Suits: gray, black, and blue suits with white shirts and dark ties. Just a sea of suits. Frannie was the only other female present, but she also wore a suit. Mariah’s lips twitched.
As the door closed, a hush settled over the group. They drifted toward their assigned seats behind the semi-circular table, trying not to stare. Various expressions flitted across their faces before their professionally inscrutable masks slipped into place.
They remind me of the firing squad in a French Foreign Legion film, Mariah thought, beginning to enjoy herself, when El Capitaine offers ze condemned man a last zigarette. Ze hero refuses, raising hees head proudly to face ze rifles, spouting something corny about dying for honor and country.
Before Frannie could perform the introductions, one of the suits detached itself from the brigade and trotted toward the two women, a smile plastered on his face. Capitaine, one of ze soldiers iz deserting hees post! Mariah smothered a giggle by clearing her throat.
The suit extended his hand in welcome. She allowed it to hang there for a second giving the suit the impression that she might not shake it. However, she didn’t want to embarrass ze defector so she allowed him to pump her hand as he introduced himself in what, he assumed, was a friendly, sincere voice.
“Thanks for joining us, Miss Carpenter. I’m Craig Osterman, Frannie’s boss. We’re all delighted to meet you. The Bureau wants to extend our heartfelt gratitude for the invaluable assistance you’ve provided. This gathering”—indicating the panel with a sweep of his hand—“would like to ask you a few questions before we view the disk taken during your last, uh, when you found the little French girl.”
In her belief that the FBI would anticipate meeting some reclusive mouse with fly away hair and coke-bottle glasses, Mariah had chosen her wardrobe with care. As the troupe looked her over, she could tell by their expressions that her attire was having the desired effect.
The dark red silk dress appeared to shimmer in the recessed lighting due to interwoven threads of gold. Their eyes were drawn to the V-neckline and the gold cross superimposed above the Star of David nestled in the shadow of her cleavage. A gold chain belt accentuated her small waist and rounded hips, and delicate spiral earrings of gold dangled from her ears. On her feet were open-toed sandals with three-inch heels, dyed to match the dress.
She was the picture of a confident female who had the chutzpah to ignore convention and wear something few women could carry off without looking brassy. Mariah Adele Carpenter exuded class and sensuality, radiating a self-confidence and panache she did not feel.
When Frannie picked her up, they had grinned conspiratorially, well aware of the reaction she would receive. Mariah heard Frannie’s ill-concealed snicker.
Osterman introduced each agent who nodded at the appropriate moment. Mariah instantly forgot their names as soon as she heard them, except for three.
The first was a black man named Gabriel Winters. Six feet tall, he stood with his hands folded in front of him, a noncommittal expression on a face that looked like it was carved from marble. An expensive, gray wool suit jacket was stretched across his broad shoulders, and his blue flannel pants were creased to a knife-point edge. His unblinking brown eyes stared into hers.
The second person that stood out in the sea of suits was Jude Ciriatos. His olive complexion and nearly black hair was a testimony to his Greek heritage. As tall as Winters, he wore a brown twill suit two years out of style with the beginning signs of wear. His smile was warm when Osterman spoke his name but, curiously, Mariah’s heartbeat accelerated a bit.
She was not surprised to find that the third, Samuel Feliciano, the San Francisco Bureau Chief, broke tradition by wearing a white and red embroidered tie that complimented his blue gabardine suit and gave his ruddy complexion a slightly Santa Claus air. He was as distinguished and polished as an English lord with his thick white hair.
The last person was introduced and the agents waited for her to be seated in a chair placed strategically in the center of the arc created by the curved table.
At the last minute, Osterman remembered his manners. “Would you care for anything to drink or eat?” Would ze condemned prisoner like hees last meal before we commence ze shooting? He indicated a side table covered with a white linen tablecloth on which sat several carafes of coffee, ice water, and juice, surrounded by a cannibalized assortment of muffins and doughnuts.
With a scintillating smile, Mariah thanked him and glided toward the table where she pretended to debate the merits of each item. As she dallied, she began to hum. She heard Frannie clear her throat and knew she fought back a howl of laughter.
Mariah figured she had milked this for all it was worth so she poured herself a glass of water and followed Osterman back to the designated chair. She sat down and, crossing her right leg over her left, receiving several looks of undisguised appreciation as her dress hiked up her thigh.
Only four men participated in the questioning: obviously, the others were there to watch and listen.
How do you decide who you’re going to find?
I don’t decide.
Well, how does it happen?
It just happens.
How did you develop this talent?
I didn’t develop it. It just happened.
How do you communicate with these children?
Slowly.
Did you ever use mental telepathy to communicate with people before this?
No.
What do you think about while this is going on?
I think about saving the children.
Have you read the translation of the words you spoke in Aramaic?
Yes.
What does it mean to you?
It doesn’t mean anything to me.
Why are you speaking in Aramaic?
I don’t know.
Do you know who you’re speaking to?
No.
Do you get a response?
From the children? From whomever I’m speaking Aramaic to?
From whomever you’re speaking Aramaic to.
I don’t remember.
What does this all mean to you?
It means I’ve found seven kidnapped children.
They were exasperated by her cryptic answers, but they got the message: she had no more information than what she had given to Frannie after the first Finding. They tried to rattle her with proven methods of rapid-fire assault questions: she sat with her hands folded around the cup of water, not a visible fidget or twitch. When they attempted flattery, she stared into their eyes, her face devoid of expression. When they made ridiculous statements, she shrugged and sighed dramatically. It was inconceivable to this panel of professional interrogators that she had no idea how she did what she did. They were sure she was hiding something, and they were determined to find out what it was.
After forty-five minutes of getting nowhere, the Chief rose to his feet and said, “Gentlemen, I think we’ve taken up enough time with these preliminary questions. Since none of us has seen the DVD, I’m sure more questions will arise after viewing it.” He nodded toward Mariah. “Maybe you can shed some light on the details after we’ve seen it.”
Osterman moved Mariah’s chair next to Frannie who caught her eye and grinned, proud that Mariah had come across so strong and self-assured. One of the suits pressed a button on the control panel imbedded in the table and the lights dimmed. Another button caused a mechanical hum as a section of the back wall slid sideways revealing a sixty-inch screen. One more button──and the screen came to life.
And there she was.
Because it was the second time she’d seen it, Mariah tried to be more analytical. It looked like her, albeit sweaty and grim-faced. But that masculine voice... Few people recognized their mechanically-reproduced voices; nevertheless, she was certain her normal speaking voice didn’t sound anything like that. She sounded like she was delivering a Shakespearean soliloquy.
Outwardly calm, Mariah quaked inside while watching the reaction of the agents out of the corner of her eye. If she wanted their trained, inexpressive faces to crack, she was not disappointed.
Some, their mouths open and their eyes wide in shock, leaned forward, hands flat on the table like they needed to brace themselves. Two hid their mouths behind their hands, maybe in a subconscious effort to hold something back they feared might spew out.
Thomas Raphael was a better-than-average cameraman. He captured every nuance, every gesture, every sound. Mostly he concentrated on her face, for obvious reasons. Perspiration glistened in the blaze of unforgiving light, droplets momentarily hanging off the end of her nose and chin before they fell on her shirt. First she spoke in Hebrew, then switched to some gibberish, and finally finished in French. There was that sneer of malicious glee when she manipulated George. And her eyes ... dark and fixed with rage, wide in fear, narrow in concentration. Her pupils dilated extravagantly in the glare of the lamps as she went from fear to exasperation to fury.
Thank heavens no one knew what actually happened when that evil grin appeared, but there was no doubt she was enraged—and deadly. Once again Mariah found herself rationalizing what she had done to George.
They stole glances in her direction: how could she blame them? In their position she would do the same. The few times when she actually caught someone’s eye, they looked away, but not before she saw—what? Awe? Fear?
When it was over the screen blanked, the panel squeaked as it resumed its original position, and the lights came on. At first no one moved, no one spoke. Then life returned: a cough here, a sigh there, someone pushing away from the table as if to distance himself from what he just witnessed. They stared at her, trying to gauge her reaction. She never looked back, aware of Frannie’s hand on her arm a touch filled with compassion and support.
Mariah felt a sense of loss unlike any she had known. She had never led an exciting life, careful to remain in the background, but it had been fulfilling in its own way. And now it was gone. A new life, one in which she had no choice, had begun the morning of the Visitation. She was trapped in a destiny not of her choosing, one that had unnamable consequences. She knew that the foreseeable future, while blank, would be a waking nightmare.