Afraid of the Dark js-9

by James Grippando

  “Have a nice flight,” she said as she started for the door.

  “Lisa,” said Bahena.

  She stopped and turned quickly-quickly enough to disabuse him of the notion that her real name was anything but Lisa.

  “I’ll give you till Friday,” he said.

  Andie didn’t nod her agreement, and she sure as hell didn’t thank him. She opened the door and left the heliport without another word, kicking herself for the lapse about a sister. And wondering if she could ever come back.

  Chapter Forty-two

  It’s nowhere near as bad as twenty years ago,” said Theo, “but it’s straight out of the bad old days.”

  Jack parked his car down the street from the cemetery, directly across from Tucker Elementary-where Theo had gone to school in the sense that, on occasion, he had physically occupied space there. Charlotte Jane Memorial Park was part of Theo’s old neighborhood, just two blocks away from where someone had slit his drug-addicted mother’s throat and left her to die on the street. Theo had been just thirteen when he’d found her body outside Homeboy’s Tavern.

  “I know you hate coming around here,” said Jack. “But I didn’t know what to think when Mays called and said he had to meet me at McKenna’s grave. Every time I start to see Mays as a potential ally, he says something that makes me think he’s nothing but trouble.”

  “You want me to kick his ass?”

  “No,” said Jack, groaning. “Chuck Mays thinks he’s the smartest person in the world, which means I don’t want it to come down to my word against his if there’s ever a dispute about what was said between us.”

  “So you want me to threaten to kick his ass.”

  “No. Just keep your mouth shut and listen. Believe it or not, life doesn’t always come down to kicking somebody’s ass.”

  Theo glanced at the school’s graffiti-covered entrance, shook his head, and chuckled. “Dude, you wouldn’t have lasted five minutes at Tucker Elementary.”

  It was late Sunday afternoon, but the cemetery was open to the public until sundown. They climbed out of the car and walked to the west entrance on Charles Street. The sidewalk was dimpled and rutted with symbols that gangs had etched into eternity when the cement had been poured twenty years ago. Jack even found one from the Grove Lords-Theo’s old partners in street crime. The rusted iron gate creaked as it opened, and Jack spotted Chuck Mays and Vince Paulo standing beneath the two large oak trees that Mays had described to Jack in his directions. Jack led, and Theo followed. The sun was low enough in the sky to cast long shadows, and they’d passed just two rows of old tombs when Theo broke into his singing voice, quietly but predictably invoking the memory of Michael Jackson:

  “It’s close to midnight, something something, something dark

  …”

  Theo’s recollection of the lyrics expired quickly, but he was still humming the tune as they reached McKenna’s grave. Jack silenced him with a glare and introduced Theo to Mays and Paulo as his “investigator.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Theo had worn many hats throughout their friendship-all of them size XXL.

  “Sorry about your friend Neil,” said Vince.

  “Ditto,” said Mays.

  It was already feeling awkward, standing around McKenna’s tomb in an old Bahamian cemetery, talking about Neil in the past tense.

  “I appreciate that,” said Jack.

  “It changes things, doesn’t it,” said Mays, “having skin in the game?”

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” said Jack.

  Mays glanced at Theo, gestured toward the bench beneath the oak tree, and said, “Have a seat, big guy.” He wasn’t being polite. Theo was the tallest man in the group, and Mays clearly wasn’t used to looking up at anyone.

  “I’m good,” said Theo.

  Jack said, “What is it that you wanted to show me, Chuck?”

  “You see where you’re standing?” asked Mays.

  Jack looked around, orienting himself. Family plots marked GUILFORD and SANDS were directly behind him. His left foot was practically touching McKenna’s tomb. “What about it?” said Jack.

  Mays’ expression turned very serious. “This morning when I came here, I saw Shada kneeling in that exact spot.”

  Jack glanced at the plaque beside McKenna’s grave: IN MEMORY OF SHADA MAYS, it read. “You’re one strange guy, Chuck. Let’s go, Theo.”

  Mays grabbed Jack by the arm and said, “I saw her.”

  “Yeah, and I once had a client who looked down at his grilled cheese sandwich and swore he saw the Virgin Mary. Now let go of my arm.”

  “This is not a joke.”

  Theo grabbed Mays, his huge hand making Mays’ considerable forearms seem slight. “Let go,” said Theo.

  Mays released, and so did Theo, but the tension hung in the air between them. It was palpable, no gift of sight required.

  “Chuck is telling the truth,” said Vince.

  Jack still had doubts, but if Vince was vouching for his friend, Jack owed them the courtesy of an ear. “Did you talk to her?” asked Jack.

  “No,” said Mays. “She ran as soon as I spotted her.”

  “How close did you get?”

  “Twenty yards.”

  “Show me an eyewitness who was standing twenty yards away, and I’ll show you a dozen first-year law students who could rip him to shreds.”

  “I know it was her,” said Mays.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “She left me a message.”

  Jack did a double take. The story had suddenly taken on an entirely different quality. “What kind of message?”

  Mays went to McKenna’s grave and knelt beside it. “Have you ever heard of a memory medallion?”

  “No,” said Jack.

  “It’s nothing super-high-tech, but it’s about as computer savvy as graves get.” He brushed away a little dust from a metal plate on the stone marker. It was about the size of a quarter.

  “It’s an added feature you can order through just about any funeral company,” said Mays. “The marker comes with a weatherproof portal. If you know the password, you can hook up a USB cable and view photographs or read stories that others have left. Or you can leave something for others to see: pictures, poems, stories. Or you can do what Shada did this morning: leave a message for your husband.”

  “That makes no sense,” said Jack. “Let’s put aside all the other questions raised by her resurrection from the Everglades. If she wanted to get in touch with you after all this time, why wouldn’t she just call or e-mail you?”

  “Calls and e-mails can be traced. This can’t. We’re the only two people on the planet who even knew it existed.”

  “She could have just knocked on your door,” said Theo.

  “Not if she didn’t intend to stay. Obviously, she didn’t. She ran as soon as we made eye contact.”

  A million questions came to mind, but Jack was speechless, not sure what to ask. “Why did she run in the first place?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mays.

  “Because she thinks she can,” said Vince.

  Vince had a troubled expression on his face, and Jack worried that it wasn’t his place to probe. But he needed to understand. “What does that mean, Vince?”

  Vince patted his guide dog, and Sam sat up straight, as if his master had something important to say.

  “It doesn’t matter where I go, what I do, or who I’m with,” said Vince. “I could change jobs, change my name, change my life-change my gender, if I want to get crazy about it. No matter what, I’m still blind. The man who butchered McKenna left me that way. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve accepted it. Shada-and this is just my take-is another story. She hasn’t accepted anything. She thinks that if she runs far enough and long enough, she can get away from what happened.”

  No one spoke, but after a minute or two, Mays was shaking his head. “You’ve known a long time, haven’t you, Vince?”

  “Suspected. It was all so amateurish. The sleepi
ng pills in the car. The canoe in the Everglades. Today cinched it for me. You tried to sound surprised, but-”

  “I actually was surprised to see her,” said Chuck. “But not because I thought she was dead. I just never thought I’d see her again, after she left.”

  “She just left you?” asked Jack.

  “It was her idea. But I let her go.”

  “What do you mean you let her go?”

  “Shada was a mess. She lived in fear of McKenna’s killer coming back for her. She blamed me for leaving the country and not doing something about Jamal before it cost McKenna her life. She wanted out of her life, out of everything she’d ever known. I let her go.”

  “Why did she come back? Why now?”

  “She didn’t say in her message.”

  “Exactly what did she tell you, Chuck?”

  “She told me that she was sorry it had to be this way. And she told me not to worry.”

  “Worry about what?”

  “Being charged with murder.”

  “Whose murder?”

  “Hers, of course.”

  Jack blinked hard, not comprehending. “Why would you be charged with Shada’s murder?”

  “As much as Shada tried to make it look like she committed suicide, the investigation was homicide all the way. Like Vince said, it was pretty amateurish. Is anyone here really that surprised that it turned out to be bullshit? Jamal was the chief suspect for almost three years, but now we know he was in Gitmo when Shada disappeared. The cops are back to square one. Any time a wife disappears, square one is the husband.”

  “So when Shada told you not to worry, she meant what? She’s officially coming out of hiding?”

  “She’s coming out of hiding if-and only if-the same assholes who can’t catch McKenna’s killer try to pin something on me that I didn’t do. Like killing her. Killing Jamal Wakefield. Or killing your friend Neil.”

  “Are you saying that she knows who killed Neil?” asked Jack.

  Mays didn’t answer. Jack pressed: “Did she tell you that in her message?”

  “She told me more than she realizes,” said Mays.

  “Stop being so damn coy,” said Jack. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that Shada’s message reveals enough for me and my computers to figure out where she’s been for the past three years. And that’s key for everyone here. Because I believe she’s spent all that time-every minute of every day for the past three years-looking for the monster who killed McKenna and blinded Vince. And I think that same son of a bitch is the guy who murdered your friend.”

  Jack had the same suspicion, but he had no proof. And until now, he had no conceivable way of getting it. “What are you proposing?” asked Jack.

  “I’m proposing that you get off the dime. We’re right back where we left off before you buried your friend. Except now the pot is sweeter.”

  “How much sweeter?”

  “My supercomputers are only as good as the data I input, and now all the pieces are within reach. I know I can find Shada. If I can add what Shada knows to what I know, what you know, what Jamal told you, what Jamal’s mother knows… bingo. This fucker is mine.”

  “You mean mine,” said Vince.

  “He’s not anyone’s,” said Mays, “unless the rest of us are all on board. So what’s it gonna be, Swyteck?”

  A cool breeze whispered through the oak limbs overhead. Day was turning into night, and the shadows across the cemetery were now so dark that the marker on McKenna’s tomb was no longer readable. A strange feeling hit Jack, but it was nothing supernatural. It was the survivor’s paradox that follows every funeral-that moment when you’re faced with a decision because a friend or loved one is dead, and you catch yourself wishing he were there to help you decide.

  Jack glanced at Theo, but it wasn’t up to him. Then he looked at Mays, and he went with his gut.

  “I’d say he’s ours,” said Jack.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Brent and Bradley Hellendoorn, please come to the check-in counter,” said the gate attendant.

  Shada Mays grabbed her purse and carry-on bag, hoping for her name to be called next. The gate at the Miami International Airport’s Terminal A was jammed with three-hundred-plus passengers, several of whom seemed more than capable of felony assault, if that was what it took to snag an upgrade to business class. Shada had the last available seat in the waiting area. It was right next to a family of seven, and three toddlers were tumbling on the floor in front of her. The 747 was right on the other side of a large plate-glass window, however, so at least she could keep an eye on it and make sure the flight didn’t leave without her. She didn’t normally worry about such silly things, but flying out of her hometown after a day like today was beyond stressful. She’d taken extra precautions to make sure no one would recognize her. Her traditional hijab dress included a half niqab, a veil tied on at the bridge of the nose that falls to cover the lower face. Only Homeland Security officers would see her full face. In hindsight, she should have worn a full niqab to the cemetery.

  I can’t believe Chuck came before nine o’clock in the morning.

  Shada had disappeared a month before her daughter would have turned seventeen. For three birthday anniversaries running, Shada had returned to Miami to visit McKenna’s grave. Any hour before noon should have been a safe time to make the pilgrimage. Never had Chuck been a morning person-especially a Sunday morning person. Apparently he wasn’t the late-Saturday-night party animal he used to be.

  Admit it: You wanted him to see you.

  Shada shook off the thought. If she’d wanted it, she wouldn’t have dressed like a Muslim. Shada had never worn the hijab-never practiced any Muslim traditions-as long as she’d known Chuck. The clothing was purely an expedient form of concealment that she’d adopted since her disappearance. It fooled most people. It was funny, however, the way a man could recognize his wife with so little to go on-maybe just the way she cocked her head, the way she lifted her chin, or the tilt of her shoulders. Chuck had recognized her, all right. Even at a distance, she’d felt it register.

  “Maysoon Khan, please come to the counter.”

  Shada immediately rose from her seat. “Maysoon” had been her name for more than two years now, and it had become as familiar to her as Shada. No longer was there even the slightest hesitation in her response to her assumed name.

  There was a short line ahead of her at check-in, and she had to wait as the two brothers ahead of her insisted that they not sit together. It was starting to fray her nerves, all these little delays and bumps in the road. She needed to be on a plane and flying out of this city now, away from the most terrible of memories, beyond the reach of her old fears. Fears that kept her up at night. Fears that she had struggled to conquer since that text-message exchange on the day before she had driven her car to Everglades, staged her own suicide, and disappeared.

  Are you afraid?

  Not at all.

  Maybe you should be.

  No way. Never. I will see you tomorrow.

  Beneath the veil, Shada bit her lip, trying to stop it from quivering. This time, she hadn’t returned to Miami simply to visit McKenna’s grave and mark another birthday never reached. For nearly three years, Shada had believed that Jamal was McKenna’s killer. For nearly as long, she had lived in fear that he would find and kill her, too. She’d come to Miami to see him brought to justice. Now Jamal was dead, leaving questions unanswered as to his whereabouts not only at the time of McKenna’s death, but also at the time of Shada’s disappearance. It was the latter that had prompted Shada to leave the message for Chuck at their daughter’s grave.

  Dear Chuck,

  I can never come back, not even if you wanted me to. It won’t erase the past, but I promise I won’t let anyone blame you for what happened to me. Or for what I made them believe happened. I’m sorry it had to be this way.

  “Can I help you?” asked the attendant.

  The line in front of her had dis
appeared, and it was Shada’s turn to upgrade from coach. She placed her documents on the counter. “I’m Maysoon Khan,” she said.

  “Lucky you. I have one seat left in business class.”

  Shada watched in silence as the attendant checked her passport. With the push of a button, he reprinted her boarding pass to London/Heathrow.

  “Have a nice trip home,” the man said.

  Home, thought Shada. It didn’t feel anything like home.

  “Thank you,” she said as she retrieved her documents. “I will.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  There was only one woman Jack wanted to see when he reached the airport. He found her at baggage claim.

  “I missed you,” said Andie as they locked in a tight embrace.

  Sunday evening at MIA at the height of tourist season was like the running of the bulls in Pamplona, complete with the trampling of stragglers and the goring of innocent bystanders. Parking was out of the question, so Jack met up with Andie on the lower level as Theo burned through a half tank of gas circling the terminal. Andie was carrying a heavy winter coat and wearing a black sweater, which was way too warm for a balmy night in Florida. Jack liked her in cashmere, however, and he was feeling her warmth and breathing in the familiar smell of her hair when he realized that she was no longer a phony blond.

  “Your hair-it’s like it used to be,” he said, smiling.

  “I like things the way they used to be.”

  “Me, too,” said Jack, his smile turning a little sad.

  Two days had passed since Neil’s burial, since Andie had promised to get out from undercover and return to Jack and Miami as quickly as possible. She already had her bag, but out of curiosity Jack checked the flight information on the nearest luggage carousel. She’d flown in from JFK, but Andie was on to his detective work, and she shot down immediately any notion that he had uncovered the location of an FBI operation.

  “You don’t really think I fly home direct from an assignment, do you?”

  He supposed not. “Speaking of,” said Jack, touching her newly restored hair. “I hope this doesn’t mean you did something drastic