Sacrifice

by Dakota Banks

  Maliha had phoned ahead, so when she knocked on the door, Dr. Blake opened immediately. She might have been waiting just behind the door. She had blonde hair cut very short, pale skin that must have required sunblock by the gallon, nervous gray eyes, and substantial curves. Maliha thought she was about forty years old, but she’d taken care of herself and could pass for ten years younger. She was dressed well, with a dark silky blouse and an ivory skirt that flattered her legs, probably put on hurriedly for Maliha’s benefit because the nice outfit fizzled out at her knees. She wore faded blue socks and sneakers that were past their prime.

  A young girl about nine or ten was in the kitchen having a snack, and her mother asked her to go to her bedroom.

  “Can I please take my glass of milk?”

  “Just this once, go ahead.”

  Maliha wondered if her own daughter, Constanta, who’d died at birth in a colonial jail cell, would have looked something like this beautiful child. The girl had blonde hair like her mother, but long and wavy, and a waiflike face with large blue eyes.

  My girl had darker hair, darker eyes, but so much else would be the same. The intelligent eyes, the angles of her cheeks and chin, the gentle way she speaks. Sweet femininity but strong legs and arms. By the time Constanta was this age, I would have had three other children, maybe more.

  She pictured her young family sitting around the table, eating dinner with her husband, Nathan.

  A simple life as a healer, a wife, and a mother. Grandchildren, should I live that long! What joy. And when the time came, a place in the cemetery next to Nathan, a natural end to a satisfying life.

  The girl smiled at Maliha with a face that already showed the natural beauty of the woman to come. As the girl passed by, Maliha rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder for a moment, a moment that would have to do for all the moments in a life that had been ripped away from her.

  For a lifetime of the love of a mother for her daughter.

  Dr. Blake saw the small gesture and smiled at it. Perhaps she noted the longing in Maliha’s look and touch, but Maliha wasn’t sure.

  When the girl left, Maliha and the professor settled at the kitchen table. The only sign of emotional distress that the woman showed on the outside was wringing her hands. The instant she sat down, her hands were lying on the table pulling and stroking each other. She had an engagement ring with a large diamond, and twisted it around and around on her finger.

  “Professor Blake—”

  “Oh, please call me Jamie. Everybody does, even my students.”

  “Jamie then. I’m Marsha. What’s your daughter’s name?”

  “Betty Sue. Her father was from Texas,” Jamie said, as though the name needed an explanation.

  “She’s lovely. You must be very proud of her.”

  Jamie smiled and nodded. “She’s going to be a musician. I just know it. She’s got a special skill.”

  “You could be right. Mothers are able to pick that up sometimes.”

  My mother knew my skill very early, back when I was Susannah.

  1676

  A cold night in a long, hungry winter. Susannah awaken ed, her stomach cramping, but even at that young age she knew the family must make the food last all winter. Wandering from the children’s room, Susannah went looking for water to fill her stomach. She filled her cup from the jar near the door and drank, spilling some.

  She went to the hearth, where there was still some color left among the embers. She stirred them, watching the sparks and a few halfhearted flames. She crouched to take advantage of the little burst of warmth. Watching the embers shimmer in different shades of red, orange, and yellow, sometimes all three at once, her eyelids began to slide closed. Captivated by the colors and half asleep, Susannah reached out for one of the embers. She’d been told not to get too close to the hearth. At almost four years old there were things she was expected to do for herself. Her mother couldn’t watch her all the time. She had two other babies to watch.

  The ember was so pretty…. She picked it up and blew on it to make it glow brighter.

  For only a moment, for less than a breath, Susannah held the glowing, jewel-like ember with her fingertips. Then her eyes widened and she dropped it. She stared at the reddened ends of her fingers. Why were her fingers burning hot but there were no flames?

  Then the pain struck, the worst in her life. It made her get up and move. She didn’t know why, but she knew she needed to get to where her mother had the dried plants she had brought in at harvest. She found the basket and uncovered it. As her fingers throbbed and tears rolled down her cheeks, blurring her vision, she picked up one bunch after another, pressing the dried leaves to release the smell. Finally one was right. On a wooden surface, she mashed the leaves quickly with the heel of her good hand and scooped them into a cup of cool water. She plunged her burning fingertips into the cup and held them there. Gradually the pain eased.

  Her mother woke her the next morning. Susannah had fallen asleep with her hand in the cup. Looking at the vague traces of unfilled blisters on Susannah’s hand, her mother smelled the cup of water and smiled.

  “Benjamin, come see. Our little Susannah is a healer.”

  “I know this isn’t a good time for me to ask questions,” Maliha said to Jamie, “with Fynn disappearing like that. But I’d appreciate any answers you can give. Do you think he just couldn’t face the idea of a wedding?”

  Emotion showed on Jamie’s face for the first time, a sense of loss that passed over her face like a spring storm that left no rainbow. “Not a chance. He’s very happy about the wedding. We’re very much in love.”

  Maliha noted that she spoke of Fynn in the present tense. She hadn’t given up on him.

  “Was he in some kind of trouble? His son said that he was nervous or depressed.”

  “You talked to Doyle?”

  “Yes. I told you that, when we talked on the phone.”

  “Oh. I remember now, you did. Fynn’s emotions went on a roller coaster ride depending on how his scientific studies were doing. He was devoted to his work. If he had a success in his experiments, we went out to celebrate. If he was having trouble, the only person who could get him out of a bad mood was Betty Sue.” Her eyes darted away, looking at the closed door to Betty Sue’s bedroom.

  Devoted to his work. Exactly what Doyle said. Is there some rehearsal going on here? Fynn could have disappeared for a reason unrelated to the hitchhikers. What if he was a little too close to Betty Sue? His fiancée or his son could have killed him to stop the abuse. Accounts for the fact that no one persisted with the police beyond that initial missing persons report, too.

  Maliha looked through Jamie, as though seeing the wall behind her, and let the woman’s aura come into view. The aura was a mix of strong, bright colors. As quiet as Jamie appeared on the surface, she was a flaring symphony of feelings underneath.

  Red. She’s fearful, anxious, and trying not to show it. Yellow. Her basic success and happiness with teaching. Vibrant pink threads—her love for Fynn and Betty Sue. A little bit of orange for confidence there, but it’s way overpowered. She’s in trouble. But is it because she knows something about Fynn’s disappearance? Time for a lie detector test.

  As she continued to view Jamie’s aura, Maliha said, “Jamie, I have to ask a difficult question. Did Fynn ever abuse Betty Sue? Physically, sexually?”

  Jamie’s eyes flew open and her mouth opened slightly in surprise. But Maliha was more interested in what was going on in her aura. Strong flashes of scarlet snapped into being, with flames licking wide tongues in Maliha’s direction in the space between them as they sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Jamie was rightfully, powerfully, indignant.

  “What are you talking about?” The indignation was strong in Jamie’s voice, too. “Fynn would never do anything like that! He loves Betty Sue. What are you doing, coming here and making accusations like that!”

  “Calm down, Jamie. I’m not making accusations, just asking questions
to rule things out. You can understand that.”

  She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. “Well, you can rule that out and I don’t like you asking. I think that’s about all I want to tell you. I don’t really know who you are or what you are to Fynn. I think you should leave now.” She stood up to end the conversation.

  Maliha remained seated. She decided to take a direct approach, since she was about to be thrown out of the apartment and had nothing to lose.

  “What are you afraid of? Has someone threatened you or Fynn? Or your daughter?”

  When she got to the word daughter, Jamie flinched so slightly most people wouldn’t have noticed. But Maliha wasn’t most people.

  “Your daughter then. Tell me about it. I can help you. I’ve helped other people in situations like yours. It’s what I do for a living.”

  Jamie sat down, her face paler than ever. Indecision fluttered in her eyes.

  Maliha reached across the table and rested her hand on Jamie’s. “Tell me. It’s the best thing you can do for your daughter. For all of you. Doyle trusted me. He sent me here to see you.” Maliha could tell that she was losing the battle. Jamie was shutting down, too scared to open up. Maliha dug around in her pocket and came up with a dog-eared card from Hound’s private investigation business. It had saved her skin on more than one occasion.

  “All right,” Maliha said. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you. The university hired a private investigations firm, but they didn’t want it known. It’s not good for their reputation that one of their top researchers disappears. Names like Fynn’s bring in alumni donations.”

  Jamie took the card Maliha held out. “Hound Dog Investigative Services,” she read. “Private. Secure. Don’t bother us with easy shit. Extra charge if wounded.”

  Maliha winced when Jamie got to the easy shit part. She would have preferred that Hound’s card said something more professional but she had nothing to say about it.

  To Maliha’s discomfort, Jamie picked up a phone and dialed the only phone number on the card. Nobody had done that before, at least not in her presence. Someone answered. She hoped it wasn’t Hound.

  Jamie listened, then said, “Is Marsha…” She gestured at Maliha to supply the last name.

  “Winters.”

  “Is Marsha Winters an employee of yours?” Jamie listened for a minute, then said thank you and hung up.

  Maliha waited for the verdict.

  “It seems you’re their lead investigator, assigned to the hardest cases. You have a great record of success. Totally confident, etcetera.”

  Maliha made a move to take back the business card but Jamie didn’t surrender it. She picked up the phone again, dialed information, and asked for the phone number of Hound Dog Investigative Services. She was given a number that matched the one on the card.

  “Okay, I guess you’re the real thing,” Jamie said. “Just because Doyle sent you here isn’t reason enough to trust you. Doyle’s like a puppy, he likes everybody.”

  Maliha was impressed with Hound’s backup on the business card.

  I’m going to have Amaro get me an assortment of business cards with legit offices and scripts in case anybody calls. Score one for Hound, zero for Maliha on this one.

  Jamie dropped her eyes. It was easier for her to talk that way. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing by telling you, but I’m so scared I just have to take a chance. They…two of them came. They said Fynn was working for them now and if I wanted to see him again, I should keep quiet about it. Cancel the wedding, tell everybody I changed my mind. If I made any mistakes or went to the police, Betty Sue was toast. That’s exactly what they said, toast. That they would…I can’t say it. I can’t even think about it.”

  “You did the right thing telling me.”

  “Can you help us? What has Fynn gotten into? Gotten all of us into?” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Is my daughter in danger?”

  I don’t think those two guys came here bluffing. Can I really protect these people? Before the Rainiers, I would have said yes.

  Guilt over her friends’ deaths surfaced, but she pushed it back. Her attitude had to be confident no matter what she felt inside.

  “You’ve got to trust me. You’ve got to tell me everything you know. When did Fynn disappear?”

  “I know the exact date. September fifth. The reason I remember is that he said he had one last meeting to attend that week, and then we were taking the rest of the week off together. Like a family vacation, the three of us. Fynn hardly ever takes time off.”

  “It’s been over two months. He hasn’t had any contact with you in all that time?”

  “No. I haven’t gone to the police, either, because those…people told me not to. He’s a good person. What’s going to happen to us?”

  “Nothing, if I can help it. Do you have a photo of Fynn I can have?”

  Jamie retrieved a photo from a desk and handed it to Maliha. Glancing at it, Maliha saw a picnic with Jamie and her daughter seated at a table, while Fynn roasted hot dogs. Gray hair, glasses, about fifty-five years old, a small belly hanging over his belt. Maliha memorized his face.

  “You think he’s alive?” The question carried every emotion Jamie was feeling. Love, fear, hope. Hopelessness.

  Maliha thought for a moment. Two months, two recent tests of the hitchhikers. If they’re testing—whoever they are—he doesn’t have much time left. He’s served his usefulness.

  “Yes, I do think he’s alive.” But probably not for long.

  “If there’s anything you can do…I have a little money put aside. Fynn has some, too.”

  “I don’t work for money.” Maliha rested her hand across her belly, where the scale that ruled her destiny lay.

  Jamie gave her the names of a few colleagues, including a local one at Columbia University. Maliha decided to start there. She phoned Dr. Booker Cobb and he said he’d meet her at his university office, in spite of the evening hour.

  Dr. Cobb’s office was highly organized. Files in neat stacks, color-coded folders, no memorabilia of his teaching career or the rest of his life, for that matter. On a shelf near the window was a trio of bonsai plants. They were the only things in the room Maliha could relate to, including the occupant. She had a two-hundred-year-old bonsai cherry tree that produced perfect blossoms. It was at least an opening for the conversation.

  “I see you are a practitioner of bonsai, Dr. Cobb.”

  “Oh, those?” He nodded at the plants. “I’m babysitting them for a friend of my wife’s who’s gone to Paris for three months. Damn nuisance. Have to be watered with an eye-dropper, that kind of thing.”

  So much for that opening.

  Dr. Cobb was worried about Fynn. All she had to do was get him started with a simple inquiry, and then his words tumbled out and provided Maliha with a key piece of information. On the day he disappeared, Fynn had a meeting—that jibed with what Jamie had said—at the Tellman Global Economic Foundation in Washington, D.C. Cobb had joked with Fynn about the foundation luring him away from the university. Fynn had said he was happy at Columbia, but smelled grant money and wanted to talk to the foundation representatives.

  “I haven’t seen him since. I was invited to the wedding, you know. It’s not like Fynn to take off like that. Sabbatical, my, er, behind. I happen to know that it usually takes months to get a sabbatical approved and everybody in the department knows about it ahead of time. I don’t believe he planned this months ago and didn’t tell any of us. Didn’t tell Jamie to postpone the wedding, for gosh sakes.”

  “Did you go to the police?”

  “Jamie begged me not to. I think now I should have.”

  “Do me a favor and hold off.”

  “Jamie said you were helping her. She called after talking to you. For her sake, I’ll cooperate with anything you want me to do.”

  Leaving Dr. Cobb to his neat office and the unwelcome demands of his bonsai plants, Maliha called Jamie. She might know more about Fynn’s work at the Tel
lman Foundation.

  When she couldn’t reach Jamie by phone, Maliha got a queasy feeling in her stomach. She’d been gone less than an hour from Jamie’s apartment. Suddenly the apprehensive feeling she’d had earlier crystallized into a fist that struck her in the gut.

  No. Surely not.

  She took off running, telling herself that she was getting paranoid and that Jamie and her daughter, Betty Sue, had just gone out to eat, or Jamie was in the shower and didn’t hear the phone. Maliha’s anxiety drove her speed. There were few people out on the sidewalk, and to them she would have appeared as a blur and a rush of wind that left them wondering what had just happened.

  Stopping in the entry hall of Jamie’s building, Maliha leaned against the wall and gave herself only a second or two of time to think. She didn’t bother pressing the button next to the mailbox. She charged up the stairs and pounded on the door.

  “Jamie! Open up, it’s Marsha!”

  When there was no answer, she drove her foot through the door. Both the door and its frame splintered. She dove into the room, hoping that she’d soon be paying Jamie for the broken door. There were no thugs, no evil to fight.

  Jamie was at the kitchen table, face down on a newspaper soaked with blood. Her coffee cup sat nearby, undisturbed. As Maliha approached, she could see bullet wounds in the back of Jamie’s head. The woman had been executed.

  Holding her breath, knife in hand, Maliha moved cautiously toward the hallway to Betty Sue’s bedroom. Partway there, caution couldn’t hold her back any longer. She rushed to the bedroom and threw open the door.

  Relief swept over her. Betty Sue was at her desk with her back to Maliha, watching a movie on her computer, earphones on her head. If she had the volume turned up loud enough, she wouldn’t have heard the shots, especially if a silencer had been used. If Maliha could just get her outside without seeing her mother—that was going to be quite a trick. Maliha’s eyes scanned the room and halted at an open closet door. An intruder could be in there, alerted by the sound of Maliha’s crashing entry through the front door. She slid along the wall to the closet and determined no one was there.