Blessed are the Meek

by Kristi Belcamino

  I go a few steps closer and am startled by his voice.

  “So, you’re Sean Donovan’s girl?” He doesn’t turn around. His ball cap is pulled low. But his profile seems familiar.

  I walk over to his side and stick out my hand. “Gabriella Giovanni.”

  He doesn’t look over at me or take my hand. A chill shoots up my spine. I take a step back when I recognize him—­Adam Grant’s friend, Mark. The man from the pool party who rescued that drunken guy. The one who was eyeing me at Adam Grant’s wake.

  When he finally looks up at me, my insides twist in fear. Without his dark glasses, I see everything clearly now. His eyes. I’ve seen that look before. In the eyes of a sociopath. The glassy, vacant look. Nothing there.

  I remember how when he first touched Annalisa at the wake, she jumped. She was afraid of him. Her snuggling up to him was all an act. He’s the killer.

  Instinctively, I start backing up, but my heels stop on a rocky outcrop. My horror must show on my face. He lifts his other hand and points his arm out straight at my face. All I see is the barrel of a big gun.

  “Sit down.”

  Shakily, I crouch on a nearby rock, still an arm’s length away from him. He relaxes and settles the gun in his lap.

  “Who are you? Where is Tim Conway?” My voice is shaking. My teeth are chattering, and it’s not only from the cold air.

  “You’ll see him soon enough. Up close and personal, even. He’s not far. He’s right over there in the boat.”

  I remember looking out the lighthouse window and seeing this man lifting a bundle into the boat. I’d assumed it was fishing gear.

  “You know, it’s a shame you’re going to die over a scumbag like Sean Donovan.”

  “What?” I feel dazed, stunned. I don’t know what else to say.

  “It has to end this way.”

  He looks back out at the sea again. I steal a quick glance behind me, gauging how fast I can run to get away.

  “Don’t even try it. I’m a deadeye shooter, expert marksman, sharpshooter, whatever you want to call it. Let’s just say I don’t miss.” He doesn’t even look my way as he says this.

  That’s when I know for sure. Conway is dead. Bile rises in my throat. I know I’m next. But if he’s not Conway, who is he? A guy named Mark who is Adam Grant’s friend.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mark fingering a badge in his other hand, the one that doesn’t hold the gun. A Rosarito police badge. He’s talking about that special task force that Donovan was on. He keeps talking, not looking at me.

  “Thanks for leading me to Conway. I’ve been looking for this guy for the last six months. And I couldn’t have planned it better myself. ­People go missing in Mexico all the time. It will be weeks before anyone even realizes the two of you are gone. And I’ll be somewhere far away now that all my loose ends are tied up. Except Donovan, the rookie fuck. But he’s essentially a dead end, too. He won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. I should have taken care of this years ago. But I thought they knew to keep their traps shut.”

  He was targeting the task-­force members. But why?

  He unties the rowboat’s rope from a big rock and starts coiling it around his crooked arm in a circle.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. I’m pretending to pay attention to him, but, also, frantically looking around for a means to escape. There is no way I can outrun his gun. I don’t see anywhere to flee. Panic wells up in my chest. That’s when I remember—­the badge found with Sebastian Laurent’s belongings. Laurent wasn’t on the task force. The killer didn’t leave the badges as a warning.

  “You left those badges as calling cards, didn’t you?” He doesn’t deny it. “So, why didn’t you leave one with Adam Grant?”

  “How do you know I didn’t?” What is he talking about? Is the Rosarito Police badge why the detectives are going after Donovan? Is that their evidence? Why target all the task-­force members?

  Then it strikes me.

  He’s one of them.

  I reel through the names in my head: Flora. Dead. Brooke. Dead. Mueller. Dead. Conway. I gulp—­dead. That leaves one guy—­Mark. Mark Emerson.

  His name really is Mark. That much is true.

  “Come on, Emerson. If you’re going to kill me, at least tell me why?” I try to sound brave, but my voice is shaking. He doesn’t even flinch when I use his last name. I was right. He has unhooked the rowboat’s thick rope from the rock it was tied on and is busy winding it around his arm.

  “I don’t understand how Annalisa is connected to all this.”

  He doesn’t look over at me when he answers. “Listen, this isn’t some movie where I’m going to confess my sins to you, lady. I could give a rat’s ass what you know and what you don’t know. All you need to know is by this time tomorrow, you and Conway are going to be fish food. Now stand up and put your hands behind your back. It’s dark enough now. All the fishermen will have headed back to port. We’ll have the water to ourselves.”

  I stall. When I said Annalisa’s name, he paused, frozen for a second. She’s always been at the bottom of this, but how?

  “Let’s talk about Annalisa.”

  He stops coiling the rope and fixes his gaze on me. “I don’t want to hear her name come out of your mouth.” He says it in a low voice.

  “Are you an item?”

  “She’s mine. She’s always been mine. She always will be.” He gives a smile that sends a chill through my core.

  That’s it. He’s obsessed with Annalisa, so he knocks off the competition—­Sebastian Laurent and Adam Grant, but how do the others fit into this? The task-­force members? Donovan? Is it because Annalisa is obsessed with my boyfriend?

  Suddenly, Emerson is on me. “I said hands behind your back.”

  The gun pokes me in the spine. “Hands. Now!” I can smell his breath, minty like toothpaste, as he leans in toward my ear. Irrationally, I think angrily that his breath shouldn’t smell fresh and clean. It should smell like the walking corpse that his dead eyes reveal he is.

  My arms are wrenched behind me and bound together by something that cuts painfully into my wrists.

  “Now walk.”

  Holding my arms, he guides me down the path to the boat. When we get there, I brace myself to see Conway’s body. It is unnaturally splayed in the bottom of the boat, one leg bent behind him. Bulging eyes look frantic, and his mouth is pulled into a frightening grimace. Bloody brain matter is oozing out a huge hole in his head. It’s not really a hole; it’s that half his head is missing. I lean over and vomit, spewing what little bile remains in my stomach.

  “Get in.”

  I nearly trip as I lift my legs to get into the boat. Emerson gets in behind me and pushes me down onto a seat. He uses an oar to push off from the shore. The waves rock us, and I worry that a wave is going to submerge the boat, sending us crashing into the rocks. Somehow, he manages to row us out past the rocky shore. I look down at my sneakers, avoiding the thought that the jeans in front of me are a dead man’s legs. Could I disable Emerson enough by kicking him in his groin? Then what?

  His dead eyes look at me as if he knows what I’m thinking.

  “I could put a bullet through your forehead right now.”

  His arms are rowing, but the gun rests on the seat bench beside him. Even if my hands were free, I could never grab it in time.

  I lift my chin. “What’s stopping you?”

  A furrow crosses his brow.

  It doesn’t go past me. “What? You going to tell me you have some sick code of honor where you don’t kill women or something?” My words are dripping disgust. “Or rather you kill them, but not at your own hands? By cutting the brakes on a car? Sort of a ‘keep your hands clean’ kind of murder.

  He swallows and looks off to the side. “Something like that.”

  “What was your plan i
n Oakland Hills Park then? That seemed pretty hands-­on to me.”

  His lips close tightly for a second before he answers. “Wanted to see what you knew. What that rookie fuck told you. Maybe at that point, you would’ve lived. Who knows? Maybe we would’ve ended up friends.”

  He eyes my chest. I glare at him.

  “Listen, lady, it’d be a hell of a lot easier for me just to shoot you, but Donovan would know that you died quickly and painlessly. That’s not what I want. I want him to agonize for the rest of his goddamn life over your death. I can imagine his face when I tell him how you spent your last moments on this Earth. He’ll be behind bars, and there I’ll be—­a free man—­describing the death of his girl to him. And there won’t be anything he can do. I can’t wait to see the look on his face. He will remember my visit and what I tell him for the rest of his sorry life. It’s something I want him to think about—­how you suffered—­while he rots in a prison cell. I want him to replay it over and over again and know there was not a damn thing he could do about it.”

  Not only is he going to kill me, but he’s ruined Donovan’s life—­in so many ways. I picture Donovan growing old in jail, hating himself, blaming himself for everything. It breaks my heart. Emerson’s voice interrupts my morbid thoughts.

  “Plus, Annalisa wants you dead.”

  I know she hates me, but so much that she wants me dead?

  He sees the confusion on my face.

  “Haven’t you figured anything out? How have you ever lasted as a reporter? See, once this is cleared up, Annalisa and I can start our life together.” He actually smiles and gives a little laugh, which is almost more disturbing than when he is scowling at me.

  Annalisa. She wasn’t just the object of his obsession, but was in on it the whole time? I can’t believe it. He’s lying.

  “Does Annalisa know of your big plans to ride off into the sunset? Somehow, I doubt it.” I purposely make my voice drip with sarcasm. His scowl returns. I hit the nail on the head.

  “She’ll agree to it readily enough. She won’t have a choice. You see, me and Annalisa have some history together. Now, nobody is left. Just the two of us.”

  He methodically eliminated the competition. Sick. But I’m surprised to hear him say they have a past together.

  “What history?”

  “We dated after your pansy boyfriend broke up with her. Dumb rookie fuck brought her to a cop party, and I met her there. I knew right then she was the one for me. And she must have known it, too, because right when they broke up, she came running to me. It didn’t work out at the time. But she’s mine. She always has been. She always will be.”

  “She’s no more interested in you than a chicken is in eating an egg sandwich.”

  It’s not my most cutting remark or the best analogy I’ve ever had, but it hits the mark.

  Slowly, and deliberately, he anchors the oars. He’s going to shoot me now. Fear fills my insides. At the same time, I feel a spark of rebellion and stubbornness. Shoot me now. Go ahead. Good. I’ll have ruined his big plans. Instead, he leans over and slaps me so hard I see black for a few seconds. I taste blood and feel one of my teeth on my tongue. I wonder if I should try to save the tooth, but with my hands tied, there’s nothing I can do. Besides, I’m going to die soon anyway. I spit it out on the ground.

  “You won’t kill women, but you don’t mind smacking them around? Is that your code of honor? That’s absurd.”

  Emerson ignores me and looks around with a frown. He squints in the direction behind me, then a grin emerges.

  “Ah, there it is. I’m an expert navigator, too.”

  He paddles furiously and I see it—­a few yards away, a small fishing boat is anchored in the middle of the sea. It’s dusk, but I can still make out the name on the side: EL DELFIN. The dolphin. He ties up near a small ladder on the bigger fishing boat and turns his attention to me. For a split second, I’m tempted to just roll off the boat into the water, but I’m not brave enough to drown myself.

  Emerson grabs some rope and ties my legs and ankles together before he lays me down on the bottom of the boat near Conway’s body. My face is next to a dead man’s. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to turn away, but I still retch. The boat bobs as Emerson steps onto the ladder. I turn my head to see him, relieved that he is leaving. I’d rather take my chances at sea with a corpse than spend one more second around Mark Emerson. With one foot on the rowboat, Emerson slowly lifts his big black gun and points it at me.

  Chapter 50

  THE GUN’S GOING off near my ear momentarily deafens me. It takes me a second to realize he didn’t hit me. I do a quick inventory of my body to see if maybe I’m in shock and don’t realize I’ve been shot. As I do, I notice a small hole in the bottom of the boat. Was he trying to shoot me but missed? My ears, still recovering from the noise of the blast, hear what he says next as if I am hearing an echo from across a vast space.

  “There,” he says. “Now your boat has a small leak. You’ll sink within the hour. Then, if you’re lucky, you’ll drown before the sharks eat you. But I’ve seen some seals around here, and seals mean sharks. I don’t think you’ll get the luxury of drowning. Adios.”

  I can’t see him but feel the momentum as Emerson gives our boat a violent push. An engine starts up. I don’t lift my head until the sound grows distant.

  Trying to ignore Conway, and telling myself to pretend I’m lying next to a log instead of a dead man, I rub against the ropes. My hands are still tied behind my back. I buck and arch and try to free myself. And then I spend long moments recovering from my efforts.

  Water is slowly seeping into the hole in the boat. I can feel its icy cold fingers licking at the bottom of my feet and my legs. I’ve been lying beside Tim Conway’s body but now realize that I have to take drastic measures to survive. Maybe I’m being foolish to prolong the inevitable. The water is rising.

  It makes me retch more, and I close my eyes while I do it, but I turn and wriggle around enough so that Conway’s body is beneath me. Soon, his body is partially submerged in the water pooling in the bottom of the boat. There’s enough slack in the rope that I’m able to twist my body so my face isn’t near his or in the water. I shiver uncontrollably, both from cold and fear. I close my eyes and pray, but for once, words fail me. Finally, I settle on one word—­please.

  I hear a splash, and my insides turn to jelly. I’ve been afraid of sharks ever since I watched Jaws reruns on TV as a kid. The thought of sharks in the water nearby is almost unbearable. I think I would rather die about any other way. I resolve to take a giant gulp of water as soon as the boat submerges. Maybe I should try to stick my face into the water at the bottom of the boat? I try to remember what I’ve read about drowning. Is it peaceful? I seem to recall that, but then again, wasn’t there something else about its being one of the most painful ways to die?

  All of a sudden, the hairs on my neck stand up. It feels like I’m being watched. The softest whisper of a sound comes from the side of the boat, as if a gentle wave is lapping up against it. Slowly, I turn my head.

  A giant, inky black eye is watching me in the dusk. I nearly scream. Then, I realize what I’m seeing. A whale. A giant gray whale has surfaced and is looking right at me. I don’t know why, but I burst into tears. To hell with my mantra: Die before cry.

  But now I let go and taste the salty tears that silently pour down my face and drip into my mouth. Behind the whale, the sky has turned a brilliant, sherbet-­colored orange. I can’t stop looking into this eye that glimmers with intelligence. It is the exact opposite of looking into Emerson’s dead eyes. This big black eye is full of life. My tears abruptly stop, and I can’t help it—­a sense of calm fills me. As if I have seen an angel. I feel meek and yielding and peaceful—­ready to let go of all the pain in my life. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel alone. I know now that today I’m going to die. And I’m okay with that
. I’m ready to go be with Caterina. The whale has allowed me to make peace with death.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. Then, as if it were a ghostly apparition, the whale slips back into the water. The boat dips slightly, and the sea around me is calm again. At the same time, I hear a boat’s engine and shouting. At first, I panic, sure that it’s Mark Emerson coming back to finish me off, but then I realize if that were the case, I wouldn’t hear shouting.

  Lopez or Father Liam? They must have come down to find me when I didn’t call last night. I struggle madly to get free, so I can flag the boaters down, but all this does is exhaust me and splash water around. It sounds like the boat is going farther away now.

  I lie back down, whimpering like a child. It’s too late. They’ve gone. Then the noise grows louder again. I’m too exhausted to lift my head. The seawater that has seeped into the boat is covering part of my body now. I have to arch my neck a little to keep my head out of the water. The icy water makes my whole body shiver. My teeth are chattering. I try to scream “help,” but my throat is so dry, and I feel so cold and weak that it comes out as a croak. I keep trying, anyway. My little raspy yell isn’t much, but it’s all I have. If they hear me, it will be a miracle. It’s out of my hands now. That same sense of meekness in the face of fate comes back to me. It is not up to me anymore. If they see the boat, I will live. If they drive past it in the darkness, I will die. It’s that simple.

  Chapter 51

  THE SPOTLIGHT SHINING down blinds me. They see me. But I can’t see them. The tears slipping out of my eyelids aren’t helping me see any better, either. I must be delusional because in the mix of Spanish-­speaking voices I think I hear Donovan’s voice. Absurd. I don’t even think he speaks Spanish. It sounds like an argument. I’m cracking up, losing it, imagining Donovan’s voice out here on the sea in Mexico. Even if he wasn’t locked up in a jail cell in San Francisco, there is no way he would be on some boat in the middle of nowhere off the coast of Baja California.