The Forest Bull (13 page)

Stacia

His shoulders shook with hidden sobs. This was a man coming apart at the seams, and it was no surprise to his family and friends. Privately, they were amazed that Don had been able to hold it together for this long after losing Janice. A long, ugly pitched battle against ovarian cancer had ended in a Miami hospital where his wife of three decades had slipped into a coma and exhaled one last time, her pallor instantly shifting to that of the deceased. Even a year later, the smell of disinfectant left Don shaking and uneasy, like the specter of her sickness had come to visit again, and brought little details to remind him of the pain with a sadistic hint. He was a big man, with long limbs and the rough hands of a hard worker. His black hair was still cut short, and he dressed crisply every day after drinking a single cup of coffee while looking over the rock garden he had built for Janice. The water still bubbled merrily from the fountain they had placed in the middle of it all, oblivious to the crashing sorrow in the man standing a few feet away.

But Don had found hope.

At the brink of a breakdown, he had sought help. His pride eroded, his resolve weakened, he had turned outward and found a grief counselor who met his demands for discretion and budgetary constraints. Janice’s illness had left him far less secure than he liked, and he needed to clear his head in order to regain the desire to live. To breathe. To survive.

Stacia had been the only counselor willing to come to him. It was a huge step to even admit he needed assistance, but to
publicly reach out was too much for Don. He had been, at turns in his life, reticent, quiet, and even taciturn. But sitting in his own chair, with the familiar trappings of his life around him, Don learned with each session to let go, just the smallest bit. It was an internal war of control. Stacia, a well-groomed woman in her forties, would sit across from him and introduce small questions. Did he dream? Did he remember them? Did he cry, and how often? She paid close attention to whether or not he could express himself around her, an outsider.

He could not. She was fine with that, and pressed no further, leading Don to trust her with more imagery of his sorrow.
His deep, penetrating sadness. How he still picked up the phone to call Janice at work and then, crying, hung the phone up, wondering if he was losing his mind. After an hour or more of talking each day, Don realized he was shedding his burden. He slept a bit more and ate quietly at his solitary table, aware that the food had no flavor, but at least he was eating.

He
came out of his shell in small ways. Progress was being made. He complimented Stacia’s necklace, a single green stone. Green was Janice’s favorite color, and she had loved to feel feminine. She would have loved the piece.
I know
, said Stacia. After three weeks, Stacia solemnly informed him that, for their next meeting, he would learn. She needed him to understand concepts that were alien to his Western mind, but she felt it critical that he grasped them in order to heal fully and move on.

So for a day, he listened.
Over coffee gone cold, the dark-eyed woman sat primly at his table and told him of how the world defined the soul. She spoke of Prana, and Ch’i and of the spirit in terms that were simple and clear. When the sun set through Janice’s gingham kitchen curtains, she asked Don one simple question.

“In that large bo
dy, you have a small but pure soul. Knowing this, are you ready to tell me, in full, how Janice loved, lived, and left you? The pain? And now, perhaps, hope? The after, so to speak? Can you do that?” she asked, her gaze maternal and warm.

He folded and unfolded his large, bony hands. He looked at the lines and scars bespeaking a life lived in serv
ice to his love. He nodded once and looked blearily into the lights of the kitchen.

“Don, you should speak
. It is time to let go,” she urged, but softly, warily.

He was aware of her becoming very still, like a hunter fearful of spooking game. Her head was poised, listening
, her hand inches from his, the fingers curled lightly inward. He began from his first memory of Janice, with her cursing at a cyclist who tore her dress on a crowded street in Rochester, New York, when they were both young. His eyes grew soft, far too soft to match his hands, and the lights began to lose their focus as the memories took command of his body. He felt Stacia take his hand, her warmth and caring urging him on. Through dates, and their first child, to the war and two years of wondering
do I die today
while choking on rain a world away . . . he told her all of it. And, eventually, the tears rolling freely now while he had to cut off a yawn, he dove into the blackness of the day that the doctor said simply, “The cancer is back.” He recalled the hum of the fluorescents. The light scent of urine and cleanser on tile, rustling lab coats, and the faces carefully ignoring him as he led Janice, staggering, to the car to weep together, crying without end for the entire world to hear. Stacia stood behind him now, rubbing his wide, bony shoulders and leaning on him, his yawns growing wider and longer, his focus fading.

“What about the last day, Don? Did she move at all? Tell me
. . . tell me about her eyes. Did she know it was close?” And now her voice was low, guttural, fat with pleasure. He felt a delicate probing of his body and then the lightest touch as her messenger tendril, an ethereal dark blue, twisted from within her and twined around his ribs and heart. It pulsed like a gorging snake with his sadness and lost love. Inside his body, synapses fired and went black, their charge stripped away by her questing presence, the filaments of her hungry light spreading in him like the canopy of an evil tree. Her eyes flickered under her lids in concentration. He had a vivid mind and a hardy soul. She laid her cheek against his head and asked him, while his heart hammered, “Do you want to join her? Do you love her that much, Don?”

Oh God how he
did and he would tell her if he could just keep his eyes open
. He became aware of a slight erection and moved his hand to cover it, but his arm only rolled weakly. He was so tired. So very tired. His lips kept moving as Stacia whispered again and again, “Tell me about her. About the sadness, Don,” and then, finally, the tendril made of more shadow than light uncoiled one final time from his chest, and retreated into her body, now flushed and glowing. She was drunk with his memories and more than a little high on the depths of his pain. A patina of sweat covered her cheeks and forehead. His rugged frame had been very strong, and she had expended an intense effort to feed freely of it. His brain pan filled with blood, and he had bitten his tongue. A massive stroke, they would determine. Brought on by a broken heart, the neighbors would say.

She kissed Don’s head, which now rested on his long forearms that
were folded inert on the table, and stretched once. All of his fear and love and the remains of his broken soul now surged through her in flashes, his body a husk, hers fully engorged and already in motion to her next charitable act. She left the house and Don, but she took his life with her.

Mother was right.
One cannot overstate the importance of being a good listener.

Florida

Fat raindrops woke me in the morning. The noise it made on our aluminum awnings had a jarring effect, regardless of how many times I had heard it. Smelling coffee and eggs, I moseyed to the kitchen. Risa was up and had been productive, but was now on the couch, lolling a bit next to Gyro, who occupied three cushions to her one. Wally was missing, so I filled a mug and took it to her door, tapping lightly and entering.

Wally was partially nude, in a tangle of covers and limbs that needed to be bordered by crim
e scene tape. She slept as if dead, and, like any good corpse, she cared little for her position.  There was a slight stirring as I sat on the bed and a thin glint from her right eye betraying a state of awareness, so I wordlessly held the cup to her. Grumbling, she accepted.

“Give me ten minutes before
I report, you goose-stepping martinet,” she protested, struggling to a sitting position. I caught a ghastly whiff of morning breath as she exhaled, belched, and coughed in a series of actions that were befitting an aged cat.

“Agreed.
See you at the table, gorgeous. And scrape your tongue before you come out of the bathroom. Do it for the children, if not me,” I commanded in my most authoritative tone. Closing the door, a shoe hit the frame and fell to the floor. I had been answered and counted myself lucky to have emerged from her lair unscathed.

Wally shove
d an irritated Gyro off a cushion and wedged underneath the beast, pulling her legs up as he re-settled his head on her lap, looking at her in adoration. She smoothed his ear and sipped her coffee, grimacing. Risa and I waited until she pulled the cup away. We were impatient, despite her under-caffeinated state.

“Clashes with toothpaste,”
Wally grunted, but she kept drinking. “So, I found our unlucky caterer. He was rather smart, actually. He’s pre-med. He was also sober the morning he found the body. I think he looked it over a bit before he called the police. Quite talkative, that one.”

Wally was a
master at the hair-twisting, eye-batting flirtation method of peeling details and facts from sometimes reluctant targets. Yazin, as it turned out, was neither reticent nor immune to her charms. He told Wally more than he realized he knew.

“
Yazin not only found the body, but he gave me a general description of the killer without realizing it. I’m not even certain the police are aware of the connection, but he worked the charity event and the cleanup crew that came in the next morning to break down tables and load the truck. Yazin is Moroccan, and he swears he heard a Moroccan woman speaking French at the party. Her accent was very faint, but he described it as a woman of the upper classes who spoke French as her second language, probably after Berber. He was very specific. Physically she was thin, dark hair, striking. Yazin caught an impression of money; it was something he couldn’t quite articulate, but he felt certain.”

She swigged her cooling coffee and continued.

              “Yazin didn’t remember seeing the victim at the party, but that’s hardly surprising given the high wattage of the attendees. From the pictures I’ve seen, the trophy wives were stacked in layers. With all that silicone and Chanel No. 5, it’s miraculous that he didn’t sprain his neck staring. He’s practically a kid, but, thankfully for us, an observant one with a great memory. He was able to give me even more details about the condition of the body. And here’s where his medical training really comes into play. The body was buried in the sand, intentionally. When he checked for a pulse, he noticed two visible wounds. One was in Arnaud’s navel. Clear fluid ringed the hole, and there was irregular swelling. There was a bit of blood running down his chin, and, when Yazin looked in, he saw a round puncture right through roof of his mouth. He had been buried like he was being . . . saved. Or protected.”

As she
finished and expounded on the boy’s experience with the departed, Risa, who had been briskly taking notes, paused for a moment.

“I can’t read Berber, but I can read French. Let’s see if the Moro
ccan news has any footprints left by this killer. And then, let’s bury her and see how she likes it.”

From Risa’s Files

Broward Sherriff’s Office Records 911 Transcript

911: What is your emergency?

Kenneth Myall: I’ve been robbed, I think. And I’m hurt.

911: What’s the address? Who hurt you?

Kenneth Myall: I’m at the Lauderdale Beach Club . . . *unintelligible* move my, my hands

911: What apartment,
sir? Who hurt you? Can you tell me the number?

Kenneth Myall: She’s gone, she left the door open,
the water is running

911: Are you in the water? Are you inside? I have police on the way. Are you inside?

Kenneth Myall: She made me sleepy, and now I’m, the water is coming up, please

911: Police are in
front of the building. What floor, sir? What number?

Kenneth Myall
: *unintelligible* bit me and put me in, in the water, I, I,*unintelligible*

911: Sir?
Sir? Please talk to me, stay with me, sir . . . sir?

Kenneth Myall:
( sound of water running and footsteps)

911: Sir?

Kenneth Myall: 911? This is officer Callister. We are administering CPR to the victim; he drowned in the tub, or he bled out, trying to get a pulse. Send ambulance. He has a . . . bite wound.

911: Bite wound?
Ambulance on the way, Officer.

             
“Look at this.” Risa stood in front of me, quivering with urgency. She had a small stack of printed sheets. I glanced at them. They were written in French.

             
“I assume you’ll translate?”  She nodded and waved me over to the table. The sun was at zenith and she looked like she hadn’t slept all night. Wally was nowhere to be seen, but Gyro’s leash was missing, so I knew I slept through her taking the beast out for a walk. I poured orange juice and sat down, as instructed. Risa frowned slightly at the top page, continuing her translation internally. I waited.

             
“These are three different news items from French language papers in Morocco. Two of them are nearly identical, with one exception.” She paused and pulled a one-page map of Morocco from under the newspaper articles.

             
“We start in Rabat, north of Casablanca. I know you’re disappointed, but that’s where I found something unusual.” Risa knew my love of the classic film bordered on insanity. I appreciated her nod to my excellent taste and remained silent.

             
“Rabat is the capitol. So, like the unfortunate Arnaud, a doctor was found murdered, partially buried near the beach. The reason this crime was deemed newsworthy was that he was a visiting Frenchman who had been very well received. He was free with his care and took a special interest in sick children. He was successful, too, so, when he was found with puncture wounds, it was assumed that he had been stabbed. A relatively swift manhunt was conducted by a local Imam who thought highly of the doctor, and a suspect was caught and beheaded. Then
another
suspect was caught and beheaded a week later.”

             
“I take it there was no trial?” I asked, imagining that justice of that speed would be a bit more streamlined than I was used to seeing.

             
“Correct. This brings us to our next lucky contestant, in the city of Tangiers. This time it was a French shipping magnate who was known to be one of the most skilled smugglers in the area. He had half the city on his payroll, and the other half trying to buy their way on. You guessed it--he was supposedly stabbed and buried, face up, in the sand in between two pilings where fishing boats anchored. This time, there were no suspects, although that may have been due to the frenzy of crime that followed his death as local criminals rushed in to fill his highly profitable shoes.”

             
She was handing me the pages as she finished her translations. She slid the last sheet across the table to me. I noticed she had her own copy of the same newspaper. This page was in Spanish, something we could both read.

             
“Read this and tell me what you make of it. I’ve read it, and I want to see if you see what I see.” Risa was excited. I knew that look. It boded well for our efforts.

             
I took several minutes to read the item, carefully making mental notes at salient points that practically screamed
look here
to my investigative nature. Our killer had gone across the strait to Spain. She had seduced and attacked a wealthy, elderly glass importer and led him to the beach. She was, according to the hysterical language of the victim’s son, a demon of some sort.

But the old man had lived.
He was Moroccan, a widower, and had a single child. His son, a vain, jealous man, followed them to protect his father, not from altruism, but greed. He saw women as a threat to his inheritance. That is how, in the dying light on a Spanish beach, the son watched his father be mounted by a woman with a dagger extended from her stomach, poised to drive it into his gut. The son stalked up behind her and brained her with a wine jug, splitting her head and then freeing his father. The old man was unable to walk and remained so for three days. He had been injected with something. In his mouth. When the police went back to find her body, it was gone, presumably with the tide. The son said the dagger was attached to her, somehow, and looked like the stinger on a bee. With this tale, the details of Arnaud’s horrific death were becoming clear. Done with my read, I asked Risa, “What does this last line describe? I can’t translate it.”

“The old man recovered and named the woman who attacked him.
He said she held a needle in her mouth and poisoned him. And he saw the ‘arrow’ protruding from her body. He was never taken seriously, but, when he was able to speak well enough, he called the woman
al-Ribat
. The Archer.”

“That’s an apt name for her. Have you found evidence of this
al-Ribat
anywhere else, other than here?” I wondered why the immortal was moving.

“Oh
, yes. And that’s what makes me think there is much more to the story than one immortal killing lonely men on beaches. The last sheet has mention of her being named as a person of interest in the disappearance of an antiques dealer in Marseilles. It isn’t by name, but it’s her. I know it. But you need to see one more thing.”

Risa rearranged the papers. She tapped the top corners of each.
“One other thing. Look at the dates of these reports.”

I whistled softly. If there was ever any doubt of who we were dealing with, it was gone in that second.
The first murder, 1947. The second, 1948. The third attempt in Spain was in 1948, too. But the story in France was from less than a year ago.

I closed my eyes, thinking. I could sense Risa watching me.

“There are only two reasons for such a drastic move. She was either on the run from something--” I started.

“Or she was being called home” Risa finished. “But by who
m?”