Authors: Leslie J. Sherrod
Without Faith (18 page)
And also explained how I'd gotten into the building so easily.
I wondered what else about her mannerisms had an explanation beyond what I could see from my vantage point. Regardless, I would have to figure that out later as I saw on the screens her reason for my sudden dismissal.
“He's a cop, isn't he?” She was pointing to Leon. He was standing next to my car, a gasoline container in hand. I understood the gasoline container; what I did not get was why a black Pathfinder was parked next to my car and not his Altima.
“I'm going.”
“No, wait.” Silver jumped to her feet and grabbed one of my wrists. “I need to knowâis he a cop or not? Were you expecting him?”
I saw genuine fear in her eyes and I reminded myself that she was hiding from something or someone. “Yes and yes,” I said to reassure her, though I did not stay around to see if she was indeed assured.
I had to get out there and figure out what to say to Leon about my whereabouts. How could I even begin to explain to him the happenings of the past three days? I tried to think of an acceptable excuse, a believable reason to have been in the obviously empty office building. I used the time I had jogging up the steps, cutting through the lobby, and exiting the front door to prepare myself for his questions. As I walked up to the car, my mind was still blank for the coming inquiry.
“Hi, Leon.”
“I hope regular was okay.” Leon recapped the container.
“That's fine. Thank you so much for coming, Leon.” I reached out to pat his shoulder through his soft leather jacket, an innocent gesture of appreciation.
“No problem.” He turned away from my gesture and placed the container in the trunk of the SUV.
“Where's your Altima?”
“Traded it in.” He glanced back at me as he turned toward the driver's side. “Decided to go all out and get the truck I've always dreamed of having.”
“Never knew this was in your dreams.” I ran my hand over the gleaming black hood, wondering when his questions would begin.
Instead, he opened the door of his truck and got in.
“Leon,” I asked as I raised an eyebrow, “that's it?”
He raised an eyebrow back. “You asked for gas and I bought you some.” He put the keys into the ignition.
“I mean, it's just that . . .”
He froze for a moment and stared at me as I struggled to find words to a question I could not pose.
“I mean, uh, I guess I thought you'd be curious to know where I was.”
His movements came back to life as he reached for his seat belt. “No more questions for you, Sienna. I'm letting you live your life. If you need anything else, call.”
I need
you, I wanted to say. “Okay, thanks,” was what came out.
you, I wanted to say. “Okay, thanks,” was what came out.
“No problem.” He shut the door, started the engine, and began backing up. As I watched him drive off in his dream truck, I became aware that Silver was probably watching the entire scene from her hideout in the basement in suite 29. I turned toward the building, smiled, then immediately regretted doing so. Who knew who could be watching? Paranoia was eating away at me.
Leon's new truck disappeared out of the lot as he turned toward Crain Highway.
I felt terrible for keeping secrets, and even worse was my silence when the hard questions came. Even my son had not been exempt from my inability to talk when I needed to.
Roman!
I pulled out my phone from my coat pocket, about to pull up my Internet connection and continue my search.
But my phone was dead.
And I'd left my car charger inside my purse. And my purse was sitting on the floor of my foyer.
That revelation was not enough to stop me.
There was nothing more for me to do with Silver and company, I figured. No point in even trying to contact that detective, or whatever he was, again.
I had no idea what was going on with any of them. What I did know was that my son was somewhere out there looking for his father and I did not know where either one was.
But I was determined to find out.
I got back in my car, knowing exactly where I was headed next.
Chapter 34
The main branch of the Enoch Pratt Free Library system was located on Cathedral Street in downtown Baltimore. It was a massive building with architecture that reflected its 1930s constructionâtall pillars, ornate cornices, gargoyles, and elaborate trims over every entryway, window, and door. I parked my car about a block south of the main entrance and walked as fast as I could to it.
I could have gone home to do this, but a sense of urgency had quickened my pace as I headed to a public computer in a small alcove and logged on. Besides, something about the vast spaciousness of the high ceilings, the anonymity, and the hushed voices made me feel safe and comforted as I continued the most important mission of my life.
Finding my son.
RomanNumeralOne.
I'd done an Internet search with the terms earlier, but it had crossed my mind to add the name “St. James” to my attempt. Now Web sites referencing historical people, Bible verses, even football, popped up on the results screen. There were still pages and pages of results, but I felt like I was on to something, so I willed myself to start scrolling through them all. At least until my sign-up time was depleted or my paid parking time expired.
“Please, Jesus,” I pleaded, as I scrolled through the fifth page of results. I kept going, the speed at which I scrolled through seeming to increase with each new page.
“Wait.” I froze. “I missed it.” Something told me I had gone too fast, that my eyes had caught notice of something important, relevant. I clicked back to what I thought I'd seen and whatever air I had left in my lungs squeezed out of me.
A blog site.
I clicked on the link and felt my heart jump from my chest to my throat.
RomanNumeralOne. The life and times of a legend.
There were no pictures on the page, no real name of the blog's author given; but the paragraph describing the author of the blog told me all that I needed to know.
On my thirteenth birthday, my father told me I was a warrior and called me a full-grown man. And then he never called me again. At first it didn't bother me cuz I knew he was a warrior fighting for right causes all over the world. I accepted my fate as child of a deployed soldier. But when I started realizing that people around me were hiding information about my father from me, I began to suspect there was more I didn't know about.
I reread that sentence several times before continuing, feeling a sharp pang of guilt, knowing that “people” referred solely to me.
At first I was angry, but then I decided to turn my anger into something more useful. If I am a warrior, then I must act like one, and join my father on the battlefield. Secrets that have been held from me only prove that my destiny is greater than I imagined. Perhaps, more than a warrior, I am also royalty, who knows? I am going to find out who I am and nobody will stop me. I am going to find my father to prove to him that I am worthy of the mission he started. I will complete my destiny and keep you posted about my discoveries on the pages of this blog.
I sat there stunned, hurt. Seething. My fool child. This whole time, I assumed he was looking for his father out of resentment toward him, to find him to tell him offâor at least question him. In reality, he was resenting
me.
All I had done to raise this boy on my own, to care for and provide for him, without one ounce of help from his father, and yet his father was still who he idolized, who he wanted to emulate, who he was chasing after.
me.
All I had done to raise this boy on my own, to care for and provide for him, without one ounce of help from his father, and yet his father was still who he idolized, who he wanted to emulate, who he was chasing after.
He saw me as the enemy, as the one who'd kept secrets from him, like he had some other identity that I had not wanted him to know about.
I read through his self-description again and again and then began clicking on various posts he'd written. His posts started nearly two years ago, right around the time we'd moved to our new house.
The people have broken all ties to my father and moved to a new location. Now he will never know how to find me again. That is why this mission is so important. I need him to know that I care, but I must do so with discretion so my mission will not be discovered.
I kept clicking through his blog. The posts spread out with weeks, months between them, rants and rages about “the people” who were keeping him from knowing his heritage, who refused to even “mention his father by name” or “allow him to see one picture of him.”
I could not believe what I was reading. With each new post, each rant, I felt my anger level rising. I had started from the beginning and was now at his posts from about six months ago.
I found a letter about my father, an old plane ticket, and a bank account that shows activity in California. It was hidden, not meant for me to find. Now I know that the people are trying to keep me from the truth. All this time I had been told that my father is overseas, and he was at one point right here in the country. I'm getting closer to finding him, to joining him. I will not be stopped.
After that post, things really picked up, I noted. He'd started putting posts up at least twice a week from that point forward, sometimes every other day. I came across the first picture.
It was the fake ID of Kisu, the one I knew had been forwarded to him from the Portuguese reporter.
Finally. I have a picture of my dad. He looks like he really could be a prince. Perhaps I am African royalty. He lives in Italy now. Maybe he's an ambassador. And to think the people who are working against me could keep this information from me!
I started to shut down the computer. Or at least leave a detailed message in the comment section that was underneath every post. There had not been any comments at all under any of his posts. I doubted that he had any followers. And if there were any followers, they were probably as delusional or wistful about fantasy and legends as my child. He wrote about “levels of understanding,” and “hidden knowledge,” as if he were trapped in a video game or a fairy tale, or some kind of hybrid of the two. How had I missed any of this?
Here I was a social worker, a therapist, and I had somehow missed the major storm brewing in my own household, with my own child. I clicked on the comment box, but then clicked off. I needed to read the rest of his posts before I posted anything. Who knew if he even had access to a computer, or if he even was still keeping up with his blog? I noticed that the index on the right of the page gave the date to his last post as a week before he left for the mission trip.
Nothing since.
He must have thought he'd found something, or changed his approach. What had he found?
I decided to keep reading the posts in order before jumping to the last one. I needed to fully understand what he was thinking, how his mind was working.
I kept reading, but outside the posts where he had posted the ID picture of Kisu, nothing else stood out. His rants about injustices, and secrets, and “the people's betrayal” of him continued. Once he knew he was going to Arizona with the church youth group, he moaned and whined about it being his best opportunity to make “a clean break” but not knowing where to “break off to.”
I finally was at his last post. All I had to do was click on it.
But if there is nothing there that helps me know where he is, what do I do?
In the blizzard of emotions I felt, helplessness was not one that I wanted to add. This last post was it. If there was nothing in it that offered any clues to my son's current whereabouts, I was back at square one.
But if there is nothing there that helps me know where he is, what do I do?
In the blizzard of emotions I felt, helplessness was not one that I wanted to add. This last post was it. If there was nothing in it that offered any clues to my son's current whereabouts, I was back at square one.
Lost.
It was too much. I was not ready to be disappointed. To be helpless. I clicked off the Web site, wanting to prepare myself for what may or might not be there. I thought about calling Leon to tell him what I'd found, but was that really the right move? He had not even asked about Roman just now when I'd seen him.
That hurt.
But maybe he was hurting too much to even talk to me about my son, who I knew he loved as his own. Leon was going through his own blizzard of emotions, I knew. I also knew that I'd seen him with another womanâa beautiful, young, smiling womanâyesterday morning. I had to switch thoughts before I sunk even lower in them, if that was even possible.
My phone was dead anyway. I could not call anyone if I wanted to, including Laz. I hated that Laz even came to mind as an option. Oh, well. I pulled the Internet back up, and went to the Web site of the news station where Laz worked. The story about the firebombed house on Teamont Street was the lead article. Laz Tyson was credited as the reporter. I scanned through the article.
There was no mention of Silver or any ties to a kidnapping.
Maybe Sam Fields really was a detective, maybe a private detective, and Silver really was in hiding.
I was too worn out to make sense of their drama, but I was tied to it some kind of way, even if it was merely through the randomness of a Google search for a therapist.
Jenellis and Brayden had shown up at
my
office; Brayden had given me cash in an amount, $1,502, that held some kind of significance. Silver had somehow traced and tracked me down, wanted me to believe her, hear her story.
my
office; Brayden had given me cash in an amount, $1,502, that held some kind of significance. Silver had somehow traced and tracked me down, wanted me to believe her, hear her story.
Abuse, violence, crime, questions . . .
I pulled up a search engine box again. Typed in the number 1502, and added the names Jenellis Walker, Brayden Moore, Silver Simmons.
Of course, nothing that made sense came back.
I didn't know what I was looking for. What I did know was that the number 1502 meant something to all three of them. What was it? An amount? A symbol? An address? A date?
I stared at the number, considering these various options, considering which would be the easiest, most logical to look up. If 1502 was an address, how could I even begin to imagine what street? A symbol? Could be anything. I was back to the idea of a date. 1502. The fifteenth of February?
1/5/02?
It was worth a try.
1/5/02?
It was worth a try.
I entered January 5, 2002 with their names.
Jackpot.
The first result that came up had both the date and the name Jenellis highlighted in the blurb underneath. It was a news article . . .
No, an obituary,
I realized as I clicked on it, a short death notice that had been posted and archived in the
Baltimore Sun:
No, an obituary,
I realized as I clicked on it, a short death notice that had been posted and archived in the
Baltimore Sun:
LONG, Sheldon R. On January 5, 2002 Sheldon R. Long of Baltimore. Beloved husband of Jenellis Long (nee Simmons); loving stepfather of Anastasia and Contessa Simmons, son of Ramona K.M. Gilbert and the late Brandon Long. Funeral will be Friday, January 11 at Bartholomew Baptist Church on East Chase Street. Interment to follow at King Memorial Park.
“Huh?” I blinked trying to make sense of this new bit of information. I quickly went back to the Web site of Laz's news station, knowing that if there was a news story tied to Sheldon's death on this date, there would be some record.
There was.
He had been murdered.
Stabbed multiple times, the victim of an apparent robbery as he was found missing his wallet and a watch. A young gangbanger had been arrested and charged with the crime, though he vehemently denied responsibility. Sheldon had been found lying next to several trash cans in an alley in East Baltimore.
I felt dizzy, trying to put the pieces together in a way that made sense, uncertain if or what to do with these dots I was connecting.
There was a short video of the news story accompanying the article. I clicked play and a teary-eyed, younger Jenellis filled the screen. As it was a public library, the volume had been set to mute. Didn't matter, no sound was really needed to watch the coverage of Jenellis shaking her head, tears flowing down her face. She pointed to two girls standing behind her, her head still shaking as I imagined her saying, “He's gone. What are we going to do?”
Two girls.
I froze the frame, wishing I could zoom in. Anastasia “Silver” Simmons stood there weeping, a little girl at the time. She was holding the hand of her sister, Contessa, I assumed from the death notice.
Silver and Gold.
The other girl was standing slightly behind her mother, her face partially blocked by her mother's movements, but she appeared to be about the same height and size.
Twins?
It was possible. Very likely, I concluded.
Silver and Gold.
The man working on The Block had alluded to some tragedy happening to Gold. Assuming that she was really Silver's sister, I did another search for Contessa Simmons on the news Web site.
Silver and Gold.
The man working on The Block had alluded to some tragedy happening to Gold. Assuming that she was really Silver's sister, I did another search for Contessa Simmons on the news Web site.
Another story surfaced. The burned body of a young woman with that name had been found in a burnt-out car two months ago. No arrests had been made, no leads, no nothing. There were no pictures of her in the article, and no other information about her life, employment, or family.
My gut told me this was no coincidence, that this was the same Contessa Simmons who had the stage name “Gold.”
Silver's sister; most likely even her twin.
Lord, what am I in the middle ofâand why?
I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache blossoming somewhere in the center of my brain and radiating outward. I realized then that I could not remember the last time I had eaten.
I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache blossoming somewhere in the center of my brain and radiating outward. I realized then that I could not remember the last time I had eaten.
I had been surviving on pure adrenaline and nerves.
“Excuse me, ma'am.”
I jumped to a start as a finger tapped my shoulder.
“Huh? Oh, yes?” I turned to face a wiry-looking older white woman who had curly blond hair and a look of severity on her well-defined features.
“Your one hour of computer use is nearly completed. This is your five-minute warning.” She walked away, disappearing into the stacks with a loud echo of her heels.
I needed to get back to my son. Thankfully, I'd memorized my library card number back in grad school days and I was certain I had enough prepayment on it for printing. I sent all the news articles I'd found to the printer before shutting down each window.
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