Those Who Prey

by Jennifer Moffett

  I desperately want to tell him everything, but the moment I hear his concerned tone from so far away, I know that I can’t. He would be sick with worry. It would kill him.

  I take a deep breath and try to sound like nothing is wrong. “I’m so sorry I haven’t called. We’ve just been so … busy. But I have some, uh, free time now and wanted to visit Deborah in Zurich. It’s just … I lost her number. Do you think she’ll know who I am?”

  His voice brightens. “Deborah? Well, I should hope your godmother would know who you are. I can give her a call to let her know you’re coming. Do you have a pen?”

  I’m so nervous that I can barely write. I manage to sound normal when I tell him I love him.

  * * *

  To be in motion is such a relief. As I look out the window, I can’t help but imagine how Josh must have reacted when he returned with my water to an empty compartment. Fear and regret burn like acid in my stomach. Kara was right all along; I can’t trust him. They’re all liars.

  What if he was looking for the Sin List tapes in my room the night he kissed me? If he was lying about that, then what else was he hiding? What if Kara’s death wasn’t an accident? I know the answers could be in the Sin List tapes. My face flames just remembering what I said to Heather, what she promised was only between the two of us.

  A sacred confession.

  A hollowed-out numbness takes over. I welcome the change, and by the time I switch trains in the hectic bustle of the Milan station, I’m almost like a tourist—just another backpacking student traveling across Europe.

  Except the tapes are like carrying live ammunition with me everywhere I go.

  I try to focus on the moving scenery out my window: the pine-covered mountains, the stone-arched bridges, the curving tracks. I look down at an enormous expanse of lake. What if I threw the tapes out the window? I imagine them shattering the glassy surface of the water and disappearing forever. It’s enough to make me release a bitter laugh.

  Even as I stare down at my bag, knowing how easy it would be to get rid of them, I can’t. What if they hold the truth?

  As we get closer to Zurich, the mountains are patched with snow, even in summer. The high pitch of the brakes makes my heart race every time we stop. I scan even the tiniest train stations for anyone who might be looking for me. Each time, I hold my breath until I hear the sporadic rattling of the train moving forward again.

  * * *

  Deborah Klein isn’t in her office, but there’s a couch down the hall where I crash in exhaustion. A small man with thick round glasses walks by and speaks to me in German. I say her name like a question, and he goes in an office and rattles off more German to someone else, then I hear someone make a phone call. I have no idea what Deborah looks like, or anything else about her except that my dad knows her and she is my godmother, even though she hasn’t seen me since I was a baby.

  A woman with unruly brown hair rushes toward me in a flurry. “Emily! I’m so happy you came by! You know, your sister was supposed to call me when she was over here but was apparently too busy.” I stand up and she embraces me in a huge hug. “I’ve got you set up in a fabulous hotel. I’m so glad you—” She steps back, straightens her glasses, and looks at me with an odd expression. “My God, you look just like your mother.”

  Then she really takes me in—my greasy hair, sallow skin, bloodshot eyes—and seems to register my physical and emotional state. I can’t remember the last time I had a proper meal and a shower. The thought of it is enough to make me fall apart right in front of this practical stranger. Deborah gets her keys and opens her office door. “Let me grab my stuff and we’ll head out. You’re staying with me tonight.”

  It’s a short drive to Deborah’s house, and she quickly ushers me into a tiny guest bedroom. I take the hottest shower I can stand and dig through my bag to find the least dirty outfit. I almost feel normal again. I walk into her kitchen to find her with her arms full of bags.

  “I ran out for food. And wine. You look like you could use a glass.”

  Deborah arranges our food at a small table by the window, which overlooks a twinkling bridge arching over a canal. I can’t stop staring out into the night. “This city is so beautiful. It almost doesn’t even seem real,” I say. And as soon as I say it, the dark flood of memories creeps into my thoughts. My heart quickens and I can’t catch my breath. I take a sip of the red wine she just poured and try to focus on the view.

  Deborah sits across from me and arranges the food. “I wasn’t sure what you like, so I got a bit of everything.” Starving, I take a giant bite of a flaky pastry. Then a wave of nausea hits, and I have to force myself to swallow. Deborah looks on expectedly. I pile my plate with meats and cheeses to be polite, but barely nibble at them, hoping she won’t notice. “So tell me about your exciting travels,” she says cheerfully. “Oh to be young again …”

  I drop my fork and lean forward. “I need your help.” Even as I’m blurting it out, I realize how desperate it sounds.

  “With?” Deborah takes a careful sip of her wine and waits for me to continue.

  “But please don’t call my dad,” I say. “I mean, yet. I need to talk about something that cannot go past us.”

  “That’s what I do for a living, honey. You just let me know how I can help you. Now tell me again why we can’t involve your dad?”

  I take a deep breath. “My friend died. In Tuscany. I found her body actually, and—I—I …” The tears are falling, but I try to stay focused. “I ran.”

  “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Slow down. Ran where?”

  “Here,” I say.

  “Have the Italian authorities been notified?” Deborah’s lawyer voice reminds me so much of my dad’s I simultaneously relax and almost start to sob.

  “I honestly don’t even know. They said she drowned by accident. Or maybe committed suicide. That the case was closed.”

  “Who is they? And how do you know this if you left Italy?”

  “I went back. To meet the guy I followed here. I mean there. And he told me. Then I left him on a train because I wasn’t sure if I could actually trust him, because I saw a picture of him with my friend—the one who died. And they are the people in the Kingdom.”

  Deborah is already across the room frantically digging through her bag. “Jesus H. Christ. You are going to need to start from the beginning.” She pulls out a pen. “Shit,” she says. She trips over something on the floor and swipes a notepad from the kitchen counter before sitting down at the table.

  “Okay,” she says. “Start from the very beginning. I thought your dad said you were here on a college internship. What is the Kingdom?”

  I start to explain everything, but Deborah stops me. “Okay. Sweetheart?” She scoops my hands into her own. “Let’s just sit quietly and think about that time line for a second. And don’t be alarmed, but I need to make a phone call.”

  I grab her arm. “Please don’t call my dad,” I plead.

  Deborah rubs her hand over mine. “Sweetie. I’m going to help you. But in order to do so, I must call my travel agent.”

  “Travel agent?”

  She rushes across the room and punches numbers into the phone. “You need to answer all of these questions in the United States of America,” she says. She flashes a worried expression at me and quickly regains her composure. “Everything is going to be completely fine. I promise I will personally put you on that plane.” She looks back at me again. Something flickers across her face, like a memory. My God, you look just like your mother.

  “Or, better yet, I’ll come with you. I haven’t seen your family in way too long.” As she eyes me with familial concern, I realize she’s putting on a calm and collected front for me while her mind is probably spinning with a million tasks.

  I also realize with enormous relief that no one could stop her from getting me home.

  EMILY X—

  (continued)

  On August 8, 1994, Cory Daniel says a man contacted him after seeing an ad in th
e back of a local magazine for Florida events. When I show Cory the three photos I have, he frowns with comprehension. “Yes. That was him.”

  “Did he have a permit?”

  Cory doesn’t look at me, but continues to rinse trays in an oversized utility sink. He sets them aside to dry out. “He was a regular client. But he started with just the venom.”

  “Why would a regular person want to purchase snake venom?”

  “You’d be surprised the crazy shit people will do with it. I’ve heard some people say it can cure any illness, and even that it holds the key to eternal life. But I really don’t ask any questions when they pay me double what the scientists pay.”

  Eventually, the man inquired about a black mamba, which was difficult to procure even with the reliable suppliers. “Mambas are pretty hard to come by, but he offered the right price and showed me his paperwork, which opened up new options.”

  I ask how fast a black mamba bite would kill an adult male, and the answer is in about 20 minutes flat, sometimes less.

  In Africa, they call its bite the kiss of death.

  “Do you have one here?” I look at the crates again, accounting for every closed lock on each separate lid.

  “No. I would never keep a snake like that here without a specific request,” he says. “But here’s the weird part.

  “He asked if he could take the mamba out of the box here, I thought maybe to inspect it. I asked him repeatedly if he was an experienced handler, and he said yes. I was still hesitant. Something about him seemed a little off. I finally agreed only if I could watch through the garage window from the outside with the door shut.” Cory points to a small window over the sink.

  When asked why he trusts a stranger to be alone in his shop, Cory says, “I wasn’t taking any chances, man. That snake was 6 feet long, and it’s the fastest snake in the world. Black mambas are slender, but they can be mean motherfuckers when you try and handle them.”

  According to Cory, the man grabbed it just behind the head with one hand and lifted its body with the other with zero fear, “like it was just a movie prop or something. He had total control. Even with its body writhing around trying to break free, he held its head up to his face as if inspecting it until the snake opened its mouth.”

  The inside of the snake’s mouth was as black as ink. That’s where black mambas get their name.

  Cory pauses and stares at the window where he was standing that day, as if he isn’t sure how to explain the rest.

  “So what happened?” I prod.

  “Then he took its head and held it right over his forearm. And I watched him place its fangs into his own skin. On purpose. He barely even flinched, even though his arm was bleeding. Then he calmly placed the snake back into the container and secured the lid like nothing happened.”

  Cory’s eyes are animated, like it just happened all over again.

  “I totally freaked, man. I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t let some guy drop dead in my garage. My wife would have flipped out. I was about to run inside and call 911, but the man looked right at me through the window and waved me off as if to say he’s okay. Other than the fact he was sweating like crazy, he was just so … calm.”

  When Cory opened the door and rushed to help the man, he told Cory not to worry and that he was fine.

  “Then he said something weird,” Cory remembers. “He said, ‘Don’t worry. I can’t die.’”

  And, somehow, he didn’t.

  He sat there for about 30 more minutes, sweating profusely. Then he got up. He paid Cory. He carried the container with the mamba to the backseat of his car. And he drove away.

  • • •

  INTERVIEWS FOR EMILY X—

  Article by Julia O. James

  LILY: When my brother died, they actually blamed me—and my sins—for his death, and then they told me I would burn in hell with him if I left the mission. Can you believe that? Just because I called home to check on him.

  They said I would be like a dog returning to its own vomit. And then they described hell, like what it actually would feel like. They told me in great detail what my brother was experiencing every second of every day while his flesh burns and sizzles and rots for all of eternity. They said the same thing would happen to me.

  I remember sitting there so helpless. I couldn’t stop crying. But then something clicked inside of me. Something scary. And I remember thinking if what they’re telling me is true, then I hope they all burn in hell with us for being such horrible human beings.

  DAVID: I had no idea what was going on. We checked out and left the villa the day before, so she must have gone back there after we left. I actually didn’t know what happened until Ms. Klein contacted me. It’s devastating.

  MEREDITH: The authorities said the poor girl must not have known how to swim. She must have been alone when she jumped into the deep end with no way to get to the side. One thing we all have to come to terms with is the fact that God can’t protect those who choose to turn their back on Him.

  PATTI, EMILY’S STEPMOM: I’ve never seen her eyes so vacant, almost hollow, as if something had blown the light out of them. That look in her eyes when she walked off the plane still haunts me.

  PART FOUR Oceanview, Mississippi, August 1994

  “For whatever we lose (like a you or a me) it’s always ourselves we find in the sea.”

  –E. E. CUMMINGS

  This is exactly how it happens each time.

  I’m diving into the deep end of a pool, just like in swimming lessons when they throw the colorful rings into the water. The rings begin to sink, and I grab them one by one before they hit the bottom. As I’m coming up, Kara is there. She tries to talk, but bubbles spill out of her mouth in wordless glubs. Her eyes are calm, like she’s simply trying to tell me something, like she doesn’t even know she’s underwater. She’s wearing the bikini I last saw her in, but her tattoo is missing. I hold my breath as long as I can until I know I have to get to the surface. When I get there, it’s covered with a clear solid sheet of glass. The interns stare into the water from the edge of the pool. I’m pounding to get their attention to let me out. They can’t see or hear me. They smile at one another. They join hands and sing. When I look down, Kara is gone. When I look up, a long slender snake slips across the top of the surface. And that isn’t even the scariest part. At the surface, I can see myself leaning over the edge to peer down into the water, serene and calm, watching the underwater me drown. And just before my last exhale, I wake up.

  This time, I’m so sweaty that it feels like I actually slept in a pool. I rip the covers away and slip my feet onto the thick carpet. The ceiling fan undulates above me.

  I’m home now. I’m going to be okay.

  It’s one thing to say it to myself. It’s another to actually believe it’s true.

  Things You May Feel: Isolation. Nightmares. Feeling “out of it.” These after-effects will get better as you heal. Don’t push yourself. Rest is an important part of recovery.

  Ghost of Me

  My reflection startles me as I pass my bedroom mirror.

  That isn’t me. It’s like I’m the person in a movie who realizes they’re being watched because they glimpse someone else in a mirror. Except it is me. The dark hair. The gaunt face. Even Tamara was shocked by my appearance when I first walked into our house. “Jesus, Em.” She hugged me and pulled away with a look of actual concern. “The waif look really doesn’t become you.”

  When Deborah and I got off the plane, Patti and Dad were pacing at the airport gate. Patti’s eyes were swollen with tears when her gaze caught mine. Dad immediately rushed to smother me in a hug, pressing my head against his chest. His relief to see me in person abruptly shifted to the tension of not yet knowing the full story. My story. Dread bloomed inside me like a rotten flower. I gravitated to Deborah, like she could protect me from the barrage of questions I’m not ready to face.

  “Let’s get her home to rest,” Deborah said to Dad and Patti in a reassuring yet
authoritative tone, putting her arm around my shoulder for emphasis. “She’s been through one hell of a trip.”

  Somehow they listened, and when we finally got home, I basically slept for what felt like days, intermittently waking to the muffled sounds of them talking downstairs. This time, I’ve woken up to my window framing darkness outside. My body feels like it doesn’t know which way is up.

  The sound of a cork pops downstairs, and I hear Dad laughing at something while Deborah and Patti sound like two old friends chatting. Tamara laughs at something Deborah says.

  I’m finally home.

  So why am I crying? I swipe at my face with my T-shirt.

  I stand at my bedroom door, my hand on the knob, yet I can’t bring myself to turn it. Even though everyone sounds happy down in the kitchen, I’m filled with fear. The idea of leaving my bedroom is terrifying, but I promised to answer more questions as soon as I felt rested. Everything feels so heavy that I’m beginning to think rest is a thing that won’t ever happen. With one last grimace at myself in the mirror, I wipe my eyes and stumble downstairs. Deborah is sitting on a kitchen barstool like she’s been in our house for years. Everyone has a wineglass, except Tamara, who is chugging a Diet Coke out of a can.

  Patti sees me first. “Em!” A huge smile spreads across her face, but I see her quick glance at Dad. Patti turns to Tamara. “Come on, T. Let’s go see what’s on.” Tamara rolls her eyes, then reluctantly follows Patti into the living room to watch TV.

  Deborah stands and touches my arm. “Okay, sweetie,” she says in a gentle voice. “I know this is really difficult, but are you ready to talk us through it one more time, just like you did with me in Zurich? We need to try to put a few things together as soon as we can.”