Page 16

CHAPTER 16

Discovering the Oakland neighborhood where Maarja had spent her adolescence explained a lot about her personality.

Meeting her mother explained even more.

Dante’s pilot set the helicopter down on the high school lawn, if it could be called a lawn. It looked like a war zone, brown except for the weeds and pockmarked with holes. He removed his headphones and spoke directly to her. “This was your school?”

Maarja followed suit, hanging the headgear on the hook beside her. “My alma mater. The school building’s been condemned for years. Sheetrock down, insulation all over the floor, leaking toilets. Crime rate commensurate with the neighborhood. Official name is Casas Bonitas. All of the kids call it Cacas Boners.”

Dante winced.

A skinny Vietnamese man waited under the portcullis beside a fit, broad-shouldered, gray-haired woman in dark glasses. He held her arm and spoke while she nodded, and Dante knew from the way Maarja’s face lit up that was Octavia Maldovitch.

He admitted to some trepidation at meeting her. He and Maarja had a relationship, one based on suspicion, distrust (his), heroism and hurt (hers), and one mind-blowing fuck. What would her mother have to say to him? Nothing, he supposed; during the ride, none of Maarja’s attention had been focused on him. For her, now, he was nothing but a convenience, a way to get her and her mother to her sister’s bedside.

“That blade is rotating above. Keep your head down.” He slid the door back so Maarja could jump out and run to her mother. The two women embraced, held each other as if exchanging strength, and spoke, then Maarja and Octavia waved at the man who’d escorted her here. “Thank you, Mr. Nyugen!” Octavia called.

He waved back and walked purposefully toward the gang of hostile youths headed toward the helicopter.

The gang parted like the Red Sea.

Hm. Something about Mr. Nyugen made them wary.

Putting her hand on Maarja’s arm, Octavia walked with her toward the helicopter.

The shock shivered through Dante.

Octavia Maldovitch was visually impaired. He hadn’t understood why she couldn’t make her own way to Alex’s side, but he’d been willing to play whatever game they wanted to play. No game; the dark glasses protected those eyes, and yes, he was an asshole. He got out and spoke. “Mrs. Maldovitch, I’m Dante Arundel.”

She extended her hand and took his in a strong grip. “Good to meet you, Dante. I’m Octavia. Thank you for offering the use of your helicopter. If not for you, we’d be hours getting out of the Bay Area and to Sacramento and in that time—” She caught her breath. “Let’s go.”

Maarja provided a visual of the helicopter for her mother: the pilot in front, an empty seat beside him, two seats side-by-side and one small cramped one in the back. Dante helped Octavia into the seat that Maarja had occupied before, and as he made sure she had clicked her seat belt, Maarja climbed into the back, leaving him to sit beside Octavia. He helped her explore her headgear before she placed it on her ears and adjusted the microphone.

Donning his, he spoke into the microphone. “Can you hear me, Octavia?”

“Yes! Clearly, thank you.” She turned her head back toward Maarja. “Are you belted in, sweetheart?”

“I’m here, Mom.” Maarja had started dripping tears again, that soundless crying that didn’t seem to affect her voice or efficiency.

“Don’t cry, Maarja.”

How did Octavia know that?

“Alex’s going to recover. We’ll make sure of it.”

“I know, Mom.” Maarja wiped at her cheeks.

“I’ve arranged to have the helicopter land at the hospital. We’ll be there in about thirty minutes, depending on the air traffic there.” Dante handed Maarja tissues and signaled to the pilot to lift off.

Octavia tapped on her watch, setting the timer.

As the helicopter rose, Dante saw the gangs who’d been advancing on it scatter…and they hadn’t been a welcome committee. What did they think, that they were going to strip down the helicopter? Or take possession and go for a ride? Scary place, this part of Oakland. Again, another insight into Maarja’s mind. He already knew her well enough to realize she wouldn’t like him being in her head.

The helicopter headed east across the Bay Area, over clogged freeways, industrial areas, and subdivisions that stretched toward the horizon.

Octavia turned to Dante. “Dear, I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. It was all over the news. The videos are wrenching to listen to.”

“Thank you. Her death has led to a lot of discord and speculation and…lifestyle changes.” He meant Maarja and him.

Octavia picked right up on that. “Are you two together?”

“Yes,” he said.

At the same time, Maarja said, “No!”

Octavia turned to Maarja. “Dear, I’m so proud of you for attempting to rescue Mrs. Arundel, especially knowing what I know about your past. If you were able to find comfort with Dante—”

“Temporary comfort, and an illusion.” Her steadfast scorn would do well in the Arundel family.

“Dear, if I recall, you were untouched. The feeling of closeness must have been powerful to overcome such long-held reluctance. To have at last thrown away the shackles of the past and embraced a freedom to try a new world of sensual experiences must be delightful.”

Octavia gave off old hippie vibes, and he moved to immediately correct her free-love assumptions. “Octavia, Maarja will try this new world in my arms.”

Maarja promptly said, “Mama, he imagines I engineered the theft of his art.”

He interceded swiftly. “Merely a moment of genuine doubt. You must admit the suspicion is logical. Also, be aware, Maarja, I think before I speak, and speak only when I think the words will be reported. Why do you think I would make such a cruel accusation in my office for all to hear?” She refused to look at him. He leaned back and, cupping her chin, turned her to face him.

She met his gaze for one moment, then slapped his hand away.

Octavia listened, head tilted, hearing everything they said and probably more.

He’d given Maarja something to think about, and satisfied, he asked, “Octavia, how did you come to care for Maarja and Alex?”

“Ah!” Octavia launched into a story she’d obviously told many times. “I was fifty-three years old before I accepted the directive to have children. Not children from my womb. At that age and in my unconnected state, that would have been impossible. But when Mr. Caruthers brought that skinny, skittish child to my front porch, I recognized Maarja as the first of my children.”

“Mom, don’t…” Maarja objected.

Octavia paid no heed to her daughter. “Alex was next, another wounded child, needing someone to take her from abandoned to transformed. I knew I didn’t have the skills, but Mr. Caruthers had a way about him. He knew things, and I believed when he said these girls were mine.”

Dante was fascinated, both by the story and Maarja’s vast discomfort with the telling. She didn’t want him to know her family; he wanted to know everything. About this, like everything, he would get his way.

“My big old house has three bedrooms and one bathroom. With the two girls and me, the bedrooms were full, and the bathroom was constantly occupied.” Octavia chuckled. “That’s when I discovered the truth of the adage, how long a minute is depends on which side of the bathroom door you’re on.”

He chuckled with her.

“I thought that was all the daughters I could handle. Then Chrispin arrived on a summer day, a child without a voice. I told Mr. Caruthers no. No, I said!” Octavia slapped her fist into her open palm. “I’m a person who prides myself on being shallow. I didn’t want to deal with a mute child and all the trauma inherent therein. But while I was arguing, Alex and Maarja took her by the hand and led her in, like I was some goddess of kindness and generosity.”

Maarja had a quirk in her cheek. “No one thinks that, Mom.”

“I would damned well hope not.” Octavia huffed. “Chrispin slept in Alex’s room.”

Maarja chimed in, as if drawn to the narrative. “On our second Christmas Eve, she sang Silent Night in her pure, sweet voice and our little family had our reward.”

Octavia added, “And the mystery of her past deepened.”

“Does she speak as well as sing?” Dante asked.

“Yes, to us, and eloquently, but not about her life before she came to us,” Maarja replied. “She’s still reticent in public.”

Octavia picked up the story. “I had three girls, the house was crowded, then Emma arrived, her backpack slung on one shoulder, her face screwed into a defiance that spoke more than words.”

“Did Mr. Caruthers bring her, too?”

“Mr. Caruthers died,” Maarja said. “Sooner or later he was going to anger the wrong person, and he did. Chrispin found his body in the dumpster and notified the police. For a while, I was afraid she’d end up in the dumpster, too, but she had a reputation as the spooky deaf-dumb girl, and Alex and I convinced the street guys she was on the spectrum. She couldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t,” Octavia corrected.

Maarja continued, “—talk to the cops. Anyway, all of them thought she was crazy.”

Dante was fascinated to see that while they spoke, Maarja had relaxed. She still dripped the occasional tear, and she glanced down at the passing scenery as if urging them speed, but she joined the conversation without her previous distance. He had no doubt if he reached out to her now, she’d slap him away again, but he also knew she’d think about what he’d said and perhaps let loose a little of her disdain for him. “Four daughters,” he said. “All teens?”

“All within two years of each other. One week, three of them had their first periods.” Octavia used her voice of doom.

Maarja made a protesting sound.

“Dear, the man knows about periods!” Octavia said to her.

“I have some experience, although not with girls of that age.” If their mission hadn’t been so dire, Dante would be enjoying himself. “I’ll bet that was a difficult week.”

“Emma was so thin it took her another two years to catch up. Then I had four girls cycling together. Every fourth week was a difficult week.”

Maarja closed her eyes as if she couldn’t bear to look at him. Nope, even with the dire situation, he was enjoying himself. “Tell me about it. How did you handle sudden parenthood? My mother always said the reason God presents your child to you when they’re a baby is because if you got them as a teenager, with all their smirking and smart mouths, you’d lose faith in the goodness of the Lord.”

“Not my girls. It was the opposite. I used to wonder—why were they all so silent? Why did they defy the tropes? Why would four adolescent girls be silent?” Obviously rhetorical questions.

“Will Chrispin and Emma hold vigil at Alex’s side, too?” He needed to know, to arrange lodgings, to prepare protection for them all.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Emma is in the military, on assignment somewhere doing something she doesn’t tell us about. Chrispin left to find her roots and we…haven’t heard from her lately.” Octavia’s voice broke.

Maarja shot him an angry glance as if he’d deliberately caused Octavia upset. Nothing could be further from the truth. This lady deserved to be coddled and cared for; he didn’t yet know her whole story, but he suspected she had taken care of herself for her whole life. She needed him just as Maarja needed him. Neither woman yet realized how much their lives had changed.

He looked sideways at Maarja. Although she had begun to comprehend. All she needed was time and space. He hoped he could give it to her.

Octavia’s watch gave a buzz and she straightened. “We’re close.”

“We’re over Sacramento,” Dante confirmed.

The true atmosphere revealed itself. Octavia reached out her hand to Maarja, who grasped it tightly. “She’ll survive, Mommy.”

“She’s a fighter.” Octavia’s voice quavered.

That’s when Dante realized Octavia worried Alex would not survive. Yet she’d been so willing to chat, to tell him about her girls, he hadn’t realized… And Maarja had suffered a brief breakdown in his office, but other women he knew—Béatrice, Fedelma—wept loudly as if to offer proof of their grief. Maarja dripped brave and silent tears, and that reminded him of…his mother. Of Raine Arundel of honored memory, whose funeral had been prearranged right down to the hymns and the flowers. Not too much longer to wait, and that last duty would be done, and his beloved mother would be free at last.

The helicopter had to wait to land; Life Flight had right-of-way and the hospital’s helipad was busy. But at last they walked the corridors toward intensive care where they washed up, gowned up, consulted with the doctors, and finally stood beside Alex’s bed.

Maarja leaned forward to speak into Alex’s ear. “Mommy and I are here.” She put Octavia’s hand in Alex’s. “That’s Mom’s hand you’re holding, and she’s giving you all her strength. You know what that means. It means you’re plugged into a light socket and the power of the universe is yours to draw on.” Maarja questioned Octavia with her gaze.

Octavia shook her head. No press of the fingers, no response at all.

Maarja continued, “We talked to the doctors. We know your condition. Do you know? You’ve undergone emergency surgery for internal bleeding. That was simply for your survival. You need more surgeries, but your condition has to stabilize. Mom and I want you to work on that first.”

Octavia shook her head again.

“Now I’m going to tell Mom about you. What I see—” Maarja got a little choked, then steadied her voice “—and what I think right now. So…”

Maarja told Octavia about Alex’s face, so broken it was unrecognizable. She told her about the tube down Alex’s throat that allowed her to breathe past the swelling, the fluids and the drugs that gave her sustenance and pain relief, the bruises and the cuts from boots that kicked and knives that slashed. The broken bones the doctors had already explained, and how only a strong will, skillful surgeries, and the correct physical therapy would get Alex on her feet again. If the villains had shot her, they would have killed her, but Serene and her crew had enjoyed their savagery too much to make Alex’s death easy or painless.

Dante had many times seen swift and violent death, but this…this was hate and vengeance incorporated, and Alex’s survival was a testament to gritty determination. Seeing Maarja’s grief made him realize Alex was not a sister of the blood, she was a sister of the heart.

Stepping out into the corridor, he pulled out his phone and made the first and most important call to his first and most important advisor. “Who is Serene?” For she was the key. She was the unexpected player, and why? What was her stake?

The answer shouldn’t have surprised him, and when it did, it left him cold with contempt. “All right,” he said. “The game has changed. You know what to do.” When he hung up, he straightened his jacket and returned to Alex’s bedside.

With this theft, an unforeseen move had been made on the playing field. And if he could be said to be riding a horse named Fate, his enemies would soon realize—he held the reins, and this game of fortune favored the ruthless.