The Picture Kills (The Quintana Adventures)

by Ian Bull

  “Those are two different issues—the girl’s safety and your personal feelings. Which do you want to talk about first?” he asks.

  “Julia’s safety,” I answer.

  “I suspect her situation isn’t as bad as you think, which means other people can handle it. And if her situation is really as bad as you say, then other people should definitely handle it. Professionals with clear heads who aren’t plagued by anger and guilt.”

  “And where do I find these professionals?”

  “Like I told you, I’m working on it,” he answers. “While you were passed out yesterday, I called officers and agents in three different countries. Research is being done.”

  “We’re running out of time.”

  “Today’s Thursday. You got here Tuesday afternoon,” he says.

  “Caballero might kill her tomorrow.”

  “Or she may be dead already. But I doubt it. If he kidnapped her and brought her all the way to that cay, it’s for a reason. That’s what we have to figure out.”

  He looks at me, his eyes asking if I know the answer.

  “I don’t know why he took her,” I admit. “I just know she’s not coming back unless someone does something soon.”

  “That’s your fear and guilt talking. That’s the second issue,” Carl says. “But even if you went and saved her and killed Caballero and died like a hero, that wouldn’t bring the boy back. That deed is done. And if you were lucky enough to survive? You’d still be haunted. Probably worse.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Experience,” he sighs. “Guilt is like a wound. If you pick at it, it never heals. All you can do is bandage it up and wait for it to turn into a scar. The scar never goes away, but at least you can live again.”

  “So that’s it?” I ask. “I come all this way, and you tell me I have to wait?”

  “There are worse places to be stuck. You’ve had fun since you got here.”

  We stare at each other as the sailboat rises up and down the fronts and backs of the ocean swells we’re racing across. It’s a Bahamian standoff.

  “I appreciate your hospitality. Anything else?”

  “Nope, I think we’re done,” he declares.

  Carl then swings the boom across the cockpit and steers the boat back into the wind for the trip back to the island. The wind that was rolling with us a second ago is now coming across our bow, and we pull in the sails for the first long tack back to the island. There is now too much wind to talk over, but there’s nothing left to talk about anyway.

  Chapter 22

  Julia Day 8: Thursday Evening

  Seven people crowd into one of Xander’s darkened libraries and gather around a TV monitor to watch two days of work; the scenes we shot Wednesday night and Thursday during the day. There’s Nathan the director, David the cinematographer, Paul the sound guy and Eric the editor who has downloaded all the footage into the edit system. Finally there’s Xander and myself, and Rolando, standing by the door.

  We each have a blue aluminum canteen emblazoned with the film’s title—Betrayed in Paradise—with the “t” in Betrayed shaped like a palm tree and the “d” in Paradise shaped like a dagger. It’s the line producer Rebecca’s way of saving money and being green so we’re not all drinking expensive bottled water on set.

  I observe the six men watching the screen as they sip water from their blue canisters, their eyes locked on the floating images. I glance at Rolando and see his eyes are on the video too. My plan is working—my performance as Risa Baker is compelling enough that they’re watching her and forgetting about me, which gives me time to look around.

  This room is almost directly below my bedroom, which means I might be able to get in here. The windows are locked tight behind thick curtains, but if I break a window maybe the fabric is heavy enough that it might muffle the sound.

  What can I use in here? A tool? A weapon? A map? On the bookcase is a conch shell. Useless. On another shelf there’s an old spyglass. That could be good, but only if it works. A handmade straw hat. Very good. I will need sun protection out there. Four native painted masks hang on the wall. Colorful, but worthless. The closet door is ajar and inside is a man’s jacket and deck shoes. The jacket I could use, but the shoes may be big.

  I scan the papers on his desk—some worthwhile information must be there. Then I spot something on the far side of the room, above a credenza—a nautical map of an island in a wooden frame. Is it this island? It has to be. I need to see that.

  Everyone laughs and I glance back at the screen. I just slapped my police detective ex-boyfriend across the face, and he blinks from the sting. The shot is vivid, our skin tones perfect, while the water in the background is aquamarine and framed by white and pink sand. It looks great. The sound is crisp and the acting is good.

  “I can feel the tension,” Nathan says. “We have something here.”

  “It’s a good first two days,” David says. “We got a lot done.”

  “Let’s get some rest then; we have a full day again tomorrow,” Xander says. Rolando opens the door and the herd rises and leaves, laughing and chatting:

  “We’re ready for the first stunt shot…”

  “The hair held up…”

  “We should get a fan going for the next beach shots…”

  They are headed to the veranda to join the rest of the crew. They’ll watch the sunset, talk, swim in the pool and enjoy the breeze until they grow tired and amble off to bed, sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs. The instant camaraderie is one of the good parts of working on a movie, and I miss it.

  “Feeling better after what you just saw?” Xander asks.

  “It’s good. I admit it, okay?” I say, doing my best to sound petulant.

  “See? I know what’s good for you,” he teases. “And not just in your career. Imagine how far you could go if you trusted me with everything.”

  I have to pick my response carefully. I shake my head slowly. “Xander, you are such a strange and complicated man,” I say.

  “But maybe a man you could love again?”

  I stare at him, my face blank. If my face is empty, he can fill it with whatever emotion he wants to be there.

  “I hate it when you ask me that,” I finally say.

  “That’s not yes, but that’s not no either,” Xander says. “I’ll take it.”

  There’s a light knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Xander says.

  Rolando swings the door open and Trishelle comes into the room. She’s dressed for the tropics in blue cotton shorts and a red print shirt. Her hair is pulled back and her reading glasses are in her hair, so she looks relaxed but still dressed for business.

  “Found the love birds!” she says, wagging her finger. “I think this rekindled romance could be great publicity. We could drop some more hints to the tabloids, keep the story going?”

  “Let that fade into the background,” Xander says. “Instead, drop a hint that Julia and Trevor Pennington are spending time together.”

  “That is a good angle…if you’re both okay with it?” Trishelle asks, and flashes the “A-OK” sign to me. Trishelle knows something is up and is trying to communicate.

  “I trust Xander. He’s the producer,” I say, with a face as blank as I can make it.

  “Am I going to see you two on this shoot? Or is it going to be all work and no play for seven days?” she asks.

  “I know I haven’t spent any time with you, I’m sorry,” I say.

  “What about now? We’re all hanging out on the veranda,” she asks, smiling.

  “Not tonight,” interrupts Xander. “Write up your blast and we’ll send it tomorrow.”

  Rolando opens the door. Trishelle laughs, but I can still see the hurt on her face.

  “Rolando is always escorting me from place to place. I think he has a little crush on me,” Trishelle says, and touches his chin. “Don’t you, Rolando?”

  “Careful, Trishelle. Rolando has a reputation as a real lady killer,”
Xander advises.

  “He seems harmless to me,” she says and pats his cheek.

  Rolando grabs her hand and puts it at her side and glares at her. A quiet awkwardness fills the room. She then giggles and shakes her head.

  “Good night then,” she says, but raises her eyebrows at me as she leaves.

  Rolando shuts the door and I exhale and pretend to close my eyes. Through the narrow slits of my eyelids, I see Rolando hand Xander a large manila envelope. Xander opens it and pulls out one photograph, then three more. He grits his teeth and he jams them back into the envelope.

  “You should have waited to show me this,” he says.

  “You said to give you updates immediately.”

  “Just handle it,” Xander says, the tension rising in his voice.

  “I have to use the bathroom,” I suddenly say, opening my eyes.

  “It’s right there,” Xander says and points at the office bathroom six feet away.

  “I’m just asking permission,” I say.

  Xander waves for me to be quiet and to hurry up. I shut the door, but don’t lock it. Instead, I move the curtain over the toilet and uncover the window, and reach up and unlatch it. I turn the crank and open it two inches, then let the curtain drop back into place. I try to listen through the door, but their conversation is too muffled. I open the bathroom door, and both men turn and look at me.

  “I can’t go to the bathroom in here,” I say.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Xander asks.

  “I need things in my own bathroom upstairs. Can someone just take me?” I ask.

  Rolando moves to the door, but Xander stops him.

  “I’ll do it,” he says and tosses the envelope with the photographs onto his office desk. Whatever is in that envelope bothers Xander, which means I want to see it. I watch him glare at Rolando just before he opens the door for me.

  “Come darling, you’ve had a long day,” he says.

  “Yes, I have,” I say.

  We walk upstairs and a guard opens the door to my room. He’s a Venezuelan man named Diego, a small tough guy who guards my door all night. I go straight into the bathroom and lock it. I open drawers, rip open a tampon package, flush the toilet, run the water and wash my face. I take a breath and step back into the room.

  “Everything okay? I get worried when you step into bathrooms.”

  “It’s a female thing. Do you really want to know more?”

  Xander sits down on my bed. “Let’s talk then. That’s the best thing we can do.”

  “Good. You can help me run lines. I have a lot of dialogue tomorrow,” I say and I pick up my script and hand it to him. “Who do you want to read first? Nicholas my murderous husband, or Mike my heroic ex-boyfriend?”

  Xander leafs through the script and then hands it back.

  “I’m not an actor,” he declares. “Let’s watch the sunset instead. We’ll watch from your balcony and I’ll have some dinner brought up.”

  “I’ve embraced the role. I’m doing good work, like you wanted. That’s enough.”

  Xander gets up and walks around the room, slowly touching my clothes, my earrings, my hairbrush, my makeup. I can tell he’s choosing another approach.

  “So maybe you admit that what you wrote about me was wrong?” he asks.

  For him, it all comes back to what I wrote in lipstick on that mirror five years ago. He drugged, kidnapped and tortured me, then kidnapped Trishelle and threatened both of our lives, but that’s not his reality. Getting me to admit I was wrong is all that matters.

  “Maybe,” I say, looking away. “About some of it.”

  When I look back at him, he grins.

  “For dinner, can I have a—what do you call it? A rain check?” he asks, smiling.

  I smile back and try to look reluctant and shy, yet curious—perhaps willing.

  “A rain check,” I say. “Sunsets in the Bahamas are nice. I remember.”

  He smiles and nods, accepting my dismissal. “You’re very good at this.”

  “Good at what?” I ask.

  “Playing the game,” he answers. “And I do love games.” Xander stands up and touches my cheek and I don’t stop him, but when he leans in to kiss me, I shake my head. I do my best to look willing, yet confused.

  “I can’t,” I say. “Not yet.”

  “Yet,” he echoes with a smirk of triumph. “I can wait.”

  He kisses my cheek and leaves the room.

  I collapse on my bed. My acting for the day is finally done. I let all the artifice and false emotion fall away from me, like weighted bags of sand dropping off my shoulders. I breathe slowly, searching for any remaining strength. The crew laughs on the patio, with glasses clinking and a guitar strumming. My strategy is working. My acting just bought me time and solitude. Now I have to use them.

  I force myself off the bed and go to my closet. On the top shelf are spare sheets. I grab three and go into the bathroom and turn on the shower so Diego will hear the water running. I open the middle drawer and find my canvas bag and I dump out all the magazines. In the bottom of the bag is the roll of gaffer’s tape I took.

  I twist the sheets, tie them together, and then tie knots into them, creating one long length. I flush the toilet, and over the sound of the shower running and water rushing down the bowl, I rip off a dozen long strips of gaffer’s tape and stick the ends to the bathroom counter. I wind tape around each knot on each sheet, making as big a tape wad as I can. I then open the cabinet and tie one end around the bathroom pipe beneath the sink, and I open the bathroom window and look outside.

  The sun hasn’t set yet, but it’s getting dark. There's a glow from the patio lights around the edge of the building, but nothing else. The dark grey trunk of a young banyan tree blocks my view, but also anyone’s view of me.

  I go back into my room and pull on jeans and a T-shirt, then dart back into the bathroom and lock the door. I grab the canvas bag and slide it over my shoulder.

  I toss the rope sheet out the window and pull myself up into the tiny opening. I slide my legs through first and as I squeeze through the window I feel the thin aluminum rail on which the glass slides, and it digs into my legs, then thighs, and then stomach as I slide out. I’m glad I’m wearing jeans. I just hope I have no red marks on the back of my thighs when this is done.

  I ease down the sheet, using the knobs of gaffer’s tape like rungs on a ladder. I bump into the wall of the villa on the way down and scrape my arm on the rough stucco. That will leave a mark. I’m glad for the noise coming from the patio.

  I get to the study’s bathroom window, reach through the narrow opening, find the knob and crank it the rest of the way open. I breathe slowly and try to slow my racing heart.

  I hold the sheet and swing my legs up. I squeeze through the window and plop down on the closed toilet seat. I ease open the bathroom door. No one is in the study, so I dash in and lock the door. I inhale. I’m a burglar with a canvas bag, and I fill it with the goodies I need—the spyglass and the straw hat off the shelf, and then from the closet I pluck the men’s dress coat. I also find a pair of men’s topsider deck shoes.

  I go to the map next. Nothing says Elysian Cay, but I recognize the shape of the island from the north view from my balcony—an arc ending at a jagged point with an electronic beacon and the ruins of an old lighthouse. An inset in the corner of the map displays a larger geographic area—Elysian Cay is the second cay in the Ragged Island Chain, which has twelve small islands. I am about a hundred and fifty miles from Cuba to the south and a hundred miles to the nearest large Bahamian island to the north.

  This isn’t Eleuthera, which has four thousand people, four towns and a major shipping lane off shore. I am in the middle of a vast stretch of water, surrounded by uninhabited islands.

  Tiny numbers dot the map in the water offshore—the depth. It’s shallow on one side of the island, fifteen to forty feet deep for a long way out. On the east side the depth drops to a thousand feet fast. A deep underwate
r canyon called the Tongue of the Ocean cuts through the middle of the Bahamas, and the Ragged Islands start at its southern tip.

  I hear a noise in the hallway. I have to keep moving. I scan Xander’s desk next. There are monthly statements of stock holdings in Europe, REIT accounts, bond purchases and pink copies of the Financial Times of London.

  Then I spot the manila envelope that enraged Xander.

  I open it up and pull out four 8x10 color photos. The first two show a man in a harbor talking to a boat captain. He’s in his late twenties or early thirties, in good shape, with dark hair, light brown skin, and an interesting face. He’s wearing a long-sleeved red T-shirt and blue jeans, and he looks familiar.

  The next two pictures aren’t as crisp. They show the same guy fighting off six men in a narrow street next to a taxi. Then in the next photo there is a new man swinging a long metal stick, hitting the attackers. This new man is tall, also in good shape, bald, masculine and quite handsome.

  I stare at the first man’s face as he fights off his attackers. He grits his teeth and his eyes are wide with fear as he blocks the punches. Then I remember. He’s my paparazzo stalker. I feel my curry and rice dinner churn in my stomach as I look closer.

  Someone tries the door. I freeze.

  “It’s already locked,” a voice says.

  “Then we should get a key and check it,” the second voice says.

  I seal the photographs in the envelope and put it back on the desk. I swing the canvas bag over my shoulder, go back into the bathroom and climb out. Once I have both legs wrapped around my bed sheet ladder, I reach my hand back inside and crank the window closed as far as I can, then start climbing back up. The thick globes of tape I created are perfect grip points for my hands and feet and I get back up to my own bathroom window. I can’t risk bringing my canvas bag filled with loot back in my room, so I hang it on a branch stump of the banyan tree.

  I swing my feet back into my bathroom and I land in the tub where the shower is still running and my shirt and jeans get soaked as I find my footing. I have to move fast now. I step out on the tile floor, pull in my sheet ladder, stick it under the sink, then pull off all my clothes and step back under the running water.