Act of Betrayal (5 page)

Humming, I doctored up the pizza with a drizzle of olive oil, a sprinkle of oregano, and fresh mushroom slices, poured a glass of red wine, and drank a solitary toast to young Charles Randolph.

“Wherever you are, Charlie, we're coming for you.”

In my dream I moved with the grace of a ballet dancer, leaping and whirling toward an elusive dream lover, a ghostlike boyish figure with pale shining hair. But as I slowly reached for him, he evolved into a stoic, solitary silhouette trailing a noose of heavy nautical line. The phone woke me and I sat up straight, dazed, until I remembered.

“Britt,
mi hijita
, little daughter. Is it well with you?” my Aunt Odalys asked.

“Sure,” I said, sounding dopey, squinting at my clock radio. Five
A.M
.

“Something is wrong,” she whispered.

“What do you mean?” I said fearfully, unconsciously lowering my voice to a whisper as I sat up.

“I don't know. The father of the spirits who live in the cauldron…” She sounded uncertain.

“Oh, no.” I pushed the hair out of my eyes. “You haven't been sacrificing goats or anything, have you? Is the moon full?”

“Britt!” She sounded deeply offended.

I love my fathers younger sister dearly, but Santeria, a blood religion, a mix of Catholicism and African ritual from Cuba, is abhorrent to me as an animal lover. In my childhood her practices had created a chasm between her and my mother, the Episcopalian daughter of Miami pioneers. That, the matter of my Uncle Hectors arrest record, and, at the heart of it all, my father. His sin, in her eyes, was allowing his reckless pursuit of a free Cuba to widow her young. She never forgave him for throwing away his own life and our futures.

To his family, he is a martyred hero. They never forgave Fidel Castro, who ordered him executed by a firing squad.

I grew up in both Hispanic and Anglo worlds, never at home in either. What I do know is that this mercurial city of light and shadow, death and passion, is where I belong, as though we are bound by some secret destiny. My ties to Miami are stronger and more passionate than those of blood or family.

“Are you up early or have you been up all night?” I asked, sinking back on my pillow.

“You are wearing the beads and the
resguardo
I gave you?

“All the time,” I croaked groggily, trying to remember what I had done with them.

“Something is in the air, something terrible.”

“I'm not surprised,” I said. “There usually is. It's probably the Palmetto Expressway. Did you hear about that truck?”

“I am not joking.”

“Everything is fine.”

“That is not what the cowrie shells say. The orishas are angry. But I don't understand. I burned candles all night. The spirits have never been so agitated. You are in danger. You are a daughter of Chango, the god of fire, thunder, and lightning. Something terrible is coming, all around us, but I don't understand who, where…”

“Everything will be fine,” I assured her, then hung up and staggered into the kitchen to make coffee. No fan of the supernatural, I don't discount anything, either. I knock on wood, toss spilled salt over my left shoulder, and say my prayers. Nothing like covering all the bases.

As a reporter in a high-tech world at the tail end of the century I seek only hard facts. But on scorching streets and in the shadows during the pursuit of life and death, certain events and people defy explanation. The young cop who awoke in a cold sweat after dreaming he was shot—and was, hours later, exactly as in his dream. The woman whose searing vision of fire terrified her into staying home next morning—the day that fire swept her workplace, killing three coworkers. Active, healthy people who suddenly know they are about to die—and do, in freak accidents or random acts of violence.

In this magic place, at sea level, at the foot of the map, we are surrounded by water, beneath the tidal pull of a huge moon in endless skies that seem lower than anywhere else in the hemisphere. The temperature soars, the barometer falls, the full moon rises, and all hell breaks out. At one time in my life I sought logic in everything. Now I know better. We are constantly bombarded by unseen radio and television signals we would never receive without the proper equipment. Now I suspect that some people, for unknown reasons, become receivers, sensitive to other invisible signals.

A year ago, my Aunt Odalys warned me to wear the red and white beads and the
resguardo,
a talisman she had given me for protection. I ignored her and nearly lost my life.

As the smell of coffee filled my small kitchen, I scooped the newspaper off the front stoop, still in my nightgown. The sky was hot and pink as I slid the
News
from its plastic sheath and began to fillet it, flinging the advertising sections into the green recycling bin without a glance.

Charles Randolphs innocent smile greeted the world from the top of the local page. I smiled back. No late-breaking news had knocked my story off local. It read well. I love perusing my stories in the morning paper, aware that half a million strangers are reading them too. I imagined them, in hair curlers, bathrobes, fighting hangovers, over scrambled eggs or bloody marys, couples still in bed, swapping sections, families at breakfast tables. I hoped the right person was reading it and would talk. My bomb follow was at the bottom of the local, beneath the fold.

The phone startled Billy Boots off my lap. I answered eagerly, hoping for Kendall McDonalds voice.

It was Lottie.

“How'd your date go?”

“Just shoot me now,” she muttered.

“What happened?”

Her romantic evening had never materialized. The Polish Prince failed to show up at the appointed hour so she had gone out to hunt him down. Cruised by his town house, his office, and prowled his favorite watering hole. No sign of the man.

“What would you have done if you spotted him?”.

She paused. “Depends,” she finally said, “on who he was with and whether or not he tried to make a run for it. But that ain't all.”

When she finally gave up and went home, furious and sworn off the man for good, she found his business card in her door, along with a single red rose. She quickly called him, but he wasn't home.

“A damn cakewalk of musical chairs,” she said.

“Oh, Lottie, I'm sorry. Why didn't he call to say he'd be late?”

“Dunno. That man has got me bumfuzzled for sure. At least he didn't think I was home waiting up for him. The question now is, who stood who up?”

We both laughed. “Did you see the paper?”

“Yeah, good story. Hope you find that young ‘un. Think he's alive?”

“Common sense says no, after all this time, but his mother believes he is.”

“Mothers always do. You see that story in the A section?”

“Which one?” I reached for the paper.

“Wire story. Some Harvard Ph.D. says seven percent of the population is pure evil.”

“Only seven percent?”

“That's what surprised me. Hell all Friday, why'd they all settle here?”

“What's the breakdown on the rest of us?” I asked. “Fifty percent good and the rest undecided?”

“Don't say here.”

I hate it when there's a hole in a story. I sipped my coffee, a wickedly rich, hearty brew that jump-started my batteries. “My Aunt Odalys called just before you did and said something bad is sneaking up on us.”

“Maybe she's right. I feel something in my bones. Hope I git to shoot color.”

I attended a nine o'clock church service on sun-splashed Lincoln Road Mall. As the congregation sang “safe and secure from all alarms,” a violent thunderstorm blew up, triggering blinding bursts of lightning and a chorus of wailing, beeping, and honking car alarms. The sounds reminded me of Alex and the WTOP parking lot. By the time the service ended the air was radiant, with the only sign of the fast-moving storm the flower petals, leaves, torn branches, and water strewn in its wake.

I could feel my hair curling in the sultry heat. I drove home for a quick pit stop, parked the T-Bird, and got out. A stranger waited, seated on my doorstep. A boy, slim, blond, about twelve or thirteen, shifting nervously. He looked up, his blue eyes a shade darker than the short-sleeved cotton shirt he wore with twill trousers and sneakers. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly gone dry.

“Britt?” He leaped eagerly to his feet, gangly and long-legged. “Were you looking for me?”

I stared, mouth open.

He squinted suspiciously. “You know who I am, don't you?”

“Of course,” I said weakly, mind racing.

“She said you wouldn't forget. You promised my grandmother you'd show me around the
News
and take me out on some stories with you. Well, here I am!”

He gave me the once-over with the incipient lechery of a would-be Groucho Marx. “Va va voom!” he said, stepping boldly forward to shake my hand. “Awesome. Real baaaad. I'm Seth.”

“Seth?”

An Instamatic camera hung from a leather strap around his neck and a reporter's notebook jutted out of his back pocket. Three Pilot Explorer pens were clipped to his shirt pocket. He fished out his card.

“Seth Goldstein,” he said, handing it over. “Assistant city editor of the Eastside Junior High School
Gazette
in Hopewell, New Jersey.”

“Of course I didn't forget,” I lied, and began to breathe again. “I was simply startled because you look so much like somebody I just wrote about.” What was I thinking when I made this promise? What was I drinking? Manischewitz. At a Seder, at the Goldsteins' during Passover. A conversation began to come back to me. Smart as a whip, high IQ, a would-be journalist. Seth.

“Saw it. Today's paper.
MISSING BOY A MYSTERY
. Grandma sends me all your stories. We hang them on the bulletin board in our newsroom,” he said, at my elbow as I inserted my key into the lock. Showing no signs of going away, he followed me inside, trailing behind me like a puppy. He declined my offer of a soft-boiled egg but wolfed three pieces of raisin toast and drank the last of my coffee.

Despite my warnings that it was a slow Sunday on the police beat and my suggestion that he might rather go to the beach, his enthusiasm knew no bounds.

“How often does a future journalist get the chance to go one-on-one and pick the brain of a Green Eyeshade Award winner for best deadline reporting?” he demanded, showing off that he had done his homework. “Why do you think I wanted to spend the last two weeks of my summer vacation with my grandparents?” He rolled his eyes. “This is my chance to see action with an ace street reporter for a big-city newspaper.”

“Think we'll go to the morgue?” he asked eagerly as we drove to the office.

“Only if it's feet first.”

One of the perks of working weekends is the nearly empty newsroom. Reaction to my story should have started coming in by now. I punched my personal code number into the phone, then, accompanied by Seth, all eyes, ears, and questions, went to the wire room where my messages were printing out. And printing out, and printing out. My heart swelled as the list lengthened.

I tore them off the machine, eagerly scanning the list, willing the solution to Charles Randolphs disappearance to be somewhere among these forty-eight calls.

One from my mother. I'd call her later. The Randolphs; perhaps they'd heard some news. Their line was busy twice. The third try was successful. Randolph answered, and Cassie picked up an extension. Surprised that I worked Sundays, they were grateful for the story and said their phone had been ringing nonstop since 6
A.M
. No new information, just former coworkers, friends, neighbors, and total strangers, calling to offer support and sympathy.

“They all want to help,” Randolph said. “They're asking what they can do. I don't know what to tell them.”

A blinding flash of light stunned me for a moment and I continued to see spots, even after blinking several times. Seth was crouched in front of my desk and had just shot my picture with his little camera.

“They can be valuable,” I told Randolph, one hand over my blinded eyes. “Take names and numbers. If no solid leads come in, maybe you can ask volunteers to distribute fliers, demonstrate, or conduct candlelight marches. Anything we can think of to keep the story alive. The more exposure the better.”

“A reporter from Channel Ten wants to come over to talk to us and take pictures of Charles's bedroom. You think that's all right?” He sounded doubtful.

“Sure,” I said, shaking my head in warning and glaring murderously at Seth, who appeared to be focusing on me again. “But don't let them touch anything. Now that there's publicity about the case, the police might want to come lift prints off Charles's books or belongings and try to take hair samples from his comb or brush.”

“But I thought it was your story.”

“All I want is to be sure that you tell me about any new developments first, right?”

“Of course, you're the only one who would help us.”

“Any crank calls?”

He hesitated; obviously he had not intended to mention it. “A couple. Some kids called and were whimpering, ‘Daddy, Mommy, come get me.' We could hear 'em giggling in the background. Then a young girl, a teenager, called and asked to speak to Charles.”

Kids' cruelty amazed me, as usual. I could have cheerfully wrung their scrawny little necks. The scary part was that they may not have all been kids.

“How could they?” I murmured, as Cassie hung up to tend to something in the kitchen.

“It's all right,” her husband said. “We can handle it. We're thrilled that other people care and want to help. Anything that will help find him.”

“Right. That's what counts. Meanwhile, if you get any more prank calls, say: ‘It's them, officer,' in a stage whisper, as though a cop is standing next to you. That'll give 'em something to think about.”

Seth, wearing his pass from security, was pounding away on the computer terminal at Ryan's desk. “Be careful,” I warned him. “Don't touch a thing.”