Devotion Apart Read online

  "I don't have a driver's license," I said, "and I just arrived from Brazil. Someone had to give me a ride, officer. Miss Escobar's with me."

  The man slid a red placard into the Honda's windshield.

  "You're cleared to Mr. Tasman's residence only, Miss Escobar. If we find you driving around the Acres, we'll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing."

  The gate opened in front of us. As Sadona inched the car forward, I noticed a manned chase vehicle semi-hidden behind another barrier.

  "Told you," Sadona said. "Nobody gets in or out without their say-so."

  Inside Morliam Acres, a large map on a board directed us to the right where lay 6013 Purimity Street. Low yard lights illuminated vast mansions and manicured lawns, large enough on which to play football. Outside a shrub-bordered expanse was a sign that read Balmice Park. Straining my eyes as we passed, I noticed tennis courts, gardens, and several buildings in the small arena.

  At the next crossroad, Sadona slowed and turned into an ascending driveway. We passed under a decorated archway, then parked behind a fleet of vehicles I would've thought belonged to a luxury car show.

  "Is this place for real?" Sadona turned off the car and leaned forward to see the heights of timbered balconies and stone columns. "Who is your friend again?"

  I frowned at the number on the front of the house, hardly believing this was the middle-class hooligan who'd cut classes with me in junior high. He hadn't joined the neighborhood gang with me later in our youth, but we'd remained friends. I'd never known Craig or his parents to have this kind of money.

  Half-expecting a pair of Dobermans to rush me, I stepped out of the car and firmly gripped my blow-pipe. Sadona remained by the car, her door open.

  I pressed the doorbell and its chime echoed inside a large interior. While I waited, I turned around on the elevated doorstep to view the closed community at night. Directly west one hundred yards, the neighborhood's perimeter fence was visible high above trimmed vegetation. Small bulbs hung from light posts at intervals. Cameras, I guessed.

  Two deadbolts clicked before the door opened wide, and an older, suited gentleman bowed his head, a gesture I didn't feel comfortable receiving.

  "Mr. Dalton, I presume?" He was a tall, broad-shouldered black man with a kindly face. His soft smile reached his eyes and seemed genuine, reaching his eyes. His bald head was oiled and shiny in the foyer's soft light.

  "Yes, sir." I offered my hand.

  "That won't be necessary, Mr. Dalton." He refused my hand, and instead directed me with his arm to cross the threshold. "Welcome to Mr. Tasman's home. A room has been prepared for— Who is this?"

  I stopped in the doorway, realizing Sadona had hustled up on my heels. The butler stepped in front of the open door behind me.

  "I'm with him." Sadona probably meant her statement to sound more confident than it was. "Cord?"

  "Mr. Dalton." The butler loomed over me, six inches taller and quite a bit heavier. "Mr. Tasman does not entertain guests. There are certain. . .confidential matters on the premises. You do understand?"

  I didn't understand, but I nodded and passed back outside to lead Sadona by the arm away from the doorstep.

  "It seems this is as far as you go." I opened my satchel where I still had a little cash from my travels. "Here. Take this for your gas."

  "My car's electric, Cord." With one hand, she pushed the bills away, and with the other, she offered me several business cards. "Pass these around to the right people, and we'll call it even. Can you do that?"

  "No promises, but I'll see what I can do."

  She smiled.

  "I'm suddenly realizing I talked my mouth off all the way. Thank you again for saving me at the airport. That was amazing. But I know nothing about you."

  "It's probably for the best." I took her hand and squeezed it. "Thank you for the ride. An electric car, huh?"

  As she backed her Honda out of the driveway, I reentered the mansion where the butler led me into the house. The floors were marble toward the front and carpeted farther in. We passed a quiet ballroom under a shadowy chandelier hanging from a picturesque ceiling. He finally opened a door to a bedroom the size of four family huts in the Amazon.

  "I will inform Mr. Tasman you're settling in." He closed the door behind me. For a moment, I admired the room. Several clothing store bags sat on the bedspread, and pairs of shoes and boots lined the wall. No doubt, I'd find them to be my size. But none of it appealed to me.

  On one wall of the room, hidden behind floor-to-ceiling drapes, I found glass windows and a glass door that led to a porch. The porch overlooked a mowed back yard, fenced in by high, wooden planks. Everything seemed so perfect, so trimmed, clean, and controlled. It was unnatural to me, after living in the wild for so many years. All the order felt like disorder.

  I set my satchel on the bed, then peeked into the clothing bags. Designer shirts and pants with brands I didn't know. As a missionary from a fierce environment, I saw the clothes as both impractical and a waste of money. For more than a decade, I hadn't even worn a shirt. Half the material in the bags were so fragile, the seams would split the instant I exerted myself at some activity.

  Behind the door, I leaned my blow-pipe. The arrows, normally made out of leaf stalks, had contained wourali poison, so I hadn't bothered to fly with them into the country. Without the arrows, the blow-pipe was essentially useless, but I'd carried the weapon for more than fifteen years. Leaving it behind would've been like abandoning a limb of my body.

  However, I was in civilization once again, and I regretfully left it leaning against the wall as I exited the room to explore my friend's residence. Craig had hardly given me the welcome I'd expected, since we'd been close friends as boys. He'd even had a crush on my sister for a while. But I guessed Cora's death had affected more than just me, even though she'd been dead for four months.

  After wandering through the dimly-lit back rooms, I came upon a living room that overlooked an indoor pool, which spanned under a glass partition to a lit, outdoor pool. No one was there. It all sat quiet, alone and unused.

  "Would you look at the sorry world traveler standing in my living room!"

  I turned with a smile, recognizing Craig's voice. He stood in a housecoat and silk pajamas, a tall, dark-haired man with a wide smile. It felt natural to embrace him as we both laughed, the years apart suddenly seeming insignificant. He held me at arm's length a moment later, looking down at my face.

  "Well, you're two shades darker than I remember. You're looking healthy? Here, let me pour you one." He moved toward a liquor cabinet. "Winston said you didn't drive the jag. Is everything all right?"

  "Everything's fine, Craig." I chuckled. "It's too fine. You're doing too much. I'll pass on that drink."

  He glanced up, mid-pour.

  "Yeah? You dying or something? This is the best cognac in the state. You should try it. If I remember right, you had a stomach for a lot worse."

  "No, thanks. Haven't touched it for years. Water'll do me fine."

  We sat on an L-shaped sofa, a glass of ice water in my hand. Regardless of our initial familiarity, Craig's eyes wandered everywhere but in my direction, as if he didn't know how to break the inevitable barrier.

  "This place is amazing Craig," I spoke quietly, unsettled by the silence, which never existed in the rainforest. "It seems we've both led lives neither of us expected."

  "You like?" He grinned proudly and held a hand out to his domain. But his eyes didn't share the joy. There was pain there, loneliness maybe, and something darker. "We're a long way from chasing girls in junior high, huh?"

  "Yes, a long way." I noticed he wore no wedding band. The dark half-circles under his eyes spoke volumes. "You wouldn't say on the phone, but here we are. Tell me what happened. How did she die? Who killed Cora?"

  He finished his drink, then stood and went to the cabinet for another. After he gulped more and refilled, he faced me from across the room.

  "I haven't left the house
in months, Cord, and it's not paranoia. I can tell you who it was more easily than why he did it, but I've figured him out. He killed Cora, and he could kill me just as easily. Look at me. I have everything. I can buy the tightest security behind the best gates and walls, but this guy is better. He's connected. Powerful. Brutal. He has his own assassin who doubles as his bodyguard. But he killed Cora, sure as I'm standing here. He's a sorry excuse for a human being. He threatened her, then he killed her."

  "What's his name?" So far, Craig sounded like he was telling a story from an espionage novel, but we weren't reacquainted enough yet for me to accuse him of being delusional. "Just say it."

  "Adrian Shay." Craig walked to a cold fire mantle that had been swept clean of ashes. He set his drink on the shelf and buttoned his coat. "He's a big-time investor and financier, buying up properties all over the city. He has houses in Singapore, Spain, even Jerusalem. His hands are into everything, ties everywhere—real estate, pharmaceuticals, even mining. The guy runs Devotion, the visible stuff, anyway."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Adrian Shay is a businessman. He's as crooked as they come, but he's all about making money. He's tied in with legislatures and senators to do his bidding, greasing palms, running labor unions, and otherwise legal hustles. The whole city is a mess, Cord, and not just from the pandemics. The Buenos. Remember them? The Bueno family runs everything else."

  "What?" I scoffed. "Naul Bueno? Our Naul Bueno? From the Airport Boyz?"

  "His whole family. They're not just neighborhood thugs anymore. They have their hand in every twisted enterprise that Adrian Shay doesn't control."

  I stared at my ice cubes. It would've been something to see the tribespeople react to an ice machine.

  "How does my sister fit into all of this?"

  "Her husband, Brock Rose, is a gambler, and he owes Hidden Springs Casino a pile of money. Adrian Shay owns a majority stake in the casino, but off the books. Shay's spook, an Easterner named Malik Suuk, threatened Brock about paying them back. He threatened him through Cora. Brock didn't take Shay's warning seriously, so Cora was killed."

  I frowned, processing the story.

  "You know a lot about this, Craig. You're friends with Brock? He told you all this?"

  "No, I mean, we've gone to church together for years, until recently, anyway. We've never really had a conversation that I can remember."

  "So. . ." I frowned. "You and the casino are acquainted?"

  "No, I don't gamble."

  "That leaves Adrian Shay. He told you all this?"

  "No." Craig picked up his glass and noisily ate a piece of ice. "You need to know how I know, so I'll tell you, but telling you how I know is dangerous for both of us."

  "It's not dangerous for me, Craig. Shay's not powerful enough to reach me in the Amazon."

  He licked his lips, still hesitating. Finally, he set down his glass.

  "Come with me."

  He led me through the house, back toward my room. In one hallway, he unlocked a door to the left, where we descended stairs to a wine cellar. I thought he was about to show me a prisoner he'd drawn information from. Instead, he swung back a wine rack and revealed a vaulted door. After punching in a code on the pad and offering his eye for a retinal scan, he swung the heavy door open to reveal several racks of computer equipment and miles of cords connected to flat screens, and a wall panel full of switches.

  "This doesn't exist." Craig stood at an open laptop and punched a key. The screens blinked on and showed multiple frames of city streets, restaurants, parking lots, as well as a bird's eye view of the city. "It's called RASH. The Regulatory Alert Surveillance Hunter. Brock Rose and Adrian Shay have one thing in common—Brock works for Homeland Security, and Adrian Shay lobbied Homeland to beta-test their biometric surveillance system inside city limits."

  "What's it do?" I sidestepped in the tight space to browse other screens. "You said this doesn't exist. Why do you have it?"

  "I designed it for the Department of Defense." Craig smiled, his fingers gracing one screen frame as if he were caressing a loved one. "It's legal. They just don't know I built two of everything. And this one's better and faster."

  "Shay's a real estate tycoon. What does he want with a surveillance system? He's extra concerned about the city's crime or something?"

  "Not even close. The algorithms I was asked to install monitor everything including purchases and consumers' social media. Shay got a ten-year contract to beta-test a spy-grade network to identify home-grown terrorists, but he's using it to get rich."

  "This is the airport." I pointed to one frame. "And the Ruins. They're still standing?"

  "They're as sorry as ever. Violent. Filthy. I can see it all from here. I can follow a single drug dealer on closed-circuit television all over the city. Every drone over the city has a camera. Every building has multiple cameras. Everyone has a phone, and every phone has a camera. This is the contact tracing era, Cord. The resolution of some city cameras is unbelievable. I can map the pimples on a teenager's face from ten blocks away, then pick up his voice through acoustic sensors to track him when I can't see him. Thermal sensors canvass the city above and on street level, so darkness and disguises can't fool this software. I can remotely turn on the microphone in your phone and listen to everything."

  "This is a network of perfect spy-ware. And you can't tell anyone. The only reason you're seeing this is so to verify I have witnessed Adrian Shay's underground dealings. I've seen it all from right here. Adrian Shay killed your sister, Cord, and if we don't stop him, he'll kill others."

  Chapter Two

  That night, the tangle of murder and corruption wasn't the only thing that left me sleepless. I hadn't slept in a soft bed in nearly twenty years, and there were no trees in my bedroom to hang my hammock. Finally, after several sleepless hours, I wandered out to the living room and stretched my hammock from the pools step railing to a jutting stone on the mantle. In minutes, I was fast asleep.

  When I woke, the first thought in my head was about Cora. She had died because of greed and money. Her husband Brock was to blame for the gambling situation, but Adrian Shay sounded like he was responsible for the murder itself. Regardless of Craig's complex network of spy cameras and sensors, the murder hadn't been recorded. In fact, the other control console for the RASH system, Craig had told me, was in the possession of Adrian Shay. No doubt Shay had erased any evidence the system had observed.

  Reluctantly, I shed my stained cargo pants and cotton shirt. For years, I'd been cutting my dirty blond mop with a bush knife. Now, I used a trimmer to mow down my unruly hair to a manageable length and shaved my face clean. At first, I picked through the wardrobe Craig had provided, then opted to stay in my faded trousers and cotton shirt.

  Once cleaned and styled as best as I knew how, I walked out to the back yard and sat on a lawn chair, facing east. With my Portuguese Bible in my lap, I closed my eyes as the dry Arizona dawn touched my face. Cora's death had yanked me so suddenly from my single-mindedness for ministry, and the last few days hadn't involved much of God in my thoughts. Justice and revenge had tempted to overwhelm my normal stance for forgiveness and gentleness. I'd been drifting and unstable, my emotions unsettled.

  In those few minutes of communion with God, I sensed my Father's correction. For years, I had preached peace among violent natives. Now, when evil had touched my own life in a deeply personal way, I wasn't willing to look away. Some of my attitude now to defend Cora was because I had failed her as an ignorant teenager. I understood I was trying to compensate for something I couldn't fix, an inadequacy during my youth. She had left me alone, and I had run toward mischief in the city, then eventually I had fled to Brazil altogether. That wasn't something I could undo now, but I couldn't imagine letting this Shay character go free. My stubbornness to hold this offense so close to my heart hardened me that very morning, and in yearning for closeness with God, I instead found myself pushing away. I wanted Shay to pay.

  Twenty minut
es later, with little resolved, I entered the house and found the kitchen.

  "Mr. Tasman said to feed you well." A stout black woman in an apron set a full breakfast plate in front of me at the kitchen counter. "Eat up. You want more of anything, you just let me know. Mr. Tasman doesn't usually get up until noon, and Ty prefers toast and coffee. It's nice to cook for someone who has an actual appetite. You do have an appetite for a real breakfast, don't you?"

  I studied the plate in front of me and fought the tears welling in my eyes. Sausage, bacon, hash brown, eggs, and toast with strawberry jam. In the rainforest, I'd often eaten the previous evening's leftovers, washed down with reheated guayusa tea, which flies may or may not have drowned in overnight.

  "You won't hear any complaints from me, ma'am."

  "Don't ma'am me." She cleaned the counter with a rag and poured herself some orange juice. Her face was full, like her figure, with dimples in her cheeks that offset her graying hair. "Eat up. Ty's bringing the car around."

  I bowed my head, thanking the Lord for this feast I didn't deserve.

  "You mentioned Ty." I shoveled food into my mouth. "The gentleman I met last night? Mr. Winston?"

  "Ty's no gentleman!" She smiled teasingly. "He's my husband. We've been working for Mr. Tasman since the beginning."

  "The beginning?" The sausage melted in my mouth!

  "When Mr. Tasman first made his fortune, twelve years ago. We worked for his father long ago. Now, Ty handles things for Mr. Tasman, and I run the house. You can call me Janae. I see you didn't like the clothes we laid out for you, but you'll have to let me fix that shag you've got going on up there sometime soon."

  I touched my brow, realizing I must've cut my hair dreadfully for her to say something, but it was better than it was.

  An hour later, Tyler Winston held the rear car door of a black Mercedes open for me, but I insisted on riding up front with him.

  "Twenty years you've been gone? Everything's different," Tyler said softly as he drove out of Morliam Acres' front gate. "And not in a better way."