Foreteller

by Anne McAneny

  Zoey sat on his black, leather couch—nary a scratch or stain on it—and thumbed through the magazines fanned out on his silver-edged, glass coffee table. Old copies of Architectural Digest, Time, National Geographic and Newsweek. Nothing surprising there. And again, nothing personal. No Esquire or People for her Jake. Far too serious for that, but still, she wondered about his human connections. He had three good friends at the paper, and some buddies from college who, like her friends, had spread their wings and flown far beyond the expanses of the Ben Franklin Bridge and the Liberty Bell. Had she and Jake only stayed here for each other—or was it fate because her mother had foretold it?

  She got up and approached Jake’s desk. An aura of disloyalty swept over her as her own feelings of recent violation still reverberated, but the scientist in her won out. The chance to learn something beyond Jake’s measured revelations rarely presented itself. She checked the old-fashioned rolodex that he treasured, and flipped through the two hundred-plus cards. Many contained scrawled notations like, knows heroin dealers in Jersey, to remind Jake of how he knew people, or Sienna Fine’s card that read, In Ricky’s ring—willing. Many fiancées seeing that note might be suspicious, but Zoey knew Sienna was probably a prostitute who worked for a pimp named Ricky. Willing referred to the only thing Jake cared about—her willingness to supply information at a cost.

  One of the few cards that didn’t contain a personal notation belonged to Jake’s mother. No surprise there. His punctuated Sunday calls to his mother couldn’t have been more impersonal. He visited once a year, usually alone, even though the woman only lived an easy ninety-minute drive up the Turnpike. Zoey flipped to the P’s to find the card for his sister, Karen Pappas. She’d married an older man and lived in Boston. After a minute-long search, she found Karen’s card stuck to the one in front of it with some rotted food substance. Zoey wondered how long the card had been stuck like that, inaccessible and unused.

  Zoey often wondered about the family disconnect, but Jake usually went mum on the subject. Aside from the accidental death of his brother, she’d pieced together over the years that Jake had experienced a pretty normal childhood—middle-class upbringing with a standard nuclear family, the usual sports and academics, grades good enough to get a partial scholarship, and a smattering of semi-serious girlfriends—so his seeming desire to distance himself from his former life always left her at a loss.

  She turned to his bedroom. She already knew the contents of his nightstand and the books on the bookshelf: mostly non-fiction and history, but not the kind of history Zoey enjoyed. She preferred artifacts over boring facts, things she could put her hands on, like bones, tools, and jewelry. But the closed closet door drew her attention. Jake had given her a drawer for when she stayed over, but she’d never seen the inside of that closet. She opened it now. The first thing that struck her was the overwhelming organization of the small space. It made her wonder how he’d ever intended to tolerate her if they married. She glanced above the clothes to the shelves where boxes were neatly labeled, then she pulled over a chair. Stepping up, she got a better look at the boxes. Most of the contents seemed relevant to stories Jake had worked on, but she came across one older box, as evidenced by the original Converse Sneaker logo on the outside. It was torn up and ratty, with something scribbled at an angle along the upper left edge. She tilted her head and made out the words in Jake’s scrawl: SLIPS/Phillip. It gave her a chill. Phillip was Jake’s deceased brother. The existence of a whole Phillip box stunned her because Jake so rarely broached the topic.

  Her guilt at finding something Jake would not want her to see made her peek out and scan the room, though she knew she was alone. Did she dare take the box down? She checked her watch; she had time. Plus she knew Jake. He would get caught up in that meeting and arrive here closer to 9:00.

  With a bit of a struggle, she slid the box to the edge, coughed away the dust it displaced, and hoisted it down, not an easy feat considering her arms were far above her head and the box must have weighed twenty pounds. She plunked it on the bed, lifted the lid and got immediately discouraged. Three full binders rested atop a four-inch pile of yellowed papers on the bottom. She’d never get through it all. Then again, she’d never get through any of it if she didn’t start.

  An hour later, the sound of a slamming door startled Zoey into jerking her head up and hurting her neck. It was a neighbor’s door, but her heart raced anyway and she checked her watch. 8:40 p.m. Wow, the time had gotten away from her. No Jake yet, but she’d pushed her luck far enough. So far, she’d read a bunch of decade-old notes and articles on the members of a New Jersey gang called the SLIPS. The stories were both fascinating and disturbing, but she had no idea who had gathered all this information or why Jake possessed it. And so far, nothing about Phillip.

  She closed the third binder and went to place it back in the box when something caught her eye at the bottom of the box. A page with a decorative police department logo sat atop the aged pile of papers beneath. She couldn’t resist. She reached down and pulled out a police report regarding a boater’s discovery of a male body in a creek in Newark, N.J. Her mind cried for her to read every detail, but time was working against her—something it seemed fond of doing lately. She flipped to the next page to reveal a grotesque 8x10 picture of a mutilated corpse. Gasping, she fought a surge of nausea. She set the photo out of sight and read. The report identified the corpse as Phillip Medeiros, 15, a victim of the SLIPS gang that terrorized segments of northern New Jersey. Motive unknown.

  Zoey’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a scream. Jake’s brother was murdered? Jake had always said he’d drowned, but here he was, the most brutalized corpse she’d ever seen.

  This report had been written the day they identified the body. Surely there’d been follow-up, perhaps an arrest. Did Phillip belong to the gang? Stumble upon one of their illicit schemes? Was his murder part of a sick initiation ritual for new members? Most importantly, what did the death do to Jake and his family? Zoey’s mind spun a web of possibilities. If Jake had gathered all this information on the gang, was he on some sort of vigilante vendetta? The file was over ten years old and had lain untouched for a long time. Was it possible Jake had already completed his mission? And if Jake had kept this entire facet of his life from her, what else didn’t she know?

  With a newfound energy, she got on the old P.C. Jake kept on a stand in the corner. She searched Phillip Medeiros murder. After ten minutes of relentless tapping in various search engines, she finally thought to use a password she possessed for her own research. It granted her access to the archives of all newspapers in the network, going back over a decade. She typed in the city and the dates from the police report, and searched the week prior, and several weeks after, the identification of the corpse. She found a poorly written article on the discovery of the body, and much more on the SLIPS’ involvement. Sadly, the SLIPS gang generated so much carnage at the time that some of the stories were buried on the back page. But three weeks later, a significant piece covered the arrest of several members of the gang, including “the victim’s older brother.”

  The victim’s older brother? Jake had been in a violent gang? Zoey’s heart sank. Her ability to think became compromised. A physical pressure of emptiness filled her from within, threatening to implode, until despair edged it out. She continued reading as if on auto-pilot, forcing emotions to the back burner. Unbelievably, Jake Medeiros and three additional gang members had been released forty-eight hours after their arrests, while others who were arrested had begun to turn on one another. So much for gang loyalty. The female District Attorney did not elaborate except to say she had the right men in custody.

  Zoey found two more follow-up articles, both light on details. A closed trial—unusual even back then—took place five months later. Two men—boys, really, both aged 18—had received life sentences. Jake’s name, despite his relationship to the victim, was mentioned only once more to say charges against him and an unnamed juvenile were st
ill under investigation. Zoey wanted to pull her hair out for the lack of detail. Had Jake been one of the members who turned, in exchange for a clean record?

  “Who are you, Jake Medeiros?” she said aloud. She pressed a hand to her stomach and spoke to the child within. “What have I done?”

  Chapter 39

  Zoey got up, panicked now over the time. She wanted to get out before Jake got home. She lifted the box from the bed, climbed onto the chair, and heaved it into its hiding place. She returned everything else to the pristine condition in which she’d found it and exited the bedroom with a shiver. It was already 9:20. Part of her was pissed that Jake hadn’t even called to explain his tardiness, but part of her saw the chance to make a quick exit. She grabbed her purse from the kitchen table and headed for the door. As she reached for the handle, the phone in the kitchen rang. Out of curiosity, she went back and checked the Caller ID. It was the newspaper’s main office. Could be Jake, but wouldn’t he have called her cell? She let the answering machine get it and a familiar voice left a message: “Hey Jake, Tom here. Been trying you on your cell the last thirty minutes. Guess you’re lying dead in a ditch somewhere because I can’t think of a single instance when you’ve been unreachable. Wanted to make sure you’re okay after your hospital stint. You’d better not be working, you maniac. Give me a call.”

  Zoey found Tom’s message disturbing because he was right—Jake was usually pretty accessible—at least when it was work-related. He’d even gotten that second cell just to take work calls, and when he couldn’t answer, he usually hit the button that returned an automatic message: Can’t talk right now.

  Despite misgivings, Zoey felt worried. She called Jake’s cell herself. Six rings, no answer. She left a message: “Hey, it’s me. I’m at your place, but you’re late and I’ve got to go. We’ll talk tomorrow. Call me.”

  She had barely put her phone away when it rang. She grabbed it like it might explode if she didn’t answer immediately. “Jake?”

  “Zoey! It’s Bernadette McClain. Hello!” Bernadette’s lively tone couldn’t have contrasted more with Zoey’s racing thoughts. She felt torn between suspicion of Jake and concern for him. Now, paranoia suddenly entered the picture. What if Jake was standing outside the door right now—poised to put a final end to their conflict? What if he was on the elevator coming up, filled with a boiling rage for the woman disrupting his life while he was hell-bent on getting revenge for his brother’s death? She knew her fears were baseless, but she couldn’t repress them. “Bernadette, hold on.”

  Zoey raced to the door. She opened it slowly and peeked out. Seeing a clear, well-lit hallway, she hurried to the stairs. Twelve flights, but she didn’t care. Better than risking an elevator encounter. Two flights down, she got her breathing and adrenaline under enough control to handle a civil conversation while descending.

  “Bernadette. Sorry to keep you. What’s going on?”

  “I’ll only take a moment. Are you all right?”

  “I’m… a little flustered. Things are coming to a head and I need a minute to process.”

  “Of course. I’ll get right to it. I spoke to Dora and we decided the ring thing is off.”

  Zoey’s mind was on overload. “What ring?”

  “The opal ring, at the end of Dora’s letter. Remember your mother mentioned it just before she died?”

  Zoey recalled it all too well. Cesar was probably wearing it right now. “Yes. The ring on the killer.”

  “That’s right. But your mother would never have called it an opal ring, at least in my opinion.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s the sort of thing she wouldn’t be confident about. And she wouldn’t have told Dora such a detail unless she was certain.”

  Zoey had trouble following Bernadette’s logic. “Then she must have been certain.”

  “No, I’m telling you, unless opals were in a recipe she made, she would have described it as a white or milky stone. I remember at high school graduation, I wore a sapphire and ruby necklace my aunt had lent me, and Susan commented on my patriotic beads.”

  “That doesn’t explain about the opal,” Zoey said.

  “But it does. Susan couldn’t have told me the names of those gems I was wearing even if I’d pressed her. And she called them beads!”

  “Oh,” Zoey said, finally getting it. “Like fashion and trees. My mother wouldn’t have had a clue?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But we don’t know everything she learned as the years went on.”

  “True, but unfortunately, here’s what I think. Susan was in very bad shape when she uttered those final words. As you know, strokes wreak havoc with processing and communication. Either she misspoke or Dora misinterpreted, but either way, I didn’t want you putting too much stock in the opal part of it.”

  Zoey didn’t know what to do with the information. It probably wouldn’t matter. The crazed man lunging toward her with a knife should be enough of a clue to figure out who the attacker was, especially if it was her fiancé, or a facially scarred maniac. Or an old friend from college. She stopped to lean against the wall between the fourth and fifth floors of the stairwell. She chortled in a sad way as she suddenly felt like she was but a pawn in some fortune teller’s warped crystal ball.

  “You still there?” Bernadette asked.

  “I’m not sure the ring matters, Bernadette.”

  “I agree.”

  “Is that the thing that seemed off to you?”

  “No. Still haven’t figured that out. I wish I knew, but I’ll certainly let you know if it hits me.” Bernadette spoke as if contemplating a scone recipe she might want to share with Zoey sometime, rather than a lifesaving tip. “By the way,” Bernadette continued, “did you ever visit with your Aunt Eva?”

  Zoey rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to get into that whole nightmare now. “I did. I’m afraid Eva found it confusing.”

  “How so?”

  “She thought I was Magda.”

  “I could see that, although I’m surprised she didn’t think you were Susan. You could be mistaken for either one.”

  “Maybe,” Zoey said.

  “I’ll call soon, sweetie. Be safe.” Bernadette hung up.

  Someone opened a door to the stairwell far above Zoey. She flattened herself into the wall, praying it wasn’t Jake. What if he’d heard her talking? A shuffling noise came from above. She squeezed her body in so tightly that she felt the wall pushing back.

  Suddenly, a plastic, toy dinosaur plunged to certain extinction down the vacuous center column of the stairwell. It whizzed past Zoey as childish giggles reached her ears. The stairwell door slammed again and silence filled the dormant air. Just kids playing. She let out an exhale and ran the rest of the way down to the exit, glad to leave its sterile lack of humanity behind. Then she remembered that she had found one picture of a human in Jake’s place. And it had made her sick to her stomach.

  Chapter 40

  The private Hawker 700A Jet owned by Ultraquest for the CEO’s personal use made a smooth landing at the Ten Acre Winds regional airport, twenty miles outside of Philadelphia. Cesar, the lone passenger, had not squandered his flight time. He’d arranged for a car to be waiting for him upon his arrival and had printed a list of cheap motels where Aviva would never look for him. Most importantly, he’d analyzed Zoey Kincaid’s emails to look for any clue as to the threat looming over her. In the recesses of his mind, he wondered if he was the threat.

  He pushed the thought away for the hundredth time, his mind singularly focused on finding Kyra and putting an end to this nightmare voice in his head, once and for all, whatever it took.

  As the pilot taxied, Cesar saw a new email arrive in Kyra’s in-box. From Jake Medeiros. A pang of jealousy wrung his gut and reverberated through his chest before he crushed it. He reminded himself that he and Kyra had never been lovers and that he had no reason for such a dark reaction. But what if it wasn’t jealousy that ate away at him when he saw Jake’s na
me? What if it was a premonition that Jake needed purging from Kyra’s life? Cesar knew from the emails in her Trash File that she and Jake had been together for years. Jake’s direct style and perfunctory notes reminded him of the type he sent to Aviva. Both men seemed to know that affection and romance didn’t translate well electronically; such sentiments were better delivered during private encounters. And from some of the content Kyra had written, Cesar surmised that Jake didn’t have any problems in that area… the bastard.

  From what he’d read, Jake made his living as a gritty, street-smart reporter with a bent for the riskier side of life. Cesar had checked out several of his articles on-line and ascertained that the guy knew an awful lot about the comings and goings of the criminal element in Philadelphia. One didn’t usually score such high-level information without a little compromise and danger. What if someone of Jake’s acquaintance meant danger for Kyra? Even Jake himself had quite a history. With the tragedy involving his brother, Phillip, Cesar couldn’t help but wonder how big brother Jake was involved. No matter how you sliced it, old Jakey didn’t come out smelling like a rose. Details were conspicuously unavailable—the records sealed up tight. Someone had clearly let that file slip into the back of a dark drawer while a payoff was slipped into their palm. How had Jake culled such a favor?

  Cesar patted the gun in his jacket, thankful for his private pilot who, for a hefty bonus each year, disregarded formalities like weapons checks. Cesar stroked the strong, solid metal in his hand and wondered if he’d have to take care of Mr. Jake Medeiros in the process of taking care of Kyra, or should he say Zoey? Cute. He liked the name. It fit her. He hoped she’d be able to continue using it for a while.

  Cesar was about to open the message from Jake when the pilot came to a full stop and announced that it was safe to deplane. Cesar gathered his things and slammed his laptop shut. He’d read Jake’s message when he got to the motel.