My Soul to Keep (African Immortals)

  “Shoot, we raised you to believe that.”

  “I know, but it’s one thing to hear it and another thing to see it. Right? I mean, before that airplane thing, I know you had doubts. Didn’t you?”

  Bea gazed at her across the table, one eyebrow raised. She looked concerned. “Jessica … I hear you were in Bible class before you dropped by this morning. I thought you didn’t have time for that. Why are you getting all this religion all of a sudden?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’s going on with you?”

  Jessica bit her lip, feeling a surge of joy as she remembered David’s touch after he awakened from the dead. The image no longer filled her with fear. Like Christ, he had risen. She’d seen a resurrection. Maybe David was like a prophet, a sign of the messiah’s return. His knowledge and incredible history had to be part of a plan. God hadn’t seen fit to make it all clear to her yet, but she knew He would. She only had to stop questioning and believe.

  “Nothing’s going on. I’m just happy. I’m happy to have Jesus, that’s all. And happy to have David.”

  “David’s not taking you to one of those Jim Jones cults, is he?” Bea asked skeptically.

  “Mom, quit teasing me,” Jessica said. “I remember what you were like those first two weeks after that plane crashed. Playing gospel all the time, listening to all of the televangelists, reading us Bible verses at night. Don’t even try to deny it. So I’m allowed to get a little too.”

  “Well,” Bea said, biting her corn muffin, “I guess it’s all right as long as you don’t get any ideas about joining the choir. You know you can’t sing, and they have enough trouble as it is.”

  “That must include Randall Gaines too.”

  “That’s right, bless him. Love is blind, but I’m not deaf.”

  Together, clutching each other’s hands, they laughed.

  Sitting with her mother, listening to gospel and then James Brown, then Tina Turner—music David never played—Jessica forgot about the uncertainties outside. She’d thought this would be difficult, saying goodbye, but she and her mother drank sweet iced tea and laughed into the afternoon like old college roommates.

  Neither of them had laughed that way in a long time.

  35

  As soon as he heard the mailbox clank outside his Biscayne Boulevard studio apartment at midday, Mahmoud left his bowl of lentil soup and opened the door to check for letters. The single piece of mail for him, addressed to Occupant, was a postcard advertising a tire company.

  Mahmoud cursed. Did Americans ever receive real correspondence, or was the entire mail system the domain of advertisements? Not that these illiterates would know what to do with a pen if they ventured to take one in their pudgy hands.

  He returned to his table to eat his soup, which, along with the flat loaf of Cuban bread he’d bought at a nearby bakery that morning, would serve as his day’s only meal. This way, both his mind and body were lean. He would feast when his job was finished.

  He must learn patience, he told himself. Not even three weeks had passed since he mailed the letter to Khaldun. It had barely had time to arrive, much less for Khaldun’s response to return. The express letter’s passage would have been delayed because Lalibela’s only airstrip was closed during the rainy season, so it would be delivered by automobile. This one time, he wished their colony was equipped with telephones. If he’d remained in the House of Mystics long enough to learn telepathy, Mahmoud thought, Khaldun could have known his message instantly. But, then again, surely even Khaldun could not hear thoughts across so many thousands of miles.

  Mahmoud’s eyes wandered to the three black-and-white video monitors lined up on his furnished room’s faded pinewood bureau. Alongside the bank of television screens, large reels spun on an audiotape monitoring the telephone wiretap.

  “ … Two bedrooms,” he heard Dawit’s voice say. Dawit’s image was visible on the middle screen as he talked on the telephone while he sat at his computer. Mahmoud’s pin-sized video camera, hidden within a groove on Dawit’s VCR, broadcast an exceptional view of the house’s living room and dining room table. A second camera, substituting for a nail in a wooden picture frame upstairs, showed a view of their cat sleeping in the middle of Dawit’s bed.

  Miami was flush with spy shops of every variety, which Mahmoud browsed for entertainment, but he’d brought his devices with him from Lalibela. Mortal wits could not match those in the House of Science. Mahmoud’s simple wireless cameras and microphones were nearly invisible, broadcasting flawless images and sounds.

  “And bathrooms?” a woman’s voice asked on the tape.

  “Only one, unfortunately. But the plumbing is new.”

  At last, there was movement in the third video screen, which had remained unchanged since early that morning. Mahmoud saw Dawit’s wife take a seat in front of the camera, so close he could only make out her waist and chest. Her blurred, monstrous fingers came toward the camera, holding her key chain.

  Where was she going?

  Lighting a cigarette, Mahmoud lowered the volume of the telephone conversation and turned up the sound from the wife’s monitor. She had someone with her, apparently. Mahmoud heard a man’s voice briefly, though he was out of the camera’s frame.

  “You’re shooting from the van?” she asked her guest.

  “Hell, yeah. A photog had his equipment stolen at Evergreen Courts last month, at an antidrug rally for the kids,” the man said. “Can you believe that? The asshole broke into his trunk while he was out shooting.”

  “I thought you had insurance for stuff like that.”

  “Don’t worry about the photos. I’ll use my zoom. Just point the guys out to me.”

  Mahmoud couldn’t make out their voices after that because of a sudden explosion of loud music. Dawit’s wife must have turned on the radio, where the camera was hidden in the eye of one of the knobs. No matter; there was nothing terribly revealing there anyway. She was working, posing no immediate threat.

  Mahmoud turned down the volume on the vehicle’s monitor, then raised Dawit’s so he could hear the remainder of his telephone call. The tapes would capture whatever Mahmoud missed, and he would replay all of the tapes while they slept, as usual.

  “How about three?” Dawit’s woman caller asked.

  “That’s not good, I’m afraid, unless you just want a look at the grounds. I pick up my daughter at three. But anytime after three-thirty is wonderful. You can have a full tour.”

  Despite the rage Mahmoud felt—and he tried to control his rage, since rage dulled intellect—he found himself marveling at Dawit’s hubris. Hubris was the only word that suited Dawit’s behavior. He must think himself a god, to behave so—to carry on the sale of his house as though he would be allowed to walk away despite Khaldun’s desire for him to return to Lalibela.

  But if only that were the extent of it!

  The monitor in Dawit’s vehicle had captured evidence that would result in Dawit’s imprisonment for all of time. Not only had he broken the Covenant, but he had told his wife so much shocking detail, more than Mahmoud had imagined any Life brother would ever dare. Only Allah could divine what more Dawit had revealed when they stole away from the cameras at night. And she a reporter who conducted investigations!

  Her spell on him was so powerful that, with his own eyes, Mahmoud had seen Dawit allow the woman to raise her voice at him in front of their child! How had he come to this?

  Dawit must be insane to behave this way. For that, Mahmoud pitied his dear friend. Khaldun was sure to be angry, but perhaps he could implore their teacher to show mercy on Dawit. He clearly was not in control of his actions, as his violence and poor judgment proved. The danger Dawit had thrust upon them was unintentional. And it was not too late to repair the damage.

  Exactly when, he didn’t know.

  Mahmoud did not dare act until he had the words from Khaldun himself. Since no one had ever broken the Covenant, Mahmoud did not trust his own solutions, though he knew
Khaldun would echo them. He needed Khaldun’s sanction, and then he would finish it.

  The entire business was regrettable.

  “Dawit, Dawit …” Mahmoud said aloud, watching Dawit’s wife’s hands on the steering wheel of the van. “What insanity is this you have brewed for us all, you pathetic fool?”

  The tapes played on for the audience of one.

  36

  Jessica tapped on the door frame of her boss’s office. “Sy? We got great photos. I think we saw a transaction.”

  “Uh oh. Next, it’ll be sting operations,” a deep voice came from her left, surprising her. She hadn’t realized Sy was in a meeting. A dark-haired man with round-frame glasses sat in a chair in front of Sy’s desk, legs crossed. Jessica knew his face.

  “Oops, sorry to interrupt. This can wait.”

  “No, Jess, come on in,” Sy said, standing, indicating an empty seat in the comer. “This is Lieutenant Fernando Reyes. Believe it or not, your name just came up.”

  “Si, claro,” Jessica said, shaking the detective’s outstretched palm. “I remember you from my days on the police beat. But you weren’t a lieutenant then.”

  “And you weren’t on the I-Team,” Reyes said, smiling. His brown skin looked rich against a light-pink dress shirt. Jessica remembered how female reporters used to joke that Reyes looked like Andy Garcia. He really did, she noticed.

  Jessica sat, slightly breathless. She’d been hot as hell idling under the sun for two hours. She needed a cool drink.

  “My name came up? What’s going on?”

  “Jess, Reyes is leading Miami PD’s investigation of Peter’s death. He’s tying up some loose ends, he said.”

  Jessica nodded, gazing at Reyes, but she involuntarily looked downward at the mention of Peter’s name. She couldn’t distance herself from his death, no matter how much time passed. “Well, you know I’d love to help,” Jessica said softly.

  Reyes whipped a notebook out of his breast pocket and absently flipped through the pages. “I’ll update you. Basically, we’ve scrapped the random attack theory. We believe someone was waiting in the car and probably knew when to expect him. And the wound was very clean, ritualistic. That leaves trying to figure out who would have the best motive to kill Donovitch.”

  Sy exhaled ruefully. “There’s probably a club. He was a good reporter. Good reporters make enemies.”

  Sy had a point. In about a week, when her story on the drug dealers ran, Jessica could count on a few high-ranking enemies herself, including the county’s deputy housing chief. Leaving the country for a while wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

  “I don’t know anything beyond what I told the other detective a long time ago,” Jessica said.

  “I’ve seen your statement. This is about something else,” he said, finally stopping at a page in his notebook, which he scanned quickly while he spoke to her. “In trying to get a handle on what Peter might have been working on, we pulled e-mail messages he sent and received for a couple of weeks prior to his death. We’re getting down to the nit-picky stuff now, but you never know where you’re going to get a break. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  Jessica lowered her eyebrows, confused. “E-mail? You mean you read Peter’s messages? Aren’t those private?”

  “Jess…” Sy said in a calming tone. “The circumstances are extreme. E-mail is the newspaper’s property. We read it if we have to.”

  “As I’m sure you know,” Reyes went on, “the last message he sent was to you. ‘Mr. Perfect is a trip.’ That sounded like a code name for something, and we wondered what it could mean.”

  Jessica looked back at her editor, and was amazed to find him watching her with a sober expression, waiting for her response. Was she the only one outraged that Peter’s privacy was being violated? Not to mention hers? These cops were desperate, playing spy games to feel useful, exercising pointless authority.

  She hoped Sy hadn’t seen the messages too. Lord, she and Peter had exchanged more than a couple of unflattering messages about Sy, meant as jokes. With Peter dead, the barbs would sound blunt and cruel. It wasn’t right to unearth them.

  But, Jessica decided, maybe she was overreacting. If she were in Reyes’s place, wouldn’t she have checked Peter’s e-mail too? Her judgment was clouded by their friendship, that was all. Sy had asked her a couple of times if she wanted to help cover Peter’s murder investigation for the paper, and she’d always said no. Now, she understood why she couldn’t.

  “Do you remember that message?” Reyes asked.

  Jessica blinked. “I remember it. I saw it a few weeks later, when I came back from taking some time off.”

  “You did mention something about getting a silly message from Peter. I remember now,” Sy said.

  “We’re curious,” Reyes went on. “Donovitch sent it late at night, probably right before he walked out of the building.”

  Jessica half smiled. “Well, I hate to blow any theories, but there’s nothing glamorous about the message. Mr. Perfect was our nickname for my husband, David.”

  Sy nodded, illumination washing over his face. He chuckled to himself. “Mr. Perfect …” he repeated, amused. “Good one.”

  Reyes’s expression didn’t change as he gazed into Jessica’s eyes. “I see. Well, that makes sense now. So, do you happen to know if your husband might have run into Donovitch?”

  “Run into him when?” Jessica asked.

  “That night,” Reyes answered, glancing back down at his notes. “The guard says … He came up at about nine-fifteen with a plate of food for you. Something like that. Left about an hour later. Does that sound familiar?”

  “I wasn’t here,” Jessica said, the first words to emerge from her jarred mind. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, your husband was here. Nine-fifteen, the guard says. So, I guess you were out on a story or something?”

  Jessica’s lips parted, then she closed them. She glanced back at Sy, whose hands were folded in front of his jaw, hiding his mouth. What the hell was happening here? This was an interrogation, not a conversation. Never mind this business about David being here, which she didn’t know about. She didn’t like the questions. She shouldn’t say anything else now. She shouldn’t have said anything at all.

  “I don’t think I can help you,” she said.

  Reyes smiled, his face still friendly. He extended a blue-embossed business card, which she took. “I understand. You weren’t here. Could you do me a favor, though, and ask Mr. Perfect to give me a call? Just loose ends.”

  “I’ll mention it,” she said.

  Reyes flipped his notebook closed. “So … I understand you and your family are moving to Africa soon. You must be excited.”

  “Yes,” Jessica told Reyes coolly. “We’re very excited.”

  Once again, Jessica shot a glance at Sy, whose face looked stony. Sy shrugged, his eyes apologetic. Later, he would tell Jessica he hadn’t liked Reyes’s tone either. He’d thought he only wanted her for casual chitchat. Even though Sy told her to forget it, Jessica thought he must have something ugly on his mind.

  She didn’t forget it.

  She spent a half-hour on the telephone bitching to David about the cop’s smug demeanor, how the interception of Peter’s e-mail made her feel violated, how the cop treated her like she was a conspirator in something.

  Be very careful what you say to him, David, she warned. The paper’s surveillance tape was lousy, but some people were insisting they could tell it was a black man climbing into Peter’s Mustang. (“That’s why we can’t see him,” she overheard one guard say, and another piped up, “Too bad he didn’t smile.”) The more time passed, the more likely they would start grabbing at any wild theories they could.

  She felt protective of David. Lately, she’d begun to view him as a sort of visitor to their modern world. It was as though Reyes was trying to lay a trap for him, and all because he wanted to bring her a plate of food. It was ridiculous.

  David tried to calm her down, t
elling her it was no big deal. He asked for the cop’s number, saying he’d be glad to call him and tell him everything he knew, which wasn’t much.

  “Well, okay,” Jessica said, a little less agitated. “Anyway, Peter was in the library. I’m sure you didn’t even see him.”

  “No, I did see him for a moment,” David said. “Jess, listen, the lady just arrived to look at the house. We’ll talk about this when you get home, all right, sweetheart?”

  It wasn’t until three hours later, driving home, that Jessica’s irritation with Reyes dissipated enough for her to examine something else—even bigger—twisting the pit of her stomach: David had been at the paper the night Peter was killed, and he’d never mentioned it to her. Not once.

  He’d had a conversation with their friend in his last hour of life, and he’d never thought to bring it up even as an anecdote.

  Now, she understood

  MR. PERFECT IS A TRIP.

  Peter saw David bringing her food, got a laugh out of it, and shared a joke with her, expecting her to sign on and see his message later that night. Hadn’t she mentioned to David at least once how much that message confused her? She must have. How could he not say anything?

  Jessica was on the verge of whipping herself into full anxiety, nearly bearing down on the Lexus ahead of her on Biscayne, until she remembered that David had no idea who Mr. Perfect was. She’d never shared the nickname with him because he might think it was sarcastic. Of course David wasn’t purposely trying to keep anything from her. She shouldn’t let that cop’s attitude taint hers.

  Hell, hadn’t David for weeks been telling her volatile secrets that most people would never trust anyone enough to disclose? He had trusted her not to freak out and bolt. He had trusted her not to betray him and sell his story to The National Enquirer. How could her own trust in David be so fragile? Especially when she and her daughter were about to start an entirely new life with him?