The Witness Series Bundle

by Rebecca Forster

  "Gjergy. I thought you had gone to Shkodra." She said this even though she could see he had no interest in her. He was looking at her son who smiled his glorious smile back at the man.

  "So, this is your son. He is a fine boy." Gjergy slid his eyes back to her. "He is seven, now. Seven years old. And Yilli. Is he well?"

  "My father is dead." Teuta was sure he knew this full well, but she could not help herself and answered him anyway. It was cruel of him to ask.

  "Ah." Gjergy's eyes went back to the little tow-headed boy. "And your boy goes to school, does he?"

  "He walks with me, Gjergy. He is a child."

  "You are a man, are you not?" Gjergy teased and the child smiled wider.

  "He is a child," Teuta reiterated.

  "And your daughters? I see you let them walk without a man."

  "They walk together. It is modern times." Teuta's gaze followed the man as he considered the girls standing next to the store that sold clothing. Gjergy's eyes lingered on them and then came back to her.

  "It is a shame Yilli is dead. Your oldest daughter, she is beautiful. All your children are beautiful, Teuta."

  "They are a blessing," Teuta said.

  "Or a curse," Gjergy countered. "Only God knows which."

  He drove off. Teuta could see that he did not look at the road. Gjergy did not have a care for the men walking or the women shopping for their vegetables. She saw that he looked into the mirror. She saw that he looked at her and the boy who still held her hand, who still smiled, and the daughters who still giggled, probably speaking of the American who came to teach them a language they had no need of.

  2013

  "Here. Take this."

  Sam Lumina handed his wife, Mary, a glass of wine and then stood beside her to watch the people milling around the small house. In one corner there was a group of men, tightly circled around Mark Wolf who was taking being pissed off at Marshall Fasteners to new heights. Sam would have to talk to him. A funeral wasn't the place to get on a soapbox about work. There were people here who weren't brothers. You never knew who might not share your opinion, you never knew who might think you were more than just talk. People misinterpreted stuff all the time. Just look at Jak Duka. He was an idiot. It was because he was an idiot that he was dead.

  Sam took a drink. It wasn't Mark's rant that was making him nervous; it was the icy anger shooting off his wife. He followed her gaze to the group of ashen-faced women huddled around Jak's widow. They offered spoken words of condolence and silent prayers of thanks that they were not in that woman's shoes. Children ran through the living room, reached up to the table laden with food, grabbed a cookie or a cold cut, and went on their way again, trailing little bubbles of laughter. Even Jak's own kids didn't really get it, and Sam's son was right there with the big boys, shoving and pushing.

  By the window, the old man spoke to two others even older than he. Their heads shook back and forth as they agreed with what he was saying. One of them raised a fist and shook it. Sam's wife's attention had moved from the women to the old men.

  "Good grief. You'd think those guys had lived here long enough to figure out that we nod to agree and shake our head to disagree. And why is your uncle still here? I hate that old man. Why is he still here?" Sam's wife groused. "That's all I want to know."

  "Because he's my uncle," Sam snapped.

  "He's your uncle that you haven't seen in thirty-years, for God sake," Mary sniped. "He didn't know Jak, and still you trot him out like he's something special. Those old guys act like they've known him forever."

  "You're so damn American." Sam took a drink of his beer thinking that was a funny thing for her to say. The old man said the same thing about Sam. That was the only thing the old man had been wrong about. Sam knew where his loyalties lay.

  "I don't mind you having a relative in, but he's just weird." She waved her wine glass his way. "He doesn't talk to me. He doesn't say please or thank you."

  "What was I going to do, leave him at home?"

  "Sure, why not? We haven't had one second alone. Your own son hasn't seen you for more than two seconds," she muttered. "And I thought he was going to leave tomorrow. He hasn't packed or anything."

  "Just a few more days until we get some things sorted out. He knows all about what's coming through the mines at home. He can help us with the negotiations with the new management."

  "Really?" she drawled. "You're telling me that this guy is somehow going to make things right and you all will get back to work? That's dumb. And what's this home stuff you started talking? This is home."

  "You don't know what you're talking about. A couple more days." Sam took a drink and added: "Men don't talk to women about business where he comes from."

  "Well, this isn't where he comes from," she groused.

  "Okay, I got it," Sam snapped. Then he realized that attitude might do more harm than good. "I'm sorry. I know it's tough. Just trust me."

  He put his arm around Mary and pulled her close. He would never admit it, but he would be happy when the old man was gone, too. Much as he thought he had the stomach for all this, he really didn't. Much as he thought he had the conviction that justice was on their side, he wasn't so sure. The strike, the old man, his unhappy wife, Oi and Jak's death, were all taking their toll.

  "Why don't you see if Sharon needs anything before we go."

  "She needs her husband back. I can't even imagine what he was doing in that house?" the young man's wife clucked. "A stripper? I can't believe he was doing a stripper and Sharon so gorgeous and all."

  Sam looked at Sharon and thought that beauty was in the eye of the beholder. He said: "You don't know why he was there."

  His wife only made a sound like women make when a husband says something particularly stupid. Sam had to get her under control.

  "Okay, he was there to talk to Mr. Oi," Sam said under his breath. "Don't you talk about that, you hear me? Don't mention it to anyone but that's what it was. Wrong place, wrong time."

  "Sharon should know. She thinks he was cheating," Mary hissed.

  "Believe me, she doesn't want to know what business Jak had with Oi," Sam assured her.

  "Any business with that man was bad. I'm glad he's dead." Sam took his wife's arm and squeezed hard. She turned an angry face his way. "That hurts, Sam. Jesus, what are you doing?"

  "You can think anything you want, just keep your trap shut. Do you understand me?"

  "Around here?" she snorted. "All these people think the same thing. Heck, maybe one of them did it just to clear the way."

  "Jesus, what's wrong with you?" Sam's accent got in the way as it always did when he was excited.

  "Sharon thinks it might have happened because you guys didn't want Jak. She's terrified that Jak had something to do with killing Oi just to prove to you guys that he was tough enough to be one of you. She thinks he couldn't take it so he shot himself. That's what Sharon thinks."

  "And she thinks he was doing a stripper. Sharon is going to say a lot of things. Give me a break." He shook her a little and the wine spilled out of her glass.

  "Okay. Okay. All you wanted to do was work." She looked over at the women huddling around the widow. "I'm just saying, I'd understand if one of you guys got Oi, and maybe Jak got caught in the crossfire."

  "You don't know anything about what happened in that house or why."

  "Do you?"

  She turned toward her husband and looked at him with her big black eyes. She wasn't a pretty woman but she did the best with what she had. Her make-up was nice, her dress decent, her ass was outstanding and her boobs beyond compare, but she was always poking her nose in where it didn't belong.

  "Jesus, Sam. Do you know?"

  "I don't know nothing. Nobody here does. If Sharon knows what's good for her she'll let it all be. Maybe you should encourage her to do that."

  He buttoned his jacket. His eyes darted around the room. He was worried someone was watching. No one w
as. Mark was getting all in a lather again. The guys around him were getting drunk and buying into it. The women were still being women.

  "No one's going to forget Sharon. We'll take care of her and the kids. We're all going back to work without a contract on Monday 'till they can figure it out. Oi's estate doesn't want a cash cow shut down anymore than we do. You tell her. We won't forget."

  "Everybody forgets," his wife complained.

  Unsure of what they were talking about anymore, she peeled away and joined the women, leaving her husband staring at the floor. He was thinking about family, thinking about honor, thinking about his union brothers and a dead guy who ran a company where they used to all work pretty happily together. He was thinking about history and determination. Sam was thinking harder than he had ever thought in his whole life. Then Sam looked up.

  Mark was pointing his finger at the group of men around him like he was giving orders. Big talker. He never actually did anything. Sam clicked his eyes an inch and saw his wife take Sharon Duka in her arms. He saw the utter terror and grief etched on the widow's face. Then Sam realized he was looking at the old man. He thought he saw the old guy smile, but it was really just the way the light hit his eyes that made him look like that. The old man cocked his head.

  Sam nodded. It was getting late. It was time to go.

  ***

  "Get it! Get it! Don't let it go in the water!"

  The woman in the pedal pushers and sunhat danced around on the sand, waving her arms, calling to her daughter. The girl – overweight and uncoordinated – was trying to track the trajectory of the Frisbee her mother had thrown. It didn't help that her mother wasn't the best Frisbee thrower; she always made it sound like her daughter wasn't a good catcher. And there were people around to hear her mother yell at her. The girl hated that. She was probably the only fat kid in Hermosa Beach and her mother made her chase a Frisbee in front of kids who looked like they never ate anything in their whole life.

  The plastic disc wobbled and then hovered as if it were trying to decide whether to lead her into the pier pilings or back to the beach. Finally, it shot off toward the water. The girl lumbered after it, head up, arms up, fingers stretching as she prayed, just this once, to catch it. She jumped as high as she could, hoping to at least bat it out of the air. The water was lapping water at her feet as she made one more valiant effort before losing her footing. She crumpled, falling on the wet sand. In the next second, she let out a howl of pain. Her mother's high shriek of panic came next.

  "Oh no! Oh my God! Honey, are you okay?" She ran awkwardly over the sand toward her daughter.

  "No!" The girl called back. Then she realized that she hadn't just stepped on a shell or a rock, she hadn't just twisted her ankle. She raised her head and screamed for real. "Mom! Mom! I'm bleeding!"

  ***

  Kat had poured herself a scotch and soda an hour earlier even though it was well before the cocktail hour. In fact, it was so far from the cocktail hour it wasn't even lunchtime. Now she was nursing the last of it. God knew why she bothered since there was plenty to be had. She reached for the bottle on the desk and refilled her glass sans soda or ice. As she did so, Kat saw that she had company. She sat back in the big chair that had been Greg's and looked at the gorgeous young woman standing in the doorway.

  "What?" Kat snapped.

  "What happen now?" The young woman walked into the room, picking at her fingernails, her eyes at a lazy half-mast.

  "I'm figuring it out. I'll know soon," Kat snapped. "Where's the other one?"

  "Doing lesson," the girl said.

  "Go help her." Kat took a drink and sat forward in the chair as if she was about to work, but the girl didn't leave. Kat demanded: "What?"

  "Did you kill him?" she asked. "He was weird, so maybe you kill him."

  "You are so stupid. Why would I kill him?"

  The young woman shrugged as if to say why not?

  "Do we go home now?" she asked.

  "Probably. Leave me alone. Get out of here. Keep the kid busy," Kat directed.

  The girl retreated, gracefully melting into the shadowy hall. She wore no shoes, so Kat couldn't hear her steps across the marbled foyer. Kat drank. She tried to ignore the giant question mark that had replaced the girl in the doorway. What in the hell was she going to do with them now? What in the hell did Greg do with them?

  Kat took another drink and pulled more papers out of the desk drawers. She relegated the catalogues from Joan's Closet, feminine apparel for men, to the same pile as the receipts Greg had kept for everything he bought for his charming little habit: special shoes, clothes, wigs, jewelry.

  "Fool," she muttered as she rifled through them all.

  The man had spent a small fortune on dressing up. All cash. He was fanatical about that. Even the house was paid off. When it was appropriate, she would sell this big place and find herself a fancy condo on the Miracle Mile or in Century City. Something with a city view.

  She found one of Greg's cards with a woman's name and number written on it. She called. It was a seamstress. Greg still owed her six hundred bucks for letting out a gown. Kat told her to take it up with Greg's wife and hung up. She had a good little ugly chuckle over that but it was short-lived and small comfort. The wife thing good old lawyer Fred had dropped was a gruesome surprise, indeed. If that woman Rosa Zuni survived, if she chose to lay claim to Greg's estate, then Kat was screwed big time.

  Kat's fingers drummed on the desk as she eyed the passports she had found. They were Greg's and the two girls. Kat's own was there, too. She had hoped to find something else. She wanted proof that the other woman was legally Greg's wife since even Fred couldn't tell if the marriage certificate he had shown her was authentic or legal. Not that it mattered. That woman could drag things out so long that Kat would have to pay her off.

  But if the broad kicked off, that would help a lot. Then Kat would take the next step and deal with the kid. DNA and all that. Good old Fred-the-attorney was clear. Kat didn't have to worry as much about the woman as she did about the boy. If Greg was the kid's father, or if Greg had adopted him, then he could lay claim to all that Greg Oi owned.

  Kat grabbed her tumbler. It was so heavy it felt like a weapon. She took a drink. She was working herself up. She pushed back her hair with her free hand, drained the glass, and put it on the side of the desk. She missed and it fell to the floor. The crystal was so dense and the rug so thick the glass didn't break when it hit the ground. Kat left it where it was and pushed aside the passports. She cleared a space for Greg's ledger that accounted for all of his personal expenses down to the last dime. One side of her lips pulled up in an expression of admiration. Despite everything she found out since his death, Kat admired Greg.

  He wasn't an engineer, he wasn't a chemist, he wasn't a metallurgist, he was just a man with a sharp eye for opportunity and the guts to take it on. She flipped through the book. There was nothing new in those pages.

  "Oh Greg," she sobbed suddenly.

  Tears just kind of spilled right out of her eyes. Kat's head fell forehead onto the ledger and rested there. She listened to the silence in the big house that was supposed to be hers. Knowing it might not be made Kat sad. Then it just started to make her angry again.

  She sat up, unwound the string from the grommet on an old envelope, and dumped the contents onto the desk. She fanned the contents. There were pictures of Greg when he was much younger: tall, slim-waisted, dark haired. No wonder she cottoned to him. In this picture he stood in one of those Albanian villages he loved so much. If Kat had come from a place like that she would never admit it. She picked up a picture, cocked her head.

  "The Addams family looks better than you guys."

  The people in the photograph didn't smile or touch one another. They looked beaten until you looked really close and saw their eyes. There was something spooky about those eyes staring straight at the camera as if they were ready to fight. The littlest kid looked sweet, though.
She snapped it down and picked up another one that showed Greg in front of a truck. Another picture of Greg with a group of men sitting at a table in a café, coffee and a bottle of liquor in front of them. She put those back in the envelope.

  There was a pile of neatly folded letters. She scanned them to her computer to translate later. By the time she was done looking through his stuff, she had pocketed three hundred bucks and change, made a file for follow-ups, and tried the two phone numbers that had been hastily written on the back of Greg's cards. She reached for the receiver. Dialed the first one. It rang and rang. She dialed the second one. It rang and rang, too, but finally a machine picked up.

  Hi everybody you've reached the Lumina family. Press 2 for Mary and 3 if you want to leave a message for Sam.

  CHAPTER 16

  2005

  The boys looked for treasure in the rubble of a building that had fallen down during the last big snow. They threw stones and moved the chunks of concrete and crunched broken glass under their feet. They hollered at one another and laughed and posed atop the mess as if they had taken a fort. Their Shqiptare faces were on, jaw's taut, eyes narrowed and hard. They were little conquerors of nothing.

  They stopped now and again to clean one another's shoes using the water that had puddled here and there on the cracked foundation. Teuta's son played with them. His shoes were dusty, so he knelt and used his fingers to put water on them. He did not notice the man who watched. He did not notice when the man sent the other boys away and that they went quietly because this was the kind of man who was to be obeyed. He did not notice the man until he was right behind him.

  When Teuta's son looked up, and he smiled as was his way. The man smiled back but it was not a nice smile. The boy did not know that. To him, all smiles were good.

  "Do you remember me?" the man asked.

  "Yes, I remember," he finally answered, just to be polite.

  The man nodded.

  "You are almost nine years old, are you not?