Lost Witness

by Rebecca Forster

  "Alaska," Josie said without elaboration. What happened in Alaska was the worst of all. Telling it again in detail would serve no purpose and only bring a lot of pain, so Josie gave Sparkle the bare bones. "Anyway, given what went down there we thought he was probably dead. We went back once, but the local cops told us it would be nearly impossible to find him if he were still alive and didn't want to be found. The whole state is filled with people who want to disappear for one reason or another."

  "Sounds like my kind of place," Sparkle said.

  Josie got up, taking her coffee cup into the kitchen. She picked up the pot but she didn't refill her mug. Instead, she turned and put her hip up against the counter and said:

  "We should have tried harder to find him. We should have."

  Billy opened his eyes but lay still until he was sure that he was fully awake. That was what Mama Cecilia had taught him to do during his days in Alaska. Everything, she explained, had a spirit - the bed, the walls, the earth, the animals - and it was best for someone to know which spirits were happy and which were angry before the awake person ate breakfast.

  "Today the spirit of the clothesline is sad," Mama Cecilia would say. "It is broken."

  Billy would answer: "I'll fix the clothesline."

  "The spirits will be pleased," she would say. "And I will wash your clothes because you did this thing."

  Billy closed his eyes, wishing she were with him now. Mama Cecilia, an Inuit, a native Alaskan, was black haired and broad of face. Her narrow eyes watched him all the time, but not because she distrusted him. Mama Cecilia worried that some spirit might make mischief and Billy would leave. Her real son had been angry and cruel. When he left, Mama was happy because he was a bad man, one she was afraid of. Billy was a good man and she did not wish him to disappear. This, he promised, would never happen even though he was not her son. She would reply:

  "Yes, you are my son. You are my good son."

  Short and wide under her parka, her tiny feet encased in her treasured Caribou mukluks, Mama Cecilia would walk through the forest and down the road to the lodge where she would pray to the spirits to keep Billy safe. Then those tiny feet would take her to the shaman to confirm that no danger lurked near the boy she had found half-dead in the forest. Then she would come home, calling on the spirits, never figuring out that Billy needed no incentive to fix a clothesline or lift a heavy load other than Mama Cecilia's need. That was how much he loved her.

  Billy missed Mama Cecilia and wished she had been the one to save him again. He woke hoping that he was back in Alaska. It didn’t take long to realize that he was not. Billy tried to open his mind to the spirits in this place, but it was hard to concentrate on anything but his pain. Every bone in his body ached, every muscle screamed for relief. His jaw was swollen on the right and on the left his head had a knot on it that pulled his skin tight. His stomach was sour. His mouth was dry.

  Behind his closed eyes images exploded like flash-bangs: the sea, the cold, the bubbles, the struggle for breath. He had swallowed half the ocean and eaten nothing for a very long time. That explained the stomach and the pain; it did not explain where he was. He opened his eyes just enough to get the lay of the land.

  Late afternoon light was coming through shutters that ran the length of one wall and part of another covering a corner window. There were tiny, starburst glints of silver at equally spaced intervals along the bare walls.

  Picture hangers.

  The room had been filled with pictures at one time. He moved his eyes to the small table where a brightly colored cloth was neatly folded on top and there was a small red step-stool turned upside down on top of that. His gaze traveled further to a covered artist's easel pushed up against the closet, and to the boxes sealed and marked and stacked, and —

  Suddenly, Billy's body arched against the excruciating pain as his leg cramped. Jackknifing, he grabbed his calf and bit his bottom lip to silence his cry, not wanting to draw attention until he knew where he was and who would come through the door if he cried out. When the cramping passed he lay exhausted, panting, his hands still cradling his leg that pulsed with the memory of the pain. It was then that Billy realized he was touching bare skin. Rolling on his back, he lifted the sheet and saw that he was naked beneath it.

  He threw out his arms, pushed himself up, and raised his head. The bed had been hastily put together: a sheet had been thrown over him, a pillow that didn't have a case had been put under his head, the bare mattress whose tufts made little hills and valleys under him did not have a proper cover. He had not fallen into this place, he had not been thrown in, he had been cared for deliberately and urgently. This was a room that had belonged to someone but no longer did. That person was gone, or nearly gone.

  He convulsed again as the pain came once more: cramps in his muscles, bones that felt broken, and arms that were still too weak to prop him up. With all this came tortured bursts of memory: a ship, dangerous men, secrets, discovery. A discovery of what?

  Bam.

  Blood.

  Bam.

  A whisper.

  Bam.

  A dead man.

  Bam. Bam. Bam.

  Desperation. Terror. Determination.

  Billy rolled on his back, stretching his legs, flexing his feet, tangling himself in the crisp white sheet as he tried to catch his breath and struggled to remember everything. The question of how he got here was not as important as the question of whether he was safe. Until he knew that, there was no time to waste.

  Billy sat up slowly, testing his body and his strength. He pushed at the long hair that fell across his eyes. It was dry but stiff with the residue of salt water. He could smell the sea on his skin, but the scent was mixed with that of soap. Someone had washed him down after they had taken off his clothes and put him on this bed. He got up slowly, steadying himself first on his elbows before pushing up until his legs hung over the side of the bed. His palms were on the mattress. After each move he fought nausea and vertigo, but eventually the room stopped spinning and he stood up. First he went for the boxes. Before he could open the first one, the spirits in the room came at him with teeth bared and they showed no mercy. His head clicked around like the hands of a clock on the quarter hour: corner shutters, an easel, a red stool, and a cloth as exotic as the girl who had lived there.

  Hannah.

  Billy ripped open the box and pulled out a jacket and a blouse: lace and leather and denim. He held them to his face and breathed in the scent of her.

  Hannah.

  For three years from his time in Alaska to his work on ships both big and small, her spirit had been with him.

  Hannah.

  He had mourned her, never forgot her, and honored her by living the life she would have wanted him to live. Billy even felt that Hannah had even given him her blessing when another woman came into his life.

  This was Josie's house and from the looks of this room Josie still mourned Hannah. The girl's spirit was still here and always would be whether Josie kept her things or not. He would tell Josie that when the time was right. This was not the time. He put Hannah's clothes away and looked for his own. When he didn't see them Billy tore the sheet off the bed, knotted it tight around his waist, threw open the bedroom door, and stormed into the living room.

  "What time is it? What time?"

  6

  Day 1 @ 9:30 A.M

  At the sound of his voice Josie froze, Archer swung his head around, and Sparkle simply moved her eyes to check out Billy Zuni. He was a different kid than the one who had crawled into her joint, and a testament to what a little shut-eye could do.

  Though she was old enough to be his mother - barely - Sparkle wasn't so old that she didn't appreciate what she was seeing. Tall and lithe despite his sinewy muscles, Billy carried himself with the grace of the surfing kid he had once been and the confidence of a man who had lived a hard life. He wasn't about to waste time falling into the lawyer's arms to weep at his homecoming; he wasn't waiting for a slap on th
e back from the big man. He took care before saying too much in the presence of someone unfamiliar. Sparkle admired that. She raised her mug.

  "Welcome to the land of the living."

  Billy shook his head as he tried to place her, but his memory was fuzzy and Sparkle took no offense. She would forget him soon anyway. Wasting too much gas on a road that goes nowhere is at best stupid and at worst dangerous.

  Out of the corner of her eye Sparkle saw Josie move to the kitchen counter and put the coffee pot down. She looked at Billy with both sympathy and horror. Archer fared no better. They could all see the story of the last three years of his life played out on his body: the puckered wound near his right shoulder that looked like a bullet had passed through, the slight list of his nose as if it had been broken and healed without help of a doctor, the tip of a finger missing on his right hand. All of it made him appear intriguing, tough, and oh-so manly.

  When he suddenly lunged at the picture window to draw the shades, Josie gasped, Archer pulled his lips tight, and Sparkle looked away. Across the bronzed skin of his back was a raised, white scar that dissected him from shoulder to his hip, but Billy was unaware of their reactions.

  "What time?" he said.

  Turning too quickly, he stumbled and fell against the rolled arm of the couch as if drawing the drapes had exhausted him. When he tried to steady himself, he saw the painting above the fireplace and went still. All eyes followed his to the ethereal portrait of Josie Bates painted on the huge canvas. Behind that image, almost ghostlike, the artist had painted a beautiful chocolate-skinned girl with a riot of black hair that feathered out to fill the background. Rendered with incredible realism were the girl's startling green eyes.

  Sparkle appreciated the obvious talent of the artist because she had a bit of an eye. Art museums were her guilty pleasure for some friggin' reason. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the light, so welcome after spending her waking hours in a dingy bar. Or, just maybe, it was nice to stare at something beautiful instead of being the one stared at and knowing that you weren't quite as beautiful as everyone hoped you would be. Maybe Sparkle liked that there was room to move around in an art museum unlike the place she worked with its dark, cramped, and damp spaces. It was clear the girl in the painting meant something to everyone in the room, so Sparkle surmised this must be the incredible Hannah.

  Righting himself, Billy walked across the room and Josie met him half way. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, Billy beating her six feet by an inch or two. Josie put a hand on his shoulder.

  "We thought you were dead. We thought . . .We're so sorry. . .so happy. . ."

  "What time is it?" His voice was a whisper now.

  "Nine-thirty in the morning," Archer answered.

  Billy tore his eyes away from the painting and said:

  "My friend is hurt on a ship down in the harbor. It's the Faret Vild—"

  Before he could finish, Sparkle made a show of getting up. The kid's story was going to be bad, and since it wouldn't mean a thing to her Sparkle hitched her purse and took her leave.

  "This is where I came in. Good a time as any to say sayonara. You take care, Billy. Be a shame to see a pretty thing like you in an early grave." Sparkle smiled at Josie and Archer. "Thanks for the coffee."

  "Thanks for getting him home," Josie said. "We owe you one."

  Archer stood up, too.

  "I'll see you out."

  Billy didn't ask after Sparkle, he didn't care that Archer wasn't in the room. It was Josie he needed, a lawyer, someone who would know what to do.

  "Josie, I know there's stuff to tell you, things we have to talk about, but not now." He put his fingertips to his temples, trying to corral the pain in his head as he talked through it. "I need your help bad. I came off a container ship anchored outside the harbor. Once it's docked, it will only be there twenty-four hours before it sails again for Panama. Forty-eight hours tops. I need you to go there with me, and I need my clothes."

  "Okay. Okay. Slow down. Sit down," she said as she went to the laundry off the kitchen. When she came back he was still talking, still agitated. She gave him his clothes and then held onto his arms when he clutched them to his chest.

  "Billy, you've got—"

  "What day is it?" he said, pulling away from her.

  "Monday." Josie's voice was even, reasonable. It would do neither of them any good if she caught his anxiety. "Get dressed. We'll get you to a doctor, and then you can tell me —"

  "No. No doctor." His head jerked, his eyes blinked as he tried to get himself grounded. "Monday. Good. Okay. If they docked at eight we have time before the ship sails, but we still have to get her off. I don't know how you can do it, but if you can't get her off then you'll have to make sure this ship stays put. I don't know. Some legal thing. Just get an order or something, okay? Give me a minute. . ."

  Billy started for the bedroom, his thoughts running so fast that he didn't realize Josie wasn't getting it. She called after him, raising her voice.

  "Billy, I don't know what you're talking about. I need to know the problem before I can figure out how to help."

  "We're going to get my mate. I don't know what's happening but they might try to kill —."

  Before he could finish, the front door opened. They looked toward it expecting to see Archer, but it wasn't Archer at all. The blood drained from Billy's face. He took a step forward. And another. He dropped the clothes in his arms.

  "Hannah?"

  He tilted his head and stared at her. When he whipped around to Josie, she saw the Billy of old - grinning, bright, and oh-so-sweet. He turned away from Josie and cried:

  "Hannah!"

  Before Josie could stop him, just as Archer returned from seeing Sparkle to her car, Billy Zuni rushed across the room and gathered Hannah Sheraton into his arms. He buried his lips in her hair and whispered her name; he ran his hands from her shoulders to her fingertips before enveloping her in his arms once more.

  Billy Zuni wept so hard his tears soaked into the silk of Hannah's blouse, glued her hair to his cheek, and wet the crook of her neck. His arms held her fast and so tight that she could barely breathe. His lips whispered her name. Once he cried it out, the sound full to bursting with joy and pain.

  Josie and Archer watched because it was all they could do. There was no help to be had for Hannah who looked at them with an expression of shock and panic. It was her and Billy; Billy and her. It had been that way from the day they met as motherless outcasts to the day they almost died at the hands of a madman in Alaska. They had clung together through the worst when they were no more than children, but Hannah was no longer a child and the person holding her was a man. She was crushed against a broad naked chest, held in strong arms, spoken to in a voice that was deeper than she remembered. Time and hardship had chiseled the last vestiges of youth away from the face that moved from her shoulder to her cheek and then he pulled back to look at her. When Billy buried it in the crook of her neck once more, Hannah put her hands on his bare back.

  She winced when she touched the scar and then she rested her palm gently over the raised skin as if her touch could heal it. Her other hand went to the back of his neck. When his sobs waned Hannah held him away, pushed back his hair, and said:

  "Archer? Can you help Billy get dressed?"

  "I got him." Archer put his hands on Billy's shoulders, but he resisted, unable to bring himself to let go of Hannah. Archer was insistent. "Come on. She's not going anywhere."

  "Go with Archer." Hannah smiled and touched his cheek before lifting his hand away. "I won't leave. I won't."

  Billy hesitated. Archer let him go long enough to scoop up the clothes on the floor. When Billy finally left Hannah, when the bedroom door closed and the two women were left alone, Josie said:

  "I'm sorry. I didn't expect you."

  "It's okay. Really." Hannah went for the front door.

  "Where are you going?"

  "Billy will know," Hannah said.

  She left the house
that had been her home for years. She left the woman who was friend, defender, savior and more a mother than Hannah's own had ever been. She left because whatever was going to happen next was private, and she wanted it to happen in the place where she and Billy had first laid eyes on one another.

  Ten minutes later, dressed in the too big-shirt, his jeans and shoes borrowed from Archer, Billy Zuni found her. He stepped over the low wall that separated The Strand from the beach, sat down beside Hannah in the sand, and put his back up against the wall. Hannah looked out to the bright blue sea. Billy did the same. When he took her hand, she curled her fingers around his and held tight.

  7

  Day 1 @ 10:00 A.M

  Some men went soft when they captained a vessel, but not Adeano Bianchi. He took great pride in his looks, his strength, and his stamina. To be fair, this arrogance was not unfounded. Each wrinkle and line the years added to his face made him more attractive as did the sprinkling of grey in his lush, dark hair and the leathery sheen of his tanned skin. He did, perhaps, over estimate his strength, but there was enough of it to impress most of his crew and his many mistresses. His wife, on the other hand, was no longer enamored of his good looks. Adeano, she surmised, had enough admirers and she had better things to do than pine for him the six months he was at sea. The other six months when he was home she was happy enough to have him in her bed. Life, Adeano's wife knew, tended to balance itself out no matter what any one person did to disturb it. So, all in all, Adeano Bianchi was exactly what he thought himself to be - except for his wits. Those wits of his were erratic, often shallow, and were at their best when confined to specific and banal problems aboard his vessel.

  On his ship his wits saw him through tight spots whether it was dealing with a mate who took a dislike to him or a woman from the love boats who caused problems for one reason or another. But when stakes were high - when the weather turned against him, when a reefer lost power and threatened expensive cargo, when port authorities looked too closely at his vessel or his logs - he often became reactive and befuddled. Still, mistakes in those situations could be forgiven, Adeano told himself. Who, after all, had not misread a storm or been done in by a bureaucrat's shenanigans? But there was one trial in which Adeano Bianchi's lack of wit translated into an unforgivable failing, and that was any situation in which money was involved. Yes, money was the Italian's downfall.