The Third Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery
Page 33
Mila moved on to Martha, her words meant to be placating. “Please. Forgive for the intrusion. I come only because I am desperate.”
Martha’s reluctance to engage did visible battle with her natural kindheartedness. The latter won and she offered a weak, pained smile. “Of course. Tell me. How can we help?”
Mila shot a look at Bill, again waiting for him to say something, but he stood mute, once again sunk in a trance. She turned back to Martha, her voice firm. “Our son is missing.”
Martha’s smile wavered. “I’m sorry? Your … whose son?”
My stomach tightened, as Bill stared at the floor and his cheeks flushed scarlet.
Now Mila, too, looked down. Her mother rolled her eyes. “What I say?” she said to Mila and moved to take her arm. “Useless. We go.”
Bill coughed and he reached toward Martha. “Martha. Mila and I were … we … we had a … we have a son.”
Martha’s knees buckled. She stumbled sideways, lurching into the living room and landing on the couch. The cushions whooshed, as if they, too, had just received a punch in the stomach. I crossed the room and sat next to my friend, offering a steadying hand on her back. Martha looked around wildly, as if hoping to find a different reality somewhere, anywhere. Finally she found Bill’s eyes.
“How … how old is he?” Martha asked.
Something in Mila seemed to snap. “He has a name! His name is Sasha!”
Martha’s eyes flared at the aggression, answering with a bolt of hate-energy, aimed at Mila.
Bill’s voice was low. “Sasha is …” He appeared to be mentally adding up the years. “Nineteen?” he asked Mila. She nodded. “Nineteen,” he stated more firmly.
“Nineteen,” Martha whispered, defeated by the number. “Nineteen years old.” Her breath grew labored, and I found myself taking several deep breaths, as if by doing so I could provide her with much-needed oxygen. The corded muscles in Martha’s neck looked like tightly twisted ropes.
Bill said, “I’m sorry.”
Martha gasped a sob-laugh and shook her head.
Mila made a curt, dismissive movement with her hand. “Please. Sasha is gone. Missing. You are father. I need help for finding him. No time for family drama.”
Martha’s spine straightened. “Excuse me? Family drama? Are you fucking kidding me?! We were doing just fine until about fifteen minutes ago!”
I knew that wasn’t true—her family wasn’t doing just fine. But I also knew she’d just received an unexpected gut-kick and would believe what she needed to.
Bill held up a hand. “Stop,” he said, and I heard it in his voice: the Good Cop persona was taking over from the Errant Husband. “Martha, let her speak. Mila, why do you think he’s … why do you think Sasha’s in danger?”
Martha slumped, defeated. She clutched at my left arm, finding my wrist and gripping it tightly.
“Sasha very smart. Full of passion,” Mila said. “Also, very stubborn. Like father,” she added, and I felt Martha wince. “He study to be journalist,” Mila continued, the pride in her voice unmistakable, “so he can change world. And … but … not a good world where we are. Terrible people. Gangsters.”
“Where is that?” I asked.
“Bosnia,” she said.
And the blurry, piecemeal images sharpened into focus. Bill had served briefly in Bosnia before he left the military to start his LAPD career. He had mentioned his participation in the bloody conflict once or twice. Me? I knew little about that war; I was young, and the conflict took place around the time of my mother’s suicide, when my mind was preoccupied with other battles.
“Where we live, everything about the drugs for these men,” Mila continued. “The drugs and also the sex, young girls. Terrible. Buying and selling like, like nothing more than toys for playing. Sasha decide on investigating them. He start writing about these bad men on computer, he write on his … how you say? Log … ?”
“Blog,” I offered. Martha stiffened and pulled away, as if providing the word for Mila was a betrayal of some sort, and I regretted my impulse to speak.
“Yes,” Mila said. “Blog, on Internet. Now I am scared these bad men take Sasha.”
A tomblike silence filled the room. Random flashes of light and deep, distant booms provided a bizarre background—a mimicked bomb raid, an apt soundtrack to the drama unfolding in the living room. Martha started to sob. Mila and her mother ignored her, locked in on Bill.
He stroked his mustache. I’d seen him do it a thousand times while thinking through strategies.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Go wait by your car. I’ll join you in a little while.”
Mila’s nod was tight. She and Irena left.
“Ten,” Bill said. “Can you keep an eye on them while I talk to Martha?”
I was already halfway to the front door. As I shut it behind me, the soft click of the latch had the sad finality of a coffin lid closing over what was, so very recently, a vibrant living thing.
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