Sweet Paradise

by Gene Desrochers

  Her chest rose and fell twice, and I sensed her heartbeat easing into idle. Hand against the corner of her lip, sideways stance, elbow up, all the things Harold had demanded in our short lessons. Then one queer movement.

  The arrow flew straight and true to the inner circle, only slightly off a dead-center bullseye. I gave a golf-clap. She bowed.

  “When did you first take this up?”

  “I saw a competition on YouTube one day. I was twelve. Eleven years, two months, and six days ago.”

  “What is that you did with your back leg?”

  “You mean the toe-thing?” I nodded. “Yeah, that’s a thing my coach could never beat out of me. Just wouldn’t leave, you know. Totally wrong form. Terrible for balance. Too much weight here.” She touched my left hip. “Not centered. Blah, blah. But, he finally gave that one up after the fifth year when I won the Pan American sixteen and unders.”

  I whistled my admiration. A man strode up beside me. He clapped sharply.

  “Break time’s over, Isabelle.” He glanced at his watch, which appeared to be a Rolex, or a knock off. Like the girl, he dressed flashy and had oddly hairy arms. He had a Coke in his hand, as if he needed more caffeine. “I told you fifteen minutes. It’s been twenty. Why must I always come looking for you?”

  She started to answer, but he cut her off with a dismissive wave. She looked over her shoulder and gave me a sad smile before following him. Isabelle. Was she a woman or a girl? The math said early twenties, but the way that man spoke to her made it seem like she was a teenager. Sweeping my attention around the grounds, I noticed that at least five or six other people also drank Coke.

  Harold put his arm around my shoulder. We broke away from the rest of the group.

  “You sly devil,” he purred. “I think Isabelle likes you.”

  “What’s her story?” I asked as we headed for a table with a punchbowl atop a white tablecloth.

  Harold scooped out two plastic cups worth of fruit punch, pieces of grape, pineapple, and mango floating in it. He raised his cup toward the girl and her coach.

  “The golden hope. They are trying to prepare for the 2020 Olympics. She’s a shoe-in to compete for the Virgins, but still has a ways to go before we can safely call her the favorite. I was her coach at one point.”

  “But ... ”

  His expression grew remote as he watched her shoot arrow after arrow into a distant target. Was that love or lust I saw in his face? Harold had to be thirty years her senior. I was at least ten to fifteen, assuming she was early twenties.

  His gaze broke. He went back for another scoop of punch. “But, nothing, man. I took her to the title, then he wanted her back. He wants the glory if she wins the real deal, you know, vicarious living. Those who can’t do, coach their nieces.”

  “She’s his niece?”

  He pursed his lips, which were a bright red from the punch. “And the cash behind her run. My mother wouldn’t finance some other rich guy’s daughter, although I asked her to. Practically begged. Some sense of duty mama has about that. Thinks they’re trying to take advantage of us. So, she had to agree to work with Uncle Douchy over there. Asshole has no panache. Brute force is all he knows.”

  I waited, thinking Harold would elaborate, but he again stared vacantly in Isabelle’s direction.

  “Where’s that guy get his financing?” I asked

  Harold patted his pocket. “’Scuse me for a minute, I gotta burn the lizard.” He downed his punch and dumped the cup.

  I continued to watch Isabelle. As fast as she could shoot the arrows, he handed her another. He timed her shots, using an analogue stop-watch. Perhaps her release or the time she had to nock and release. Were these things timed in competition?

  After several minutes of continuous shooting, she put the bow in a stand and chugged water. He gestured and spoke to her in a rough manner, like he was commanding a dog who wouldn’t behave. Her soft features remained impassive, but her eyes were attentive. With a curt nod, he gestured for her to continue. He raised the stopwatch. I raised my phone. As soon as he hit the button, I hit my button. This time I watched him and waited. When he hit the button again, I stopped the timer on my phone. Exactly one minute. She paused. He restarted the watch and timed again. He was timing how many shots she could release every minute.

  At one point, Isabelle glanced over when her uncle bent to pick up an arrow he’d fumbled. The stolen look was as fast as her shooting. She had a bit of playfulness in her. Uncle Douchy was all business.

  The next set of shots took longer. Although I didn’t time it, it seemed to take at least twice as long. I decided to time the next set. Sure enough, three minutes. This went on until they did a ten-minute set of shots. She aimed at three different targets. She was most accurate to the target directly in front. Next best was the right. To the left, her shots were sub-par by her standards.

  The longer I watched, the more impressed I became, not only by her skill, but by her endurance. My shoulders were getting sympathy aches as I tried to imitate her stance and raised elbow technique. Even without holding an actual bow, my arms got extremely tired after only a minute or two.

  She said something to her coach after almost an hour of continuous shooting. He nodded reluctantly, and she headed to the bathroom. Her uncle took the bow and began to apply something that resembled thick lip balm on the string.

  When she came out, I “bumped” into her.

  “Hey there, stranger,” she said. “You need some more tutoring?” Nice smile, but colored by sadness.

  “I was watching you train over there with your coach.”

  “Uncle, coach, flaming lunatic. Take your pick. He drives me like a Ferrari.”

  “That bad?”

  “Naw, not that bad. Without him, I’d probably still be in the pack.” She pointed over at the group huddled around the shorter distance targets.

  “What about Harold?”

  Twisting her head sideways, she flashed a twinkly smile. “What’s that boy sayin’ ‘bout me and him? Nothing tawdry, I hope.”

  She violated my personal space. I backed away.

  “No,” I said quickly. “Nothing like that. He just said you’d moved on to your uncle as coach, but he used to have that job. Looked upset about losing it. Maybe he suggested your uncle’s a bit, oh, I don’t know ... ”

  “Jealous? Yup, Harold’s right, the man was jealous. But, you know family. Can’t say no. You gotta deal with them all flippin’ day long.”

  “About your training. What are you doing?”

  “Interval training. You know, fast for varying periods of time. He figures if I can pump out the shots non-stop for one to ten minutes, then I’ll be flippin’ awesome. Might be, he’s right. New idea we’ve been on for a few months.”

  With that she wandered back to the shooting area. I had wanted to ask about the different targets. All the other archers were only shooting at targets directly in front of them.

  I SAT DOWN ON A PATCH of shaded grass where I could watch all the archers. I pulled up some Olympic competition videos on my phone. The competitors were engaged in straight-ahead targeting. The bows used had a pole sticking forward off the bow and two more sticking out to either side right below where the archers gripped. After release, I marveled at the eerie calm they showed while watching their arrow fly. These arrows didn’t resemble the arrow sticking out of Kendal’s chest. These were slight. Small feathers. Thin shafts that came to a point. The head on Kendal’s arrow was wider, menacing. The competition arrows needed the small head so that the minute differences on the targets could be easily ascertained for scoring purposes. In the case of hunting, you either felled your prey or not. No scoring of points on a target mattered. Kendal was a deer, and he’d been felled by a hunter. Scrolling through my phone, I found the photos I’d taken and sure enough, I had a solid one of the arrow’s head.

  Harold was chatting up another woman
, but I pulled him away and showed him the photo.

  “Yeah man, that’s a hunter’s arrow. Not suitable for target competition like the Olympics. In fact, that was almost certainly shot from a crossbow. Compound.”

  “I’ve heard of crossbows, but what’s the difference?”

  “A crossbow is high-powered. You can set then release when you’re ready to fire. It sets the string in place with a piece of wood or metal rod. Compound bows are for pussies. They use too much tech, but if you need a job done right in one swift blow, they’re the sure winner. Accurate and easy. But they lack soul.”

  “I’m still wondering why anyone would use an arrow or crossbow or whatever. Why didn’t they use a gun like a normal killer in modern society?”

  “Flair.”

  “Flair?”

  “Sure, why not. Man, it’s a good word. Archers like to flair, do a little show-boating. It’s why we’re archers, not boring marksmen wearing camo and skulking around in the woods.” He picked up a stray arrow on the grass nearby. People seemed to leave their arrows laying about. “See this.” He flicked the blue synthetic feathers. “Panache. Bullets get the job done, but...” He shrugged and made a face like he’d just eaten a rotten egg. “A hunk of metal with some black powder rocketing through the air.” He made a snoring sound and his eyes drifted shut. “Even worse, if you use one of these modern guns, you leave behind trash. At least a revolver didn’t make a mess on the ground.”

  “What did you say about compound?”

  He nodded toward a corner of the range where some guys were shooting much more complicated bows with pullies and multiple strings at animal targets.

  “Bullshit tech. See her bow? Simple. One string. That’s archery. Besides, the Olympics doesn’t have a compound bow competition. Strictly weekend warrior stuff. Not for purists.”

  “What’s the purist bow called?”

  “Recurve. Same bow used by the Greeks thousands of years ago. The real deal.”

  He handed me the arrow. I examined the shaft. It did have an elegance to it. Lithe and supple. Definitely the ballerina of the weapon world.

  “People still fence, right?” Harold asked.

  I had no idea if people fenced anymore, but I seemed to remember seeing fencing in the last Olympics as I passed a television at a sports bar in Santa Monica.

  “’Course they do. Swords and arrows and all that shit is dead meat compared to automatic weapons and bombs. So why use it? Style, man. What’s life without some style? Panache.”

  Running my finger over the arrow, I flicked at the tip. “You mean to tell me someone used an arrow because it makes a statement?”

  “Yup. No question. Shooting someone through a door from around fifty meters through those branches? It’s impressive.” He held up his hands. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s fucked up, but still ... damn impressive. Also, the pressure. Jeez. Like the gold medal round. Massive cojones on that hombre if you ask me. Massive.” He made the universal show of cupping someone’s balls with his two hands. For a rich guy, Harold could use a few lessons from Lady Etiquette. “Crossbow is kinda cheating, but hell, still, not bad. ‘Sides, you need something more maneuverable. Recurve is unwieldy for hiding and stalking. Still, I’d use recurve. More excitement. More of a game.”

  Thinking back on Kendal’s demise, the arrow did make an impression. Not that him being shot wouldn’t have, but the head coming through his chest. I’d been shot. And for sheer gore factor, the arrow won the day.

  Harold held up my phone. He had blown up the photo and focused in on the arrow. “You see how this came clean through? That’s some power. To pierce skin and bone and come out the other end. Damn. Serious power. Crossbow. Gotta be.”

  “Could Isabelle make that shot?” I asked.

  He laughed, then he let it die as he watched my face. “Dude. You’re serious? Dude, woman can’t pull that kinda thing. No way.”

  “You mean you don’t think a woman can kill like that?”

  “Exactly. A dude did this.”

  “You mean a woman’s emotionally incapable of killing?”

  “Woman killers are rare, man. Rare. I mean, come on. What’s there like one serial killer who was a woman? Lots of dudes, right? What about war? Women don’t fight much.”

  “They weren’t allowed in the past. I think that’s changing,” I said.

  “Yeah, well. Why’d they want that? Shoot, they should be happy. No getting shot.”

  “In archery competitions, why are men and women in separate categories? It’s a test of accuracy? Distances are the same, right?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, but men would win.”

  “Why?”

  “Longer arm, stronger pull with tighter string, and faster arrow velocity. Less arc.” He curved his hand then straightened it. “Flatter path. Man, it’s gotta give better accuracy ‘cause wind has less effect. Just physiology, man.”

  “But for killing someone or for an individual woman, she could do those things. Right?” I countered.

  “Hey man, sure, you could have some uber-strong chick with long arms and shit who could do whatever, I suppose. But, on average, they’d get smoked.”

  “But you’re saying a woman couldn’t have killed Kendal, not because she couldn’t physically do it, but because of her mental makeup or emotions or something?”

  “Now you’re on it. Yeah, not their bag emotionally. Maybe if this Kendal dude cheated on her, and she caught him with his pecker in another chick. Then, maybe.”

  “Wow. Okay, glad we cleared that up. Did you and Isabelle date?”

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out something small, popped it in his mouth and started chewing. “Yeah, we had a thing.” He pointed at me with conviction. “But it was after she turned eighteen. Hey man, this killing talk has made me a bit tense. Waves at Carat are kickin’. I got a spare board. Wanna join?”

  I needed to get away from this guy. Women were capable of killing. Sometimes for different reasons, but nonetheless, very capable. If I had to listen to any more of his bullshit, we were going to have another homicide.

  “That’s okay. I’ll call you later.”

  Junior trotted over as Harold booked.

  “Any news?”

  I wanted to speak privately to Junior, so I asked if we could get some lemonade. We stood off to the side under a tamarind tree, sipping the sugared drinks.

  “What’s up?” he asked when we were alone.

  “Do you know Isabelle?”

  “Harold’s student? Yeah, I know her. She’s a babe who can shoot arrows better than any dude on this island. I had a crush on her when I was fourteen. Her dad and uncle keep her on a tight leash. Regimented training. Not for me.”

  “You know why she does interval training?”

  He puzzled that for a minute, becoming a statue as usual. He came back to life. “You mean that fast shooting she was doing today? I noticed that, too. Not a typical competition archery thing. There are time limits, like two minutes to shoot three arrows, but it’s nothing like what she was doing.”

  “Could it be something else?”

  “What else? She’s a competitive archer. Everything she does is to kick ass at hitting targets from distance. Her mission in life is to win the Olympics.”

  I smacked at the mosquito sucking on my neck. “You know about your uncle and her?”

  “No, but I can guess. Harold’s not shabby with the ladies. If he hangs out with a good-looking chick for long, it ends up one way. They love his surfer, archer vibe. Besides, he has that easy smile and perfect teeth.”

  True, Harold’s teeth were bright as the white of a baby’s eye. It reminded me that I was due for a trip to the bathroom to brush.

  “Someone shot Kendal, and she’s one of the best. From what everyone at the range was saying, that was a hell of a shot. You think she’s capable?”

  At first Junior’s face
contorted into a that’s-ridiculous look of bewilderment, but then it shifted and he became still.

  “How would I know?” he noted philosophically. “People kill people all the time and someone’s gotta do it. She could make that shot. But so could Harold and a bunch of others on a good day. She’s not the only one.”

  “How many?”

  “How many what?”

  “How many people around here could make that shot?”

  “I don’t live here all the time. I didn’t recognize many of the people at the club today. I think you’re better off asking Uncle Har.”

  My phone buzzed. An unrecognized number. I excused myself to the club’s driveway to answer anyway. As I exited, I narrowly missed crushing a brown lizard with a white racing stripe down his back scurrying by on the concrete.

  Leber.

  “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “I’d like to share with you, if you’ve got anything worth sharing.”

  “Detective, you’ll forgive my skepticism, but I’ve never, never had any police officer or detective offer to share anything with me unless they felt they’d get the better end of the deal.”

  He groaned. “I already showed good faith. You know something, you’re too busy trying to act tough. You’re not.”

  My turn to groan. “So, because you agreed to show us the crime scene, I owe you? I thought that was some agreement between you and Harold or his officer buddy.”

  “Eddie,” he muttered.

  A clattering erupted from my earpiece, then an expletive. Moments later, Leber said, “Sorry, damn phone case ... slippery. Look, I need your assist. Can we meet?”

  Cops hadn’t given me a warm, fuzzy feeling since the sheriff in Los Angeles shut me down and threatened to arrest me if I didn’t let go of Evelyn’s case. They had my respect as a group. Individually, some were as bad as the criminals, and the bad ones didn’t have a tattoo announcing “bad cop.”

  Tough? I didn’t act tough. Fuck him. I’d ram one of those cop billy clubs up his ass. I didn’t need Leber to like me. Barnes, either.