Discretion (18 page)

“When I identified the tattoo murders and then Arocha’s self-inflicted scars, I went looking for answers in dark places. Then he found me.”

M
y nerves are ignited. Every little sound or creak in the house is someone entering, undetected. The notion of looking behind me is unsettling. It’s late and getting any sleep tonight is going to be a stretch. Marisa is snoring, careless to the situation I find myself in.

I wonder what keeps Jackson on this case—at the risk of his own life? The greater good of humanity can’t be his only reason. No one’s that charitable. It’s been a year since he last cashed a check from me.

I ask, “Why not use a past victim? There’s a dozen articles, interviews of different victims who got out, in that file. Why not one of them?”

“Because they are running from the past and can’t answer for what happened. Should they testify, they will be cross-examined in court and that means all the dirt on their own checkered pasts comes up. Keep in mind, these are women who sold their bodies for a living, possibly years at it. Some aren’t thinking well, as a result of drug abuse, physical abuse, you name it. Asking them to testify is like asking someone who visited hell for a year to tell the story,” Jackson says.

“So he hides people with a problematic past?”

“Yeah, he hides druggies, prostitutes, abused women and children, and former occult or loony religious people, as you’d call them. People who get sucked in and feel trapped, often end up damaged and it’s against friends or family they need to run from, who won’t let them leave and try to find them when they’re gone. He hides people who need to be and he makes a point not to keep in contact, as he doesn’t want to be a source for locating them. Like I said, he sees a very ugly side of life—the kind no one wants to talk about.”

“Why does the devil have to be involved?”

“He doesn’t, but the source thinks this kind of evil doesn’t come out of a person without help. It’s like no one gets the idea to build a bomb and kill a few hundred people on their own; there’s an invisible co-conspirator who plants the seed, waters it, fertilizes it, you get the idea.”

I sit down on the bed and stretch out and consider turning on the television. “Great, now I have someone to blame.”

“It’s not a joke. The source warned me about those people. I’m still unclear on what they mean but still, he made a point to contact me on a whim. That speaks volumes.”

This is paranoia; go to sleep.

“Are you sure you’re not going paranoid?”

“I might be, but are you willing to bet your life on it?”

“No, but what can I do? I’m not a cop. And the victims in that email were shot or stabbed or beaten to death. No car accidents.”

“Agreed that it’s a first, presuming the accident was intentional. To be fair, the ring may not have killed those women at all, but other unsightly people in a day’s work, if you get my meaning. The tattoo being on a driver who’s dead in tonight’s accident doesn’t provide conclusive evidence, but it’s an unpleasant coincidence.”

I groan. “I’m confused and tired. I gotta get some sleep. We’ll talk more later,” I say, and bid Jackson goodnight.

One thing is for sure—those with the tattoo are typically found dead or gone nuts, like Arocha.

There is no danger for you. Delete the email and move on.

Why do I get the feeling that isn’t true? Nothing seems quite right…like the answer is hidden from me; within my grasp, but out of sight. Disguised.

If the crime ring is after Jamal, then somebody should be around to protect him. Max nudges me and even he looks concerned. I scratch the dog’s back and decide to get some coffee, so I throw on jeans and a polo, and then pour myself a cup and take a seat at the island counter. Alone with my thoughts, I wonder what if I’d never gotten that email this morning…what if I’d ignored Jackson’s call? How much different my life would be and perhaps Jamal’s life would look different, too. But then, if answers don’t come soon, I may have to answer hard questions from federal officers and deal with the suspicion my father and I endured years ago.

I finish the cup and grab the car keys. I’ve no idea what to do, but at least I know where I need to go. On my departure, I can’t help but think: is it already too late?

I
arrive to see Jamal, at John C. Lincoln Hospital, near midnight. No word yet from doctors. I check my phone. Nothing. No voicemails. No text or email. It’s past the time of completion, unless the surgery ran longer than expected. Hard to say that he’ll be awake and no one outside staff will be able to get close to him. His condition could be touch and go.

Christel, will he live?

Silence.

Only questions, no answers.

I’m surprised to see Joanna is awake in the waiting room. The mood carries a deep anxiety. At any moment now, the news could come. Jamal’s life in the balance—his family’s, too.

“So Colin, how is Marisa?” Joanna says, directing her undivided attention to me. She needs a distraction and is trying hard to find one, as the wait is eating her alive. Every second feels like one hour. A minute like a day and a day…a lifetime.

“As good as can be expected. Want a coffee?”

“Yes, thank you, Colin.” She manages a tired smile. “I’ve lost count of how many cups I’ve had, but I’m going to need it, I think.”

I meander off to acquire two cups of coffee, with the delusion that it’s improved from the last batch. The coffee sucks. If they would provide a shot of liquor as an option, it might enter the realm of tolerable. Given how hot it is, it may kill off some tastebuds, or numb them, so to make the bottom half of the cup more acceptable than the first. It’s a theory at least.

We sit for a while in silence. I contemplate who’s in charge of ordering the coffee here and how I can file a kindly worded suggestion like: Stop ordering this shit. Please. People are waiting in trauma and you are adding to their misery.

“So what’s on your mind, Colin?” Joanna says. I can’t help notice she is slowly sipping through her coffee also.

“How much this coffee sucks.”

She manages a laugh. “It’s the caffeine I need, though I probably should sleep so I’m useful tomorrow.”

Maybe I should tell her how I will word my letter. “About all it’s good for.”

“After three cups you get used to it, I think.”

“I’ll take your word on that. How’s the princess?”

She makes eye contact with me and brightens by the question. “She’s sleeping well, so Grandma says. Gosh, I can’t believe it’s been ten months already.” She pauses a moment, staring at nothing straight ahead. “How the time flies.”

“Glad they could make it down. It’s a bit of a drive for them from up north.” I pause a moment. “It was good to see Leilani, even though it was brief and under such circumstances.”

She smiles, faintly, trying her best to be happy through the pain. “I’d be at such a loss without Jamal’s mother. Can’t imagine what I’d do without her.”

“No doubt they are a big help. What can I do?”

“Keep me company.” She pats me on the leg and says nothing more, but her thoughts run wild—Jamal and family; the baby asleep at home and needing to pump in a half hour; the discomfort starting now. She is doubting right now—wondering how this could happen to Jamal and how this accident, should he survive, will change their lives. Will he be confined to a wheelchair? Will he be able to work and provide?

We sit and wait in silence. The second hand appears to slow down as I watch the round white clock, mounted to the wall a few inches below the ceiling. There is not much I can say right now—that or I’m afraid of the answer.

“How’s Natalie?” Joanna says.

“She’s good. Did you hear from her yet?”

“She called a while ago. I gave her the update and she asked to be kept in the know and all. And she plans to visit him when he is…” She pauses a moment to gather herself. “Natalie said she’ll come see him tomorrow when he’s awake and can take visitors.” She strains to get the words out and they are hard to understand. It occurs to me that Joanna is asking about Natalie just to make conversation—anything to keep from worrying.

“Glad to know she got in touch,” I say.

Joanna sighs. “So…what ever happened with you two? I know there’s a history, but…”

“Well…how much has Jamal told you?”

The question prompts a smirk. “Nothing.” She shakes her head. “He keeps that a secret. I know he has them, and I trust him, but that man is near impossible to get information out of, especially if it’s gossip.” She laughs a little. “He’d go to great lengths to prevent me from finding things out he’d learned about my girlfriends or a neighbor.”

“We are alike in that arena,” I say.

“And he has such a memory for details, even the little ones. He used to comb the bank statements for a few cents he’d be missing and wouldn’t give up until he found it, which…he always did. Hours later.”

I say, “Money is hard to earn, easy to lose, his father always said to him and me. Jamal is the meticulous one, and I got that from being around him.”

“He loves you, Colin. Really. And I know you two talk about everything because he won’t tell me much about the discussions.” Silence lingers a moment, while her mind juggles from one thought to the next. “What was it that Jamal used to say…between you two in college?”

I laugh, thinking back to the days; it feels like ages ago. “Bros before hoes.”

Joanna laughs with me and for a moment, she seems like herself. “Gosh, that’s still funny.”

“I love that man. He’s a good guy, Joanna. And a good dad.”

“He’s a great husband,” she says, fighting back emotions yet again.

I put my arm around her and try my best to console her. Then, my spirits are lifted as footsteps approach our way from down the empty hall. I take a gander in that direction, as a few other people waiting nearby do the same. And to our expectation, the doctor is on his way, dressed in dark blue scrubs with a cap over his balding head. His facial hair has a tinge of gray. Joanna comes to her feet and stops near him in the hallway. He speaks quickly and with a faint smile.

The news is unexpected and positive.

Jamal’s recovering just fine and should be able to live a normal life. It’s going to take time and he’s going to need physical therapy, but he’s expected to make it.

Joanna returns to the supporters, a bewildered look on her face and she is surrounded by the three who remain and I stand with them. They respond with praise to God when they hear of Jamal’s surgical success. We join hands and bow our heads and I play along. This feels silly. I wasted enough of my life doing this and I’d said never again.

One person, a calm, simple man of humble appearance, starts to pray calmly, reverently. His prayer is of praise and thanksgiving for healing Jamal, and his protection over him.

I begin to mumble to myself. Why, I don’t know. My eyes are closed, so I cannot see whether anyone else is looking at me. The man continues to pray; after a few minutes, he stops and everyone says Amen in unison. Except me.

I say a quiet expression of gratitude to Christel, for keeping my friend safe. It’s not some long-winded expression, but a humble thank-you for being my friend at a time of need.

No one is allowed to see Jamal for several hours at the minimum, so people start saying goodbyes and clearing out of the waiting room. In twenty minutes’ time, I get an iced tea from the vending machine and bring one back for Joanna. Caffeine is needed, but my limit is hit on the coffee. Joanna feels the same way; hardly a connoisseur of coffee, she can tell the difference between a decent roast and what tastes like a dirty sock was used in place of a paper filter.

“Colin…so…where do you stand?” she says.

“What do you mean?”

Three sips into the iced tea, which is only Lipton, and I feel a little rejuvenated. The coffee must be bad on purpose, to serve as a distraction.

“Prayer,” she says, calmly.

“Digging up the past, I’ve little interest. You know that.”

“Yes, but anyone can tell you were uncomfortable…” She coughs. “Okay, really uncomfortable. Do you think you were made by science? By some cosmic force that happened ages ago…with no one to explain it?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think science created me, no.”

“Then how do you explain your existence?”

“I’m here. Why do I have to know how?”

“How did you get here?”

“Look. I get what you and Jamal believe. I do. I respect people’s beliefs. But they’re not for me.”

“Don’t you want to know—”

“Know what? How the world is what it is?” I shake my head slowly. “I don’t need to know the answers because I think the answers aren’t available to us. There are some things we will never know or understand and I accept that. I don’t need to know how the Earth was made; it’s here and it’s nice. Hopefully we won’t destroy it.”

“So why is such an important decision…unimportant?”

“We’ve talked on this before. It’s not unimportant, just unfathomable.”

“That’s true in lots of things. Do you believe that Jesus was real? Historically speaking.”

“Evidence shows the man existed, sure.”

“Okay. And what does that make him?”

I ponder this a moment. “A person.” This topic is not comfortable, but I’ll go along with it, as thinking about Jamal is much worse.

“You came to church with Jamal for years. And you came with Jamal and me many times. What’s kept you going?”

“The preacher just talked about motivation, leadership. How to manage money, which was elementary, but I’m sure it helps people.” Several doctors walk past, followed by two nurses going the opposite direction. “The point is, he never said anything of consequence about Jesus, so it was tolerable. The topics were helpful to me, or at least interesting enough so I didn’t mind coming back. The whole religion point of the service was the smallest part.”

She ponders this for a while in silence. I can feel her eyes on me, like a mother watches her child sleep—both affectionate and protective. I look around, for staff, for patients walking around, for anything to help pass the time, which feels endless.