A Dime a Dozen (8 page)

The person on the ground was hurt, but from the jerking motions in his legs he obviously wasn’t dead. To my eye it looked as if he had been stabbed in the stomach, for there was a dark circle of blood on his crisp London Fog jacket, and he clutched at his abdomen as he writhed on the ground. Judging from the amount of blood that surrounded him, he had been here for a while, though back here in the dark it had taken this long for someone to spot him.

“Sir!” barked the officer as he knelt down, one hand on the man’s shoulder. “Help is on the way. Can you tell me who did this to you?”

The man tried to speak, but only gurgles came from his throat.

“Who did this to you, sir?” the officer demanded.

The man gasped and whispered one word.

“What?” the cop said, leaning closer. “Jim? Jim’s? Jim’s what?”

The man tried to speak again, but blood bubbled over his lips and down his chin, and his head fell back with one last spasm.

Then he was still.

The cop grabbed the man’s wrist and felt for a pulse while we all held our collective breaths.

“He’s dead,” the cop pronounced finally, setting the lifeless limb back on the ground even as the siren from the approaching ambulance could be heard in the distance. Two of the women started crying, and the men shuffled and coughed and looked everywhere but at the man on the ground in front of them. I had seen dead bodies before—including that of my own husband, whom I cradled in my arms moments after his death—but standing there I realized that this was the first time I had actually witnessed someone in the act of dying, someone making the shift from “living” to “dead.”

It was a bit of a shock.

“Who is he?” someone asked, and I was surprised to see that no one in the small crowd seemed to know.

“Maybe he’s with the band,” Dean said.

“No, they’re all loaded up and gone,” a man in an orange safety vest replied.

“Did anyone see him earlier?” the cop asked. “Maybe in the parking lot or at the concert?”

Everyone shook their heads, mute, as if stunned by what we had all just witnessed. Looking around, I was glad to find that the migrant woman, Luisa, was herding her children away from the scene. I wondered how much the kids had seen, particularly the little girl, and my heart went out to them. Death was hard enough for adults; it didn’t need to be witnessed by children.

The next hour was a blur of more police cars, tons of cops, and lots of official business. Since the man I had seen running earlier might be pertinent here, I was forced to wait around and periodically answer the same questions over and over again. While Dean and Natalie talked to the police and helped Luisa with the children, I sat on the bench where I had sat earlier, listening to all that was being said around me. I learned that the victim had no ID on his person and that there were no unclaimed vehicles remaining in the parking lot. None of the police recognized the corpse, and for a small town that was saying a lot. Obviously, the dead man hadn’t been a citizen of Greenbriar or any of the neighboring environs.

The detective in charge of the case was a woman in her fifties with waist-length straight black hair that she wore pulled into a ponytail. She had the high cheekbones and smooth skin of an American Indian, and eventually she introduced herself to me as June Sweetwater.

At her request we drove to the Webbers’ house, where she had me recreate my encounter with the man in the woods. Though neither she nor her men could find footprints or any other evidence that someone had been there, she seemed to feel that the person had been running away from the church and toward the new neighborhood that backed up to the woods from the other side. As I listened, she spoke into her radio and dispatched a few units to comb the streets there and canvass the houses, despite the late hour.

I was finally freed from police questioning with the promise that I would remain local and available to the investigation for the next few days, should the need arise. I agreed, feeling regretful that even if they were able to round up some suspects, my encounter had been too dark and too brief to allow me to be able to pick out from a police lineup the man I had seen.

As I walked into the Webbers’ house, I could feel my eyelids growing heavy, the toll of jet lag and a very long evening. Numbly, I cleaned up from the party, and I was just putting out the last bag of trash when Dean and Natalie arrived home. Though they seemed wired up and eager to rehash all that had taken place, I was simply too weary to do anything but hug them goodnight and head off to bed, promising we could talk in the morning.

Slipping under the covers in the guest room, I thought again about what it had been like to watch a person die.
We’re all in the same boat. We’re all a breath away from death, with no way to know when it will be our turn, so we better be right with God
.

Thinking about that, I felt the Lord stirring me to renew my commitment to Him. I climbed out from under the covers, put my pillow on the floor, and knelt there on it, my hands clasped together, leaning against the bed. As tired as I was, I felt led to pray for the salvation of the people on my prayer list who hadn’t accepted Christ as their personal Savior. I always kept a running list of names and frequently prayed that each of them would somehow find their way to God—or that God might use me in some way to touch their hearts for Him. Tonight, my words were fervent, my mood urgent. Time was of the essence. The death tonight had reminded me of that.

Once I was back in bed, I thought about what the events of the evening might mean to the J.O.S.H.U.A. grant. Though this stranger’s murder would definitely involve some of my time because I was a potential witness, I didn’t think it should have any real impact on my investigation. After all, there was no correlation between the murdered man and the agency I had come here to approve. Feeling settled about it, I turned on my side and went to sleep. Deep in the night, I dreamed of ghosts running through trees, calling my name and whispering something I couldn’t quite hear.

Five

After a difficult night, I awoke at 7:30, feeling achy and apprehensive. I quickly showered, dressed, and got ready for the day. It was just a little after 8:00 by the time I emerged from the bedroom and walked down the hall to find Dean and Natalie at the kitchen table, finishing their breakfast.

“Callie, good morning,” Natalie said, looking pretty tired herself. “I wish I had known you were up. You had a phone call a little while ago from overseas. Some man with the J.O.S.H.U.A. foundation.”

I thought for a moment and then blurted out, “Tom?” My voice sounded loud in the quiet kitchen.

“Tom, yes, that was his name,” Natalie answered. “Nice fellow. He apologized for calling our house phone but said he hadn’t been able to get through to your cell.”

“I turned it off last night before I went to sleep," I explained, my cheeks suddenly burning with heat. “Did he leave a message?”

Natalie nodded, but she had just taken a bite of eggs, which she had to chew and swallow before answering. “He said it wasn’t urgent. He was just calling to touch base and he’ll try again later.”

“No problem. I’ll call him back right now,” I replied. “You’ll excuse me, won’t you?”

“Of course, dear, but I don’t think you’ll be able to reach him,” she said as I was turning to go. “He was heading out somewhere and said he’d be tied up for hours.”

I looked at my watch and did a quick calculation. After four months I was familiar with the time difference. It was 8:15 a.m. here, which meant it was 9:15 p.m. in Singapore. I couldn’t imagine where he might be going this late, but maybe he was still in transit and could talk for a few minutes at least.

“It’s worth a try,” I said before making a hasty retreat.

Back in the bedroom, as I turned on my cell, dialed, and waited for the call to go through, I closed my eyes and tried picturing Tom half a world away. He was probably riding in some dark, anonymous limo toward an obligatory business function. Or maybe he was off to a meeting with a power broker who happened to be a night owl. Either way, I felt bad I had missed his call—for his sake and for mine. I wanted to tell him about what had happened here last night. I needed to share it with him, needed the comfort of his soothing voice.

The call went through, but when he first answered, I thought perhaps I had the wrong number. Instead of the calm quiet I had been expecting, a cacophony of noise and music greeted my ears.

“Hello?” I said loudly.

“Hello?” he replied.

“No phones tonight!” I heard a sultry female voice say. “You promised.”

“Tom?” I asked.

“Callie? I’m sorry. I can hardly hear you.”

“Where are you?”

“It’s a dinner party. Just a little celebration.”

“C’mon, Tom,” the woman said. “Let’s get some laksa.”

“It’s probably not the best time for me to talk,” he said. “Was there anything specific?”

“Uh, no,” I said, biting my lip. I wished I could see through the phone right then, to see him and the woman to whom the velvet voice belonged. “What’s laksa?” I asked.

“Coconut soup. They’re just bringing it out now.”

“If you don’t hang up, I’m hanging up for you,” the woman said. “Come on, it’s time for Nonya, not work.”

“Look, why don’t you call me when you get home?” I said, trying not to sound irritated.

“I’ll try,” he replied. “But I think it’s going to be a long night.”

“Who’s Nonya?”

“Nonya?”

“The woman.”

He laughed.

“Nonya is a type of food, Callie. Like Szeshzuan or Creole. Nonya’s a mix of Chinese and Malay food. It’s pretty good.”

“Oh.”

Despite the culinary information, I was acutely aware he hadn’t answered the real question, which was
who is that woman?

“I have to run. I’ll call you later.”

With the woman’s giggle as the final note, Tom’s phone was turned off. I sat, stumped, replaying the conversation in my mind.

I wasn’t really a jealous person by nature, but right now my heart was pounding. I stood and paced in the bedroom, confused and upset.

I needed some air. Without pausing to think, I walked quickly up the hall and through the living room so as not to go directly past the Webbers.

“Callie?” Natalie called.

“I have to get something out of my car,” I replied. Then I let myself out the front door and closed it softly behind me.

My heart was still hammering as I walked to my car. I opened the passenger door, sat in the seat, and closed my eyes. I forced my breathing back to normal and told myself to calm down. Tom was thousands of miles away. There was nothing I could do
here
to change the situation—whatever it was—over there. And what was it, anyway? Probably something completely innocent.

Eventually, the pounding in my heart subsided. I realized that my reaction was exaggerated, that I was just worked up from all that had been happening here.
If only he weren’t quite so far away
.

If only I didn’t care quite so much
.

That was it, really, I told myself as I finally stood and closed the car door. Leaning back against it, I looked out at the lake, sparkling in the early morning sun. Here I was at the home of my late husband’s parents, in the very place where Bryan and I had first fallen in love—and yet I was consumed with thoughts of Tom. That, more than anything, told me my heart and mind were turned fully toward the future and no longer just dwelling in the past. That was a good thing, I reminded myself. Growth is good. Even when it hurts, growth is good.

I walked back toward the house, telling myself that there was a logical explanation. And even if there wasn’t, I realized, neither one of us had ever made any promises.

When I got back to the kitchen, neither Dean nor Natalie seemed to sense that anything was amiss. I was determined to put Tom out of my mind until such time as he decided to call me back and explain what had been going on. For now, I would focus on the moment. I was very good at compartmentalizing my feelings when I needed to. I’d had lots of practice at tucking away the hurt and getting on with the business at hand.

“There’s a plate for you in the microwave,” Natalie said. “Just press the ‘Start’ button if you want to heat it up.”

I did as she directed, and a minute later I pulled out a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and grits. It looked wonderful, though it was a slight departure from my usual breakfast of poached eggs and dry toast.

When I sat at the table, Dean handed me the local newspaper. A report of the murder was featured front and center under the headline “Murder in Greenbriar,” with the subheading, “Identity Sought for Victim of Stabbing.” I skimmed the article and learned nothing new, though I was glad to see that in my tiny part of the drama I was referred to merely as a “local witness,” rather than by name. There was a sidebar with a description of the man who was killed, where he was listed as a white male with black hair and brown eyes, 5'11" tall, 182 pounds. They also included my limited description of the person seen in the woods: a young male wearing dark clothes and a baseball cap.