His eyes shifted back and forth between Mark and Arthur, who both nodded. “Reynolds, I know you understand full well, considering all the time you’ve spent in the hole but your friend here-“
“He ain’t my friend. He betray me and jus’ tole me I be in here a’cause of him. How that be a friend,” Arthur said so quietly it was almost under his breath.
“Are you accusing this man of your crimes,” Officer Worthington asked, hitting speak on his radio before there was any answer. “I know this isn’t customary, but I need someone down here who can help sort out a dispute between an inmate and his guest, pronto,” he said into the com.
“That’s a pretty hefty charge, Reynolds,” the man said as he began taking notes. Someone on the other end of the radio requested Arthur’s SID number, and the officer quickly read it through the speaker again. “Now I’ve got to attend to the rest of this group but you two stay put, and if you can’t say anything nice, like my Mama used to always say, don’t be sayin’ anything at all until the mediator comes,”
At that, he stood and moved back toward the desk.
Mark, resigned to be there a while, told Arthur he’d be back, then went to get something from the snack machine, using his handkerchief to hit the buttons and open the door to retrieve the chocolate he’d been craving.
Even though it wasn’t good chocolate, it would have to do. He was about to go nuts over there with Arthur. What made him think this conversation would be helpful at all?
Then again, he’d argued with God for a week before finally agreeing to come and see the man.
Twenty minutes and four candy bars – which he relished eating in front of Arthur, who wasn’t allowed to eat any of it – later, another officer approached them and escorted them into a more private room several hallway twists away; it was an office of some sort.
“This is Officer Aubrey Perry,” the lithe Latino man who had escorted them said. “And she will be your mediator. Reynolds,” he said, turning toward Arthur, revealing the hint of a missing tooth in the bottom left corner of his mouth, “I’ll be back for you in an hour. You have to know this will go on your record, no matter the outcome.”
“Naw, Man, but I was sayin’ he shoulda got da record, not me. Why ain’t it gonna go to his, instead,” Arthur began to argue before he clamped a hand over his mouth, then sat down before he was invited to be seated.
“That will be all, Rodriquez,” Officer Perry – a bony-looking forty-something woman with her raven-black hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, dark horn-rimmed glasses framing her turquoise eyes, and lipstick three shades too dark on her thin, wrinkle-wreathed mouth – told the officer, effectively dismissing him. “Please,” she told Mark, “have a seat, Mr. -”
“Jeffries. Mark Jeffries,” he supplied, “A former friend and confidante of Mr. Reynolds here, though in all honesty, I would have hoped to retain our friendship.”
“I see,” Officer Perry said as she sat down and typed something into the laptop in front of her. The glasses she had on slid down her nose a fraction of an inch, and Mark sat on his hands to keep himself from offering to fix them.
Why can’t I just be normal like everyone else, he thought before glancing back at Arthur. All right, not everyone else.
“So what seems to be the problem, Mr. Jeffries. What did you hope to accomplish with this visit?”
Man, God, do I have to do this, he prayed. I’m risking… everything all because I think You told me something? Maybe I heard You wrong. Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe it was-
“Mr. Jeffries,” she asked again, interrupting his thought process. “We’re waiting.”
“I wanted to get a few things off my chest, and ask Mr. Reynolds some questions. Both related to… the reason he’s here. I admitted to him something I had denied before: I had seen the women he kidnapped alive, after he had detained them but before they were killed. And that I was so scared, I did nothing; I reported finding them and helped in that way, but it was… it was days later. And my stumble of fear cost one of those women – the one whose body has yet to be found – her life,” he said, avoiding Arthur’s eyes; concentrating on Officer Perry’s, which had grown wide for just a moment before returning to a more neutral gaze.
Even without Arthur interrupting him, he could feel the glare from the man’s eyes drilling holes into the side of his face, and he tried not to wince. “And I wanted to know, on behalf of that woman’s family, where she was. Rosemary Jenkins’ sister and brother-in-law have become… acquaintances, as it were, and they have done everything in their ethical power to find her; they’ve done everything but ask Arthur directly. And so, I decided… since it’s my fault, in part, that she’s dead – which I admitted to them around a month ago, you can ask them, Officer Perry,” he said, looking into her eyes even as his fingers began to scratch the bottoms of his legs in anticipation, right through his slacks. “We all… we just want to know where she is.”
“And why is this all coming out now, so many years later, Mr. Jeffries,” she said, pausing to add more notes to her computer. “It’s quite bold, and in some ways, unethical, for you to be here having this conversation if there is no lawyer present – or at least a mediator, like me.”
“Ya ain’t no mediator, Perry,” Arthur said, standing to his feet all of a sudden, his fists clenched. “Why dontcha tell ‘im, ya my Couns’lor, huh? Can’t even-“
“Can it, Reynolds, and sit down” the woman barked at Arthur before she turned back to Mark again. “I’m his Counselor, true, but I’m also here to mediate when necessary. We don’t generally mediate between insiders and outsiders, though,” she said, smirking just a little. “But as I was saying,” she began again, “you do realize the consequences of this decision you’ve made, Mr. Jeffries? That because you have admitted to knowing where,” she looked at her computer again. “Ms. Jenkins and Ms. Juarez were in the midst of their disappearance, and since you admit to knowing that Mr. Reynolds had them under captivity, that, should the State decide, there may be aiding and abetting and or misprision charges pressed against you?”
Yes.
Yes, he had thought of that. Not that he had any clue what misprision was, but he could guess… if it had anything to do with knowledge without full disclosure, he most certainly could guess.
That was why he didn’t want to admit anything in the first place. It’s why he’d argued with God – or was it his conscience? – for a week before he begrudgingly decided to come in.
Because charges meant a record.
A record meant his daughter would see him charged with a crime from before her time, and possibly behind bars. His wife would be alone, and his daughter, abandoned.
Yes, he’d thought of it. He’d agonized over it on and off for more than twenty years now.
“I’m aware,” he finally said, his nails now digging into the flesh of his under-thighs. Was he drawing blood?
“Very well. Proceed as you see fit, or stop here, the choice is up to you,” the woman said as she continued typing, her eyes now on the computer screen… avoiding meeting his own.
And so, from the beginning, Mark began. Though Arthur’s eyes bored into him; though he interrupted him over and over, only to be yelled at and, finally, removed from the room, Mark continued. And three hours later – much later than he thought he’d be leaving – he was told he could go, but that he would be contacted once there was a decision made regarding whether to charge him or not. For though he had attempted to save the lives of the women, and the unborn baby he knew nothing about at the time, still, all three had died.
Then, as he made his way back through the maze of rooms, back out through the scanner, retrieved his things from his locker, and walked out the door, he wondered what life would hold for him. And even more than the thought of prison, he dreaded admitting to Eugenie what he had done for the day, knowing that the discussion was inevitable; that it needed to happen sooner than later, come what may.
Four
Perp
ignan, France… January 19, 1707
Sir Gaspar held firmly to Galya’s hand, nestled in the crook of his arm, as they made their way to the music room. They had been back less than a day and hadn’t seen Suzette or her children yet, nor had they seen Gaspar’s other sister, Solange.
Their nieces and nephews’ tutoring session was just letting out, and they paused to watch the children scrambling toward the door to the “tsk tsk” of their old hobbit of a tutor, Alain-Basile Sylvain.
The man, who stood barely as tall as Galya’s hip, had tutored Gaspar and his sisters even prior, and Gaspar was thankful that there was still some pep in the man’s hobbling steps.
“You’re back,” Amabel cried as she darted into Galya, and then Gaspar’s arms. “We missed you. And we’ve so much to show you, of what we’ve learned!”
“Have you,” Galya asked as Gaspar let go of her hand. “Well, at dinner, perhaps?”
She tousled the young girl’s silky flaxen locks for a few moments, and Gaspar noted the difference in their coloring, not for the first time: where Galya’s hair and skin were dark, Amabel, Adele, André, Aubert, and Anatole-Henri all had pale versions of the same. Where Galya’s eyes were like liquid amber, the children’s eyes were varying shades of grey and blue-grey. Where Galya had thick undulating curls, the children all had hair that was thin, straight, and feathery light. Of all the women he’d ever been attracted to, she was the smallest; thinner and a little less curved, but she was beautiful; his nieces and nephews took after their father, though: a bit thick around the middle, and large-boned.
Lastly, while Galya was generally dressed in simple, unadorned fashion – such as the white and silver frock she had on currently, his sister’s children insisted on the best of fashion, as they knew it; even Amabel, at barely six. Amabel, who had on the latest rouge brocade dress her mother could afford – if she hadn’t gotten herself into debt over the clothing, as many nobles do – matched her sister, and their brothers were in black brocade that mimicked the girls’, as well, with lace touches at the cuffs and collars.
“But, Tante,” the little girl said as she jumped up and down between them. “Alain-Basile has agreed to read Molière to us finally, and has just begun today! He is reading to us L’Avare!”
“Will you excuse us a moment, ma chère jeune fille,” Sir Gaspar interrupted, clearing his throat a moment before continuing. “We will see you at dinner, oui?”
“Oui, mais, l'oncle, n'est-ce pas intéressant,” the girl said, her head down now as she acclimated back into the French she had grown up with, rather than the English with which Galya was more familiar. Slowly, with a confused frown on her face, she followed her siblings into the main part of the house.
“What is wrong,” Galya asked him. “I do not under… understand.”
“The play is… it is not appropriate for children,” he told her as he drew her into the room and led her to a seat so she could write as she awaited him. Alain-Basile finished collecting his things and began limping away, but Gaspar halted him.
“Je ne veux pas de vous avoir lu Molière pour les enfants,” he began, placing a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Ils n'ont pas besoin de lire de Harpagon et ses obsessions, et comment son argent est volé, et les intrigues de sa vie familiale. Non, Alain-Basile, je ne le tolérerai pas. Trouver quelque chose de différent… plus à notre goût, de les lire.”
“Ah, mais les enfants, insistent-ils, à la mendicité, veuillez, s'il vous plaît, un tuteur, nous lire de Molière. Nous avons entendu parler de lui, et personne ne nous dit rien ou partage avec nous.”
“Do you not understand, either, Monsieur Sylvain? I have said no. It is not appropriate for these children; it is not a matter of them wanting to hear it,” Gaspar replied again as they walked together out the door.
Pausing for a moment, he turned to Galya. “I shall return shortly. Perhaps by the time you are finished with your missive, and perhaps sooner. And I will bring extra candles to guide us in our music,” he said.
“Now, Alain-Basile,” he resumed, closing the door behind them, then offering to carry the old tutor’s belongings for him. The man shrugged and accepted the offer.
“I understand they are interested in plays of all sorts, but, other than Anatole-Henri, they are not old enough or mature enough to understand the content of something as preponderant as L’Avare – or anything else by Molière. I do not care that the play is nearly forty years old… nor do I care that King Louis himself is a fan of it, as rumor has it. I will not have his works read at Aiton Manor,” Sir Gaspar began again as he walked the hobbling man down the hall and to the entryway for the kitchens, where the man’s wife, Therese, worked. “Sommes-nous bien, mon bon Monsieur?”
With a wobbly sigh and a nod of his large, round head, Alain-Basile Sylvain silently held his hands out for his belongings. Once Gaspar had relinquished them, he answered in agreement.
“Mes excuses,” the man said again. “Ce n'est pas que je tiens à saper ce que vous choisissez pour votre foyer. J'en avais parlé avec Mlle Suzette, et elle avait été acceptable du… circonstances qui viennent. Ils demandaient de Molière et de Shakespeare, et elle me dit. “Alain-Basile, il vaut mieux une moindre dramaturge lire qui est français qu'un meilleur de l'Angleterre.””
As he spoke, the man gestured with his free hand; the other over-stuffed with his things, held against his broad little chest so he could gesticulate freely.
My sister said that? The woman who almost married an Englishman, Gaspar thought. She would prefer the lesser known but French playwright over the more famed Shakespeare simply because he was from England? That doesn’t even sound like Suzette, Sir Gaspar thought as he nodded, then watched Alain-Basile wander the rest of the way to the kitchen.
Quickly retrieving the promised candles for his wife so they could play the harp for the evening, he carried them back into the music room to find her already gently teasing the strings with her fingers.
The music was soft; barely discernable as the door opened… but it sang to his soul. As usual, Galya played a melody he had never heard; a song that reached deep within his heart and soul, unfettering his emotions, allowing them to take flight in patterns that only the wind knew.
As he lit the candles, the music drifted through the air, growing a little louder, a little stronger. The shadows they created – flickering as they were on the walls as drafts floated in through the windows – added to the mesmerizing effect as he sat down across from his wife to listen. The haunting sounds riveted him… they always riveted him, but now, more so than ever….
Was it because he knew her so much better now? Was it because they were one?
The chords trembled under Galya’s nimble fingertips; they wooed him into the swirling emotions of the past several weeks… his mind drifted, but stayed with the melody, as though he and the music were one. As though the music was part of him…
Or maybe, he thought, the music is part of her, and because we are one now, it has become part of me, too.
“Is everything alright,” Galya asked him suddenly as she paused – or had she ended? – her song. “It seems that when this… Molière person….”
Her words trailed off, lacking.
How could he explain to her that there were some things – some influences – that were better left unspoken and ungiven? How could he explain some things did more damage than good? He knew from personal experience, the unmasking of works that were too mature for him at more tender ages had brought him many worries over the years he needn’t have lived through.
And it wasn’t that Molière was all bad… in fact, he had quite the talent. But a six, seven, nine, and ten year old did not need to be exposed to it; not that a thirteen year old should, either, though it was closer to safe.
In the silent, shadow and light-plaited room, Gaspar smiled.
“Nothing amiss, my Love,” he said. “Just a personal preference to not have certain… how do I say this? – certain types of work read in th
is house. There are things which… corrupt; they… hurt us instead of help us.” He sighed.
Was he even making sense?
Galya resumed playing for several minutes. This time, with eyes closed, the loose strands of her hair swaying with her movement ever so gently, she indeed looked like the angel Gaspar at first wondered she could be.
The light flickered; the shadows danced; Gaspar’s heart grew calm again, and the music stopped.
He watched as Galya stood, wordless, and walked toward where he sat at the desk, and he rose, as well. In the near-silence, with nothing but a light wind through the trees and the sublime ambience of light and shadow, they reached for one another; embraced one another, and just allowed themselves to be.
Whether or not she understood what he’d tried to tell her no longer mattered; presence did. Togetherness did. And allowing one another to be… to simply be… mattered more than words could express in the moment.
And so, as the rest of the house was preparing for dinner, and the wind outside blew, and the candles danced, Sir Gaspar and Galya stood, arms entwined, silent, as one.
Five
Portland, Oregon… January 19, 2025
Jason bit his lip as he waited for Masao to answer him.
“This seat taken,” a grey-haired man in a bright orange jogging suit asked them, grabbing one of the two extras at their table. “We had an extra person show up for our meeting.”
Jason shrugged, and Masao nodded. “Go ahead,” they both said, nearly simultaneously. Jason gave a nervous laugh, shrugging again.
What did they need the chair for?
He just wanted to hear Masao’s explanation.
Jason sighed as he watched the orange suit blur into the background as the man walked away to a table on the other side of the restaurant.
“Where were we,” he asked Masao as he grabbed another slice of pizza, hoping it would jog the man’s memory.
The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven Page 35
