Dark Vengeance

by Kristi Belcamino

  Then I spotted him. He was running full bore at me from the side. I knew as soon as I registered him that it was too late. He was holding a gun out in front of him and was about to shoot me. The only thing I could do was drop to the ground. I could practically feel the bullets slicing through the air above my head.

  I didn’t think he had it in him.

  The assault rifle fell from my hands as I executed a roll—toward X instead of away from him. Then he was on me, but I had already rolled to a stand and managed to drive the blade of my hand down on his wrist, making him drop the pistol. It clattered to the ground, skittering a few feet away.

  His eyes wild, he grabbed for my hair and yanked my head down. I was so surprised by this that he was able to throw me off balance, and I fell to the ground, hitting my head hard. It stunned me long enough for him to gain the upper hand.

  He clambered on top of me, straddling my chest with his legs, his hands held tight around my throat, cutting off my airway. Fighting for air, I drew my legs up and around him, looping my ankles around his neck, and pulling him down as I rocked up. I was above him now, reversing our positions. He was done for. I struck him in the throat, and he gasped for breath. His hands flailed trying to grab hold of me, but he was losing the fight. The pistol was by my knee. I reached for it and was gripping it in my hand, ready to point it at X when there was a rumbling sound behind me.

  I heard what sounded like a collective gasp behind me. I ran for my life as there was a second explosion. I tripped and went flying, skidding across the ground until I came to a stop. My hearing was gone, replaced by an awful ringing sound. My face was bleeding from where I’d apparently used it as a slip and slide across the road. As soon as I could focus again, I lifted my head, only to see X struggling to sit up beside me.

  He had a knife. He reached over and lunged for me. I rolled, and the knife grazed the side of my face. I could feel the cold steel against my cheek, but it missed slicing into my skin.

  I was still on my back, my hand reaching for some type of weapon when X’s figure hovered above me, coming in for the second strike. That’s when my fingers found what I was looking for. I raised the gun from above my head and fired.

  “That’s for Matteo,” I said, too late.

  Something warm and dark covered my eyes and coated my face for a second before X’s body collapsed on me.

  Crying and gasping for air, I rolled out from under him, swiping at the blood and brain matter on my face.

  I sat up and within seconds I was surrounded by people.

  One man gently pulled me up so I was standing. Two women led me over to a chair. Someone else began to dab at my face and head, drawing back blood and flesh.

  My hearing was slowly coming back. Instead of staring at the people’s mouths moving without hearing anything, I heard the sound of a helicopter. I looked up, and the military helicopter was above us. It was shining a spotlight down on X’s body, and then the light swept the entire main street, eventually stopping on me. I squinted up at the bright light shielding my eyes with my hand. The light turned off.

  A few seconds later, the helicopter had landed in the middle of the street.

  I watched as men in black carrying guns jumped out of the door of the copter. For a second, I wondered if I should run and hide. Then I saw a small American flag on the tail of the copter.

  It was over.

  29

  The sun had just risen above the jungle to the west when I grabbed my phone and dialed. Makeda had just left. About an hour ago, she’d showed up and handed me Dylan.

  I’d buried my face in his fur and practically wept. I think I was just exhausted. When the islanders brought me water, I fought back tears. When they cleaned my face and hair, I fought back tears. When a woman led me into a back room and let me take a shower and handed me a fresh set of clothes, I fought back tears.

  And now, as I dialed Ryder, I vowed not to cry.

  As soon as he picked up, I blurted out the words.

  “Thank you.”

  He didn’t answer for a few seconds. I didn’t know why, but I needed to hear his voice. Thanking him was just an excuse. When he did speak, he didn’t acknowledge the thank-you. He acted like sending in an army of CIA agents and Indonesian cops to a small island without proof of a crime was something he did every day. He must be more connected than I even realized. That gave me something to think about. Mainly, was he everything he seemed. The thought made me uneasy.

  “Looks like the FBI reward is yours,” Ryder said.

  Now I was really suspicious. How did he already know what went down? X’s body was still on the ground—not even covered by a sheet.

  “I thought I was giving you the dirt, but someone beat me to it. They also give you a blow-by-blow account of me going after X?” I looked around the crowd.

  About ten guys in bullet-proof vests and black military pants stood in a cluster by the front door of the market. A few were smoking. Others were eating food they’d just bought, completely oblivious to X’s body a few feet away. While it probably didn’t smell yet, it wasn’t an appetizing sight with half his brains splayed on the ground. At least it wasn’t on me, anymore.

  Another half dozen guys who looked like plain clothes detectives stood in a semi-circle around X’s body. Every once in a while, a few of them would look my way. They’d told me to wait here while they questioned witnesses.

  Two other men had been calling the islanders into a small building one after the other, questioning them.

  It made me squirm a little. With that many witnesses, the stories would be all over the place. I only hoped that most realized what they saw me do was self-defense.

  Ryder ignored my sarcasm. “The reward money is nothing to sneeze at,” he said. “Some of X’s victims in the U.S. were from prominent families with Rockefeller type money. They really, really wanted him found. Dead or alive.”

  “Jesus. A reward? What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” I shook my head. A reward for killing someone? The world had gone crazy.

  Ryder chuckled, that low laugh I liked so much. It always made me smile. Damn him. Even hearing his voice over the phone did something to me.

  “Better figure it out. The money is yours.”

  “Since you know so much, did they get the Sultan?”

  Again, his knowledge was creepy because he didn’t ask me who that was. He simply said, “No, he got away. Simply disappeared, they said. Really fucking creepy.”

  “Yeah, that’s his m.o. all right, ‘really fucking creepy.’”

  Just then a group of police officers started coming toward me. Dylan whined, but I patted his head.

  “Gotta go. Investigators are heading over here to question me. I’ll call you if I need you to bail me out. Do they even have bail over here?”

  “That’s all I’m good for?” he said.

  I hung up without answering.

  He was good for a lot more, but not over the phone.

  30

  “Ms. Santella?” one of the men said. “May we speak to you now?”

  He gestured toward the small shop where he’d been interviewing people all morning.

  “My dog is coming, too.” It wasn’t a question. I wasn’t letting Dylan out of my sight. Not that I had a choice. He was sticking to me, sitting on my foot when I stood still to make sure I didn’t go anywhere without him knowing.

  I followed him toward the small shop.

  I knew I should ask for a lawyer first, but I couldn’t deny what I’d done. I’d killed him. In front of a crowd. There was no getting around it. The entire street had seen it take place. Hell, half of the island had seen it.

  Twenty minutes later, I stepped out of the shop, blinking at the suddenly bright light. The CIA agent escorted me and Dylan back outside. The dog was pressed up against my thigh as if he were afraid I’d leave him. Poor guy.

  “Where do you want that reward money sent? You sticking around here?”

  I shook my head. “No,
I still have to find my daughter.”

  As I said the words, a feeling of hopelessness came over me. There was no way I’d find Rose unless she wanted me to. The kid was too damn clever.

  Some of the surfers and Asahi were sitting at a picnic table to the side of the market, eating and smoking. When I saw them, I smiled.

  “That woman over there? Makeda? And the man? Asahi? They need the money to build a medical center. Just a small one. Can you make sure they get the reward?”

  He nodded and then frowned. “I don’t know. If it’s in your name, and they want …”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” I said and hopped on my bike, pulling my helmet on. I put Dylan in the little plastic crate they’d strapped on the back of the bike. I would drive slow, but I knew he wasn’t going anywhere. He’d stuck to me since Makeda had dropped him off. I didn’t even ask how she had gotten him. I only cared that he was back.

  31

  Later that night, Makeda came and knocked on the door of my hut.

  “May I?” she said, pausing in the doorway.

  I was sitting up, holding a book I’d found in the corner. Not the book of poems, but another one. This was a dog-eared paperback by Joan Didion. It was called The Year of Magical Thinking. I hadn’t read it or heard of it. The only Joan Didion books I knew were all her nonfiction love letters to California—poignant essays and stories that captured my home state and all its terrible and wonderful beauty and dark underbelly. I wondered if Rose missed the west coast and that’s why she was reading this again.

  Well, anyway, she’d left the book behind. It, along with Dylan, was all I had of her. So, I would take it with me when I left in the morning and read it on the train or airplane or boat or whatever form of transportation I found myself on next.

  I set it down and smiled at Makeda.

  “Come in.”

  She stood in the doorway. Her face was streaked with dried tears.

  “I wanted to let you know that the Paddle Out ceremony is tomorrow.”

  I tilted my head.

  “For Matteo?” she said.

  “Oh. I’ll be there.” I wasn’t sure what a Paddle Out ceremony was, but I’d be there.

  “What did the authorities say?” she asked, crossing her arms and leaning against the door jamb.

  “It appears the entire town, hell, the entire island, testified that I killed X in self-defense. That he was about to kill me.”

  “That surprises you?”

  I shrugged.

  “It’s the truth.” She said it in all seriousness.

  I studied her face. Then, I absentmindedly reached down to stroke Dylan’s fur. He rolled over onto his back so I could scratch his belly, which I did.

  “Thank you for getting him for me.”

  “Keiki called Dre. She wanted to come home,” Makeda said. “When Dre arrived, the dog was there. He felt so bad about turning the dog over to X in the first place that he brought him immediately to my hut.”

  “He was the one who gave Dylan to X?” I frowned.

  “He’s okay. Really. He’s had a rough life. He gets a little crazy because of Keiki. But they swear they’re both getting clean now.”

  She lit a joint, stepped further into the hut, and offered it to me.

  I shook my head.

  “It’s not laced. Just weed,” she said.

  Taking it, I put it between my lips and inhaled deeply. A mellowness overcame me, and I closed my eyes for a second, enjoying it. Then I handed it back to her.

  “Have the rest,” she said.

  “Thanks, but I think it’s time for me to think about getting clean and sober, too,” I said.

  Makeda smiled, and then it immediately faded. “I might do that, too. Right after Matteo’s ceremony. I don’t want to go through that sober.”

  “I get it. What’s a Paddle Out involve?” I said. “I mean it sounds like you’re paddling surfboards…I don’t surf, but is there any way I can be a part of it still?”

  “Most definitely,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  She nodded at Rose’s surfboard. “I’ll loan you a wetsuit and you can paddle out and participate in the ceremony.”

  “Cool.”

  “Listen,” she said, stubbing out the last of the joint on the table. “I came here to talk to you because I heard a rumor down at the water just now. Some guys swung by to surf from another island. They said there was a dark-haired girl there yesterday surfing the big swells. They said she surfed for a few hours and then disappeared.”

  “What island?” I said sitting up straighter. “How far away? When’s the next ferry?”

  “They just told me around the bonfire at sunset. The last ferry had already left or I would’ve raced over here to tell you.”

  “Rose.”

  As soon as I said her name, Dylan rolled over and sat up, ears pricked. Did the damn dog recognize Rose’s name? Did he understand what we were saying? He whined softly, and I thought, holy shit, he knew we were talking about her.

  “These surfers, they still around?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Makeda said. “Down at the bonfire.”

  We both stood. Dylan did, too. Now, he was holding his nose up, sniffing the air. I couldn’t believe it—just saying Rose’s name elicited this kind of response. Poor baby missed his mama.

  He kept his head near my thigh all the way down to the bonfire.

  Once there, Makeda had me wait and went to talk to two unfamiliar guys. They looked older than the surfers in this group. They followed her over toward me.

  Dylan had wandered off a little, sniffing. I was hoping he was going to have a bowel movement. Asahi had looked him over this afternoon. He said he looked good but that I was to make sure he was eating and drinking and urinating and having bowel movements. So far, he hadn’t done any of those things so I was a little worried. I saw him wander a little closer to the road and lift his leg to pee. Good. Then he had his nose to the ground sniffing and wagging his tail, probably looking for a place to poop. Relief filled me.

  Then my attention turned to the new young men before me.

  “Makeda says you might have seen my daughter,” I said. I took out my cell phone and pulled up a photo of Rose. I thrust it at them.

  One guy squinted, his nose wrinkling, but the other began to nod. “Yeah,” he said. “That was definitely her.”

  The other guy held the phone closer and then nodded, as well. “Totally. Gorgeous.”

  “And slayed those waves.”

  I looked at Makeda. “She was pretty good,” Makeda said. “Fierce. We nicknamed her smighty because she is small but mighty.”

  “I heard she packed up and left after a few sets,” I said. “Any idea where she was going or even what direction?”

  One guy scratched his head. “The island is pretty small. I don’t think there’s really any place to stay the night except pitching a tent on the beach or back in the jungle, where there’s a little makeshift campground. If she stayed on the island, that’s where she’d be. It’s pretty desolate.”

  “We took the last ferry out for the night and she wasn’t onboard. But there was a ferry earlier in the day she could’ve taken.”

  “Thanks,” I said and turned to find Dylan. I’d have to wait until morning to go check out the island.

  Dylan wasn’t up by the road. I scanned the shore. I didn’t see his dark figure anywhere. I let out a loud whistle. Everyone looked. But he didn’t come. Makeda gave me an alarmed look, and, without a word, we both rushed up to the road where he’d been a few minutes before. There was no sign of him.

  Fuck.

  I began to shout his name in between whistling. Nothing.

  “Maybe he headed back to the hut,” I said. After all, it was his home. We both ran down the dirt road to the hut at the end. The door was open, but I was pretty sure I’d left it that way.

  A quick scan of the interior revealed it was empty. Dylan was not there.

  Then, as I was abo
ut to back out of the hut, something caught my eye.

  The Joan Didion paperback. I would’ve swore I’d left it on the futon bed on the floor a few minutes ago.

  Now it was splayed on the small table. It was face down, but opened to a particular page. What the hell? My head swiveled. She’d been here. Rose. She’d come and taken Dylan.

  32

  Makeda came running in the door of the hut, panting.

  “Is he here?”

  “Rose took him.”

  She looked at me wide-eyed.

  “That book,” I said to Makeda. She nodded.

  “You left it on the bed. I remember.”

  “It was Rose.”

  We both took off outside and headed back down the road toward the town. There was no sign of Rose or Dylan.

  We asked back at the bonfire. Nobody had seen anything.

  Makeda gave me a sorrowful look.

  I exhaled. “At least she’s okay.”

  “You know it was her, for sure, that took him?” Makeda said.

  I thought about it for a second and nodded. “Yeah. That explains him sniffing and wagging his tail and leaving my side. He knew she was here. He smelled her. It had to be her.”

  Makeda gave me this smile that made me feel like she was appeasing me and clearly thought that my theory was bullshit. But there was that book.

  I headed back to the hut.

  Once inside, I closed the door and stood over the book. With trembling fingers, I picked it up, turning it over, keeping the pages the way she had set it down. And began to read.

  As I did, a tear slid down my face.

  Rose had been here. And she’d wanted me to read this passage.

  She knew Nico was dead. This was her message, maybe even apology, to me.

  The passage was about the death of Joan Didion’s husband.

  Rose had underlined two sentences: “I could not count the times during the average day when something would come up that I needed to tell him. This impulse did not end with his death. What ended was the possibility of response.”