The Poet (Samantha Jazz)
“She cancelled with no explanation given. It was a short, fast hang-up.”
“Text me her cell number.”
“On its way.”
When the text hits my messages, I punch the number and call Becky. She doesn’t answer. I retry. I don’t leave a message; Newman might hear. My face tilts skyward, frustration rippling through me. Why? Why? Why? I sip my coffee and try Becky again. Maybe Newman questioned her delay coming home.
A few minutes later, I’ve gotten my coffee poured into a to-go cup and I’ve stopped dialing Becky over and over. I’m worried about her safety. I head to my car to swing by her house. Once I’m on the road, I dial Chuck. “Where is Newman now? Find out.” I hang up and continue my drive.
I’ve just turned onto Bee Caves Road, which is a short path to the Smiths’ house when Chuck calls back.
“He’s at home with his wife. She just pulled into the garage.”
My cell phone rings again. “Please let that be her. I’ll call you back.” I eye my caller ID and sure enough, it’s her. My heart punches at my chest and I punch the answer button. “Mrs. Smith?”
“I need you to leave us alone. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Leave us alone. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“You called and said you did.”
“That’s what I’m telling you. This is hard enough on my kids. Leave us alone. He didn’t kill anyone.”
She hangs up.
He got to her.
And I’m back to having nothing but a scared wife and a loose Brownsville connection to give Evan during our meeting tonight.
Chapter 65
While Detective Jazz runs around chasing her tail, I move my late evening work away from the wife and kids, seeking the sanctuary of the library across from my office. At this hour, the recently remodeled massive glass complex is all but dead, the silence a welcome calm for my work. I settle into a small room on an upper level in one of several leather seats, surrounded by the great literary works. I pull out my MacBook and an egg salad sandwich from a nearby ThunderCloud Sub shop and take a big bite, savoring the flavors: red onion, tomato, and just the right amount of thinly shredded lettuce. ThunderCloud understands the gospel of doing things right. Too few do.
I open my bottle of water and tip it back, taking a long, thirsty drink, and then halfway into my meal, I key my computer to life. My messenger pops up in the corner with a note from the wifey: Love you. Wish you didn’t have to work late. Neal drew you a picture at school today and Tessa has a flower to show you.
I type an automatic reply: Love you, too. Kiss them goodnight for me. Tell them I’ll make pancakes in the morning.
That woman slows me down even when I want to speed up, a fact that I didn’t appreciate at one point, but I do now. Speed is not always the smartest move, though I’m certainly skilled enough to operate at whatever pace I see fit at this point. But she and the kids are necessary.
Obligation complete, and with a rush of anticipation-driven adrenaline, I search the news for any hint of my recent kill, somewhat disappointed that it’s not reported beyond a basic report on crimes for the week. There was a time when that would have been a relief, but that was during my training when I prepared to sit on the throne as master and judge. I’m seated now, and I plan to make a statement. It’s time for respect to be given where deserved.
One of the rather elderly librarians passes by with a cart full of books for the daily restock, and I wait patiently for one of the works that is due back today. That work is why I’m here today. A slow-moving hour passes in which I toss my trash, finish off my water, and contemplate how two so obviously connected judgments have been kept quiet. But that won’t last, because I’m not done. My duty will never be done.
Finally, the librarian moves along, and I walk to the shelf and pull the book I’m looking for: The Annotated Waste Land with Eliot’s Contemporary Prose: Second Edition. Just holding it stirs a deep sense of value in me. And power. This book grants me power.
I walk back to my table and slide my MacBook aside, setting the book down in front of me and running an appreciative hand over the work of the late T.S. Eliot. The original poem was published in 1922, a masterpiece that dove deeply into the aftermath of World War I. To the few of us who truly speak the word, it also set a framework for preventing such a tragedy again. In five sections, it touches on war, trauma, disillusion, and death. In the final chapter, Eliot references three key components: Datta, Dayadhvam, and Damyata. These meanings translate to a demand to “Give, Sympathize, and Control.” This summarization is as magical as the book. It’s saying that these concepts navigate our world. Anyone beneath a master who is drawn to this book is drawn to it for a reason: to be judged and controlled before they destroy the balance of peace.