Discretion (17 page)

Marisa stands at my side, her anxiety palpable. She and Joanna don’t get along, tied to events of the past which are taboo to discuss and adds a complicated layer to this dynamic. The reality is, Marisa can’t forgive herself. And she can’t forget. She tries to bury the past, pretending that it doesn’t bother her when it eats at her. The child that was aborted haunts Marisa to no end, a past she would give anything to erase.

“Have they told you anything?” I ask.

She closes her eyes for a long moment. “There’s not much to tell. They don’t know much…other than that everything is wrong…and up in the air…depending on how the first of the surgeries goes.”

There is good here. A purpose here. Be ready.

I ask Christel in the depth of my heart that Jamal would live. That she would protect him as she protects me. And, like times before, which I do not understand, she makes no reply.

Christel, in times past, has put me to work on assignment to help others in need. This could be one of those times—yet I sense this is different. She has plans of her own.

I
step aside with Joanna to talk, away from the crowd, and she gathers herself. I tell her not to worry about anything, but I know it’s no use.

She recounts what the doctor could explain, which creates more questions than the information answers. Too much remains uncertain.

A car accident happened around 5:30 this afternoon, involving five vehicles. Four people are dead at the scene, eight injured, according to a short news report that ran twenty minutes ago. The report says two of the injured were significant, but not life threatening. Jamal is one of the injured, in critical condition.

Jamal was pulled out of the family GMC Denali by the fire department, the vehicle having been knocked over when it was broadsided.

“He’s going to be in surgery for a while,” Joanna says flatly, yet she does not believe the words. She takes a seat in a well-worn chair with gray fabric. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

Several people who were praying walk over and sit with her. One of the men suggests they lay hands on Joanna. A brisk glance from Marisa is a cue to make some distance between them and us. We step away from the group gathering around Joanna and observe at a comfortable distance.

A young woman appears with the sleeping Delana, tucked into the pillow-like fabric of her car seat and covered with a pink baby blanket. The child’s head is nestled and she is peaceful, completely unaware of all that goes on around her—the events of tonight could affect the rest of her life.

I abhor the thought, but can’t keep it from coming back and parading in my mind: What will happen to her if Jamal dies? Who would fill his shoes? I swallow hard, as I know the answer, but cannot admit it.

The carrier with the sleeping baby is set at Joanna’s feet and people take turns praying over them. Marisa clutches my hand. She doesn’t know what to think, but she cries all the same.

An hour passes and no concrete news comes. A young woman leaves with the sleeping baby—Joanna’s younger sister. A doctor appears and gives Joanna a short update. He remains calm and collected, from my point of view about twenty feet away down the hall. It’s clear the news is more like a hypothesis, as it’s still too early to tell—he’s just through the initial stage. Should Jamal survive, it’s hard to say what he will endure to get back on his feet.

The television is on, running news reports on mute, showing snow hampering the Midwest. Prayer continues, in view of the odds. There is limited conversation among a sizable group. Marisa and I sit still, in disbelief over the situation and to observe. A few nice smiles and welcome nods and handshakes come our way.

Jamal used to say it’s faith, not sight. That couldn’t ring truer than now.

Marisa rubs my leg and her eyes are weary. “What should we do?” she whispers close to me. She drops her head on my shoulder, and then her designer purse on the linoleum floor. Her relationship with Jamal and Joanna is casual, but this is breaking her down—she wants to sleep as much as I do, yet, because of where Jamal is, I know I won’t be able to sleep until I know what’s going to happen—and Christel won’t show me, a fact that I find both disturbing and strange.

“I don’t know what we can do. Just wait, I guess. Joanna said they would know more after the current surgery is over.”

“How long?”

“Maybe five hours. It’s major, from what I understand.”

She looks at the clock for the fiftieth time in the past hour. It’s a few minutes after nine
P.M.
and no word on Jamal’s progress, good or bad. The continued wait remains to be torture. People pray, but for me it feels repetitive.

Marisa nudges my leg again, and fidgets, adjusting her head on my shoulder. She groans, softly.

Then my phone vibrates. Marisa sits upright, suddenly alert. The large letters and picture of her smiling face announce the caller is Natalie.

Do not talk with her.

She’s going to want to know about Jamal. I should answer this. That’s the right thing to do.

“Who’s calling?” Marisa says.

Marisa and I have a relationship I like to think is built on honesty and trust, the way it should be, but this presents a unique challenge, as Natalie is a friend I intend to keep after the wedding.

“Natalie.”

“Oh, fuck…oh, sorry. Take it. She must want to know about Jamal.” She makes a tired, contorted face at me. Given the quantity of wine she drank at dinner, I’m surprised that she is still coherent. Awake, I should rather say. Her normal is two, maybe three glasses and she is ready for bed. The stress and anxiety with Jamal is keeping her alert, to a minimal extent.

I answer and bring Natalie up to speed on Jamal. It’s hard to convey, as I still cannot believe it’s happening—this should be a bad dream. Marisa returns her head to my shoulder and seems less annoyed than normal.

“Oh…what are you going to do?” Natalie says to me.

I shift in my seat, unable to get comfortable. I consider standing up, so I can talk without an audience. “I don’t know what I can do. I’m at the hospital now, but we’re wearing down and probably should get some sleep. He’s not going to be available…anytime soon from what we’ve been told.”

“Okay. I’ll pray for him. How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine…we’re fine, I think. I dunno. We’re…going to make it. Listen, it’s…late. Get some rest, okay?” I say.

She agrees and ends the call.

Marisa nudges me and we stand in unison, say a few brief goodbyes and walk down the hall, away from there, and I feel a sense of abandoning. There is little to be done lingering, I know, but what if his circumstances change? This is a bad omen. Should his condition turn for the worse, will I regret leaving, like I regret falling asleep on the boat fifteen years ago?

Presuming the best, Jamal will be unconscious in recovery for plausibly several hours or longer after the surgery is over. The group of people staying behind wait for that moment, which feels a lifetime away.

Christel should intervene. But this thinking causes me to wonder: if Christel is for me, then who is helping Jamal? If Christel is indeed an angel, doesn’t one exist for others? But then she can’t be for him; she would have stopped this wreck. So where’s God now when Jamal needs Him the most?

We arrive at my car and get in, Marisa sits there a moment, as if she doesn’t have the strength to buckle in.

“So…” Marisa says, her head resting against the door of the car, sitting partly on her hip.

“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” I say, keeping my voice low.

“Me too. Are you okay? To drive?” Marisa says, her words slurred.

“I think so. I don’t expect to get more than a few hours’ sleep tonight.”

“Uh, huh.”

I take the drive slowly, though I feel no sluggishness to my reflexes. I am wide awake after three cups of terrible hospital coffee.

I wish not to be worried about Jamal and Natalie, but I can’t help it. It’s an unhealthy occupation. Joanna is on my mind, too, as the thought of her having to raise their daughter without Jamal pains me—the very thought of the little girl growing up, never knowing her father except as a photograph.

I call my parents to update them, knowing I’ll only be leaving a message and then the thought crosses my mind to call Natalie again, as Marisa is asleep. She starts snoring and I take a moment to watch. Natalie can wait. I hang up and place the phone on the center console. Eight minutes later, my car pulls into the garage and I carry Marisa inside and lay her out on the bed. Her clothes will be too complicated to remove with her being asleep. The last time I tried, I ripped a fine Italian suit.

I nearly trip over Max on my way out, as he is in demand for some affection and making effort to block me from escape. I rub his head and scratch him behind the ears for a few minutes, sitting on the floor next to him. Poor dog is alone all day and if not for his dog door from the kitchen and the neighborhood canines to commiserate with, I think he would be officially depressed.

Now, I’m in a state of caffeine-induced alertness and Natalie returns to mind. I reminisce of the way we used to be in high school. The games, the parties, dances, dates.

We did everything together. She was really great. We went to separate schools, so that created some natural space, which my parents insisted was healthy. My father felt she was a poor influence, as she didn’t devote time to her studies. I was working on differential equations during my junior year while she needed my help with geometry. Natalie wasn’t viewed as stupid, but simply keeping pace—a celebration of average, my father would say.

He wanted us to break up after her abduction case was closed; he never said it to me directly, but in so many words, the message was clear. I knew his opinion—he liked her, but felt she detracted from my ambitions, or rather, his ambitions for me. He got his wish, but not until my first year of college—the distance between schools, a catalyst.

That was where Marisa excelled. Given her family legacy, my father figured she’s a winner.

He didn’t meet Marisa until after we finished college because I prevented prior attempts. And he understood why, yet he persisted and felt I should understand his position.

My thoughts are disrupted by Jackson calling.

“Where are you now?” Jackson says.

“Just got home.”

“You sound awful. Been drinking?”

“Not enough since I’m still awake and your email has been bugging me all day—”

“About that email. Did you share that with anyone?”

Oh no. Jamal. How much trouble have I put him into?

“Colin? Did you send it to anyone? Like Jamal?” Jackson says.

“I did. Jamal got it this afternoon. No idea if he even looked—”

“Listen, there’s no substantial evidence and everyone tied to this prostitution ring is dead, so…”

The pause in the conversation becomes more and more uncomfortable.

“You heard about the wreck,” I say, hardly audible.

“Heard about it? It’s all over the news. They can’t shut up about it. Every network is covering it. More than two hours of live coverage with lots of people dead or wounded and I’m not sure they have hard numbers for that yet.”

“So what do you think? This can’t have something to do with the case or that file you sent me.”

“I think…no, there’s no easy answer here. It’s all speculative, so there’s no need to panic. Is Jamal doing as bad as the news says he is?”

“How bad are they saying?”

“Very low chance to live. I’m wondering if the doctors are telling a different story. The last word was he’s in surgery, where he’ll be for several more hours at least,” Jackson says.

“So what’s this got to do with that heinous email?”

“Two people among the wreckage, from the vehicle identified as being the cause of the accident, have the exact same pentagram tattoo, same location as the other victims. My old partner called with the news and she thinks they’ll stamp this a homicide, considering the circumstances. That puts the crime ring front and center.”

Could Jamal’s accident be because of me and that email? Now I feel sick. Natalie will never be the same because of me. Dasher is dead, who may have played second fiddle to the crime. And now Jamal. Is Natalie next? Am I?

“So what do I do now?” I say and rub my scalp, and then toss my tie on the bed, followed by the suit jacket and pants. The belt is a miss, hitting the floor with a thud.

“Just be careful. It doesn’t make much sense that the ring would be after Jamal, but then, he’s not highly visible. Nor does he have any evidence beyond what the police already have. So it’s nonsensical to suggest this was an attempt on his life.” He pauses a moment. “But still, it’s a strange coincidence, to be sure.”

“Must be a common tattoo, Jackson.”

“It’s location, not just the tattoo. Keep in mind, that’s a detailed tattoo that not just anyone can do. Plus, it’s a painful spot to get it done. My guess is these two guys, who are now crispy from what I gather, were tied to the ring—so no loss of life there.” He sighs. “I don’t know. The weirdness is getting to me. It’s foreboding, if nothing else.”

“What would your source say?” I ask.

“My source believes the tattoo is akin to their beliefs. Gnosticism, some cult…voodoo, who knows. Could be spirit worship. I’m way too cynical to share any such beliefs.” He pauses a few seconds. “But none of that really matters now. I’ve not talked with him recently and I don’t suspect I’ll hear from him soon.”

“Can you contact him?”

“No. I don’t want to know anything about him, and I like it that way. He likes it that way. If he’s got a witness who can help, he’ll reach out to me, then I’ll reach the FBI.”

I process this a moment. “So he remains hidden? Even from the feds?”

“Correct. He wants to remain anonymous, that way he can keep doing his work and not have to worry. Like I said before, the women who show up at his door aren’t looking for justice. They want to get back to the life they used to have and that means running from the past. He has to protect them.”

“This is torture. I could be charged for a crime from when I was a teenager and here I am, waiting around. How’d you find this source, anyway?”