Blessed are the Meek

by Kristi Belcamino

  “Guess Emerson got to him first. I’m sorry,” I say.

  “His trailer was trashed. I knew something bad had happened,” Donovan says, and swallows. “A neighbor heard a gunshot and saw a guy put something in the trunk of a car. She called the Federales, but they blew her off.”

  “Down the road, I saw a fruit stand. Grizzly old farmer guy was packing up his stuff, but he told me a man driving a Fiat paid him twenty bucks for directions to the lighthouse. When I got to the lighthouse, I saw some blood on the rocks down by the water.”

  He pauses and looks down for a second. “Ella, I thought I’d lost you for sure.”

  “I’m right here,” I say, taking his hand in mine.

  “I figured you were all in a boat out at sea somewhere. The Federales were a little more motivated by a stack full of greenbacks, and we were on the water within an hour. Thank God we found you when we did.”

  “It sure didn’t seem like Emerson was trying to cover his tracks.”

  “He wasn’t. He figured by the time anyone squawked about it, he’d be long gone. It’s not unusual for ­people simply to disappear around here.”

  “So I’m told.”

  Chapter 54

  “DO YOU FORGIVE ME?”

  Donovan practically whispers the words.

  The sunrise is painting the sea below us with pink-­and-­orange shimmers of light. I feel like I could sleep for a year. Everything that has happened seems surreal. It’s hard to wrap my brain around what Donovan has told me. I nod without looking over at him. When he kneels down in front of me, I blink, confused, and yet know exactly what is coming next. But I’m too stunned to stop him.

  “Going through all this the past few weeks has made me really do some thinking. I don’t want to live without you. Will you marry me?”

  My mouth drops open. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know. I don’t feel anything but numb. Not happy. Not afraid. Nothing. He must see the look in my eyes. And when I don’t answer, he sighs and stands up, brushing the dirt off his knees.

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” he says, sitting back down and looking out over the sea. “I knew this might happen once you knew the truth. Why would you want to marry someone who has kept something like that from the authorities? I’m basically complicit in the crime. I abetted them. I covered up for them. They said they’ll forget about all that if I testify against Emerson. I understand why you wouldn’t want to be married to me.”

  “You don’t understand,” I begin, trying to explain. “I do love you, but I don’t feel like I know you right now. It’s not that you kept this a secret from the authorities. It’s that you kept it a secret from me. You never told me. Even when I begged you at the jail to talk to me, you never trusted me enough to confide in me.”

  He slumps back onto the bench. “You’re right.”

  I wait, watching the water before us churning and swirling.

  “Keeping it from you was wrong. But you have to understand; I was trying to protect you. I meant to tell you. I wanted to tell you, I tried to tell you—­I knew keeping it a secret could destroy us, but I was certain I’d lose you if you knew the truth about me.” He jumps up and begins pacing in front of me, running his fingers through his hair until it sticks up.

  “We’ve been dating for more than a year,” I say. “I’ve seen how haunted you are at night. But I never dreamed you were keeping such an awful secret. I just thought you didn’t love me anymore. How could you keep something like that from me? Don’t you know me enough to know I love you and would help you? You didn’t trust me. You didn’t trust me enough to confide your darkest secrets to me. I’ve trusted you with the worst horrors of my life. But you wouldn’t let me do the same for you. You never gave me a chance. That’s why I can’t marry you. At least not right now. You don’t trust me enough for me to be your wife.”

  When he looks at me, his eyes are haunted. “I understand that. I really do. But I hope you give me a chance and try to understand why I did it.” He leans over to me, putting his hands on my shoulder and looking into my face. “But I think there’s something else.”

  He’s right. I can’t lie to him. I put my head in my hands. I haven’t even wanted to admit this to myself. I don’t want to say it out loud. I’m so weary. All I want is to sleep. I look up. He’s told me his deepest fears about our relationship. Now it’s my turn.

  “I don’t think I can be a mother.” Saying it brings tears to my eyes. “And I know you want a family.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  I look up. Has he changed his mind about having kids?

  “You can do it. You’re just afraid to do it.” He says it softly.

  I look up after a few seconds of silence. He’s gone. He’s tromping back to the car, his shoulders stooped.

  Deep down inside, I know he’s right. I’m not just afraid to love a child of my own. I’m terrified.

  Chapter 55

  DONOVAN STARES STRAIGHT ahead as I get in the car and strap on my seat belt. Without looking, he reaches over and squeezes my hand. I squeeze it back. When he starts to drive, I lean my seat back and start to drift off. Despite everything, my overwrought emotions and my exhaustion, I smile when I remember the whale. And I remember Annalisa’s story: “If you ever look a whale in the eye, you must immediately return to shore and go to sleep. So you can dream.”

  I did return to shore right away after seeing the whale, so maybe it will still work if I go to sleep now.

  I DREAM A dream that is so beautiful and terrifying I jolt to consciousness gasping. Donovan has his hand on my shoulder. His eyes have turned soft again. “Are you okay?”

  I nod. I dreamed about a little girl. Unlike other dreams, this one was not about a missing Rosarito girl. It was not even about my sister, Caterina.

  This little girl was someone I’ve never met before, yet she was disturbingly familiar. More familiar even than Caterina’s face. And yet, her eyes—­they were Caterina’s dark brown eyes. She had Caterina’s pouty pink lips. But instead of my sister’s sleek blue-­black hair, this little girl had a mop of brown curls. Unruly curls and freckles across her nose. Is it me as a little girl?

  This shard of the dreamworld coming back to me in the car makes my mouth curve in a smile. But then fear courses through me as I remember the rest of the dream.

  The girl, who was wearing a flowered swimsuit, was playing in the sand on a wide stretch of beach. She appeared to be alone. The beach stretched empty for miles in both directions. The girl laughed delightedly and filled her sand bucket repeatedly, patting the sand, then overturning it. She had built quite an impressive little city of turrets and moats.

  Then, a long shadow fell across her small figure.

  She was so busy, it took a moment for her to notice, but when she looked up, an expression of pure terror overtook her face.

  That’s when I woke. I can’t shake the overwhelming sense of foreboding and dread left over from this dream. What does this mean? Two weeks ago, when Annalisa told her story about the whale at Grant’s house, a heckler cut her off before she finished.

  She never said what the dreams were supposed to mean.

  Chapter 56

  OUR PLANE BACK to California gets in late, and I gratefully fall into Donovan’s bed. By the time I wake, it’s nearly noon.

  I find a note from Donovan on the night table. He’s meeting with his union representative, the department’s public-­information officer, and the chief—­working out details about a press release announcing his innocence in Carl Brooke’s murder.

  “Rest up,” he wrote. “We’ll have a nice dinner when I get home.”

  I put in a piece of toast and slowly sip some coffee. My stomach is doing loop de loops. I pour the coffee down the drain and toss the toast in the trash. I’ll eat later.

  There’s a message from Lopez
on my phone. Delilah, the missing waitress who lived with Frank Anderson, was found dead. Overdosed in a dingy motel room in Concord. I make a note to call the morgue and tell them to look extra carefully for signs of foul play. Anyone who ends up dead around that monster is probably his victim.

  Now that Donovan is cleared, I need to focus all my energy on finding the man who killed Caterina, even if it means moving next door to the Salty Sailor until that bastard shows up again. But first to wrap up this nightmare.

  I call Kellogg and tell him I’ll have an exclusive story for him on the murders. With Liz the librarian’s help, I track down a phone number for the bank teller’s daughter, who is now in her twenties. Moretti already told me the police visited her this morning, but I want to make sure that I talk to her so that when I write my story, we do her mother justice.

  She cries when I tell her why I want to write a longer story.

  “Can we meet next week? I’d like to find out everything I can about your mother. Do you have pictures and maybe other ­people I can talk to? I think this story is going to take a long time to unravel, and I don’t want her to get lost in the details. She’s the true victim in this story.”

  The line is silent for a second, then I hear a small, quiet sound. “Thanks. Thanks for saying that.”

  Looking over my notes. I write the main story about Mark Emerson’s killing spree and the rogue robbery team, editing out all the personal information about Donovan that nobody else needs to know about it. Sipping coffee, I read over it, nodding. The story seems wrapped up except for one thing—­Emerson is still on the loose. The story will run with a description of him and a phone number to call police if he is spotted because he’s considered armed and dangerous. I’m sure he’s deep in hiding in Mexico.

  I decide to take a shower and get ready, so I look presentable when Donovan returns home. After I’m showered and dressed, I see the light blinking on the answering machine.

  Annalisa’s voice sounds triumphant on the message.

  “Don’t worry, Sean. Everything should be over with soon. I’m meeting Mark today. I’m going to give him the tapes, the originals. He’ll leave us alone now. It’s over.”

  I close my eyes for a second.

  Foolish woman. She has no idea who or what she is dealing with. So, Emerson was able to sneak out of Mexico without anyone’s noticing? Well, police here will be happy to know he’s back in town.

  I dial 911. The line is busy. Unbelievable. But what would I tell them anyway? I don’t even know where Annalisa is meeting him.

  I click off and dial Donovan. Annalisa will listen to him more than me. But he doesn’t pick up his cell. I dial the front desk at the Rosarito Police Station. The receptionist tells me Donovan and the lieutenant went out to lunch after their meeting. Seriously? I dial Annalisa. I don’t wait for her to speak.

  “Where are you? Aren’t you supposed to be in Modesto?”

  “What? Who is this? Is this Gabriella?” She sounds confused. “You’re calling from Sean’s line?”

  “Annalisa, I’m going to ask you again. Where are you?”

  “I’m on the Golden Gate Bridge, for your information. I’m meeting someone at the Marin Headlands. It’s an extremely important meeting, so I don’t have time to talk to you.”

  She doesn’t even realize I listened to Donovan’s message.

  “Turn around right now. Let the police handle it. You don’t know what you’re dealing with, Annalisa.”

  “Oh, whatever. You wanted to be the one who saves Sean, but guess what? I did. I’m the reason he’s out of jail. I saved him. He’s free because of me.”

  “You’re the reason he was in jail in the first place.”

  “I don’t have time for you.”

  “Annalisa? Turn around!” I’m practically shouting, but she has already hung up. I dial her again, and it goes straight to voice mail.

  “Annalisa, he’s going to kill you! Please don’t meet him. Talk to Donovan. Call Donovan and tell him. Please. This isn’t about you and me. This is about Emerson. He’ll kill you.”

  I hang up and look around, frustrated. I’m the only one who knows about this meeting and I’m the only one who can possibly stop her.

  I race down the stairs, jumping in the orange beater. I yank the gun out of the glove box and put it on the seat beside me before peeling out, leaving a long trail of black skid marks as I head for the freeway.

  In my car, I steer with one hand, redialing Annalisa’s number with the other. In between, I try Donovan’s line. I leave a message for him, telling him where Annalisa is headed—­the Marin Headlands. I don’t mention I’m halfway there, as well.

  A temporary traffic jam getting onto the Bay Bridge has me pounding the steering wheel in frustration, wishing I could will the traffic away.

  If I only knew exactly where I was headed, I could call 911. Where would Emerson meet her? I rack my brains. The Marin Headlands is home to abandoned military installations that were used to protect against enemy ships from entering the San Francisco Bay. It contains old WWII bunkers, gun batteries, and antiaircraft lookouts, even a Nike missile silo. The shelters built into the hillside were designed to protect military personnel from chemical, biological, and nuclear attack.

  I’m sure that’s where he is meeting Annalisa—­at one of the old military installations. But which one? I have to figure it out, so I can call the cops. I can’t swoop in and rescue her alone. I’ve learned that. I need help. But right now, I’m all she’s got. And the clock is ticking.

  He’s going to kill her. I know it. If she refuses to run away with him and be his woman, she’s dead. And Annalisa is stubborn. She’s going to turn him down. I know it. He won’t be satisfied with her handing over the tapes she made with Carl Brooke, the ones that incriminate him. He’d rather take her out than have her reject him. I’ve looked in his eyes. They are dead. Vacant. He’s soulless. A sociopath. Looking at my gun, I say a prayer that I can make it there in time.

  Chapter 57

  MY ORANGE BEATER starts to sputter as I cross the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s already been thirty minutes since I spoke to Annalisa.

  “Please don’t die on the bridge,” I pat the dashboard. “Come on, baby, you only have to make it across to the other side. You can do it.”

  I have been running through all the old military installations in my head, trying to determine which one Emerson would pick. Where would be the easiest place to get away with murder? Not Fort Cronkhite or Fort Barry, too touristy. It must be Wolf Ridge. I remember my uncle took my cousins and me there one summer. It’s the least accessible area in the Marin Headlands. You have to park and hike to the ridge. On a day like today, where the fog is seeping in across the Bay, you won’t be able to see anything up there unless you’re at the top yourself, some eight hundred feet above the breaking surf below. And a lot of ­people won’t be out in today’s cold wind and fog.

  When I was ten, and my uncle took me to Wolf Ridge, I thought it was cool but creepy. Giant cement platforms dozens of feet in the air were once home to target-­tracking radar systems. Old Cold War bunkers were dug into the hillsides, with their rectangular openings slanted like big, black, gaping mouths. Some bunkers had collapsed into caved-­in piles of timber and dirt. My older cousin, Sal, had dared me to go inside one. I got as far as the first few steps inside, then I came out at a run. It reminded me of a basement.

  That’s it. Wolf Ridge. It has to be. I dial Donovan’s number again and get his voice mail.

  “Donovan, I think Emerson is going to kill Annalisa. You have to send some help. I’m heading to Wolf Ridge. I’m pretty sure that’s where she’s meeting him. Please, please hurry.”

  I hang up. Last time I was going after a killer, I didn’t call Donovan. This time, I want him and need him here, and yet, he’s not picking up his phone.

  I dial 911 again. This time I g
et through.

  “There’s going to be a murder at Wolf Ridge. I need officers there right away. If you think I’m a nut job, contact San Francisco Police Detective Jack Sullivan and tell him Gabriella Giovanni said there’s going to be a murder at Wolf Ridge! Tell him it’s about Mark Emerson!” I hang up. I know I sound crazy, but I think that by dropping Sullivan’s name, they will take me more seriously, and maybe the message will get to him. And he won’t be able to resist. He’ll show. He might get here faster than Donovan. I have a gun, but I know I need more than that. I need cops here to help me. When I went after Jack Dean Johnson, I thought I could do it on my own. That was a mistake. This time, I know I need help. But if I wait for the cops to get here first, it’s going to be too late for Annalisa. I can’t wait and take that chance. I don’t like her, but I don’t want her death on my conscience, either.

  On my way to Wolf Ridge, also known as Hill 88, I slow near the path leading to Hawk Hill. I doubt this is the meeting spot, since it tends to be more popular with tourists, naturalists, and bird-­watchers. I look for Annalisa’s car in the line of cars parked on the side of the road before the tunnel to the lookout point. There are only about a dozen cars. In a few months, the trail of cars will stretch all the way down the hillside because each fall, bird-­watchers come to see tens of thousands of hawks, falcons, eagles, and vultures fly by this area of the Headlands, following warm thermal winds directly through the area.

  I continue on. As I round the corner, at the base of Fort Cronkhite, Annalisa’s gleaming Ferrari emerges through the fog, which has grown thicker with each turn. It’s the only car parked here. If Emerson’s here, he must have walked.

  I park, tuck my gun into the big front pocket of my thick sweatshirt, and grab my backpack out of my trunk. I’m going to need the flashlight inside it. I peek into the Ferrari’s windows and spot a tube of lipstick on the floorboard. I touch the hood. It’s still slightly warm. Good. Maybe I can get to her before Mark Emerson arrives.