Requiem, p.1
Requiem, page 1
REQUIEM
by Rick Mofina
Copyright © 2022 Rick Mofina
ISBN 978-1-77242-151-4
Carrick Publishing
Cover design by James T. Egan, bookflydesign
Smashwords License Notes:
This e-book is intended for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this e-book and did not purchase it, please return to your e-book retailer and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the creation of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Also by Rick Mofina
Begin Reading
Part One
Part Two
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Rick Mofina
Ray Wyatt Trilogy
#1 INTO THE FIRE
#2 THE HOLLOW PLACE
#3 REQUIEM
**************
EVERYTHING SHE FEARED
HER LAST GOODBYE
SEARCH FOR HER
THEIR LAST SECRET
THE LYING HOUSE
MISSING DAUGHTER
LAST SEEN
FREE FALL
EVERY SECOND
FULL TILT
WHIRLWIND
INTO THE DARK
THEY DISAPPEARED
THE BURNING EDGE
IN DESPERATION
THE PANIC ZONE
VENGEANCE ROAD
SIX SECONDS
A PERFECT GRAVE
EVERY FEAR
THE DYING HOUR
BE MINE
NO WAY BACK
BLOOD OF OTHERS
COLD FEAR
IF ANGELS FALL
BEFORE SUNRISE
THE ONLY HUMAN
This book is for
Wendy Dudley
Time as he grows old teaches us all things.
~ Aeschylus (525-456 B.C.)
CHAPTER 1
Mexico City and Los Angeles
Wanda Stroud gripped the armrests as the 737 accelerated down the runway at Mexico City’s International Airport.
The fluttering in her stomach increased as the plane left the earth and climbed, the force pushing her into her seat. Taking deep breaths, she glanced out her window at the metropolis rolling below. The jet ascended higher and higher, until finally it leveled off. Relief washed over her.
Wanda might be a nervous flyer—okay, I’m nervous about a lot of things since I lost Ed—but she would not let it prevent her from traveling, especially since it concerned her medical condition. She’d hoped the specialists in Mexico would identify what she had and treat her, unlike the doctors in California.
She’d always been vigilant about her health, constantly checking for signs of illness. Always anxious about whether a sore throat or runny nose was an indication of something serious, then consulting her doctor to see if she needed immediate attention.
One night, a couple of months ago, Wanda had watched a TV program about a woman who had what was feared to be a new form of incurable cancer. Convinced she had the symptoms, Wanda went to her doctor, who ran a number of tests.
“Your results are negative. You’re fine,” Dr. Singer said, smiling at her from behind her red-framed glasses.
But Wanda didn’t believe that she was well. She went to a second doctor, who, after testing Wanda, agreed with the first doctor’s findings; there was nothing wrong with Wanda’s physical health.
Still, Wanda suspected the tests were incorrect, and that she’d been misdiagnosed. She feared that she had the new form of incurable cancer. So, she did what she often did—she went online to do her own research. At her own expense, she arranged to go to Mexico to see doctors there, who—according to the online chat groups—were close to finding breakthrough therapies for the cancer that Wanda was convinced she had.
After spending a small fortune and several weeks being examined in Mexico City—first at the renowned research center, then at the cancer institute—the results came back.
“The cancer you are concerned about is extremely rare, and, I assure you, you do not have it.” Dr. Salazar of the University Center had removed his glasses, and looked at her with a measure of mild, but warm, exasperation. Then he gave her the same advice that her doctors in Los Angeles had given her.
“Mrs. Stroud,” Dr. Salazar said, “when you return to Los Angeles, I suggest you consult your physician about relaxation techniques and refrain from online searches about your health. Your family doctor might recommend medication or therapy to help you with your anxiety and coping skills every time you think you experience a symptom.”
Now, as the jetliner cruised 35,000 feet over the Sonoran Desert, Wanda settled into her new seat. She was late boarding because she had requested to move from her assigned seat, at the back of the plane, to one closer to the front, where she preferred to be. The flight was at 50% capacity, so the attendant moved her up when the plane leveled. Wanda looked at the two vacant seats in her row, then to the seats near her. Most were empty, leaving her to take stock of her life.
It’d been five years since Ed, a city bus driver, clutched his chest in the grocery store, collapsed, and died in the deli section. Some days she swore she still heard him shaving in the bathroom, or making a sandwich in the kitchen. She was a 66-year-old retired librarian, a widow with no children, going home to an empty house, fearing she had an undetected illness.
She swallowed, and felt a tickle in her throat.
What was that? Did they miss something? Maybe I should see a new specialist in L.A.?
She turned to the window and sighed.
Maybe I should just stop acting like a foolish old woman.
Wanda then considered her paperback mystery novel. She decided to take her mind off of her worries, settle in, and resume reading.
That’s when she looked at the lone passenger in the row in front of her—a man, in his 50s, with white hair, and working on his laptop. It had a big screen with a large font, giving Wanda a clear and inviting view over his shoulder. Being interested in what people read, Wanda decided to take a peek.
Just a little one.
Was he reading a book, or working on something business-related? She was curious.
Okay, so I’m nosy.
He had a few files open and was scrolling through them—photos of children.
His children? Grandchildren, nieces, nephews?
Smiling, Wanda thought, whoever they were, it was nice. She often wished she’d had children, but pushed the regret away. Reaching for her book, she thought again.
Wait.
She glanced back at the man’s screen and the little faces flowing by. The children all appeared to be young. Occasionally, he stopped the flow, which allowed Wanda to see how each child’s face was framed exactly the same way. Focusing, she noticed that the bottom right corner of each photo was labeled with a multidigit number.
Like a catalog or gallery of children. Is it a school album?
The man’s keyboard clicked as he typed, with Wanda reading his messages. Several terms and fragments of sentences emerged: adoptee…agreement…transfer of rights to adoptive parents…will obtain a decree…facilitator…fees…will secure authentic-looking records and legal documents…validating legal status as an orphan…
Wanda caught her breath.
Authentic-looking records? What does that mean?
The man’s keyboard continued clicking as he continued what appeared to be a discussion with other parties.
Correct. This week, we have solid offers for #0247 from Madrid, #6796 from Melbourne, #0055 from Johannesburg, #2095 from Moscow, #8849 from Buenos Aires, #3716 from London, and #9902 from Toronto.
Wanda tried to make sense of what she was seeing, when the man typed, Updating price list offerings now.
Price list? What could that be?
His laptop flickered. The gallery of faces now showed a dollar figure in U.S. currency next to each catalog number. The numbers and young faces scrolled by: $185,000…$130,000…$155,000…
Wanda’s skin tingled.
Something appeared to be very wrong—illicit, even.
Could that man in the seat in front of me be part of some sort of adoption ring?
She cast around for an answer. Finding none, she came to accept that there had to be some rational explanation for what the man was doing. Besides, it was none of Wanda’s business.
She opened her book.
But she couldn’t read as the man continued his work. Again, Wanda was drawn to the faces of the children—their digital names and price tags.
My God! What if something truly horrible is going on right in front of me, and I sat here and did nothing? How could I live with myself? What’s the message about doing something if you see something? I have to do something.
Okay, Wanda thought, she could get evidence, report it and let someone expert in these things decide.
She reached into her bag, got her phone, and casually swiped through it while checking to ensure no one was watching. She silenced the snapshot shutter click on her phone, muted the video recording beep, and then began taking photos of the man’s screen. Carefully, she zoomed in, taking crisp pictures, photo after photo, until she’d lost count. Then she switched to video mode, and recorded the man a t work and the contents on his screen. She felt a tinge of embarrassment for invading his privacy.
This is probably nothing, but at least I’m doing something about it.
Suddenly the man stopped typing.
He turned his head slightly toward Wanda without looking at her.
Oh, no! Did he see my reflection on his screen?
He closed his laptop with a snap, and then raised his seat.
Wanda shoved her phone in her bag.
Oh God! He knows! He knows I’ve been watching him!
CHAPTER 2
Los Angeles, California
Wanda’s heart beat faster.
She took up her book and forced herself to carry on as if nothing had happened. But she couldn’t see the words on the page. Worry clouded her concentration; she struggled to remain calm.
Did the man in the row in front of her actually discover that she’d been recording the photos and conversations on his computer? No.
It had to be coincidence that he’d stopped working so abruptly.
But how can I be sure of that?
Wanda didn’t know what to do.
Should I report him? Tell someone what I saw? But I’m not sure what I saw.
As minutes passed, the saliva in her mouth evaporated, and her throat turned to sandpaper. Glancing up at the overhead console, she pressed the call button. A moment later, an attendant appeared at Wanda’s row.
“Yes?” the attendant said.
Wanda glanced ahead. She didn’t know what to do. The man was reading a magazine, leaving her paralyzed with indecision.
“May I help you?” the attendant asked.
“Could I please have some water?”
“Certainly.”
The attendant returned with a glass of water.
Sipping it refreshed Wanda, and she continued to feign reading while debating what to do.
What if she was completely wrong about what she’d seen?
What if she set something in motion that couldn’t be reversed, by making an allegation that proved to be false but which had grown out of control?
What if she started something that could ruin this man’s life?
I’m getting carried away. This is silly. I have to get a grip.
Wanda turned to her window, searched the clouds, and tried to relax, losing track of time. Before she knew it, the public address system was announcing their descent into Los Angeles.
***
After a bumpy landing, the plane came to a stop at the gate.
Passengers unbuckled their seat belts, stood, made phone calls, stretched, and collected their belongings.
Wanda remained in her seat, watching the man. He slid his computer into its bag then, and stood with his back half turned to her. He reached up across the aisle, opened the overhead bin, and withdrew his black carry-on bag. Making a quick estimation, she thought him fairly good-looking, clean-cut; he wore jeans, and a white shirt under a navy jacket.
Placing the strap of his computer bag on his shoulder and shifting it to his side, he set his larger piece of luggage on the floor. Staying in the empty row across the aisle, he made eye contact with Wanda when she stood.
“Allow me.” Smiling, the man gestured to the bin above her, clicked the latch, and opened the door. “I’ll get your bag for you.”
Wanda smiled back. “Thank you, but no. It’s checked.”
Wanting him to precede her because she was undecided about what—if anything—she was going to do, she nodded to the aisle.
He didn’t move.
“After you,” he said.
“You go, please. You have more to carry.”
“No.” He gestured for her to move forward. “Please, go ahead.”
Someone had cleared his throat.
Wanda and the man turned to the unsmiling passengers waiting in line behind them. People wanted to get off the plane. Wanda conceded, and went first. The man followed her, and they joined the others ahead of them, shuffling out of the plane, and then along the jetway.
They’d disembarked at Terminal B, the Tom Bradley International Terminal, and followed the signs guiding them to U.S. Customs and Baggage Claim.
On the escalator descending to the lower level, Wanda passed under the massive U.S. flag and sign that greeted her with the words Welcome To The United States.
While disappointed with the outcome of her Mexico trip, it was good to be back in the country, Wanda thought. She moved along in the river of arriving passengers to the Customs and Border Protection area and held a measure of relief because she’d lost sight of the man on the plane.
Good.
She didn’t want to think about him right now. She was tired. She just wanted to get her bag, hop into a cab, and get home. She needed a good night’s sleep in her own bed. Then, if she still wanted to report what she’d seen on the plane, well…
I’ll think about it later.
Walking through the terminal, unaware that the man was walking directly behind her, Wanda’s thoughts shifted.
She hadn’t been confident enough in her technical skills to use the mobile passport process on her phone, so she’d completed the blue customs declaration form on the plane. Withdrawing it now from her bag, along with her passport and airline ticket, she joined the long queue zigzagging toward the line of desks and CBP agents.
For the next 15 minutes, Wanda inched her way through the maze of posts and belts, and then caught her breath. Oh no. Coming to a turn, she suddenly found herself next to the man on the plane. There were a few other people, including a couple with two small children, separating them. But the configuration of the turn in the queue had put Wanda and the man nearly shoulder to shoulder, making it impossible for them not to notice each other.
“Hello again,” he said, smiling.
“Hello,” Wanda said.
“Quite an ordeal,” he said, indicating the lines of people waiting to get to the desks and go through Customs. “Sometimes, this process can take a couple of hours; other times, you breeze through.”
Wanda smiled and nodded, sensing that he wanted to talk, something she was reluctant to do. But their line was not moving.
She was trapped.
“You sat behind me on the flight, didn’t you?” he said.
CHAPTER 3
Los Angeles, California
The man waited for Wanda to reply.
She hesitated for an awkward moment before smiling politely.
“Yes,” she said, “I did. I was behind you.”
He nodded, then said, “Mexico City’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I was there on business. How about you?”
Wanda hesitated, glancing at the others in line. One man was reading a book, One Hundred Years of Solitude, using his declaration form and ticket as a bookmark; an older couple was talking softly in Spanish while tapping a map; and a young mother and father had lowered themselves to tend to their two toddlers, who seemed bored and on the brink of tantrums. No one was paying attention to Wanda and the man.
“Vacation,” she lied, hoping the line would move.
The man smiled, nodding.
“Vacation,” he repeated. “What’s your line of work, if I may ask?”
“I’m actually retired. I was a librarian.”
“Librarian?” His eyebrows climbed. “I love libraries. I do a lot research there. I write screenplays.”
“Screenplays? For movies?” He’d awakened Wanda’s interest, suddenly casting her anxiety in a positive light.
“Yes. In fact, that’s why I was in Mexico City. Doing research for an upcoming project, a script for a major movie. A global crime thriller.”
“Well, that sounds interesting.”
“Brad Pitt and Meryl Streep have signed on.”
“How exciting, I adore Meryl Streep.”
“That could all change, of course. It’s the nature of the business. But the producers want—actually, they demand—that the script ring as true as possible. That’s why I was in Mexico, to research organized crime stuff.”
“That’s so interesting.”
He nodded, while eyeing her closely. Then he lowered his voice, and said, “I wanted you to know, in case you glimpsed my research while I was working on the plane. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression.” He laughed softly.
