The Picture Kills (The Quintana Adventures)

by Ian Bull

  Xander waves. Trishelle spots us up on the balcony and waves back.

  “If you care about her, you should wave too,” Xander says, and I do.

  “You’re an odd pair, you two,” he whispers. “But she’s very loyal to you.”

  “I think she’s the only real friend I’ve ever had,” I admit.

  “You can wait inside, Rolando,” Xander says, and Rolando leaves us. Xander steps closer.

  “I anticipated everything before I brought you here and I’ll stay several steps ahead of you. If you rebel, attempt sabotage, engage in any subterfuge, or if your acting is less than perfect, Rolando will have his way with her, then kill her.”

  “You’re insane,” I say.

  “No, I just don’t give up. That’s why I’m on top again. Even this will be a success.”

  “I’ll never come back to you. I’ll die first.”

  “My offer still stands,” he says. “Because I know stranger things have happened. When the stakes are big enough, anything is possible.”

  Chapter 17

  Steven Day 6: Tuesday Afternoon

  I get kicked in the head five times before I reach out and catch a foot with my hands. I twist hard and yank the guy to the ground. As he bounces off the asphalt, I rise up on my side, find the leverage I need and twist it further until I feel his ankle snap in my hands. He screams.

  I get my back against the car door and kick another guy in the groin, sending his testicles up into his throat. There are still five more attackers, and their kicks rain down on me. At least I’m covering my head now, and I have my back to the car to protect my kidneys.

  Then I hear a whipping noise and three cracks in a row, like bones breaking. The kicks stop and I hear moans and cries. I drop my arms and peek.

  It’s been a few years, but I know it’s him straight away. He’s bald with a goatee, and he’s very tan. He’s whipping around a collapsing metal baton that looks like an old radio antennae, only thicker. He slams it against one guy’s hand and the bones shatter. The final five guys limp away. My rescuer pulls out a pistol and aims it at the two guys I hurt still rolling on the ground.

  “Run, run, run away, live to fight another day,” Carl sings in a lullaby voice.

  My friendly taxi driver opens his back door and the two men tumble into his backseat. As he drives away, he flips us the middle finger—and Carl shoots out his back window. The taxi swerves, then speeds off with broken glass flying everywhere.

  Carl Webb looks at me for the first time in five years. He wasn’t smiling the last time I saw him and he’s not smiling now.

  “Damn, Quintana, you suck at this. What the hell happened to you?”

  “I guess I’m out of practice. Sorry.”

  “Hollywood has made you soft. Stupid too. The whole island knows you’re here.”

  “Was I that bad?”

  “When a plane lands with only one passenger and no hotel reservation, the word goes out pretty quick. And you asked to go to Elysian Cay? That spreads even faster.”

  “Asking about Elysian Cay is that bad?”

  “It’s private, owned by a one-percenter who’s probably hired half these guys on the waterfront at some point. You’d have had better luck trying to go to Johnny Depp’s island.”

  A motorcycle pulls up. It’s the bartender from The Screw Pump. He hands me a towel.

  “Say ‘hi’ to Tyler. He works for me sometimes.”

  I snort the last bit of red mucous out my nose. “Thanks, Tyler. Why didn’t you say anything back at the bar?” I ask.

  Carl answers for him. “The bar is my fake address, so when a stranger shows up and asks for me, they tip me off. I don’t need any blasts from my past, know what I mean?”

  I nod.

  They help me limp the six blocks back to The Screw Pump where Tyler pours me a rum on the rocks—something called Ole Nassau. The alcohol burns, but I hold it in my cheeks until my mouth is numb. I swallow. It tastes like burnt vanilla. Not bad.

  Tyler aims a flashlight at my face while Carl pulls away the bloody towels and examines my wounds.

  “Did you get my e-mails?” I ask Carl.

  “I did, but I didn’t know for sure that it was you, so I didn’t answer them.”

  Carl snickers at the cut over my eye, and then he and Tyler examine the gash on my skull. It won’t stop bleeding.

  “Are you in some kind of trouble?” I ask.

  “I’ve had a few high profile cases in the last few months and now it’s time to live off the grid for a while.”

  “What kind of cases?”

  “Corporate security. Energy company executives working in South America who get kidnapped. I work for a company that arranges the ransoms—sometimes a rescue. When we succeed at a rescue, people get angry. People with a long reach and even longer memories.”

  “I want to hire you. That’s why I’m here,” I say.

  “Later. First we have to get you stitched up. You won’t stop bleeding until we do.”

  A car magically appears outside and Carl drives me a short four blocks to Dr. Hassan, the island country doctor. His house and office is built out of limestone and coral rock painted blue, with wood trim painted bright orange. Inside all the furniture and medical equipment is out of the 1960s, but it’s white and clean.

  Dr. Hassan is about fifty with grey hair and olive skin. He is Pakistani, but the certificates and photos around the office show he and his family have been doctors in the Bahamas for generations. He sterilizes me with a gallon of rubbing alcohol, and then sews up the cuts on my eyebrow and scalp. Twenty-five stitches in all.

  “The scalp wounds always bleed a lot. Tough to sew up, too,” he says, then looks at my pupils for the tenth time. “You are very bruised, but you don’t seem to have a concussion. Just make sure your friends watch you,” he says, handing me over-the-counter painkillers and an ice pack. “And no more alcohol for at least two days. Understand?”

  I try to pay him with a credit card, but the good doctor waves for me to put my wallet away.

  “Mr. Webb and I have an understanding,” he says.

  “Sounds like Carl. I bet he has understandings with a lot of people,” I say.

  “Yes, valuable understandings,” the doctor says with a smile.

  “Let’s go to my place,” Carl says, and I feel relieved. I glance at my watch. It’s seven p.m., the sun is setting and I’ve only been on the island about three hours.

  Carl drives us through town and then onto a narrow solitary road that hugs the shoreline all the way over to the far side of the bay, where it dead ends against limestone cliffs. Way out here on the edge of town, we reach a short row of five brightly colored wood frame two-story homes, all facing the water.

  All the houses are locked and shuttered, except the middle one. It’s painted bright pink with blue trim and music spills out of every open window. Carl parks the car and then helps me limp out of the passenger side.

  “We’re home!” he shouts at the house.

  A beautiful long-limbed girl with curly hair and freckled caramel skin rushes down the stairs and drapes her arms around him. She kisses him on the mouth.

  “Cherie, meet Steven. Steven, meet Cherie,” Carl says with a grin. I offer my hand, which she takes and then pulls me close and kisses both my cheeks.

  “You haven’t changed, Sergeant Webb,” I say.

  “You can call me Carl. I’m out of the Army,” he says.

  They help me up the stairs and through the door. It’s a narrow colonial style house made of coral rock and painted wood, with breezes flowing through the open windows. Red, orange, and white bougainvillea creep in everywhere, while birds flit through the house. The sun seems to sit right on the horizon, filling the rooms with pink light that makes the varnished wood come alive.

  Slow rotating fans cool soft leather and rattan furniture. The walls are decorated with mementos of a life lived around the world—photos from army days, a painting of Carl holding a gigantic sunfish and
beer labels and traffic signs from different countries line the trim next to the ceiling. Guitars and fishing rods are in every corner, and there’s a beat up old piano against one wall.

  Carl and Cherie steer me into the kitchen where I sit on a stool.

  “Are you from the Bahamas?” I ask her.

  “Guadeloupe. I am French.”

  “How far away is that?” I ask.

  “I have been in this place a year,” she says, smiling, not quite understanding me.

  “You look so very bad,” she adds, with a French singsong accent.

  I see myself in an old “Red Stripe” beer mirror hanging on the wall. My head seems two times too large, and it’s tipping back and forth on my neck like a bobble head doll. Carl comes close and looks in my eyes yet again.

  “Your pupils are still the same size,” he says. “Want to sleep?”

  I nod.

  He turns to Cherie and whispers something in French, and she whispers something back. I hear their tone of judgmental pity, so I can tell they’re whispering about me.

  They steer me through an open door into a small dark room with a queen size bed. My two backpacks are already on the small dresser. Cherie pulls down the covers. I pull off my blood caked T-shirt, kick off my shoes, yank off my jeans and tumble into bed. As I close my eyes, I feel her kiss me on the forehead as Carl mutter something.

  “Smart ass still hasn’t learned,” is all I understand, and then I am asleep.

  Chapter 18

  Julia Day 7: Wednesday Morning

  I sit beside Xander on the main veranda and finish my breakfast of mango and conch ceviche. If this is my prison food, it’s wonderful. However, I can’t enjoy my meal, or even enjoy being out of my room and in the sunlight—because surrounding us in a wide semicircle is the entire film crew, waiting for me to finish eating. It is bizarre having so many eyes staring at me.

  Xander pours me another banana smoothie. “Be a good girl and drink,” he whispers back. “Two more pounds.”

  I sip. When I am out of my room, Xander or Rolando sit or stand next to me every moment of the day, so there is never a chance to misbehave. Escaping the island and the movie seem impossible, and if I don’t act well, both on screen and off, Trishelle will die.

  I sleep alone though, thank God. That gives me hope. I haven’t taken Xander up on his offer to rekindle our romance, which means I get locked in my room with a guard outside. Sometimes it’s Rolando, sometimes it’s one of the others he’s hired.

  The film crew waits because they have questions and Xander insists that every decision be run past him. Now there is a backlog of requests, and he handles it all by making everyone stand in line in the hot sun.

  “Why do you make them wait like this? It looks like a bread line.”

  “I’m paying them well. If they want to leave, they can,” he retorts.

  “They’re staring at me, but I’m not allowed to speak to them. It’s bizarre.”

  “I told them it’s one of your acting demands. To stay in character, you won’t interact with the crew unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “You think of everything,” I say.

  “Yes, I do,” he replies.

  He pours himself another cup of coffee and waves that Rolando may escort the next person to our table. It’s Trishelle. She kisses me on the cheek, and then kisses Xander.

  “I just finished the first press release. I’d love to send it to the trades today.”

  “Read it to us,” Xander says, and puts his arm around my shoulder. I hate the feeling of his hand on my bare skin, but for her safety I must tolerate it.

  Trishelle flips open her iPad and reads: “In the gamble of her career, Julia Travers is abandoning all other film roles to finish Betrayed in Paradise, a film she started five years ago with producer Xander Constantinou, on which she is co-producer. The star is confident that the film will become a thriller classic, á la Basic Instinct.”

  “Good movie comparison,” Xander says.

  Trishelle smiles and waits for me to respond, but I stay poker faced. She blinks, confused, and then taps her iPad and keeps going. “Julia Travers plays Risa Baker, a former New York police detective on her honeymoon in the tropics. Her new marriage seems perfect until her ex-boyfriend, played by Trevor Pennington, arrives on the island with evidence that her mysterious new husband, played by Bernard St. Jacques, may be a murderer.”

  “We need to spice it up with something sexy,” Xander says.

  “We can take photos during the beach scenes and get some bikini coverage.”

  “Perfect,” Xander says. “When you’re done, give it to my secretary on a flash drive.”

  Trishelle nods, then flashes a confused smile at me. “Is everything okay?” she asks.

  “This is how I work, that’s all,” I say.

  I stay frozen behind my big Lady Gaga sunglasses. She finally turns and leaves. I ache for her, but I can’t even give her a hint with Xander and Rolando right next to me.

  Next in line is Trevor Pennington, the actor who plays my ex-boyfriend Mike. Rolando escorts him to the table along with Nathan, the director.

  “Gentlemen?” Xander asks.

  “If my first scene with Julia is tonight, I need to warm up with her,” Trevor says.

  “What do you mean, warm up?” Xander asks.

  “I’d like to start with some sense memory exercises, then move on to some guided improvisation with Nathan—”

  “Rehearse,” interrupts Nathan. “The actors need to rehearse.”

  “Rehearse before shooting while Nathan is blocking the scene,” Xander says.

  “Please, Julia,” Nathan begs, interrupting Xander to plead his case directly to me. “Rehearsal is crucial, especially with Trevor and Bernard. You know that. They’re already rehearsing without you.”

  “I would love to rehearse—” I say, but Xander interrupts me.

  “She’s better in the moment. After blocking.”

  “So the press about her is true then. She’s too big to rehearse now,” Trevor snaps.

  “Exactly,” Xander says.

  “Well, I believe in doing good work,” Trevor says. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “You’re here because I paid for the veneers on your teeth, your new hair and liposuction so you’d look the same as you did five years ago,” Xander says.

  Trevor falls quiet. Xander raises a finger at Nathan, “Keep your actors in line. And don’t interrupt me again.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nathan answers.

  “Watch this. I have a lesson for you,” Xander says.

  Xander glances at the line of crew people. Everyone fans themselves and sprawls, looking like first class passengers whose flight is delayed. He spots the actor playing my murderous new husband, Bernard St. Jacques, flirting with Toni, the makeup girl.

  “Bernard!” yells Xander, and waves for him to come over. Bernard strolls over, he is dressed in a white and blue seersucker suit with a straw hat and sandals.

  “Yes, Mr. Constantinou?” Bernard asks.

  “Are you enjoying your time here?” Xander asks.

  “But of course! I’m in paradise,” Bernard answers.

  “Does it bother you that you have not spoken to Julia, who plays your new wife?”

  “No, I’m just thankful to have this job.”

  Xander smiles and opens his arms. “Thank you, gentlemen. We’ll shoot the first scene tonight,” he says, and then gestures to Nathan that he can go.

  Xander is performing. He needs everyone to see that he controls the movie, the crew, and most of all me, which is why he struts on his stage. But he has one problem, which is also my opportunity—I’m a better actor. I have to play to my strengths. I just have to figure out how.

  Chapter 19

  Steven Day 7: Wednesday Evening

  The sound of laughter wakes me. I sit up and look in the dresser mirror. My face is still swollen but at least my head is the right size, and the pain has subsided to a dull t
hrob. I don’t feel like I need any more painkillers, but I’m desperate to pee. I use the guest bathroom, then turn on the shower and wash off days of sweat, dust and blood. Then I hear laughter again.

  I pull on fresh clothes from my backpack and open the bedroom door. The living room is so crowded I have to turn sideways and squeeze between four people to get out. I pass the fishermen from the bar, who all smile and pat me on the back. I then squeeze past Tyler the bartender, another six local guys and ten women of different shapes, sizes and colors all crowded into the living room and kitchen. Everyone is cooking, slicing, eating, dancing, laughing, arguing, drinking and kissing. Carl spots me from inside the kitchen and shouts.

  “The prodigal protégé awakens from his slumber!”

  On cue, everyone raises their glasses and shouts hello.

  The clock on the wall says 6:00 p.m. I went to bed around seven with the sunset, and now it’s six in the evening the next day.

  Someone sticks a beer in my hand just as a Bob Marley tune starts on the stereo. A petite black girl with green eyes and brown hair appears in front of me with a plate of food.

  “Conch fritter?” she sings.

  I take one and bite into the batter-fried gastropod. It’s hot, greasy, chewy, spicy and delicious. Chased with a beer, it’s even better. I know what the doctor said, but I don’t care.

  “My name is Nicole,” she sings again.

  “I’m Steven. Do you always talk that way?”

  “What way are you talking about?”

  “In that up and down way. It sounds like music.”

  Nicole smiles and shrugs. “It’s how I speak. Want to help cook? We all chip in.”

  I follow her lead as we slice limes for the beers and dice tomatoes for the salsa. I learn how to clean, batter and deep-fry conch meat, and I help grill fresh wahoo that Carl and his buddies caught this morning. After I walk three filets across the hot grill, Carl appears and grabs the tongs and takes over for me.

  I sit down on the side patio and stare at the view. Just across the narrow street, the bay stretches like bathwater to the horizon where the setting sun lights up the clouds orange and red. I see a flash of green as it drops into the water.