Not Forgotten

by Nancy Holder

  “Here we go,” Cordelia whispered.

  “Nervous?” Doyle asked.

  Cordelia snorted. “Yeah, right. The Queen of Cool is nervous just because she’s riding in a limo to a rich family’s compound for a funeral. Please.”

  “Take deep breaths,” Doyle suggested.

  She rolled her eyes and said, “C’mon, let’s go. I’m hoping they have a buffet, because I’m starving.”

  Doyle and Cordelia left together. Angel stayed in the hallway to give them a head start.

  The driver got out and opened the door. As his two passengers passed him, he gave Cordelia a strange look, moving his gaze to her purse. He looked left, then right, maybe gave someone in the shadows a brief shake of his head. Angel couldn’t tell for certain.

  But I have a bad feeling about this.

  It was an actual physical sensation that began in the painful snakebite on the crown of his head and shot straight down into his toes.

  Angel crossed to the front door, opened it, and stepped into the night.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As Angel headed for the covered parking garage where he kept his vehicle, he was certain he heard footsteps trailing him. He did the old trick of speeding up and slowing down; whoever was shadowing him was either really good or a figment of his imagination.

  Make that door number one, he thought as something very hard came down very fast across his shoulders.

  He doubled forward and executed a snap-kick directly backward, slamming into the midsection of his attacker. Without a moment’s hesitation, he turned ninety degrees and planted a sidekick in the same location.

  His attacker was dressed in black clothing. He had long black hair pulled back in a ponytail and a wicked-ugly scar down the left side of his face. A tattoo of a death’s head had been worked into the scar tissue, and as the man winced in pain, the tattoo seemed to contort and spasm.

  Angel turned another ninety degrees and pushed the man backward. He advanced on him, pushing again.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “Who sent you?”

  The man coughed blood. He tried to shield his face as Angel rammed a fist directly into his nose.

  Bellowing, he dropped to his knees. His head flopped forward. The man braced himself with his hands, panting.

  Angel slammed his foot down on the man’s right hand. With a shriek, the man threw himself backward.

  Angel bent down and grabbed him by the collar.

  “Who sent you?”

  “I serve Latura,” the man croaked. Blood dribbled down his chin.

  “Who’s that?”

  The man spit out a tooth. His eyes widened. He said, “Kill me now, or my master will.”

  “Maybe I’ll let your master,” Angel said.

  “No,” the man begged. “He will let Latura eat my soul.”

  “Latura being your martial arts instructor?”

  The man’s eyes widened. His gaze ticked to a point behind Angel. Angel had seen that look before, and he knew what to do.

  He dropped to the ground and rolled out of the way as a second attacker launched himself at him.

  With nothing to stop his trajectory, Angel’s assailant arced into the air, then unceremoniously crashed on top of the first attacker. Both let out roars of pain and frustration.

  Before the second guy had time to realize what had hit him — or, more correctly, what he had hit — Angel was at his side, deftly twisting his arm.

  “One more inch, and it’ll snap,” Angel promised him.

  The man groaned. “Please, no. Latura, I serve you.”

  Angel frowned. “Does your boss have an address?”

  The man remained silent. Then he shouted in pain as Angel made good on his threat to break his arm. The sound echoed in Angel’s memory.

  There was a time when I did things like this for pleasure, he thought. I enjoyed hurting people.

  Now, I just need to get the job done.

  Tears ran down the man’s face. He murmured something, but Angel couldn’t understand him.

  “I will hurt you some more if I need to,” Angel said in English. “Tell me who Latura is.”

  “My god,” the man whispered.

  “I’ll ask one more time.”

  “My god. He is my god.”

  Ah.

  “And you attacked me because?”

  The man could barely speak now. “We are . . . to guard the family. I . . . I don’t know why I was told to attack you.”

  “Who told you to?”

  “Mustafa. The chauffeur.”

  “Of the limo?” Angel asked with alarm.

  The man nodded, then he began to cry.

  Angel whipped out a cell phone and punched in Cordelia’s number. He waited while it rang.

  And rang.

  And rang.

  A figure in the darkness melted back into the shadows. Jusef is not going to like this

  “Are we in a movie or what?” Cordelia whispered excitedly to Doyle.

  “What movie, Big Trouble in Little China?” Doyle muttered.

  They had made it past Checkpoint Charlie, or whatever passed for it in Indonesian circles. Now massive, jade-colored gates were taking their dear, sweet time opening, and Doyle was not loving the scene laid out before them.

  Nor was he loving the fact that he had lost sight of Angel’s convertible in the hubbub, the crush and density of which reminded him of trying to cross the border from Tijuana into San Diego at seven o’clock of a weekday morning, when all the maids, nannies, and gardeners commuted to their places of employment.

  “It’s just so . . .” She was at a loss for words, and no wonder. There were lanterns and torches and Chinese gongs and huge statues of weird mythical creatures that looked to be part alligator, part snake, and part icky demon thing. There were life-size topiaries of monkeys and elephants lit up with dozens of little white lights. Swirling masses of people in suits and evening gowns strolled around, carrying crystal glasses and looking very, very rich.

  On their right, valets in black trousers and white shirts were parking more Beemers, Jags, and Mercedes than could be found at most dealerships. There went a classic T-bird. Oh, God, and a Lotus.

  “Wow, this is some funeral,” Cordelia murmured.

  “It is grand,” Doyle conceded. He turned around again.

  “Relax,” Cordelia whispered. “My phone hasn’t gone off. So he’s somewhere.”

  That didn’t appease Doyle at all. It was not a foolproof plan, and he and Angel had both recognized that. Better, maybe, if he phoned if he did get onto the property. Phone batteries could get low, or reception jammed — all kinds of things. This way, they couldn’t be positive that he’d made it.

  The car slowed to a standstill. The door swept open.

  “Hi,” Cordelia said breathily. Her eyes gleamed as she took a male hand and climbed gracefully out of the limo. It was fairly probable the movie uppermost in her mind was How to Marry a Millionaire.

  Doyle climbed out by himself, to find Cordelia facing a good-looking gent in a hip version of a business suit. When he saw Doyle he looked none too pleased, but Doyle didn’t react. He didn’t care.

  “Selamat malam,” the guy said. Then to Doyle, as if he was the only one in need of a translation, “Good evening.”

  “Same to you,” Cordelia replied, but Doyle could tell she was disappointed about something. “Doyle, this is Slamet Rais. Slamet, my friend, Doyle.”

  “Ah, you brought a date.” Slamet sounded hurt.

  Cordelia smiled. “No. Just a friend.” She added coyly, “Your cousin said the more people who came, the more honor your uncle would receive.”

  “So he did.” Slamet held out his hand to Doyle. “Welcome.”

  As Doyle shook with the man, Cordelia looked back into the surge of people and vehicles gliding to a stop. The man — Slamet Rais — asked pleasantly, “Looking for someone?”

  He knows something’s up, Doyle realized. Maybe he can detect the talismans.
r />   Doyle reached for Cordy. “I think we’d better go —”

  But just at that moment, another man joined Slamet. A really big, tall man.

  And another.

  And a couple more.

  “Please, the sedhekah is about to begin,” Slamet said, pressing his palms together and making a little bow.

  “Oh, good,” Cordelia said, oblivious to the warning glances Doyle was trying to send her way.

  In a little clump, everyone began to walk.

  “Okay, so on to Ernesto Torres,” the blond detective said to Jusef. “He was an employee of yours?”

  “No, no,” Jusef replied, sounding amused. “We rented factory space from him. I believe there were some code violations, but two months later the building inspector reported that everything had been put right. We have the records, if you would care to see them.”

  That’s not true, Meg thought. Ernesto Torres supervised a sewing crew.

  Abruptly the detective said, “May I please see the death certificate for your father?”

  Meg gasped.

  “Detective,” Jusef said. “We have dealings all over the Pacific Rim, but my family is Indonesian. We practice adat, meaning that we keep to our customs. Our beliefs stipulate that the family takes personal care of the rituals associated with death. We do not hire outsiders, as you do. Preparation of the body, arranging the funeral pyre, is all done by the deceased’s relatives.”

  “What does that have to do with his death certificate?” she demanded.

  Meg was even more shocked. In Indonesia, one did not speak so disrespectfully to a Rais.

  “I only meant to point out that we have our own physician as well. It was he who prepared the death certificate. My father’s body never left the compound after he died.” His voice rose slightly.

  He’s getting angry, Meg thought.

  “So if for some reason you don’t trust us . . .”

  “Did you know Mr. Torres’s body had been moved?” she switched.

  There was a pause. Then Jusef said, “No, I didn’t know that, Detective. How would I?”

  “Apparently he was killed inside a warehouse.” She looked down at a notepad in her lap. “And moved about seven blocks to a more public location. As if someone wanted him to be found.”

  Jusef shrugged. “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Perhaps someone wanted to leave a warning.”

  “That could be,” he allowed.

  “Or maybe someone wanted him to be found by us.”

  “Also a possibility. Detective, I don’t mean to be rude, but we have a custom called a sedhekah. It’s supposed to start. I’m the son of the family, and I need to be there.”

  “All right.” She flipped the notebook shut and picked up a black leather purse. Meg moved farther back into the shadows. “Again, Mr. Rais, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks.”

  They both stood. The woman held out her hand. Jusef took it, and they shook.

  “I’ll see myself out,” she told him.

  He said nothing.

  As soon as the detective left the sitting room, Meg lost her composure. She stumbled toward Jusef, who looked very startled.

  “Baby,” he said. He held out his arms.

  “I’m scared,” she murmured. “I’m connected to all this. I just don’t know how.”

  He pulled her against his chest and stroked her hair. Then he walked her to one of the chairs and sat her down. He crouched in front of her and took her hands.

  “Look into my eyes, Meg,” he said.

  She obeyed.

  “Keep looking. See yourself as you are. The Meg I love.”

  Her smile was brief.

  “See the beautiful woman I love. See her from head to toe.”

  She began to relax. The muscles in her back and shoulders loosened. Her head was heavy. It was hypnosis. They’d done this a hundred times, and each time it got easier to go under.

  “You’re a vessel of pure light,” he said softly. “A perfect vessel. Say it after me, Meg.”

  “A vessel,” she whispered.

  “Yes. Each moment of your life. Each day of your life. The great wheel has turned to bring you to this.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Close your eyes now. See the flame in the eye.”

  It was a trick he had taught her, to help her fall into a hypnotic state. She was to envision a statue, and in the empty eye sockets of the statue, a flame. And in the flame, herself, dancing.

  From head to toe, she was swathed in gold. She danced the barong; and her costume was of pure gold.

  She was a temple dancer. She had always been a temple dancer, gliding through time. Her hands, her feet, making gestures that would bring the gods forth.

  Bring the god forth.

  Her hands said, Latura. Her feet, Latura.

  Nias, Indonesia, 1863

  The Servant quaked as the heads were brought. Shriveling as they dried, the faces looked inhuman.

  The pots were brimming with the meat of the dead.

  The headman, who had claimed her for his family, looked on approvingly as his sons’ slaves brought more heads, and more. Could there be anyone left alive, besides this clan?

  “My house does you great honor,” the headman said to her. “Now you will marry my son. Now you will give him your magick.”

  The bridegroom was younger than she. He was strong, and virile. He and his raiding party had taken more heads in a single attack than any before, ever.

  In their world, brides were bought with heads.

  She had never seen so much death. With each rotting head flung at her feet, she closed her eyes and chanted, For you, Latura, God of the Underworld.

  She did not want to be the cause of such slaughter. But what was she, if not the harbinger of death?

  When the god walks among the living, he will destroy everything he touches. Everything he looks at. Everything he breathes on.

  Of that she was certain. The knowledge was in her blood.

  Suddenly she flung herself in front of the proud young man. She gathered up her hair and exposed the back of her neck.

  “Behead me,” she begged, “rather than marry me.”

  There was a moment when no one moved and no one spoke. No one breathed.

  Then something came down on her head, swift and sure, and she collapsed from the force of the blow.

  No, I don’t want to die, she thought desperately.

  She didn’t know then that no one ever really wants to die.

  They want the pain to go away. The terror of the moment to subside.

  But death?

  Never.

  When she woke up, she was in the home of the headman’s family. Her bridegroom was with her, giving her a child.

  Their daughter was born the following summer, and the Servant’s blood flowed in her veins.

  The Servant wept for her child’s fate.

  This time, she tried to strike a bargain with the god:

  “If I write down all I know, will you spare her?”

  In her blood, the god agreed. He promised that her daughter would live a good, if short, life, and that he would grant her safe passage to the home of his twin, Lowalangi, in the sky.

  In return, the Servant, who had learned the ways of the headhunters, scratched his incantations into bamboo rods. It took her months. She kept them hidden among her belongings.

  When she was finished, the god caused a great fire that swept through the village. The only things that were spared were the bamboo rods.

  And the child of the Servant, who lay shrieking among the charred ruins until a group of Dutch missionaries arrived, and found her.

  They couldn’t decipher the rods, nor did they care to. But a kindly nun, figuring that they might contain information about the child’s heritage, lovingly gathered them up and carried them to their camp, placing them beside the sleeping baby, who was called Maria.

  Slamet was entertaining Cordy and Doyle, but it w
as clear he had a lot on his mind.

  He kept touching her, and it was starting to bother her. He’d touched a dead person recently. Well, no big. She was sure her touching-dead-people days weren’t behind her. Especially if you included hugging Angel.

  “So this washing dead people. It’s an Indonesian thing,” she continued, mostly to have something to say. She realized she hadn’t eaten since breakfast — too nervous at the audition — and her stomach rumbled. She laughed to cover it, and he gave her an odd look.

  “I can see why your own words amuse you,” he replied. “Seeing as how my country is fourteen thousand islands.” He held out his hands. “There really isn’t much that’s ‘Indonesian.’ Perhaps if you count Bahasa Indonesia, our primary language. But even it is not Indonesian. It’s Malay.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said brightly. She kept wondering where the heck on a map she’d ever seen fourteen thousand islands.

  Slamet, Doyle, and she strolled beneath strings of Chinese lanterns of red and yellow, past a long, white linen table attended by men in tuxes. They were pouring flutes of champagne as quickly as waiters with large, brass trays were lining up to get them.

  “We’re not Muslim,” Slamet said. At the merest glance from him, a waiter scurried up with two fresh glasses perched delicately on a small gold lacquer square. Slamet took them both and handed one to Cordelia, and one to Doyle.

  “To karma,” he said, “the great turning of the wheel.”

  “Same to you,” Cordelia offered.

  Doyle flashed her a warning look. Cordelia took a single token sip. She had to get something in her stomach before she drank any alcohol.

  As if he read her mind, Slamet took her glass and said, “Please follow me. We have a special house for the sedhekah. These other guests are here for the reception.”

  Cordelia took that in, flattered to be of the elite. Which is like it should be, she reminded herself. And would have been, if Daddy hadn’t lost all his money.

  With a snap of Slamet’s fingers, another servant appeared. He was carrying a small black scarf.

  “Please, Miss Chase, don’t be offended. This is traditional,” Slamet said.

  “Excuse me?”

  He opened the scarf and held it up. “Adat requires that women may not see the path to the place of the sedhekah. Back in Indonesia, you wouldn’t even be able to attend.”