by Jen Blood
“He’s going to be at this fundraiser thing tonight, right?” Wolf asked.
“Security will be tight. There’s no way you can get in there and do whatever it is you think you need to do.”
“That’s not what I asked you. He’ll be at the fundraiser?”
I felt my jaw tense. Solomon looked at me questioningly. “Yeah, he’ll be at the fundraiser... Along with every cop in the city and a bunch of Rent-A-Cops and hired guns on top of that. You try getting in there and you’re a dead man. Or at the very least you’re headed to jail, leaving Lisette alone. You really want to put her through that with everything else she’s dealing with?”
Wolf grunted on the other end of the line.
“Just give us a little time, would you?” I said. “At least talk to me before you do anything.”
Several seconds passed before he finally, grudgingly spoke. “I’ll talk to you first. That’s all I’m promising. If it’s the difference between us getting Maisie back alive or me staying out of jail for a couple of years, I’m bringing the goddamn kid home.”
I couldn’t argue, because I understood his point. All I could do was work like hell to see if we could figure out how to nail Foster’s ass to the wall before time ran out.
We hung up. Summer traffic was a bitch in Wiscasset, Route 1 bottlenecked for miles before we hit the bridge. Solomon tapped her fingers on the dashboard and looked out the window, her back rigid and her jaw tight.
“It would be faster if I just got out and ran there,” she grumbled eventually. We were just approaching the train tracks before the Wiscasset bridge. A portly couple and their portly kid crossed the street in front of us to get to Red’s Eats, home of Red Gagnon’s world-famous lobster rolls since 1954. The line in front of the little red lobster shack reached around the corner and nearly to the bridge.
“We could test that theory if you like,” I said.
She shook her head, but didn’t answer. She’d been getting more pensive as the day progressed, which I could understand. As a detached newspaperman, the story was writing itself neatly in my head. As a moderately compassionate human being who’d met Maisie and, by now, knew a portion of her story pretty well, nothing was even close to neat.
Once we hit the bridge, things sped up. We passed the Muddy Rudder at the end of the bridge and took the turnoff midway up the next hill to Boothbay Harbor. The sun was shining, and Solomon had opted for the CD player over the radio, presumably tired of the same endless news reports I was tired of. Instead, we listened to an old XTC disc I’d forgotten was in my glove compartment.
There was no vehicle in sight at Rose’s place, the woods eerily still. The sun barely filtered through the thicket of trees all around. Birds cheeped and butterflies flitted among the wildflowers that grew up around Rose’s bizarre sculpture garden, but there was no sign of the growing number of dead who populated this story.
Solomon and I walked in silence to Rose’s door.
“Did you tell Thibodeau about the statues she has here? The ones like they’ve found with the bodies?” Solomon asked.
“He said he was checking into it. I guess he’s familiar with her, though—seems to think she’s harmless.”
Solomon looked doubtful about that.
We didn’t have to knock this time before Madame Rose opened the door. My hand was poised in mid-air, comically so, but Rose didn’t smile.
“I expected you earlier,” she said. She wore a flowing flower-print skirt and a man’s white shirt, the sleeves rolled. Hoop earrings in her ears, her hair pulled back. I remembered my first impression, and felt it even more strongly meeting her now: she truly was a striking woman.
“Psychic visions aren’t as clear as they used to be? That’ll happen as you get older,” Solomon said.
“We’ve never been great at time clocks,” I said.
Rose looked from one of us to the other. Though there still was no smile, she looked moderately amused. “Come in.”
As before, she led us through to the back of the house and, as before, stopped in the study with the artistic rendering of the man being disemboweled. I looked at it once, immediately thought of Jacob Deng, and looked away.
“You’ve heard about the discovery of this latest body,” I said.
“Of course,” she said calmly. “Would you like tea?”
“No thanks,” Solomon and I said at the same time.
“Just information,” I said. “We just want to know a little bit more about this ritual. Now that there have been two murders, you should be able to come up with some kind of pattern, right? Look at the similarities, and try to predict what might happen next.”
Rose frowned, visibly uncomfortable. It wasn’t a feeling I expected she dealt with often.
“I don’t know—”
“Bullshit,” I cut her off. “Charlene Dsengani. Jacob Deng. You’ve seen the pictures. Maisie Dsengani will be next—the third victim. You must have seen the news reports. She’s twelve years old. How much time does she have left? What is this supposed to achieve for the person doing it?”
Rose began to pace the small room. “Your virgin,” she began, looking at Solomon.
“Cut the shit,” Solomon said. “That’s not what we’re here for.”
“You told her to see her father?” she asked me, as though Solomon weren’t even in the room. “To find him?”
Solomon looked at me at the words. “What’s she talking about?”
“I told you the last time we were here—get in touch with your dad.”
“Why?” she asked, looking at Rose now.
“I told you,” Rose said. “Death isn’t done with you. Talk to your father... There are things those thirty-five need you to understand.”
Solomon shifted, arms crossed over her stomach. More afraid than angry, I thought. Not something I liked to see.
“All right, you’ve made your point,” I said. “But she was right: that’s not why we’re here. Talk to me about Maisie.”
“Detective Thibodeau came to me,” she finally relented. “I’ll tell you what I told him. Charlene Dsengani was killed last Wednesday night, most likely at midnight exactly—that’s what I’ve ascertained from reading descriptions of the events, at least, and the detective didn’t disagree with me in that respect. Jacob Deng was killed Sunday, also at or very near midnight. If this is meant to achieve what I believe it’s meant to, there will be one final death... At midnight, tomorrow night.”
“One week later,” Solomon said.
Rose shook her head. “The week has nothing to do with it. It’s the order of the deaths, and the rate at which they die. Charlene Dsengani’s body was prepared in advance; she was bled slowly, and sacrificed at midnight. Four days followed. Then, Jacob Deng was killed without that preparation. No bloodletting, though his organs were taken. Now, another three days will pass before another female will die. There will be bloodletting and more preparation than before, and the final cut will be made at the stroke of twelve.”
“And you think Maisie Dsengani will be the victim?”
“She is the last of the line,” Rose said. “Mother, father, child—all sacrificed for one cause.”
Solomon looked at me, but didn’t say anything. I knew what she was thinking, though: that only made sense if someone didn’t know Maisie wasn’t actually Charlene and Jacob’s daughter. Rick Foster, presumably, was well aware of that fact.
“And what would that cause be?” I asked instead.
“I can’t answer that,” Rose said. “I told you before: it simply must be important enough to the individual. Health, wealth, power, love. These are the four most likely suspects, in my experience.”
“And your students,” I said. “Do you think any of them are invested enough in any of those motives, for this ritual?”
“My students are after enlightenment. Peace. Neither of those things are found through the ritual that’s killed these people.”
We asked a few more questions, but got no more wor
thwhile information before we finally said goodbye. As we were leaving, Rose asked me to stay behind.
“Go on ahead,” I told Solomon. She looked torn before she headed back to the Jeep alone.
“What?” I asked Rose, impatient now.
“The dead who follow you,” she began. I tensed.
“You only mentioned a boy before,” I said.
“Because he held the others back. He’s a good spirit, has your best interests at heart. These others, though...”
“What do you see?” I asked.
She smiled, as though she’d won something by getting me to ask the question. “A policeman with a smoking gun. A woman, skeletal and jaundiced.” She closed her eyes. “The others aren’t as close to you, as tied, but they’re still watching.”
Fear pulled at my skin, cinching it tight over tensed muscle and tired bone. I fought the desire to ask for her help, her advice on what to do next. How to get rid of them. She gave it anyway.
“You’re afraid if you tell one to go, they all will,” she said. Not a question. I thought of my brother’s hand on mine on the way to the hospital; his compassionate eyes, watching me.
“I don’t believe in this,” I said.
“We all believe in this, rogue. It is what binds us. What makes us so exquisitely, perfectly human.”
I didn’t say anything. Rose leaned in, until her mouth was at my ear. “Your brother will stay, because he is in you. Enmeshed. Those you wish to lose, though... You have to say goodbye to them. Loose the bonds they have wrapped around your heart, and set them free.”
“Just like that,” I said.
“Not at all. And yes.”
She didn’t elaborate beyond that, and she wouldn’t allow me any other questions. Finally, I left her and walked back to the Jeep. Psychologically, I could understand what she was saying: I’d let these people inside my head, or at least the memory of them. Hence, their apparitions—or my own manifestation of those apparitions—were haunting my every waking moment.
Say goodbye to them. Snip the threads. Set them free.
Easier said than done.
◊◊◊◊◊
Thankfully, Solomon wasn’t in the mood to talk ghosts by the time I got back to her. I was more than ready to focus on the living myself.
“None of this makes any sense if Rick Foster is the one who’s doing it,” she began as soon as I got behind the wheel.
“Agreed. He knows Maisie’s his kid, otherwise he never would have hired Elias to kidnap her and Lisette. Besides which, this may have drawn some good publicity now that he’s offering up the reward for Maisie, but it’s also called a lot of his activities into question. Those questions aren’t just going away after this thing is done, whether Maisie is found alive or dead.”
“And why would he kidnap Maisie himself after he hired Elias and Johnny to kidnap her?” Solomon added. “It makes no sense.”
“Which means we need to start looking into other suspects,” I said. I started the Jeep. “Do you think Thibodeau’s gotten this far?”
“You mean figured out Foster doesn’t have Maisie?” She considered the question. “He must have. We can kid ourselves all we want, but realistically it’s not like we’re geniuses here. Thibodeau has the same information we have.”
“Unless he’s holding out on us.”
I managed to sneak into the endless line of cars headed back over the Wiscasset bridge, and let the Jeep idle. A dazzling expanse of deep blue extended as far as the eye could see to both the left and right.
“What about Bobby Davies?” I asked suddenly.
“The councilman? What about him?”
I wasn’t sure myself. I continued anyway, thinking it out while I spoke. “He knows the rituals, right? I mean, he’s studied Africa too. Met Sefu Keita. And whoever killed Jacob Deng had tea with him first. Whoever killed Charlene lured her out to that warehouse, and she went willingly. It has to be someone they knew. Trusted.”
“But Davies knows Maisie was Lisette’s,” Solomon said. “And what’s his motive?”
“Does he know, though?” I asked. “He knows Lisette was the girl Foster raped over there. But Lisette never said anything about him knowing Maisie was their kid.”
She sat up, looking a little excited herself now. “Motive, then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he wants more power than he’s getting with the whole city councilor thing. Or he wants...” I trailed off, thinking now. The pallor, the thinning hair, the loose clothing. “What if it’s not wealth, and it’s not power?”
Solomon pulled out her cell phone as we hit the other side of the bridge and crept past Red’s Eats again.
“Who are you calling?”
She held up her finger for me to wait.
“Hey, Doug,” she said. Her voice was low and a hair too sweet. “Listen, I was wondering if you can get some information for me.” She paused. “Yeah, it was a drag—I was pissed at first, but I think it was for the best. At least I don’t have Rafferty breathing down my neck anymore.”
Doug said something on the other end of the line. Solomon laughed. Then: “Okay, so here it is... I’m wondering if you could let me know what Bobby Davies’ medical records for the last few months look like. Any trips to the doctor, the hospital, whatever... Yeah? Thanks. I owe you.”
She hung up. I glanced at her, and she grinned. “You told me yourself: charm goes a long way.”
“Always a proud moment when the student becomes the teacher.”
We were just turning onto Franklin Arterial when Solomon’s source called back. I listened to the one-sided conversation while Solomon scribbled notes, holding the phone between her shoulder and ear. The triumphant gleam in her eye was all I needed to know things had taken a turn when she hung up.
“Davies was admitted to the hospital about four months ago with chest pain, then started going in regularly for treatments that he and his family are apparently trying to keep quiet.”
“What kind of treatments?” I asked.
“Doug couldn’t say for sure... But it looks like he’s been going in for something every Friday morning in Oncology at Maine Med since May, then taking the rest of the day off. Doug said he’s getting treatment in the same ward as Thibodeau’s kid.”
“Cancer, then?”
“If it looks like a zebra and it sounds like a zebra...”
“Right,” I agreed. “Shit.”
We’d found our motive.
Chapter 26
“It’s not as easy as you think, making yourself look good with a black eye,” Solomon said an hour later, through the bathroom door.
“Tell me about it.”
We were back at our apartment, which amazingly enough was still standing after our brief absence. I was on the couch in the living room watching the news. In a tux. Or at least part of one.
For the better part of the rest of the afternoon, we’d tried to reach Bobby Davies, his wife, his secretary, or his treating physician. None of them were taking calls. My guess, however, was that every one of them would be at this shindig tonight. I had managed to reach Detective Thibodeau, however, who had listened with what seemed genuine interest when I told him my theory. “I’ll look into it,” was the best I got for a response, however.
Locally, regular programming had been interrupted for continual coverage of the search for Maisie and the deaths of Charlene Dsengani and Jacob Deng. Thanks to Rick Foster’s press conference that morning, the link between Charlene and Jacob was well known by now, and the subject of hate crimes had risen repeatedly in the coverage I’d seen. Now that the link to Sefu Keita was known, the press had plenty of ideas about that link and the ritual murders happening now. When asked about suspects in the killings, the chief of police had issued a formal statement saying only that no arrests had been made but several avenues of investigation were being followed. Rick Foster was the man of the hour, his name repeated incessantly as the photos of him and Davies in Darfur flashed across the screen.
I fiddled with my bowtie and got up to turn the TV off when a rerun of Boy Meets World came on.
“Are you ready?” Solomon asked.
I turned, and dropped my bowtie.
“Uh—whoa. Are you sure that’s...wow. What happened to the dress from the other night? The Audrey Hepburn thing.”
She wore a navy-blue number that fell to her ankles, a slit up the side and a neckline that plunged dangerously low. What’s more, she wore it damn well.
“Johnny happened to the dress from the other night,” she reminded me. “What’s wrong with this? It’s longer than the other one.”
“Yeah, but it’s more...” My eyes fell to her cleavage, and got lost there for a minute. I came to when she tossed a balled-up piece of paper at my head.
“It’s not like I have a million dresses in my closet. I’ve got this thing, the one Johnny ripped, and two work skirts. You’re wearing a tux; I’m not showing up in a skirt.”
“No,” I agreed. “Probably smart. I guess the bright side is that nobody’s gonna notice your face when you show up in a dress like this.”
She rolled her eyes without admitting she was pleased, but the color in her cheeks suggested otherwise. “Will you zip this thing?”
“Happily. Turn.”
She turned, holding her hair up with one hand. I swept my finger along her shoulder and felt her shiver, then leaned down to kiss the sweet spot where her neck and shoulder joined. I waited for her to deck me. Instead, she lifted her other hand to cradle my head there.
“This is a bad idea,” I said.
“Well, I can’t very well go with it unzipped.”
“Funny. You know what I mean. Maybe you should stay behind.”
