Memory was a holding cell, but the officer held the sorcerer's key that unlocked it, and dozens of deleted files now floated to the surface, emerging like ghosts from the hard drive. Email after email. Afterimages. Trails in the ether.
He had captured shadows in a net, had dragged them to the surface—and he smiled.
SUBJECT: Urgent Matter to the Attention of Mr. Henry
Curtis. Please do not turn away!
RECEIVED: September 12, 11:42 PM
Complements of the season! With warm heart I offer you wishes of good health from Africa. I am contacting you today regarding an urgent business proposal, and though this letter may reach you as a surprise, I implore you to take the time to go through it carefully as the decision you make will go a long ways toward determining the future and continued existence of a young woman'-s happiness.
Sir, I am writing today on behalf of Miss Sandra, daughter of Dr. Atta, late Director & Chairman of the Contract Award Committee for the Nigerian National Petroleum Corporation. As you may know, Dr. Atta died tragically in a helicopter crash in the Niger Delta under circumstances most suspicious. Miss Sandra's uncle vowed to care for her, but he too has fallen afoul of government-backed criminals. Her uncle was the executive chief officer of the Niger Delta Development Agency, which works hand in hand with the National Petroleum Commission to secure quantities of Bonny Crude for export to OPEC refineries and other ports asunder.
As might be imagined, between father and uncle,
Miss Sandra was able through God's will to amass quite a sizable fortune. With her mother succumbed to heartbreak and both her father protector and uncle killed in the crash, Miss Sandra's life is now in grave danger.
Although only twenty-one and renowned for her beauty she is unable to find a suitor, for she has been forced into hiding by her family's high-placed enemies.
She has asked me to contact you—MR. HENRY CURTIS—for help. She cannot turn to the police, for the police are part of this murderous cabal. She is pleading on bended knees for you to rescue her from a hopeless future.
With urgent regard,
Victor Okechukwu, Attorney at Law
SUBJECT: Sorry.
SENT: September 13, 12:06 AM
I think you have me confused with someone else. Maybe check the address and try again.
SUBJECT: Apologies Mr. Curtis!!
RECEIVED: September 13, 10:49 PM
Oh! Many apologies, sir! I won't be bothering you any farther in this regard. Please say to no one the details of my previous correspondence, for I do not wish to imperil the life of Miss Sandra any more than it already is. Danger presses in from every side, as might be imagined.
I apologize with unreserved hindsight for intruding on your life. I was looking for Henry Curtis, graduate of Athabasca University, retired from the noble profession of teachering, a member in Good Standing of the Amateur Woodworking Society of Hounsfield Heights, subscriber of the Briar Hill Beacon Community Newspaper, husband of Helen, grandfather of twins, a highly respected figure in his community, known for his honesty and integrity. I apologize for this mis-sent mailing.
With farewell,
Victor Okechukwu, Attorney at Law
SUBJECT: Confused SENT: September 14, 12:11 AM
Well, that's me all right. Except for the part about being highly regarded in my community (ha ha). I still think you've got the wrong person, though. I don't know anyone in Africa.
SUBJECT: But Africa knows you.
RECEIVED: September 15, 12:04 AM
So it is you! So happy to finally make contact with your good self. A colleague of yours in the Chinook Regional Teachers Union attempted to rescue Miss Sandra, but he failed in his entirety, I am afraid to say, as he told his spouse and friends, even the police!! Can you imagine such a miscalculation! Even after we advised him of the dangers posed by the henchman responsible for her father's slaying and even after we begged him to silence, he went blabbing to everyone and very nearly cost Miss Sandra her life. Clearly, we can not identify your friend for reasons of security, but fortunately, he gave us your name as a final act of appeasement in the hopes that you might succeed where lesser men such as he had failed.
But—it is also clear that he did not forewarn you or explain your role or tell you how we have placed our hopes on you, so I beg you our forgiveness and assure you that I will not bother you farther on Miss Sandra's behest. I ask only that you delete my previous correspondence and speak to NO ONE of this matter. It is not money she is asking for. Quite the opposite! She has plenty of money!
She needs only a kind heart in a Foreign nation. But I can see you are too busy for her. I will explain this to her when next I see her.
With sadness in my heart,
Victor Okechukwu, Attorney at Law
SUBJECT: Miss Sandra SENT: September 15, 11:02 PM
If not money, what does she want?
SUBJECT: A saviour
RECEIVED: September 15, 11:54 PM
It's not what she wants, but what she needs. She needs someone to receive money, not give it. I must explain the urgency of my tone, I think.
I have recently been diagnosed with prostate and oesophageal cancer and high blood pressure. Doctors have made it absolutely lucid that this disease is terminal.
I am in the know that the disease has ravaged my body and left me at the mercy of an endless cocktail of drugs that have been administered to me. These medications have gone a long way in alleviating the pains, but I still feel my life gradually ebbing away. I have tried with all the money I have to treat it, but to no avail. It has defiled all forms of medical treatment, and the doctors have now told me that I have only a few weeks in which to live.
It is too late for me, but not for Miss Sandra. As my final act on this Earth, I wish to save my beloved God daughter, Miss Sandra, the only child of my own childhood friend, Dr. Atta.
Please understand, she wants only the chance for a life of peace. Isn't this what we all wish? She was hoping to the point of heartbreak to start anew in your country.
With her means, she would be independently wealthy and would be able to invest handsomely in your city. Perhaps you will advise her on such investment opportunities?
What Miss Sandra needs is simply this: to get her money out of the clutches of the Central Bank of Nigeria.
A simple transfer of funds, nothing more. I can send you the necessary modalities asap. Time is urgent. If we do not move with utmost haste, her inheritance will be confiscated by the corrupt Nigerian government and their toadies in the military camp who want nothing more than to strip Miss Sandra. To strip her of her valuables and dignity, to steal her inheritance and then squander her future for themselves, most likely on harlots and nepotism. As a Christian preparing to enter God's Kingdom, as my God daughter's last remaining protector, I can not stand and see this happen.
My dear Henry (might I call you Henry? I feel a kinship to you), we need to transfer Miss Sandra's money into a bank account outside of Africa. That is all. Simply that.
We need to do this as discretely and as expeditiously as possible. Even ravaged as I am with cancer, I would happily do this on my own without asking your assistance, but as a civil servant here in Nigeria under the Civil Service Bureau of Conduct, I am not allowed whatsoever to operate any foreign bank account. For this reason, I need your help.
All you need to do is allow us to deposit the money. A one-time transaction, which will save a young girl's life!
For your assistance I propose to give you a commission of 15 percent of the total sum involved, which you shall deduct immediately once the money is in your account.
If you decline, please tell us quickly so we may find someone else.
As always, I implore you to exercise the utmost discretion in keeping this matter completely confidential, whatever your decision. We must beware of miscreants and evil minded men who indulge in fraudulent activities under false pretenses.
With hope,
Victor Okechukwu
, Attorney at Law
SUBJECT: Miss Sandra SENT: September 16, 12:14 AM
I don't know if I can help really. How much money are we talking?
SUBJECT: TOP SECRET RECEIVED: September 16, 1:19 AM
The amount, held in a floating reserve with a security company, is $35,600,000 - THIRTY FIVE MILLION SIX HUNDRED THOUSAND dollars US.
With much sincerity, .
Victor Okechukwu, Attorney at Law
CHAPTER 21
Outside: chinook winds dividing the sky, the clear blue pushing dark clouds forward in a single wide arc. Inside: Lauras father sitting on one of the mail's benches, staring at the ground, frowning thoughtfully.
Laura had just moved into the apartment above the Northill Plaza and was still stocking up on necessities—everything from electric kettle to toilet brush. Her dad had come to help. In this case, help meant "monetary donations followed by long waits."
"Can you hang out here for a sec?" she'd asked him outside Sears. "There are just a couple of things more I need to get."
"A sec" being an imprecise unit of measurement, she'd re-emerged from Sears a good half hour later with bags aplenty and found her father on the bench, staring at the floor.
"Fossils," he said. "Look."
She flopped down beside him, blew hair out of her eyes. "Sorry I took so long."
"There—do you see? Fossils, between the tiles." He looked around him. "Just here, though. Nowhere else."
Fossils? It took her a moment to figure out what he was talking about. Not real fossils, of course. Replicas, embedded in the floor around the bench. Decorative fossils.
Her dad stood up, smiled. "At first I thought it was, you know, something to do with the petroleum industry. Oil Town, and so on. But then I spotted the next one." He was excited, or as near to excited as her father ever got. "C'mon, I'll show you."
He hurried her through the mall to the next set of benches.
"There, see?" He pointed to swirling patterns embedded in the floor tile. "Wind."
Sure enough. Semi-abstract clouds unfurling like storybook breaths.
"There's more," he said, rushing on ahead as she tried to keep up, all but dragging her bags behind. Her father was the sort of person who offered to carry other people's bags; the fact that he hadn't this time testified to the spell he was under. "See!" He pointed to where rippled designs emanated outward across the floor in concentric circles, as though a pebble had been dropped into a pond. "Waves," he said, not without pride.
"Um, you're right, Dad," she said. "Never noticed."
His eyes were bright. "It took me awhile to figure out, but the fossils are earth. Then we have air, water. The elements." His frown resurfaced. "Can't find fire, though. I walked up and down."
"Dad," she said. "These bags are getting heavy."
"Oh, sorry. Let me get those." By this point they'd almost reached the food court. "What would you like?" he asked. "My treat."
"I'm not really hungry," she said. "Though I suppose I should be. Chinese? Maybe Greek."
"Sounds good. I feel like Italian myself," he said.
So he ate his Sbarro and she her Opa, and they talked about her new apartment and its view of the city. Her father's gaze drifted upward to the skylight above them, and suddenly a grin appeared.
"I found it," he said. He'd been looking down, that was the problem.
She looked up, saw it too. A golden starburst around the skylight, right above the food court. Not fire, sun. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble incorporating the four elements into a shopping mall's layout. The evidence of something more.
"No snow, though," Laura laughed. "I always thought that was the fifth element, at least in these parts."
He thought about this. "Snow. That would be water plus air, minus sun to make it cold." Then, still glowing from their treasure hunt, "We got 'em all."
She wanted to say, "Not we, you." But instead she smiled and said, "We sure did."
CHAPTER 22
A young man in a silk shirt, sipping spiced tea as he scrolls through messages in a cyber cafe. This is FestacTown on the Lagos mainland.
A village within a city. A maze of streets folding in on themselves, with alleyways leading into lanes, lanes leading into dead-end turnarounds. You were always backtracking in Festac Town.
Inside the cafe: rows of computer screens. Hunched shoulders and cigarettes. A ceiling fan that rattled. The traffic outside: car horns and over-revved engines, broken mufflers.
The young man in the silk shirt had found Laura's father online through a forum used by retired schoolteachers, and had stalked him through cyberspace for weeks. And though the young man had other prospects he was even now kneading like clay—a business owner from Tallahassee, a pastor from County Wicklow—it was the retired schoolteacher, a plodding soul from the looks of it, posting comments on woodworking sites and online forums, and then commenting on the comments to his comments, posting his grandchildren's photos and giving tips on awls and the best way to solder a seam, who the young man now turned his gaze upon.
"I am a chimney sweep." This is what Henry would often declare.
"If I kiss you, will that bring me luck?" was Helen's response.
"Luck for me," he would say. "Not so sure about you."
I am a chimney sweep.
Henry had said it laughingly at first, and then with less good cheer as the months piled up. "A sweeper of chimneys. A purveyor of buggy whips. I make the finest whalebone corsets. I deliver milk bottles to your doorstep. I am a doctor who makes house calls."
As a high school shop teacher (ret.), he'd spent the better part of a lifetime acquiring skills that were no longer in demand. "Does anyone even teach shop anymore?" he'd asked his wife. "Outside of specialized vocational schools and such?" The skills he'd honed and had tried to impart to others were now considered "trades," not foundational knowledge.
"Oh, stop your moping," said Helen. Henry always took things too deeply. "You think shop is a dying art? Try Home Ec. There was a time when being a well-rounded homemaker was a point of pride. Now? Bread making, baking, sewing, they're just hobbies."
"Is that what we've come to? Hobbyists?"
"My grandmother used to pull her own wool and spin her own yarn. I wouldn't even know how. And I don't see you out working on our windmill and waterwheel, dear."
But that was exactly his point. Henry Curtis could take apart a carburetor and put it back together blindfolded, fully oiled and with the idle deftly set. But no one was making carburetors anymore; they didn't matter. His wife had excellent penmanship, but penmanship didn't matter either. Soldering irons and box socials. Carburetors and pie crusts.
"We're fading away," he said.
"Nonsense," she replied.
"We're disappearing, Helen. We're dissolving by degree and we don't even realize. In the morning, when I'm shaving, I'm surprised I can't see through my own reflection."
He'd always had morose tendencies; Laura got that from him.
But since his retirement, the melancholy had only gotten worse. So one night, as the Disappearing Man poked about in the kitchen, looking for items that hadn't moved in twenty years, and before he could yell out "Helen, where's the she'd put down her magazine and called to him. "Henry," she said. "Let's run away together. Somewhere warm."
Having a project cheered Henry up. He went online, plugged in a few search terms—and was overwhelmed by the options available. So he turned to his Facebook friends instead. They in turn suggested "asking his community," so he'd posted a query on a forum set up for retired teachers. WIFE AND I ARE THINKING ABOUT TAKING AN EXTENDED VACATION. MAYBE A CRUISE. ANY SUGGESTIONS? "Alaska was lovely. " "The fjords of Norway. Definitely!! I can send you a link. "
I WAS THINKING SOMEWHERE WARM.
"Have you considered Africa?"
NEVER BEEN. WOULD LOVE TO GO. BUT I'M WORRIED ABOUT PIRATES HA HA.
"Your children would love Africa. "
MAYBE THE GRANDKIDS.
"You have grandchildren? How fortunate! Are they old enough for a safari?"
THEY'RE ONLY FOUR AND A HALF. TWINS. HELEN (THAT'S
MY WIFE) WANTS TO TAKE THEM TO DISNEY WORLD BEFORE THEY GET TOO OLD TO ENJOY IT. BUT I FIGURE I'M THE ONE TOO OLD HA HA.