“Sienna?” His eyes widened even as mine narrowed.
“Alex Ricardo James?”
He bolted.
Before I could read the reaction on his face, or get another word out of my mouth, he had spun around and sprinted across the large hallway that led to the library door. He rushed toward an entryway opposite from the tunnel-like corridor I had come through in my journey to find the space, nearly knocking down the elder priest who looked as stunned as I did.
“Brother Felokwakhe? Is all well?” the priest called after him. “My dear sister? What is going on?”
I had no choice but to pursue RiChard/Alex down the corridor. “Wait a minute!” I yelled after him. I needed answers, and he was going to give them to me. For all I had been through, for all my son and the rest of the broken families Alex Ricardo James had left scattered around the world had endured, we all deserved an explanation, at a minimum.
“Come back here!” I struggled to keep up as he bounded up a narrow stairway. I was surprised that his legs, feeble as they looked, were able to carry him away so quickly. I scurried up the same stairs just to watch him disappear into another hallway. I followed, huffing and puffing as my carry-on and workbag bounced off my hips.
“RiChard!” I belted as he reached for the handle of a large wooden door.
Just before he opened it, he looked back at me.
And then had the nerve to smile.
My lips parted and a scream so piercing, so primal came out that, for a split second, I questioned if it had even come from me. I’d never felt the power of my own lungs like I did in that moment.
By the time I reached the door, opened it, and stepped through the threshold, I knew I would never catch him. We were outside. I stood on a covered portico, watching him disappear into the darkness. Trees and hills surrounded this side of the cathedral and cars lit up a highway in the distance.
He was not coming back.
I collapsed onto one of the stone benches that lined the walkway. The scream and the run had taken whatever fight, thought, feeling I had left in me. I let my bags fall to the ground and looked around me. I was surrounded by statues, stone figures of men and women with solemn eyes, gentle faces, Biblical scenes, stories, symbols. I looked up at the carved scene directly in front of me.
Jesus preaching on a hillside, a throng of people, some sick, some bowed, some broken crowded around him. His hands and eyes were raised, as if in prayer.
The Lord’s Prayer was on a plaque next to the carving. The words I’d read in my brief quiet time earlier that week jumped out at me again.
And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.
Forgive.
It was too soon, too raw, too much to think about it, to consider.
There had not even been an apology, an explanation. I closed my eyes, seeing that last smile.
He had no remorse.
I stood, ready to run again, follow him to the trees, the highway if necessary when my eyes slid to another series of sculptures.
A cross.
An empty tomb.
The ascension.
Are you ready to stop running?
The still, small voice was like a whisper in my consciousness.
I stood still for a moment, then grabbed my carry-on and my workbag and put each on separate shoulders. I walked back into the cathedral, now on the first floor, and followed green arrow exit signs that pointed to the main front entrance. I passed by the sanctuary and a smaller chapel, my footsteps slow but steady on the red tiled floors. The place was silent, lights dimmed, visiting hours now long over. When I got to the front entrance, I sat down on the steps, and took out my phone.
“Mom?” My son answered on the first ring. “I was wondering what time your flight got here. You never told me.”
“I need you to come pick me up, but I’m not at the airport.”
As I waited for my son to come get me, I remembered that there had been one other piece of paper, the sheet that I had stuffed into my bag when I’d heard the footsteps coming.
I pulled it out and understood immediately why RiChard, born in Chicago as Alex Santiago James, had every reason to run.
The paper had two photocopied documents.
The first was a death certificate for RiChard St. James, in Perugia, Italy, just last year. The second was a copy of a photo ID for “Kisu Felokwakhe,” but a light-skinned, pockmarked face with light eyes, and not a proud Zulu warrior, smiled at the camera.
Years ago, RiChard had claimed that Kisu was dead. Now, I had no doubt that he was, and that RiChard probably had something to do with it. It would be the only way RiChard, or whoever he was, could get away with using Kisu’s identity and discard his own.
Chapter 34
“I would not be surprised if he didn’t do it.”
“Huh?” I looked up from where I lay amid the hotel’s billowy sheets. Roman sat at the room’s desk eating a whole pizza he’d picked up after getting me from the cathedral and bringing me to the room I’d booked by the airport. The television was on, broadcasting the late-night news.
“That man they arrested.” Roman licked sauce off of his fingers and nodded at the TV screen. “Jamal Abdul. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t behind the terror attack. You sure you don’t want any pizza, Ma?”
“No, no pizza,” I said, sitting up, trying to make myself care when everything in me just wanted to sleep. “Why? Why do you say that? About Jamal Abdul?”
Roman had not asked me why I was in San Diego. He didn’t question why he had to pick me up from a church in Old Town.
But he had not left me yet, so I knew he was waiting for me to tell him. He could sense it was something major.
“His wife. What’s her name again? Keisha,” he answered between munches.
“What about her?”
“The interview? Didn’t you see it last night?”
“Was it breaking news?” I sat up fully now, recalling that I’d been meaning to make sure that I had not missed something about the terror attack story. “Don’t read too much into it, okay? I don’t want you worrying.” Laz’s words.
“No, I mean, she just seemed so broken, confused. Genuine. And the thing about his luggage.”
“What about the luggage?”
Roman looked at me oddly, taking a deep swallow from a two-liter bottle of cola before answering. “She said he couldn’t find his duffel bag just moments before the attack. Police are saying that he just told her that to keep his plans hidden, but she’s not buying it. She thinks someone took his bag. What is it, Ma?”
I didn’t realize my face was contorted. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, but I let my jaw relax. “Nothing, Roman. Just thinking how this might be one of the last Thursday nights we hang out like this. You’re in school and moving up and out and away from me.” I wondered if he still wanted to leave San Diego and come back to Baltimore, as he’d stated earlier in the week. I did not know how to ask. My heart pounded as I tried to sort out what I should be doing about . . . everything.
Mirror moments. Seeing who you are, what you’re made of.
“Why’d you come out here, Mom? What were you doing at that church?” He avoided eye contact with me as he finally just went after the conversation we both knew had to happen.
“I found your father.”
The late-night news blared on. Weather. Sports. Education report. The theme music for The Tonight Show came on, followed by the comedic monologue. A full thirty-seven minutes went by before another word was said between us.
“He’s not the man we thought he was. He lied about everything.” My words.
“I think we already knew that, Ma.”
“He lied about his identity. It’s worse than I’d imagined.” I pulled up the images on my phone, passed my phone to him. As he looked at the scanned marriage licenses in silence, I took out the last sheets of paper, with the birth and death certificates and photocopied ID. Roman took both from me and stared at them for a few momen
ts before looking back at me.
“He needs to be reported to the police.”
I collapsed back into the bed, a loud groan escaping my lips.
“It’s been a long, hard road, Ma.” My son spoke gently. “You’ve done all you can do. You’ve done the best job a mom could do.” He tapped the paper in front of him. “I’ve got this from here. I’ve already sent these images to my e-mail. Get some sleep.”
“Leon would have known what to do.” I said it before thinking.
“And Leon trained me well.” Roman stood, walked to the door, then looked back at me. “I’m not mad at the man who fathered me. I pity him, and am glad that I will never have to live my life like he did. I’m just grateful for the man who helped raised me.” As he stood at attention at the door, I saw the wisdom, the confidence, the gentle love, and sacrificing nurture that had been Leon. The observation both warmed me and broke a little bit more of my heart.
“Mom, we’ve been through a lot over the years. I don’t know that I’ve been able to fully tell you how much I love you and appreciate all you ever did to make sure I never lacked for anything. My father may have given me my name and my DNA, but you’ve given me what I need to be a man of integrity. Now, I’ve got this, Mom. I’m taking care of this for you, for me . . .” He paused. “For all of us. You can officially cross RiChard St. James off your to-do list once and for all. Have a safe trip back home.”
I saw the look on his face as he left my room, and I knew that he had a mission in mind that he would not stop at anything to complete.
I had a mission too.
After dozing off and on for another hour or so, I stood and stretched. My mind was alert, my confidence high.
If I could track down a man who’d evaded me for nearly twenty years, who deceived and lied to me and lived under all kinds of different names and aliases, surely I could figure out the identify and whereabouts of a man who was just in my office this week and who may be an unknown threat to national security.
My life, the circumstances in it, the men I loved and lost, the heartbreak, the challenges, even the work I did and the dangerous clients I tangled with in the past all had prepared me for this moment.
That is what my gut told me and nothing in me doubted it.
As I walked across the room to retrieve my phone from where Roman had left it on the hotel room’s desk, I caught my reflection in the mirror that hung over the dresser.
I had bags under my eyes. My hair was matted on one side and my eyeliner was smudged.
But I was beautiful.
Not perfect, but becoming.
I reached for my cell phone. 1:32 a.m. I was certain Laz was waking up for his workday out on the East Coast. I typed in a text message and then pressed send.
I’m right about that man I met in the airport, and I’m going to prove it.
Chapter 35
I had one more picture to scan into my phone.
Sitting at the desk in the hotel room, I’d laid out everything I had or knew about the man I’d met in the airport. I’d opened the folder I started about him, organized my notes, the questions I’d had, the answers I’d never gotten.
I looked over what I had: his illustration of the cat sitting in the window; the name Bennett; the phone number with the Ohio area code; and my notes stating that he “did not exist”; that he was obsessed with the Internet and what he perceived as the evils of social media as showing mankind’s tendency to be self-centered; and that he seemed fixated on identifying heroes in humanity. Oh, and then there was the license plate of the car from West Virginia. Carlos Dean Jessup. The green pickup truck with Pennsylvania tags whose plates I wasn’t able to get. Also the e-mails from Everybody Anybody and the mysterious Twitter follower.
As I reviewed what I had, I remembered other details. He’d stated during our first conversation at the airport that he had attended a state university and majored in theology. He’d also asserted in one of our “sessions” that he had a PhD.
These were starting points.
I looked at what I had in front of me, knowing I had at least two actions I could take.
His phone number and the drawing.
I checked the time. 2:04 a.m., which meant it was 5:04 on the East Coast, assuming he was even there.
I used the hotel phone to slowly dial the number, not 100 percent sure what I would say or do if I got an answer, but the urgency I’d felt yesterday had returned. I had to call right then, regardless of time. A part of me suspected that the number would not work. I was right.
“We’re sorry, but the number you are dialing does not exist. Please hang up and try again. Thank you.”
I put a checkmark next to the phone number in my notes. It was most likely a prepaid number whose owner’s whereabouts would not be able to be tracked at the moment. I took out the drawing. Using my phone’s document scanning feature once more, I snapped a picture of it and then e-mailed it to myself. A brochure on the desk detailed that the hotel had a twenty-four-hour business center where three workstations were set up with Internet access and printing. I threw on some sweats and tennis shoes, comfortable work clothes for my mission, and headed down there immediately.
Another man, a young executive-looking type with tired red eyes and wearing a black suit he’d probably had on since yesterday morning, sat pecking away at one of the computer keyboards. “There’s a coffee machine around the corner,” he remarked as I took a seat two computers away from him. He spoke with a sharp New England accent.
“Thanks,” I murmured as I logged on to the free Wi-Fi.
“Yep, there’s nothing like getting the deals done before everyone else has even wiped the crust from their eyes.” His eyes were glued to the monitor in front of him and his fingers moved nonstop over the keys.
He was there for business, making money, setting up deals. I was on a mission to save the world. I chuckled at myself, but for once, I did not allow any doubt to creep in. I needed my entire attention and energy to complete the task at hand. There was no room for wavering. My flight back to Baltimore left in eight hours. I could sleep on the way back home; however, I did not want to get on the plane without having some clear direction and answers to take back to Baltimore with me.
I recalled Camille’s sudden mood change at the end of our conversation, and I felt uneasy. I’m not crazy and I don’t trust her. I’m following my gut.
I bowed my head and prayed a silent prayer: And, Jesus, please guide my steps and efforts. Your will be done in my life. I surrender to you, even in all matters concerning RiChard.
I opened my eyes and took a moment to exhale, to consider what I had just expressed, to mull over what I’d just asked for. I noticed the keyboard two workstations down from me had grown quiet. The businessman, for the first time, had paused from his work and stared at me. Had he never seen someone pray before?
“Morning meditation is good for the soul.” His eyes darted uneasily from me back to his computer screen.
“Yes, especially when you know who you are talking to and what He’s capable of doing.”
He nodded uncomfortably and resumed typing. I smiled. That was the first time I’d shared anything about my faith with anyone in a long, long time.
It felt good.
I got down to business.
Image search.
I pulled up the scanned drawing of the cat on the windowsill I’d sent to my e-mail and uploaded the image to the search engine.
A gazillion results popped up onto the screen. Image after image of cats and windows and other seemingly random objects filled the monitor with what looked like an infinity of more images and Web site links to follow.
A few years back, when Roman was sixteen and had run away from home looking for his father, I’d done a search of my son’s nicknames, trying to find any presence of him online. It wasn’t until after I’d added a couple of extra key words that my search was narrowed and completed.
There was an option to enter a descriptive word
in the search box, but what key word could I add? Bennett? No. That man seemed to not want to be tied down to a name, I concluded, thinking of how he preferred his identity to be ambiguous.
Theology. Evil. Good. Heroism. Existence.
I added all five words to the search box and then nearly fell out of my chair. Only two results displayed.
The first was a link to a Web site that served as a digital database for dissertations and theses worldwide. It was a subscriptions-only site available to universities, libraries, and other similar institutions. Beyond the link and the information posted about subscribing, there were no other hints as to how the image and key words from my search were related to it.
The second result led me to disturbing information.
It was a link to a YouTube video that had since been taken down, I discovered. The only thing that remained was a screenshot from the video and the short description underneath.
Read this book. My life is changed forever. Here’s my review.
The creator of the video was named E.P., and the young white male in the screenshot holding up the book was not the man I was searching for. This young man looked to be about twenty-one or twenty-two years old with sandy hair that drooped over his eyes and touched the tip of his nose. He had babyish features and black wire eyeglasses, giving him a look of innocence.
I zoomed in to get a better look at the book he’d held up for his Webcam. It was bound in a blue hardcover and the title, in small gold letters, was blurred in the image.
What I found disturbing were the search results I got when I tried to find out more information about the young man. Using the screenshot for an image search and entering E.P. as keywords, the first result was a news article detailing his death. His name was Ephraim Peterson and he’d been found dead in his car at the bottom of a lake just three weeks ago. He was only twenty-two. Police believed the Ohio native had swerved off a bridge in the nighttime hours while driving home after working at a neighbor’s farm. There were no witnesses to the crash, no continuing investigation, the whole thing deemed a terrible tragedy.
Sacrifices of Joy Page 19