by Camy Tang
She dialed the number for Edward’s greenhouse business, which was his cell phone number. He picked up on the first ring. “Hi, Monica.”
“Edward, I hope you don’t mind, but I have a favor to ask. I have some five-year-old pictures of a man who had been a day laborer in Sonoma. Do you know if there’s a way to find out if anyone knew this guy?”
Edward blew out a breath. “I doubt it, but let me talk to some of my guys and ask. The laborer community is pretty tight-knit, so they might be able to remember someone from five years ago. But I can’t promise you anything.”
“That’s fine. It’s the only thing I can think of to find out who this guy is.”
“I’ll call you later.”
Even before she’d disconnected the call, the doorbell rang urgently over and over again. Monica and Shaun left the kitchen and headed into the foyer. A quick glance in the video monitor revealed Detective Carter, whom they let into the house immediately. His expression was dark and forbidding as he saw them.
“Phillip Bromley was just found dead in his car, and you two were the last to see him alive.”
The carpet had been yanked out from under him.
Shaun woke up early to the predawn stillness. But the first thing he thought of was Phillip Bromley.
Innocent.
Dead.
The detective had said that Phillip had been hit in the face, maybe from a fist, and the blow had broken his nose. He’d parked in a small gravel lot a block away from the restaurant so no one had seen him. There had been signs that a man had struggled with him, throwing Phillip down onto his hands and knees in front of his driver’s side door. Phillip had been forced into the front seat of the car, the attacker in the backseat.
And the attacker had strangled Phillip with a belt.
A crime of opportunity. Shaun stared at his bedroom ceiling and his throat tightened at the thought. He almost felt as if a belt were looped around his own neck.
At first, Shaun had thought the stalker must have somehow known Phillip was handing Monica the thumbdrive of photos, but he couldn’t figure out how the stalker would have found out. Then Monica had pointed out that if Phillip had been looking through the photos, he had been staring at the face of the stalker. If Phillip happened to run into him on the streets of Sonoma, there was a chance he would have recognized the man.
And the stalker would have seen that Phillip knew him.
Shaun could almost imagine the scenario. Phillip sees the man and is surprised and fearful. The man realizes Phillip recognizes him and punches him in the face to disorient him, drags him to the car. Shoves him into the front seat while he’s still dazed. Gets into the backseat, removes his belt, and strangles him.
For so long, Shaun had thought that Phillip was Clare’s stalker, and now it looked like he’d been wrong all along. Terribly wrong. Monica had seen that Phillip was telling the truth about the other man at Clare’s doorstep that night, but Shaun had only wanted Phillip to be guilty.
He had been so blinded by his desire to right the wrong done to Clare that he hadn’t been able to see the truth. He’d only seen what he wanted to see. He’d wanted to feel the anger and let it drive him. He’d thought it was anger at Phillip, anger at the injustice, but in reality, it had been anger at himself. Monica had been right.
Shaun sat up in bed and watched the sun rise over the rolling foothills from his bedroom window. He automatically reached for the Bible on his nightstand.
He read his Bible almost every day, although lately it had been more like a duty than anything else. He wondered, now, if maybe that had been because God had been trying to tell him that his heart needed adjusting.
Or healing.
He turned to where he’d left off reading yesterday, and found himself at Psalm seventy-four. But today, somehow, the passage seemed more alive. The words leaped off the page at him.
We are given no signs from God; no prophets are left, and none of us knows how long this will be.
He had felt like that, that day watching the van sink below the waters. The coyote had swum to the opposite shore and stopped to watch. He had laughed and jeered at them all before running away.
As Shaun had surfaced from his last dive and realized he couldn’t save those people, he had thought, Where was God?
But God is my King from long ago; He brings salvation on the earth.
And verse twenty-two:
Rise up, O God, and defend your cause; remember how fools mock you all day long.
The coyote’s jeering echoed in his head, but the verses seemed to also be shouting at him to remember that it was God who was his King. God who brought salvation. God who would rise up and defend his cause.
God. Not Shaun.
He had thought he should be able to save those people, just like he thought he should be able to protect all the other innocents he’d come across on the border patrol, and Clare. He should have protected them.
Him, Shaun. Not God.
It’s why he’d been so angry—he’d wanted to protect them. He couldn’t. So the anger took root, and turned into a driving force that made him focus too much energy at Phillip Bromley.
The young clerk at Captain Caffeine’s Espresso shop had mentioned the man was tanned. Monica herself had asked why Phillip would bother to stalk Clare and send her threatening notes when they had hung out with the same crowd of people. There had been so many discrepancies like the fact that Phillip had never smelled like that distinctive brand of cigarette but Shaun had focused only on the black leather duster and general physical similarities.
Lord, forgive me. Please help me to let it go.
But even as he prayed it, he realized he was still thinking he could do it himself.
Lord, heal me.
Monica had mentioned Pastor Lewis from their church. Maybe it was time to unburden himself with someone he could trust, who could help him make sense of the darkness he felt.
Lord, heal me.
And Shaun knew He would.
Monica knew something inside Shaun had changed as soon as she answered the front door to him. She wanted to ask him about it, but mindful of her family having breakfast in the kitchen, she only said, “Thanks for coming so early. Did you want breakfast?”
He shook his head. “I was up early and ate already. Are you ready to go?”
She nodded, and followed him out to his car. “Edward said that he’d go get Jorge and bring him to his greenhouses by six-thirty.”
Yesterday, Edward had talked to the field hands he hired to work his mother’s farm, and surprisingly they’d all said that if anyone would remember a man from five years ago, it would be old Jorge. In his younger years, he had been a farm worker who worked many of the fields across Sonoma, but then he and his wife started a business making burritos and going to the various fields at lunchtime to sell the food cheaply to the laborers. They made a nice enough profit that they started their own tavern just outside of Sonoma, with a lunch wagon they still sent out to the various fields to sell cheap lunches. Edward’s field workers said that Jorge knew practically all the workers in Sonoma county, and what was more, he had a sharp memory and a knack of remembering people’s names.
Edward had called her yesterday to set up a time to meet with Jorge this morning. Jorge needed to meet with them early so he’d have time to get back to the tavern and get ready for the lunch crowd.
However, if the stalker followed Monica to visit Jorge at his tavern, he’d know they were on to him. So Monica had asked Edward to pick up Jorge and bring him to the greenhouse before she and Shaun arrived there.
Shaun drove cautiously even though the roads were mostly deserted.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m probably just paranoid. Ever since getting hit, I feel vulnerable in this little car.” He knocked on the dashboard of the sedan. “I can’t wait to get my Suburban back from the garage. I feel safer in it.”
They arrived at the greenhouses in only a few minutes and he
aded into the office. An older Hispanic man was sitting in the chair across from Edward’s desk, and he rose to greet them.
“Hallo,” he said.
“Hi, Jorge,” Monica said. “Thanks for meeting with us.”
Jorge’s hand was calloused and strong when she shook it, and he had a wide smile that creased his tanned face with deep laugh lines. “Such a pretty girl, I not say no.” He had a thick accent.
Shaun also shook his hand, and the man regarded him with searching eyes. He nodded to Shaun as if he approved of what he saw.
Edward gestured to two other chairs, then sat back down behind his desk. “If you’re okay with it, I’ll translate for Jorge. He’s already said it’s fine with him.”
“I can speak Spanish,” Shaun said to Edward, “but you’re still welcome to stay.” He pulled out the three pictures they’d printed on his father’s photo printer and showed them to Jorge, speaking to him rapidly in Spanish.
Jorge’s eyes searched the pictures, frowning as he studied them. Monica’s hopes began to dwindle. She had hoped for some light of recognition from him, but knew the odds had been against it.
Jorge replied to Shaun, although his answer was longer than a simple, “No, I don’t recognize this man.” Monica waited for Shaun to translate for her, trying to still the nervous tapping of her foot.
Shaun turned to her, but his face was grim. “Jorge says he does recognize the man’s face, but he doesn’t know much about him.”
“Not even his name?”
“He says he did know his first name, and he’s trying to remember it. It’s on the tip of his tongue but he can’t quite get it. But he didn’t know his last name.”
Just a first name wasn’t much help to them. Monica squelched a sigh.
Shaun continued, “At the time, Jorge heard some of the other men talk about this guy a little. They said he kept to himself. He wasn’t consistent about being available for work. Most men will hang out at certain street corners in the mornings to wait for contractors to drive by and hire them on the spot just for the day. This guy wasn’t out there every day.”
“He was probably following Clare,” Monica murmured.
“He doesn’t know anything else about him—” Jorge interrupted Shaun with a spate of Spanish, and Shaun said, “Jorge says this guy had brown hair when he was in Sonoma.”
And in the pictures he was dirty blond. Had he dyed it when he was in Sonoma and then changed it back in L.A.? Or was he naturally brown-haired and he dyed it blond when he moved down south?
Shaun asked Jorge something, and Jorge shook his head. Shaun said, “He doesn’t remember anything else about him.”
Monica tried not to let her disappointment show on her face, but Jorge must have seen it, because he reached out to take her hand. “Sorry, eh?” he said. He said something in Spanish, and Edward laughed.
“Jorge says that there are lots of other cuter guys for you, like us two,” Edward told Monica.
She smiled at the older man. “Thank you.”
“De nada,” he replied. You’re welcome.
Edward rose to his feet. “I need to get Jorge back to the tavern or else his wife will get at him for shirking work.”
“Wait a few minutes after we leave before you take him back,” Shaun said. “If the stalker followed us, then he won’t see that we talked to Jorge.”
Shaun thanked the two men and he and Monica left the office. She didn’t say much on the ride back home. What was there to say? Another dead end. She’d been so hopeful when she saw Phillip’s photos.
At one point she asked him, “Are you all right?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “I’m fine.”
It was a door politely but firmly shut in her face. She couldn’t blame him. He was processing a lot of information. Phillip’s death must have been a blow to him, and yet he didn’t seem depressed or frustrated. He also didn’t seem angry anymore. She wanted to let him know she was there for him, but she couldn’t do that, because he’d made it clear he didn’t want her.
She had to get used to that fact.
Once they got back to her house, she told him, “I’ll be staying home today.”
“If you need to go somewhere, let me know,” he said.
After she’d gone inside the house, she stood and watched his car drive away.
“Monica.”
Her aunt’s voice behind her made her jump and turn guiltily. She was acting like a teenager.
Aunt Becca held out an envelope. “This came for you at the spa yesterday. I forgot to give it to you when I heard about Phillip Bromley.”
She sometimes got mail at the spa—both legitimate and junk mail—from people who didn’t know her San Francisco address or her Sonoma post office box number, whereas the spa address was easy to find on the internet or the phone book. “Oh, maybe it’s my clinic’s business plan. My hospital administrator friend was supposed to send me another…” Her voice trailed off as she realized the envelope had no return address.
A fist squeezed her heart. She would have thought by now she’d be used to getting these horrible things.
“Monica?” Aunt Becca took a step closer. “What’s wrong?”
“I need gloves.” She was amazed at how calmly she said it, and she went to the library to get some gloves from the box next to the first-aid kit. Her aunt followed.
Monica gloved up and used a scalpel to slit open the envelope, the same thing she’d been doing for all the photos she’d received. She upended the envelope onto a side table next to a leather chair.
A picture of her sister Naomi’s face stared up at her.
Aunt Becca gasped.
Monica’s chest began to hurt, and she vaguely wondered if she was having a heart attack. She pressed her hand hard above her heart and felt the rapid beating.
She had to breathe. She forced her diaphragm to expand, then contract. Then again. She finally felt steady enough to reach down to pick up the stack of photos.
The pictures were all of her family. Aunt Becca, Naomi, Rachel, her father. All taken outside from the past several days. He’d been following her family and taking pictures of them.
Another note had been tucked in with the pictures.
If you care about them, you’ll stop what you’re doing.
A cry escaped her lips, and the note fell to the floor. What had she done? Why had she been so determined not to let this man control her that she put her own family at risk? What was wrong with her?
What kind of a person had she become?
Her knees gave way, and she collapsed onto the floor.
“Monica!” Aunt Becca bent down to reach for her.
Monica squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to curl into a ball. Her fingers dug into the carpet.
“Monica.” Aunt Becca’s voice sounded right in her ear, and she opened her eyes to realize that her aunt had sat on the floor with her.
“I can’t let him hurt you,” she said.
“I know, honey.” Aunt Becca smoothed back Monica’s hair.
“Why didn’t I see this coming?” Monica’s throat began to close up. “Why did I insist on doing this? I wanted to flush him out, I wanted to catch him. And I put my family at risk. What does that say about who I am?”
“Monica…”
“Everything is falling apart. My investors won’t want to touch the clinic after Phillip’s death comes out. My family is being threatened. My clinic will never happen.” Tears spilled out of her eyes, but she dashed them away impatiently. “I don’t understand why this is happening. Isn’t my free children’s clinic a worthwhile project? Why wouldn’t God want to bless this project? Why are there so many problems?”
“Maybe He just wants you to postpone it for a little while.”
“Or maybe He’s trying to tell me that Dad was right, that I can’t do anything worthwhile.”
Aunt Becca’s voice grew firm. “God would never say that to you.”
“But why else would He put
so many roadblocks in the way of something so important? It’s not the clinic, so it’s got to be me.”
“Monica, listen to me.” Aunt Becca took her hand. “Why are you doing this project?”
“Because there’s a need in Sonoma county.”
“But why Sonoma? Why not somewhere else?”
“Uh…” It had seemed a natural place to have a children’s clinic. She hadn’t even considered putting it anywhere else.
“I think you put it in Sonoma because you feel the need to prove something to yourself,” Aunt Becca said. “I think that you believe this clinic will make you feel significant.”
The word struck a chord inside her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m signifi—” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t say it. “I always feel out of place. I wanted to forge my own way, but it always made Dad mad at me.”
“I know he doesn’t quite understand you, but he only wants what’s best for you. Unfortunately, his idea of what’s best isn’t always really what’s best.”
“What is what’s best? At the hospital, I was a good worker bee, but I wanted to put my hands on something that would make an impact.”
But then it all became clear to her. She believed that if the clinic made an impact, maybe then her father would realize she had done something good, something worthwhile, something…significant.
“I want the clinic because I think it will make Dad respect me,” she said in a small voice.
“Oh, Monica.” Aunt Becca put her arms around her. “I think you need to realize that Jesus already respects you.”
Already? Despite the fact she hadn’t done anything big for Him?
“Jesus loves you, and His love makes you worthwhile. When you follow God’s will for you, you’re valued not because of what specifically you’re doing. You’re valued because you’re doing God’s work.”
“But wouldn’t God think a free children’s clinic is better than me just being a nurse?”
“You can feel important even just being a resident nurse at your father’s spa, if that’s what God’s purpose is for you. You need to obey God and find your worth in Him, not in your father’s approval or in what you accomplish in this world.”
