Stevan Mena - Transience

“Stop it,” Jack whispered, pushing him away.

“Detective? Everything all right?”

Jack spun his head around. Francisco was standing in the doorway. Jack pushed himself up to one knee, fumbling for a quick explanation as to why he was disassembling Carmen’s furniture.

“Yes, I was just — did your sister share her room with anyone else?”

“No.”

Jack nodded, as if the question was an important one. “I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done,” Francisco said, offering Jack a hand. He eased him back up to his feet. Jack was impressed, Francisco was small in stature, but he easily lifted Jack with his strong grip. “My mother’s suffered so much. This week was the first we’ve seen her somewhat… at peace… in a long time. For years she’s been on about asking Jesus for another chance, hoping against hope to see or speak to my sister again, that she might be found alive. But mostly it was the not knowing. Now, I think she can stop worrying and accept the truth. My family can’t thank you enough.”

Thank Rebecca, don ’ t thank me.

Francisco took Jack’s hand and shook it. His military forged grip was like iron. Jack tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t come up with anything appropriate, so he simply nodded.

“Just one thing, how did you ever find her body? She went missing so long ago.”

Jack stammered, “It’s complicated, I—”

“I guess that’s your job.”

“Yes,” Jack said, relieved Francisco didn’t press.

Hester entered the room. “Francisco, leave him, he needs to work.” Hester pushed him out by the shoulders as if he was still seven years old. She waved at Jack and closed the door, sealing it.

Jack waited a beat, long enough for one breath, then sprung into action. He pulled out the bottom drawer and reached inside.

His fingers found something and his eyes went wide.

Wedged into the sleeve of the wood was something hard. Jack felt a cold chill slide down his spine. He pulled it, and it came free. It was a hard cover book, leather bound with a tiny lock, wrapped closed with rubber bands and what looked like a stretched out hair tie. He held it with reverence, disbelief. He knew it hadn’t moved since it was last placed there, and he was sure no one knew it was still hidden there but him. And Leonard. And Rebecca.

If he did the right thing, told Hester about his discovery, it would be a challenge to take it with him, examine it. She’d never allow something so precious and sacred to leave the boundary of her home. But it could hold a clue, maybe several. No time to debate the morality of taking it. He slid it into the large inside pocket of his jacket.

Now for the other issue.

It was there . It was actually there. Just like she described. A girl’s ramblings under hypnosis had led him to find something that transcended death. Jack’s hands trembled. This must have been what Leonard had felt like when he read about Carmen’s body being discovered. Jack felt a sudden rush of blood to the head and had to place his hand on the bedpost to stabilize his rubbery legs.

He took a moment to gather himself, then exited the room. He passed right by Hester in the kitchen and headed for the front door.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” Jack said, not making eye contact. She got up quickly and followed him.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes, thank you again.” Jack opened the front door and let himself out. Hester stood in the doorway, open mouthed, afraid she’d done something to offend him. He hadn’t even asked her one question.

Jack drove a few blocks until he was a good safe distance from Hester’s apartment building. He pulled over along the side of the road.

He sat parked for 10 minutes, just staring at Carmen’s diary on the seat beside him. He ran his fingers along the worn leather binding; conflicted, curious. The implications of it even existing made it seem like some religious text, ancient.

He caressed the tiny brass lock that held it closed. He could have broken it with a good squeeze of his thumb and forefinger. But doing so felt like such a violation. He picked it up, held it firmly with both hands, then tossed it back down again.

“Shit.”

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a few moments, then snatched it back up again with purpose. “Forgive me…”

He broke the tiny seal. The writing was all in Spanish. Some of the pages had tiny drawings in the side margins. He flipped through a few and a photo slipped out. It was a picture of Carmen and a young man, smiling — a photo booth picture, the kind you’d get at the mall or amusement park. On the back was written CM & VR in a heart. Jack flipped to the last entry. It was dated a week before she was reported missing. He struggled to decipher a few words, but his Spanish was rudimentary at best: hello, goodbye, bathroom — and all of the curses shouted at him while interrogating murder suspects in the inner city. That was about it.

It was getting late, if he didn’t hurry, it would be dark soon. Jack circled the block several times, scoping out the locals, looking for a potential volunteer. After assessing the candidates — a man in his undershirt drinking beer on his stoop, a couple arguing outside their apartment, two men working on their car, he returned to a group of 13-14 year old girls, singing clever rhymes while skipping double dutch rope in the street.

He took a moment to debate what he was doing. Several officers back at the station spoke Spanish and could easily translate this for him. But the content of the book, its circumstances, exposed him to ridicule, especially with Harrington, who’d made him question his own judgment. When it came to humiliation, Jack was risk averse.

He rolled down his passenger side window, leaning over. “Excuse me!” he called out to the girls. They didn’t hear, so he called out again, “Hey, excuse me!” One of the girls waiting her turn looked back at him: You talking to me? “ Hi, yes, can I talk to you?”

She had thick wavy brown hair and wore cut off shorts with a half shirt that had the word precioso bedazzled on the chest. She cautiously approached his car, leaving a good two feet of distance. Her friends paid him no mind and kept their routine going, jumping with perfect timing while the two others spun the rope faster and faster, chanting their song.

She leaned in. “What?”

“I was wondering if you could help me out?”

A hand on her hips, suspicious. “You lost?”

“No, listen, I’ll pay you ten bucks if you—”

“Fuck off—”

“No, it’s not like that. I just need you to help me read something.”

“Why, you stupid?”

“No — well yes, I am, but this is… I don’t speak Spanish, and I have this book I’d like you to read to me.”

“What makes you think I speak Spanish?”

“A hunch.”

She curled her lips and looked back at her friends. “This gonna take long?”

“Depends on how fast you can read. No, it won’t take long, just a few minutes.”

Jack put his car in gear and pulled over to the side of the road. He turned off the motor as she opened the door to climb in.

Jack got out of the car and walked over to a nearby stoop. She made a face like he must be crazy. She got back out, slamming the door.

“What you doin?”

“Never get into a stranger’s car,” Jack said as he slowly sat down on the stoop, the pain making him look like an old man. He tried to hide it, but she noticed. She also noticed his gun holster as his jacket shifted.

“You’re a cop?”

“Detective.”

“What’s the difference?”