Discretion (31 page)

“It was a test God gave Abraham. Abraham wanted children a great many years. Then, when God granted the request in his ripe old age, He commanded that Isaac be given as a sacrifice on the altar. It was not until Abraham proved his willingness, holding his blade high over his son, that God spared the boy’s life.”

“So Jamal was a test?”

Mila makes no response.

“A test of my willingness to obey you?”

How could that be? Wouldn’t she know in advance that I would refuse? Why give a test that she knew I’d fail? “That doesn’t make sense. Why draft me to kill him while he’s on his back in a hospital bed? He could have been killed in the wreck without my involvement.”

She smiles, as if she’s anticipated this moment. “Yes, but there’s more.”

M
ore? More than life and death? She is playing a mind game—preying on my emotions, toying with my senses.

The question pangs me: How can I be without her? How can I remain with her? It’s a decision that will shape the rest of my life; a choice that I see for what it is—monumental. And I’d love to run and leave it for a thousand years, vowing to return, but knowing I won’t.

“I didn’t choose Jamal’s time, Colin. God did. I do not make the decision whether people live or die. God does. In fact, I would have enjoyed seeing him live a long, prosperous life.”

Silence sits between us a moment, while I sip the coffee and ponder the world that is opening to my mind. To contemplate the meaning of life and death in such a way. Nothing could prepare me for this conversation, for this time. “So…God chose for Jamal—

“To die, yes,” she says.

Die? Jamal is alive. Isn’t he? I check my phone, expecting a message, but none is there. I set it on the table, willing it to remain quiet and disprove her claim. But then it vibrates, a text message from Joanna: Jamal went home to be with the Lord today. He lived a wonderful life and left behind a daughter who looks so much like him.

Mila’s eyes meet mine as I set the phone aside. Perspiration trickling under my shirt, emotions fight for supremacy. Jamal is gone. I’ll never see him again, as long as I live. The rest of my days, just like that, are without him. Without his laugh. Companionship. Listening ear. No more ballgames. No more burnt barbecue. No more getting lost in downtown traffic with that act of his—like it’s all on purpose.

“How could God want him to die?” I question and realize emotions will get the best of me before long.

Mila, the angelic made flesh, stares at me, expressionless. Her blue eyes are deep and mysterious, radiant like sunlight on water’s surface. “That is for God alone. I have nothing to do with it when people live or die. He grants no such authority.”

“But you help people, so why didn’t you help Jamal?”

“I do what I am permitted.”

“Permitted?”

“Yes, permitted. I cannot simply do as I please. Save lives or take them as I will.”

“And knowing what you are, how can I trust you?”

“Your point has merit. But the same question can be asked of you. History proves I cannot trust you completely, as you cannot entirely trust me. Agreed?”

“Fine, so we’re both liars. I still can’t accept that Jamal is…gone. You were supposed to help him.”

“You’ll believe what you want to, as is your way. Convenience is what you accept as truth—like it’s honorable to accept the cultural norm. Jamal was going to die, like it or not, as all people do.”

I ponder this a moment and look around the cafe. The couple at the window are talking to themselves, paying no attention to us. Several patrons come and go without taking notice of me and Mila, while we sit in silence.

“I get what you mean, but that doesn’t answer the question. Why was it his time? He has a baby at home. A young wife. Why did you ask me to kill him if you knew it’s his time? And if you’re on my side, why not warn me?”

“Your obsession with irrelevant information is going to be your downfall.” She sighs. “Knowing would have caused far more harm than good.”

“Sly remarks are not helping me trust you.”

“I don’t need your trust, Wyle. You can’t live without me, and I know that. What you don’t remember is the pact you made, which you think is breakable like an apartment lease of sort. I don’t take the commitment you made lightly and that is what we need to discuss.”

“What color ink did I sign that contract in?”

“Ah, very formal, yes? No ink went on this deal between you and me. It’s one of those that the Securities Exchange Commission would love to find, if you catch my meaning. And your…FBI is looking into a certain matter that could carry criminal charges.”

“So I’m here to be told what to do? Is that it?”

She shakes her head gently, like a parent to a child. “Let me show you. I’m not interested in slaves, Colin. I desire to give you what you want. I’m on your side.”

I ponder this a moment, watching her expression for a reaction, distinctly human, that would give me a lead, but she makes no such gesture. She leaves me little doubt; she is not of this world. Solid like a rock. No emotion. Compassion? Perhaps.

“Instead of trying to read me, I will show you,” Mila says and offers her right hand to me, ladylike: palm down, fingers tight together like we are going to dance the waltz.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise. You’ll love it.”

My hand is slow at her request, the contemplation of how much I am surrendering myself crosses my mind. But then, am I at her will anyway? Does she hold control over my life now, as she bears such great influence?

My fingers wrap around hers and we are transported; the world around us dissolves and we emerge at the dining table in my backyard, near the swimming pool. She extends her arm and sways, presenting the view of the mountains, the valley below, from the back of my home. The surroundings are lush, pristine. The sun position is at eleven o’clock in the sky.

“This…is what I’ve given to you. Do you see what I’ve provided?”

“Yes,” I say, though I know what I have, hardly needing a reminder she made this possible.

She smiles at me with fond affection, a too good to be true romance between her and me. Her eyes entice, the way her hair moves in the wind. Whimsical. She takes my hand again and we are whisked away to the office, where Marisa is working, bare feet propped up on the desk, her toes making a slow circular motion in the air. She has her tablet computer on her lap and she’s scrawling on a report.

“She loves you, Colin,” Mila says, emphatically. “As I do.”

Marisa looks ravishing at her desk, hard at work. It’s hard to miss why I love her, why people fight for her affection.

“I know,” I say, as doubt crosses my mind. Does Marisa love me for me? Or does Christel affect her, too? “What do you have to do with that?”

“I serve you in many ways, Colin. More than you could understand. Marisa loves security, like anyone else. She loves you, for you. She loves what you do and who she gets to be.”

“Who she gets to be?”

“When she’s with you, she’s…well, fun. She gets to be free. No worries. All her needs are met.”

She takes me by the hand again and we are suddenly at my office, standing in the middle of it. But a young man is there, seated at my desk, pictures and certificates framed around him enshrining his name, Lane Whitt.

“What is this?” I say, looking at Mila. She doesn’t look at me, but stares at the man at my desk, with a grieved expression.

“It’s your office, six months from now.”

The office is the same, except all my things are missing. Pictures of a family that isn’t mine. Certificates. Licenses. All belonging to this man, Lane Whitt. Is this an unknown future? It’s like seeing your home with someone else’s things in it. A surreal experience—out of body.

“What happened?” I ask.

She sighs, bows her head and then her eyes meet mine, wanting to believe, longing for hope. A sign.

“What is this? I thought you were in control?” I ask.

“Like I said before, I can only control so much, Colin. I couldn’t save Jamal because he didn’t belong to me. He wasn’t my own.”

I walk around the office. My shoes clack on the stone floor, as they should, but Lane takes no notice from the desk. He works, oblivious of our presence.

“Why is he here? Where am I?”

She turns solemn and holds out her hand for mine. Taking a gentle grip, we are back in the cafe as before, sitting at the table as if we never left.

“So…what are you telling me?” I ask, feeling uneasy about job security for the first time in years. “I lose my job? I’m dead? What is it?”

She pauses a moment, as though collecting her thoughts. She smiles to herself, as if reminiscing.

She smiles like a politician. “I don’t know. But I can protect you.”

Though she is evil, I feel drawn to her. She holds the keys to my life. She can unlock knowledge, the insight I need. With her, anything I want is mine. Without her, my life is to chance. Without her, I’m like everyone else.

I ponder this and sip the coffee repeatedly. I need a cigarette. A break. A month to lie on a beach and mull this over. And even then, I may be more confused and distraught than now. Fuck. I’m running out of time.

“What must I do?” I ask, looking at the table, hoping she gives no answer at all. That she will just disappear and never come back. Her absence would make my life incomplete, but perhaps I need to be on my own. At least then, I would know that my work is my own, my wife wants me for me, and my home is what I’ve earned on my own merit.

“Simple,” Mila says.

C
hristel wants me to skip meeting with Jackson’s source, the man behind the curtain. He must have answers she doesn’t want me to know. But then, what could be worse than listening to a demon? Can I knowingly live by her guidance, knowing what she is without a doubt? Christel may not have planned the abduction of Natalie years ago, but she played a part, meaning she’s responsible. She’s not trustworthy, by her own admission. It begs the question: why do I long for what I know is bad for me?

Perhaps it’s better to live in ignorance and remain blind to the evil around us. To know it’s everywhere, in all things, removes some of life’s beauty. It’s as if the enjoyment of the grand and the simple pleasures is tainted by what is unseen, just by knowing it exists.

Mila parts my company with a nod and returns to her post behind the counter. The door to the coffee house swings open and a dozen people walk in and stand in line. She helps customers as if all is normal.

I try not to stare, but I can’t help watching her work for a while, making short task of the patrons in line with efficiency.

“Could I trouble you for a refill?” I ask, handing her my empty cup. She takes it from me without thought, and then stops in her tracks, looking back at me, stopping to admire the cup. “This is strange, but I don’t remember you. Have you been here awhile?”

I shrug because I’ve lost track of time. At least an hour by my guess, but could be longer. I smile back and hope she doesn’t press.

She looks again at the ceramic cup I handed her. “Oh…shit. You’re one of those. There’s not many of these out there, you know.” She waves my cup like it’s a trophy and then fills it up, with an inch left for cream. “That’s some deal you legacy customers got. You must have been a real sweetheart in your past life.”

“What do you mean?”

She laughs a little, embarrassed. “That’s a legacy cup,” she says, handing it back to me. “Means you can get any drink on the menu for free. Old owner issued them to the best customers, the ones he swore kept him in business and made the new owner honor the deal. You must’ve been coming here for years.”

I look at the cup in disbelief and feel guilty at the free coffee, though I’m entitled to it. The girl is watching me, apparently amused at my reaction. Christel is giving me free coffee for life, to sweeten the deal—with Christel, the cup is never empty.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

She’s surprised. “The guys in suits that come in here don’t want to talk to me.” She eyes me a moment. “Mila. And I’m a student. Nursing. My favorite color is black, I prefer women, and I’m vegan. Did you want something to eat with that coffee?”

“No, thanks.” I walk out, my phone buzzing with a text from Marisa: where are you? I see the time is 10:55.

How can that be? I’ve been here at least an hour, plus the drive.

Another text from Marisa: Staff meeting in ten minutes. I respond so she doesn’t worry. My arrival in the west conference room is several minutes after the scheduled start, and my entry goes noticed by everyone in attendance. As if on cue, the presentation begins and Christel, though she is not here, nestles in my mind and I can’t stop thinking about her. What can I do? No answer comes to mind. The cost is considerable either way. And I can’t help wonder about Mila—is she really a person that Christel…borrowed? Or is that her and she’s simply acting for my sake?

Ironic. All my life I’ve spent shying away from any form of religious belief and here I am, stuck in a dilemma with a demon—a being I was certain didn’t exist just days ago. Should she order me to kill again, would such a horrible act justify what she gives me? All that this life has to offer is mine if I obey.

She says she would stop me from harming Jamal…but what could she have done to stop me before the act? She didn’t stop the doctor…so the needle contained nothing lethal, but what Jamal needed. It was a test. This much is true.

The meeting covers new compliance issues and a market update, but the presenter could speak a different language today—I’m not hearing a damn thing. The sooner this ends, the better. If I could leave unnoticed, my office is a fine place to hide, under the desk.

At last, the lights brighten and the screen displays the spinning SCG logo. The staff stands, light conversation on the way out, as deadlines are pressing.

I don’t hear the worries, thoughts of my colleagues. Christel is silent.

I used to listen to colleagues rant with amusement, contempt, or pity. Their worrying was often trivial and outside of control, like fretting about the weather or what gold will trade at in two weeks. On occasion, I felt sorry for those who lived in a self-made prison, the ramblings of the unsettled mind. I would be careful in trying to help—as I felt compelled to. It did little good. I accepted that people chose their own brand of poison, like picking out a cereal or home decor. With the passing of time, I learned of the dependency—people wouldn’t know what to do if they didn’t think or worry. Constantly.