Sufficient Ransom (15 page)

Her husband was looking at her with concern. Nodding that she was okay, Ann re-focused her attention on her hostess. Gently, she asked, “Señora Valdez, did anyone contact you about your son?”

Señora Valdez wrung her hands. “No one call. My son is gone and they’re not going to give him back.”

Ann was curious about her choice of words. “Who’s
they
?”

Señora Valdez stood up and moved toward the window. “I don’t know what you talking about. Why you do this?” A thick vein on her neck pulsed rapidly.

Did she say something wrong? Ann glanced at her husband. His expression was questioning as if he too didn’t understand what had just happened. He signaled they should leave. Ann saw no point in torturing Señora Valdez with any more questions. When they stood up to go, Señora Valdez let out a sigh. She was evidently relieved the interview was over.

Back in their car, Richard said, “When you asked if anyone had contacted them, Señora Valdez got upset. Wonder what that’s all about.”

Ann too was puzzled. “Did you notice how the front of the house was rundown while the back was new? The backyard too was so pristine. And the bedroom we passed—the red and white quilt, the expensive furniture. Where did they get the money? And that shrine thing by the bed. It looked like a dressed-up skeleton. It reminded me of Tijuana. It was horrid.”

Nodding, Richard said, “Santa Muerte seems to be everywhere these days.” She had told her husband about seeing the saint’s effigy in Mexico.

Where did they get the money? Señora Valdez quit her job after her son disappeared. They have a nice house. The father’s a day laborer…

Ann pressed her fingers to her temple, trying hard to remember something. When she looked up her eyes were wide. “Santa Meurte is
the patron saint of the poor and of drug dealers. Maybe the Valdezs know who took their kid but are afraid to say, for fear of retribution.”

Richard shook his head. “But none of this helps us with Travis.”

11:30 A.M
.

A
nn stared out of the car window at the Aziz’s La Jolla home. “It looks like they cleaned up the black paint that was thrown on the front of the house.”

“Whoever did it, left a note nailed to the front door,” Richard said. “Tom said it’s possible the robbery in Ensenada two weeks before Hanna disappeared is connected to the kidnapping. The Mexican police detained a few hotel employees. Apparently they let everyone go later.”

Ann shook her head. “They go to Mexico for a wedding and end up getting robbed. Then their daughter disappears. What a terrible situation.” She was quiet for a moment. “Do you think a disgruntled hotel employee could’ve taken the little girl or had a relative in San Diego do it? I mean if someone would go to all the trouble of throwing paint at the house and nailing a note to the door.”

“If that’s what happened,” Richard shrugged, “why wasn’t there a ransom demand?”

“I don’t know.” Ann placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “Before we go in, remind me what they do for work. I can’t seem to retain anything these days.”

“The husband’s an ER doc at Hillcrest Hospital. The wife’s a guidance counselor at Ridgeview High.”

“You mentioned there was something controversial about the father.”

Richard nodded. “It concerned a teenage car accident victim Dr. Aziz had treated. The accounts mentioned that the teen’s parents had threatened a malpractice suit against Dr. Aziz for allegedly not doing enough to save their son. It appeared that the entire medical team at Hillcrest corroborated Dr. Aziz’s statement that the teen was brain-dead on arrival. There was an angry quote from the victim’s father. Something about Dr. Aziz telling the family that no amount of life support would alter their child’s irreversible condition.”

“That’s so sad.” Ann stared out the car window at the imposing homes, and the manicured lawns. Clad in white vinyl with gabled
windows, the front door to the Aziz home was bright red. On a small hill, the property had a sure view of the Pacific Ocean from the second story. The ocean’s mournful sounds in the distance echoed her sadness. “I saw a curtain move at the window. We better go.”

Dr. Aziz was dressed in a button-down shirt and trousers. His dark hair, hanging thickly over large eyes, was uncombed. “Please come in.” He led them from the spacious hallway to a large living room. The only source of light in the room was from two table lamps.

Ann felt as if she had entered an underground cavern.

Dr. Aziz must have read her thoughts. “My wife insists the curtains remain closed. The darkness comforts her.”

Her voice quiet, Ann said, “Our shades are drawn too.”

His face brightening, Dr. Aziz indicated the seats. “I made some tea, from Iran, where we’re from.” He poured out four cups. “I’ll get my wife. She spends most of her time in her room.” He smiled stiffly, before disappearing.

A faint rumble of nausea rose in Ann’s throat. The air in the house was tinged with day-old smells of cooked meat and garlic. The urge to get away from the brooding darkness and the horrible smell gripped her. She clenched her teeth to steady her nerves.

Richard beckoned her to join him on the sofa. Feeling restless, Ann indicated she would look at the photographs on the fireplace mantle instead. She was drawn to the largest picture, the face of a young girl with dark eyes and a bright smile. A knot formed in her throat. “This must be Hanna. She’s beautiful.”

Ann heard a door opening, then steps. Dr. Aziz entered the room with his wife. Richard stood up and started to extend his hand to Mrs. Aziz but withdrew it. Something in Mrs. Aziz’s bearing must have checked him.

Ann too was at a loss. She had pictured Mrs. Aziz to be like her husband, eager to please. But this woman with dark proud eyes, tinged with haughtiness, borne of anger or fear—Ann couldn’t tell which—was beautiful and aristocratic.

After introductions, Ann was grateful Richard took the lead. “We’re sorry about Hanna,” he said, his voice earnest.

Encouraged by her husband’s heartfelt words, Ann added, “Nobody should have to endure what we have.”

Mrs. Aziz’s eyes simmered with resentment.

Ann found herself wondering what Mrs. Aziz’s problem was. She tried again. “Though we think we know who took our child, sharing information could help us both get our children back.”

With a slight wave of her hand, Mrs. Aziz indicated her husband would do the talking.

Ann tried to keep her eyes on Dr. Aziz’s face as he relayed the events of that June evening, when eight-year-old Hanna disappeared. Ann made a mental note to later try to figure out why his wife seemed so unfriendly.

Dr. Aziz explained that his wife had asked Hanna to deliver a home-cooked meal to a neighbor who lived three houses away. Twenty minutes after Hanna left home, Mrs. Aziz called the neighbor asking that her daughter be sent home. The neighbor said that Hanna had delivered the food and had already left for home. Assuming Hanna had sneaked off to the library again, which was just a few streets away, to read “forbidden” books—Harry Potter and the like—Mrs. Aziz drove to the library in search of her. When Hanna was not at the library, Mrs. Aziz called the police.

Though Tom Long had been pretty good about sharing information, Ann wanted to hear directly from Mrs. Aziz what the police were telling them. When she posed the question, Mrs. Aziz cocked her head, like a bird that thought it heard a noise, but wasn’t sure.

“Mrs. Olson,” Mrs. Aziz said, after she had thought about the question for a minute. She stressed the “Mrs.” in a faintly mocking tone. “Don’t you see? The police don’t seem to have any idea what happened to our Hanna. They give us reports on absolutely
nothing
.”

Ann’s first impulse was to defend the police. Then with dawning awareness, she realized that she had taken matters into her own hands because she didn’t really trust them to do the job. She pushed these
troubling thoughts back, to be revisited later. Though she was afraid to anger Mrs. Aziz further, Ann was determined to get information from this interview. “You were robbed in Ensenada,” she said quietly. “Then your home was vandalized. Is that right?”

Mrs. Aziz’s eyes flashed bitterness. “You have no idea what we’ve been through.”

I think we have some idea, Ann thought.

“You see. It’s God’s will,” Mrs. Aziz said. A stream of invectives followed against people in general, Americans in particular, and the unfairness of this life that had robbed them of their child.

Ann listened, fascinated by the glimpse into this woman’s soul tied up in knots of confusion and hatred. She noticed that Dr. Aziz winced each time his wife punctuated her phrases with, “You see? Don’t you see?”

When Mrs. Aziz’s outburst had abated, Ann felt that she had just been given a crash course on what
not
to do when your child disappears. Instead of taking control of the situation, and seizing every chance to learn what had happened to her daughter, Mrs. Aziz chose to bury her head in negativity and recriminations. Feeling an irresistible urge to understand this woman, so that she could reach out and help her, Ann asked, “What does God have to do with Hanna’s disappearance?”

Right away, Ann could see from both Mrs. Aziz’s face and that of her husband, that she had said something wrong. Her misgivings were confirmed when Mrs. Aziz spoke. “You don’t believe in God. How can you help us, when you can’t even live a proper life?”

“How did you know I don’t believe in God?” Ann asked.

Mrs. Aziz waved her hand impatiently. “It’s all over your Facebook page. Links to those atheist organizations. And all that art stuff you write about it.”

When she first joined the social media site, Ann did go a little crazy linking to groups with whom she agreed. Her posts on the contrasting themes in Renaissance art between Christianity and the burgeoning humanism of the period had received more comments than the few
mentions of her atheism. Apparently, most people on the Internet were not as bigoted as Mrs. Aziz.

Dr. Aziz looked from his wife to Ann and Richard. “Please understand,” he pleaded. “Shahdi is not herself.” To his wife, “Dear, these people are guests in our home. They want to help us—” He didn’t have a chance to finish. Mrs. Aziz stood up and walked out of the room.

Back in the car, Ann bit back her tears. Mrs. Aziz was right about her, for the wrong reasons. Ann believed herself to be immoral, not because she was an atheist, but because she hadn’t even been able to perform her most basic task of protecting her son.

11:45 A.M
.

K
ika exited the highway onto the four-lane road that led to the center of Mesa Grande, a burgeoning city nestled in the northernmost part of Mexico’s Sonoran Desert, an hour south of Yuma, Arizona. She headed for the older part of town. Past the myriad factories that fueled the city, past the strip malls that serviced its growing population, on to the little family-run hotel where she always stayed when she came to the place of her birth.

After checking in, Kika had a quick bowl of tortilla soup with her friends—the old couple who ran the hotel—and headed back out to her car. Fishing in her purse for her car keys, Kika spotted her phone. She lifted the phone out and turned it over in her hand, thinking that she would eventually have to turn it on. She imagined a slew of messages and email. The thought of dealing with the outside world made Kika feel even more tired. All she wanted to do now was give her cares up to the Blessed Virgin, and hope that She could come up with some answers to her problems. Kika tossed the phone back into her purse, unlocked the car, and slipped inside.

Driving to her sanctuary—a quaint church she had stumbled upon when she first came to Mesa Grande two years ago—Kika remembered the special church of her youth in Mexico City. The first time her mother took her to Templo del Purisimo Corazón de Maria, Kika was eight or nine years old. The giant concrete effigy of the Virgin Mary atop the church’s soaring cupola had looked so menacing that Kika feared entering. Her mother’s iron grip on her arm had warned her not to make a scene. A nun, who was walking alongside them that day, had offered to take Kika for a tour of the dazzling, stained glass windows before the mass began. The nun’s kindness and the beauty of the church with its many paintings and windows celebrating the Virgin Mary, made a lasting impression on Kika. She begged her mother to bring her back. Thankfully Antonia had agreed.

Growing up, Kika had often wondered why Antonia hated her. The papers Kika found after her mother died—letters from her birth
father—provided a partial explanation. The letters were postmarked from Mesa Grande; that was how Kika found out she was born there. In the letters, Kika learned that her father had given her to Antonia because he was not able to care for her himself. Apparently, Kika’s birth mother had died.

In his letters, her father prayed his daughter would not be a burden to Antonia. Kika remembered flinching when she read those words.
A burden?
Antonia reminded Kika that she was a burden, practically every day of her life. Kika realized that Antonia had taken her in out of duty, not because she wanted to nurture a child.

Curious about her birth parents, Kika traveled to Mesa Grande. She managed to find two sisters—they looked to be in their eighties—who knew her family. The sisters told her that her father had been a missionary of sorts. He had come to Mesa Grande to help in the aftermath of an earthquake that had devastated the area. They said that Kika’s mother had died shortly after Kika was born. After his wife’s death, Kika’s father moved away and was never seen again.

The sisters seemed confused about what had happened to baby Kika. Kika wasn’t sure if the sisters were confused because their memory was faulty, or if some bad thing concerning her had occurred, and they had purposely suppressed it. One of the sisters explained that it was rumored that Kika had secretly been kidnapped, and her father was somehow complicit. It was said that he had moved away to evade questioning.

Though the events surrounding Kika’s early life were murky, one thing was clear: her adopted mother was an angry, abusive woman. Kika learned to ward off Antonia’s beatings by dedicating herself to the needs of others. When she slipped and talked about what she wanted for herself, Antonia’s hands would fly. “Remember, Cristina,” she would say, as she slapped Kika to emphasize her point. “You’re nothing. It’s our duty to serve others. You must listen to our Almighty Father!”