quiet. Vipul was relieved he hadn’t had to rely on Anand again to silence the men.
“But we must be patient.” He could feel the air become still. “Now I know what you are all thinking.