The Passion Season

by Libby Doyle

  “Barakiel, please. It is my responsibility to conceal your battles. If you want to blame someone, blame me. Let me do my part by making sure our assumptions are correct before you act. As you said before we came here, we have time. Two months remain before the summer solstice. You will make this right. I have faith in you.”

  Soothed by the adept’s words, Barakiel closed his eyes.

  You have always had faith in me, Pellus. Even when no one else did.

  “Perhaps you are right. I can wait.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Philadelphia

  THE OFFICES OF Los Ciudadanos de la Transición were in a rectangular brick building on a congested stretch of Washington Avenue in South Philadelphia, a hard-boiled jumble of traffic lights and signs for auto parts and building supplies. Zan had an appointment with Elena Vargas, one of the case workers for Los Ciudadanos, a nonprofit human services organization that worked with the large population of Latino immigrants in the area. Earlier on the telephone, Zan shared the sinister tale of the spleen, as well as the results of the isotope analysis. Ms. Vargas was willing to help her identify the victim.

  To that end, Zan had a ghoulish photo of the dead man. She had changed into jeans and planned to be as unobtrusive as possible. Ms. Vargas, a chubby woman in her 40s with big brown eyes and dark hair, greeted Zan warmly and insisted she call her Elena. She suggested they show the photo around at the Sacks Playground, where the young men from the neighborhood played soccer on Friday nights. They left to walk the few blocks to the fields.

  The playground moved to a languid rhythm in the half-light. The shouts of men playing basketball drifted across the street into the still bare trees of Jefferson Square and mingled with the voices of the young men on the soccer pitch. Zan and Elena watched the soccer players until a lull in the action allowed Elena to approach a man she knew. They had a brief conversation in Spanish. He looked at Zan sharply, but he nodded. Zan smiled sweetly and Elena produced the photo Zan had given her. The man shook his head and he and Elena continued to speak in Spanish. Soon, she motioned for Zan to follow her. They conferred with several more men, showing the photo. No one recognized the murder victim.

  They were about to give up for the evening when another young man approached them. He looked at the two women shyly, saying in English, “I think I know who can help you.”

  “Gracias, thank you,” Elena said, and chatted with him in English. His name was Mauricio and he worked at a neighborhood bar owned and run by Hernan Gutierrez. Mauricio said Mr. Hernan knew everybody and everybody knew him. After they had asked the name and location of the bar, they thanked Mauricio and walked back toward the offices of Los Ciudadanos. Elena told Zan that she couldn’t go to the bar that night because she needed to get home to her kid.

  “By all means. I’m grateful for the time you’ve already given me,” Zan said. Elena proposed they visit the bar some evening the following week.

  “Okay, but it’s going to be a beast of a week for me,” Zan said. “It will have to be Thursday night. Can we do it then?”

  “Sure, I think so. I have your card. I’ll call you if anything changes. You’ll come to the office?”

  They agreed to meet at 6:30 p.m. again. “Your help is invaluable, Elena. I really appreciate it.”

  “De nada, Agent O’Gara. I’m happy you’re working so hard to find out what happened to this man.”

  “I can’t guarantee we’ll solve this crime, but we’ll try our best.”

  Zan sang along with the radio as she drove to Rainer’s house in her little Mazda to pick him up for a session at the Musket Inn, where she sat in with a group of bluegrass musicians on the third Saturday of every month.

  Considering her trepidation over calling the day before to invite him, his enthusiasm was a relief. Mel had said she should wait for him to call her because that’s what he said he would do, but Zan didn’t like playing coy games. She also didn’t want him to make other plans, only to have them derailed by her request. Still, she had to admit that part of her just wanted to hear his voice. She found this disturbing.

  In Alcoholics Anonymous they say that when a person sobers up—no matter their age—they’re still at the emotional age they were when they started their abuse. The addiction prevents any kind of healthy development. Zan wondered if she was like that with men. In her drinking days, she had a lot of bad sex with a lot of pig men who made her feel worthless. It had taken time and a ton of therapy to get past that pain, and Zan wasn’t sure she knew how to act. Her relationships had always been tepid or horrible. She didn’t want to react to Rainer like a naïve 13-year-old. She didn’t want to be a fool.

  Odds are this flirtation will fade away.

  She had the sudden thought that what saved her was her libido. She wanted him, and for her that was rare. If she had sex with Rainer she was certain it would be a fantastic experience, its own goal and reward.

  By the time she reached his place, she had talked herself back into confidence. He came out as she approached his door, wearing jeans and a river driver shirt.

  “Hello, there,” Zan said, more eagerly than she intended.

  “Hello, beautiful guitar goddess.” Rainer pecked her on the cheek. She looked down to hide the effect it had on her.

  Don’t be a fool, O’Gara.

  He wasn’t carrying anything. “You should bring your violin. You can play with us,” she said.

  “No, no. I’m unused to this kind of music. I should just observe, at least for now.”

  “I guess you’re right.” They got in the car.

  “How did it go, serving the warrant?” Rainer asked.

  “Very well. We got our man. He went down without a peep.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “And how did your week go? Did you annoy Pellus?”

  “I suppose I did. He certainly annoyed me.”

  “The two of you must be a hoot to watch,” Zan said. Rainer glanced at her. She suppressed a chuckle.

  “So this place, the Musket Inn. It’s in Chestnut Hill,” she said. “Sometimes people show up to watch this session, sometimes they don’t. The number of musicians changes too, but there’s a core group of four of us. We’re all pretty good.”

  “I look forward to it. I used to play traditional music many years ago that is in the same family as bluegrass, I think, but I moved away from it when I became fascinated with baroque and classical.”

  “I can understand how that music would be more challenging.”

  Rainer shook his head. “My interest is more in its emotional expressiveness. I feel like I can speak through it.”

  “I can’t wait to see you play.”

  “I need to think about the piece I will play for you.” Rainer looked up as if running silently through his repertoire.

  “Hey, I almost forgot to tell you,” Zan said. “The body and the spleen we found with the knives you examined? The lab did an isotope analysis and it turns out the person was from Central America.”

  “Terrible. An immigrant?”

  “If he was undocumented it would certainly explain the lack of a missing persons report. We are still at a dead end as to his identity. We have so much going on at work, my boss wants me to leave it to the Philadelphia police.”

  “Does that frustrate you?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t given up. I told him I’d handle it on my own time. I have an appointment next week with a neighborhood business owner who may be able to help. If nothing else, I’d like to give Philly PD a good lead.”

  “You’re dedicated,” Rainer said in an oddly distant voice. He looked out the window. Zan worried he found her shop talk boring, but when he turned back he seemed agitated. “I’m sorry my contacts haven’t been able to determine the origin of those daggers.”

  “It’s not your job, Rainer.” She found it touching, how it seemed to upset him. “At least I know they’re French. I can follow up if need be.”

  Rainer rubbed his forearm and stared down at his feet. T
hey drove on, both quiet.

  Though Barakiel wasn’t surprised, he could see the other musicians had to make an effort not to gawk at him when he and Zan arrived at the Musket Inn. One fellow in particular looked unhappy at his presence.

  The players had arranged themselves by the window, the stand-up bass in the corner. Diffuse light fell through textured glass onto a table cluttered with picks, bows, capos, and strings. Zan made introductions, took a seat, then started to tune her acoustic Martin guitar.

  The unhappy man was Eric, the fiddle player. Barakiel thought some alcohol might ease the situation, so he asked if anyone wanted a drink. He headed to the bar, made of reddish wood with stained glass at the center and corners.

  The others thought Barakiel was out of earshot, but he could still hear them.

  “This guy your boyfriend, Zan?” asked John, the banjo player.

  “I wouldn’t go that far. It’s a date, I guess. I brought him to hear us play because he plays himself. The violin.”

  After he came back with the pints, Barakiel took a seat at the next table and turned his chair to face the musicians.

  “Thanks for the beer,” John said. “So, Zan told us you play the violin. What kind of music?”

  “Medieval, baroque and classical, mostly.”

  “You should have brought your fiddle. You could have joined us,” said Walt, the bass player.

  “Ah, well, I’ve never played bluegrass.”

  “In my experience, you guys who play classical can play anything. It’s so much harder,” Walt replied. Eric gave Walt a sour look. Barakiel tried not to smile.

  “Thank you, maybe next time,” he said. “I need to listen first.”

  A few minutes later, the players launched into lively song, with Zan’s amazing fingers picking fast and clear. The eight or nine people in the bar clapped. John tuned up again as a few more people wandered in. When he’d finished they played a classic breakdown, each musician taking their turn in the spotlight. Zan threw unusual flourishes into her breaks, filled with energy. Barakiel could see they boosted the game of the other musicians.

  The crowd got bigger and boisterous as the afternoon wore on. Barakiel felt boisterous himself. He bought drinks and kept up a stream of questions about the music.

  I will try my hand at it next time. I would love to play with Zan.

  At one point, Zan took a restroom break so Barakiel stepped out to make a telephone call. Once again, the players thought he couldn’t hear them, but the windows were open. As soon as he and Zan were out of sight, Walt said to Eric, “You poor bastard. You realize you have no fucking chance with her now, if you ever did.”

  “Gee, thanks for pointing that out, Walt.”

  “Eh, she’s out of your league anyway,” John said. “You always knew it. That’s why you didn’t have the nerve to ask her out.”

  “Screw you, John. At least I’m triple-A, not little league.” They laughed.

  By the time Barakiel finished his phone call, Zan was back. She sized him up as he walked to the table.

  “I think we’ve won Rainer over,” she said. “He’s become a bluegrass convert.”

  “I prefer to see myself as ecumenical.”

  “Why don’t you try to play with us for a song?” she asked. “We’ll give you the chord progression. You can improvise.”

  “I don’t have my violin.”

  “What if Eric let you use his? Would that be okay, Eric?”

  “Zan, you don’t know what you’re asking,” Barakiel said. “A man doesn’t share his violin.”

  “You know what, Rainer, you’re right about that usually, but we all want to see what you can do,” Eric said with a smirk, holding out his fiddle. Barakiel thanked him and took the instrument with exaggerated reverence.

  “Good,” Zan said. “How about Don’t Let Your Deal Go Down?” Walt and John nodded assent, and Zan ran through the key and chords with Rainer.

  “Fiddle takes the last break,” she said, then launched into a high-test version of the song. They weren’t having any mercy on Barakiel, but it wasn’t hard to lay down a nice undercurrent. Zan and John wailed on the chorus. John seemed a bit drunk and Zan’s rock-n-roll was seeping out.

  The breaks got the crowd into it. People shouted and clapped wildly after Zan finished. Eric threw a smug look at Barakiel, but he played an improvised break with such blinding speed that the crowd hooted in appreciation, even though it sounded more like Flight of the Bumblebee than Orange Blossom Special. Barakiel knew speed obscured other shortcomings.

  “Good job,” Zan said when they had finished.

  “No. It wasn’t good. The tone was wrong.”

  “It was your first time.” Zan placed her hand on his back. “We sprang it on you.”

  “Yeah, Rainer,” Walt said. “You showed you get the idea. You took a pattern and you ran with it.”

  “Thank you. You’re kind. I suppose it was fine technically, but I need to, oh, I don’t know.” He thought for a moment. “I need to understand the zeitgeist of this music, what it’s trying to communicate. I should listen to all of you more. Maybe some records.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Zan said.

  “Why don’t you play to your strength?” Walt suggested. “Play something classical for us.” Some nearby audience members seconded the request.

  “All right.” He asked Eric for some rosin, ran it along the bow and tuned up.

  The piece rollicked along at first, turned thick and mournful, then switched back to jaunty with an extreme spread between the high and low notes. Eric recognized it. He leaned over to Walt and whispered, “Paganini. This fucker’s playing Paganini.”

  Barakiel nearly laughed but managed to refocus. The spectators stared with their mouths open. He finished to enthusiastic applause, which made him nod and thank everyone. He placed a hand briefly on Zan’s shoulder and took a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe off Eric’s violin.

  “This is a fine violin. Thank you for letting me play it.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Eric said. “I don’t think music like that will be coming out if it again anytime soon. Isn’t that one of the hardest violin pieces ever?”

  “So they say.”

  “And that’s what you choose to play in a bar on a Saturday afternoon?”

  “I was trying to impress a girl.” Barakiel gave Zan a look that he expected to make her blush. It didn’t.

  “You succeeded,” she said.

  As she and Rainer emerged from the bar into the late afternoon sun, Zan couldn’t remember if she’d ever felt so high without a substance. They stood blinking in the light. Rainer put his arm around her. She leaned against him as they walked toward her car.

  Here he goes, turning me into a schoolgirl again.

  “I have some time if you’d care to do something else,” Rainer said. “I have to leave around 10:00 tonight.”

  “I hadn’t given it much thought.”

  “Would you like to go out on my boat? It’s a bit chilly, but it might be nice to be on the river for sunset.”

  Of course, he has a boat.

  “That sounds great,” she said, squeezing his arm a little.

  They drove to the marina down near the Ben Franklin Bridge. Zan dropped Rainer off to get the boat ready while she found somewhere to park. By the time she got back, Rainer was ready to go. He waited beside his old speedboat, tucked among neat lines of pleasure craft accessed by floating wooden walkways.

  The Saxony was made of a glossy, reddish-brown wood with brass fittings. The front had two plush-looking seats for the driver and a passenger. Benches ran along the sides to a closed-in expanse at the stern that Zan assumed housed the engines.

  “I called some time ago to get it charged up,” Rainer said.

  “Charged?”

  “Yes. I restored this old speedboat. I had the engines replaced with electric motors from Germany. It’s very quiet and very fast.”

  “Well, let’s go, captain.” Zan hopped on
board. Rainer followed. He undid the final line and they glided out of the marina.

  Once they were in the channel, Rainer opened the throttle. When a barge went past on the other side of the river, Rainer told Zan to hold on and headed straight into its wake until the boat bounced along the surface like a skipped pebble. When the wake calmed, he turned sharply and poured on the speed again. The boat was so quiet that all they heard was the whistle of the wind and the prow hissing through the Delaware. They were both grinning like fools.

  They sped north, watching the city whiz by. Another barge passed and Rainer steered into the wake again. Zan held on for dear life, laughing. In thirty minutes, they reached cleaner water between banks hazy with spring growth. Rainer slowed the boat near a vegetation-choked island and headed into the narrow channel to its right.

  “This is a nice spot for the sunset. I come here often.” He dropped a small anchor. “Of course, every other time I was alone.”

  For a moment, Zan thought she saw something like pain in his eyes, but then it was gone.

  “Well, you’re not alone now.” She rested her hand on his shoulder. Rainer looked at her hand, inhaled sharply, seized her in his arms and began kissing her so fervently she lost her breath. He carried her to the stern where he placed her on the engine box. He leaned her back and ran his hands lightly along her arms, spreading them to the side. Zan arched at his touch. He bent down to kiss her, probing gently with his tongue, while he slowly lowered himself onto her. Zan sighed when she felt the pressure of his body.

  He nuzzled her neck and she felt he was hard. He pulled her up and unbuttoned her blouse, removed her top clothing and tossed it onto the deck. He stroked and kissed her breasts as he held her suspended over the engine box.

  Everywhere his lips touched along her skin set off tiny explosions. Zan forgot where she was, on a quest to remove his clothes. She grasped his shirt then pulled it over his head. They squeezed each other.