The door creaked open. Ann spun around.
An old man in a canvas jacket peered inside. His gray hair stood out from his head. His eyes met Ann’s and he held up his hands.
“I am Raghib,” he said. “I’m very sorry to bother you, but I need to talk to you about your father.”
Chapter 21
Teresa dug under the bed trying to find her golden cross necklace. It must have fallen off somewhere. She lifted the bed skirt, and all thought of her necklace vanished from her mind.
Her slippers. Caked with dried mud.
The reality of the previous night’s activities rushed to the surface of her mind and left her breathless. Her entire body trembled, and a chill slithered through her.
She dashed to the bathroom and threw up.
“ ‘Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you,’ ” she said in a shaking whisper. The rest of James 4:7 escaped her. She brushed her teeth.
Tiffany and her friend had told her Ruthie would be fine. Teresa spat into the sink and rinsed. Ruthie wasn’t dead. She was okay. Teresa would go to the diner and prove it. Her hands continued to shake so hard she nearly poked her eye out with the mascara wand.
Downstairs, she turned toward the kitchen to see if Derrick and Maggie were there and froze. The door to the basement stood wide open.
Teresa tore downstairs. A panicky feeling tightened her lungs. The baby’s furniture. Gone. All of it. The crib, the dresser, the rocking chair, the nursing pillow. All the stuffed animals. Every. Last. Memory.
No. Not all of it. She ran back upstairs to the front room. Big Bear still sat on the love seat. She grabbed him, hugged him to her, and laughed. The bear responsible for the baby’s death was the last piece of the baby she had left. The irony was cruel. She wondered if Derrick knew Big Bear was even in the front room. She tucked him among the pillows on a chair in the corner.
Tiffany would be hers again soon enough. But her stomach turned at the thought of taking six more souls. She covered her mouth with her hand and sobbed only once. That’s all she allowed. Part of being a wife was to present oneself with elegance and poise. Her husband was not to see her distraught, only happy. She’d slipped up lately, but not anymore. She had more strength than that.
Teresa went back to the basement door and closed it. She strode down the hall and pulled on her coat. The air outside nipped her cheeks.
The sign in the diner’s window flashed its red letters. Open. She smiled. Ruthie was okay. Alive and well. Teresa went inside. The tables and booths were packed. She frowned. The church crowd? She checked her watch. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d missed church.
The person who greeted her with a harried hello and a hand flung toward the dining room was not Ruthie.
“Sit wherever you want,” the woman said. She resembled Ruthie in every way—except she had fashionable clothing and styled hair. Ruthie wore jeans and flannel and always had her hair in a pony tail. This woman wore a button-down blouse and black slacks. Her hair curled slightly around her shoulders.
Teresa sank into the bench of a small booth and willed herself not to jump to conclusions.
Perhaps Ruthie was just out sick.
She gazed around the restaurant at the patrons. The greasy food here probably kept Derrick’s clinic in business with gut ailments. Sheriff McMichael sat in a corner booth shoveling something smothered in gravy into his mouth. A side of fries, also smothered in gravy, sat in a basket nearby.
He’s so . . . fat. Look at the size of his belly flopped over his belt like that.
Her frown deepened.
The waitress came to Teresa’s table and filled her coffee cup.
“Who are you?” Teresa asked.
“Debbie. Ruthie’s sister,” the woman said. “You know that, Doctor Hart. You delivered my first baby.”
Teresa cocked her head to the side. “Oh, yes, Debbie.” She touched the spot on her breastbone where the cross usually hung. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
“Three kids later,” Debbie said with a half-hearted laugh and a light touch to her stomach, though it was flat.
“Three?” Teresa said. “Who delivered the other two?”
Debbie’s mouth dropped open, closed, opened again.
Teresa smiled and waved a hand. “That’s not important.” She forced a laugh. “The important question is, where’s Ruthie?”
Debbie looked at the coffeepot in her hand. Her lip trembled. She looked at Teresa with tear-filled eyes. “Excuse me.” She dashed off toward the kitchen.
Teresa reached for her necklace again. Her eyes welled with tears. Her cross was gone.
Ruthie is gone.
Teresa gasped. Her necklace had to be at Ruthie’s house. She slid off her chair, hurried to the front of the restaurant, and dashed outside. Police tape lay on the ground at the top of the hill. A cold breeze set it writhing across the ground like a dying snake.
Her chest tightened. This was happening. It was real. She stole Ruthie’s soul and gave it to some handsome stranger in the abandoned funeral home so she could get her dead daughter back.
Teresa jogged down the hill. Police tape sealed Ruthie’s front door. They’d already searched it. They’d already found her cross. They would find her out. They would know.
A rattling whisper spoke behind her. “What have you done?”
Louise, the town loony, stood behind her—close enough that Teresa saw the wrinkles etched deep into the old woman’s skin. Her sharp gray eyes widened.
It wasn’t quite a question, though. It was a reprimand. The way a parent would address a child’s mess. Louise took a few steps back and stopped. Her eyes narrowed for a moment, then widened again.
“What did you say?” Teresa’s mouth went dry. She took a step toward Louise, and the old woman backed away. The wind lifted her scraggly gray hair, adding a little more lunacy to her already crazed expression.
“You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Teresa frowned, even though she knew it caused lines to form on her forehead. Louise kept backing away. Teresa followed. The old woman scrambled to the front of the diner and gave one last alarmed look at Teresa before dashing inside.
Teresa swallowed away the dryness in her throat. How? But no, Louise wouldn’t know. How could she know? She couldn’t. No one was out that late. Ruthie’s screams, though. How did they not wake the whole town?
Teresa’s heartbeat pulsed along the edges of her vision. She couldn’t let this woman spread rumors about her. She followed Louise inside and stood by the door.
The crazy woman yelled, “Darkness—it has come! The End of Days shall be upon us! Have you repented for your sins?”
The patrons shied away. If Ruthie had been there, she would have nicely guided Louise to a booth and given her a free breakfast. But Ruthie wasn’t there. Debbie was.
Debbie, harried by the rush of breakfast-goers, pointed the coffee pot at Louise, then the door, sloshing coffee onto the floor. “I will not have you disturbing these people. Please leave, or I’ll call the sheriff and have you removed,” she yelled.
Teresa looked around. Sheriff McMichael had already left. He made short work of that breakfast.
Louise, not missing a beat, turned her gaze to Debbie and took two staggering steps toward her. She lifted a knobby finger.
“Your sister was the first of many—”
“Get. Out. Now.” Debbie said. “Bobby! Call the sheriff,” she yelled toward the kitchen.
“I’ll leave,” Louise said. “But you mark my words.” She swung around, addressing the entire diner now, pointing her hand as she went. “A great darkness shall descend! The End of Days! They are upon us!”
Teresa backed out the front door and into the cold. Louise did the same and wandered away. Teresa followed, but at the town square she stopped. Louise hadn’t said a thing about Teresa or what she thought Teresa had done. Her comment about Ruthie was close but innocent. Sort
of. Teresa, lost in her worries, didn’t realize she had gone directly to the abandoned funeral home.
Chapter 22
Unable to speak, Ann stared at the grizzled old man standing in her doorway.
“May I come in?” he asked, his voice accented enough to prove he wasn’t American.
Ann nodded and motioned him inside. “Sorry about the mess. Someone broke in.” She wiped her hands on the front of her jeans to hide their shaking.
“Is anything missing?” Concern etched the lines around Raghib’s eyes.
Ann shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of,” she said. “Uh, can I get you something to drink?”
“A glass of water?”
Ann went to the kitchen and filled a glass from the tap. “Ice?” she called toward the living room.
“Please.”
She opened the freezer. The bottle of spiced rum lay at an angle instead of tucked against the wall like it had been. She shoved it aside and shifted the ice cube trays and frozen dinners around. The finger was gone. She dropped the glass. By the grace of whatever power, it didn’t break, but water spilled all over the linoleum. Raghib appeared in the doorway.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
Ann threw a handful of paper towels onto the puddle and mopped it up with her foot. “I, um . . .” Ann ran her fingers over her eyebrow. “Butterfingers.” She shrugged and got a fresh glass, managed to get ice and water into it without dropping it, and handed it to Raghib. He drank greedily.
“How did you know to find me here?” Ann asked. “How did you know to call me at this number the other day?”
Raghib held up a hand. “Is this place secure? I mean . . .” he ducked his head and glanced around at the mess, “from listening? Did the intruder plant any bugs?”
Ann hadn’t considered that. She didn’t have a reason to. Did she?
“We can go outside.” She pulled on her jacket.
“In the back,” Raghib said. “I can’t risk being seen.”
Ann took him down the short hallway toward the rear of the house, through the laundry room and a small mudroom. Raghib followed her outside. A couple of Adirondack chairs sat on a covered patio facing an expanse of forest. A large gray cloud loomed in the west. Tiny flurries twirled in the air. Ann zipped her coat.
Raghib took full advantage of his chair, propping his legs up and everything. Ann stayed on her feet and towered over him.
“Who are you? How do you know my father? And what do you have to tell me about him?” She paused. “And how the hell did you know I was here?”
“I told you who I am.” Raghib took a deep breath. “Asim Raghib. I was very close to your father. He saved my life.” Raghib stared ahead, the daylight making his light whiskey-colored eyes glow.
Ann narrowed her eyes. “Did you leave a box on my doorstep in Salida a few days ago?”
Raghib’s face distorted and he began to cry. “It was my duty to send a box to you upon your father’s demise,” he said. “It was to be my last act for him. A promise I made to him during our last encounter. Someone attacked me and stole the box.”
“Who?” If he had a description, she had a lead.
Raghib shook his head. “It all happened so fast. I was struck from behind and knocked out. I never saw a single part of them.”
Lead gone.
Ann sat on the other chair and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “When did you last see or talk to my dad?”
Tears followed the deep wrinkles in Raghib’s cheeks. “Many months ago.” He wiped at his face.
“Do you know what the box had in it?”
He shook his head. “It was not my place to know.”
“My father told me I could trust you.” Ann got up and paced. “The box had a message in it.” And his finger, but she didn’t tell Raghib this just yet. Who came to her house? Who stole the finger? Was it his ring they were after? Raghib showed up at a coincidental time.
“How do I know you’re really who you say you are?”
Raghib sat up. “Your father knew you would be—what is the word—skeptical.” He smiled a toothy grin. “I understand your reluctance to trust me.” He pulled out his passport from the side pocket of his cargo pants and handed it over.
She flipped to the photo page. Asim Raghib. In the flesh. “This could be forged.” She handed it back.
Raghib sighed and nodded. “He knew you’d say that, as well.” He reached toward his back, and Ann reached for her gun. Raghib held his hands up, as if she had a weapon on her hip.
“I’m reaching into my back pocket for my wallet,” he said with a nervous smile.
Ann nodded. He pulled his wallet out and produced a small photo.
“This is secondary proof.” He handed the picture to Ann. It was a photo of her dad with his arm slung around Raghib. She let out a breath and handed it back to him, then sank down onto the chair.
She turned her eyes to his. “Is my father . . . dead?”
Raghib nodded. “Sadly, it is true, but his death was no accident. He was assassinated while performing his duty as a Protector.”
“Assassinated? Do you mean murdered?” Ann asked. “Did he die here in Harmony?”
Raghib shook his head. He looked down at his hands clasped over his belly. “He died in Egypt.”
Yeah, he went to Egypt a lot. But Egypt was well outside of his protector jurisdiction by thousands of miles. What could he be protecting there?
“My father was in Egypt helping people,” Ann said, but her voice had lost its conviction when she recalled her conversation with Maggie. Maggie had used the same term, Protector, to describe Ann. And Maggie hadn’t meant because Ann was a cop.
Raghib sat up and shifted his feet to the concrete pad their chairs sat on.
“Where did he do this helping?”
“Upper Egypt,” Ann said.
“Are you familiar with the secret texts? The Nag Hammadi library?”
Ann nodded.
“The library was named after the town where it was discovered. In Upper Egypt.”
Ann sat up straighter. She hadn’t known that particular detail.
“Do you know the story of Sophia?” Raghib asked. “From the secret texts?”
“I recently learned that particular story, but what does that have to do with my dad? What was he protecting in Nag Hammadi?”
“Nag Hammadi was headquarters for an organization called the Protectorate. They were the enemies of the Messengers of the Light. It was they who tried to kill me. The ones your father saved me from. But wait.” He held up his hands in a halting gesture. “In order for any of this to make sense, I must return to the beginning.” He leaned back onto the chair and propped his feet up again.
In the beginning, Ann expected him to say.
“I am ashamed of my past,” he began. “I worked for the Messengers of the Light for many years. Not until my son’s wife gave birth to my granddaughter did I realize the way of the Messengers was all wrong.” He gazed out into the distance. “They assassinated my son and daughter-in-law for their abandonment. They would have killed my granddaughter, too, but I spirited her away to the only place I knew she would be safe—Protectorate Headquarters.”
Ann nodded and motioned for him to keep going.
“You see, the Messengers and the Protectorate used to be one organization, but differences among the leaders divided them into two factions. The Protectorate was not a malicious group. Not like the Messengers. The Protectorate was forgiving.”
Raghib had begged them to give Maggie sanctuary despite his affiliation with the Messengers. He begged their forgiveness and vowed he would never work for the Messengers again.
“Even in their distrust of me, they allowed me to swear allegiance to them.”
“How did the Messengers take your treason?” Ann asked.
“They never found out until I was gone.”
“You were a double agent.”
“Indeed. It was your father’s idea. Mr. Bram de
vised the most intricate, most well-thought-out plans. They never failed.”
Ann scoffed.
Sure they didn’t. And that’s why he’s dead.
She let Raghib continue.
“As part of my allegiance, I was forced to live at Protectorate Headquarters for several months. They called it rehabilitation. You see, the Messengers were cult-like in their ways. They used brainwashing techniques to ensure we were serious—devout, I think is the word?” He shook his head. “Their devotion consisted of using full sensory deprivation—pulsing white noise, blindness with black-out goggles—to torture their members into submission.”
“Shit,” Ann whispered. “I can’t imagine.” The loud ocean waves her therapist played in the waiting room was torture enough. “And you went through this . . . brainwashing?”
“Yes, when I was much younger. I do not think I would survive it now.” He took a sip of water. “It was to strip us of what we thought we knew about the world. To take us to an ignorant state, so we could be rebuilt. The Messengers believe ignorance binds us to the material world, and once we shed this ignorance we will transcend to the heavens to be with who they believe to be the one true god.”
“Yalda-whatever,” Ann said. “Right?”
“Yaldabaoth. Samael. Sakla.” He spit the last name like a curse. “The Messengers believe that in their devotion he will spare them in the End of Days when he seeks vengeance upon Pistis Sophia for banishing him to Tartaros.”
“So, was the Protectorate successful? You don’t have any loyalty to the Messengers anymore?”
“The Protectorate was thorough. They kept me under surveillance until they knew they could trust me. Once they were sure, I was allowed to become a Protector Allegiant and serve your father whenever he was in Egypt, and as his, as Mr. Bram said, feet on the street, when he was away.”
Her dad’s right-hand man, so to speak.
“He was a very passionate man, your father,” Raghib said.
Ann thought back to her dad’s desperate pleas to keep her in Harmony resulting in the fight that ultimately sealed her decision to leave. She was well aware of how passionate he could be. Passionate, stubborn, bullheaded, whatever.
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