An Image of Death

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  As they traipsed indoors, Arin wished Mika could see her. She would be proud of her friend. But she hadn’t heard from her in years. Arin hoped she was well. Mika deserved a better life, too.

  Perhaps living well was the best revenge, Arin thought. She no longer believed in happy endings, but she’d managed to carve out one anyway. She’d crossed the line, but she was satisfied with the results. Grown up or sold out, it didn’t matter. Life was good. There was no reason to question it. Or ask any questions at all. Except the size of her cut.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  After breakfast David said he wanted to show Willie his office at Franklin National Bank. From there they would head over to the hospital. “I might not be back until tonight. What will you do?”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll hang around. Read. Maybe walk down to Penn’s Landing.” I kissed them both and wished them luck. Willie seemed to enjoy the fuss I was making.

  Once they left, I called Rachel. Heavy snow was predicted for Chicago. She and Barry were getting ready for a serious weekend of video rentals and carry-out. After making sure Rachel knew where we kept the shovel, a flashlight, and extra batteries in case she got home before I did, I hung up.

  I stacked the breakfast plates in the dishwasher, wiped down the counters, made the beds. Then I checked the time and wondered what to do with myself for the next eight hours.

  An hour later, I was on the couch in David’s den, trying to read a novel. I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about the woman who tried to sell Willie diamonds in Antwerp. And the woman on the tape in Chicago. There could be hundreds of people with the same tattoo on their skin. Still, both of them had been young, dark-haired, and attractive. And Willie had spoken to her in Russian; the woman on the tape had shown up at the Russian dentists.

  I thought about coincidence and Carl Jung’s theories about synchronicity. I also thought about my promise to David not to court danger. But then I remembered something Fouad once said. We’d been weeding the lawn last summer during the dog days of August. The sun beat down on our backs. I was hot and tired and was ready to quit and let the weeds take over. Fouad kept at it, though, patiently pulling up chickweed, corn spurry, and plantain, despite the sweat that streamed down the back of his neck. “The Lord of Strength; so he attained completion,”he murmured. Fouad likes to quote the Koran.

  Sighing, I dug out my cell from my bag and called Davis. I might be overreacting. She might even be annoyed. But I felt a responsibility to see it through—at least to let her know what I’d discovered. She wasn’t there. Whoever answered her phone said they would give her the message.

  I disconnected. I was glad I’d made the effort, but I wondered what she could realistically accomplish. It wasn’t as if she worked for the FBI or Interpol. Davis was a suburban cop with limited resources. How was she supposed to pin down the travels of a European woman who might or might not have been a diamond smuggler? How could anyone? It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. A three-year-old haystack. I wandered back to the sofa. She’d said an FBI guy was looking into the tattoo. Maybe he’d have an idea.

  I went back to the book. This time I did get into it, and when the phone rang an hour later, I jumped. David and I have a tacit pact not to pick up each other’s phones. Not that there’s anything intrinsically wrong with it, but my home number is also my work phone, and it’s important that messages get to me in a timely, accurate manner. Which can be problematic when you live with a teenage girl whose idea of heaven is a phone in her ear and IM at her fingertips. It’s taken a toll, but I’ve trained her—on pain of death—to let the machine pick up first. I try to do the same.

  But as the rings followed, one after another, a twitchy feeling came over me. What if Davis was returning my call? No. She’d be calling my cell. Still, the damn thing should stop chirping. Finally David’s machine clicked on.

  “David, liebchen, it is Brigitte. I hope you do not mind. I could not wait another minute or hour. I take plane, and I am at Philadelphia flughäfen. Airport. Right now. I wait here for you here. At Liberty Pub in A terminal for one hour. Then I come in taxi to you. I have missed you so much, Schatzi. It is not same without you. Tschüs.”

  I frowned at the phone, uncomprehending. This wasn’t a wrong number. The caller had addressed David by name. Something about the caller’s name was familiar, too. Brigitte. I threw the book down. Brigitte was the daughter of Willie’s late partner. David had been helping her figure out what to do with the shop. Whether to sell to De Beers. It was a business relationship. Except she’d just said something about missing him. Flying across the ocean just to be with him.

  I got up, went to the answering machine, and replayed the message. David had only been gone ten days, and a woman was calling him liebchen. Declaring that it wasn’t the same without him. I forced myself to recall what David had said about Brigitte. They’d been meeting with lawyers, he said. Discussing options, formulating proposals.

  Apparently not just the business variety.

  Maybe she had thrown herself at him. Yes. That had to be it. She’d come onto him—big time—and he hadn’t worked up the nerve to tell her to take a hike. David was a sensitive man, and she was the daughter of his uncle’s partner. He would never be harsh.

  But then, why did she say it wasn’t the same without him? What had it been like with him? What had they been doing?

  The blood drained from my head, and my hands grew clammy. Our relationship had been rocky lately, I couldn’t deny that. A few months ago I’d even questioned whether we were right for each other. But David would never dump me for another woman. Especially without telling me, or preparing me in some way. Unless.…

  What circumstances would cause him to do that? I stared at his bookcase. An avid reader, he had filled his shelves with classics, recent novels, and nonfiction. He liked movies, too. But they were only pastimes. His true raison d’etre was the search for his family. He was consumed by it. Everything he did was in some way linked to it. I remember teasing him that the only reason he learned to surf the Net was to explore genealogy websites. I wasn’t far off. Sometimes I thought he chose a career that required travel just so he could cull through dusty European archives.

  Now, after decades of searching, he had found an uncle, his only blood relative. And a woman who’d worked side by side with him for years. A lump rose in my throat. David would consider her tantamount to family, perhaps in the same way he’d adopted us.

  But what about her—this—this—I couldn’t validate her with a name—woman? What was her stake in this? What sort of woman follows a man across the ocean after just meeting him? What did she want? I forced the lump in my throat back down and replayed the message again.

  Her voice was honeyed and low. With that sultry Romy Schneider accent. She was probably tall, blond, and curvy. With big eyes. Big other things, too. A flash of anger tore through me. How dare she leave a message with all those sappy endearments? How déclassé. Distasteful. Women don’t do things like that.

  Unless they have a reason.

  Unless they know how their message will be received.

  Unless they’ve been intimate with the recipient.

  I recalled David’s behavior with me the past few days. His impassivity. Lack of interest in making love. Maybe this affair wasn’t all one-sided. Maybe David was an active player. Maybe he cared about this woman. I felt a tearing inside, as if my body were splitting apart, skin from bone. My vision blurred.

  I consider myself a fairly assertive person. I don’t avoid confrontations. But in matters of the heart, my confidence takes flight. Maybe it’s the scars from my divorce. Or maybe it’s something else. But it’s hard for me to say what’s on my mind. I usually try to paper over the problem. Pretend it doesn’t exist. David isn’t a great communicator either, so we’ve limped along, hoping time and distance would smooth over our difficulties. They usually did. This time, though, there wasn’t enough time, distance, or paper in the univ
erse to smooth this over.

  I stood up shakily and shuffled out of David’s den. I went upstairs and stuffed my clothes into my suitcase. Then I took the steps down and let myself out. I felt like I’d aged twenty years.

  ***

  By the time I hailed a cab, the sun had given way to dark clouds that looked pregnant with snow, but I wasn’t registering much in the way of impressions. I felt as if I’d been suddenly dropped into alien territory, so far out of my element, I didn’t want to absorb it. All I wanted was to get back to familiar surroundings.

  The ticket clerk at the airport said there’d be no problem standing by on a flight to Chicago.

  “Great,” I said dully. “When does the next one leave?”

  “Well…” she chirped. “That is the problem. It’s snowing heavily in Chicago, and O’Hare is shut down.” She flashed me an impossibly cheerful smile. “Come back in a couple of hours. Nothing’s going to be moving before then.”

  I sighed, checked my suitcase, and headed for the nearest bar. It was before noon, but I’d just lost my boyfriend, I hate to fly, and I was stranded in a city I was beginning to despise. I trudged through the concourse, feeling heavy and lethargic. The airport wasn’t crowded; it was Saturday and most travelers had already arrived at their destinations. I passed a couple, content to walk in each other’s space, a bubble of love encasing them. A woman, walking fast, muttering to herself. Another man with a beatific smile, his hands clasped in front of him like some New Age Buddha.

  I climbed onto a stool at a small bar in the middle of the concourse. I was about to order a chardonnay when it hit me—Brigitte was at a bar in the same airport waiting for David. Liberty something. The international terminal. It couldn’t be that far away. No. That would upset me more. Especially if she was attractive.

  On the other hand, I might never have another chance to see the woman who stole my boyfriend away. And knowledge is supposed to be power, though what power I could possibly muster in this situation escaped me. I thought about it, then slid off the barstool.

  Liberty Pub turned out to be just a short walk outside the security perimeter to the next terminal—airport planners are probably required to make sure bars aren’t too far apart so white-knucklers or bored travelers can get their fix easily. I expected lots of reds, whites, and blues, but it looked much like any other airport bar: small tables, plastic chairs, and windows with a view of the gates.

  I scanned the customers. Three men were at one table, couples at two others. Two women sat alone: an African American woman tapping into her laptop, and a brunette near the window talking into her cell phone.

  I worked my way to a table next to the one on her cell and plunked down. I casually pulled out a book, all the while sneaking surreptitious glances at her. She was a striking woman: indeterminate age, thick chestnut hair, blue eyes, and from what I could see above the waist, a slim figure. Fashionable, too; she was wearing designer sweats that didn’t look like sweats at all. Just the thing for a trans-Atlantic flight.

  I leaned in, eavesdropping on her conversation. When I heard the same accent that was on David’s machine, bile rose in my throat. This was Brigitte. I eyed her sideways, unsure whether I wanted to scratch her eyes out or put her on the next flight back to Antwerp.

  “Oh, liebchen,” she was saying, “you know how I feel.”

  I slouched in my seat. Of course. How could I have been so stupid? David had a cell. When she failed to reach him at home, she would have tried his cell. She was probably talking to him right now. A wave of jealousy swept over me. I thought about leaving. Prolonging this ordeal, even under the guise of information gathering, was masochistic. But given my track record with men, masochist could be my middle name. I stayed.

  “I come to you as soon as possible.” She paused. “Ja. New York.”

  New York? I felt heat on my cheeks. Why were they going to New York? Was David taking her to see some Broadway shows? He’d never invited me to do that.

  “Two, maybe three days. I bring papers with me. When they sign, I leave.”

  Papers? What papers?

  “But he will sell. He is—ich hab ihn in miner hand.” Another pause. “Nein. His uncle, der idiot, will do what he says.”

  Suddenly comprehension washed over me. She wasn’t talking to David. She was talking about him.

  “And then, chérie, we start our life together. New York…Europa…die Karibik…We have much money.” She turned away from the window, her eyes roving over the bar. “But I must go. He comes now. Any minute. Ja. I miss you, too. Te amo.”

  I gasped. David? Coming here? Of course. He would have insisted on picking her up. He was that kind of person. But what if he spotted me when he got here? He’d know exactly what I was doing and why I was there. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to get out.

  Keeping my face averted, I rose from my seat and snuck out of the bar. I crept a few yards down the corridor and stopped at one of those faux Roman columns that are supposed to make a place look upscale. Planting myself behind the column, I tried to make sense of what I’d heard.

  Brigitte was talking to someone in New York. A man she intended to meet once she made sure some “papers” were signed. Then she intended on traveling. But what papers was she talking about?

  I sucked in a breath. The business. Willie’s diamond business. It had to be. She’d wanted to sell to De Beers—David had mentioned that.

  Now it made sense. She wanted the cash so she could take off with her New York boyfriend. Travel around the world. Which meant she was manipulating David—maybe Willie too—to get it. I fumed. Who was this boyfriend?. He spoke English, that much was clear. Which meant he might be an American. But where was his pride? His self-respect? Was he content to let Brigitte get what they needed by subterfuge? Or was he, in fact, directing her, telling her what to do, teaching her how to take advantage of two innocent men?

  And what would happen to David? Once he signed the papers—and I didn’t hold out much hope that he wouldn’t—she would abandon him, leave him angry, bitter, and humiliated. It was the worst kind of exploitation. A spit of fury kicked through me.

  I paced the corridor behind the column. David should know what Brigitte was doing. But how could I tell him? Given our history, he might not believe me. He might think I was fabricating it out of spite. He might even accuse me of trying to sabotage him.

  If I did summon up the courage to tell him, I would have to stay calm. No theatrics. No histrionics. I could say I understood he wanted to end our relationship. And while I didn’t want it to end, I would accede to his wishes. I could say I hoped he found the happiness he was seeking. In the meantime, though, there was something he needed to know about his new love.

  It sounded adult. Responsible. Sad but loving. I went back to the column, keeping my eye on Brigitte.

  It didn’t take long. A few minutes later, David rushed in. His cheeks were flushed, making his snowy white hair even paler. He hurried over to her. She rose from her chair and pasted on a smile. They looked at each other for a long moment. She stepped forward. Then, the man with whom I thought I would spend the rest of my life, the man who had brought me happiness, the man who made me feel I had come home, drew Brigitte into his arms and kissed her on her lips.

  Across the corridor was a ladies’ room. I ran inside and threw up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I have two scars on my breasts from a time I’d prefer to forget, but when it’s very wet or cold, they ache, reminding me of the delicate balance between life and death. They were throbbing now, but the pain slicing through my heart was worse. Seeing David with Brigitte was like watching a nightmare unspool in slow motion, knowing there was nothing I could do to stop it. No amount of crying or flailing could change its course. I felt like I was stuck in quicksand, each step a futile effort that would ultimately drag me under.

  By the time I came out of the ladies’ room, they were gone. I didn’t see any reason to linger. There was nothing I could
do, and there was no way I’d go back to David’s. I headed to the ticket counter.

  It took over twelve hours to get back to Chicago. The storm dropped nine new inches of snow before tapering off, and a light snow was still falling when I landed. It was after one by the time I cabbed home from O’Hare. I paid the driver and lugged my suitcase to the front door. The fresh mantle of snow brightened the night, and the black limbs of the locust tree, etched against a gray velvet sky, leaped out at me. Snowplows whined and scraped at the other end of the block, but my end was a soft, silent world that, in its stillness, seemed more contained and manageable than the one I’d escaped. I let myself in, grateful to be home.

  ***

  There’s nothing like a good depression to make you sleep. I woke to a bright winter sun throwing lemony shafts of light through the blinds. It was after eleven. I padded downstairs and brewed coffee, struggling to come to terms with the day. Fouad must have plowed the path because my driveway was clear, with neat piles of snow catching sparkles from the sun. Fouad slips in and out of my life like an unseen spirit, smoothing out the kinks in my life without my being aware of it. I count myself lucky.

  After showering and dressing, I contemplated doing a few loads of laundry but decided that would take entirely too much effort. The message light on my machine was blinking, but I couldn’t bring myself to listen to it either. I sat at the table drinking coffee. I was halfway through my second cup when I heard keys jangling outside. A moment later Rachel burst through the door.

  “Mommy! You’re home!” She hurled herself into my arms.

  Suddenly, my world felt better. I hugged her tighter than usual. I know the contours of Rachel’s body almost as well as my own, but she felt different today. I tilted my head. “Did you grow over the weekend?”

  She giggled and wiggled her foot. I looked down. Shiny new Steve Maddens with thick platform heels were welded to her feet.