by Greta Boris
She entered her old bedroom, dumped the load she was carrying onto the bed, and then felt up and down the bedside table lamp, fingers seeking its stem. She found it, turned it on, and a soft glow lit the room.
Her father hadn't changed a thing since she'd moved out two years ago. Botticelli's Birth of Venus and Monet's Water Lillies still hung in cheap frames on the walls. A bookshelf filled with epic fantasy novels and medieval European and early church history books sat near a window.
The room smelled unused and musty. She walked to the window and lifted the sash. Cool night air washed her face, and she marveled at the luxury. The anchorhold had been so small and had no cross ventilation if the stone near the floor was shut up. It had often been stifling.
Abby looked across the expanse of brittle grass outside her window to the neighboring house. Lights were on, and she could see Mimi move through the living room and disappear into what she knew was the hallway. A moment later a man followed her.
She moved away from the window and began to unpack the bag of clothes she'd brought from her apartment. The gentle croak of frogs and chirruping of crickets kept her company. When she was done, she slipped her empty suitcase onto the closet shelf and slid the door shut.
A thump sounded from somewhere in the house. Abby froze. Had it been the closet? A trick of sound? She listened for a long moment, but everything was quiet.
The conversation with Carlos had left her feeling jumpy—the idea that her father's accident hadn't actually been an accident. But he was in the hospital and no one was after her, she reminded herself.
She turned to the bed to finish putting away her things, and she heard it again. A soft thump, and then the creak of a floorboard. Someone was in the house.
Abby reached for the lamp and switched it off, heart beating like a scared bird's. What should she do? She glanced at the open window. Climb out? Run to the neighbors for help?
Another creak, and a footstep. Whoever was here was coming down the hall. She wouldn't make it out the window before they got to her room if that's where they were headed.
Hide.
She ran to the corner behind the door, and held her breath.
"Who's there?" A hushed voice broke through the pulse pounding in her ears.
"Tallulah?" Abby said.
A small shriek, then, "Abby?" Abby came out from behind the door and switched on the bedroom lamp. "Good Lord child, what are doing? I saw your car, but the house was dark. I thought you must be out with Carlos. You scared the life out of me."
“I was unpacking. I heard someone in the house."
"So you hid?"
Abby ignored her question. "What are you doing here?"
"I came over to drop off cookies. They wouldn't let me leave them at the hospital. But I didn't see any lights. I didn't know you were here."
"How did you get in?"
"The door was open. I was going to use the hide-a-key, but I didn't need it." That's right. Abby's hands had been full, and she hadn't bothered to lock the door behind her. She wouldn't do that again. "I thought maybe Paul forgot to lock up, so I was going to do it but then I heard a noise back here." Tallulah put a hand over her heart. "Can I have a cup of tea? You gave me quite a scare, girl."
Abby laughed. "I think I need something stronger."
They walked to the kitchen turning on lights as they went and were soon seated at the table with steaming mugs of tea, a bottle of whiskey, and Tallulah's plate of molasses cookies.
"I don't know what on earth is going on lately. First, that poor child is left at the Mission to die, then your daddy gets mowed down." Tallulah bit into a cookie.
Abby nodded. She didn't know what to say. Sylla told her the police hadn't disclosed who had tipped them off about the two men. If her father's accident was connected, he must have said something to someone. Could it have been Tallulah? She was a wonderful woman, but she had loose lips. She was everybody's best friend. "It is strange. Makes you wonder." Abby was fishing. She wanted to know how far news about her father's trip to the sheriff's station had spread.
"It does, doesn't it?" Tallulah said.
That was no answer. Abby tried again. "Do you think. . .? You don't think the two things are related, do you?"
Tallulah shook her head and stared into her mug like she was trying to read the tea leaves. "I don't know."
"I mean, how could they be?"
"These things usually are."
Abby sat up straighter. "What do you mean?"
"They come in threes," Tallulah said in a soft voice. "When those pearly gates open for one soul, they don't shut right away. Others get invited in." Her eyes met Abby's. "But your daddy, he decided not to go."
A shiver ran up Abby's spine. Would others go? She exhaled and dragged herself back to the task at hand—discovering what Tallulah actually knew. "So, you don't have any other reason to think my father's accident had anything to do with the girl?"
Tallulah's eyebrows raised. "No. Why would I?"
Abby stood and took her cup to the sink. She didn't want to face Tallulah when she lied. The woman read her, read most people, like a text message. "No reason. It was just what you said, you know, about the strange things happening lately."
Tallulah pushed her chair away from the table and stood. "I don't know anything, honey, but I feel lots of things. I'm unsettled in my spirit. That's all I'm saying."
Abby walked her to the door. "I was just going to make a late dinner. You sure you can't stay?"
"No, I promised Jordan I'd be home by nine, and it's past that already. We're going to watch a movie. I've got to spend as much time with that boy as I can when he's home."
Jordan, Tallulah's son, was in his first year at Berkley. Abby knew she missed him. They kissed each other's cheeks, and Abby watched her walk toward her car. Before she reached it, she turned. "You lock up now. You hear me?"
"I will," Abby said, and did as soon as Tallulah's taillights disappeared. She hadn't needed the encouragement to do it. Tallulah's words about the pearly gates and souls departing in threes didn't sound like an old wives tale tonight. They spooked her.
She stared at the locked door until the emptiness behind her crept forward. It slid up her back and tickled the hairs of her neck. She spun to face the vacant house. Memories flitted from room to room.
Scottie's sneakered feet slapped down the darkened hall to his old bedroom. Five-year-old Abby with cotton candy hair, wearing Scottie's too big hand-me-down jeans trailed after. Her mother's voice floated from the kitchen, "Pick up your things, Scott Raymond Travers." The anchorhold had taught her to hear ghosts, and she wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MONDAY, MARCH 19, 9:45 AM
The Wife
I TOOK A deep breath, entered the lobby and walked to the lanky girl at the ticket counter. "I'm here for the volunteer meeting," I said. Today was St. Joseph's Day, the day the return of the swallows was celebrated at the San Juan Capistrano Mission.
The Swallows Day Parade, which came the following Saturday, might draw tourists, but March 19th was a community event steeped in tradition. School children's performances, mariachi bands, community presentations, and, of course, the ringing of the Mission bells, were on the agenda for the day. The Mission would be a hive of activity. The word had gone out; all volunteers were welcome.
I decided to answer the call. I'd started the garden volunteer process, so I'd been vetted. It seemed like a good opportunity to talk to employees and volunteers, find out what I could. It was silly perhaps; I was no private eye. But this was where the crime occurred. This was where my husband and son had been seen. Secrets—and answers—about that terrible night, if they were to be found anywhere, would be found here. I was drawn to this place like iron filings to a magnet.
My husband said Seb had connections at the police department. Said he would keep us informed. But my husband was naive. I didn't doubt for a moment if authorities got even a whiff of Seb's involvement, he
'd find a scapegoat. If he did have the connections he claimed, he'd whisper in those ears, plant evidence, and hand them my husband's head on a platter.
"The meeting is just getting started," the girl said and gave me directions. I'd walked the Mission grounds every day since I found out what my husband had done, but I hadn't learned anything. I hoped today would change that.
I followed the sound of voices to a small room. Inside was a knot of people. I recognized Steven Homestead and a few other faces.
I stepped across the threshold and saw a black woman leaning on the wall by the door. I'd seen her before, but didn't know her name. I don't think she recognized me, because she shot me a glance, but continued speaking without as much as a nod. "He's at Mission Hospital," she said. I hovered in the doorway. I'd obviously interrupted something.
"How serious?" said a woman in faded jeans with a straw hat hanging down her back.
"I think he's going to be okay, but he's pretty banged up."
Steven emitted a long stream of air. "Thank God. Hope they don't try again."
A shocked silence reigned for a long moment. The woman in the faded jeans broke it. "What do you mean? Hope who doesn't try again? Are you saying somebody ran him over on purpose?"
Steven's next words made the hair on my arms stand at attention. "If he was the one who saw those men. . ."
Those men. He must mean my husband and son.
"Who are they talking about?" I whispered to the woman in the faded jeans.
"Paul Travers. He runs the gift shop," she whispered back.
"Why would you say that?" The black woman addressed Steven.
"I don't know," he back-pedaled. "I saw him at the Sheriff's department the morning after I found the girl. I just assumed."
"It is a heck of a coincidence, a fatality and a near fatality both associated with the Mission in one week," an older white haired gentleman said, a thoughtful expression on his face.
My heart thudded in my chest. Had Seb tried to run down the witness? Did my husband know about this?
The black woman held up a hand. "How about we all say a prayer or light a candle for Paul and keep this between the Almighty and us."
A fine mist of sweat broke out on my forehead. I'd been given the name. The name of the witness was Paul Travers. And he'd almost become a second victim. The walls seemed to compress around me, squeezing the air from the room. My breath came in short gasps. The woman in the faded jeans dropped a hand onto my back. "Can I help you?"
It took me a moment to respond. All I could think about was getting out of that stifling room, finding someplace I could breathe. I mumbled something about a forgotten appointment and fled. When I reached the street, I attempted to inhale the air I craved, but my lungs seemed to reject it just as my mind rejected what I'd just heard.
I covered my mouth with a hand and leaned against a lamppost. I needed to talk to my husband, find out what he knew. He'd kept so much from me over the past week, I didn't trust him anymore. Did he know about the accident?
The girl's death was terrible, an act of criminal neglect. But this, if it had been successful, would have been first-degree murder. I fed my anger on the short drive home. By the time I walked into the house my panic was gone, replaced by a quiet rage.
My husband sat in the living room, a basketball game blaring on the television. "I need to speak to you," I said.
He grunted a response, but didn't take his eyes off the screen.
"Now."
"Shoot the damn ball," he yelled at the TV.
"I need to speak to you." I raised my voice.
"Aw!" He slapped his leg in disgust.
"It's important."
"Honey, this is. . . Move, move, move."
I picked up the remote, and turned the TV off.
"Hey." A dark look marred his features. "Can't it wait ten—"
"Paul Travers, the Mission employee who saw two men the night Hannah died, was hit by a car. There are rumors it might have been deliberate."
The look of shock on his face appeared genuine. "They can't think it has anything to do with her."
"It's quite a coincidence," I said, repeating the words I'd heard.
"But that's what it must be." His voice wasn't as confident as his words.
"You didn't have anything to do——"
His head snapped around. "Good God no. What do you think of me? You've been married to me all these years and don't know me better than that?"
"I didn't think you were the kind of man who would purchase a child to do my housework. I didn't think you'd leave that same girl out in the cold to die alone. Honestly, I don't know who you are anymore."
His face hardened, and he opened his mouth as if to defend himself, but closed it without speaking. I sat on the couch and trained my gaze on him. For once, I didn't care about his ego, his mood, his sensibilities. I wanted the truth. A long minute passed before he spoke. "It's possible Seb had something to do with it."
I watched him squirm as he chose his next words. "He called me yesterday."
"What did he say?" My voice held a hard edge I'd never heard before.
"He wanted to know what I knew. If I saw anyone at the Mission that night. If anyone could have been close enough to get a good look at us." He turned up his palms. "I would have sworn in a court of law no one was on the street when we climbed over the wall."
I waited.
"After he yelled at me, Seb said not to worry. He'd take care of it."
"He'd take care of it?" I said.
"I. . . I didn't think about what that meant. I was just relieved. You know?" He turned toward me, a plea for understanding in his eyes.
"How would he know who the witness was? The news didn't name him."
My husband shrugged. "I told you, he has connections."
I stood, too full of adrenaline to sit any longer. "What kind of man have you gotten us involved with?"
"He's a financial planner." My husband's words ended in a sob.
I paced across the living room, thoughts churning through my mind. What did this accident mean to my family? How would these new developments impact us? "Well, he didn't take care of it," I finally said. "The man who saw you, who saw our son—" My husband groaned. "Saw our son," I repeated. "That man is still alive. Seb Skandalis is not only ruthless, he's inept."
My husband buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. So sorry."
"Sorry does nothing." I continued my pacing. "You need to call Seb."
He raised damp eyes. "I can't."
I stopped moving and returned his gaze. "Why not?"
"It's safer if we have no more contact with him. That's what he said. We don't want the police to make any connection between us. It's for our own protection."
My laugh was bitter. "He's protecting himself, not us. He wasn't spotted at the Mission that night. You were. He would sacrifice you to save his own skin in a heartbeat. You'll call him."
"I can't. He was very adamant on that point," my husband said.
"I don't care what he's adamant about. We need information if we're going to protect ourselves."
"I don't think he knows any more than we do." My husband's mouth formed a thin, stubborn line.
"He knew who the witness was."
"We don't know that for sure. Maybe it was a coincidence," he said with no conviction in his voice.
"But he has connections. At least that's what I've been told over and over. You've assured me, he can find out anything."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to ask him if he was the one who tried, and failed, to kill Paul Travers. If so, I want to know why he did it. I want you to ask him, if he knows, exactly what Paul Travers saw that night."
My husband looked horrified. "I can't do that."
"Why?"
"He won't like it. He's not the kind of man you want to have angry at you."
I put my hands on my hips and spoke in a firm voice. "If we went to the police now, we might have
to suffer some consequences, but we could put him away for a very long time. He needs to cooperate with us."
My husband looked sick, but didn't argue.
"Call him tomorrow." I stalked from the room. He knew I wasn't the kind of woman you wanted to have angry at you either.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MONDAY, MARCH 19, 3:15 PM
Although I believe we must step back, disengage, and resist the craving for notoriety in order to break its hold, I am not saying we don't need community.
The anchoress was devoted to the solitary life but she did rely on friends, mentors, and sponsors. Margaret Kirby, from North Yorkshire, England, entered her cell at the age of twenty-six. She was transported from one parish to another on a few occasions, but otherwise lived enclosed until she died at seventy-nine or eighty years of age.
She was often alone, but never abandoned. She had a good friend and mentor, Richard Rolle of Hampole. Rolle was an English hermit famous for his instructional writings, many of which were penned for Margaret.
They had a close, loving relationship despite their physical distance. It’s best understood by an often told story. Margaret once fell ill and was unable to speak. Rolle was sent for. When he came, she experienced a terrible seizure. He held her and prayed. She recovered. He then promised her she'd never fall sick again while he lived.
Several years later, she had another seizure and sent for him. This time he didn't come. As she'd known in her heart the moment the sickness struck, he'd already died. Deep relationships grow when they're not crowded out by the weeds of shallow acquaintances.
From the first draft of She Watches - An Anchoress Perspective by Abigail Travers
***
SIGNING HER FATHER out of the hospital had been a four hour affair. Abby had arrived at 11:00 that morning. She'd knew she had to wait for the doctor to arrive to release him, which happened about 12:30. Then prescriptions needed to be written, care procedures reviewed, tubes detached, clothes donned, the last hospital lunch eaten, and finally reams of paperwork done.