by Jen Blood
“Besides the creepy dead tree on the door?” Solomon asked. “No.” I could feel her eyes on me, but I didn’t look at her. “Why? What do you see?”
“Nothing,” I lied. I thought of my brother’s last words to me. I’m not scared.
I wished I could say the same right now.
I still didn’t believe in ghosts—but the alternative was more terrifying. The idea that my mind could be betraying me, that I’d finally gone mad after years of flirting too close to that line... Insanity, a complete loss of control and connection, was infinitely more frightening than spirits walking among us.
I turned my back on the boy watching us, and picked up my pace.
Chapter 15
“That was creepy as hell,” Solomon said as soon as we were back on the road.
She didn’t know the half of it. “Don’t tell me you fell for that,” I said instead. “She was playing us, Sol.”
“How did she know about your brother, then? The dead kid watching out for you from a distance?”
“Simple cold reading, nothing more than a parlor trick. I’ve done stories on cons who make their livings with this shit. She gauged my reactions, and ran with it.”
“What about the thirty-five souls, then? That’s pretty friggin’ specific—and just happens to be the exact number of people who died in the Payson Church.”
“Maybe she read about it and recognized your name.”
“How? It’s been a few years since the fire, you know. And it’s not like she knew we were coming. What’s she done, memorized all the tragedies in the state for the past decade?”
I hesitated, remembering Rose’s words. However or whatever she might know, she had made a good point about something. “The ten-year anniversary of the fire is coming up, isn’t it?” I glanced to the side in time to see Solomon’s face fall. The anniversary would fall on her twentieth birthday—something I knew she didn’t need to be reminded of. “They did a retrospective a few days ago in the Globe... I’m sure there will be more in the next month. Maybe she caught that.”
“I didn’t see it,” she said quietly.
“I figured you were probably thinking about it enough without me bringing you press clippings.”
“Thanks.”
“Listen, have you uh...” I paused. There were a few things Solomon didn’t like talking about, but at the very top of the list were her father and the Payson Church.
“Have I uh what?” she asked.
“Your father. Have you talked to him recently? With the anniversary coming up...”
“I haven’t been back to Littlehope since I left for school. It’s not like I can just give him a call when I feel like it.”
“Sure,” I said. “I guess not.”
Another couple of seconds passed. “I wrote him, though. The letters always come back unopened.” She shrugged with a brusque shake of her head. “Screw it, right? There’s nothing I can do. But he obviously doesn’t have any interest in seeing me—all I do is remind him of what he lost when the Payson Church burned.”
“You don’t know that,” I countered. “Things aren’t as black and white as you always see them.”
She offered no counterpoint and no comment. We drove on in silence for another fifteen minutes before she spoke again, just as we crossed the bridge into Bath.
“As far as that whole rogue-and-virgin thing goes,” she said uncomfortably. “She was way off the mark there. I mean—at least, as far as I’m concerned.”
I glanced at her with a reluctant smile. “Oh yeah? You have your way with a football team in our time apart and forget to tell me, Sol?”
“A couple of them. Virgin, my ass,” she muttered, blushing to her roots.
◊◊◊◊◊
We stopped for dinner in Brunswick on the way home, and rolled back into Portland at around nine that night. I tried Buzz as we were hitting town, but he didn’t answer—not unusual, since half the time he either left his cell phone behind altogether or forgot to charge it and it was lying dead in his jacket pocket. I decided to stop at the apartment and check in with Wolf before we met Buzz back at the Ledger, so at just after nine p.m. I pulled into a spot in front of our apartment building. Solomon was asleep. I didn’t wake her immediately, but sat there for a second and watched her chest rise and fall, the pale pink in her cheeks, the warmth of her skin when I touched her hand.
I considered leaving her in the Jeep while I ran inside and did what needed doing. She could use the rest, I knew.
I started to get out, opening the door as quietly as possible, and then stopped.
A dark figure stood at the corner of our building, hidden in the shadows. Female, I thought, though it was hard to tell in the darkness. Whether man or woman, it was definitely too small to be Wolf, Elias, or the scarred man. I thought of my mother for a moment—wasted away from cancer, incoherent and conversing only with my dead brother in those final days of her life.
I suppressed a shiver. Something withered and multi-legged crawled along my stomach lining. I closed my Jeep door again, and took the cowardly way out.
“Sol?” I whispered. It took a second before she started awake. “Sorry—we’re home.”
The figure remained, still watching. Solomon rubbed her eyes and sat up.
“Who’s that?” she asked a second later, gaze fixed on whoever lurked in the shadows.
“You see it?”
She looked at me like I was crazy—a possibility I considered more and more likely. “Yeah, of course. It looks like...”
She got out of the Jeep before she’d finished the thought. I followed, but she was already half into the shadows.
“Mary?” she said, quietly enough that it was hard to hear her. The figure—a woman, I could see now—took a hesitant step toward Solomon, looking around first to make sure we were alone.
“Please,” she whispered. Mary Dsengani took another step toward us. She wore the same outfit she’d worn at Charlene’s funeral, complete with the black headscarf. “Could we go inside? I must speak with you.”
“Of course,” Solomon said quickly. I unlocked the front door while Mary continued looking over her shoulder.
Inside, I made sure the door locked behind us and turned on the hallway light. Mary walked in front of us, looking back over her shoulder frequently.
She didn’t speak until we’d gotten into the apartment and I had locked the door behind us. We led her into the kitchen and offered her a seat; she chose to stand. I asked if she wanted a drink, but she would take only water. She drank it quickly, her hands steady and her eyes watching our every move. She didn’t set the glass down until it was empty.
“You were right earlier,” she said to me. “At the funeral. Maisie and Lisette are gone. Maisie told me she gave you the picture... That she told you about the man you saw with Charlene’s body.”
“She said it was her father,” I said.
“His name was Jacob,” Mary said. “Jacob Deng. He was apprentice to Sefu Keita—you were right about that, as well. It was Sefu in the photo.”
“And Charlene was married to Jacob?” Solomon asked. Mary shrugged.
“She was fifteen years old. He told her he would help us get away.”
“And...?”
“They married, and he kept his promise—eventually. When he could. It was not easy. Sefu believed Charlene had magic that helped our crops to grow, ensured that we were all well fed. He kept close watch over her.”
“And Lisette was there too?” Solomon asked. “We keep getting stuck on that part. How did she get away sooner than you two?”
Outside, there was a crack of thunder. Mary jumped, looking around nervously. Lightning flashed. She reached into the oversized bag she carried and pulled out a large yellow envelope.
“Jacob said no one is safe—no one with the mark. That is what he told you?” she asked me.
“That’s right. But I don’t understand why someone would come after you now, after all this time.”
She pushed the e
nvelope into my hands. “I am leaving. My sister is dead. I have no blood here—”
“But Maisie...” I began.
There was an instant of uncertainty before she recovered and shook her head. “She was lost to me long before this. If they are alive, Lisette will care for Maisie. You do not understand what happened in that place. The power that Sefu held. If they are coming for those with the mark...” She shook her head. “No. I have lost too much. Charlene was never touched—her power was too great. Sefu was frightened, knew he needed her. But the others in the camp...”
She lifted her prosthetic hand, the plastic caught in the glare of artificial light, and stared at it as though seeing it for the first time. “He took my hand.” She reached up and brushed her headscarf back. I did my best to keep my face impassive, but it was hard not to look away. Across the table, Solomon’s gaze remained steady, her eyes wide. “He cut off my ear, to help a rich man who came to us in the bush. He cut out pieces of us. His belief was that each sacrifice was imbued with more power the greater the pain we suffered in the ceremony... Pain has tremendous energy, Sefu said. We were given no drugs. No anesthesia. What they did to Charlene—I know this ritual too well. I will not die that way.”
I started to open the envelope. She shook her head.
“Please, wait until I go. I will not answer your questions. I will not stay here. But if this helps to find the people who killed my sister... This, I can do.”
Solomon tried arguing with her, but she remained immovable. I thought of everything she’d seen, all she had survived, and I knew there was nothing—no threat, no plea—that would change her mind. In her place, I couldn’t imagine doing anything differently.
At the door on her way out, she paused. “My sister,” she said. “She was strong. She fought battles I won’t fight, spoke truths I will never speak. Sometimes, living deaf, dumb, and blind... Doing what you must and nothing more... Sometimes, that is the better way.”
“Maybe,” Solomon said. “But don’t you think the people who hurt Charlene—who hurt you—deserve to pay for what they’ve done?”
“Why?” Mary returned evenly. “For every terrible man whose deeds are brought to light, a hundred others wait like weeds to take his place. What good does it do? When turning a blind eye...” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I have done what I can—it is nothing compared to what Charlene would have done.”
“And now?” Solomon asked. “What will you do now?”
“I will go somewhere else,” Mary said. “I have a friend who is helping me—we will leave tonight. This was Charlene’s home. It never felt like mine. Perhaps...” She hesitated. “Perhaps I will find my own home, now.”
Solomon and I wished her luck and walked her down to the street. A woman was waiting for her in an old, rusty Ford Torino, but I could see no other details in the streetlight apart from the fact that she was white and female. Mary got into the passenger’s side. I wondered where they’d met; what their relationship was. If they were running away together, or Mary had simply found a ride somewhere new. I watched her drive away, and my thoughts turned once more to Charlene. The sister who stayed; the sister who fought. The sister who died.
It was almost ten by the time we had a chance to open the envelope. I called Buzz and got his voicemail again, while Solomon pulled out what looked like a few 8x10 and smaller photos.
“Still not answering?” she asked me.
I shook my head. “Technology’s wasted on him—he’d get more use out of two tin cans attached with a string.”
“His loss.” She paused, focused on the picture on the top of the pile. “Holy shit. His huge loss. Look at this.”
I stood and went around to her side of the table, looking over her shoulder.
Three African girls stood in the foreground of the picture: Charlene and Mary, and a girl who looked a lot like a young Lisette. None of them could have been older than mid-teens. It was dusk, a dusty African landscape behind them. Sefu Keita, the African witch doctor who had taken the girls, stood in the background. Beside him were two white men. I froze.
Rick Foster and Bobby Davies, shirtsleeves rolled up and faces flushed.
It was late at night in the next picture, the sky dark, the lighting poor. Foster’s face had been painted in tribal colors. His eyes were wild, something primal in the way he stared down the photographer who’d taken the shot. Davies knelt on the ground beside him, his mouth open as though caught mid-scream. Sefu stood behind them with one of the girls, his arm locked around her neck, her back bowed with the force of his grip. His body obscured her face, so it was impossible to tell which girl it was.
“We should get these to Buzz,” Solomon said.
I agreed.
We left the apartment at a half-run, the envelope clutched tight in Solomon’s hand.
“Should we call the cops?” she asked when we were halfway there.
“Why? There’s no evidence of...anything, in that picture. A wild night at least ten years ago, but Davies and Foster aren’t touching the girls in any of those shots. For all we know it could have been some kind of extreme cultural outreach thing Foster cooked up.”
“That’s not what it looks like to me,” Solomon said.
It didn’t to me either, but the police couldn’t do anything about anything based on these pictures. By the time we got to the Ledger, I was feeling more focused. It was a great lead that promised an incredible story, but in and of itself the only real use it had was to point us in the right direction and provide a hell of a lot of shock value when we confronted Foster or Davies. Solomon and I walked to the front door of the office building together, neither of us speaking now. Saturday night meant the street was busy; I tried to ignore the fact that I was purposely not looking into the crowd, afraid of the ghosts I might see staring back at me.
The front door of the office was unlocked—not unusual, since it wasn’t uncommon for Buzz to forget to lock up. Regardless, I felt my heart rate kick up a notch. Solomon was oblivious, still chattering about our next move and who she wanted to speak to first. I caught her by the arm when she was about a third of the way up the stairs. The building was too still. Something heavy hung in the air.
“Hang on,” I said. “Let me go up first.”
Her forehead furrowed in confusion, but my tone must have conveyed something because she stepped aside. I took the stairs two at a time. My heart pounded hard in my ears. The walls closed in. I could feel Solomon’s energy behind me, but if she spoke I doubt I would have heard her. At the top of the stairs, I paused for a fraction of an instant to take in the open door before I strode through.
Chapter 16
“Buzz?” I called, frozen in the doorway.
The office looked like a tornado had whipped through: computers smashed, pictures and papers on the floor, the file cabinet overturned...and more blood than I had ever seen in my life. Solomon came in behind me.
“Shit,” she said. She pushed past me. I saw a shoe sticking out from behind the desk—Buzz’s dress shoe, scuffed, worn... Probably the same shoes he’d been wearing for the past twenty years. Solomon knelt out of sight. I walked over to her in a dream.
Buzz lay on the floor in a pool of blood, his face cloud-white. There were even, neat slices up and down his arms; one along the left side of his face... And another, gaping wide, just below his Adam’s apple. Solomon pressed a towel to the wound. I wondered in some distant haze where she had gotten it.
“Diggs,” Solomon said, loudly enough that I snapped to attention. “Call 911.”
“He’s—”
“He’s got a pulse,” she said. “Take your phone and call an ambulance. Tell them he’s lost a lot of blood. He’s in shock, but I’ve got a pulse.”
I dialed 911. On the wall above Buzz’s desk, whoever had done this had left a message:
You were warned.
The dispatcher on the line got the details and assured me someone would be there soon. I hung up and went back to the other
side of the desk. I knelt in the blood beside Solomon. Buzz’s eyes were open now—he looked terrified. His hand clutched Solomon’s arm while she pressed the now-blood-soaked towel to his throat.
“Just stay quiet,” Solomon said. There was no fear in her voice—nothing but perfect calm. “An ambulance is on the way. You just need to stay awake. Stay with me.”
He tried to speak, choking on the words. I couldn’t say anything, couldn’t help with anything, and when a trickle of blood dripped from his lips my head spun.
“We’ll get them, Buzz,” I finally said. “Just hang on. Please, just hang on.”
The paramedics were there within ten minutes, but by then Buzz was unconscious again. Solomon rode in the ambulance with him; I drove behind. Halfway there, I looked at the passenger’s seat and my brother looked back at me. He wore his swim trunks, his hair still dripping from the water. When he turned his head, I saw that half his skull had been crushed in, both eyes cloudy.
“What do you want from me?” I said. “Why are you here?”
“I’m always here,” he said. It was a voice I remembered from a lifetime ago; from the childhood we’d both lost. For a strange, irrational second, I didn’t want him to leave. Even if he was a manifestation of my own madness, I would take it. “You drag me with you,” Josh continued in the child’s voice I’d known, his words anything but childlike. “I’m here, even if you refuse to acknowledge me.”
“I’m acknowledging you now,” I half-whispered. “I see you now. What do you want?”
“It’s not what I want. I’m here for you... Because of you. What do you want?”
“I want Buzz to live,” I finally managed. It was all I could think of. Something that was more light than physical weight touched my hand. My brother remained beside me, eyes fixed on the horizon and his small hand on mine, for the rest of the drive. When I turned into Maine Medical Center and looked to the passenger’s side of the truck again, he was gone.
◊◊◊◊◊
They were already wheeling Buzz into surgery when I got into the hospital. Solomon stood off to the side with her arms around her middle, her face stark white. Before I could say anything, she launched herself into my arms and held on tight while I stroked her hair and murmured sweet little lies about how everything would be all right.