Sacrifices of Joy (21 page)

“You're still up?” Roman sounded as surprised as I did when he answered my phone call on the second ring.

“What are you doing up? You sound like it's three o'clock in the afternoon and not three in the morning.” I raised an eyebrow as I talked to him on my way back to my room.

“My brother and I are working on something together.”

“Oh? Oh.”

“I told you. I have this, Mom.”

“You need to be getting your rest to deal with your classes tomorrow.”

“I told you. I have this, Mom,” he repeated.

There would be no changing his mind or stopping whatever ball he'd started rolling, and it was clear that he would not be elaborating on whatever actions he, and his brother, were taking. Though I had not said it, I wasn't worried. My son took after me in some ways. Once he had a mission in mind, he would see it through to the end with determination and integrity.

At least that's how I envisioned my efforts at problem solving.

It occurred to me that the same pang of pain that usually shot through me at the mention of RiChard's other family did not surface just now; at least, not to the degree it usually did.

Maybe that's what the beginning of forgiveness felt like. Not experiencing the pain again at the same level.

“What's up, Ma?”

I'd been quiet too long.
Focus, Sienna.
“Roman, is your school's library still open?”

“Twenty-four hours a day. Why?”

“I need you to log me into a database they should have on their computer system.”

“O . . . kay.” He paused. “Mom, I told you I'm taking care of everything.”

“Roman, this has nothing to do with your father. I've moved on.”

He paused again. I heard a long sigh and then he said something to his brother. Was someone else besides Croix with him? I wondered, as what sounded like a female's voice sounded in the background. Did Roman have some girl in his dorm room and was he trying to play it off like it was his brother?
Focus, Sienna!
I could feel myself about to have conniptions. I was on a mission. I had to stay the course. Save the world.

Maybe I just needed to get some sleep; my thoughts were getting delusional.

“Mom.” Roman finally got back on the phone. “I'll be there in twenty minutes, but I'm bringing you back to my room. I can access the library's database collection from my computer.”

“Mmm, hmm,” I managed to get out as we both disconnected. Exhaustion seeped into me. I had twenty minutes to take a quick nap.

The urgency now raging inside of me told me I needed as clear a head as possible.

 

 

Between waiting for Roman and driving back to his dorm room, I managed to get in nearly fifty minutes of Zs. As I stepped into his corner suite, I realized I'd forgotten how spacious it was. And I had no idea it was so technologically advanced.

With computers, game systems, stereo speakers, and gadgets I didn't recognize, I wondered if I was stepping into his dorm room or the twenty-second century.

“Do you study here, sleep here, or play here?” I asked as I stepped into his room for the first time since I'd helped him move in last August.

“A little bit of all three.” He chuckled. “Let me get you set up.” He guided me to his workstation as I stepped over mounds of clothes and looked at both loft beds that were in the room. One was unmade, the other barely touched.

“You said you were with your brother. Is he staying here again?”

Roman shrugged, but gave me a half smile. “We'll be okay. It helps when you have a common purpose to work on together.” He pointed to the monitor. “I've got you logged in. What database do you need?”

“One that that will let me search for dissertations and theses from around the country.”

He clicked on an icon and within seconds I was entering the key words I'd pulled from what I'd made out of the title of the book from the YouTube screenshot: Deconstructing. Theological. Moral. Finite. I pressed search. A couple of seconds later, a title popped onto the screen.

“Whoa, that's a mouthful.” Roman studied the screen from his bean bag chair behind me. “What's that about, Mom?”

“Nothing.” How did I even begin to explain?

“It's something. Can't imagine why you'd have an urgent desire to read
The Secrets to Deconstructing Heroism and a Critique of the Philosophical and Theological Views of Moral Evolution in the Finite Universe
at four o'clock in the morning. That's some pretty heavy information to start out your day.” He chuckled and moved closer to the screen. “By J.B. Infinity? Is this some kind of joke?”

“No. It's not a joke.”

“What's going on, Ma?” Roman sobered again as he could see the seriousness in my eyes, the growing panic on my face.

“This is the dissertation of a terrorist.”

“Huh?”

“I think this is the man who is responsible for the bombing at BWI. No. I am certain of it. I feel it. They have the wrong man in custody.”

I looked up at my son, who stood beside me, staring at the screen. Then he looked at me. “Okay, Mom. I know I expressed my doubts earlier, but that's taking it to a whole other level.” He clicked the Web site off.

“Wait! What are you doing?” I grabbed his hand as he maneuvered his mouse to shut down the system. “Roman, I need to print that out. I need to at least write down the title. Don't turn it off. I need to—”

“Ma, you need to get some sleep. I'm used to pulling all-nighters, but this staying up until four in the morning is not for you.”

“Roman, I know what I'm doing. I know what I'm talking about. Pull the site back up. Now.”

“You're in my kingdom, Ma. We're playing by my rules. You've had a tough week. You've got jet lag two times over. You saw RiChard for the first time in twenty years. You just missed a terrorist attack by a flight last Saturday. Get some sleep, and I'll make sure I get you to the airport before my eleven o'clock class. Your flight leaves at ten, right?”

I narrowed my eyes at my nineteen-year-old son. “Um, I don't care how old you are, or which side of the country we're on. Understand that I am
always
the queen. You will
always
be a subject in
my
court.” I gave him The Eye, the look I used to use to flash him back into immediate compliance in the church pews when he was eight, at PTA meetings when he was twelve.

He sighed, rolled his eyes, sucked his teeth. But he turned the computer back on. “I don't believe this,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I will print out the title and the abstract for you, Ma, but please promise me that you won't do anything drastic. Actually, please don't do anything at all until you've had at least eight hours of sleep.”

I would have told him that I could not promise him anything, but my eyelids were betraying me. I had officially and suddenly met my limit of consciousness for the day. “Go ahead and print it out. I'm going to sleep.” I headed to the futon under his loft bed. “Don't let me oversleep.”

 

It wasn't until the next morning that he broke the news to me. After driving me to the hotel to check out, he turned his car towards the airport. I struggled to stay awake in the passenger seat.

“You have the abstract?” My words slurred together as I tried to remember why I had been in San Diego and why I was on my way to an airport yet again. “What is today?”

“It's Friday. It's eight o'clock in the morning. You are on your way back home to Baltimore, and, no, I do not have the abstract.”

“What?” I immediately came to attention as the events of the past twelve hours came back to mind.

“The article apparently had been removed from the database. There was no other information except what was up on that screen you saw last night. Just the title and the author's name. I did print that out for you and put it in your workbag.” We were at the departures terminal. “Mom, please don't do anything until you've had some sleep.”

I gave him a smile and kissed his cheek as I got out of the car.

I didn't think either one of us was reassured.

By J.B. Infinity no less.

This had to be him. The title, even the author's name had all the hallmarks of that man's convoluted, confusing reasoning.

B. Maybe for Bennett?

My questions only increased as the plane approached DC. In my exhaustion, I'd forgotten that I had flown in and out of the DC. area, and not Baltimore; but with four hours of in-flight uninterrupted sleep, I felt ready to tackle whatever was next. I wanted to catch up with Laz and show him my research.

But this only proves that his mind may be a little off,
I imagined Laz saying
. What does his dissertation have to do with the terrorist attack, if you can even prove that this is even his work?

There are too many coincidences,
I'd respond.
The man happened to call me from a number that was in the same area as a now
-
dead young man who took to the Internet to discuss the dissertation
-
turned
-
book.

Explain the book. Who published it? Where does it exist?
Laz would question next.

Before we go there,
I imagined myself responding to him,
let's consider that he also coincidentally was at the airport just before the attack, with verbal plans to go to the same destination that the suspect in custody happened to be going to with his family. Why not look up his itinerary and see if that was indeed his planned destination and if he was in line to board the plane?

Okay, what's his name?
I imagined Laz asking.
Let's start with that and then we can move on
.

His name?
I would reply.
Uh
. . .

Even in my imagination, Laz, the fact-finding, investigative reporter, won. I needed more proof. Though my gut told me I was on the right track, I still needed that definitive piece of evidence, that undeniable fact of correlation before I talked to anyone about my suspicions.

My car.

Even the officials at the airport had acknowledged that it wasn't there when I went to pick it up; but when it showed up inexplicably in front of my house, the police officer who responded to my 911 call refused to even take a report. My guess was that the yellow Jeep from West Virginia was being safely driven by its owner with nobody but me even aware that it may have been stolen.

No matter how I looked at it, I was still at square one. No name. No clear connecting point. No irrefutable evidence to turn over and be taken seriously.
Maybe I should skip trying to catch up with Laz just yet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have been cleared for landing. We will be at our gate in ten minutes.” The pilot's voice was scratchy on the overhead speaker.

My conclusions, though they felt right, were scratchy at best. What could I present to anyone? I thought about Camille and shuddered. I had to have something more tangible to offer. She said she would be in touch with me soon.

Though I'd left California in the morning hours, the time difference on the East Coast meant my nonstop flight was arriving just after six-thirty p.m. Not far from DC, Dulles Airport was in Northern Virginia, near Jamal Abdul's hometown. I had an idea.

It was a risky idea, and it would involve Laz, but I had to take action. What other options did I have?

As soon as I landed, I dialed him.

He answered on the first ring and spoke before I could get out one word.

“Meet me at the same restaurant from yesterday in thirty minutes.” He hung up.

I dialed right back.

“Hey—”

“Thirty minutes!” He hung up again.

What was wrong with him? What was going on?

I started to call back. I started to simply get in my car and drive home; but his pointedness and urgency told me that I needed to get in my car and meet him at the restaurant, no questions asked.

I got there nearly fifty minutes later and saw him as soon as I turned into the parking lot. I could not miss him as he was parked in the first space by the entrance. Oddly, he sat slouched in the driver's seat, his face almost out of view. He waved a hand at me and pointed to an empty parking space next to the black Range Rover he was in. Did he get a new vehicle? I wondered as I pulled into the space and cut the engine. I'd never seen him in this SUV before.

“Quick,” he called out to me from his slightly opened window. His hand waved in a frenzied gesture.

“What?” I wrinkled my face as he hurried me even more as I got out of my car. I heard him unlock the door.

“Get in, quick.” He pointed to the passenger seat. “Wait. Leave your phone in your car.”

“Laz, what are you—”

“Sienna, please. I don't have time to explain, but I will. Please leave your phone in your car, and hurry up and get in mine.”

My phone was my life line, but the look on his face told me I needed to do as he said.

“Is this a new car or something?” I asked as I stepped into the Range Rover.

“What took you so long?” He completely disregarded my question and glared over at me. “I told you to be here in thirty minutes. It took you almost an hour.”

“Um, traffic?” And getting out of the airport and getting to my car. I didn't tell him all that as I recalled that I had never told him about my plans to fly out to the West Coast; though he didn't seem to have any questions about my whereabouts and he somehow knew that I was near the restaurant.

He groaned as he put the car in reverse, then backed up and braced himself like he was about to shoot out of a chicane on a Grand Prix racetrack. After several loud screeches, he pulled out of the lot and a few turns later we joined the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Dulles Toll Road. He swerved and changed lanes three times, all to a loud chorus of beeps and honks.

“Okay, Laz. I'm here. I left my phone in my car for some reason and you are driving like you're about to have a baby. You're scaring me. What is going on and why the new truck?”

“Had to change things up for a moment.”

“What is going on, Laz” I asked again. He sped deeper into Northern Virginia, signs for DC pointing the other way. “Where are we going?” The car bumped and jostled along.

“How was your trip?”

“Excuse me?” I looked at the side of his face and noticed his clenched jaw.

“Your trip to San Diego? How was it?” He cut me a look and my mouth fell open. “Well,” he continued, “aren't you going to ask me how I know that you're just coming back from San Diego?” He glared at me.

“Why should I ask you anything seeing that you haven't answered a single one of my questions yet?” I kept a sharp edge in my tone, though something in my confidence suddenly felt disabled. How did he know where I had been?

“They're following you.”

“What?” I looked over at him like he was crazy. His eyes were on the road. I still didn't know where we were going, but wherever it was we were getting there in a hurry. “Who is ‘they?'”

“Homeland Security.”

“As in the whole department? Or just Camille.”

“Yeah, her. I mean, I don't know what's going on. She just told me that your phone is being tracked and your whereabouts are being monitored.”

“So she thinks there is something to my concerns about that man?”

“No, Sienna, she thinks you're crazy.”

“That's what she's telling you?”

“No, actually she's not telling me anything, but I don't know why else she would have such a sudden interest in having your constant whereabouts monitored.” He stared intensely at his rearview mirror and changed lanes.

“And you call me the paranoid one,” I joked, but my heart began beating faster. What was going on? And why was Camille interested in the details of my life? I had my suspicions. Was she that intent on making me look like a fool to Laz? “I'm surprised you're getting involved.” I studied him as his jaw clenched tighter. “Why did you pick me up and whisk me away? Are you sure my phone's really being tracked, or is she just pulling your leg?”

“This isn't a joke, Sienna. Your phone and everything you've done and accessed on it are now at full disclosure for the government to see. You're my fiancée and you have my best source at Homeland Security sniffing your tail for unknown reasons. I just got offered a national news show—to host, not to be the headline story. This is not the way I'm trying start my new job.”

“Huh? Oh.” His scooping me up and away had nothing to do with me, I realized. This was about him, his reputation. I wasn't sure how I felt about that; how to interpret that. “Well, do you even want to know why I was in San Diego?”

“I'm sure you have your reasons.” He rushed through his words. “Is my home number on your phone? Of course it is,” he muttered.

“Laz?” My lips, my heart tried to form a question. “Where are we going?” My voice shook as I whispered the only question I could ask out loud.

“There's a place I stay not too far away from here when I need an escape. It's nice, private. Away from it all. I need you to stay there until I smooth everything out. And I will. We don't need all this attention on you. I can't afford to have any confusion at this point in my career.”

“Of course. That wouldn't be good for you.” I resisted rolling my eyes.

“For us.” He gave me a half smile and patted my hand, then stared intently at the highway in front of him. I looked out of the window, trying to remember what it was I'd wanted Laz to help me with, what it was I'd wanted to say.

“Can you get an interview with the wife?”

“What?”

“Jamal Abdul's wife, Keisha. Can you interview her? Doesn't she live here in Northern Virginia? I have some questions I need her to answer.”

“Sienna, did you hear anything I said just now? Are you paying attention to what is going on? I'm trying to get you off grid and out of the attention of authorities, but you seem determined to keep playing detective. Leave it alone, please, Sienna. It's not cute anymore.”

“Cute? You think I'm aiming for cute?”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “That's not what I meant. Poor word choice. Heroism. That's what you're aiming for. You have a hero complex. You need to feel like you are saving somebody. It's a lovely quality, but right now it's getting in the way of your common sense. They have a suspect in custody. There is nobody else you can save from the terror attack.”

“Hero complex?” Heroism. The word struck me. “Are you serious? Does this go back to your whole belief that I made the wrong career choice?”

“We're not getting into that right now.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot. We're only focused on your job and your dreams. I'm just a lost woman who got sidetracked onto a career path—a successful career path, mind you—all because I chased some man around the world. And the answer to that mistake is now to drop everything I've worked for and achieved and chase another man all the way down to Atlanta.”

“You are completely taking my words out of context.”

“Well, I don't know how else to take them.”

“We're not talking about this right now.”

“So, you not only decide what I'm going to do with my own life, you even decide when I can talk about it.”

“Sienna, there is a lot going on. This is not the time.”

“Then I guess it's not the time to tell you that I saw RiChard.”

“Nope, this isn't the time. We will talk about your trip to San Diego later. We're here now.” He screeched to a stop in front of a small ranch house that sat back on about a half acre of land.

“Did you even hear what I said? I saw RiChard.”

“And we'll talk about it later. Let's go.” He got out of the car and then opened my car door. Without waiting for me, he headed down a crumbling cement walkway to the front door of the home.

Was this man serious? I wanted to scream, holler, protest, tell Laz a thing or two; but instead I got out of the truck behind him.

Dated and worn, the small ranch house looked to be a far cry from the usual glitz and glamour that defined everything Laz bothered with. I was in a state of numb shock as I neared the home, but my emotions did not keep me from noticing the peeling green paint on the doorway and shutters, the rust around the porch's red mailbox, the scuff marks on the metal screen door.

“I thought you said you were bringing me to a nice place.”

“It's nice enough,” he murmured as he took out a key and opened the door. He checked to make sure the shades were drawn before he clicked on some lights.

The house was warm and stuffy but clean. Formal floral furniture filled the living room and the tiny kitchen had a chrome table and red vinyl chairs.

“And where exactly are we?” I looked at the walls covered with decorative plates. The end tables were covered with doilies. I searched for photos, portraits, but there were none.

“This is my family's house. It was my grandmother's, then my mother's. Now I own the deed.”

“So this is where you came from?” I ran my hand over the dusty keys of an upright piano that sat in the dining room, looked at a framed quilt that hung on the foyer wall. “Let me find out that the urbane, professional Laz Tyson is really just a country boy from rural Virginia at heart. You've never talked much about your family. I know you spent your teen years in Baltimore with your father. What's the story behind this house, your grandmother, your mother? Where are they? Who are they?”