Gather the Sentient (21 page)

CHAPTER

36

SALOMON

Monday, October 3

Democratic Republic of Congo

Salomon took the bandana out of his back pocket, wiped the sweat from his brow, and looked up from his trenching to survey his fellow field workers.  Their backs bore the brunt of the late afternoon sun, hunched over their various tasks for the day.  While many worked, as he did, to plant rows of cassava and maize, others strung twine in straight rows further down the field to help assure proper placement of the seeds.

In a region where drought was rare and land was prevalent, it seemed counterintuitive that such a large percentage of Congolese died from starvation each year, but it was most certainly the case for his fellow countrymen.  However, thanks to his university training and partnership with the World Vision organization, he’d begun teaching farmers in his home village of Buganga to replace their common practice of scattering seeds randomly with the simple act of planting in well-spaced rows.  Unbelievably, in less than two years, the families working under his tutelage had seen a 750% increase in their crop production, and had gone from being unable to sustain their own nutritional needs to producing enough surplus to share with others.

Now his village was getting ready to partner with yet another surplus producing group as part of a farming collective.  Together, they would be able to pool resources for storage facilities and have greater bargaining power with seed and equipment suppliers.  They would also get better prices for their surplus by selling directly with one another in nearby towns like Minova and even Goma, only a couple of hours' drive on a bumpy road that twisted and turned around Lake Kivu.  Looking at his friends and family now, working not just to survive, but to thrive, gave him great joy.

And yet, he still couldn’t help but doubt the longevity of his accomplishments, especially given the country’s history of political and military unrest.  Born in the final years of Mobutu Sese Soko’s presidency, he grew up in the aftermath of the archetypal African dictator’s reign - a world of great famine, tenuous alliances between warring factions, and death.  Along with the other members of his village, he had never known peace.

As a small boy, he’d been fascinated by the elders’ stories of the Belgian rule, occurring long before his grandparents’ birth.  They’d spoken of great atrocities.  Of how their numbers had been reduced by several million over the course of King Leopold’s reign, a man some of the tribe’s wisest leaders felt certain was part of a great prophecy predicting the end of days.  So strong were the stories’ impressions on him, that when government scouts selected him for studies at the University of Kamina in Katanga, the genocide and the prophecy were the first things he researched at his arrival.

The moment he held the photographs procured from the university library of the disfigured Congolese in his hands, he’d been able to see his actual ancestors as if they were standing before him. He could hear their anguish.  Feel their desperation.  As horrifying as it was, he wasn’t surprised to encounter visions similar to the one he’d experienced upon finding an inscription in a cave as a small boy.  Touching those engravings had shown him images of ancient tribesmen fearful of the world to come.

Transferring knowledge from an object's history simply by touching it was a gift he could neither understand nor explain.

All he knew was that he saw what he saw.

The images of his mutilated, handless ancestors haunted him even still, but unfortunately he’d discovered very little at the university about the prophecy of which the elders spoke.

“Salomon!” his sister Manu called to him from the village edge beyond the wide expanse of dirt.  “Come quickly.  Marceau is here to see you.”

On his way across the field, he offered water from his canteen to several of his fellow laborers, and as he drew closer to the collection of huts, he could smell prepared cassava roasting on the fire.  Manu stood beside a bed of hot coals, tending to her pots.

“Are we meeting all together as a village or will it just be the two of you tonight?” she asked him as he approached, her pride in him unmistakable.

“I expect he’s here to help negotiate our agreement with the village in Minova, so he might just meet with me this time.”

“We’re so blessed to have you, brother,” she said, leaving her post at the cooker to walk with him to where the familiar World Vision truck awaited.  “Without your influence in Katanga, Marceau would have never come to our village.”

“It was pure luck I was chosen for university.  Nothing more.  Remember that.”  He looked at her sternly.  “There’s nothing special about me.  It could have just as easily been Niyonkuru or Rochi or even Bamboula who was selected.”

“It wasn’t though,” she said, wrapping her arms around his rib cage, “it was you.”

“Well, maybe next time the university comes looking for students, they’ll choose you.”

“They won’t take a woman,” she scoffed.

“You never know, right, Marceau?” he said to the World Vision volunteer who was rummaging through the bed of his 4x4.

“Mais oui,” he replied, slipping a laptop and a manila envelope under his arm.  “In fact, some of what I have to discuss with all of you today pertains to women’s rights.”

“How so?” Manu asked.

“Well, like this, for example,” he said, producing a sheet from his folder depicting a cumbersome looking piece of machinery.

“What is it?”

“It’s a cassava slicer.  It can slice up to fifteen tons an hour.”

“Can you imagine, no more slicing with a knife?” she said, still staring at the paper.  “It would free up so much time to do other things.”

“Exactly,” Marceau said as he walked with them to the largest of the village’s communal huts.  “Perhaps you’d be interested in using some of that free time to take a few classes on community leadership.”

She bowed her head.  “Those classes are not for me.”

“Of course they are.”  He smiled.  “Women are valuable assets, and it’s time you start garnering the respect you deserve.”

Salomon had already tried convincing his sister to enroll in the Women for Women International Program after she was held at gun point and forcibly raped while he was away at the university.  That he wasn’t there to protect all of his sisters from the daily threat of violence weighed heavily on his conscience, and that he hadn’t made it home in time to prevent Manu’s assault still caused him many sleepless nights.  Nonetheless, he’d witnessed the success of the program, visible in the women who thrived in the city of Katanga - earning increased wages, influencing decisions at home and in their communities, and making their health and well-being a priority.  It was no surprise he had chosen his own wife, Keicha, from among the program’s graduates, but unfortunately, Manu still struggled to see her own value.

He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder now, a gesture of encouragement.  “Perhaps it’s time to reconsider.”

She shook her head.  “What about the babies?”

“Keicha and I can look after your children.”

Of his five sisters, Manu was his favorite, partially because they were the closest of the siblings in age, born only eleven months apart, but mostly because she’d saved his life when they were children.  Delirious with fever, the result of an infected laceration on his leg, he could still remember six-year-old Manu sitting by his bedside for several weeks, forcing drops of water down his throat and working tirelessly to refresh the wet sarong she draped across his chest.  While the rest of his family worked in the fields and beside the coals to ensure their survival, Manu had tended to Salomon.  And miraculously, he had recovered.

It was just after his brush with death that he’d experienced his first hallucination at the cave.  When he placed his hands on the ancient inscription carved into the rock wall, he’d immediately seen the faces of those who had carved it, felt the truth of the prediction in which they believed.  However, having experienced similar visions with the fever, he dismissed the images, convinced death was coming for him once again.

When the visions continued even as his health improved, he was forced to acknowledge something unusual was happening.  In the years since, he’d discovered his visions only came when he touched objects of importance, and they usually correlated with significant historical events.  Sometimes the event would pertain specifically to himself or his family, but more often than not, they connected him to the world outside Buganga.

“Just take what we discuss tonight with the other female villagers into consideration,” Marceau encouraged her as they ducked into the hut.  “It’s never too late to make a change.”

As twilight fell across the community, dozens of men and women trudged out of the fields, wilted from the day’s labor, their faces and hands caked in the dark volcanic soil.  They were joined by the other villagers for the evening meal, and as they ate, Marceau shared news from the city about their inclusion in the co-op.  He also encouraged the women to consider signing up for the year-long workforce training, and as he spoke, Manu refused to make eye contact with Salomon.

Frustrated by her willfulness, he wandered from the group to the hut he shared with fifteen of his closest family members on the far side of the village.  It was abandoned, as his wife, Keicha, and the rest of his extended family remained with the others to clean up from supper and prepare the fires for the following morning.  Alone for the first time in days, he took the opportunity to log onto his university account with his tablet, using the Wi-Fi transmitted by the satellite server in Marceau’s truck.  Typically, he received only work related messages to his email account, so he was taken aback when at the top of his inbox was a personal communication.

All the way from China.

CHAPTER

37

MIA

Wednesday, October 5

Baltimore

It had been two days since Jose’s television interview and even though she hadn’t expected for Alejandro to show his face, she was disappointed that even his associates hadn’t made an appearance.  The longer they went without a lead, the more her frustration grew.

“He’s onto us,” she told Jack on the way to their weekly staff meeting.

“I doubt that,” he said.  “Let’s not jump to the worst conclusion.  Maybe he just didn’t see the clip.”

They slipped through the door, and she took her seat in the back corner of the conference room just as things were getting started.  “Someone saw the clip,” she whispered.  “He has to know.”

One of the senior detectives, Bob Stoecker, began the meeting by reminding everyone about a mandatory weapons refresher class the city was requiring every officer to attend the following week.  He shared the mugshot of a perp who they believed was running heroin into Prince George’s county, gave an update on a kidnapping the unit was following, and passed out overnight assignments which needed to be filled.  Just before the meeting was adjourned, he opened the floor to the others.  Mia sprang out of her chair.

“Has anybody heard any talk about a guy named Alejandro from Phoenix being here in Baltimore?  He’s a Chicano so Jack and I’ve hit all the known MS-13 guys, but we’re still coming up empty.  Have any of you heard anything on your beats?”

Darnell Carson, one of her classmates from the academy spoke up immediately.  “I mighta heard something about your guy the other day,” he said, turning to his partner.  “Remember the car theft on Highland last week, and the dude we talked to in the service station across the street who said he saw some locals with a new guy nosin’ around the car the night before it went missing.”

“Yeah.  I remember,” his partner said.  Then he turned to Mia.  “This store attendant seemed pretty intuitive, like one of those guys who knows what’s going on around his shop.”  He pulled out a notepad from his shirt pocket.  “His name is Lavelle Washington.  We haven’t been able to find the car or a suspect, but if this Lavelle guy noticed someone new, it might be worth checking out.  In fact, if your perp’s involved with the car, we might kill two birds with this one.”

Mia glanced at Jack and then back to Carson.  “Then we should swing by with Alejandro’s picture.  We’re thankful for any lead we can get, and we’ll keep you posted if we get any information on the car.”

Half an hour later, Jack pulled the cruiser into the parking lot of the Royal Farms convenience store on the corner of Fayette and Highland.  An elderly-looking black man greeted them from behind the counter as they entered.

“Morning, Officers,” he said.

“Morning,” Jack replied.  “We’re looking for Lavelle Washington.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he smiled.  “What can I do for you today?”

Jack quickly explained the situation while Mia slid a photograph of Alejandro across the counter.

“Well now, it was getting on twilight when I noticed them,” Lavelle explained, “but the one I didn’t recognize did have longish hair like the man in this picture.  Big across the shoulders like this guy too.  He was with a few other Latino men I seen around from time to time, and they caught my attention on account a they was just standin’ there doing nothin’ but looking at that car.  Almost called you all about it myself, but I try not to get involved if I don’t have to, you know what I’m sayin?  Anyway, wish I woulda now that all this is going on.”

“If you see something, say something,” Jack said, parroting the Homeland Securities slogan.  “Don’t ever hesitate.  You never know when something might be important to pass along.”

“I’ll do that from now on,” the man promised, and Mia could feel his embarrassment.  She felt compelled to let him off the hook.

“You know, there’s something more you can do for us now,” she told him as she scrolled through the precinct’s website on her phone searching for a mugshot of Sisco.  “Any chance this was one of the local men you spotted that night.”

Recognition crossed the man’s weathered face the instant before he spoke.  “Now that man there, he’s stolen from me more times than I care to count.  Mostly 40s outta the case over there when I’m with other customers.  He thinks I’m not gonna do nothin’ about it, and he’s right cuz I don’t want his boys in here starting trouble.  Just get in and get out.  But yeah, he was out there with the fellow in your photograph that night.  They were together.  Along with a couple a others.”

This was all the confirmation Mia needed to hear.  If Sisco and Alejandro were together, there was no doubt Alejandro knew they were looking for him.  The only thing keeping Andrea safe was that he didn’t know where she was.  At least for now.

They thanked Lavelle and walked side by side in silent familiarity back to the car.  They buckled up, but Jack didn’t turn over the engine.

“They’re running a stolen car operation,” he said.

“Sisco and Trece.”

“Yeah.  Call your dad.  I bet the felony charge Fields picked Trece up on was grand theft auto.  He must have caught him with another car, and they haven’t connected that theft back to this one yet.”

A quick call to her father confirmed Jack’s hunch.  “Let Carson know to get up with Fields.  I think these two cases are connected,” she told him before disconnecting.

They continued to sit in the parking lot, paralyzed by indecision.

“Where do we go from here?” she asked Jack.

He puffed his cheeks and blew the air out slowly.  “I have no idea.  Sisco and Trece are stealing cars and now we know Alejandro is caught up with them somehow, even though he’s probably just tagging along.  Trece got caught by Fields, but we don’t know for sure whether he was part of this heist.”

“You think they’re selling them off outta state or scrapping them for parts?”

“Who the hell knows.”

Jack’s dejection was contagious, and Mia felt herself growing more discouraged the longer they sat.  That their morning’s investigation had the potential to land Sisco in prison was little consolation, because despite all the time she’d spent searching on her own, he was still her only connection to Alejandro’s whereabouts.  There was really only one more lead to follow.

“Let’s head over to the tattoo place,” she said decisively.  She’d been wary of going there herself for fear of tipping Alejandro off on their involvement, but if he was working alongside Sisco, there was no doubt he was already well-versed in her connection to the case.

“No one’s been there,” Jack said.

“Someone’s been there,” she countered.  “Just maybe no one’s talking.”

Although Mia prided herself on keeping an open mind with regard to judging people by their outward appearance, she couldn’t help but venture a sideways glance at Jack as they entered the tattoo parlor.  Sitting just inside the vestibule behind the front counter was a formidable looking man.  With most of his visible skin obscured by dozens of random tattoos and a bushy beard that would make even Paul Bunyan envious, the shopkeeper epitomized the subculture.  Mia hoped he was more bark than bite.

“What can I do for you, Officers?” he asked them, his voice gruff but not antagonistic.

At the beginning of their investigation, they’d left the shop’s employees in the dark about their operation because Mia felt there was too great a risk of the employees accidentally giving away their involvement.  Instead, they opted to leave an unmarked car on duty to observe patrons entering and exiting the store.  Now that their cover was blown, however, the need for answers trumped discretion, and it was time to fill them in.

“Any chance you saw the news segment on WJZ mentioning your shop by name a few days back?” Jack asked.

The man’s jaw clenched.  He clearly wasn’t someone who enjoyed being put on the spot.  And it seemed as though he was no stranger to confrontation.  “Our books are clean.  Been audited twice in the last three years and everything checked.  I run an honest establishment.”

“I have no doubt,” Jack countered.  “I’m not here about your operations though.  I’m here about a missing girl.  A friend of hers was on TV telling about how he thought she might be coming to your shop.”

“Don’t know nothin’ about any missing girl.  Only girls been in here are ones I know.”

Jack nodded, scratching at the stubble on the back of his neck.  “Understood.  We’re actually more interested in anybody else who might have come in here looking for her.”

“You’re talking about somebody come in here asking about some missing girl?”

“Exactly.”

The man shook his head, but then held out a finger, an invitation to wait, as he called loudly into the back of the shop.  “Hey, Slick, you had anybody in here the last couple a days asking about a missing girl?”

“Nah.”

“How ‘bout you, Ducky?”

Instead of answering directly, a squirrelly-looking boy, barely out of his teens, peered around the wall of his station.  “Who’s askin’?”

“The cops,” he said, waving Ducky to the front of the store.

Skinny and pockmarked, Ducky strolled to the counter as if he had nothing but time on his hands.  “Yeah, I talked to a guy in here the other day asking about a girl.”

Mia’s heart raced.  If the stake-out officers hadn’t spotted Alejandro, he had to have sent someone they didn’t recognize.  “What day was this?”

He shrugged.  “Yesterday.  Or maybe Monday.  I don’t remember exactly.  The days all run together.”

“And you told him you hadn’t seen her?”

“Yeah.  Cuz I hadn’t.”

“What else did you tell him?”

“He started asking if anybody else had been in to ask about her, just like you.”

“And you told him no?”

“Yeah.  Cuz nobody had.”

“It was just one guy or more than one?”

“Just one guy.”

“Can you describe him?”

Ducky ran his fingers through his hair which was thick and dark and tangled at the ends.  Mia imagined the greasy film it probably left on his hands.  It was all she could do to focus on his response.

“He was a Hispanic guy.  Mexican maybe.  About 5’10” or 5’11”.  Seemed smart, you know.  But sheltered.  Like he’d never spent a day of his life on the street.”

Looking at Jack, she was sure his look of confusion mirrored her own.  The man Ducky described didn’t sound like any of the thugs Alejandro had access to.

He sounded like Jose.