Sufficient Ransom

by Sylvia Sarno

  Dr. Aziz was dressed in a button-down shirt and trousers. His dark hair, hanging thickly over large eyes, was uncombed. “Please come in.” He led them from the spacious hallway to a large living room. The only source of light in the room was from two table lamps.

  Ann felt as if she had entered an underground cavern.

  Dr. Aziz must have read her thoughts. “My wife insists the curtains remain closed. The darkness comforts her.”

  Her voice quiet, Ann said, “Our shades are drawn too.”

  His face brightening, Dr. Aziz indicated the seats. “I made some tea, from Iran, where we’re from.” He poured out four cups. “I’ll get my wife. She spends most of her time in her room.” He smiled stiffly, before disappearing.

  A faint rumble of nausea rose in Ann’s throat. The air in the house was tinged with day-old smells of cooked meat and garlic. The urge to get away from the brooding darkness and the horrible smell gripped her. She clenched her teeth to steady her nerves.

  Richard beckoned her to join him on the sofa. Feeling restless, Ann indicated she would look at the photographs on the fireplace mantle instead. She was drawn to the largest picture, the face of a young girl with dark eyes and a bright smile. A knot formed in her throat. “This must be Hanna. She’s beautiful.”

  Ann heard a door opening, then steps. Dr. Aziz entered the room with his wife. Richard stood up and started to extend his hand to Mrs. Aziz but withdrew it. Something in Mrs. Aziz’s bearing must have checked him.

  Ann too was at a loss. She had pictured Mrs. Aziz to be like her husband, eager to please. But this woman with dark proud eyes, tinged with haughtiness, borne of anger or fear—Ann couldn’t tell which—was beautiful and aristocratic.

  After introductions, Ann was grateful Richard took the lead. “We’re sorry about Hanna,” he said, his voice earnest.

  Encouraged by her husband’s heartfelt words, Ann added, “Nobody should have to endure what we have.”

  Mrs. Aziz’s eyes simmered with resentment.

  Ann found herself wondering what Mrs. Aziz’s problem was. She tried again. “Though we think we know who took our child, sharing information could help us both get our children back.”

  With a slight wave of her hand, Mrs. Aziz indicated her husband would do the talking.

  Ann tried to keep her eyes on Dr. Aziz’s face as he relayed the events of that June evening, when eight-year-old Hanna disappeared. Ann made a mental note to later try to figure out why his wife seemed so unfriendly.

  Dr. Aziz explained that his wife had asked Hanna to deliver a home-cooked meal to a neighbor who lived three houses away. Twenty minutes after Hanna left home, Mrs. Aziz called the neighbor asking that her daughter be sent home. The neighbor said that Hanna had delivered the food and had already left for home. Assuming Hanna had sneaked off to the library again, which was just a few streets away, to read “forbidden” books—Harry Potter and the like—Mrs. Aziz drove to the library in search of her. When Hanna was not at the library, Mrs. Aziz called the police.

  Though Tom Long had been pretty good about sharing information, Ann wanted to hear directly from Mrs. Aziz what the police were telling them. When she posed the question, Mrs. Aziz cocked her head, like a bird that thought it heard a noise, but wasn’t sure.

  “Mrs. Olson,” Mrs. Aziz said, after she had thought about the question for a minute. She stressed the “Mrs.” in a faintly mocking tone. “Don’t you see? The police don’t seem to have any idea what happened to our Hanna. They give us reports on absolutely nothing.”

  Ann’s first impulse was to defend the police. Then with dawning awareness, she realized that she had taken matters into her own hands because she didn’t really trust them to do the job. She pushed these troubling thoughts back, to be revisited later. Though she was afraid to anger Mrs. Aziz further, Ann was determined to get information from this interview. “You were robbed in Ensenada,” she said quietly. “Then your home was vandalized. Is that right?”

  Mrs. Aziz’s eyes flashed bitterness. “You have no idea what we’ve been through.”

  I think we have some idea, Ann thought.

  “You see. It’s God’s will,” Mrs. Aziz said. A stream of invectives followed against people in general, Americans in particular, and the unfairness of this life that had robbed them of their child.

  Ann listened, fascinated by the glimpse into this woman’s soul tied up in knots of confusion and hatred. She noticed that Dr. Aziz winced each time his wife punctuated her phrases with, “You see? Don’t you see?”

  When Mrs. Aziz’s outburst had abated, Ann felt that she had just been given a crash course on what not to do when your child disappears. Instead of taking control of the situation, and seizing every chance to learn what had happened to her daughter, Mrs. Aziz chose to bury her head in negativity and recriminations. Feeling an irresistible urge to understand this woman, so that she could reach out and help her, Ann asked, “What does God have to do with Hanna’s disappearance?”

  Right away, Ann could see from both Mrs. Aziz’s face and that of her husband, that she had said something wrong. Her misgivings were confirmed when Mrs. Aziz spoke. “You don’t believe in God. How can you help us, when you can’t even live a proper life?”

  “How did you know I don’t believe in God?” Ann asked.

  Mrs. Aziz waved her hand impatiently. “It’s all over your Facebook page. Links to those atheist organizations. And all that art stuff you write about it.”

  When she first joined the social media site, Ann did go a little crazy linking to groups with whom she agreed. Her posts on the contrasting themes in Renaissance art between Christianity and the burgeoning humanism of the period had received more comments than the few mentions of her atheism. Apparently, most people on the Internet were not as bigoted as Mrs. Aziz.

  Dr. Aziz looked from his wife to Ann and Richard. “Please understand,” he pleaded. “Shahdi is not herself.” To his wife, “Dear, these people are guests in our home. They want to help us—” He didn’t have a chance to finish. Mrs. Aziz stood up and walked out of the room.

  Back in the car, Ann bit back her tears. Mrs. Aziz was right about her, for the wrong reasons. Ann believed herself to be immoral, not because she was an atheist, but because she hadn’t even been able to perform her most basic task of protecting her son.

  11:45 A.M.

  Kika exited the highway onto the four-lane road that led to the center of Mesa Grande, a burgeoning city nestled in the northernmost part of Mexico’s Sonoran Desert, an hour south of Yuma, Arizona. She headed for the older part of town. Past the myriad factories that fueled the city, past the strip malls that serviced its growing population, on to the little family-run hotel where she always stayed when she came to the place of her birth.

  After checking in, Kika had a quick bowl of tortilla soup with her friends—the old couple who ran the hotel—and headed back out to her car. Fishing in her purse for her car keys, Kika spotted her phone. She lifted the phone out and turned it over in her hand, thinking that she would eventually have to turn it on. She imagined a slew of messages and email. The thought of dealing with the outside world made Kika feel even more tired. All she wanted to do now was give her cares up to the Blessed Virgin, and hope that She could come up with some answers to her problems. Kika tossed the phone back into her purse, unlocked the car, and slipped inside.

  Driving to her sanctuary—a quaint church she had stumbled upon when she first came to Mesa Grande two years ago—Kika remembered the special church of her youth in Mexico City. The first time her mother took her to Templo del Purisimo Corazón de Maria, Kika was eight or nine years old. The giant concrete effigy of the Virgin Mary atop the church’s soaring cupola had looked so menacing that Kika feared entering. Her mother’s iron grip on her arm had warned her not to make a scene. A nun, who was walking alongside them that day, had offered to take Kika for a tour of the dazzling, stained glass windows before the mass began. The nun’s kindness and the beauty of the church wi
th its many paintings and windows celebrating the Virgin Mary, made a lasting impression on Kika. She begged her mother to bring her back. Thankfully Antonia had agreed.

  Growing up, Kika had often wondered why Antonia hated her. The papers Kika found after her mother died—letters from her birth father—provided a partial explanation. The letters were postmarked from Mesa Grande; that was how Kika found out she was born there. In the letters, Kika learned that her father had given her to Antonia because he was not able to care for her himself. Apparently, Kika’s birth mother had died.

  In his letters, her father prayed his daughter would not be a burden to Antonia. Kika remembered flinching when she read those words. A burden? Antonia reminded Kika that she was a burden, practically every day of her life. Kika realized that Antonia had taken her in out of duty, not because she wanted to nurture a child.

  Curious about her birth parents, Kika traveled to Mesa Grande. She managed to find two sisters—they looked to be in their eighties—who knew her family. The sisters told her that her father had been a missionary of sorts. He had come to Mesa Grande to help in the aftermath of an earthquake that had devastated the area. They said that Kika’s mother had died shortly after Kika was born. After his wife’s death, Kika’s father moved away and was never seen again.

  The sisters seemed confused about what had happened to baby Kika. Kika wasn’t sure if the sisters were confused because their memory was faulty, or if some bad thing concerning her had occurred, and they had purposely suppressed it. One of the sisters explained that it was rumored that Kika had secretly been kidnapped, and her father was somehow complicit. It was said that he had moved away to evade questioning.

  Though the events surrounding Kika’s early life were murky, one thing was clear: her adopted mother was an angry, abusive woman. Kika learned to ward off Antonia’s beatings by dedicating herself to the needs of others. When she slipped and talked about what she wanted for herself, Antonia’s hands would fly. “Remember, Cristina,” she would say, as she slapped Kika to emphasize her point. “You’re nothing. It’s our duty to serve others. You must listen to our Almighty Father!”

  When Kika longed for comfort and human understanding, she prayed to the Virgin Mother. The Almighty Father wasn’t as good a listener.

  1:00 P.M.

  After leaving the Aziz’s, Ann and Richard headed to Nora March’s house. Ann had accepted her friend’s invitation to lunch because she couldn’t stand the thought of going home to her empty house. Seated in Nora’s kitchen, Ann felt discouraged that she and Richard hadn’t learned anything useful from the Valdez and Aziz families.

  “The website and Facebook page your private agency set up seem to be pulling in a lot of people,” Nora said. “Hopefully leads for the police to follow up on.”

  Ann noticed that her friend had an odd look on her face, despite her hopeful words. “What is it, Nora?” she asked gently. “You look distracted.”

  The frown lines on Nora’s forehead deepened. “I’ve been thinking of Kika.”

  Ann leaned forward. “What about her?”

  “You know she’s adopted. She said her mother died while giving birth to her. Kika put an ad in Mexico’s national papers asking her birth father to contact her. When nothing came of it, she hired a detective here in the States to try to find him.”

  Ann leaned back annoyed her friend was once again veering off topic. “What does this have to do with Travis? Besides, I thought you didn’t know her very well.”

  “Kika told me all of this over lunch one day,” Nora said. “She seemed to take an instant liking to me. It’s strange. But I felt a connection with her too. Maybe it’s because she talked so much about herself, I felt like I had known her for a long time.” Nora spoke a little timidly as if she feared Ann would cut into her for humanizing Kika. “While it’s true that none of this directly relates to Travis, we might learn more about what’s happened if we review what we already know.”

  “About Kika’s adoption,” Richard said, apparently agreeing with Nora’s reasoning. “Wouldn’t the agency that handled the adoption have information on her biological parents?”

  “She said there were no such papers,” Nora said.

  “Why do you think she went to such lengths to find her father?” Richard said.

  Ann could not care less about Kika’s convoluted history. “Our focus should be on Travis not on that crazy’s childhood.”

  “Nora’s right, Ann,” her husband said. “The more we learn about Kika the better our chances of finding Travis. Please, Nora. Go on.”

  Casting an appeasing glance at Ann, Nora continued. “Apparently Kika had had a terrible childhood. Her mother was abusive. She wanted to know her roots. I imagine it must have made her feel better about herself, and maybe not so alone. Kika said her birth father gave her to Antonia because he couldn’t care for her. He was probably some foolish young man who got himself in a scrape and didn’t want the responsibility of raising a child.”

  “Before, you said Kika came to the orphanage to meet you,” Richard said. “Something about your knowing her mother. But you didn’t know her. Is that right?”

  “Correct. Her mother told Kika we were friends. She kept photographs and newspaper clippings about Peter and me. I had never even heard of Antonia Garcia.”

  “Maybe you met Kika’s mother when you lived in Mexico,” Richard said.

  “Kika showed me a picture of her,” Nora said. “She had a striking face, like Joan Crawford. I would have remembered her. Frankly, at the time I thought the whole thing was a little creepy. In the end, it was really a non-issue. Kika did good work at the orphanage and when she got the job at CPS, she moved on.”

  “Did this detective Kika hired find her father?” Richard said.

  Nora shook her head. “Nothing came of that either.”

  Ann thought that the social worker’s boyfriend had more bearing on Travis’s situation than her childhood did. She asked her friend, “How did Kika meet Max Ruiz?”

  “I guess her mother was a wealthy activist of sorts,” Nora said. “She was always pushing Kika to join this or that cause. Kika met Max at an orphanage where she volunteered. Ruiz has given a lot of money to these places. They share a common interest in helping children.”

  Yeah, Ann thought. She likes helping herself to other people’s children.

  “I think the police should know about Kika’s past,” Richard said.

  “I was going to call them,” Nora said. “But I wanted to tell you first.”

  Nora’s telephone rang. It was her son, Chet. He had seen the Olsons’ Land Rover parked in Nora’s driveway. Would it be okay if he joined them?

  After thanking Chet for the work he and his church were doing on behalf of Travis, Richard filled him in on their visits to the Valdez and the Aziz families.

  When Nora asked Richard what Mrs. Valdez thought had happened to her son, Ann noticed that Chet avoided looking at his mother. She wondered if Chet and Nora had had another fight, or if this was the new norm for them. These days Chet’s refusal to leave his mother to her beliefs had evidently strained their relationship. Since becoming a pastor five years ago, Chet had taken it upon himself to save Nora’s soul from hell, where he was sure she’d end up, if she didn’t accept Jesus as her personal savior. Ann imagined that in Chet’s line of work, having a non-believing mother was embarrassing.

  Ann thought back to the day she met her elderly friend. It was two years ago. They were at a local grocery store.

  Travis kept grabbing at the candy bars in the racks that lined the checkout aisle and whipping them onto the conveyor belt. When Ann asked him to stop, he kept right on doing it. The customers in line behind them looked horrified.

  A kindly-looking older woman ahead of them in the line gently admonished Travis to listen to his mother. Her words had a calming effect on Travis. After paying for their groceries, Ann and her son headed to the Starbucks next door for a cup of tea to calm her frazzled nerves. A few minutes
later, the older woman from the grocery store walked up and asked Ann if she could share their table.

  “If you don’t mind an occasional outburst from…,” Ann said, indicating Travis, who was busy licking pastry crumbs from his fingers.

  Assuring Ann that she didn’t, the woman, who introduced herself as Nora March, took a seat. Ann was soon drawn into conversation with this woman with kind eyes and a gentle voice. When Nora asked whether she was a stay-at-home mother, Ann broke off a piece of the bagel she’d been nibbling and gave it to Travis. “Why don’t you go feed those birds over there, sweetie.”

  While Travis was busy on a patch of grass nearby, Ann confided to Nora that she yearned to return to work, but she felt guilty. She told Nora how, after her parents had divorced, she vowed never to abandon her child, the way her mother had left her.

  When Travis started complaining that he was bored and wanted to go home, Ann found herself scribbling her phone number on a piece of paper and pressing it into Nora’s hand. “I have to go now,” she said. “Please call me. I’d love to talk again, sometime.”

  Richard was saying, “Señora Valdez doesn’t seem to know much of anything...”

  Studying Nora’s face, as Nora listened to Richard, it occurred to Ann that despite her friend’s placid demeanor, she was as much a staunch defender of her own values as Chet was of his. He had turned away from his mother, his arms folded tightly across his chest. It saddened Ann to think that mother and son couldn’t find a way to get along.

  Mother and son. Her and Travis.

  5:30 P.M.

  Ann and Richard had returned home. Ann was in her office on the Internet trying to find information on the Ruiz family, when the telephone rang. Ann was surprised to hear Chet March’s voice on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry about this afternoon,” the pastor said. “Things are a little tense between me and Mother.”

  “You love Nora and she loves you,” Ann said, vaguely aware that her words sounded trite. The problems between Chet and his mother were really the last thing on her mind.