Richard Doetsch - Half-Past Dawn

Mia sat on the edge of the bed, feeling hopeless, the sounds of the city droning in through the locked door.

There was a heavy click of the dead bolt, and the door opened, the sounds of the city growing louder as a tall man stepped into the room. He held a silver tray with a steaming etched kettle of water and blue china cups, along with a plate of pastries.

The man’s skin was smooth like porcelain, the tone dark. His long black hair, pulled tight in a ponytail, hung just past his shoulders, which filled out a black pinstriped suit. He placed the tray on the table as someone pulled the door closed and the latch was reset, sealing them in.

The man pulled out a chair, sat, and crossed his legs as if in ceremony.

“Good morning,” he said in a subtle Eurasian accent. “I’m sorry about your confined accommodations.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned over the two china cups, picked up two small metal sieves packed tightly with tea leaves, and placed them in the cups. Grasping the kettle in his large hand, he poured the steaming water over the leaves, making a rich, hot tea.

There was a refinement to the man, in the way he talked, in the way he moved. He was precise, with each word spoken in perfect diction; the simple movement of his hand was slow and deliberate as he prepared the tea. With similar precision, he reached into his pocket, withdrew an envelope, and placed it on the table next to the tray.

Throughout the ritual, Mia remained silent, studying his every action. Beneath the tailored Savile Row black suit, there was no doubting his size, his broad shoulders, his powerful hands.

Mia sat there in shock as she recognized him. As impossible as it was, Nowaji Cristos was standing there now. And while she knew of the atrocities he had committed, what he was capable of, these were not what scared her the most.

“You should have no worries for your safety,” Cristos said. “I have very strict instructions not to kill you.”

Cristos smiled at Mia. A pregnant pause hung in the air.

“But I should make you aware, I’ve never been one who listens to orders or instructions. I follow my own path; if I don’t get what I want by dawn tomorrow, I will kill you all.”

With his manicured hand, Cristos pushed the elegant white envelope toward Mia, and without further word, without explanation of what was going on, without asking a single pointed question, the man stood and walked to the door. He gave it two sharp knocks, the door opened, and he disappeared. The door closed behind him, leaving Mia, once again, by herself.

Mia finally inhaled, deep and plentiful, to quell the fear that ran through her, to purge the adrenaline that coursed through her veins, making her tremble uncharacteristically. The impossibility of her encounter, of the man who held her captive, sent her mind into a world of confusion. She had thought, as so many others had, that he had died almost a year ago.

Mia sat there a moment, staring at the elegant tray that stood in sharp contrast to the rest of the room, her eyes drawn to the envelope, the gravity of its contents weighing on her mind, knowing that it portended something far from the proper breakfast that was just delivered to her. Despite his refinement, despite his gentle voice and manner, Mia knew what Cristos was truly capable of. Mia knew of the horrors this man had done in the past.

She finally picked up the envelope, glaring at the door as if the man on the other side could feel her stare as she lifted the flap. She peered inside, and the false composure of her face finally cracked, all color draining away as her eyes welled with tears.

She withdrew the picture; holding it up, she stared at it. It was taken from a distance, through a telephoto lens, the white sand bright in the early -morning sun. The date stamp in the lower corner read, June 30. Today.

There was no mistaking the older woman who sat in a beach chair watching over the children, but Mia paid her no mind. Her eyes were glued to the children playing in the surf. Her heart felt on fire with rage as she stared at the unmistakable faces of her daughters, Hope and Sara.

Jack sat in a small office, the desk and shelves stacked precariously high with papers and books all in total disarray. Although the mayhem did have some semblance of order known only to its owner, there was no doubt a single gust of wind would wipe it all away.

Much to her anger, Jack told Joy to stay with the car out on Broadway while he and Frank headed into Kent Hall to the Asian studies department of Columbia University. The old stone building on the far southeast end of campus was the quintessential image of college, with its ivy-covered granite walls and high steel-casement windows.

“Gentlemen.” The voice was distinct, gravelly, its rough tone fermented by liquor and cigarettes. The elderly man wore a bow tie and suspenders, every bit the professorial image Jack expected, except that the man’s years were far beyond what Jack thought possible.

“Not sure which one of you is Joy, but you look nothing like your voice,” the man said, a hint of mirth in his tone.

“I’m Joy,” Frank said in all seriousness as he pointed toward Jack. “This is DA Jack Keeler.”

The man looked at Jack, a hint of surprise on his face. “Hello, Jack.” He greeted Jack familiarly, as if his advanced years granted him the privilege. He held out his arthritic hand, the fingers locked in a curve.

Jack took his hand and gently shook it, afraid the man would break before him. “Killian Adoy.”

The professor shuffled into the room, his stooped body struggling with the effort. While countless years had twisted his form and wrinkled his face with deep folds, his eyes were like those of a vibrant young man who savored life. He removed his hat, revealing a bald pate, wisps of gray hair scattered around like sparse weeds on a field of dust.

He laid the hat on the table and took a seat before Jack.

“Like Mark Twain, the report of your death seems exaggerated, Jack.”

Jack smiled. Killian reminded him of his grandfather, someone who not only had a unique perspective on life and its folly but also took an interest in him for simply being him.

“I got the e-mail scan, but beyond identifying the language, I can’t make a translation without seeing the text firsthand. I wasn’t sure, was it on parchment or from a book?”

Without a word, Jack held out his arm and rolled up his sleeve, feeling like a child in the nurse’s office.

Killian’s brow arched with curiosity. “Let’s take a look.”

He took hold of Jack’s arm and ran his gnarled, aged fingers along the surface, his eyes keenly focused on the intricate markings.

“This is the language of Cotis,” Killian said with an academic air as he continued to study Jack’s arm. “Some call it the language of the priests because it is so infrequently used except by scholars and clergy. Much like the language that emanated from Latium and ancient Rome spreading to become the language of Christianity, of scholars, and of science, it has faded away from everyday use. And like Latin, it’s no longer spoken. The Cotis people are a small Asian society whose isolation and small population had caused their numbers to dwindle, their culture to be forgotten, swallowed up by the jungle where they lived. They are still in existence, though.

“Cotis has survived the centuries, thriving in its isolation, developing off of the framework of harmony with nature, with the earth, with the afterlife. Its central city was similar to but a on a much smaller scale than Angkor, the Hindu temple city that was mysteriously swallowed by the jungles of Cambodia with no clue to the fate of its people or culture.”