Nightshade (Discarded Heroes) (26 page)

She raised her hand for another rap on the wood, when light seeped out from the threshold. Sydney took a step back, listening. Waiting.

“Hello?” A faint, accented voice called through the thick wood.

“Anisia?” Sydney fumbled with her purse and folder, searching for a small light to read the prompts she’d printed to help her through this interview. She aimed the light at the page and read, asking in the woman’s South African language to please talk with her.

When only silence met her plea, Sydney wondered if she’d made a mistake. Had she pronounced it wrong? Or maybe she shouldn’t have come. “Anisia, please,” she said again.

Finally, the lock clicked. Slowly, light splintered the darkened porch. Ebony eyes peered at her. “They say I not talk you.”

“I know.” Well, she hadn’t for certain, but she expected as much. “Who? Who said this?”

Anisia shook her head. “I not know.”

Glancing at her notes again, Sydney repeated the phrase that promised she didn’t want anything but to talk. Obviously, she couldn’t tell the poor woman that she feared that the people who told Anisia not to talk had killed her mother. Then Anisia wouldn’t talk to her for sure.

A dingy white sweater hung large and loose on the woman’s thin frame as she stepped out of the way and let her in.

“Thank you.” Once inside, Sydney followed her down the hall and into the kitchen, where a kettle let out a soft whistle. Anisia rushed toward it and set it to the side, turning off the burner.

Having studied up on the customs of Anisia’s people, Sydney hung back until the woman motioned for her to sit; then she took the chair and mumbled her thanks.

As Anisia poured a cup and set it before Sydney, she met her gaze. “I speak English.” A shy smile softened the woman’s features but also strained the color around a scar along her cheek. “A little.”

“I speak Tsonga—a little.” They both laughed, easing Sydney into the conversation. “I only have a few questions.” She added cream and sugar to the mug of coffee. Despite the fact she normally wouldn’t drink caffeine, she also wouldn’t refuse this woman’s hospitality. But coffee wasn’t what she’d come here for. Best to just get on with it. She set down the cup and peered at the woman. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Anisia gave a faint nod then drew in a long, staggering breath before she let it out. “They come at night when everyone sleep. I not sleep. My son sick. I hear strange … uh … noise. See men dress like trees come. Bad soldiers no see them.”

“Soldiers—who are they?”

“They take us from villages, force us to work fields and do things. They …” She hung her head. Then her gaze drifted past Sydney to another room and lingered there for so long it eventually drew Sydney’s attention round.

Through a narrow door, Sydney saw the boy asleep on the sofa.

“They rape.”

The words backed up Sydney’s breath and thoughts. The boy was the product of a rape? Is that what she was saying? Suddenly, she found it hard to look at the woman. Licking her lips, she turned back.

Anisia shrugged. “He good boy.” She sipped her coffee. “Here, he have chance be good. Strong. Not like them.”

Only then did Sydney notice what she had mistaken for age was in fact a maturity forced upon this sweet woman by years of hardship, brutality, and unimaginable terror. “Yes, he has a chance for a good future here. He’s a sweet boy.”

The smile filled Anisia’s face; then she rose. “I be back.”

Sydney shifted and watched the tall, lithe woman glide into the front room and kneel next to her son. Anisia brushed a hand over his face then stood again. When she returned, she laid several papers on the table, bringing with her a swirl of heady spices. “He draw those. The men who save us.” She patted her shoulder. “They wear.”

Sydney frowned but looked at the small stack of drawings. The star with the odd center and sword. Lightning bolts.

Another drawing had a half dozen men, each depicted differently. She glanced at the beautiful, dark-skinned woman. “Six men?”

Anisia nodded.

Sydney used her phone and took a photo of the star symbol—and noticed that sketched onto one man was a very crude rendering of the American flag. She pointed to the star and shot the woman a questioning glance. “Did you see this?”

She shook her head. “No. My son draw that after we come here.” She patted her forearm. “The star? He have there, but hide when we see. All very good fighters. Fast.” Tapping her head, she smiled. “Smart. They trick soldiers. Make them sleep.”

“I’m sorry? What do you mean they made them sleep?”

Another smile lit the woman’s face. She held her hand like a cup and tipped it toward her face. “Drink. Janjaweed not know.”

“Did they drug you and your people?”

Anisia laughed. “No. We not allowed water at night. Little in morning and after work.” Arms folded, she leaned back with an expression that betrayed her pleasure at what happened. “Soldiers always celebrate weekend. Men this know and drug them. We escape. But some wake, and they shoot. Star men not hurt, but Janjaweed lose many.”

What must it have been like for this young woman to see all this, to endure such atrocities? And being so young, yet she seemed so content. “How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

Sydney tried not to let her shock show. This woman had borne a child at the raw age of fifteen—a pregnancy forced on her by a brutal, fierce soldier. A man who murdered her loved ones and raped her. Sydney’s hand went to her rounding belly. Her baby had been conceived in love. How great the irony. Anisia’s baby was conceived in hatred and violence but now had a better life. Sydney’s baby was conceived in love and the bond of matrimony but now would be raised by only one parent.

“You baby?” Anisia smiled and nodded toward Sydney’s hand and belly.

The heat crawling into her cheeks must surely have given her away. “Yes.”

“Your baby have good mom. And father.” She reached across the table and touched the wedding ring on Sydney’s finger.

Tears blurred her vision, but Sydney blinked them away. How could she explain to a woman who’d been through such an unspeakable existence that this was a point in her life where she questioned God. “No. My husband … is gone.”

Anisia’s face fell. “He die?”

Sydney swallowed the tears. “No, he’s just a very angry man.”

“He beat you?”

Sydney shook her head. “No.” Why did her pain sound trivial? It wasn’t. Max refused help. Refused to work on their marriage. “I should go.” She gathered her things. “Thank you so much for talking to me, Anisia. I am very grateful.”

Dark fingers wrapped around Sydney’s arm. “Pain come in many colors.” She smiled sweetly.

Sydney sniffled. “Yes. Yes, it does.”

“You baby have good mother. I pray God take good care. Maybe even bring back you husband.”

Words failed. Her brain wouldn’t cooperate. She hugged Anisia and quickly left. As she drove home, tears flowed unchecked.
Stupid hormones
. If only that was all it was. The pain remained despite the months that stretched the separation closer to the actual divorce. She banged her hand on the steering wheel. “I won’t do this. I won’t cry anymore.” Phone in hand, she called Lane. “Hey, I’ve got the proof we need.”

The line went silent.

“Lane?” Her heart skipped a beat, remembering when the line died—and so had her mother. “Lane!”

“Sorry. I’m … what did you do, Sydney?” Concern and hesitancy laced his words.

Why did he sound so irritated? “I spoke with Anisia. I’m certain the men we’re after are Americans.”

“Sydney, I hate to break it to you—”

She frowned. “What? What’s happened?”

“Buck’s looking for you.”

“Looking for me?” She glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard. “It’s only six in the morning.”

“He called me an hour ago.”

Sydney tried to steady her racing pulse.

“We’re off the story.”

“No! Why? He can’t do this.”

“Well,” Lane said. “He can and did. And vowed to have you arrested if you tried to contact anyone again.”

Laughter permeated the country home filled with the thick scent of pine and simmering cinnamon spices. Max shrugged out of his leather jacket and set it on a chair as they passed through the dining room into the large, open living area.

He couldn’t stand the suspense anymore. “So, what’d she say?”

Cowboy grinned as he lowered himself into a thick gold chair. “Who?”

Perched on the edge of the sofa that divided the dining and living areas, Max narrowed his eyes. “You know full well who I’m talking about. Did you give her the box?”

“I did.” Cowboy smoothed a hand down the leg of his blue jeans.

“And?” The suspense was killing him.

“She wouldn’t take it.”

His heart hitched, disappointed. “You’re kidding?”

“At first.” Cowboy chuckled.

Max landed a fake punch on the guy’s shoulder.

“She knew you would have a good reason, so she took it and went back in the house. I honestly don’t know if she loved it or hated it.”

A small child with white blond hair darted across the room and leaped into Cowboy’s lap. “Daddy, Nana said dinner would be ready in firty minutes.”

“Thirty,” a woman called from the kitchen.

“That right?” Cowboy grinned, scooting forward as the girl straddled his leg like a sawhorse. “Max, this is McKenna.” He looked into his daughter’s eyes. “Mickey, this is my friend Max.”

“I know who he is, Daddy.” She swiped at the blond hair that fell in her face, swinging her legs and bright red boots back and forth.

“You do?”

“Uh-huh. Nana said you were shooting pool with him late one night.” McKenna bolted back to the living room, her knee-high boots clomping over the wood.

“You’re in trouble,” Max taunted his friend.

Cowboy slumped against the seat. “You have no idea.” Then he pulled himself up and slapped Max’s leg. “Come here; let me show you something.”

They headed to the back of the house, but instead of climbing the stairs, Cowboy opened what looked like a closet door, flipped on a switch, then disappeared inside. “You coming?” His voice carried from a distance.

Max peeked around the corner, surprised to find a set of stairs leading down under the house. He hustled down the steps, surprised at the cement walls. “What is this, a bunker?”

Cowboy clicked on another light and shrugged. “You could call it that.” He punched a code into an access panel, and the wall in front of him slid back. “We had one in Texas. Ya know—with the tornadoes and all. So, out here on seventy acres, I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

Inside, Max stopped. The guy had a small arsenal racked on the wall. “What is this?”

“I’m a collector.” Cowboy folded his arms over his chest, fingers tucked under his armpits. “Most of what you see is antique.”

Max ran a hand along a long rifle. “They look pristine.”

“Yep. Had ’em restored. Some I outright paid a small fortune for, like that early nickel Remington Model 1875, single action Army revolver.” He pointed to a shiny silver-barreled gun gleaming under a tinkling fluorescent light. “Look at ’er. All original, excellent metal and markings, including the barrel address and number 44 on the frame.”

With a low whistle, Max stepped back. “I’m impressed.”

“Kinda used to be an obsession, ya know?” Cowboy shrugged. “Not so much anymore, but it’s a way me and my dad would connect. Go to gun shows, plan our next purchase. He bought some of these, but his hands don’t work so good anymore, so he passed ’em on to me.”

Dad. What would it have been like to have a dad who actually wanted to connect rather than beat the fastest path out of his life?

“Colton!” a semishrill voice carried down into the cellar. “Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t y’all wash up?”