Annabel Lee Read online

  I realized I was sweating.

  I followed the dog’s lead and walked over to the opening on the wall. When I peeked in, I heard the sound of rushing water much more clearly, and saw a small area with a broad, wooden slab built right into the concrete floor. There was three holes in the wood, just about the size of a man’s rear end. Around the first hole was a little splattering of dog urine, but not much really. And down by the third hole was a wooden stick attached to a small base to hold it upright. There was two rolls of cheap toilet paper slid over the top of that stick.

  An outhouse.

  Truck had managed to build an outhouse here in the deep and left it ready for use. I didn’t have to stick my face in one of those holes to hear that there was an underground stream runnin’ beneath this outhouse. Pretty ingenious, really. Drop your mess down one of those holes, and that hidden stream would sweep it away clean as indoor plumbing. Swirling air above the stream even cleared out the stink in this outhouse, keeping the air in here fresh as outside.

  Hearing that water rush beneath me was too much. I dropped my drawers and let my bladder have its sweet release. When I was done, I took some of that toilet paper and cleaned off the leftover dog mess on the first hole.

  Pretty smart dog, if you think about it, I said to myself. It found the toilet before you did, Annie-girl. And knew how to use it. Clearly Truck had brought that dog down here before, maybe lots of times. I wondered what else that dog knew that I didn’t.

  And I wondered why it felt like this whole place was getting hotter and hotter by the minute.

  When I came from the toilet room, the dog was still by the door, resting, it seemed. Its eyes opened to watch me move, but the head stayed comfortably on its front paws.

  Now that I knew what the one wall opening led to, I figured I should check out the other one. I stepped across the room and into the other door-shaped space on the far wall. Inside there was a smaller space than the toilet area, just a cramped square closet with a counter attached to the wall and—smack dab in the middle—what looked like a round, brick chimney built into the floor. They was a rope secured into the top of the chimney, with a large metal loop attached at the end. In here, the sound of runnin’ water was louder, closer. I didn’t have to see the bucket on the shelf to know what this was.

  “Uncle Truck done built a well down here, in this closet,” I said out loud to nobody. I felt relief. Having this well meant fresh water as long as the underground stream kept flowing. The cool air pumping up from the stream felt good and moist, like freshness in the morning.

  Suddenly I was terrible thirsty. I grabbed the bucket and started feeding it down into the well when another thought hit me.

  Was I fixing to drink the same water I’d just used as a toilet?

  Surely Truck would have thought of that, I said to myself. But just to make sure, I stuck my face into the well and tried to get a sense of what was going on down below. Judging by the rope, the underground stream was about eight feet down. I couldn’t see it—couldn’t see a thing down there in the darkness below. But I could hear it, and I could feel the coolness of the air flowing above the water and onto my face. After a few minutes, it was clear the water was flowing into this place from my right, then outta here to my left, where it would then become a toilet downstream. As long as the stream didn’t get backed up or something, the air and water on this side would be clean, situated upstream from the toilet and any other waste I threw down there.

  That was a relief.

  I pulled up a bucket of water and drank hungrily, then splashed some on my face as well.

  Why was it so hot in here?

  I left the well and went back into the main room, where I saw the dog, sitting on its haunches, still beside the door. I immediately felt guilty. The animal had been here as long as I had, and it was covered by a thick coat of fur that had to be hot as well. I hesitated. If I really wanted to kill that dog, I could just let thirst and hunger do the job for me. But Truck’s words was still fresh in my head.

  Trust the dog like you would trust me. Understand? Yeah, I guess I understood.

  “You thirsty?” I said to the dog. As usual, it just stared at me.

  I didn’t see any dog dishes or anything like that, so I decided just to use the bucket. I dipped it again and brought it out. I set the bucket by the table, then stood back and waited.

  The dog licked its lips at the smell of water and turned toward the bucket but didn’t move away from the door.

  “What you waiting for?” I said. “Go on and get you some.”

  The dog didn’t move. It looked me dead in the eye, just waiting.

  This animal won’t take a drink until I give it permission, I thought. Amazing. When did I become its boss?

  I thought back to that moment when we first come into this bunker, when Truck pushed my hand into mortal danger. He’d been commanding the dog in German and then suddenly switched to Greek.

  Was that it? Was Greek a language for assigning things and German a language for doing things? That thought made me chuckle. If it was true, this dog understood more languages than most grown-up folks I knew.

  I’d have to find out later what prōtos meant, but for now it was pretty clear the dog was waiting on my permission before quenching its thirst. What a strange power to have over a beast. I wondered how long it would last.

  “Okay,” I said, looking the dog straight in the eye.

  The animal reacted immediately, trottin’ over to the bucket and lapping up moisture for a full minute before finally returning to its place by the entryway door. It lay down and looked almost peaceful.

  I suddenly became aware that I was standing next to one of the bunk beds and that I had sweated through the armpits of my shirt. I raised my hand above my head and felt the warmth of the room increase. I lowered it down and tucked it under the bottom bunk. It was definitely cooler down there, though the whole room was filling up with heat I couldn’t explain.

  I looked at the dog. It had figured out the bathroom. It knew German and Greek and English. What was there to lose?

  “Listen, Dog,” I said. “Why’s it so hot in here?”

  The animal didn’t answer.

  9

  Trudi

  Thursday, September 3

  Trudi Coffey let herself remember the first time she’d ever met Leonard Truckson.

  It was her wedding day, what, ten years ago last May? She almost felt pity now for the twenty-year-old kid she’d been back then. A junior in college—English literature major, of course—and deliriously in love. So much so that she’d talked herself into getting married while still in school, ready for happily-ever-after with Samuel Hill to begin, even if that included a few final exams along the way.

  They were in the reception hall after the wedding ceremony when she met Truck. It was a church wedding, something she’d only recently realized was important. Samuel was disinterested in the setting—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a church. And anyway, his eyes had room for only one thing that day: Trudi in her mermaid-style organza and satin dress. Everyone was dancing and drinking and enjoying the moment with Trudi and Samuel, a moment that was supposed to last forever.

  Sam had brought him to Trudi from the dessert table and introduced him as “my old friend, Truck.” Trudi had wondered how anyone could tell this man’s age enough to call him old or young or somewhere in between. His face was smiling behind clear blue eyes, but Trudi knew even then that this Truck was more than he let others believe. She took in his taut physicality, his nondescript dirty blond hair, and the fact that he didn’t seem to like wearing a tie, not for this occasion or any other.

  But he was friendly, interested in her, and an easy conversationalist. He found out she was a fan of Edgar Allan Poe and demonstrated his own enthusiasm for the Master of Macabre by quoting every line from the poem “Annabel Lee.” Trudi was impressed.

  He made a toast to the happy couple, then checked his watch and made some e
xcuse to leave. On the way out, he said “Enjoy your honeymoon” and pressed an envelope into Samuel’s hand. When they opened it, Sam and Trudi found a wedding gift they couldn’t believe: Cash in the exact amount they’d budgeted for their entire honeymoon.

  “How did you and Mr. Truckson get to be friends?” she’d asked in awe.

  Samuel shrugged, and she noticed that he glanced quickly up and to the left before saying, “Oh, you know. Did some odd jobs for him in college. You remember.”

  No, she didn’t remember.

  She only knew that Samuel spent his summers down in Houston working as a roustabout on oil rig crews, and that he always came back with enough cash to carry him through the rest of the school year. Two years older than Trudi, he’d just graduated from the University of Georgia with a degree in political science. This summer he was forgoing the annual roustabout gig so he could stay with Trudi in Athens, Georgia, until she graduated, and then they planned to move to Atlanta and get their lives together really under way. For now, he planned to work as an assistant at some distant uncle’s private law office in Athens. Trudi was disappointed by that choice; what was the use of having a political science degree if all you did was shuffle papers for Uncle Lawyerpants? But Samuel said it was fine, it was only temporary, had flexible hours, and besides, there was plenty of time for politics and such in the future. So they settled into Athens, making a life for themselves and enjoying every minute.

  Over the next two years, Truck appeared from time to time at the newlyweds’ household with other “odd jobs” for Samuel, odd jobs that almost always meant he was out of town for a few days, or a week, but never more than two weeks. Uncle Lawyerpants never complained, and Samuel always came back adrenalized—and with a wad of cash in his pocket.

  Then she graduated and Sam had an amazing job offer from a firm in Atlanta that was looking for a research associate—someone who ferreted out information and helped lawyers prepare for trial. Trudi had wondered how a “research associate” at a law firm could make so much money, but Samuel said that Truck had put in a good word for him, and that was enough. They moved to Atlanta.

  She didn’t see Truck much after that but was disappointed to discover that Samuel’s research work often took him away on business trips similar to the ones that Truck had furnished for him while she was back in school. She needed to fill her time, so she started looking for a job as well.

  There wasn’t a big market for English literature majors (with a minor in world mythology and religions) in the Atlanta metropolitan area, so she was actually grateful to get a job as a receptionist for a small-time private investigator located in Sandy Springs. Turned out, she was a natural at the work and soon was apprenticing as a PI under her boss.

  Trudi and Samuel had been married five years when Samuel got laid off from the firm. That was when he came home with “a great idea.”

  “Look,” he’d said, “most of my job is investigation work. And the same with yours. So why don’t we stop working for other people and start working for ourselves? We can open our own little agency, make a little money, and get to see each other every day.”

  It was tempting, sure, but Trudi was hesitant. How could she ever leave her boss and then immediately become his competition? That seemed a betrayal of sorts.

  Until six weeks later, when her boss announced he was closing the business. He’d come into an unexpected inheritance and had decided to take early retirement. He gave Trudi two weeks’ severance and moved out of Georgia, he said to California, but Trudi had never been able to find him there when she went looking a few years later.

  Regardless, suddenly both she and Samuel were unemployed.

  Coffey & Hill Investigations was up and running in three months, inhabiting rented office space in a strip mall in Atlanta’s West Midtown neighborhood. Situated between a classy-looking florist and a skeevy-looking insurance agency, it was less than ten minutes away from their home on Center Street NW, which was surprisingly convenient. Samuel took credit for that. And, thanks to a few referrals from Truck, CHI had solid business right from the start. Trudi had thought her prayers had been answered, her dreams had come true. But dreams rarely happen the way one wishes they would, and Trudi found that out the hard way.

  It took almost two years after they went into business together before she added everything up, put it all together, and finally understood that Coffey & Hill Investigations was a cover operation for Samuel Hill’s real job as a nameless, title-less field operative for the CIA.

  That was in August.

  They fought for days, for weeks and even months, about it.

  Samuel denied everything. Then admitted one small thing and denied everything else. Then admitted one more thing and denied the rest. And then, finally, just before Christmas, and five months before their eighth wedding anniversary, Samuel had started cursing at her in Arabic. Apparently cursing her cow-headed stubbornness. Her parentage. Her extended ancestry. And even himself. Then he admitted everything.

  Those summers as a roustabout? Spent mostly in Langley, Virginia, and a few of the world’s political hot spots, where he’d learned the tricks of the spy trade from his handler, Leonard Truckson, and a host of others.

  Uncle Lawyerpants in Athens? A retired CIA agent giving Samuel cover for clandestine activities under Truck’s remote supervision.

  That “research associate” job at the law firm in Atlanta? More training and a cover for Samuel’s active operations for the CIA and a few other unnamed international alphabets. Samuel had been sent worldwide on various espionage missions but most frequently found himself planted somewhere in the Middle East, running guns, chasing terrorists, collecting intel, and more.

  When he’d finally said he wanted out, that he wanted to spend his life with his wife, they’d offered him a compromise.

  They would set him up with Coffey & Hill Investigations, bring his pretty young wife into the new business, let him live mostly in this mildly interesting life. And he would, from time to time, continue to do “odd jobs” for Truck and the CIA, or the FBI, or some other governmental alphabet. It would be the best of both worlds. Supposedly. So Samuel said yes, and they made it happen, just like they promised. And Trudi had been generally happy.

  Except for one minor glitch. At least twice a year, Samuel had to fabricate a reason to return to the Middle East, and it was carelessness in the planning for one of those trips that cost him Tru’s love once and for all.

  In addition to her, Trudi found out, Samuel Hill also had a part-time wife hidden away somewhere in Saudi Arabia or Jordan or Yemen or someplace else like that. And he was father to at least one child with her, a child growing up Arab, way out in a lost part of the world. Samuel refused to say whether the child was a boy or a girl, only that one existed.

  “It was a mistake,” he tried to explain to Trudi’s tears. “I met her on an assignment, saw her again on a few other trips. We hit it off, and I was lonely. It didn’t last long, a few months at most. I wanted to end it with her, but when she became pregnant, I couldn’t leave her to face the punishment of Sharia law. Try to understand, in the Muslim culture, I’m all she has. Without me, she would’ve been abused as an adulteress. She would’ve been a criminal under Sharia law. They would’ve been brutal to her. Flogged her at the least or killed her by stoning as a legal punishment. And if they’d let her live, without a husband in that society, she’d have been cut off both economically and socially. Left to starve or isolated into poverty. I had no choice then, and I still have no choice now.”

  And so, at last, it was over between Trudi Coffey and Samuel Hill, all at once, all more quickly than it had begun.

  He left.

  The paperwork was filed.

  On March 6, Trudi Sara Coffey signed her legal name.

  It was done.

  In just under eight years, Trudi had gone from innocent twenty-year-old lit major married to the man of her dreams to twenty-eight-year-old PI, divorced, disillusioned, and forced t
o make a new life alone. She often wondered if it would have been different if she and Samuel had had kids first, if she’d been the one to get pregnant. But there had never seemed to be a good time for that, always a new excuse to put off starting a family.

  And she wondered if her own faith journey had contributed to the rift between them. She’d always been a “spiritual” type, interested in the unseen world, curious about God. In fact, that was why she’d chosen to focus her studies on world mythology and religions. For her, it had all boiled down to two questions: (1) Is there a God? and (2) If there is a God, who is he?

  The first question had been remarkably easy for her. Yes, she felt certain the evidence tilted in the direction that a God of some sort did indeed exist. The second question had taken more thought, and she’d pursued it with dedication. Her studies at UGA enlightened and augmented her quest for an answer and, finally, after a long journey that ended about a year into her marriage to Samuel, she’d had to face the one person she’d been avoiding. Jesus, she’d decided, was more than just a good man, more than just a miracle worker, more than just a historical figure. He was, and is, God. And she wanted to know him.

  It was a quiet conversion—no miracles or fireworks, but a change that permeated every aspect of her being. She was constantly surprised to find that Jesus was not just a story but a real, divine presence who made himself known in her life, regardless of her shortcomings. She started wearing a silver cross on a steel chain as a physical reminder of her spiritual reality. She never took it off except to clean it.

  Samuel had not embraced her newfound conviction, but he’d not opposed it either.

  “Whatever offers you comfort is enough for me,” he’d said.

  He remained a contented agnostic, not sure if God existed, not willing to rule it out but not terribly interested in searching out an answer either. Despite their love for each other, Trudi wondered if her devotion to God had somehow made him feel less loved by her, if perhaps he felt she had cheated on him first by meeting Jesus.