The Picture Kills (The Quintana Adventures)

by Ian Bull

  “Flip on your stomach. You must tan your back now,” he commands.

  I throw my daiquiri at him, but he dodges it. He then takes out what looks like a toy pistol and sticks it against the bottom of my foot. He pulls the trigger—CLICK—

  —and hundreds of volts of electricity burn into my skin. My legs contract so fast that my knees bang into my forehead. He does it again and the pain is so red hot that it lifts me off the lawn chair. He moves to taze me a third time, but I throw up my hands.

  “Hurts, doesn’t it?” Rolando asks. “Next time I will touch you,” he says, as he holds up the stun gun to my face, “in a much softer place.”

  It excites him. My anger flows out of me like water, and I’m left only with shivering cold fear again. I stare at my feet to avoid Rolando’s eyes.

  Rolando gets a new banana daiquiri from the tray and hands it to me.

  “Drink it.”

  I sip, but Rolando tips the rim of the glass higher so I must guzzle it to keep it from spilling all over my face. He pulls the glass away and wipes my mouth like a baby and I blink with cowed obedience. He motions to roll over on my stomach, which I do right away. All my muscles tighten when I can’t see him, afraid of what he might do.

  “The director said no tan lines either,” he says, and he pulls the string from my bikini top so that the ties fall away.

  Remi and Hans chuckle.

  My anger returns, but this time I don’t let them see it.

  Rolando drops a script on the chair—Betrayed in Paradise.

  “We start shooting tomorrow. Learn your lines,” he says.

  “Yes, sir,” I answer.

  I want to throw the script as far into the water as I can, but I don’t.

  Chapter 15

  Steven Day 6: Tuesday

  I arrive in the Bahamas late in the day, after traveling too many hours. The small prop plane coasts down the runway and stops at a cinderblock building with a tin roof baking in the sun—the main terminal of Deadman’s Cay airport on Long Island. I’m the only arrival.

  The pilot points for me to go inside the terminal while he gets my two bags out of the hold, and I walk past two old Bahamian guys playing checkers. One gets up, follows me inside and hits a button on the wall, and a baggage belt roars to life. My bags come through the rubber straps and into view, like a miniature version of LAX airport.

  “Taxi?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. How far away is Deadman’s Cay?”

  “Ten miles south. There are no buses.”

  “Enough said. Let’s go.”

  It’s strange to be in a country where they drive on the left-hand side of the road, but they also drive American cars with the steering wheel also on the left side. My brain keeps shouting that a head-on collision is coming my way. Maybe it is.

  To keep from flinching, I stare out the taxi window at the blue water in the distance. Long Island is 360 miles southeast of Miami. It’s eighty miles long and three miles wide, and the Tropic of Capricorn cuts through the top of it, so I’m officially in the tropics. It’s the most scenic island in the Bahamas, with miles of rolling hills and beautiful beaches.

  If that sounds like I got it off a website, I did. When I was in Nassau Airport, I found a bar and Internet cafe and did some research while waiting for my connecting flight.

  I only know two other facts about the Bahamas. The first is that Elysian Cay, Xander Constantinou’s island, is ninety-seven miles southwest of here, close to Cuba. The second is that Carl Webb lives somewhere around here. I just hope he’ll see me.

  I have Carl’s mailing address and e-mail address, but nothing else. We traded Christmas cards two years ago and I sent him four e-mails telling him I was coming, but I’ve heard nothing back.

  Ten minutes after leaving the airport, my driver turns off the island’s main highway onto the road to Deadman’s Cay, a small town overlooking a sheltered blue bay full of fishing boats. Brightly colored houses line the few streets that make up the town. A few kids play soccer on the school field, but everything else is quiet.

  “Where to?” my driver asks.

  “A bar called The Screw Pump.”

  “You sure, man?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Why?”

  “It’s not for…tourists. Don’t you want to go to a hotel?”

  “I’ll start there, thanks.”

  He shakes his head, then drives down a road paved with crushed white limestone rock that curves when we reach the water and runs alongside the bay. We reach a row of waterfront businesses built over the water and one has a sign hanging out front—The Screw Pump. I pay and get out onto an empty street.

  “You sure you’re okay here, man?” my driver asks.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say.

  He shrugs and drives down the white street and turns the corner.

  The pub starts on hard ground and spreads onto stilts over the blue water of the bay. It has only one entrance, which means it has only one exit too—unless I go out a window into the water. Reggae music flows out into the street.

  I have my two backpacks with me. Maybe the driver was right. Maybe I should have checked into some hotel, stowed my bags and let people know I existed before I entered the darkest bar on the island. I’ve seen worse, so I head inside.

  My eyes adjust to the dark. Six men are laughing at the bar—three are white, and three are black. They look like happy fishermen in shorts, and T-shirts with sunburned skin, bleached hair and wide smiles...until they see me and fall silent. The bartender turns down the music and steps from behind the bar.

  “Can I help you?” he asks.

  “I’m looking for an army buddy. Carl Webb? He gave me this bar as his address.”

  “Never heard of him. Sure you got the right town?”

  “The Screw Pump, Deadman’s Cay, Long Island. I sent him a Christmas card here.”

  “That’s real sweet. But like I said, there’s no Carl here.”

  “He’s a big tall bald guy?” I offer.

  One of the fishermen turns on his stool.

  “I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve never seen him.”

  “If he ever shows up will you tell him that Steven Quinn…Steven Quintana is looking for him?”

  “Don’t you listen?” the bartender says. “He just said we’ve never heard of him.”

  I step back outside and almost walk into the same taxi that just dropped me off. I wait a half second then open the back door, toss my packs inside and slide back in. The driver zooms off, leaving the pub in a cloud of white dust.

  “You were confident I’d need a ride again.”

  “No place for tourists in that part of town,” he says. “Where to, boss? Hotel?”

  I’m winging it, and badly. Los Angeles has four million people into which I can disappear, but this whole island has four thousand people tops, and they all know each other. My skull is way out in the breeze for the whole island to see.

  “Take me to the main harbor. I need to rent a fishing boat.”

  “You like to fish, huh? I’ll take you to the best fishing guide. He’s excellent.”

  We drive around the edge of the bay to a marina. A long cement pier juts out into the water and fishing boats and pleasure yachts bob in their slips alongside. The driver turns the taxi down the narrow driveway that hugs the marina wall, passing market stalls selling painted conch shells and palm frond hats. Tourists flow between the boats and stalls, pausing to haggle with the locals. This is where everyone seems to be, and my taxi driver honks at them all. Soon everyone stares into the taxi at me, the pushy jerk who is in such a hurry. So much for laying low.

  He stops his taxi in front of a slip with a forty-foot fishing boat. There’s a wooden sign bolted to a flagpole in the seawall—Captain Marcus Fishing Expeditions.

  I get out of the car and pay my second fare of the day. “You don’t have to wait this time,” I say as I hand him the money.

  “Sure thing, boss. Enjoy your vacation.”
>
  As he drives away, he flips open his cell phone and talks to someone, then glances at me in his rearview mirror and waves.

  “You interested in a fishing trip?”

  A man steps off the stern of the boat and offers his hand. He’s got a wide smile and deep nut brown skin so perfect I can’t tell whether he’s thirty or fifty. He wears a T-shirt, shorts and flip flops, but a white captain’s hat worn sideways gives him some swagger.

  “I am,” I say, shaking his hand. “Are you Marcus?”

  “Just like the sign says. Do you have our coupon from a hotel?”

  “No. I asked my taxi driver to take me to the best guide,” I say.

  “That’s me. And the best fishing is far out from the island, man, off the bank in the Tongue of the Ocean. That’s where you’ll find shark, marlin, sailfish—”

  “I’m more interested in fishing around the remote cays.”

  “Keys,” he corrects me. “It’s spelled c-a-y-s, but we say keys.”

  “I heard there was good bone fishing around Elysian Cay,” I offer.

  “Really now? And where did you hear that?” he asks.

  “A fishing buddy of mine from Miami.”

  His smirk says that he thinks I’m full of it. He whistles and a dozen heads turn. “Hey! This man wants me to take him to Elysian Cay!” he shouts to them all.

  Every local person on the dock laughs.

  “Your friend is a fool. There’s no good fishing there,” Marcus says.

  “I’m willing to pay.”

  “No thanks,” says Marcus as he steps back onto his boat. I wonder if I should ask another charter captain until I catch the evil eye coming at me from all the other fishermen.

  I walk away. I follow the main road, wearing one pack and carrying the other. I’ve got on a red long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. Soon I’m sweating like crazy in the late May heat.

  Two streets away from the harbor, I notice six guys are following me from the marina, including Marcus. I walk faster, but they catch up. Now I have two guys behind me, two are parallel to me one street to my left, and the last two are one street over to my right. My two backpacks make it hard to move fast. I am maintaining good Situational Awareness, but my antennae are telling me that my situation is not good.

  I round a corner then dart into the first doorway. The door is unlocked and I go inside. When the three guys following me pass the window, I step outside again and double back.

  I turn the corner and spot my taxi driver standing next to his car with a camera around his neck. I smile—and someone punches me in the face. I drop my pack and block the next punch, but all six guys are on me and I fall to the ground. They kick me in the head and stomach as the taxi driver leans in between punches and snaps my photo. A kick to my kidneys shoots pain straight down both legs, and a kick to my head sets off a sharp explosion of white light in my brain. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten the shit kicked out of me, and I don’t remember it being this painful.

  Chapter 16

  Julia Day 6: Tuesday Afternoon

  I stand on the patio balcony outside my bedroom and look out over the lush gardens of Xander’s estate. I have a perfect view of the whole island, looking north. Elysian Cay must be only ten miles long, and Xander’s property hugs the southern end of the crescent shaped island. There’s an airstrip just north of the estate, but beyond that the island is wild, with tall trees and low rolling hills until you reach a tall light beacon at the other end.

  It’s late afternoon and the light reflects silver against the small waves crashing on the sand shoals surrounding the island. I can see the sand just under the water, like giant swirls of yellow left by a painter. Past the shoals the water turns light blue, and farther out, the water is dark blue and it looks deep. I scan the horizon looking for any lights or any ship, but see nothing. I really am in the middle of nowhere.

  The film crew has arrived and twenty people put up c-stands, pin colored gels to lights and pull electrical cables on the veranda below me. A dolly wheels up, and the assistant cameraman carefully mounts a camera in place on the dolly head.

  Xander appears and two men rush over to meet him. He smiles and shakes their hands, then glances up and sees me looking down at them. He waves at me, a huge grin on his face. It’s as if the torture episode with Rolando never happened.

  “Julia!” he shouts. “This is Nathan Marshall, our director, and David Harkin, our cinematographer. I’ll bring them upstairs to meet you.”

  I watch them enter the mansion thirty feet below me, and twenty seconds later Rolando opens my door and they walk into my suite. Nathan and David smile and nod, almost bowing. I’m like a princess receiving an audience.

  Nathan seems young—definitely under thirty. He’s skinny and wears Chuck Taylor Converse shoes, tight black jeans and an Atari T-shirt, and his black hair is spiked up with gel. He seems more like a musician than a director. David, the cinematographer, is about forty-five, heavy set with salt and pepper hair and beard. He looks the part of a DP, with his safari shirt and cargo pants. They stare at me with awkward grins.

  “Julia, I’m just so thrilled that you and Mr. Constantinou are allowing me to help you finish your film. I promise I will NOT fuck this up.”

  “And I promise to make you look wonderful,” David says.

  “Thank you,” I say, without smiling.

  They blink. I must seem like a bitch.

  Nathan pulls out a dog-eared script from his back pocket and hands it to me. The inside is full of post-it notes, with his scribblings in all the margins.

  “I know this script is an award-winner, but I had some thoughts on making your character stronger.”

  He hands it to me, and I take it and leaf through it, but the words are just a blur. I nod at him instead, trying to hide my nausea.

  “Thank you gentlemen, but Julia must rest now,” Xander says.

  Nathan is confused by my reaction, and sulks out. David nods an apology and leaves close behind him. Rolando shuts the door.

  “I’m not saying one line, even if your Frankenstein shocks me before every take.”

  Rolando grins slowly. I can tell he’d like that.

  “Come enjoy the view,” Xander says, and he steps out on the balcony.

  I’ll do anything to get away from Rolando. I follow Xander back out on the balcony into the late afternoon sun. The salty wind rustles the trees and cools my skin. The film crew still dashes around on the veranda below.

  “Since I haven’t convinced you to embrace this opportunity,” Xander says, waving his hand at the entire island, “I’ll continue and end my presentation.”

  “That’s okay, give yourself a break,” I say.

  “There’s only one more sentence in what you wrote on the mirror. The shortest and the first: ‘You lied to me and you used me.’”

  “You did. And you’re using me now.”

  Xander puts up his hand, requesting my silence. He paces back and forth along the balcony’s edge, running his fingers along the cement trim.

  “From your narrow perspective, relaxing on a beach in the Bahamas, I understand how you might think that way. But there is a larger truth that, you, a young naive actress, couldn’t understand at the time.”

  He stops at the edge of the balcony where another tacky cement crest has been plastered into the stucco. His fingers trace the V and the J letters as he speaks.

  “In the summer of 2008, I arrived on Eleuthera with the woman I loved, for whom I’d abandon all others. An expensive woman. After all, I was producing a movie and building a villa for her.”

  He turns to face me and his eyes bore into mine.

  “Then the world economy crashed. Money evaporated overnight. Businesses went under, some of them mine. Challenges arose that were larger than any movie or villa. Yet I soldiered on, so I could keep our dreams alive. Then a hurricane came that threatened to destroy both this island and Eleuthera. I went back to rescue you.”

  He smiles and open
s his palms. His eyes moisten again. He really believes this story he has invented, and he’s sticking to it.

  “No matter how much I lose, I thought, at least I have her. She’ll be patient. She’ll wait for the physical and financial devastation to pass,” he says. “But you didn’t wait. Instead, you wrote those lies on the mirror and left, which proves that you were the one who used me.”

  “I was your prisoner. A possession. Just like I am now.”

  Xander bites his lip and shakes his head, as if he’s amazed that I still can’t see the light he’s bestowing upon me. “But I forgive you because I still love you. I’ll give you my world. You’ll be bigger than any star you could ever imagine,” he says. “If you finish the movie.”

  “Call my agent,” I say, and cross my arms.

  Xander motions to Rolando inside the suite. Rolando comes out on the balcony then speaks into his walkie-talkie.

  “Lead her off the ship and onto the dock,” Rolando says.

  Xander points down at the beach where I was tanning yesterday. His yacht, The Petrokolus, was gone for much of the afternoon, but now it’s back and parked alongside the long wooden dock. Remi and Hans escort a woman down the gangplank. Although they are just silhouettes in the bright light reflecting off the water, I know her walk.

  It’s Trishelle. My heart sinks.

  “Why is she here?” I ask.

  “I hired her as the publicist for our film. She’s surprised but excited that we’re back together and considers the job a big step up. She should, I’m paying her a fortune. She also understands that the project must stay secret, so no one knows she’s here, either.”

  “Trishelle will do whatever I ask. One word from me and she’ll stop.”

  “I don’t intend to use her as a publicist. I already have people for that.”

  “Then why is she here?” I ask.

  “Because bad things will happen to her if your work is less than perfect.”