Eyewitness (Thriller/Legal Thriller - #5 The Witness Series) (The Witness Series #5) (28 page)

2013

The furgon got a late start from Kosovo. Not that there was a schedule to meet since each small bus waited until it was filled before leaving. That morning there had only been three people wanting to make the journey into Albania, and the driver was not going to waste time on three people. But then, God be praised, so many rushed to his furgon that an hour later he had to find boxes to set in the aisle to make extra seats. The last to come was a young man. His hair was too long and his shoes too dirty, so the driver knew he was no Shqiptare. Praise God again, he could make this boy pay the foreign rate. It would be a good day.

But the boy spoke the old language. He was, he said, from the United States and he worked to bring peace to Albania - which was where he needed to go. The furgon driver was surprised. He had heard of these Americans who came and went. There was as much peace as there ever had been in Albania, so what more peace could a boy bring? But foreigners had strange ideas that mostly made no difference one way or another.

The boy sat on the box at the driver’s feet for the long ride into Bajram Curri and they talked of many things because the boy was curious, and he spoke the language, and he understood the ways, and the driver was pleased to pass the time pleasantly. He asked the boy if he knew a man in America named Archer. The boy said, no, America was a very large country. There might be millions of men with such a name.

“Me të vërtetë? Miliona?”

The boy shook his head, a sign that he agreed with the furgon driver’s statement. He said again:

“Yes, millions.”

The furgon driver considered this. Suddenly, he swerved, and the boy sitting on the box was thrown back into the old woman who held a chicken on the box behind him. There, in the middle of the road, a little car had stopped to let out a passenger. The furgon skidded on the stones that littered the road. The driver righted the little bus, the boy said soothing words to the woman and her chicken, and they began to speak again. The furgon driver said that in Albania there were many people with the same names also but not millions. The boy shook his head again, agreeing with this wisdom. Then the furgon driver asked if he knew of Gjergy Isai who, the driver believed, was from Bajram Curri, or a family named Zogaj who, perhaps, did not live there he believed. The boy did not, but he was bright and full of energy. He offered to ask around for such a man and for such a family.

The furgon driver smiled at this good boy. While he drove, he told him the story of how all the way in America, a high judge was waiting to hear about Gjergy Isai and the Zogaj family and the history of their clans. It was a most important thing, and all of the whole United States needed to know this information. When he stopped the furgon and the people got off to go to their homes and businesses, the sky already looked threatening and the furgon driver knew that much snow was coming. The boy was the last to leave the little bus, and the driver imparted the information of the phone number of the man named Archer should the boy come across news of Gjergy Isai or the Zogaj family. If the boy were to find such information, he would be a hero in his homeland. The furgon driver did not say that he, himself, preferred not to get out in the cold to inquire after these people even though he had promised to do so. Since the boy seemed not to be suspicious of this strange request, he said he would do what he could, and that he would tell the driver when next he saw him, and he would call the man named Archer and speak in English to him.

They said their goodbyes. The boy who was to bring peace threw his backpack over his shoulder and walked off, happy with whatever brought him to this place. In his cell phone was the number in America. The furgon driver called blessings to the good boy. He had done what had been asked of him as best he could. It was out of his hands. He would have coffee. He might have raki to warm himself, and he would wait until people came to fill up his furgon so he could drive back once more to Kosovo.

***

The old men sat in a circle in Sam Lumina’s house. Mary had gone to see Jac Duka’s widow. Sam wasn’t happy that his wife spent so much time at Sharon’s house because those visits were starting to make her jittery. Tonight, though, it was probably good that she had gone and taken Sammy with her. Sam poured drinks. His Albanian was good, but the language came so fast from the old men that sometimes it was hard to follow. Gjergy stayed mostly silent, listening to advice, to the thoughts of these old men who still understood the old ways but who also knew how America worked.

“I had a call from Ante,” said a man so old his skin looked like parchment. “They have sent home to ask about you, Gjergy.”

“And what will they find? That Gjergy is who he says he is?” another scoffed. “It is nothing. What is needed is a decision. The judge has made things very difficult. It is your honor, Gjergy, and that of your family. But you will not get the boy if there are jailers. You will not even be able to see him.”

Gjergy nodded. He drank coffee from a small cup. Sam had made the thick coffee hoping for praise. Praise enough, he supposed, that Gjergy did not dislike it.

A man with a broad face said: “This is complicated Gjergy. Perhaps, you should go home. Perhaps, you should-”

“
Ndaluar. Ju flisni si një grua.”

Gjergy’s head swung toward the man. His small eyes glittered. He insulted the man by saying he talked like a woman, advising that
Gjergy should go back home, runaway. That Gjergy whispered this insult was all the more injurious and the man colored, but he was right. Gjergy did not understand that this was America. Some things could not be accomplished in the way in which they should be accomplished.

“The girl will wake, and s
he will tell them about you and the boy and her. She will tell them about Oi,” parchment man said.

Gjergy agreed. Indeed, she would tell them, and the judge would have to think on what to do, and that would take a long time. Gjergy would do his business and be gone before the judge decided what to do. Everyone in that room should have known that Gjergy was not afraid. These men had lived too long in this country where things came easily.

“Unë do të merrni djalë.”

The decision was made. He, Gjergy, told them he would not return home this way. The girl was too sick and of no consequence any longer. He would take the boy. He almost laughed when he saw the look in the eyes of these old men. He, Gjergy, had never needed their counsel and asked for it only out of respect. He needed only Sam.

“We will go tomorrow. Sam and me. Then I will leave.”

He saw Sam waver, but knew the younger man did not have the courage to defy him. Sam showed the others out and Gjergy went to his room, closed the door, packed his things, lay on his bed, and waited for the morning. Since he did not sleep, he thought about this country and tried to think what was wrong with it. Then it came to him.

These men had forgotten how to walk on stone.

***

Hannah sat on the little red stool, looking at the lacquer box. She had brought both these things from Fritz Rayburn’s Malibu house and they reminded her of two things: the last place she had lived with her mother and the last time she had been afraid. Hannah unwound the braids and let her hair fall free. She gathered it up and pulled it over one shoulder and then buried her hands in her face. She was not despairing; she was simply exhausted by the ever-changing landscape of her life. Her heart was a hundred years old, and she knew what she had seen at Burt’s. It was life moving on. How could she celebrate a beginning while Billy’s life was ending?

It was wrong.

It was cruel.

It was undeserved.

The judge’s ruling wasn’t justice; it was ass covering at Billy’s expense. Hannah put her hands on her knees and looked around her room: the closet with the louvered doors, the big bed covered with a purple cloth shot with gold threads from India, the dressing table that she had painted in the colors of the earth and sky and sea, the chair in the corner, the windows looking toward Hermosa Boulevard, and her easel.

She stood up and turned back the sheet that covered the canvas. It was time to finish. Hannah mixed the blues, laid the color, added white accents, the black outline, and was satisfied. The eyes were pools not to drown in but to float in and therein lay their magic. Peaceful eyes. Perfect eyes. The phone rang. She picked it up.

“We missed you,” Josie said.

“I didn’t feel like partying. It was a good surprise,” Hannah answered.

Josie laughed, “Yes, it was. Faye says she’s sorry she kept it a secret from you.”

“That’s alright. I’m used to-”

Hannah caught herself. Josie had been right at the hospital. The past wasn’t an arsenal to be used against someone who had never attacked her. She said:

“It’s cool.”

“Hannah, I’m going to Archer’s. Will you take Max out? Is that okay?”

“Yes,” the girl said quietly.

“I’ll be back early. I promise. We’ll have breakfast before I go to the hospital.”

“Don’t worry, Josie. I’m fine. Really.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Josie!” Hannah called her back, relieved when she was still there. Hannah said: “You won’t worry, will you? I don’t want you to worry.”

“No, Hannah. I won’t. Sleep well.”

The line went dead. Hannah held her cell to her heart for a moment. She pulled in a deep breath, sat down at the dressing table, and wrote a note that she put on the easel. When she was done, Hannah went to the entry where Max was curled up on his rug. She hunkered down and drew her fingers through his fur. Once, twice, three and four times, and then he woke as old creatures do: slow and blurry eyed, surprised by nothing, accepting of whatever was in front of their nose. She thought it strange that the dog chose to sleep so that he could watch the front door and the comings and goings of those he had grown to love. He waited better than she did; he accepted with more grace than she did.

“Come on, Max.” Hannah didn't bother to put the leash on him. Max would not run away even if he could, and it was wrong to tether him to anything.

They walked out into the night, the old dog and the beautiful girl. She held the gate and saw that his hip hurt. They ambled down the walk street, Max sniffing at the walls that separated small gardens or squares of concrete patios. Lights shined from most of the houses, and inside everything was safe and warm. Few people drew their curtains, something Hannah never understood. Someone standing in the dark, like she was, could see everything. From the clock on the kitchen wall to salt and pepper shakers on the dining room table where Mr. Harrigan hovered over his computer. She could see the bunnies and stars on the Glaskow children's pajamas as they sat together in one big chair watching television.

Hannah's nose twitched when a raindrop fell on the tip of it. She wiped it away. More fell, but she paid them no mind. There were hours before the real storm hit and hours before Josie came home; precious time that Hannah needed.

Throwing her head back, Hannah let Hermosa sweep over her: the wind, the scent of wet sand and briny ocean, the sense of contentment from the houses where families gathered, the sounds of music muffled by closed patio doors, the rush of water and the peace. Tears came to Hannah's eyes and she shook them away. She did not love Hermosa Beach, she did not love Josie or Archer, and she did not love these people. She would not love them. This had been a dream and she was waking up.

"Come on Max." Hannah spoke more sharply than she intended. Ignoring the underlying quiver in her voice, she hurried him back to Josie’s house. If she didn’t get there soon, she would not be as brave as she knew she must be.

She walked quickly and the old dog kept up as best he could but still Hannah had to wait at the gate. Inside, she bedded him down but did not hunker by his side to pet him to sleep. Mechanically, Hannah went about doing what she must: lights were turned on, the few dishes were done, and the mail was stacked. She made her bed, put away her paints, dealt with her clothes and, finally, sat at her dressing table and opened her lacquer box.

Hannah had an overwhelming desire to run to the shore and throw the thing into the sea. Instead, she stared at the contents and thought of her mother, of Miggy who had disappeared into the streets again, of her father who she had never known and didn’t care to know. Hannah always knew she would have to save herself, but she never knew she would have to do it with a heart so full of pain. She needed to make it stop.

Hannah took out a set of keys and a pair of gold handled scissors. Finally, she peeled back the red velvet lining and uncovered three razor blades. In the low light, the finely honed edges glinted. They were the most beautiful things Hannah had ever seen: simply constructed, pedestrian in their purpose, and yet so full of promise. She chose one and pushed up the long sleeves of her hoodie.

In this light, the map of raised scars on her forearm looked like a relief map of pink and white and brown hills and valleys. She was a pitiful sight, and that thought almost made her put the razor away, but she was cutting before she knew that she had begun. There was a long, thin slice in the flesh that bled enough for Hannah to be satisfied. She switched hands and this time she drew the blade down her left arm.

Once . . .

Twice . . .