by Greta Boris
"But then my dad would've seen him, known who he was."
"Tarik told me he planned to wear a ski mask."
"Sounds like fiction. Why should I believe you?"
"Because I have information that will help you clear your father."
Abby crossed her arms over her chest and examined Leena. Her eyes were wide, her face open. She appeared to be genuinely distressed. "What kind of information."
"I have papers that prove Hannah was brought into the country illegally, and I know who brought her here."
"Hannah?"
"The girl from the Mission."
"The girl your husband and son left to die? Alone? At night? In the cold?"
The woman gave a curt nod. "That was an unfortunate decision. However, Tarik, my husband, believed she would get help. The girl was a Christian. He left her at a place he believed Christians would find her."
"They did," Abby said dryly. "But she didn't make it. He must have been upset to hear my father did."
"My husband was a weak man. He did the things he did out of fear. The man who caused that fear is your real enemy. The man who shot my husband, Seb Skandalis. He brings poor, young Egyptian girls into the country and sells them. Hannah wasn't his first victim, and she won't be his last if we don't stop him."
"If he didn't have a market, he'd stop bringing them."
An impatient look passed over the woman's features. "Another unfortunate decision. My husband, Tarik, had many fine qualities, but he wasn't an intelligent man. He was fooled into believing he was doing the girl's family a favor by taking her." She shrugged. "Maybe in some ways, he was."
"Imprisoning a child, withholding food, water, medical care, in what way would that be doing her or her family a favor?"
"We never withheld food or water. I cared for her as if she were one of my own children." The woman's eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward. "We only had Hannah in our home for one day. Her family was very poor. They couldn't afford medical care. She'd probably stopped eating due to her illness."
"Why are you telling me this? Why haven't you told the police?"
"If I tell the police my son will be arrested. I will be arrested. I don't care about myself, but I can't allow my son's life to be ruined because his father was an idiot." She spat the last word. "You must understand. My son's only crime was to obey his father. He's not a bad young man."
"What do you want from me?" Abby said.
"I will give you evidence. Papers that prove Hannah was brought into the country illegally. Papers that can be traced to Seb Skandalis. You can take them to the police. Tell them you were mistaken about Michael. It was my husband and Seb Skandalis you saw that night."
"Don't you think they'll be suspicious? Me changing my story like that?"
"Don't you think they'd be happier to catch a man who has trafficked dozens of young girls than they would a high school boy? A boy whose greatest crime before that night was not doing his homework?"
She had a point. If the police had enough evidence to go after a man like Leena Basara described, they'd forget all about her son.
"Besides, I plan to take my children home to Egypt. This country has not been as good to us as I'd hoped. The police won't follow us there for such a small thing. Not when they have the real criminal in custody."
Abby softened, just a little. Leena seemed to be telling the truth, and what she said made sense. She'd been thrust into a terrible situation by the foolish acts of her husband, just as Abby's father had been thrust into a terrible situation by Abby's foolish actions. "Where are the papers?"
"They're hidden. I can give them to you if you come to my home."
A chill passed over Abby's skin. Did she trust this woman enough to go with her? The last time she'd been to Leena’s house she'd almost been shot. "Can't you bring them to me?"
Leena shook her head. "No. I don't want those papers on my person. If I'm caught with them, I'll be arrested. I'm having Tarik's body shipped to Cairo Thursday morning. The children and I will accompany his remains. You can tell the police I gave them to you after I leave the country. If they extradite me for a trial. . ." She shrugged. "At least my son will be in Egypt."
Abby hated to wait. Forty-eight hours of withholding this evidence was forty-eight hours more her father's life would be in jeopardy. But if she didn't agree she would never see the papers. "Okay. But I'm taking my own car." Foolish, maybe, but driving her own vehicle made her feel safer.
***
Abby punched Carlos's number into her cell at a stop light. She wasn't trying to involve him in her mess again, but someone needed to know where she was going, in case. . . It rang six times and went to his voice mail. "Carlos, you don't have to call me back. I just wanted you to know I'm following Leena Basara to her house. She said she has evidence that will clear Dad. I know what you're going to say. I shouldn't do this without you. We should go together, but I don't know how she'd feel about that. It might spook her if you were there. And, I'm desperate. I can't sit home and do nothing. I'll call you later." Her finger hovered over the disconnect button. "I love you," she added. Then hung up.
She dropped her phone into her lap. She did love him. Even if she'd lost him, she loved him. She'd also lost Leena's car several miles ago, but she remembered where the house was. Maybe it was better she arrive a few minutes after the woman anyway. It would give her a chance to get the lay of the land before she had to follow her into the house.
A ripple of nervousness rolled over her. The last time she was here a man was shot. Even if Leena wasn't, the people she associated with were dangerous. What if one of Skandalis's cronies was there, waiting for Leena, looking for the evidence?
Should she call Sylla? But Leena had said if Sylla found the paperwork at the Basara house, she'd arrest her and her son. Abby was under no illusions that Leena had given her the entire truth. And she didn't blame her. She'd become pretty adept at bending the truth herself. People circled the wagons when they got scared. They did what they had to do to protect themselves and their loved ones.
Abby couldn't help comparing their situations. Leena wanted to save her son, just as Abby wanted to save her father. Both Michael Basara and her father had committed small infractions, but Michael, like her father, would be held accountable for a much larger crime if he were found out.
No, she wouldn't call Sylla. She'd given her word. She'd agreed to Leena's proposal.
Her front tire jogged onto the sidewalk as she parked in front of the Basara home. Despite all her inner arguments, she was jittery.
She exited her car and walked toward the front door. The house, although large and luxurious, held an air of decay. The flower beds were filled with the brittle corpses of impatiens, Icelandic poppies, and salvia. Small patches of green dotted the brown grass like mold.
She'd only gone a short way up the walk when she heard her name. Turning, she saw Leena standing on the far side of the garage. "Here," she said and tipped her head toward the building. Abby hesitated. The last time she'd walked across this yard, she'd ended up with a gun pointed at her. But if she wanted what Leena had, she had no choice but to follow.
When she reached the side door into the garage, she hesitated again. Leena, already inside, looked at her over her shoulder. "Are you coming?"
Abby’s hands tingled, and she realized she'd been clenching her fists, digging her fingernails into her palms. A line from Macbeth came unbidden to her mind, "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes." Wouldn't it be wonderful if it was that easy to detect danger? She shook the tension from her hands and crossed the threshold.
Leena made a left. She headed to the small laundry room Abby had seen through the window four days ago. That made sense. Abby relaxed a little. She'd thought at the time it was probably where the girl had been kept.
Abby followed Leena into the laundry room. The scent of lavender detergent made her nose pinch. There were cupboards above an expensive looking washer and dryer, and cupboards l
ining the wall under the window—plenty of places to hide papers. Leena pivoted and looked at something over Abby's right shoulder.
At that moment, Abby knew she'd made a terrible mistake. A fraction of a second later a strong arm wrapped around her neck.
Crushing pain.
No air.
Color faded from Leena's face, from the room around her. In the black and white seconds before the curtain dropped and everything went dark, Abby saw Leena's blank expression transform into a satisfied smile.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 1:25 PM
Withdrawing from the whirlwind of society can seem like a kind of death to those who are addicted to notoriety. The withdrawal pains are severe. Ironically, although the medieval anchorhold represented the inhabitant's tomb, some scholars believe it also protected many an anchoress from the grave.
Outbreaks of the Black Death afflicted Europeans from 1350 to its grand finale, the Great Plague of London in 1665. It's estimated that between thirty and forty percent of the population died of the disease. This may explain the fascination with death that characterizes the Middle Ages.
Julian of Norwich lived from 1342 to 1416. Her village of Norwich was ravaged by the epidemic three times during her lifetime. Yet, she lived. Her anchorhold, although it was designated to be her grave, may have served to quarantine her. Whether this was true or not, she most certainly saw great numbers of the dead carted past her window on their way to the graveyard. The very thing we fear will end our life may be the thing that saves it.
From the first draft of She Watches - An Anchoress Perspective by Abigail Travers
***
THE TINY DOT of white light grew in diameter. It was as if Abby was drawn upward from the bottom of a deep well. A murmur of voices, like lapping water, splashed on the edges of her consciousness. She floated in torpor. When the bright circle overwhelmed all darkness, she opened her eyes.
It took a moment for her to remember where she was. When she did, fear crashed over her. Her limbs convulsed but were trapped by bonds.
The laundry room.
She was in the laundry room where the Mission girl had once been held. Someone had choked her until she passed out. Now she sat, propped up in the corner between the washer and the wall, wrists and ankles bound, mouth taped shut.
She recognized the voices. Leena's was no surprise. But Skandalis. What was he doing here? Abby tried to control the pulses of liquid panic that rushed through her veins and roared in her ears. She needed to hear what they said. She needed to understand. She inhaled and exhaled deeply through her nose, convincing herself there was enough air. Breathe. Breathe. You're okay. Breathe.
Several long minutes passed before she was able to comprehend the conversation in the other room.
". . . the car," Skandalis said.
"Why should I?" That was Leena.
"Would you rather I go? I assumed you'd prefer to avoid my associates. They'll be here after two."
Leena took a long moment to respond. "You're right," she said, but her voice sounded grudging. "I don't want to be here when they come."
"That's what I thought. So, as I was saying, take her car to the train station."
Her car? He must mean Abby's.
"I expect a cut of the proceeds whether I'm here or not."
Skandalis laughed, a high-pitched whistle that made Abby's skin crawl. "Is this the same woman who was appalled by her husband's purchase? You've certainly embraced your inner villain."
"I have to think of my children." Her words were bitter. "Tarik did not leave us with much."
"Your children are a convenient excuse."
"Fifty percent?"
He laughed again. "Fifty percent is a bit steep, but you'll get something. I may not be a just man, but I'm fair."
"I wouldn't have thought you were either."
"The feeling is mutual. Now, back to business?"
Leena murmured something unintelligible, and Skandalis said, "Take your time with the car. Get lunch or something. That way she'll be gone by the time you get back."
Gone? Gone where? Where were they taking her? Wherever it was, it sounded like there was profit in it for them. That thought terrified her. Abby heard the sound of footsteps, and the opening and closing of a door. A moment later a shape passed by the window.
She'd been left alone with Skandalis. His heavier footsteps moved through the garage toward the laundry room. Her heart thudded, and panic threatened to flood over her again. The steps halted. She held her breath and listened. They changed course and left the same way Leena had. She exhaled.
Who was coming? That was the question. Whoever it was, Leena was afraid to meet them. With a sinking feeling in her gut, Abby knew she didn't want to meet them either. But they were coming for her. Skandalis had said she wouldn't be here when Leena returned.
Abby thrashed frantically at her ties. The movement threw her off her balance. She wobbled and, unable to catch herself without the use of her hands, toppled onto her side. Her cheek slapped the cold, cement floor. The skin on her wrists burned. She roared through the tape on her mouth in pain and frustration.
Seb Skandalis trafficked in misery. The people he did business with bought and sold human beings. She could only believe that some version of that fate was what he intended for her. A tear slid down her cheek.
The irony of her position struck her. She had willingly shut herself into a room with much the same dimensions as this one. It had only one small window, like this one. It had no door, however. But even without a door, she'd had freedom.
The anchorites of old willingly consigned themselves to a cell which would eventually become their grave. They had a funeral service before they entered. Yet, they were freer than Abby was now, because it was their choice.
Would this room become her grave? She didn't know if Seb and Leena's plan was to kill her or to sell her, but either would mean the death of Abby Travers. Autonomy. She'd never realized before how beautiful that word was. When one was stripped of the ability to rule themselves, to determine their own fate, didn't they cease to exist in some way?
Sunlight streaked the gray floor with gold. By its slant, she guessed it was at least 1:30. Skandalis had said his associates would be here by 2:30. She still had one hour of freedom, one hour to be Abby. She wanted to experience every moment she had left. When the sun reached her and warmed her skin, that would signal the end of her time in this new anchorhold. But she couldn't bear to watch the minutes move across the floor. She closed her eyes.
Carlos.
His face appeared in her mind. She'd left a phone message for him. He knew where she was. He was her only hope. If he heard her message, he'd call her back. If he couldn't get through on the phone, he'd come looking for her. If he could get away from work, of course. There were so many ifs. Even if he didn't get there before 2:30, he'd tell the police about the call. They'd find her. Wouldn't they? She might not like Sylla, but she was a good cop.
Two images vied for primary viewing time in Abby's mind. The first: Carlos striding across the grass, throwing open the garage door and scooping her up in his arms. The second: A dark, locked room, empty but for a stained mattress and the strange men at the door. She forced her mind to the first, just as she'd trained her mind to focus on her prayers in the anchorhold.
But no amount of concentration could hold back the sunlight that moved inch by inch across the floor. Time crept toward her like a rising tide. Dread came with it. A half hour had passed.
A long finger of light stretched to the dryer. So close. Soon it would touch her ankle.
A flash.
Abby blinked.
Metal, copper or gold, flashed again. The sun played across an object partway under the dryer.
She squirmed along the floor. Was it jewelry? A lost necklace? The sun moved a fraction of an inch more, as if answering her question. It was a cross. A large, ornate cross. One jagged edge thrust out from under the machine.
&nb
sp; Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, she pushed herself onto an elbow, then rocked to a seated position. Time, her constant companion in the anchorhold, had brought her hope. She backed up to the dryer and thrust her hands underneath. Blindly, she pawed through dust and lint.
Endless moments later, cold metal meet her hands. She ran a fingertip along the object's edge. It felt like the serrated line of a key. She positioned her wrists against it and rubbed. Tentatively at first, afraid the object would shoot out of its crevasse and end up so far beneath the dryer she'd never find it again. But it held.
Encouraged, she applied more pressure and sawed at the duct tape. It caught on the metal, popped free and caught again. She worked at it for several minutes, sweat trickling down her sides. A cramp in her shoulder forced her to stop and rest.
When it passed, she began again. This second time, the work went more smoothly. Within seconds the tape snagged on one of the cross's teeth. Abby pulled. The sound of a rip, so loud in the quiet room, brought tears to her eyes.
Five more attempts, and the tape was ripped almost in two. One small yank, and her wrists separated.
She covered her face with her hands, and sobbed. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." She whispered the words to the sun, to time, and to the God who made them both. Warmth crept over her bare ankle, reminding her of her need to hurry.
She tore at the duct tape wrapped around her shins and pulled her legs free. In one step she was at the door. She turned the knob and yanked. It held fast.
She spun and ran to the window. Her fingers scrabbled at the sill. She thrust up. No movement. Nailed shut.
Abby gripped her hair with her hands; her gaze roved around the space. If she couldn't get out, she needed a weapon. She had no idea how many men would be coming for her, maybe arming herself was a hopeless gesture, but she couldn't do nothing.
A shadow cut across the golden glow on the laundry room floor. Someone was coming. They'd just passed by the window. Abby bent and dug the cross from its crevasse beneath the dryer, but it felt small and feeble in her grip. Then her gaze landed on a box of laundry detergent, perched on a shelf above the washer. She reached for it, tore off its top, and positioned herself near the door.
