“Okay. I’ll pray for him. How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine…we’re fine, I think. I dunno. We’re…going to make it. Listen, it’s…late. Get some rest, okay?” I say.
She agrees and ends the call.
Marisa nudges me and we stand in unison, say a few brief goodbyes and walk down the hall, away from there, and I feel a sense of abandoning. There is little to be done lingering, I know, but what if his circumstances change? This is a bad omen. Should his condition turn for the worse, will I regret leaving, like I regret falling asleep on the boat fifteen years ago?
Presuming the best, Jamal will be unconscious in recovery for plausibly several hours or longer after the surgery is over. The group of people staying behind wait for that moment, which feels a lifetime away.
Christel should intervene. But this thinking causes me to wonder: if Christel is for me, then who is helping Jamal? If Christel is indeed an angel, doesn’t one exist for others? But then she can’t be for him; she would have stopped this wreck. So where’s God now when Jamal needs Him the most?
We arrive at my car and get in, Marisa sits there a moment, as if she doesn’t have the strength to buckle in.
“So…” Marisa says, her head resting against the door of the car, sitting partly on her hip.
“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“Me too. Are you okay? To drive?” Marisa says, her words slurred.
“I think so. I don’t expect to get more than a few hours’ sleep tonight.”
“Uh, huh.”
I take the drive slowly, though I feel no sluggishness to my reflexes. I am wide awake after three cups of terrible hospital coffee.
I wish not to be worried about Jamal and Natalie, but I can’t help it. It’s an unhealthy occupation. Joanna is on my mind, too, as the thought of her having to raise their daughter without Jamal pains me—the very thought of the little girl growing up, never knowing her father except as a photograph.
I call my parents to update them, knowing I’ll only be leaving a message and then the thought crosses my mind to call Natalie again, as Marisa is asleep. She starts snoring and I take a moment to watch. Natalie can wait. I hang up and place the phone on the center console. Eight minutes later, my car pulls into the garage and I carry Marisa inside and lay her out on the bed. Her clothes will be too complicated to remove with her being asleep. The last time I tried, I ripped a fine Italian suit.
I nearly trip over Max on my way out, as he is in demand for some affection and making effort to block me from escape. I rub his head and scratch him behind the ears for a few minutes, sitting on the floor next to him. Poor dog is alone all day and if not for his dog door from the kitchen and the neighborhood canines to commiserate with, I think he would be officially depressed.
Now, I’m in a state of caffeine-induced alertness and Natalie returns to mind. I reminisce of the way we used to be in high school. The games, the parties, dances, dates.
We did everything together. She was really great. We went to separate schools, so that created some natural space, which my parents insisted was healthy. My father felt she was a poor influence, as she didn’t devote time to her studies. I was working on differential equations during my junior year while she needed my help with geometry. Natalie wasn’t viewed as stupid, but simply keeping pace—a celebration of average, my father would say.
He wanted us to break up after her abduction case was closed; he never said it to me directly, but in so many words, the message was clear. I knew his opinion—he liked her, but felt she detracted from my ambitions, or rather, his ambitions for me. He got his wish, but not until my first year of college—the distance between schools, a catalyst.
That was where Marisa excelled. Given her family legacy, my father figured she’s a winner.
He didn’t meet Marisa until after we finished college because I prevented prior attempts. And he understood why, yet he persisted and felt I should understand his position.
My thoughts are disrupted by Jackson calling.
“Where are you now?” Jackson says.
“Just got home.”
“You sound awful. Been drinking?”
“Not enough since I’m still awake and your email has been bugging me all day—”
“About that email. Did you share that with anyone?”
Oh no. Jamal. How much trouble have I put him into?
“Colin? Did you send it to anyone? Like Jamal?” Jackson says.
“I did. Jamal got it this afternoon. No idea if he even looked—”
“Listen, there’s no substantial evidence and everyone tied to this prostitution ring is dead, so…”
The pause in the conversation becomes more and more uncomfortable.
“You heard about the wreck,” I say, hardly audible.
“Heard about it? It’s all over the news. They can’t shut up about it. Every network is covering it. More than two hours of live coverage with lots of people dead or wounded and I’m not sure they have hard numbers for that yet.”
“So what do you think? This can’t have something to do with the case or that file you sent me.”
“I think…no, there’s no easy answer here. It’s all speculative, so there’s no need to panic. Is Jamal doing as bad as the news says he is?”
“How bad are they saying?”
“Very low chance to live. I’m wondering if the doctors are telling a different story. The last word was he’s in surgery, where he’ll be for several more hours at least,” Jackson says.
“So what’s this got to do with that heinous email?”
“Two people among the wreckage, from the vehicle identified as being the cause of the accident, have the exact same pentagram tattoo, same location as the other victims. My old partner called with the news and she thinks they’ll stamp this a homicide, considering the circumstances. That puts the crime ring front and center.”
Could Jamal’s accident be because of me and that email? Now I feel sick. Natalie will never be the same because of me. Dasher is dead, who may have played second fiddle to the crime. And now Jamal. Is Natalie next? Am I?
“So what do I do now?” I say and rub my scalp, and then toss my tie on the bed, followed by the suit jacket and pants. The belt is a miss, hitting the floor with a thud.
“Just be careful. It doesn’t make much sense that the ring would be after Jamal, but then, he’s not highly visible. Nor does he have any evidence beyond what the police already have. So it’s nonsensical to suggest this was an attempt on his life.” He pauses a moment. “But still, it’s a strange coincidence, to be sure.”
“Must be a common tattoo, Jackson.”
“It’s location, not just the tattoo. Keep in mind, that’s a detailed tattoo that not just anyone can do. Plus, it’s a painful spot to get it done. My guess is these two guys, who are now crispy from what I gather, were tied to the ring—so no loss of life there.” He sighs. “I don’t know. The weirdness is getting to me. It’s foreboding, if nothing else.”
“What would your source say?” I ask.
“My source believes the tattoo is akin to their beliefs. Gnosticism, some cult…voodoo, who knows. Could be spirit worship. I’m way too cynical to share any such beliefs.” He pauses a few seconds. “But none of that really matters now. I’ve not talked with him recently and I don’t suspect I’ll hear from him soon.”
“Can you contact him?”
“No. I don’t want to know anything about him, and I like it that way. He likes it that way. If he’s got a witness who can help, he’ll reach out to me, then I’ll reach the FBI.”
I process this a moment. “So he remains hidden? Even from the feds?”
“Correct. He wants to remain anonymous, that way he can keep doing his work and not have to worry. Like I said before, the women who show up at his door aren’t looking for justice. They want to get back to the life they used to have and that means running from the past. He has to protect the
m.”
“This is torture. I could be charged for a crime from when I was a teenager and here I am, waiting around. How’d you find this source, anyway?”
“When I identified the tattoo murders and then Arocha’s self-inflicted scars, I went looking for answers in dark places. Then he found me.”
THIRTY
My nerves are ignited. Every little sound or creak in the house is someone entering, undetected. The notion of looking behind me is unsettling. It’s late and getting any sleep tonight is going to be a stretch. Marisa is snoring, careless to the situation I find myself in.
I wonder what keeps Jackson on this case—at the risk of his own life? The greater good of humanity can’t be his only reason. No one’s that charitable. It’s been a year since he last cashed a check from me.
I ask, “Why not use a past victim? There’s a dozen articles, interviews of different victims who got out, in that file. Why not one of them?”
“Because they are running from the past and can’t answer for what happened. Should they testify, they will be cross-examined in court and that means all the dirt on their own checkered pasts comes up. Keep in mind, these are women who sold their bodies for a living, possibly years at it. Some aren’t thinking well, as a result of drug abuse, physical abuse, you name it. Asking them to testify is like asking someone who visited hell for a year to tell the story,” Jackson says.
“So he hides people with a problematic past?”
“Yeah, he hides druggies, prostitutes, abused women and children, and former occult or loony religious people, as you’d call them. People who get sucked in and feel trapped, often end up damaged and it’s against friends or family they need to run from, who won’t let them leave and try to find them when they’re gone. He hides people who need to be and he makes a point not to keep in contact, as he doesn’t want to be a source for locating them. Like I said, he sees a very ugly side of life—the kind no one wants to talk about.”
“Why does the devil have to be involved?”
“He doesn’t, but the source thinks this kind of evil doesn’t come out of a person without help. It’s like no one gets the idea to build a bomb and kill a few hundred people on their own; there’s an invisible co-conspirator who plants the seed, waters it, fertilizes it, you get the idea.”
I sit down on the bed and stretch out and consider turning on the television. “Great, now I have someone to blame.”
“It’s not a joke. The source warned me about those people. I’m still unclear on what they mean but still, he made a point to contact me on a whim. That speaks volumes.”
This is paranoia; go to sleep.
“Are you sure you’re not going paranoid?”
“I might be, but are you willing to bet your life on it?”
“No, but what can I do? I’m not a cop. And the victims in that email were shot or stabbed or beaten to death. No car accidents.”
“Agreed that it’s a first, presuming the accident was intentional. To be fair, the ring may not have killed those women at all, but other unsightly people in a day’s work, if you get my meaning. The tattoo being on a driver who’s dead in tonight’s accident doesn’t provide conclusive evidence, but it’s an unpleasant coincidence.”
I groan. “I’m confused and tired. I gotta get some sleep. We’ll talk more later,” I say, and bid Jackson goodnight.
One thing is for sure—those with the tattoo are typically found dead or gone nuts, like Arocha.
There is no danger for you. Delete the email and move on.
Why do I get the feeling that isn’t true? Nothing seems quite right…like the answer is hidden from me; within my grasp, but out of sight. Disguised.
If the crime ring is after Jamal, then somebody should be around to protect him. Max nudges me and even he looks concerned. I scratch the dog’s back and decide to get some coffee, so I throw on jeans and a polo, and then pour myself a cup and take a seat at the island counter. Alone with my thoughts, I wonder what if I’d never gotten that email this morning…what if I’d ignored Jackson’s call? How much different my life would be and perhaps Jamal’s life would look different, too. But then, if answers don’t come soon, I may have to answer hard questions from federal officers and deal with the suspicion my father and I endured years ago.
I finish the cup and grab the car keys. I’ve no idea what to do, but at least I know where I need to go. On my departure, I can’t help but think: is it already too late?
THIRTY-ONE
I arrive to see Jamal, at John C. Lincoln Hospital, near midnight. No word yet from doctors. I check my phone. Nothing. No voicemails. No text or email. It’s past the time of completion, unless the surgery ran longer than expected. Hard to say that he’ll be awake and no one outside staff will be able to get close to him. His condition could be touch and go.
Christel, will he live?
Silence.
Only questions, no answers.
I’m surprised to see Joanna is awake in the waiting room. The mood carries a deep anxiety. At any moment now, the news could come. Jamal’s life in the balance—his family’s, too.
“So Colin, how is Marisa?” Joanna says, directing her undivided attention to me. She needs a distraction and is trying hard to find one, as the wait is eating her alive. Every second feels like one hour. A minute like a day and a day…a lifetime.
“As good as can be expected. Want a coffee?”
“Yes, thank you, Colin.” She manages a tired smile. “I’ve lost count of how many cups I’ve had, but I’m going to need it, I think.”
I meander off to acquire two cups of coffee, with the delusion that it’s improved from the last batch. The coffee sucks. If they would provide a shot of liquor as an option, it might enter the realm of tolerable. Given how hot it is, it may kill off some tastebuds, or numb them, so to make the bottom half of the cup more acceptable than the first. It’s a theory at least.
We sit for a while in silence. I contemplate who’s in charge of ordering the coffee here and how I can file a kindly worded suggestion like: Stop ordering this shit. Please. People are waiting in trauma and you are adding to their misery.
“So what’s on your mind, Colin?” Joanna says. I can’t help notice she is slowly sipping through her coffee also.
“How much this coffee sucks.”
She manages a laugh. “It’s the caffeine I need, though I probably should sleep so I’m useful tomorrow.”
Maybe I should tell her how I will word my letter. “About all it’s good for.”
“After three cups you get used to it, I think.”
“I’ll take your word on that. How’s the princess?”
She makes eye contact with me and brightens by the question. “She’s sleeping well, so Grandma says. Gosh, I can’t believe it’s been ten months already.” She pauses a moment, staring at nothing straight ahead. “How the time flies.”
“Glad they could make it down. It’s a bit of a drive for them from up north.” I pause a moment. “It was good to see Leilani, even though it was brief and under such circumstances.”
She smiles, faintly, trying her best to be happy through the pain. “I’d be at such a loss without Jamal’s mother. Can’t imagine what I’d do without her.”
“No doubt they are a big help. What can I do?”
“Keep me company.” She pats me on the leg and says nothing more, but her thoughts run wild—Jamal and family; the baby asleep at home and needing to pump in a half hour; the discomfort starting now. She is doubting right now—wondering how this could happen to Jamal and how this accident, should he survive, will change their lives. Will he be confined to a wheelchair? Will he be able to work and provide?
We sit and wait in silence. The second hand appears to slow down as I watch the round white clock, mounted to the wall a few inches below the ceiling. There is not much I can say right now—that or I’m afraid of the answer.
“How’s Natalie?” Joanna says.
“She’s good. Did you he
ar from her yet?”
“She called a while ago. I gave her the update and she asked to be kept in the know and all. And she plans to visit him when he is…” She pauses a moment to gather herself. “Natalie said she’ll come see him tomorrow when he’s awake and can take visitors.” She strains to get the words out and they are hard to understand. It occurs to me that Joanna is asking about Natalie just to make conversation—anything to keep from worrying.
“Glad to know she got in touch,” I say.
Joanna sighs. “So…what ever happened with you two? I know there’s a history, but…”
“Well…how much has Jamal told you?”
The question prompts a smirk. “Nothing.” She shakes her head. “He keeps that a secret. I know he has them, and I trust him, but that man is near impossible to get information out of, especially if it’s gossip.” She laughs a little. “He’d go to great lengths to prevent me from finding things out he’d learned about my girlfriends or a neighbor.”
“We are alike in that arena,” I say.
“And he has such a memory for details, even the little ones. He used to comb the bank statements for a few cents he’d be missing and wouldn’t give up until he found it, which…he always did. Hours later.”
I say, “Money is hard to earn, easy to lose, his father always said to him and me. Jamal is the meticulous one, and I got that from being around him.”
“He loves you, Colin. Really. And I know you two talk about everything because he won’t tell me much about the discussions.” Silence lingers a moment, while her mind juggles from one thought to the next. “What was it that Jamal used to say…between you two in college?”
I laugh, thinking back to the days; it feels like ages ago. “Bros before hoes.”
Joanna laughs with me and for a moment, she seems like herself. “Gosh, that’s still funny.”
“I love that man. He’s a good guy, Joanna. And a good dad.”
“He’s a great husband,” she says, fighting back emotions yet again.
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