Discretion

by David Balzarini

My phone vibrates again, but I ignore it. I work through emails, forcing myself to concentrate. I handle several trades, sweating on the keyboard while slugging through. At last, I understand why my colleagues stress out in this job—they are working with no knowledge of what will happen, only hypothetically what could happen. And it’s the could, with millions at stake, that drive them batshit crazy.

  My phone shows no update on Jamal for the past few hours, since Joanna called, so he must be okay. I decide to go see him today, if I’m told to or not.

  Should I call Mike? Would he take an apology? Do I even owe him one after all the years he’s held out important information? Then there’s Natalie and I can’t help worrying about her. She picks up her cell on the first ring.

  “Where you at?” she asks.

  “Work. You?”

  Wind noise breaks up her voice—she must be driving with the top down. “Colin? Are you there?”

  “Yeah. Are you on the road?”

  “Uh huh. Driving back to the office. How’s your head?”

  “Hurts a little. You talked with Mayra?”

  “She told me her version, which was relayed from Mike. I hope the real story is better.”

  “Doubt it. I kinda lost it on him. Can’t quite explain it, but I was convinced last night that it was the right thing to kill him. Guess there’s some feelings that didn’t die with time.”

  “That or my theory is correct. How did you ever meet Christel?”

  “Met her at church. Where all good things happen.”

  The noise level dies down and a car door slams shut. She mutters to herself while she fumbles with keys, just like the old days.

  “The evil you’re letting influence you is taking a toll. What if you’d succeeded? What if…you’d killed Mike? For what? Mike and Mayra were piss drunk and couldn’t take care of themselves, let alone me.”

  She’s right, no question.

  So why did Christel tell me to kill Jamal, and then Mike?

  This is unnerving, as it’s uncharted territory and my life, my career hangs by the thread that is this sophisticated, mysterious spirit who after a decade and a half remains unseen. She is the one I depend on, yet she seems like a curse.

  “Colin?”

  “Natalie.”

  “You’re panting over there. Want me to come over?”

  This is complicated enough. Adding Natalie is not going to help, just create another obstacle or possibly collateral damage.

  I say, “Thanks, but not right now. I’ve got meetings later on.”

  Silence lingers. The background noise drops on her end.

  “Are you back at work?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I suppose I should say thanks to my hero. Better late than never, right?”

  It takes me a moment to process what she means—the boat, those years ago. Mike or Mayra decided to break the silence there too. Fitting. Mayra wants Natalie to know they helped rescue her, risking life and limb before the news leaks about how they left her behind.

  “Feels weird to know the truth, doesn’t it?” I say.

  “I’m hurt no one told me but hey, I get why, I guess. How are you dealing with the pending…search?”

  “You mean, how am I doing with the feds digging into that case? I’m trying not to focus on what I can’t control. If they call me, they call me. Hiding evidence wasn’t my suggestion and the feds can figure that out for themselves. I can’t imagine they want to bring up charges against Mike, Mayra, and me for what happened years ago. Given the media frenzy it was, I’m sure the press would love to expose the case and they’d be knocking on my door before long. That would be a big problem for me.”

  “Did you ever really think it was just Arocha and Dasher acting alone? No help, just two party guys out having a good time?”

  “After you were found, I believed that, yes. But Jackson’s findings prove that several girls were drugged and shipped elsewhere that day. Turned up dead in different states, separated from family for years. All were prostitutes and the tattoos linked them. A couple party guys didn’t organize that. They followed orders. They were probably given a ton of liquor for the job and were too stupid to ask questions.”

  She gasps. “There were others? Same day at the lake as me?”

  “Sadly, yes. Jackson sent me a file full of newspaper articles, public records he compiled of all the victims, tied together by a single tattoo on the right forearm. That’s how the feds got involved, as bodies piled up in different states, leading to a Phoenix ring.” I pause a few moments, reflecting on images from the lake in those days—students partying without a care, like immortality was theirs. “I thought you were lucky when you were put on the stretcher, but I didn’t appreciate quite how much until I went through Jackson’s file.”

  “Wow,” she says, barely audible.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’m glad you’re…you again.”

  “Haven’t I always been me?”

  “Last night you weren’t. All I can say is, stay away from her. Not sure why I keep thinking that, but that’s what’s on my heart. Does that mean anything to you?” She laughs nervously.

  An appointment window opens on my screen, lower right corner, fifteen minutes from now.

  “Colin?”

  “Sorry…I gotta run to an appointment.”

  “Sure…I love you, okay,” she says.

  Complicated, because I love you back. To be continued. “I know…Well, you know…”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Take care of yourself.”

  And the line drops.

  What could I say? Is she just worried about me or is she working herself back into my life because I’m making wedding plans? Is she kicking herself for not keeping me on a short leash? No time for this now.

  The mysterious appointment is with Unknown in fifteen minutes, at a coffee house near Hayden and Via De Ventura.

  What the fuck is this meeting? I check my phone to be sure, and the appointment for the coffee house is there, along with the address.

  No time to think about it or argue the irrationalness of it. I sigh and rub my pounding head with the tips of my fingers, hoping to cool the burning drumbeat. Staff meeting is right after, so this is going to be One. Fantastic. Day. The drive alone will make this tight.

  Did Karla schedule this? Can’t be Jennifer making a meeting like this. This is nonsense.

  I lock my terminal and hurry out.

  I drive to Vintage, a chic cafe nestled in a busy shopping complex. The place has fifteen tables, lots of windows, the sidewalk’s hustle and bustle, and a mountain view. A young woman with dark, short hair, a simple oval face parallel to her youth works behind the counter like she means it. A stud in her nose, a hoop in her lip, and a spike through her eyebrow. Her T-shirt is black and bears the phrase in white letters “I don’t need sex, I’m being fucked by the government.” The superfluous hardware distracts from her natural, simple beauty. She’s not model material, yet I’m drawn to her. Now that I see her there, I have difficulty moving on from her.

  A young couple sits near the window, sipping cappuccino in wide glass cups and watches joggers and walkers move past. They comment periodically and laugh, not looking anywhere but the street. I think of me and Natalie, not in resemblance, but of years ago when she and I could sit like that, doing anything and nothing. No pressure to impress. No underlying motives or agenda. Maybe this would be the place after a long Saturday morning in bed.

  Natalie and I used to do a host of simple things, like the movies or the park or a bike ride, sometimes a rollerblade or a walk with no destination. We didn’t have to talk all the time. Just when something warranted being said. No uncomfortable silences. No pressure from family to get married or stay single, live together, have kids. It was just us.

  This sudden yearning for the past is peculiar, watching this couple; what if that’s why I’m here? Because of doubt marrying Marisa? We’ve not set a date; perhaps there is reason to post
pone such commitment.

  The traffic outside is brisk, lunch hour, the world in motion and oblivious of my attention. The menu, written on an oversized chalkboard, is limited, but bears the essentials. I think about ordering a large coffee, but feel odd standing near the counter while the girl is busy at work and pays no attention to me.

  So who am I meeting here?

  “Sir, did you want something?” the girl says.

  The pierced young woman watches me, an inquisitive look on her face. Friendly, unexpected. A simple smile.

  “Uh, yeah. I would,” I say, caught off guard by her. Then she places a tall iced coffee with whipped cream on the counter, as if I’d ordered it.

  “On the house, Colin,” she says.

  I’m shocked and she grins, as one who’s in control but not gloating about it. She knows me…how?

  She walks around the counter and carries the iced coffee in one hand and a formidable cup of steaming coffee in the other, and takes a seat at a round table in the middle of the place. She gestures to me to have a seat, while I stand in awe, befuddled. She holds her small face in her hands; her elbows rest on the table. I take a seat carefully, like I might fall. She is nonchalant, like an old friend who knows what to expect. She grins at me and reveals to me who she is without a word, behind those piercing blue eyes, but I can’t believe it—or I don’t want to.

  Christel.

  Can the supernatural become human? Impossible, right? But I can see her, so she is real, in the flesh. Human.

  “Where to begin?” I ask, not knowing what else to say and silence is uncomfortable.

  Her sly little smile widens. “We meet again.” She stirs her coffee, which appears to be boiling, and sets the spoon aside, her eyes fixed on mine.

  Again? How did a meeting take place that I don’t know of? But then, if she did not tilt her hand for me, I wouldn’t have any idea who this young woman is now.

  Her appearance is not what I expect—of her nature, I’d think she would be donned in grandeur: fine lace and jewels, beautiful and elegant. Very proper in manner, like a queen of old. This young woman is quite the opposite in a T-shirt and hunter green cargo pants.

  “When was the first?” I ask and taste the iced coffee, which is perfect in depth of flavor, sweetness, and character. The woman knows how to make my coffee.

  “We met at church, some time ago. It was lovely. Surely, you must remember,” she says.

  Church. Yes, the young woman who was behind me at Jamal’s church that day. That was her speaking to me. I was a teen then and her appearance has hardly changed, if at all.

  I nod on reflex. “So why are you here?”

  She shifts on the chair and her demeanor stiffens. “Oh, such a complex question to begin with. Let me suggest we start with introductions?”

  I’m taken aback a little, but she is right. I agree only in mind, and think it sufficient. She extends her hand to me—three colorful rings, long black nails, and a serpent head tattoo on her forearm. I accept her hand and she gives a gentle squeeze and release. “Mila.”

  I nod. “What’s your real name?”

  “It’s not Christel.” Her tone is flat.

  “The question still stands.”

  She snickers at me. “It’s not polite to say. But I’m glad you understand. It’s been awhile coming with you, and thus…we are here.” She pauses a moment and fidgets in her seat. “Not to disappoint you, but we know my name is irrelevant. And it’s not the real question. The one you have been asking yourself incessantly, subconsciously for the past few days and unable to stop…” Her voice trails, as if her speech is an art form. Her eyebrows rise to a peak, anticipating my response.

  “It’s true. So…what are you?” I ask, a feeling of guilt and shame at asking. It’s like quizzing your parent about why they kept you past thirteen.

  “I am, like you, Colin, fallen. Deceived. I was once beautiful…still am, in fact. But you should have seen me millennia ago…hmmm. But then I was tricked, as were you, and I found myself somewhere I didn’t want to be, but I had no choice. You could say fate has put us together, you and me.” She smiles casually, as if we are talking about silly things we used to do in junior high to get attention. “So here we are, talking. And I hope that you can trust me still, Colin, as I know you doubt me for reasons I consider unfair.”

  “So, Natalie was right about you.”

  She makes no reaction. “Yes, yes, quite right.” She smiles. “A clever one, she is, to understand me. But, know that I am not like the others, my kin.”

  “How so?”

  “Demons, as you refer to us, are fallen and obedient to one master, who owns this world and commands it to his will. But I…how shall I explain this…am a renegade? An exile, you might say.”

  “So you do things your own way?”

  When she touches the coffee, it boils and steams, and then she takes a sip. “I have my own ambitions. I like you, Colin. I like people. It’s my passion to give you what you want most. When people are hurting, I bring them peace. Comfort. When people long for love, I yearn to quench their thirst.”

  I ponder this a moment. “So…you’re saying that when someone is in pain, you bring them peace by killing them. And when someone wants love, you quench the thirst with a loose lover, leading to depression, suicide?”

  She smiles back in reply and remains silent.

  “How can I trust you, being that you are…what you are?” I ask.

  “I am misunderstood, that is all. My place on Earth is my own. It is my home, same as you. And I enjoy helping people, as do you. But, also like you, I am evil. And you are right to suggest that you cannot trust me.”

  “You’ve just told me I can’t trust you. So what are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to make amends, though it is not in my nature to do so.”

  “Amends?”

  “Amends, yes. We had an accord some years ago, you and me. And you’ve broken that accord. I help you, that means you help me. I do your work in exchange for doing mine.”

  “You didn’t expect me to kill Jamal, did you?”

  “Rhetorical question noted. It’s a choice, Colin. You may not see your life as a series of choices, but it is precisely that. I gave you the choice years ago to follow me, or not to follow me. You chose to follow and have enjoyed the benefits of my good pleasure.”

  She understands my dependency on her insight—what I live by. Without her, I am lost in the dark, without a guide, and she knows that.

  “So why Jamal? Why kill him?”

  “That’s complicated, but since I know you need an explanation, I will inform you that his time is come.”

  “Bullshit. Why’d you need a hit man? Why not do it yourself?”

  She rubs her nose, apparently taking time to compose herself before answering. “I didn’t need a hit man, Colin. I gave you the instructions as a test.”

  “A test?”

  She nods. “Remember the story of Abraham and Isaac? From Sunday school?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “It was a test God gave Abraham. Abraham wanted children a great many years. Then, when God granted the request in his ripe old age, He commanded that Isaac be given as a sacrifice on the altar. It was not until Abraham proved his willingness, holding his blade high over his son, that God spared the boy’s life.”

  “So Jamal was a test?”

  Mila makes no response.

  “A test of my willingness to obey you?”

  How could that be? Wouldn’t she know in advance that I would refuse? Why give a test that she knew I’d fail? “That doesn’t make sense. Why draft me to kill him while he’s on his back in a hospital bed? He could have been killed in the wreck without my involvement.”

  She smiles, as if she’s anticipated this moment. “Yes, but there’s more.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  More? More than life and death? She is playing a mind game—preying on my emotions, toying with my senses.

  The question pangs m
e: How can I be without her? How can I remain with her? It’s a decision that will shape the rest of my life; a choice that I see for what it is—monumental. And I’d love to run and leave it for a thousand years, vowing to return, but knowing I won’t.

  “I didn’t choose Jamal’s time, Colin. God did. I do not make the decision whether people live or die. God does. In fact, I would have enjoyed seeing him live a long, prosperous life.”

  Silence sits between us a moment, while I sip the coffee and ponder the world that is opening to my mind. To contemplate the meaning of life and death in such a way. Nothing could prepare me for this conversation, for this time. “So…God chose for Jamal—

  “To die, yes,” she says.

  Die? Jamal is alive. Isn’t he? I check my phone, expecting a message, but none is there. I set it on the table, willing it to remain quiet and disprove her claim. But then it vibrates, a text message from Joanna: Jamal went home to be with the Lord today. He lived a wonderful life and left behind a daughter who looks so much like him.

  Mila’s eyes meet mine as I set the phone aside. Perspiration trickling under my shirt, emotions fight for supremacy. Jamal is gone. I’ll never see him again, as long as I live. The rest of my days, just like that, are without him. Without his laugh. Companionship. Listening ear. No more ballgames. No more burnt barbecue. No more getting lost in downtown traffic with that act of his—like it’s all on purpose.

  “How could God want him to die?” I question and realize emotions will get the best of me before long.

  Mila, the angelic made flesh, stares at me, expressionless. Her blue eyes are deep and mysterious, radiant like sunlight on water’s surface. “That is for God alone. I have nothing to do with it when people live or die. He grants no such authority.”

  “But you help people, so why didn’t you help Jamal?”

  “I do what I am permitted.”

  “Permitted?”

  “Yes, permitted. I cannot simply do as I please. Save lives or take them as I will.”

  “And knowing what you are, how can I trust you?”

  “Your point has merit. But the same question can be asked of you. History proves I cannot trust you completely, as you cannot entirely trust me. Agreed?”