The Witness Series Bundle

by Rebecca Forster

  Now something had happened, and Hannah almost exploded with the need to comfort herself. A touch at a doorway would help; a razor blade on her arm would be best.

  When she got to her locker she fell upon it, rested her head against the cold metal and thrummed her fingers against it. She counted softly, stood upright and twirled the lock.

  "Damn." Her hands shook so badly she couldn't get the combination right. Hannah paused and breathed deeply. One finger tapped. She concentrated.

  One…

  Three…

  Five….

  Ten...

  Hannah's head hurt. She didn't want to be in school. She wanted to be at the hospital. She wanted to tell Billy she was sorry if she had ever hurt him.

  "Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. . ."

  Hannah froze. Her head clicked up, her eyes narrowed as she stared at the metal locker. She knew that voice.

  "Shut up, Tiffany."

  Forcing her fingers to quiet, she twirled the lock and tried to ignore the girl behind her. Tiffany sidestepped into Hannah's line of sight, all five-foot six of her clad in her perfect leggings and gladiator sandals. Her hair was long and her make-up heavy. Her mouth twisted cruelly around every word that came out of it.

  "Oh, come on. I'll help you count. It will be fun," Tiffany mocked. "Then we can go around touching all the doors."

  Hannah yanked open her locker. From the beginning, the coolest of the cool girls had decided it was her job to make Hannah miserable. She executed that charge with relish, especially after she figured out Hannah wouldn't fight back. It wasn't so much that Tiffany disliked Hannah as she did like torturing people.

  "Oh, you don't want to play the counting game?" Tiffany cooed. "Maybe you want to go for a swim like your boyfriend did."

  She moved again, this time scooting up close to Hannah. Tiffany's little posse hung back, a zygote of bad girls waiting for their cells to split so they could grow into real bitches like Tiffany. Hannah knew that would never happen. Those girls would always be tethered to the blonde by that bizarre umbilical cord of communal self-loathing that passed for friendship. Tiffany's fingers wound around the edge of the locker. She leaned closer to Hannah, tired of not being the center of attention. Hannah slid her eyes toward that hand as she listened to Tiffany's ugly voice.

  "I never understood why you let that loser hang out with you. You're pretty in a weird sort of way. You're smarter than Billy Zuni," Tiffany drawled. "Then again, anyone is smarter than Billy Zuni."

  Tiffany raised her voice and her pretty kohl encrusted eyes at the same time. Her friends giggled on cue. Satisfied that she had been amusing, she looked back at Hannah and leaned closer still. She was so excited by this little game that her knuckles were white as she grasped the edge of the locker. She licked her lips as if what to come was going to be absolutely delicious.

  "I mean only an idiot couldn't kill themselves. Then again, you're not too good at that either. You're supposed to cut your wrist, Hannah, not your arm. Next time you two should try it together. Two heads are better than one. Maybe you'll get it right 'cause nobody would miss two losers like you."

  Slowly, Hannah turned and looked the vile girl in the face: the one who had draped herself across the locker, who had decided that it was funny to wish people dead, who had probably wasted countless hours since Billy's ordeal talking about him to anyone who would listen. Hannah touched the locker door.

  Once. . .

  Twice. . .

  Tiffany rolled her eyes.

  "Oh God, here we go again. I know, twenty. Want me to help you count. Shall we all help her count, girls?"

  Tiffany raised her voice and her friends joined in.

  "Six. Seven-"

  Tiffany smiled. Hannah didn't want to look at that smile for the count of twenty. In fact, Hannah didn't want to look at Tiffany one second longer.

  Without a word, she slammed the locker shut.

  ***

  If Billy were a fish, he would have been a Bonita. In its natural habitat, the Bonita is exquisite: rainbow hued, bright eyed, and swift. Catch one, reel it in, take it out of the water, expose it to the air and that beauty fades instantly: its scales turn to the color of an overcast sky, the light in the eyes fades. Its death throes are pitiful, useless movements that attest to both the strength of the fish's desire to live and the inevitable futility of the fight.

  Just when you take pity, just when you realize that something beautiful is about to be snuffed out and you are ready to put it back in the water, someone on the boat clubs the thing over the head and the beautiful Bonita dies.

  Here was Billy Zuni, his beach boy brilliance dimmed, his face pale, swollen, and discolored. His eyes were unfocused, and his attempts to make himself comfortable on the narrow hospital bed were pointless. If the club was coming to this little fish, the people wielding it were going to take their sweet time using it. For that, Josie was grateful because it meant they wanted to be sure of the catch before they reeled it in. Poor Billy. There was so much resting on his shoulders and he didn't even know it yet.

  "Hey." Josie greeted him quietly as she stood at the foot of the bed. His good eye opened as far as it could. It took a Herculean strength for him to speak.

  "Is my mom okay?"

  "Rosa's in bad shape." Josie walked around the bed, bringing a chair with her. She set it next to him and sat down.

  "She's going to be okay, right?"

  "I'm talking about Rosa, Billy."

  "I know." He licked his dry, cracked lips. "Rosa's my mom."

  "Billy, I've seen her. How can she be your mother?" Josie insisted, but he wasn't engaged.

  "I hurt." His head moved side to side on the pillow, his legs pushed at some unseen obstacle, his hands clutched at the sheets.

  Josie's eyed the whiteboard. His morphine drip was current. She put a hand on his brow.

  "I'll ask them to check your medicine again," she soothed. "Billy, listen to me. Are you listening?"

  His eyelids fluttered and then the one eye opened again. Josie took her best shot.

  "Two men were murdered in your house. Rosa was almost killed. You were in your house, weren't you? You saw them didn't you?"

  Billy's purple-bruised face turned toward her. His lips were swollen and misshapen, his voice ghastly as he whispered:

  "I thought she was dead."

  "Did you do that to her? Billy? I told the police I am your attorney, so don't be afraid."

  He shook his head and she could see it hurt him to do so. Under the eye that was swollen shut, a necklace of tears gathered at his lashes. A sob turned to a moan as the muscles and nerves inside his body rebelled.

  "I couldn't do that. I couldn't."

  The words came out chopped up like a log. Josie found a tissue and dabbed at his tears. He tried to help her, but his arm was heavy in the cast, the morphine had left him uncoordinated and confused. He mumbled that he couldn't have done that to Rosa. Josie, though, needed facts, not disjointed protestations.

  "Did you see it happen?" she persisted.

  Again a shake of the head and a stutter of sobs.

  "Was there a gun in your house?" Josie pressed.

  "No."

  Billy's eyelids fluttered, half opening and closing again. His lips moved but no words came out. Josie sat back. She wasn't asking the right questions and even if she did, Billy had a limited capacity to understand and answer. After a moment's thought, she leaned forward again.

  "Billy, did you know the men who were with your mom?" He sighed and stayed silent, frustrating Josie. She tried again. "Were there other people in the house?"

  Billy nodded. He choked. "I hurt."

  She took a deep breath, put her forehead on the metal bed railing, reached through the bars, and took hold of his arm. She shook it gently.

  "Archer and I need you to help us. Come on. Just a little more."

  Josie tried to temper the urgency she felt. When Billy licke
d his lips again, she found his water cup and put the straw to his lips. He drank, coughed, and nodded as if giving her permission to continue.

  "Where were you earlier that night? The night of the storm?"

  "Pier."

  "Were you alone?"

  He shook his head. "Adam and Cher."

  "Good. That's good." Josie said, even though it really wasn't.

  Regular dopers, Adam was a surfer who lived in his van and picked up a few bucks working as a handyman; Cher was a self-proclaimed free spirit with too much money and a penchant for communing with nature and young men.

  "Cher didn't take you back to her house, did she? You didn't sit in Adam's van?" Josie pressed.

  "No. Cher liked. . . waves."

  "Did she make you go into the ocean? Were you high?"

  Again a negative.

  "Why did you go in the ocean?"

  "Get away," Billy muttered.

  "From what?"

  "People. . .the people. . ." he breathed as he moved in and out of consciousness.

  Discouraged, Josie put the water glass back on the table. He couldn't have been everywhere at once.

  Josie put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Was there anyone else there at the beach?"

  "Trey."

  "Who is he?"

  "Lives next to. . ." He started to mumble and was gone again in the next instant.

  "Where does Trey live? Next to who?" Josie pressed, but Billy had only one thought.

  "Rosa. . .Please."

  "Not now, Billy." Josie pulled the thin blanket up to his chin then held his fingertips in hers. "Is there a relative I can call, Billy?"

  Billy nodded as his head fell to the side and his fingers slipped away from hers. They were done for now – or at least Josie thought they were.

  "Trey. . . crazy."

  "Why is Trey crazy?" Josie leaned close and drew the back of her hand down his smooth cheek. "Why, Billy?"

  "Bath salts," he mumbled as he slipped away.

  CHAPTER 11

  1998

  Teuta and her husband sat at the table where they ate their food, and Teuta felt as if she was looking at her father. There were traces of the handsome young man who had wed her, but soon he would disappear forever. The collapse of the economy, the loss of their money, and so little food had caused her husband to grow thin and gaunt in the last few years. Because there was no money to buy things, the factory had closed and he had lost his job. Good men were going to Greece, sneaking in to do work that no Greek wanted to do. They were going into Italy to steal cars and sell them just to feed their families. And Teuta heard worse. She had heard there were other things being sold, precious things.

  She looked over at her children just to see their faces. They did not know how desperate times were. Hopefully, they never would. They were but children.

  "So we will go?" she asked of her husband. "To Bajram Curri?"

  He shook his head to show that they would do just that. He could not bring himself to say the words. His parents were long dead, and he had thought to always live in the family house. Now they would leave.

  "My friend's cousin has an apartment. It is a small place, but my friend's cousin has a store. I will work," her husband assured her.

  "It will be better for the children." Teuta agreed in the way one must when there is no other choice.

  She sat for a while longer then stood up. She kissed her husband who didn't move but only stared at the tabletop. She gathered the children and put them to bed. She told them of the adventure that was coming and answered their questions until she feared she would cry if they asked any more. She tucked each of them under their blankets.

  "Nënë," the youngest girl murmured when her mother kissed her.

  Teuta kissed her again. She looked at the other two thinking they were good children. She hoped they would like the new place. She hoped they would be safe. Teuta would give anything to keep her children safe.

  2013

  Mike Montoya was early for his visit with Dan Jenkins, the controller of Marshall Fasteners, and was shown to the conference room to wait. From there Mike could look into Greg Oi's private office and out again through another door that led to the main offices.

  Marshall Fasteners manufactured critical widgets: screws that held airplane landing gears in place, switches that deployed a car's airbag, lights that warned a train was on the wrong track. The huge warehouse space was divided into administrative and manufacturing areas. From where Mike stood he could see a labyrinth of hallways and pseudo-offices created by dividers. Inside those cubicles were people who spent their professional lives filling out forms: forms for customs, forms to satisfy government regulators, forms for workman's compensation, benefit forms, union forms, and forms to change forms.

  Mike Montoya would not have done well here. His mind would have atrophied and his spirit wilted. The guy who stamped out the screw didn't have it much better than the one in the cubical. Union rules restricted both creativity and motivation. When a man is told he can lift only so much, he lifts less than he is capable of. That was not to say there wasn't drama in such a well-regulated place. In fact, drama was all over Marshall Fasteners right now.

  The union demonstrations showed no sign of abating despite Oi's death. Someone had vandalized the man's private office the same night he was brutally murdered. Combine that with the fact that he was in the company of Jak Duka, a man with ties to Local #976, and it was looking like Oi was the corpse to watch if Mike were going to find a motive for these crimes. At least he hoped it was going to be as simple as some union guy going ballistic over benefits.

  "Here we go. Okay, now. I have what you need, I think." Mike looked over his shoulder as Dan Jenkins rushed into the conference room, paused, considered Greg Oi's office, and shook his head. "I still can't believe someone did that."

  His melancholy was momentary, and he was all business as he settled at the long oval table. Mike took one last look at the mess in Oi's office. The walls were splashed with red paint. Someone had taken time to write 'bloodstucker' and 'death to the man' on the walls. Mike would have thought the misspelling of bloodsucker amusing save for the centerpiece of this mayhem: an effigy of Greg Oi, a knife piercing the outline of a heart, and red paint-blood dripping down the hopsack body. There was a feather boa around the thing's neck. Whoever did this not only hated Greg Oi, they knew a lot about his personal life.

  "I hope I have all the information you need." Dan spoke up, politely indicating he was a busy man. Mike appreciated that and sat down next to him.

  "Let's take a look."

  Dan got up and closed the connecting door to Greg Oi's office. "You don't mind, do you?"

  "Not at all."

  "I am in total shock. First that," he inclined his head toward the now closed office, "and then to hear Mr. Oi had been murdered. I hope I never hear news like that again, I can tell you."

  "I'm sure everyone here was shocked," Mike commiserated.

  "That's an understatement. Mr. Oi was fair. This was a pleasant place to work because of him. That's saying a lot these days."

  Mike nodded and tucked away that piece of information. "I saw Mrs. Oi this morning. She would like to get some personal things out of his office."

  "Kat?" Dan blinked. He seemed confused for a minute. He blushed. There was no mistaking the side note in the man's voice. "Oh, sure. Should I let her in?"

  "I'll follow up with the local police," Mike offered.

  "Thanks. If there's something in there that Kat wants, she'll expect it sooner than later."

  "She's a demanding boss, is she?" Mike asked this with a smile.

  "She isn't anyone's boss," Dan answered. "She just thinks she is."

  "So she was more a meddling wife?" Mike inquired.

  "A little of both, I guess. She sits on the board. All her expenses went through the company." Dan kept his eyes down as he rifled through the pile of files. "She drew
a salary. She's Mr. Oi's widow, so I really shouldn't say she hasn't got an interest in the company. She has an interest in it remaining solvent. Here, this is a list of the board members."

  Mike scanned the names without recognizing one. There was no reason he should. His portfolio was nonexistent, so he didn't exactly follow the business news.

  "Katherine M. Kudahay? Is that Mrs. Oi?"

  "Yes. That's her," Dan said. "I don't think I'd be speaking out of school, detective, if I said she didn't serve this company in any meaningful way. Her appointment was legal, of course. Still, if you want to talk about the business, I wouldn't contact her. Her input was minimal at best. I can suggest others who would be able to help you."

  "I'd appreciate the information," Mike said even as he got up and opened the door to Greg Oi's office again. His brow knit.

  "It's curious that she's so anxious to get into this office. There doesn't seem to be any personal effects. Not even a picture of Mrs. Oi," Mike mused.

  "Who knows what that woman wants?" Mike closed the door and went back to the table. Jenkins' face flushed, embarrassed by his outburst. "Look, she's not my favorite person, but I wouldn't wish this situation on anybody. Even her."

  "Were you aware of any tension between her and Mr. Oi? On a professional level, that is."

  "The only thing I'm aware of is that Kat wanted him to settle the strike. From what I gathered, she was concerned that if the strike went on the company wouldn't survive."

  "Was there any truth to that?"

  "We've weathered union problems before," Dan said. "This time it's more vitriolic because the old guard is gone. These young guys, they are a different breed. The thing is, we've been hit like any other manufacturer. We're not doing the volume we did five years ago. The profit margin isn't there, and the guys on the line keep asking for more and more. They should be grateful they have jobs. Mr. Oi was doing everything he could to keep the line going despite the down tick."