by Greta Boris
"So Michael is at the Faire with Gilbert, and he has a brilliant idea. He decides to go to the Mission's booth to see if he hears anyone talking about the fire, or Paul Travers.
"But before he even gets to there, while he's on his way, a woman stops him. Puts a hand on his shoulder. You'll never guess who it was?"
"Abby?" The word edged past my tight lips.
"Exactly." He looked triumphant. "Michael was so surprised, he lost her. But he is looking for her now, and when we meet him, we can take over surveillance."
"Why would Abby stop him? What interest would she have in Michael?" Dread whispered in my heart. Something wasn't right.
"Nothing," he shrugged. "She said she thought he was someone else."
Suddenly I wanted to get to the parade, find my son, make sure everything was okay. I moved toward the door, but Tarik jostled past me. He always had to get to the car first. It was his childish way of proving he hadn't kept me waiting.
He crossed the threshold in one long stride, and stopped short. A moment later, he backed into the house as if pushed by a bulldozer. Seb Skandalis, gun in his extended hand, followed.
Seb was a small man, with a wiry frame, eyes that bulged, and cigarette stained fingers. I'd only seen him in person on three or four occasions, and each time I was surprised again by his stature. He's much larger in my imagination. The menace hovering around him must give him the illusion of size.
He kicked the door shut, raised the gun to my husband's face and said, "Where are they?" His voice was soft, high and nasally, almost comical. But laughing at him would be a mistake.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Tarik said.
"The passports." My guess had been correct then. The passports must provide a link between him and the girls he’d smuggled into the country.
"Passports? I'm not sure what—"
"We have them." I interrupted my husband who was making a bad situation worse. We'd planned to tell Seb about the passports all along. Why lie to him now? It would only make him more angry. Make no mistake, despite the low volume of his tone, he was as enraged and unpredictable as a cock in a fight ring.
His eyes left Tarik's face for the first time since he'd entered and locked on me. "Where?"
"They're safe," I said.
"I want them."
"I'm afraid that's not possible." It took all my inner strength to return his coal black gaze with a cool calm one of my own. "But, as I said, they are safe."
He shoved Tarik aside and moved toward me. The smell of stale tobacco made my lips curl. "Where are they?"
"Why don't we conduct this conversation in a civilized fashion? Please come into the living room and sit down," I said.
He brought his face only inches from mine. "I don't want to sit. I want my property."
I concentrated on maintaining the mask of calm on my face. "I understand that. We want nothing more than to accommodate your needs. But, Mr. Skandalis, we have needs as well."
He barked a laugh, pivoted and faced my husband. "She stole your pair, Tarik. I should have been doing business with her all along."
My husband puffed up his chest. "Well, I stole your pair."
Seb poked the gun into Tarik's chest like it was a finger. "I know you did. You see, I've made very good friends with my busybody neighbor, Esther VanVlear. She keeps an eye on things for me. She's a member of the neighborhood watch committee, and takes her job very seriously. She described you and your car perfectly. So either you get the passports for me, or I begin breaking your wife's lovely bones."
"Mr. Skandalis." I heard a quiver in my voice and cleared my throat before I continued. "We placed the passports in an envelope with a letter explaining who they belonged to and what they were used for. We then mailed them to our lawyer. We've asked him not to open the envelope, but bring it to the police in the event of our untimely deaths. So as you can see, we can't get them for you."
This, of course, was a lie. I'd buried the passports in a new box of laundry soap in the garage, then resealed it. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it was the best I could do at eleven at night.
"You leave us alone, and the passports stay in my lawyer's safe. That's the deal," Tarik said. I didn't like the tough guy tone he used. It was dangerous.
Seb's hand shot out and struck him across the face. "Call your lawyer." I bit my lip to keep from crying out. Tarik's eye began to swell.
"Listen to me, Mr. Skandalis," I said before he hit Tarik again. "We have made another attempt on Paul Travers's life. Unfortunately, it wasn't successful. But neither was yours, if you remember. Our goal is to protect our family, not to compete with you or harm you in any way."
He pondered this for a moment. "Why would you take my passports then?"
"Only as an insurance policy. If the police never learn of our connection to Hannah, they will never learn of yours." I realized my miscalculation as soon as the words left my lips.
"So let me get this straight." He looked at me, but kept his gun trained on Tarik. "You and hubby are threatening to tell the police about my side business if I don't cooperate. That sounds like a threat to me. Let me explain something to you, Mrs. Basara. You have much more to lose than I do."
There was such evil in his voice I felt suddenly lightheaded. My thinking muddled. "You don't want to kill us, not in the suburbs."
He laughed the thin piping laugh of a naughty, young boy. "Should I take you out to the country? Downtown LA? You want to go for a ride?"
"Don't be unreasonable." Tarik's voice was an authoritative growl. It was the tone he used when the children misbehaved.
The children. My panic escalated. If Skandalis killed us, he had to kill them. Michael knew all about Hannah. I opened my mouth to soothe him, tell him we'd give him the passports. Tell him I'd kill Paul Travers for him. Next time, I'd get the job done. But Skandalis cut me off.
"Unreasonable?" His eyes narrowed. "You mean like this?" He raised his gun hand as if to slap me the same way he'd slapped Tarik. I squeezed my eyes shut and retreated a step. A second later, a shot rang out.
My eyes flew open. Grief and fear mingled into one unnamed emotion. Tarik, my indecisive, blowhard of a husband, had picked this moment to become a hero. He must have lunged for the gun, because he now lay at my feet. A river of crimson seeped from under him and separated into rivulets as it spread out on the cold marble floor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 11:20 AM
"SOMEONE'S HOME," CARLOS said as he drove past the large house with the white SUV parked in the driveway.
"So how do we do this?" Abby didn't like it. The house was one of those tract homes that posed as a custom build with the addition of unusual architectural details. Floor to ceiling windows fronted it, and ran down the sides as far as she could see. Even if Carlos kept them inside, talking, how would she stay out of sight?
"I'm going to drop you off down the block, turn around and park out front. You walk up and sneak around the side of the garage while I keep them busy inside."
"How are you going to keep them away from the windows?"
"Just stay close to the bushes. If you're right under the windows, they won't be able to see you."
"How am I going to get to the bushes?"
He pulled up to the curb and stopped the truck. "Most people aren't sitting by their windows waiting for something to happen."
Abby flushed. That's what she'd done in the anchorhold.
She jumped out of the truck and Carlos sped off. As she trudged up the hill, she thought about what he'd said. It was true. By enclosing herself, she'd become more in tune with the outside world than she'd ever been.
Shut-ins live outside their windows. They imagine what the people they see are thinking, saying, and feeling. Most people on the outside live inwardly focused lives. They imagine what others are thinking and saying about them.
Abby crested the hill and saw the red Rojo Landscaping truck parked at the curb. Carlos was halfway to the
front door. She decided to leave the sidewalk and cut across the neighbor's grass, where she might not be seen.
Despite her circuitous route, she felt exposed. The windows seemed trained on her like telescope lenses. Her instincts told her to crouch and run from bush to bush, but logic told her she'd call attention to herself if she did. She straightened and forced herself to walk normally.
She only had to cross a small side yard to reach the attached garage at the rear of the house. If someone saw her, she could say she was looking for her cat.
Carlos stepped onto the front stoop. After he rang the bell, she'd wait a few seconds, then make a dash for the garage. He raised his hand. Abby froze.
A blast cracked through the air. A firecracker? A car backfiring? A gun?
Carlos dropped to his hands and knees, and searched for her with his eyes. He found her and waved her down. She fell to the grass.
He rose to a crouch and, hugging the wall, ran around the corner of the house. He reached the first set of windows, lifted his head above the sill and peered in. He must not have seen anything, because he dodged to the next bank of windows.
Feeling vulnerable in the open yard, Abby came to her hands and knees and began to crawl toward the house, toward Carlos. He beckoned to her. She hurried forward.
When she reached him, he pressed her against the stucco with a sweaty arm. "Stay here," he said. He made his way to the last set of windows. His head bobbed up, down, then rose more slowly. A long moment passed as he stared through the panes. He slid to the ground beneath the window and gazed out at the property.
Abby crab walked to him. "What's happening?"
"A man is holding a gun on Leena. I can't see Tarik."
"God. Do you think he's been shot?"
"I don't know. Do you have your phone?"
But Abby was already pulling it from her pocket. She pushed 911 with trembling fingers. While she alerted the emergency dispatcher, she watched in alarm as Carlos rose to peer in the window again. She tugged on his shirt, and mimed "Get down." But he ignored her.
"Are you in danger?" the dispatcher asked.
"No. No, I'm outside. The gunman doesn't know I'm here." As she said the words, Carlos ducked and ran to the garage.
"I'll stay on the line with you until you move away from the house."
"I need to get off the phone." Fear crawled across her skin. What was Carlos doing?
"Please leave the property, ma'am. You need to get to safety."
"I've got to go." Abby said and ended the call. She paused. Everything in her screamed for her to obey the woman on the other end of the line. To retreat. Get to safety, away from the staring windows. But she couldn't leave Carlos.
She forced reluctant limbs to follow the path he'd taken. Heart pounding in her throat, she rounded the far side of the garage and stopped. Carlos had positioned himself near a side door. He held a shovel like a baseball bat.
His eyes widened when he saw her, and he shook his head. He wanted her to leave. It wasn't going to happen. She strode toward him, ducking under the one small garage window.
"Go. Wait for the police out front." His voice was a harsh whisper.
"I won't leave you." She searched the ground for another weapon. She spotted a rock the size of a tennis ball and picked it up. "Are they in the garage?"
He nodded. She moved only as far as the window, and peeked through the glass. "Go away. I've got this," he hissed. She ignored him.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. The first things she saw were the white outlines of a washer and dryer. She was looking into a small laundry room. It appeared to be empty.
Movement to the right caught her eye. The door from the laundry room to the garage was open. It gave her a limited view of the garage interior. She pressed herself against the outer wall and the view expanded by two or three feet. It was enough.
She saw a dark-haired, dark-complected woman standing before a short, thin man. Something about the woman was familiar. Abby could only see her profile, however, and couldn't be sure. The man pointed a gun in her direction. His face was fully visible and unfamiliar. When his mouth moved she read, "Where are they?" on his lips.
They? Did he mean people? Was someone hidden here? Abby's eyes scanned the laundry room again. Could there be more girls? Girls like the one left at the Mission?
Movement. Her attention was drawn to the woman. She was speaking quickly, gesturing with her hands. Abby felt she was pleading with him, arguing her case.
He raised his gun hand and slapped her. The woman's head snapped back. She lifted it again in a defiant gesture. When she spoke this time, Abby knew intuitively this was a mother defending her children, fierce and protective.
The man shrugged. Abby read murder in the movement of his shoulders.
She turned to Carlos. "He's going to kill her." Carlos raised the shovel higher, and she realized he intended to barge into the garage. A shovel was no match for a gun. He'd be shot before he was close enough to strike.
An idea sprang into her mind. For once, she didn't stop to evaluate it. Abby threw open the garage door, ran to the shelter of a camellia bush that was several yards away, and screamed wordlessly. A second later, the short man appeared in the doorway. "Here, I'm here." She stepped out of the leaves and waved her hands.
Before the man could take aim, Carlos moved from the shadow of the open door. The shovel came down with a crack of bone. The man fell to the ground.
Stillness settled on the scene replacing the frenetic action of the past ten minutes. Abby heard only her own ragged breath, and the soft sobs of the woman in the garage. Then the quiet filled with the sound of sirens.
***
Two ambulances pulled away from the curb, sirens keening. Tarik Basara was in one; the short, thin man in the other. Neither was dead.
Abby sat on the front stoop of the house while a uniformed officer took a statement from Carlos. She'd already given her side of the story to the same policeman. She was numb. The day had taken on an unreal quality. She felt as if she was living someone else's life, that at any moment she might wake up in her anchorhold and be Abby again.
Intellectually she understood her father was in the hospital. That someone had tried to kill him—probably multiple times. That he was being suspected of a horrible crime. But she no longer had the same sense of urgency to prove his innocence. It was there somewhere, looming just outside her consciousness, but she'd lost contact with it.
It would return, she was sure. But at the moment, she couldn't get worked up about anything. Leena Basara had told the police she had no idea who the thin man was. He'd broken in. He'd tried to rob them. Abby knew it was a lie, but couldn't prove otherwise.
A pair of shoes appeared in the section of concrete she'd been staring at. She looked up a long expanse of khaki covered legs, and past a white shirt to find Sylla's sharp eyes focused on her. "You're everywhere these days, aren't you?" Abby didn't answer. "After I have a look round, let's talk, yeah?" Abby nodded.
Maybe fifteen minutes later, maybe longer—Abby's sense of time had stopped functioning along with her emotions—Sylla returned. Carlos was with her. "I think we'd all be more comfortable at the station," she said. "I'll give you a cup of our wonderful coffee."
Abby climbed into Carlos's truck alongside him. Neither said anything for two and a half miles. "That was really stupid." Carlos finally broke the silence. Abby raised her eyebrows in question. She'd done so many stupid things lately, she wondered which one he was referring to. "Using yourself as bait for that guy."
"If I hadn't, you would have charged in there with your shovel and gotten shot." He didn't deny it. They finished the drive in silence.
As they crossed the parking lot to the police station, Carlos said, "Are you going to tell Sylla about the son?"
"I think so. I'm not sure it will do any good, but I feel like I should. Withholding the truth hasn't worked well for me." He nodded, and opened the heavy glass entry door.<
br />
Minutes later, Abby was seated in the same interview room she'd been in only three days earlier. Sylla set a cup of murky coffee in front of her, and Abby wrapped her hands around it. She didn't plan to drink it, but she was grateful for the warmth.
"So, the obvious question first: What were you and your boyfriend doing at the Basara house?"
Abby sniffed the coffee and took a tentative sip to give herself time to think through her answer. The coffee tasted bitter and burned. She set it down, but kept her hands on the mug. It was time to tell Sylla the whole truth, even though it meant admitting her father had lied to the police. "I saw a boy at the parade," she began.
Sylla didn't ask many questions while Abby told her narrative. She only stopped her twice, once to affirm that her father had never, in fact, seen any men, hadn't been at the Mission that night at all. That he had lied, allegedly at his daughter's request. The second time, she asked if Abby had ever seen either Leena Basara or the thin man with the gun before.
"I've never seen the gunman, I'm sure about that," Abby said. "But I have seen the woman. When I was in the anchorhold." She'd remembered why Leena looked familiar while she was sitting on her stoop. "It was three days after that night. You know, the night the girl died. I remember it because it was so odd. She walked directly up to my window and stared inside."
Abby paused, lifted her mug but caught a whiff of its contents and set it down without drinking any. "It was like she was looking for something. I hid in the corner, in the shadows, but my shoes were out in the middle of the room. I was afraid she'd see them. See me. It was nerve wracking."
"Must have been." Sylla said dryly. "What happened then?"
"Security came by and yelled at her. Visitors aren't supposed to leave the paths."
"Good thing for you."
"I wrote it off at the time. People do weird things when they don't think anyone is watching them."
"You'd be the one to know." A sarcastic barb.
Abby ignored her and continued. "But it makes sense now. She must have been checking out the place her husband and son had been. Worried they could have been seen by someone else."