Surrender

by J. S. Bailey

  As the man who’d written the check slunk away with flushed cheeks, several others swarmed up to the collection bin and started dumping in bills and change.

  Bobby couldn’t help but smile at the bell ringer’s joy. It was good to know that in spite of a world filled with Grahams, Jacks, and Thanes, there were still people who took their time to help those in need.

  As he, Carly, and Lupe passed the bell ringer and his collection bin, Bobby fished a handful of change out of his wallet and tossed it in, where it landed with an insignificant clink.

  “Thank you, sir!” the bell ringer said. “May God bless you!”

  The man who’d donated $10,000 stood by the mall doors rubbing his forehead. Bobby felt a chill wash over him as he passed the man by, but he supposed it must have been a draft from outside.

  SOMEONE RAPPED on Mia Swanson’s apartment door at five o’clock that afternoon. She hopped up from the couch where she’d been entering the day’s events into her blue leather-bound journal and opened it to admit thirty-year-old Shona McElroy, who’d stacked a flash drive atop a Nero’s Pizza box in her arms.

  “I wasn’t expecting pizza,” Mia said as she closed the door behind Shona. Her friend’s black box braids had been tied into a unifying ponytail that cascaded over the back of her hot pink coat, and she wore violet gloves and a matching scarf. “You look cold.”

  Shona sat the pizza on top of Mia’s stove and pulled off her gloves, her copper cheeks almost rosy. “You might not have noticed, but it’s about ten degrees out there. Dig in.”

  Instead, Mia snatched the flash drive off the top of the pizza box. “What’s this?”

  Shona grabbed a paper plate off the stack sitting atop Mia’s microwave. “Everything I could find about Nathaniel Bagdasarian. And let me tell you, it’s weird.”

  Mia frowned. “I only had you look into him a couple hours ago.”

  “Yeah, well, there wasn’t much to find. Come on, grab a plate. Pizza always makes me think better.”

  The pair gathered out in Mia’s tiny living room a minute later. Shona set her plate on the large Rubbermaid container Mia used as a coffee table and then flipped open Mia’s laptop, awakening it from hibernation. “Okay,” Shona said, plugging in the flash drive. “Here’s the basics. Nathaniel Thomas Bagdasarian, born on December 29, 1975 at Good Hope Hospital in Eugene. He went to Mother of Mercy School grades kindergarten through eight, then went to Autumn Ridge High School and graduated salutatorian in the spring of 1994. He was in Chess Club and played violin in the school ensemble.”

  Mia swallowed a bite of pizza, then furrowed her brow. “He went to a private grade school and a public high school?”

  Shona shot her an annoyed glance. “So did I, if you’ll remember. The woes of being a semi-poor Catholic.”

  “Fair point. What else did you find?”

  Shona clicked to open the files contained in the flash drive. Various screenshots from different internet archives appeared on the screen. “Nathaniel commuted to University of Oregon with a double major in music and business but was in a car accident on Friday, October 6, 1995 that killed the driver—I found an article about that in an old newspaper archive and an obituary to confirm it.”

  Mia leaned in closer as Shona opened an obituary for someone named Mick Honeycutt who’d died at the age of twenty on the same day as the accident. Poor guy. He’d been so young.

  “He dropped out of school after that,” Shona said. “Years later, Nathaniel’s parents inherited a mansion and several million dollars when his paternal grandparents died.”

  “Fancy, fancy. Did you find pics?”

  “I didn’t look. But Mia, get this. Nathaniel doesn’t show up anywhere again until this past fall, when he opened an account at Cascade Bank and Trust, applied for an American Express card, got issued a driver’s license and passport, and started renting an apartment across town. He just spent a few weeks in Europe and spent about a kajillion dollars on museum tours and fine dining.”

  Mia always marveled at how her tech-savvy friend could root around in databanks and pull up information to which the average, law-abiding citizen didn’t have access. “Are you sure you just didn’t miss any mentions of him that might have popped up in the last twenty years?”

  “I thought I had to have missed something, but I ran all kinds of searches and came up with zip. But think about it. The fact that he literally just opened a bank account and applied for a credit card means he’s been off the grid for God knows how long.”

  “What if he’s been using an alias?”

  “That’s possible. I wonder where he’s been this whole time, and what he’s been up to.”

  There’s a chance I might know the answer to that, Mia thought.

  MIA TRIED to watch some television after Shona left, but her mind kept wandering too much for her to focus. She’d always loved having a little mystery in her life, and the Mystery of Nathaniel had her so stumped she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  Shona had left her flash drive behind for Mia’s perusal. She’d printed out all the information Shona found and read through the small stack of papers three times, noting all the details Shona had skipped over and wondering if any of it meant anything. Nathaniel Bagdasarian. Son of John and Shirley. Willed to inherit one-third of the wealth from the Bagdasarian real estate empire upon the passing of his parents.

  Mia didn’t know how much Nathaniel planned on inheriting, and she didn’t know his parents’ state of health.

  She did have a brilliant way of finding out.

  Mia slipped on her shoes, stuffed her cell phone into her back pocket, and left the apartment.

  MIA TRAVELED to Nathaniel Bagdasarian’s apartment on foot, watching as light flurries wafted down from the sky and swirled around her. She was supposed to feel happy and upbeat this time of year—wasn’t that what all the Christmas songs suggested?—and she supposed she did feel a little happier now that she had a potential case to occupy her thoughts.

  It took twenty minutes to walk through frigid streets to the Skyline Estates apartment complex, which looked more like luxury condominiums than her own low-rent unit that Mia paid for via the meager wages she earned from her work-from-home copyediting job. According to Shona’s research, Nathaniel lived in Unit 4B which, like all the others here, spanned two floors.

  Mia straightened her shoulders and rapped on 4B’s door. She strained her ears to determine if Nathaniel was coming or not but could hear nothing over the sound of the wind.

  The hour grew late—the possibility existed that Nathaniel had already gone to bed.

  Glancing both ways to make sure no eyes watched her, Mia banged on the door so hard with her bony fists that her skin felt raw.

  When no one came to greet her after a minute ticked by, she tried it again to no avail.

  A sound behind her made her jump. An elderly woman wearing a head scarf and too many rings shuffled over from the parking lot and stuck a key into the door of 4C.

  “Can I help you, sweetie?” she asked before going inside.

  Mia bristled at the term, which should have been reserved for use only with small children. “Tell me about the man who lives here,” she said.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, the woman said, “I don’t see him much. I think he just got back from a trip.”

  “Do you like him?”

  The woman shrugged. “We get along. He helped me find my cat when it got out a while back.”

  How sweet. “Where is he now?”

  “I’m not sure. I think I saw him leave with a suitcase. Maybe two.”

  “Recently?”

  The woman nodded, and Mia bit down on her lip in frustration.

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No, sweetie. We didn’t speak.”

  Ugh. Of course they hadn’t. That would make things too easy.

  “You can go about your business,” Mia said.

  The woman turned away without further words and turned the key
in her lock.

  “Wait a minute,” Mia said.

  The woman considered her with glassy eyes. People often wore such an expression after Mia had been working with them—a small glitch she’d been unable to remedy.

  “You’re rich,” Mia said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t live here.”

  “I get by.” The woman made an uneasy grin. Her pearl-white teeth stood out in the shadows.

  “Tomorrow why don’t you ring up the children’s home in Salem and make an anonymous donation of, say, ten thousand dollars? Those kids need new shoes and blankets.”

  The woman’s grin stretched even wider. “I’ll do just that! You have a good evening, sweetie.”

  She disappeared through the door and closed it behind her.

  Mia shook her head. It was almost sad how easily she could get people to do what she wanted. Perhaps this Nathaniel would present just the challenge she needed to prevent her life from devolving into utter boredom.

  AT HOME Bobby put each gift card into an envelope and made them out to his various friends, then paused when he got to the necklace. Did he really want to give it to Carly in front of everyone? Roger and Frank the First would likely tease him for it, and he just wasn’t in a teasing sort of mood. Giving Carly the necklace in private seemed the better option.

  He sat back and stared at the array of sealed envelopes he’d laid on the table in front of him, having the sudden feeling that he’d been dawdling in a subconscious effort to distract himself from what was to come. As soon as he left Randy and Lupe’s party, he would be heading directly to St. Paul’s to continue Bradley’s exorcism from the night before. If Bobby was lucky, Bradley would be completely cleansed in the next day or two, and then Bobby could focus his attentions on Thane.

  And Ellen, the nagging voice reminded him.

  Bobby sighed. “That’s right. And Ellen.”

  Bobby was the first to arrive at the Bellison residence other than Carly. Randy stood in the kitchen arranging chopped vegetables around a bowl of dip on a tray, still solemnly wearing his Santa hat, and Carly and Lupe were setting freshly-baked cookies out on the counter.

  “So how hush-hush do I have to be about…things?” Bobby asked, plucking a piece of celery off of Randy’s tray.

  Randy dabbed a hand at his eye, not glancing Bobby’s way. “You’ll have to pretend that none of those things exist since the kids are all coming. It’ll be nice to forget about a few things for a change.”

  Bobby bit down on his piece of celery. “Tell me about it.”

  Within minutes Phil and Allison Mason showed up with their small daughter Ashley, who made a beeline for Randy the moment they came in the door. “Merry Early Christmas, Uncle Randy!” she said as Randy gave her a hug.

  “Merry Early Christmas to you, too,” Randy said, some of the gloom lifting from his face. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

  Ashley, whose blonde pigtails had been tied with festive red and green ribbons, bounced back from him and grinned. “Daddy said this is an Early Christmas party, so I have to wish everyone a Merry Early Christmas.”

  “Did he, now?” Randy winked at Phil.

  Phil, a short, bespectacled man in his late thirties who was just as blond as his daughter, said, “Someone may have interpreted what I said a little differently than I’d intended.”

  Eyeing Bobby, Phil motioned for him to step away from the small crowd gathered in the kitchen, so Bobby walked with the man to the far end of the living room.

  “I heard a rumor that you’ve started some work at the church,” Phil said, keeping his voice low.

  “That would be correct. I’m heading out there in a little while.”

  Phil nodded in understanding. “Let me know if you ever need someone to help you. It’s not an easy job to do alone.”

  Feeling a slight pang of guilt, Bobby said, “I called Frankie to come help last night.”

  Phil’s face became unreadable. “I know you did, but Frankie won’t always be available. I’m reminding you that I exist as well.”

  No sooner had Phil finished his sentence when Frankie and Janet Jovingo came through the door bearing gifts, followed by an exhausted-looking Frank the First, who rang in at one hundred and one years old. Every time Bobby saw him he swore the man had shrunk in on himself even further like a raisin drying in the sun.

  Phil stepped back from Bobby and pasted on a tired smile. “As they say, let’s get this party started.”

  The next arrivals were Roger Stilgoe, his wife Beverly, and their three teenage children whom Bobby had met on exactly three other occasions. He made a mental note to not mention anything about demons or Servants or Thane since knowledge of the Servants was not extended to the former Servants’ underage children.

  The Stilgoe children—Gideon, Miles, and Sarah—each had light brown skin and dark, curly hair, which Sarah, the youngest, had put into braids. Beverly, Bobby had been told, had been born in Jamaica before her parents ended up settling in Oregon.

  The only living former Servant not in attendance was Kevin Lyle, who had slunk back to Idaho shortly after being grudgingly dragged back to Autumn Ridge in July. Bobby wished he’d stayed. There were many things about Kevin’s tenure as the Servant he’d wanted to ask the man—things Bobby would much prefer to discuss face to face than over a phone.

  Once everyone had arrived, Randy cleared his throat as he stood at the front of the coral-walled living room. A painting of Our Lady of Guadalupe hung on a wall close by as if observing the proceedings along with everyone else.

  “Thanks for coming, everyone,” Randy said, making a visible effort to be cheerful. “I know it’s early in the month, but we knew that you all would be meeting up with your families closer to Christmas, so Lupe and I thought this would be the best time for us all to get together. Now I thought the newest member of our little group might have some words for us. Bobby?”

  Bobby blinked. “Me?”

  There came a smattering of laughter, and Bobby’s face heated in embarrassment. “As far as I know, you’re the only Bobby here,” Randy said with a wink.

  “Um, okay. Hi, everyone.”

  “Bobby Roland, a man of many words!” Frank the First crowed from Randy’s favorite armchair.

  “Oh, Frank, leave the boy alone,” said Beverly Stilgoe. “It’s a blessing that not everyone in the world is as talkative as you.”

  Frank crossed his arms, pretending to take offense, and Bobby relaxed a notch, though it still felt unnerving to have so many sets of eyes fixed upon him.

  Bobby continued. “When I came to this state last year, I didn’t know anyone here. I—I guess I’m grateful that you guys have taken me in as a friend.”

  “And we wouldn’t have it any other way,” Lupe said with a smile.

  As soon as the words left Lupe’s mouth, something niggled at the back of Bobby’s mind. To him, all sound in the room ceased. He eyed the faces of his new friends and their children as if from afar. Phil was actually laughing at something Frankie had said, Sarah had picked up five-year-old Ashley and was spinning her in a circle while the younger child giggled with glee, and Lupe, broken Lupe who had been used and abused for so much of her life, looked happier than Bobby had ever seen her.

  The Spirit spoke loud and clear in his mind. There is nothing you can do. Be at peace.

  Sound returned to Bobby’s ears in a rush before he could begin to process what the Spirit meant.

  “That was the shortest speech I ever heard!”

  Beverly rolled her eyes. “Shut up, Frank. Nobody wants to hear you.”

  “Have some respect for your elders!”

  “I’m fifty-three years old. I’ll have respect for whoever deserves it.”

  The hundred-and-one-year-old man howled with reedy laughter, but Bobby scarcely paid attention. His veins buzzed with anxiety as he thought back to the Spirit’s words. What do you mean? What’s going on?

  Plump Roger came up to Bobby’s side and planted a hand on his shoulder.
“You make a good host.”

  “But I’m not the host. This isn’t my house.”

  Roger lifted an eyebrow. “But you’re a little bit like our leader now, yes?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Let’s pour some drinks!” Frank the First cried.

  Randy nodded and went to the kitchen.

  God help me. Bobby clapped his hands together and cleared his throat again. “Um, hey. Everyone?”

  Only Phil looked his way. He nudged Allison, who was talking to Beverly now, and both women did the same.

  “Guys, I’d like to…” His voice was drowned out by the sound of Frank the First’s laughter at something one of Roger’s sons had just said. Bewildered, Bobby turned toward Roger. “I need some help.”

  “No worries.” Roger stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out an ear-splitting whistle that effectively ended all conversation. “Listen up, folks! Our young friend has something to say.”

  All eyes fixed on Bobby once again, only this time his jitters had more than doubled. Heart racing, he said, “I—I know this has been a rough year for some of us.” He envisioned his mother, who would likely have been in attendance if she’d survived the summer. She would have sat off to one side, uncomfortable in the presence of so many, and talked with Allison or Lupe with a plate of hors d’oeuvres perched on her knee.

  Tears welled up in his eyes. Don’t let me think about this now.

  But he couldn’t stop. The woman who’d abandoned him so long ago had a change of heart. She was going to try mending the damage she’d inflicted. They would have gone out to dinner and talked and sat at home telling each other about their days, and over some unknown length of time they may have become friends.