by Mike Nappa
He smiled.
“As you wish,” he said. “As you wish.”
Epilogue
The Mute
Seven Years and Three Months Later
Tuesday, December 13
Even in midwinter, sunshine covered the Haitian marketplace of Port-au-Prince like a warm blanket spread out to welcome visitors.
The Mute sat at the edge of the economic melee, drinking in the warmth that tingled on his skin. He wore tan shorts and a cotton tropical-print shirt. Despite his best efforts, he also wore a straw hat that sheltered his face and neck from the worst of the sun. She insisted on that, and she could be pretty stubborn when she got an idea in her head. Just like her uncle.
He watched her walk through the open-air market and marveled once more at her. She’d grown into a beautiful young woman. Long brown hair, sun-bleached in just the right spots. Penetrating green eyes. A lithe, graceful figure that turned more than a few heads. A smile that made the world feel like a better place. If she were back in Alabama, the gossipy old women would call her a “man-killa” and try to fix her up with their grandsons.
Here in Haiti, after her thirteenth birthday, she’d given up the name Annabel Lee but had insisted on keeping her uncle’s last name. Raina Aemilia Truckson, that was who she’d been for many years now, and who she intended to be until she died.
She turned, and The Mute saw sunlight glint on her collarbone. A silver cross hung there, kept near her heart, decorating a steel chain.
She never said where she got it, but she never took it off, not since she was twelve. After that birthday, she’d told The Mute she had some thinking to do, and she’d buried herself for weeks in a Creole translation of the Bible. She’d asked questions. He didn’t know many answers and had directed her to others in Port-au-Prince. A missionary pastor. A voodoo priest. A Catholic church. Even an Islamic imam. In the end, she’d returned back to that Bible. She was patient but also determined.
One day she’d turned to him and, seemingly out of the blue, said, “The one thing I can’t get past, can’t dump off to the side, is Jesus. If he existed, he couldn’t ’a been just a good man or some great teacher. He had to be more.” She’d waited for a response, but The Mute just shrugged. She’d smiled and nodded. “I guess that’s it then. I know who I am now.”
She’d stood and kissed his forehead and then walked off into a new life. That was the day she’d started wearing that silver cross, a memento on the outside to remind her of what had happened on the inside.
Now, seeing her in the marketplace, that one-sided conversation came back to his mind. Watching his goddaughter grow into maturity over the past several years certainly made a good case for what she believed. As a result, The Mute had thought some about matters of faith and eternity but had never given it the sincere, searching treatment she had. Maybe someday I’ll have to do that, he told himself. Maybe someday soon.
Raina stopped at one of the sellers, and The Mute watched her begin the obligatory dickering with a laugh and a warm greeting. She was a friend to everyone here, and everyone treated the pretty white girl as if she were a member of the family.
She turned to walk away. The Mute could make out her lips saying, “Twòp twòp bagay.” “Much too much” in Haitian Creole. The seller came running out from behind his booth, wooing her, begging her to come back.
The three-legged dog resting beside The Mute growled at that sight, popping up into a tripod position. He was an old dog now, graying and slightly deaf. But the German shepherd never forgot who he once was, never quit trying to be protector for the girl he’d grown to love. The Mute let a hand fall on the animal’s head, and he stopped growling, but he still never took his eyes off her.
And now the transaction was done, a trade made for an undetermined amount of gourde banknotes. The girl looked toward the edge of the marketplace and caught The Mute’s eyes. She raised her prize: Barbancourt, Haitian Rum. A bottle to celebrate her nineteenth birthday today.
The Mute snorted. The girl didn’t even drink, but she knew it was his favorite. She’d made sure there’d be something special for him at tonight’s celebration. As if just spending time with her wasn’t enough by itself.
He watched as she moved on to the fruit vendors.
They’d been in Haiti for seven years now, always talking about moving away someday but never bothering to make any plans for change. They’d never heard again from the Order of St. Heinrich von Bonn or any of Johannes Schmitzden’s cronies. The Mute assumed that they’d lost track of the girl or been forced underground after the Islamic State rose to some semblance of power in Iraq. Then, since she’d reached age thirteen and beyond, she was no longer of any value to them. At least that’s what he hoped.
On her thirteenth birthday, The Mute offered to return her to Germany, to end her Fade and let her reclaim her life and her mother’s fortune. Apparently there was a home and a significant investment account waiting for her whenever she wanted to claim it. But she’d declined.
“Let’s stay here one more year,” she’d said. And so they did. And another year after that. And another. When she’d turned eighteen, The Mute tried again, but she’d refused.
“My home is Port-au-Prince,” she’d said. “Yours too.”
And that had settled it. They were Haitian in heart, if not in origin.
Now she was done with the fruit vendors. At home, a stew of rice, beans, and mutton was simmering. They would add the mangoes and sweetbread to the meal and have a birthday feast. Afterward, they’d make vanilla sponge cake, the Haitian style, and he’d sip at a glass of the rum while she opened her presents.
It was a good life.
Someday, he knew, there would be a young man who would steal her heart away from him. But today, on her nineteenth birthday, she was still his little girl, and he was still her Mute.
She smiled as she walked toward him. She whistled, and the dog beside him sprang to life, trotting out to meet her, making three legs seem just as easy to use as four. She paused to press her cheek against the animal’s neck, and The Mute heard her saying in Creole, “Ou se yon chen bon.” You’re a good dog.
The Mute stood as she drew closer. Li se yon lavi bon, he thought for what he figured must have been the thousandth time. He felt unexpectedly grateful.
Even in midwinter, her smile covered the Haitian marketplace of Port-au-Prince like a warm blanket spread out to welcome visitors.
It’s a good life, he told himself again, returning her smile.
Yon lavi bon.
1
Raven
Atlanta, GA
Downtown
Friday, April 14, 8:11 p.m.
16 minutes to Nevermore
My dad used to tell me the best way to stay out of trouble was to think about tomorrow before you act today.
Every Friday night in high school, just before I stepped out to go crazy with my friends, he’d look up from whatever he was reading—the Bible, a new Sharon Carter Rogers thriller, a boring book about Roman history, whatever—and he’d give me that same lecture:
“Son, ask yourself if ‘Tomorrow You’ is going to thank you for the circumstances you get him into tonight.”
Of course he was right. Dad generally gave good advice—it was kind of his job, after all. And of course I mostly ignored him. I figured that was my job.
Right now, though, I’m kind of wishing Last-Night Me had been paying attention to Dad’s most famous lecture. Even if LNM had just made some kind of contingency plan or something, that would’ve been helpful. But, as usual, that guy was just winging it, hoping things would work out anyway, regardless of what he did.
Eternal optimist, I guess. That’s me. Hope it doesn’t get me killed today.
The timer app on my cell phone beeps to tell me there’s only sixteen minutes left. I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly to calm my nerves. Gotta keep my wits. No time to panic, not yet at least.
The Big Dude in the wheelchair twitches and gr
oans. I can see that his subconscious mind is fighting the drug that knocked him out, but there’s nothing I can do about it right now. All I can do is punch the elevator button again, swear a little bit, and hope that sixteen minutes is going to be enough time to get done what needs to get done.
And then I see her.
Wow.
Trudi Sara Coffey pops through the door to the stairwell without hesitating, like she knew I’d be here, like she knew I’d be waiting for this stupid elevator on the sixth floor of the Ritz-Carlton Atlanta hotel.
She’s cleaned up for the occasion, a rare treat, if you ask me. Sleeveless red dress, sexy but not trashy—I think they call it a bodycon style. It’s sleek with ribbed material that hugs her hips until the fabric ends just above her knees. Below that is a pair of black ankle boots, flirty, with a gold buckle, metal sequins, and chunky heels. Stylish, but also convenient for running. Or kicking.
Her hair is thick and chocolatey, casually twisted and tacked up on her head in a way that just makes me want to kiss her neck. Dangly diamond earrings are her only jewelry, except for that long, black marble chopstick-thingy holding her hair in place. And stuck to her left hand is a little black purse—Mom would’ve called it a “clutch.” The way she’s holding the purse, with the snap undone, tells me what I would’ve expected from her anyway.
She wants to be able to get to her Beretta Tomcat quickly. Just in case.
I know she’s just jogged up six flights of stairs, but she’s barely breathing hard, like she could run up the next eighteen floors of this hotel without any problem. She keeps in shape, this one. Of course, one peek at that red dress reveals that secret. She pauses long enough to glance up and down the hall, checking to see if we have company. Then she turns her full attention to me.
“So, Raven,” she says now. “This is interesting.”
“Don’t call me that, Trudi,” I say, too quickly. “I mean, you don’t have to call me that. You can call me—”
“Raven,” she interrupts. “I can’t help noticing you’ve got my ex-husband, unconscious for some reason, strapped into Mama’s wheelchair.”
I cringe at that. This could be hard to explain. I decide to postpone that conversation.
“You look great, Trudi.”
I’m stalling, obviously, but I mean it too. My mom always taught me it’s important to acknowledge a woman’s efforts at looking pretty. Plus, if this ends badly, I’ll never forgive myself for missing an opportunity to tell Trudi Coffey that I think she’s just heartbreakingly beautiful. Seems like she doesn’t believe that about herself anymore. And she definitely deserves to believe it.
“I mean, wow, Trudi. Spectacular. You should dress like this all the time. Are those Vince Camuto boots? Very nice.”
“We’re talking fashion now? That’s where you want to go at this particular junction in your life?”
I shrug and try out what I think is my adorably sheepish grin. “I’m just saying you’re dressed nice today. It’s a compliment.”
Her stupid ex-husband groans again, interrupting our conversation. She presses a hand to her hip and frowns. “This doesn’t look good, Raven.”
The timer app on my cell phone beeps again.
“What’s that?” she says.
Only fifteen minutes left. I jab at the elevator button a few times. What . . . is . . . taking . . . so long?
“Raven.” She says my name again, a little intensity building in her voice. She steps toward me, and I suddenly get a maddening whiff of Bvlgari perfume.
How’s a guy supposed to concentrate when a woman like this is standing just two feet away? I cannot catch a break today.
“They already shut down the lifts in the whole hotel,” she’s saying now. “SWAT’s going to be here any minute. So . . . you want to explain what’s going on, or do I step out of the way and let them take you down? I’m giving you a chance here. Maybe you should take it.”
I close my eyes and take in a sweet breath of violet, orange blossom, and jasmine. I try to make a mental list of my options at this point, and it’s not very long.
In the end, though, all I can think is,
This is going to get really messy, really soon.
Acknowledgments
I need to thank three strong-willed women for making this book possible.
But first I’m going to tell you a story that explains why I need to thank them. I’ll try to keep it reasonably brief, but I’m not making any promises, so if you just want to know the names of those strong-willed women, go ahead and skip to the last paragraph of this section.
I’ve been writing professionally for more than twenty-five years now, mostly nonfiction and inspirational books, with a little theology thrown in for good measure. Some books were successful, some weren’t. So it goes. Still, I’ve managed to sell close to two million copies of my books worldwide, so things seem to be working out okay. For now at least.
Anyway, a number of years ago, there was a night when I couldn’t sleep. I was bored, so I spent the time making up the premise for a suspense novel. Afterward I figured, Why not? and I started writing it.
When it came time to pitch the novel to publishers, no editor would read it. My agent at the time explained it this way: “They keep telling me, ‘Mike Nappa is an inspirational writer. He can’t write suspense.’” So I did what any stubborn writer would do.
I erased my name completely from the manuscript and made up a pen name instead—a woman’s name. I resubmitted the manuscript to one of the publishers who’d seen it (and not read it) a year prior. I told them the author was a homemaker in Florida, and that this was her first attempt at writing.
I had a contract offer on my desk in three weeks.
In the end, I wrote three novels under that pen name. All were well-reviewed (one even won an award!), but to be honest, none of them were hugely successful, so maybe those original editors were right not to read my first manuscript. (Boy, it hurts to say that.)
Still, back in 2009, full of hope and wonder, I started writing Annabel Lee. I thought it would be the fourth book for my pen name. I got about thirty pages in when, surprise! My publisher notified me that they’d decided not to publish any more books from my homemaker in Florida. My brief career as a suspense novelist was over.
Hey, I figured, I gave it a good shot. Just didn’t work out.
So I went back to writing inspirational and theology books. In fact, I published two nonfiction books that I think are the best things I’ve ever written. Both of those books had first-class marketing and publicity campaigns attached, and both were projected to do very well in the marketplace—and both books failed spectacularly. One of them was such a financial fiasco that my editor told me to stop sending him new book ideas. Ever. He would, he told me in the most polite and respectful way, be laughed out of his publishing committee if he mentioned my name in there again.
Sigh.
About the time of that first big failure, my wife, Amy, started badgering me about “that story with the ‘safe/unsafe’ code in the newspaper.” Why didn’t I go ahead and finish that manuscript? She wanted to know what happened, and said it was kind of mean that I’d gotten her hooked with the first thirty pages and then left her hanging.
I told Amy, in the most polite and respectful way, that finishing Annabel Lee was an enormously stupid idea. Writing a suspense novel is really, really hard, I said. An awful, time-consuming, ego-shattering experience from beginning to end. And hadn’t I already failed as a fiction writer? Why waste a year working on a new book that was destined to fail like the others?
Amy politely and respectfully reminded me that I’d also failed in my career as a nonfiction writer. So why not try failing at fiction again? At least then she could find out what happened.
Wives, right? (Insert eye roll here.)
I told her no. Final decision.
And that was that.
Sort of.
My wife has learned the secret to controlling her husband. “I’
m praying that God will change your heart,” she told me. And she started praying. Before long, she’d enlisted my pastor’s wife, Jan Hummel, to pray the same thing. Yeah, they ganged up on me. Pretty mean, right? And they kept cheerfully reminding me every week of their prayers for my career success as a novelist. And before long, I kept having more and more sleepless nights where all I could think about was what might be happening with Annabel, Trudi Coffey, and The Mute.
I caved.
All right, all right, I told Amy and Jan. I’ll write this book, and it’ll be a big, time-wasting failure, and it’ll be all your fault. So there.
They didn’t feel any sympathy for me. In fact, they were happy about my impending misery.
Whatever.
So I let myself get lost in the world of Coffey & Hill Investigations. It took forever, but I found myself not minding that so much. When Annabel Lee was (finally!) done, around Christmas of 2012, I was exhausted. But at least it was over. I gave a signed copy of the manuscript to Jan for Christmas and let Amy read it on my computer, and then I tried to forget about it. Except that now both Amy and Jan started pestering me to get it published. Given my publishing history, I knew that was a silly pipe dream—but I also thought I’d better not let them start praying again. I began sending it out to publishers and tried to hope for the best.
A lot of editors simply refused to read it. After all, I was an inspirational author, not a novelist.
A number of editors read it, hated it, and felt like they should tell me all the reasons why they hated it as part of the humiliating rejection process. (I never understand why editors think they have to do that . . . but I digress.)
Several editors read it, loved it—and then told me they still weren’t going to publish it even though they loved it. (I never understand that one either.)
One editor at a very large, New York City publishing house actually dangled a potentially lucrative contract in front of me. He loved Annabel Lee, he said, except for all that “supernatural” stuff. If I’d cut out the spiritual elements in the plot, he’d publish Annabel Lee for me. What could I do? I turned him down.
