Always Emily

by Mary Sullivan

  That night, she slept without a single concern. Her dad was back home with his family where he belonged, and she felt good about herself and her heritage. Her last thought before falling asleep was, It’s okay to be me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SALEM STOOD IN the sheriff’s office with Emily beside him, and stared at Matt Breslin with his mouth open, having trouble taking in what the deputy had just said. Not deputy anymore, though. Sheriff.

  “I’m serious.” Matt leaned back in the chair and responded to Salem’s disbelief. “I’m sheriff. Both White and his son were arrested first thing this morning, White on charges of assault and Justin for rape. It’s good to get him off the streets.”

  Despite Matt’s self-satisfied smile at being promoted, his sentiment was sincere. They’d had some good talks while Salem was incarcerated. Matt was an honest man. He liked to see justice done.

  “What about Brent? He stood and watched White beat me without lifting a finger.”

  Matt leaned forward, dropping the front feet of the chair to the floor. “He’s been charged as an accessory.”

  Good. As it should be. Their laws had been invented to keep civilized people...civilized. What had happened to Salem had been anything but.

  He held up the box of pastries from the bakery. “I brought these for Ansel. May we see him?”

  Matt’s expression became compassionate. “’Fraid not. He isn’t here. We had him transferred to the hospital in Denver during the night. He was in bad shape. He isn’t long for this world, Salem.”

  So, it was that close. A heaviness settled over him. The man had been like a second father to him. Yes, he was old. Yes, except for his daughter’s tragic death, his life had been long and good.

  Even so, his imminent passing filled Salem with sadness.

  He handed the pastries to Matt. “Enjoy these and congratulations on the promotion.”

  “I might not stay on as sheriff. There will have to be an election.”

  “You’ll win. You’re a good guy and everyone likes you. I’ll vote for you. You’ll do a good job here, Matt.”

  “Thanks, Salem.”

  Out on the sidewalk, Emily took his hand. “I’m so sorry, Salem.”

  “I’m going to visit him in the hospital.”

  “Do you want me to come?”

  “I think I’ll take my dad with me. Can you get yourself home?”

  “Of course.”

  A little over an hour later, Salem entered Ansel’s room with his father by his side.

  Ansel barely made a dent in the covers of the bed. His body was wasting away rapidly.

  Salem stood on one side and his dad on the other.

  “How are you doing, Ansel?”

  He opened his eyes and smiled when he saw them. “Happy now. Kathy came to me last night.”

  Kathy, his first wife, dead at least forty years.

  “She told me it’s time to join her. She looked beautiful, just like when I married her.”

  Salem’s hand convulsed on the blanket. He wasn’t good with people leaving.

  “You will be happy to see her, eh?” Good old Dad, always looking for the positive side.

  “Yes. It won’t be long.” His clawed hand took Salem’s. “Tell me about Annie. Tell me your memories.”

  Salem did, for hours, only the good memories. His father shared his memories, too. When they left late in the afternoon, Ansel had a smile on his face.

  In the morning, Emily left for the Sudan.

  That afternoon, Ansel died.

  * * *

  DESPITE SWEATING HANDS and a thunderous heartbeat at the airport in Khartoum, Emily made it into the Sudan without incident, which said volumes about Jean-Marc. He’d slandered her all over the internet, and to everyone within the archeological community, but he hadn’t reported her to the authorities. What was he hiding that he didn’t want the authorities to know about?

  All of that mad worry for nothing.

  The doors of the airport opened and belched her into the heat and dust of Khartoum. In her few short weeks at home in the cooler summer weather of Colorado, she’d forgotten about the climate here. Already she could feel her sinuses drying out. The incessant distant noise, the hum of five million people in a flat, spread-out city landscape that encompassed Khartoum proper, Khartoum North and Omdurman, bombarded her.

  The airport had originally been built south of Khartoum, but population growth and development had swallowed it and currently it sat in the city center.

  She took a taxi to her former apartment building, not because there was a place there for her to stay, but because Penelope lived there. And Jean-Marc.

  As the driver navigated the streets, Emily remembered every place she’d visited in the city—the Souq al-Arabi with its pervasive scent of exotic spices, and the al-Mograri—the Confluence—where the Blue and White Nile rivers meet. At the University of Khartoum, she and Jean-Marc had once given a lecture to students thirsty for knowledge.

  Yes, there was something to be said for all the experiences she’d had abroad, as interesting as they were, and she would treasure these memories always, but already she missed home and Salem, Aiyana and Mika, and her family.

  Penelope greeted her at the door of her apartment.

  Emily stepped into her friend’s welcoming arms. “Oh, it’s good to see you, Pen. I’ve missed you.”

  She hugged Les, too. “You, too. I missed you both. Tell me all the latest news. What work have you been doing?”

  “The dig is closed, Emily. We’ve been packing. We’re going home. The political instability in the region is too dangerous.” Penelope led her to their small living room. “I’ll make tea and we’ll have a chat. Les, get Emily the prayer book, would you?”

  When he returned from the bedroom, he handed her the relic wrapped in tissue paper.

  “Oh, it survived beautifully,” Emily exclaimed.

  From the kitchen, Penny called, “Considering how much tape I had to cut through, it’s no small wonder.”

  Emily had missed Penny’s laugh, loud and horsey, yes, but from the heart.

  Penny carried out a pot of tea and three small cups from the kitchen. “Mint tea okay?”

  “Yes. I haven’t had a cup since I left.”

  After the tea had been poured, Penelope leaned against Les’s arm laid across the back of the sofa. “So? What’s the plan? How are you going to handle this? Does it go straight to the museum or what?”

  “I still have a key to Jean-Marc’s apartment.”

  “So?” Les liked his tea boiling hot and had already finished one cup.

  “So,” Penny said, “she’s going to put the book in his apartment.” Good old Pen. She got it right away.

  “Yes. I formulated the plan during the flight here. After I’ve planted the relic, I’m going to call the authorities with an anonymous tip that they should search his place.”

  “Clever, my dear.”

  “Any idea what his schedule is like these days?”

  “When he isn’t closing down the dig or doing an inventory of everything that was collected, he spends his time with Adriana, his latest tart.”

  Les snorted a laugh and some of his tea back into his cup. “Pen, dear, look what you’ve made me do.” There was laughter in his voice.

  Penny got Les a clean cup and filled it with fresh tea. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

  When Emily left amid adjurations to for God’s sake, keep in touch, she took the elevator to Jean-Marc’s apartment on the fourth floor.

  Using her key, she cracked the door open, listened and heard nothing. Good. The apartment was empty. She slipped inside. She’d spent many hours here and yet felt no sense of attachment. All she felt for the place and the man
now were distaste.

  She knew exactly where she wanted to hide the prayer book. Jean-Marc owned an old-fashioned footlocker. She found it under the bed and pulled it out by one of its leather handles. In remarkably good shape, it was an old officer’s locker, with metal stripping along all of the edges.

  The lock was large and heavy, but Emily knew he never locked it simply because he had no key. She opened it, and gasped, unwilling to believe at first that she was actually seeing what was there.

  Jean-Marc was a thief.

  He had pieces in here that should be in the museum with all of the catalogued pieces they’d found in the dig. He’d been squirreling away some of the finds they had all entrusted to him as their leader to submit to the proper authorities. He had abused their trust, and the trust of the host country.

  There was no doubt in her mind, none, that he planned to spirit these out of the country and sell them. Otherwise, why would they be here in his apartment, illegally? If the authorities found out, he would be thrown into jail. Even if he could talk his way out of charges, his reputation would be ruined. And so...this was the perfect spot for the prayer book.

  She slipped it in, closed the lid and eased the box back under the bed. As she did so, the door to the apartment opened and she heard a feminine giggle in the living room along with Jean-Marc’s deep laugh.

  Balls. Caught. What was she going to do? If Jean-Marc caught her, he would dump the artifacts before she could get the authorities in here to discover them in his possession. She wouldn’t let that happen. After what he’d done to her and the many other women, and his shoddy ethics in stealing rare artifacts, he deserved to be punished. Unfortunately, the front door was the only way out of here.

  Wait. She glanced at the window. Not the only way.

  The window was open, letting in the heat of the day. Jean-Marc loved heat, loved having sex that made him sweat. The hotter, the better.

  She climbed out onto the small ledge that ran along the side of the building and stood with her back against the stone.

  Don’t, for the love of God, look down.

  The sidewalk, four floors down, wouldn’t welcome her with a nice soft landing. Cripes, she’d hadn’t thought when she’d left home that her life might be in danger. She’d thought she might face a jail sentence, but death or disfigurement? No.

  Thank goodness Salem couldn’t see her now. When she got home, she was never taking another risk.

  In the distance, the White Nile shone like a jewel. She couldn’t appreciate its beauty, or that of the sun glinting from the windows of the modern high-rises along its shores, not when she imagined her body broken on the pavement below.

  Her breath came in shallow bursts.

  She hated heights. Didn’t mind the depths of the earth, or the sea. Would gladly go down in a submarine, or into an underground cave, but she hated heights. Disliked bridges. Had never gone to the top of the Eiffel Tower when she’d visited her mother in Paris.

  She sidled away from the window because she could hear them in the bedroom.

  “Come on, baby. Screw me good.”

  How many times had she heard that? He’d left her feeling dirty. Judging by Adriana’s breathy moans, the woman had no problem getting down and dirty.

  She thought of Salem and the beauty of his lovemaking. As soon as she got home, she was going to grab him and never let go.

  Emily continued to sidle away from the window. No sense going to her old apartment. It would have been rented out to someone else immediately after she’d left. Besides, it was on the far side of the window. Farther along this way, though, was Maria’s apartment. If she could make it that far, surely they would let her in.

  Tamping down the nausea rising in her throat, she continued to sidle along the ledge. The rough stone beneath her hands abraded her palms. On the street four stories below, someone hailed a cab. Time stretched.

  How freaking far was Maria’s window? Too far. She wouldn’t make it.

  She stepped in front of a window and heard a little squeal and then, “Mama, there’s a woman in my window.”

  Maria! Emily had made it.

  “It’s me. It’s me,” she whispered frantically. “Maria...”

  Emily heard her mother’s cry of alarm. “Daniela, it’s me. Emily. I need to come inside.”

  “Mama, it’s Emily. She came back.”

  She felt Daniela’s strong fingers grab her legs. “Are you crazy, Emily? What are you doing? Come in. Come in, quickly, before you splatter on the sidewalk below.”

  Terrible image. A little bile rose into her throat.

  She managed to scramble inside, fall in more like, but made it safely. Daniela stood with her hands on her ample hips. “You had better have a good explanation for this.”

  Emily smiled weakly because she was still trying to control her unruly heartbeat. “May I have a cup of your Egyptian coffee? I need to sit. My knees are shaking. They won’t hold me much longer.”

  “Of course. Come to the living room.”

  She collapsed onto a pile of colorful cushions on a velvet-covered divan. Maria sat beside her and patted the back of her hand. “You are very brave. I would never go out on a window ledge so high off the ground.”

  “No. Not brave, Maria. Just desperate.” She reached into her bag and took out the postcard with the bear on it she’d carried all the way from Ingram’s Pharmacy in Colorado.

  Maria took it with a happy little smile.

  Daniela returned from the kitchen with two Egyptian coffees for Emily and herself, and fruit juice for her daughter. “Tell me everything.”

  “Remember you told me that I could do better for myself than Jean-Marc?”

  Daniela made a flicking motion with her fingers. “Phht.”

  “Well, I have.” She told her about Salem first, and everything that had happened since she returned to Accord because, despite Daniela’s practical nature, she adored a good love story. Then Emily told her about the prayer book and what she had just done with it. “I need to notify the authorities.”

  Daniela picked up her phone and handed it to Emily. “Screw the bastard.”

  Maria gasped. “Mama, that’s a bad word.”

  “Yes, it is, and you will never use it. Neither will you tell your father I used it.”

  A sly grin formed on Maria’s otherwise innocent face. “Remember that doll I saw at the souk? You wouldn’t buy it for me yesterday.”

  “All right, my little blackmailer. Tomorrow we will go out and get it.”

  Emily phoned the authorities. She stressed they should come immediately, along with a representative from the museum, because the dig had been completed and the crew had booked flights to leave. They said they would come right away.

  Grinning, Emily held out her cup. “Another one, please? Do you mind if I wait here for the police to come? I don’t want to miss it.”

  “Yes. I won’t miss it, either. Do you know he made a pass at me one day?”

  Emily watched Daniela’s hips sway as she returned to the kitchen to put on the water to boil. Of course he had. She was a woman, she was beautiful and she was breathing. All attributes Jean-Marc admired greatly.

  They heard the fireworks about an hour later, starting with Adriana’s screeches. They opened Daniela’s apartment door and peeked out. The young student stood in the hallway in her underwear pulling on her clothes while a couple of cops stood and watched, doing nothing to either help her or to avert their gazes.

  Then they heard Jean-Marc’s bellow.

  “He cries like a stuck pig.” Daniela characterized it perfectly. “It sounds good on him.”

  The big, bad bully sounded like a toddler having a tantrum. Like a big baby.

  A pair of the local policemen hauled him out of the apartment with his hands cuffed
behind his back. Two more carried out the footlocker. The curator of the museum came out next. Emily and he had always enjoyed a mutual respect. He saw her watching. She winked at him. He understood right away that it had been she who had turned him in. He smiled. There was something to be said for spreading goodwill rather than lording your arrogance over others, as Jean-Marc had done.

  At that moment, the man in question spotted her. His face became even redder. “It was her! That woman did this to me. She set me up.”

  The look that Emily gave the police said, isn’t it a shame that he is so crazed that he would blame a lowly woman like me?

  The curator smiled behind his hand. He knew who had handled all of the artifacts. He knew who was supposed to have been responsible for bringing every single one to him. There was no chance Jean-Marc had been set up by her or anyone else. He had withheld artifacts illegally.

  Just before he followed everyone to the elevator, the curator winked at her.

  * * *

  EMILY COULDN’T WAIT to get home. It had been an exceedingly successful trip. No ties to her old life lingered, no age-old mummy wrapping choked her, not a single regret clouded her judgment, and Jean-Marc was getting his well-deserved comeuppance.

  She was free and clear.

  She’d brought home a local paper, had stayed around Khartoum long enough for the news to break, to show Salem that she’d destroyed the man who’d hurt her for so many years.

  She had vanquished her last bully.

  She’d never felt stronger. She had thumbed her nose at all of the bullies of the world and had triumphed. She would never allow it to happen to her again.

  Her traveling days were over. She wanted Salem and Aiyana and Mika. She wanted her family. And Salem. She wanted her music students. And most of all, Salem.

  Pulling her pashmina out of her knapsack, she wrapped it around her shoulders and settled in for a nap.

  She couldn’t settle, though, because of images of Salem, beautiful visions of lying with him and holding him.