by Lind, Hailey
Just when I thought I couldn’t eat another morsel, Pete served me a meat-filled pita called a burek. I asked if burek referred to the whole dish or to the meat inside, and the men started chanting something that Pete translated as “All pitas are pitice, only burek is pitac!”
Well, of course.
I looked around for clarification, but every question I asked was met with shouted laughter. By then the loza had kicked in, so I laughed too.
“Anna! You sing!” someone called out from down the table, and the others joined in. “Sing, Anna!”
I’d never been much of a singer, probably because I couldn’t sing for squat, but at the moment I didn’t think it mattered. So I stood, held my glass high, and launched into the only song that came into my mind, “John Jacob Jingle-heimer Smith.” The children had learned the song at school or in the Scouts, and chimed in, delighted to show off for their parents. Their high, angelic voices were charming, and the adults beat a rhythm on the tablecloth with their hands, or just watched, eyes glowing, as their children sang. “Ta da da da da da da!” we shouted in unison, and I took my seat to thunderous applause. Nobody requested an encore, though.
After hours of dinner, it was time for dessert. Pete’s mother and aunts circulated large platters piled high with honey-sweetened, layered pastries, some of which I recognized as baklava. Accompanying these was salep, or tea, and kava, a strong, espressolike Turkish coffee. Now I knew why Pete was such a wonder with the studio’s espresso machine. Good coffee was in his blood.
The men and I lingered at the table, lighting cigars and cigarettes and pouring shots of a dangerous-looking, clear liquid. Probably the stuff that made my lips numb. Either that or lighter fluid.
Uncle Sidran took a seat next to me, elbowed me in the ribs, and gestured with his cigar toward Pete. “Pete. You like?”
I smiled. “Yes, I like Pete.”
Uncle Sidran roared. “All girls like! All girls like Pete!”
The men roared in approval, chugged the liquor, and slammed the glasses on the table.
“Anna!” cousin Catiz called out. “You toast now, yes?”
I was toasted all right, so I followed the men’s example and held my glass aloft. “All girls like Pete!” I shouted, chugged the drink, and slammed the glass on the table. The fiery liquid tore down my throat and exploded like a bomb in my stomach. My eyes filled with tears, and for a scary second or two I thought I was going to hurl my dinner back onto the table. I gasped for breath, and let loose a thunderous belch. The men looked impressed.
Sidran poured another round. “Pete big man. Big, strong man! Make big strong babies!”
The men roared again, and I didn’t have the heart to squelch their assumption that Pete and I would be making babies. It was kind of sweet, in a misguided and thoroughly outrageous way.
So I held up my glass. “To Pete and hith big, thtwong babieth!”
The women had emerged from the kitchen and were standing around, drying their hands on dish towels and clucking amongst themselves. I realized I had been spending all my time with the men, and imposed myself on the females, tipsy though I was. My timing was impeccable: the kitchen was spotless.
I noticed a Tim O’Neill calendar hanging near the refrigerator. The man’s floral infatuations were haunting me.
“I speak with docent Helena yesterday, Anna,” said Mama Pete. “Tomorrow I begin to work there.”
“What will you be doing?”
“The souls of the Potter’s Field must be organized. Perhaps we can find where everyone is, Helena says. And we will clean up. Wednesday and Thursday Pete and the other boys will come and help with shovels and pick-axes.”
“That’s great,” I said, smiling at the image of a bevy of Bosnians on the job, under Mama’s watchful eye.
“I will run the community service program. Naughty young people will help to set things right, maybe they learn respect for the dead. Anna, did you see Helena loves Tim O’Neill too! Helena says one day we live in a world like O’Neill painting. You see I have calendar! How lovely she is, the painting in the office! You could paint like that, Anna, if you tried.”
I gritted my teeth and smiled. “I don’t think I have it in me, Mama Pete.”
Around midnight I crashed. I was too drunk to walk, much less to drive, so I was assigned the upper berth of a bunk bed in Mama’s cramped guest room. I was awakened sometime later by the ringing of a cell phone. It took me several moments to realize the annoying mechanical tune was emanating from my purse—I’d forgotten to give Mary back her cell phone. By the time I located it, the ringing had stopped. The display said Number not available.
I heard a strange noise from somewhere below me, and peered cautiously over the edge of the bunk. The lower berth was occupied by a stout, snoring woman in her fifties, her face covered by a mop of gray fur. I blinked, trying to get my eyes to focus. Either her wig was askew or she’d fused with a swamp rat sometime in the night.
With exaggerated care, I climbed down from my perch and made my way down the dark hallway to the bathroom, nearly jumping at my reflection in the mirror. My hair was snarled, my mascara had smudged, and the enameled chopsticks in my hair stuck straight up like a pair of antennae. I looked like a Martian raccoon. I’d left my twenty-first birthday behind more than a decade ago, and the evening’s overindulgence showed on my face.
As I ran cold water to wash my face, the cell phone rang again. At this hour I imagined it was probably one of Mary’s bandmates looking for her.
“Bosnian hotline,” I answered, chuckling to myself. That loza was good stuff. “How may I direct your call?”
“Annie?” Mary’s voice sounded tinny, not like herself.
“Mare? What’s wrong?”
There was a scuffling sound, and a mechanically distorted voice came on the line. “Tell us where the box is, and we’ll let her out of the crypt.”
“What? What crypt?”
“The . . . it’s a really nasty crypt. If you don’t tell us, we’ll hurt—I mean, we’ll kill her.” In the background I heard the muffled sound of someone coaching the caller.
“Put Mary back on,” I demanded, anger overcoming my fear.
“She’s locked in the crypt, and it’s a really nasty one, too. Tell us where the box is. And don’t call the police. If you do, we’ll know.”
“How will you know?”
“Hold on.” I heard more murmuring and the caller returned. “We tapped your phone.”
“I’ll use another phone.”
“Also, we have an informer. . . .”
More shuffling sounds, and a different voice came on the line. This one whispered, “If you call the cops, don’t expect to see your friend in the same light again. It’s a shame: she’s a real pretty girl.”
My heart raced. Unlike the other clown, this guy sounded like he meant business. “Okay, okay. I won’t call the cops. But we have to do this in person. When you release Mary, I’ll tell you where the box is. Not before.”
More muffled discussion, and the first voice came back.
“You have ten minutes.”
“I’m in Hayward. I need more time.”
“Twenty, then.”
“Maybe half an hour.”
“Okay—”
It sounded as though the phone was wrenched away. The whisperer got back on. “Get your ass over to Bayview Cemetery, now, before we’re forced to get really ugly. I mean, make her ugly.”
He hung up.
I ran.
Chapter 14
I found one had to do some work every day, even at midnight, because either you’re a professional or you’re not.
—Dame Barbara Hepworth (1903-1975), British sculptor
I often paint late at night. The peace and quiet are soothing, and one may more readily hear the gendarmes approaching. —Georges LeFleur
I was picking my way across the sleeping forms littering the living room floor when a hand grabbed my ankle. I bit my tongue to keep from sc
reaming, and looked down into the smiling face of cousin Catiz.
“Where’s Pete?” I whispered.
“He is next door, at our uncle’s house,” Catiz said. “But I am here.”
I hesitated. The men on the phone had not sounded like pros, though I supposed I was not the best judge of criminal expertise. Besides, Michael had once told me that amateurs could be more dangerous than seasoned professionals. Should I bring someone along to help rescue Mary? Someone, say, like a big, strapping Bosnian?
“Catiz, I was wondering . . .” I stopped, recalling how, not so long ago, Pete had been injured trying to help me. I’d vowed then never to endanger my friends again. Not intentionally, anyway. “Would you tell Pete that I had to run? Thank everyone for me?”
“Of course,” he said, crawling out of his improvised bedroll. “Do you need help?”
“No, thanks,” I said, appreciating his gallantry and muscled chest. “It’s just girl stuff.”
He nodded, kissed my hand, and watched as I hurried out to the truck. I swore as I realized that it had started drizzling again. Just perfect for racing to a crypt in the middle of the night.
As I drove, I pondered acting like a sane citizen and calling the police. But I couldn’t help thinking that a bunch of squad cars, sirens blaring, bearing down upon the cemetery in the middle of the night would worsen our cause. The voices on the phone seemed to be after Louis’ box, and I was ready to hand it over. Perhaps it was just that simple. Transforming a straightforward exchange into a hostage situation made my already loza-challenged stomach clench. I couldn’t let anything happen to Mary.
Ignoring the speed limit and the rain, I made it to the cemetery in less than fifteen minutes. The gates were shut, so I parked at the curb and unlocked the pedestrian access gate. Now what?
“Keep walking,” a short man in a goblin mask whispered as he materialized at my side and grabbed my arm. I jumped, swallowed hard, and remained silent. The man searched my bag, confiscated Mary’s cell phone, and shoved something hard into my right side. I couldn’t tell if it was a gun, a finger, or a toilet bowl brush, but figured it was best to assume the worst.
A second, taller masked man materialized at my left as we hurried along the curved access road. I shivered as we skirted the pond where Louis Spencer had drowned, so many years ago. In the distance I glimpsed his crypt. We headed up and over the hill, passing one of the cemetery’s older sections. I wasn’t familiar with this area, but in the misty, silvery light of the graveyard I spied a marker inscribed with the name Frederic Olmos Blood. How appropriate.
I tripped on a tree root, splashed in a puddle, and the taller ghoul steadied me with a hand on my elbow. “Step carefully,” he whispered, his voice low and surprisingly polite.
“Shut up,” whispered the other one.
Eucalyptus trees rustled in the wind, and wet grass clung to our shoes. The three of us were soaked by the time we halted in front of an old square crypt made of gray stone blocks streaked with black moss. The stones were crumbling from years of neglect, and the dank air of the crypt was redolent with mold and decay. The iron door had a small barred opening, as if the crypt’s inhabitants needed a peephole to check out visitors, and a shiny new padlock winked in the moonlight.
“Mare?” I called through the bars.
“Annie?”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m locked in a crypt!”
“She’s fine,” whispered the short man. “And you will be too, if you tell us where the box is. Otherwise I’ll just leave you two in there indefinitely, bound so you can’t call for help.”
“Annie!” Mary cried. “I’m totally freaking out here!”
“Maybe I’ll go ahead and shoot you before I leave you,” added the ghoul with a laugh. “The rats would like that.”
“It’s in the columbarium,” I said in a rush. I drew the line at bullet holes and rats. “In the Chapel of the Beatitudes. Now let her out.”
“Where in the chapel?” He shoved the gun under my chin.
“Near the ceiling, in the crown molding. There’s an inconsistency in the light. You’ll see when you get there.”
“Very good. Did you open it?”
“Are you kidding? I don’t need a curse from beyond the grave,” I said. “Haven’t you heard what happened to the folks who opened King Tut’s tomb?”
“Hey, I saw that show—” the tall ghoul whispered.
“Shut up, idiot!” the shorter goblin hissed. “You’d better be telling the truth, lady. For your sake, and for hers.”
He opened the heavy Master Lock, shoved me hard, and I stumbled into the crypt, knocking over Mary. Before we could scramble to our feet the iron door clanged shut and the padlock was snapped and locked. I shook the door anyway, watching through the peephole as the masked ghouls disappeared over the hill.
Trapped in a crypt. I tried to decide if this was better than being locked in a toilet and figured it was a draw.
“Annie?” Mary said in a thready voice from the shadows.
“I don’t suppose you brought my cell phone?”
“They took it.”
“A flashlight? Tools, maybe? Some way to get us out of this hellhole?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You didn’t bring anything? Some heroine you are.”
“Listen, Mare, it’s nearly three in the morning! I wasn’t thinking very clearly.” Considering I’d been drinking unidentifiable liquids with Uncle Sidran all evening, it was amazing I’d been coherent enough to answer the phone.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I realized my assistant’shands were bound behind her. “Turn around and let me untie you.”
“Did you at least tell anyone where you were going?” Mary asked over her shoulder.
“They warned me not to,” I protested, struggling with the thick rope and trying not to dwell on the obvious: I should have left word with someone as to my destination. I wondered how much I could blame on the fuzzy aftereffects of loza.
“Shit, Annie! You of all people should be carrying a damned gun by now!”
“So says Ms. Gun Control. If I’d brought a gun—some-thing I don’t want and can’t afford—they would have just taken that, too. Maybe even used it against us. And need I point out that if you hadn’t insisted on spending the night in a cemetery, none of this would be happening?”
“It’s not my fault!”
“I didn’t say—wait a minute. Where’s Evangeline?”
“Cops busted her for trespassing a couple of hours ago. I hid behind some trees so I could bail her out. But after the cops left those masked creeps blindsided me. What’s taking you so long?”
“Hold still, this rope’s putting up a fight.” Whoever tied her up must have been a sailor or an Eagle Scout or a psychopath, because he sure knew what he was doing.
I finally managed to pry the stiff binding off her wrists. As Mary rubbed her skin, I searched for a way out, cringing as my fingertips encountered dust and cobwebs and the dried-out husks of things I didn’t want to think about.
“You drove your old truck here, didn’t you?” Mary asked, sounding tired.
“No, I brought the Porsche. It seemed like a special occasion.”
Mary snorted.
“Of course I drove the truck. Why?”
“Because if you had a nice, normal car, you could point your thingy at it and set off the car alarm. You know, attract someone’s attention.”
“My truck doesn’t even have power windows,” I said. A spider—or something with a disturbing number of ticklish legs—darted across the back of my hand and I did the Icky Bug Dance, stomping my feet and shaking my hands.
“What are you doing?” Mary asked.
“Spider. I think.”
“Ha. Just be glad it’s not a cockroach. You should’ve seen the one I found yesterday in my apartment. It must’ve been six inches long—”
“Mary, swear to God, if you say one more word I’m going to choke
you.” I hated cockroaches with a passion bordering on insanity.
“Figures,” she muttered.
“That’s enough!” I snapped, impatient with her uncharacteristic whining. “I came here in the middle of the night to rescue you. A little gratitude would be appreciated. Now help me find a way out of here.”
“I already looked,” she grumbled. “There isn’t one.”
I kept searching—there wasn’t anything else to do—and for a few minutes all was silent.
“I am so creeped out right now,” Mary said.
“I know, Mare. But two’s company, right?”
I thought she nodded, but it was hard to tell in the shadowy crypt. The three small windows were covered with iron bars, so even if we managed to break the glass without slicing our wrists open and inadvertently committing suicide, the bars would prevent our escape. The crypt’s floor, ceiling, and walls were cold, hard stone. I tried not to think about the bodies that inhabited the six sepulchers lining the walls.
After several more minutes of fruitless searching I gave up and sat, wet and shivering, on the grimy floor next to Mary. Think, Annie, think. No cell phone, no one knew where we were, no nothing. On the plus side, we weren’t in any immediate danger and the ghouls had seemed more intent upon retrieving the hidden box than hurting us.
“Hey, it’s not so bad,” I said, draping an arm around her. She leaned against my soggy shoulder. “It’ll be morning in a few hours. And at least we’re out of the rain. All we have to do is keep our spirits up—so to speak—until the gardeners show up. They come to work early, right?”
Mary didn’t say anything.
“Mare?”
“The thing is . . .”
“What?”
“I sort of took the box. Temporarily.”
“You what?” I dropped my arm and glared at her.
“I was going to put it back!”