by J. J. Stone
As the press conference wrapped up, Dean Bridges cleared his throat. “My favorite part.”
On the screen, James concluded, “I’d like to take this time to publicly recognize Professor Ada Greene from Seattle University. She assisted us as a temporary analyst with our previous investigation in Seattle and was gracious enough to continue to offer her services to us here in Chicago. We greatly appreciate her assistance and hope to continue to benefit from her knowledge in the future.”
Dean Bridges whipped the laptop back toward him and ended the video. He carefully shut the screen and fixed a squinted gaze on Ada. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but there is only one Professor Greene at this school, and she’s sitting across from me right now, correct?”
Ada dropped her eyes to her lap and nodded.
“Is there something you’d like to fill me in on? Professor?”
“Like Agent Deacon said,” Ada said, “this is a temporary thing. I only got involved in Seattle because one of my students was killed.”
“At what point did you think it would be best to let me know?”
Ada moved to the edge of her seat. “I honestly thought I would only be involved in the Seattle case. I wasn’t expecting them to contact me about helping in Chicago.”
“What makes you so interesting to the FBI?”
Ada felt her cheeks heat. She hated talking about herself. “My research from grad school. Mainly my thesis work.”
Dean Bridges digested her words. He stood and paced around to the front of his desk. “My concern, Professor, is that this will interfere with your teaching.” He perched himself on the corner of his desk, nearly invading Ada’s personal bubble.
“It hasn’t.” Ada re-crossed her legs and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. “I only went to Chicago because the FBI thought I might be able to connect the investigation there with the Seattle case.”
“So this analyst … stint is finished?”
“I hope so,” Ada snorted and regretted it instantly. The dean’s slightly pudgy lips remained pressed into a line.
“If any other extracurricular opportunities should present themselves, Professor Greene, I would strongly suggest you tell me about them as soon as humanly possible.” His tone made it clear his “suggestion” was anything but.
Ada bobbed an overeager nod. The hair behind her ear fell back against her cheek.
The dean hopped down from the desk and swept a hand toward the door. “I don’t want to keep you from your students,” he said with a pinched upward turn of his lips that Ada guessed was his idea of a smile.
Ada was on her feet and almost to the door before she realized how abrupt her exit was and turned back to mumble a farewell. Dean Bridges all but pushed her out the door and then shut it firmly.
——
Balancing a plate laden with oatmeal cookies and two mugs of steaming apple cider, Ada shuffled across her kitchen to the table. Mike Brandt quickly took the plate and a mug from her and set them down. Ada placed her mug at her spot and tightened her haphazard ponytail before pulling out her chair and taking a seat.
“When did you find the time to bake?” her uncle mused, helping himself to a cookie.
“It’s been a great stress reliever, so instead of facing the pile of homework waiting to be graded, I bake,” Ada said. She bit into one of her creations and shrugged. “I think my baking skills are seeing an improvement.”
“So, how was Chicago?” Mike asked as he took a timid sip of cider.
“Windy. And cold. Crazy cold.”
“Besides the obvious.”
Ada shrugged. “Most of my time there was spent at the station or in my hotel room. I can only be on the scene with the team after it’s been cleared.”
“I would hope so. You don’t need to be in any kind of danger.”
Tiny whined from beside Ada’s chair. She broke off half of a cookie and tossed it to him. “I got in trouble with my boss today,” she said, changing the subject.
Mike took another cookie. “Over what?”
“For whatever reason, James decided to mention me helping the FBI in his closing press conference. Dean Bridges found a video of it.”
Mike furrowed his brow. “You didn’t tell your boss you were helping the FBI?”
Her uncle’s tone made Ada felt like she was ten years old again, getting chided for reading past bedtime. “It didn’t really interfere with my teaching when the case was here. And when they called me to come to Chicago, I barely had enough time to submit my time-off request.” She flicked crumbs off the tabletop. “I’m hoping this was the last time.”
“You are?”
Ada hated the knowing tone her uncle now had. There was little she could hide from him.
“Admit it, Ada-bug,” he chuckled, “You enjoy working with the FBI.”
Ada twirled a lock of hair between her fingers, refusing to look her uncle in the eye. “It’s not the most unpleasant thing I’ve done.” She pulled her right leg up and rested her chin on her knee.
Mike chuckled and tapped her lightly on the top of her head. “I’m just glad you’re getting a chance to put all those book-smarts to work.”
“You just like seeing some kind of a return on your investment in my education,” Ada said, raising her brows.
Her uncle scowled at her and left the table to bring his empty mug to the kitchen sink. Ada retrieved the other half of Tiny’s cookie and slipped it to him. He munched contentedly as Mike came back to the table.
“I think part of you is also getting a kick out of seeing your niece working with the FBI, after all those arguments we had about me following you to the bureau.” Ada expected her uncle to give her an exasperated grin.
Instead, his face clouded with something between sadness and wistfulness. “I think I pushed the idea of you working there one day because of how much I loved and missed it.” He gently placed his hand over hers. “Don’t think that means I regretted leaving the bureau. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have all my memories with you.”
Ada squeezed his hand and leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I wouldn’t want them with anyone else.”
A different haze passed over Mike’s face and Ada felt a pit grow in her stomach. She watched her uncle force a swallow and dip his head for a moment. “You should have had them with someone else,” he whispered roughly.
Ada shut her eyes before the sting could begin. She often wondered what her life would have been like if she’d grown up with her mother. Would she have gotten the degrees she had? Would she still be in Seattle? Would she be married, have a family? As soon as thoughts of a family surfaced, a different ache entered Ada’s heart. She snapped her eyes open again and knew she had to fumigate the room of its suddenly dismal aura.
“So are you working on that new book yet?” she asked her uncle as she stood and cleared the table.
CHAPTER 3
If someone had not been waiting for him at one of the old loading docks when he had driven up, Andrew Bean would have turned around and forgotten the whole thing. The man who met him never said a word, only waited for Andrew to leave his car before disappearing into the cavernous black hole of the mill through the half-open dock door. When he’d first received the directions and figured out where they would be taking him, Andrew thought maybe there had been some kind of mistake. The old mill he was now sitting somewhere in the middle of had not been operational in over fifty years, with plenty of decay to prove it. Andrew had followed his mute guide through a maze of corridors until they arrived at the room in which Andrew stood now.
Andrew gingerly sat down on a cold metal chair and glanced around. The room contained only a single table and two chairs, one on either side of the table. A camping lantern illuminated the table and threw uneasy shadows on the old storeroom lined with metal shelves that
had seen better days.
Besides Andrew’s breathing, there was not a single sound coming from anywhere. He realized he should be nervous, scared out of his mind even. His palms should have been drenched, his feet tapping a random rhythm. Instead he felt invigorated, excited. He had waited for this day his entire life. Today was the day he’d begin to belong.
When he had been approached at one of his weekly AA meetings, Andrew honestly thought the new guy was hitting on him. He had seemed a little too eager, a little too interested in Andrew’s “story.” So, Andrew brushed the guy off and fled to his car. At every meeting after that, Andrew could feel the eyes of the man burning into the side of his face. Finally, Andrew confronted him and asked why he was interested in him. The man then introduced himself as Tim and said that he could relate to Andrew. Something in the man’s face and voice made Andrew stop dead in his tracks, his deflecting response dying in the back of his throat. They found a coffee shop around the corner and Tim explained that he was part of a group that specialized in connecting with people who had tried to find fulfillment through other vices. Within a few hours of officially meeting Tim, Andrew was being handed the address of the mill, instructions for the meeting, and was told to be at the address the following week. And now, here he was.
The door behind him opened and a set of deliberate footsteps tapped into the room. Andrew fought the urge to turn around. Instead, he quickly ran through his carefully rehearsed greeting one last time in his head.
When the room’s newest occupant walked around the table and extended a hand, Andrew’s tongue swelled in his mouth and his practiced opening lines disintegrated. He stood to his feet and almost knocked over his chair.
The man before him smiled as Andrew’s hand shook his enthusiastically. “Andrew Bean?”
Andrew nodded, beaming.
The man returned the smile. “Sakima.”
“Pleasure.” Pieces of Andrew’s rehearsed speech slowly trickled back into his brain. “I’m just glad to be here. Wherever here is.”
The man silenced him with his free hand.
Andrew appraised every detail of the man before him. Something in Sakima’s aura told Andrew that he was looking at the group leader. Something in his squared shoulders, the firmness of his grip, the pleasant yet guarded upturn of one corner of his mouth. He looked younger than Andrew imagined he would be. His skin was almost too flawless, a shade or two above being sickly pale. His dark hair was immaculately combed into a sleek, modern style, and his rich brown eyes bore straight into Andrew’s.
“Shall we?” Sakima released Andrew’s hand and lowered himself into the opposite chair.
Andrew quickly returned to his seat and smoothed the front of his shirt. He noted Sakima’s surprisingly casual outfit of slim jeans and plain t-shirt and wished he’d reconsidered his own stiff dress clothes.
“I hope you were able to complete the homework you were given.” Sakima produced a notebook from his back pocket and set it down on the tabletop. He pulled a pen from another pocket as he flipped to a blank page in the notebook.
Andrew reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the carefully folded papers he’d nestled there. It had taken him almost a week to get these words down on paper. Never in his entire life had he been so transparent, and the thought that someone could have stumbled upon these four pages and learned the truth about who Andrew Bean really aspired to be had made the entire experience all the more exhilarating.
“Everything you asked for,” Andrew said as he pushed the papers across the table.
Sakima quickly scanned the pages, scribbling down quick notes while his eyes slid back and forth across Andrew’s neat handwriting. “Interesting,” Sakima murmured around the middle of page three. “Tell me more about your mother.”
Andrew squirmed before he could check his emotions. He glanced down to see his hand rubbing the sleeve on his left forearm that cloaked the most vivid array of scars. “I wrote all about her on page four.”
Sakima refolded the papers and tucked them into his notebook. “I’d like to hear it from you. Spoken words tell me much more than written ones.”
The smooth ease with which Sakima’s voice filled Andrew’s ears bolstered his courage. He clasped his hands and pressed his elbows into the metal table. “When I was around seven, my father left us and my mother just kind of … snapped. She didn’t like to leave the house. We would go days without going outside. She would send me to get groceries when we got down to our last can of green beans.”
Sakima reached across the table and deftly slid the sleeve on Andrew’s left arm up towards his elbow. Andrew watched his crisscrossed scars appear. Sakima took them in for a moment then flicked his eyes up at Andrew. “When did she start giving you these?”
“After the drinking started,” Andrew said, his tongue growing thick in his mouth. He quickly swiped his sleeve back down his arm. “One time she sent me to get groceries and whiskey was on the list. She had written next to it that I needed to put the bottle in my pocket. I was too young to know any better, and no one thinks to check a seven-year-old for liquor. So, I grabbed what looked like a familiar bottle and hid it in my hoodie pouch. Well, I got bourbon instead. When I got home and gave it to her, she was furious. She slammed the bottle against the wall. Sliced my arm with a piece of it. Said that would make sure I never screwed up again.” Andrew felt Sakima’s eyes laser-beaming right into his face, and he reluctantly looked back at him.
“How did you feel when she cut you?” Sakima’s unwavering gaze seemed to wait for some sort of sign to appear on Andrew’s face.
Andrew thought for a moment. He knew how he had felt. Never had he told someone, though. “Honestly, after I got over the pain—” he looked squarely at Sakima “—all I could see was the blood. I was … fascinated by it. I don’t even think I cried. I just ran off to my room and stared at my arm.”
Sakima opened Andrew’s pages again and flipped to the next to last page. He skimmed through the text, his finger absentmindedly rubbing his bottom lip. “What does blood make you feel like?”
Andrew’s heart quickened. He sucked in a short breath and fought to keep the grin from his lips. His head tilted toward the ceiling. For years, he had tried to properly pin an adjective or two on the feeling that warm ruby substance triggered deep in his soul. “A mix between invigorated and famished.”
“Would you say that blood is something you’re fixated on? That it’s something that defines you?”
“Would it be wrong for me to say yes?”
Sakima’s mouth curled to one side. “It would be wrong for you to not answer truthfully.”
The last fleck of trepidation dissipated from Andrew’s body. “Then yes, it does.”
“Never be afraid or ashamed of who you are just because it’s not what others would deem ‘normal.’” Sakima spat the last word out like a piece of rotten food. “There is no definitive idea of what normal is. And those who say there is are clinging to a notion they hope will bring them some clarity to their sad lives.”
Something clicked in Andrew’s mind, and he felt like he was looking at the world through an entirely new set of eyes. “That’s part of this, isn’t it?”
Sakima didn’t respond, just looked at him with bemusement, like a parent witnessing a breakthrough in his child’s development.
“This whole thing, the group, you … it’s you helping people embrace who they are?”
Sakima nodded. “It’s more than a part of what we’re doing here. It is what we’re doing.”
“Wow.” Andrew’s head felt like it was going to implode.
“How have you satisfied your urges until now?” Sakima steered the focus of the conversation back to Andrew.
Now, totally uninhibited, Andrew ticked his answer off on his fingers. “Dogs, a few cats, rabbits.” He cracked a slight grin. “I found
a stray cow one time when I was out west for business. That was probably the best blood I’ve had to date.”
Sakima’s face remained stoic. Absolutely no emotional tells. No judgment, no disgust. He opened his notebook and scrawled a few notes, tilting the book just enough so Andrew couldn’t make out what was being written. “So, why are you here, Andrew? It sounds like you’ve got your outlet.”
The words felt like a punch in the gut. Panic boiled up in Andrew’s throat. “The animal blood has been OK. But I always feel like I need something more. And I don’t know what else to do.” Andrew scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I just want to feel like me. I don’t want to have to play two parts anymore.”
Sakima closed his notebook and wrapped his hands around it. A twinkle sparked in his eyes. “So, you want to be known for who you are. Not who people say you should be?”
Relief enveloped Andrew like jumping into a pool in the middle of summer. He exhaled deeply and was surprised to feel a slight sting of tears. “More than anything,” he breathed.
Sakima stood to his feet calmly and pushed his chair in. He tucked the notebook back in his pocket and motioned toward the door. “Follow me.”
——
“The first step is finding who you are,” Sakima said as he led Andrew into another dark room. They had woven through the maze of the mill, Sakima masterfully, Andrew stumbling. This new room they finally arrived at had the uneasy feeling of being cavernous, but with no light to go by Andrew could only speculate.
Sakima motioned Andrew into the room ahead of him then slid the heavy metal door back into place, cutting off what little light had sliced into the room’s darkness. “Shut your eyes for a moment,” Sakima said.
Andrew shut his eyes and heard a click. Then the inside of his eyelids transitioned from total blackness to a light gray tint. He tensed but didn’t sneak a peek. He heard Sakima walk past him.