Resurrecting Midnight (30 page)

“Stop crying.”

She nodded, struggled, but the tears continued.

“Until I know who your friend is, until I’m comfortable with him, keep him away from here. If he comes back, I’ll go see him. And when I do, he’ll never be seen again. Understand?”

“I do what other single mothers do. I do what a lonely woman who needs the company of a man does. I do it so the children do not see. It is not out in the open. That is what we do.”

“You get his information. His address, his driver’s license number, bank statements, you get everything you can, and you pass that information on to me. He has to be checked out.”

She coughed, struggled to breathe, her face as red as fire.

She said, “I care about him.”

“Get his information.”

“He trusts me.”

“Then getting it should be easy.”

“I am not a thief.”

“You are a liar. And a liar is the cousin of a thief.”

She sobbed.

I said, “Do what you do best. Tell him what he wants to hear. Then rob him.”

I took heavy steps toward the kitchen, looked out the bay window at the trees.

I wasn’t close to the truth. Was only scratching the surface.

I watched the boys play outside, struggled with myself, stubborn tears in my eyes.

I didn’t want to be angry. Wanted to be over it. Wanted to move on. But I was stuck.

A few seconds passed and I saw her reflection in the window.

Thelma stood behind me. Not Catherine. Thelma. Saw the angry French woman. The woman I knew still existed. Saw the woman that had sent me to go kill her enemies. Saw my first handler. She had picked up a knife from the table. Her brows were drawn down, upper lip raised. She had tightness under her eyes, the look of violence, the look of a killer.

She whispered, “Why do you push me?”

“Put the blade down.”

“Why do you insist on badgering me and resurrecting that other person?”

“Put it down now.”

I saw it in her reflection. She wanted to stab me in my back over and over.

She growled out, “Why are you trying to destroy me?”

“Steven is my brother.”

My words stopped her movements but didn’t slow her rage.

I repeated, “Steven is my brother. The DNA says he’s my brother.”

“He’s my son.”

“He’s my brother.”

“You’re envious. Covetous of the love I give him. Your hatred eats you alive. He loves me and that makes you resentful. I don’t know why it does, but it does. You hate what we have.”

“You’re delusional.”

“You are so . . . so . . . so resentful of our happiness that you have to take it out on me.”

“When I come back from South America, I should take the boys with me.”

“Take them?”

“The boys should come with me. You don’t deserve them.”

“Don’t taunt me.”

“I don’t taunt. I’m not in the taunting business.”

“I’ll kill you before I let you steal my son and Nusaybah’s son from me.”

“I’ll do what I have to do to protect Steven and Robert.”

“You won’t take them.”

“I will take Steven. He’s my goddamn brother. And I will take Robert.”

“Robert’s mother . . . she is dead because of you. Don’t ever forget that. My best friend is in a graveyard in London because of you. She was slaughtered like an animal because of you.”

I turned and faced her.

Her lips trembled. “You are not God.”

“But you are a pedophile.”

“I did something horrible . . . when I was drunk . . . once . . . only once.”

“You are a pedophile.”

She gripped the knife like she was ready to run the sharp blade through my gut.

“You’re not God.”

I said, “But you can be God. Do it. Destroy what you created.”

She pulled her lips in, gritted her teeth. “You came out of me.”

“I am what you and an evil man created.”

“I suffered a horrible labor, gave birth to you, natural childbirth in a small, filthy hostel.”

“Do it. Be God. You said some people deserve to die. You were the one playing God.”

“Two days in labor. And I went through that pain alone.”

“Undo what you have done.”

The blade touched my shirt, the tip pushed inside my gut.

Phones rang.

I spoke over the cacophony. “Do it.”

Her eyes met mine. Pain stared at pain. She tensed, veins appeared in her neck.

Phones stopped ringing.

She firmed her grip and frowned like she was ready to destroy the monster she had created. But she backed away, lowered her head, her brown hair falling free. She put the knife in my hand, handle first. I put the knife on the table, blade first. Then I went back to the window. Blood dripped where she had pushed the knife. She had broken my skin.

She whispered, “Don’t take them . . . Steven and Robert . . . don’t take them from me.”

That FedEx box had been opened. What I knew couldn’t be erased.

I asked, “Why did you have me? Why did you have a baby?”

She said, “Please don’t take my sons away from me.”

“Why did you bring me into a world as fucked up as yours?”

“Why didn’t I have an abortion?”

“Why didn’t you have a fucking abortion?”

“Is that what you wish I had done?”

It took a while to recover my voice. “What is your friend’s name?”

“Jeremy Bentham.”

I paused. “Get his information.”

There were footsteps on the carpeted stairs. Two sets racing up from the basement.

Catherine called out. “Take your shoes off.”

The running stopped. The boys did what she commanded. That bought her some time.

She straightened her clothing. Did her best to become Catherine.

Her new name was the name I had picked out for her when we were homeless in Montreal. It was the name of the street we had walked when we were homeless.

I’d never seen her birth certificate. Had never seen mine.

I asked, “Who were you before you came to North America?”

“When I was in Yerres.”

“Who were you in Yerres?”

“Before Thelma . . . there was a frightened little girl named Nathalie-Marie Masreliez.”

“Nathalie-Marie Masreliez.”

“Yes.”

I said, “I’ve never heard you use that name before.”

“It is a name I have not uttered since . . . since . . .”

“Since Yerres.”

The boys hurried into the kitchen, ran by laughing and arguing, their conversation swift as they bolted to the refrigerator in search of snacks and juice. They were too busy talking about who was the best soccer player on Wii, oblivious to the angst that filled the air.

Then they took their snacks and took to the stairs, went toward their rooms.

Again, it was the killer and the liar.

She said, “I never know what to expect from you. Never know which version of you will show up at my door. The smiling you. Or this version of you. You’re passive-aggressive.”

“I can just be aggressive, if that’s what you prefer.”

“Always passive-aggressive.”

“Being passive gets me nothing but new lies to replace old lies.”

“You’re sick. One moment you act like you love us. Like you might have a small spot in your heart, a little love for me, despite our horrible past. And the next you hate me.”

“Maybe I just hate myself for allowing myself to care about a woman like you.”

Eyes filled with tears, she looked away from me.

I said, “Your friend has been here at least three times in the last week.”

“How did you know?”

“He was here today. Came an hour after we left. Was here for an hour.”

“If you were not here . . . how did you know?”

“Don’t ever lie to me again.”

She raised her voice, “
How do you know what I do when you are not here?”

Catherine trembled, hunched over, and wrung her hands. Blood drained from her face. She made a wounded sound. Then she exploded. She threw her cup at the wall, sent hot tea and honey everywhere. She pulled her hair. Her eyes went to the knife. She knocked her chair over and hurried out of the kitchen. Her feet hurried up the stairs. Her bedroom door closed. The boys called out to her. She didn’t answer. I stood and walked to the sink, poured out my unfinished tea, then cleaned up the mess she had made, before I headed toward the front door.

The boys were on the stairs.

Robert’s face owned no readable expression.

But Steven, the boy who had almost killed me once before, frowned.

He frowned like he was Cain ready to bring his weapon down on Abel.

Chapter 29

When a man scratched a scab,
an old wound reopened.

I left Powder Springs, drove the back roads toward Hartsfield airport. It would be at least a twenty-mile ride. Twenty miles of thinking. I thought it would just be me and my thoughts, but my iPhone rang. It was Hawks. She had called me a half dozen times. Would call until I answered.

So I answered.

She said, “Got off the plane at Gatwick and checked my messages. The Islington order was canceled.”

“That’s the way it works.”

“All of the funds were transferred. If they reconsider, they have to pay again.”

“Nice. That’s the best kind of job. One you get paid for and don’t have to do.”

She paused. “Gideon.”

“Hawks.”

“Want me to meet you for that South America thing?”

“Go see Buckingham Palace. Go to Notting Hill Gate and walk Portobello Road.”

“I’m on Expedia. I can leave here and get to Buenos Aires by eleven tomorrow morning.”

“Why don’t you go see
Zorro the Musical
or
Star Wars the Musical
or—”

“Because I don’t want to go see a stupid musical. Plus I hate musicals Either sing or act. Don’t do both. That is the dumbest mess in the world. Singing what you’re saying.”

Her persistence put another vise grip around my head. She meant well. But it was irritating. Hawks had my ears, but someone else had my eyes. I passed by dozens of billboards and city buses, adverts to the number-one news station in Atlanta, the number-one news anchor, the Jewel of the South, smiling down on me at every turn. A devil with an angelic smile.

Hawks said, “You okay?”

“We opened the FedEx box.”

“What happened?”

“Anybody but her. Anybody but her.” I took a breath. “We have the same DNA.”

“She’s your sister?”

“Worse. One level up.”

“Are you shitting me? She’s your mother? The things she did to you . . .”

“And the kid . . . Steven . . .”

“Was that little boy kidnapped like you thought?”

“Steven wasn’t kidnapped.”

“He’s . . . her kid?”

“He is my brother. The DNA says he is my brother.”

Hawks paused. “He looks nothing like her. Who is his father?”

“Could be any man who had a dick and a dollar.”

“I mean, is he safe with her? Both of those boys, are they safe with her?”

I took a few hard breaths. “No more talk about Catherine. Never mention her again.”

There was another pause.

“Gideon. Last thing about that and then I’m done.”

“Okay. What?”

“You were always telling me about Berwick Street. I caught a taxi and went over there. Had to see it. Walked around that area. Good Lord. All the prostitutes and the porn. The boys lived in that filthy environment? I saw the signs for models. Took me a minute to realize what a model was. And the smells. Chinatown was around the corner, so it was like Chinese food mixed with filth and an orgy. It looked like an area filled with pimps and sex slaves.”

I paused. “Why would you do that? Why would you go there?”

It took her a moment to respond to my tone. “I’m not your enemy. I’m the only person in your life who’s not tied to you by money or a past you want to forget. I’m your friend.”

“I have to go.”

“Let me come help. I can meet you in Buenos Aires.”

“No.”

“Your head’s in a bad place. People are blackmailing you for a ton of money and that call about South America, the people you’re supposed to be working for, not good people, not at all. All I can say is that you’re a mess. The whole time we were in Puerto Rico—”

I disconnected the call. Cut her off midsentence.

Another billboard for local news and the Jewel of the South whizzed by.

A lot of thinking could be done on a twenty-mile journey. By the time I was on Thornton Road, my iPhone hummed. Area code 809. Arizona sent footage from a swift and brutal battle in Buenos Aires. Whatever information she had about my other problem was being withheld.

Had to give to get.

I didn’t play the video right away. Other issues controlled my mind.

I pulled over near a Jeep dealership in Lithia Springs, just on the other side of I-20, paused long enough to send a text. JEREMY BENTHAM. SMYRNA, GEORGIA. I tagged that text with ASAP. For a moment, I blinked and I was back in London. Maybe Hawks being in London made me think about those days in London. When I was holed up in a hotel room in Bloomsbury.

Anger in my heart was as strong now as it was then. Lies revealed. Old pains resurrected. I sent a second text. NATHALIE-MARIE MASRELIEZ. YERRES, FRANCE. FIND OUT WHO SHE IS. Then I cursed. The truth didn’t always set a man free. Sometimes it was better to be ignorant. Too late. The red pill had been swallowed. Now I had to keep it moving.

I mixed with the madness on Thornton Road, sped toward the airport. Dumped the car. Got my electronic ticket and made it through security without a problem. Took the train to terminal E, came up the escalator facing a tribute to Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.