by Ian Bull
“She seems wonderful,” I say to Carl.
“She’s making me nervous. She says she wants a kid.”
“Is that so bad?”
“I know what I want, and it’s not that,” he declares. “Not yet, at least.”
We sip our beers and stare at each other.
It’s awkward, until he smiles. “What about you? Do you know what you want yet?”
“Not in the least,” I answer.
“Yet you came here for a reason.”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you still create a hell of a commotion, my friend.”
“For that I apologize yet again. But I need your help to fix a problem.”
He finishes his beer, slamming the dead solider on the table. “Let’s talk then. Get what you need to show me and meet me upstairs.”
I go back into the guest bedroom and find my camera, pull out a copy of Celebrity Exposed and bring both upstairs.
I find Carl on his bedroom balcony, caught in Cherie’s loving grasp. She coos sweet French phrases in his ear as she kisses him. He kisses her back, but she refuses to let go. “My love for you is bigger than the ocean, but I have to talk to my friend. Please, go downstairs and sing more. I want to hear your voice,” Carl whispers to her.
Carl dances with her a moment, then pries her arms from around his neck and steers her back inside. I look out from his balcony to the harbor. It’s now dark and the water is so still I can see the reflection of stars and silver clouds in it, lit up by the rising full moon. Carl returns and sits down in a chair opposite me, his face as calm and still as the water behind him.
“Is the water here always this calm?” I ask.
“It gets rough. There are no ocean swells on this side of the island and it’s shallow for a long way out, so it just seems quiet. But when a storm comes, that shallow water chops up a lot worse than the deep water of the ocean, and there’s no place for that turbulence to go. That’s why people drown all the time trying to escape from Cuba. Fishermen, too. And when hurricanes come? Watch out.”
“Sort of like you,” I comment.
“I’m rough when I need to be.”
Someone plugs in an electric guitar downstairs and strums three chords from a Nirvana song, and a cheer goes up.
“Do your neighbors get upset with the noise?” I ask.
“I don’t have neighbors. I own all the houses on this block.”
“All five of them?” I ask, impressed.
“After I rescued my sixth kidnapped oil company executive in Brazil, I felt my luck was running out, so I cashed in and bought these,” he says. “I rent the other houses out to tourists and friends. We are at the far end of the bay and we’re pushed up against the limestone cliffs behind us, so there’s no reason to come out here unless you’re a friend.”
I look into the street at the one road heading back to town. Two Bahamians standing under a streetlight stop a man and woman who are walking toward the party. The Bahamians shake hands with the newcomers, share a laugh, and let them pass.
“Is someone watching from behind the house too?” I ask.
“Yup. Seems smart after what happened yesterday.”
“Thanks again for that. And for this party. You got a nice setup here, Carl.”
“What about your surf shack out in Zorro-land that you wanted?” he asks.
“I was close but then I had to come here.”
“Had to?” he asks, his face serious. “When you showed up, it upset a lot of people.”
“I was just asking questions.”
“While you were passed out I asked some questions of my own. The one-percenter who owns Elysian Cay is a guy named Xander Constantinou, and half the men in town helped build his estate. Many still get paid. These islands don’t make a lot of money, and when someone like that opens his wallet, the money spreads far and buys a lot of loyalty.”
“He has a woman on Elysian Cay. She’s in trouble.”
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“Believe it or not, we’ve never spoken,” I admit.
Carl raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Still shy with girls? Okay, keep going.”
“She’s an actress. A movie star. I took her picture a dozen times for this tabloid paper, and I made good money,” I say, nodding at the copy on the table.
Carl turns the magazine toward him on the table and looks at the cover.
“How much?”
“A hundred thousand dollars.”
“Damn. Paparazzi work is good! How much of that does she get?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You get it all?” he asks, genuinely confused.
“She gets publicity and she stays famous. The photos I take feed into that.”
“But she doesn’t even know when you’re there?”
“She spotted me twice,” I say. “One time she tried to run me over with her car, the other time she kicked me in the face and knocked out a tooth.”
“I don’t blame her,” laughs Carl. “Sounds like Hollywood is fun.”
“Except now she’s in trouble. I think she’ll be killed, and Constantinou is using photos I took of her to cover it all up,” I explain. “I can’t allow that to happen again.”
He raises his eyebrows when I say “again.” He seems curious yet suspicious.
“Can you show me anything?” he asks.
I open the tabloid to the “Billionaire’s Love Nest” photo spread and I lay it in front of Carl. “What’s going on in these photos?” I ask.
Carl brings a table lamp closer and leans over the magazine. “A good looking blonde, athletic, wearing sunglasses and some kind of sailor suit, is getting on a yacht with a middle-aged man who seems to be wealthy, fit, of European descent—perhaps Greek or Arab—and they are flanked by…bodyguards.”
“Look closer,” I say, pointing. “Look at that photo there and there.”
Carl studies the photos carefully. He nods. “She’s not happy, and the guys around her don’t look friendly. They have guns.”
“Exactly. She’s being forced onto that yacht.”
“Interesting,” Carl says with a noncommittal tone.
“My antennae weren’t up when I took the photo, but they are now.” I insist. “I know she’s been kidnapped.”
“Has she been declared missing?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
“Has anyone said yet that they’re worried about her?”
“No, but that’s because Constantinou paid the magazine to write an article claiming she went with him willingly. They used my photos to sell that lie.”
“Okay, let’s say she’s there against her will. It’s not a prison. She’s surrounded by luxury. What makes you think she needs to be rescued?” Carl asks.
I point at the picture of the guy with the sunglasses and black hair with the streak of white, looking right at the camera.
“Does he look familiar?” I ask.
“Nope,” Carl says, shaking his head.
“That’s Rolando Caballero, leader of FARC’s 37th Front. The Sadist who shot the boy in the chest,” I say. “He shaved his beard and cut and slicked back his hair, but that’s him.”
Carl strokes his goatee for a long time. If he is intrigued, he’s not letting on.
“You found Caballero, after the entire Colombian military couldn’t?”
“I took both photos. I’ve seen him close up through my lens. This is what I’m good at, it’s my job to know this stuff. I know it’s him.”
Carl looks at me, then at the photo. He stares for a while before looking up. “Let’s say it’s him. What difference does that make?”
“This guy likes to kill. It’s what he’s good at. Do you remember the intel? Over six years, he kidnapped twelve Colombian politicians and businessmen for the FARC. He tortured them until the ransom money came, but still killed eight of them. The army finally chased him into the Sierra Nevada Mountains. He didn’t hesitate when he killed the boy, and he won’t hesi
tate with her.”
“So why not go to the LAPD or the FBI or Interpol? Why come to me?”
“Proximity is destiny. If you weren’t in the same country, I’d still be spinning my wheels talking to a detective in the Hollywood precinct right now, or in a conference room with Beverly Hills PD,” I say.
“And let me guess—your new profession doesn’t get a lot of respect with those guys,” he says as he leafs through the pages.
“But yours does.”
“Fine, I’ll make some calls and check it out,” he says, and closes the magazine.
He leans back and shrugs at me. I bite my lip and keep staring at him. My bent knee moves up and down on the ball of my foot like a small piston.
“But you want something else?” he asks.
“Like I said, I want to hire you,” I say.
“To do what? Mount a gigantic rescue?”
“You rescue people for a living. Just name the price. One hundred thousand? Two? Three?”
Carl squints at me and every horizontal and vertical worry line pops out on his face as he eyes me up and down. “Not interested,” he finally answers, and leans back.
“Can I ask why?”
“Officially she hasn’t been kidnapped. There’s no demand for a ransom, or even concern from a family member. There’s just you and your photos, and you don’t even know her. With no evidence of a crime, it’s not a rescue, it’s an invasion,” he explains, “and that’s against the law. You can’t hire me to break the law.”
He leans back in his rattan chair, his face calm.
“The guy who killed that boy and almost killed us is just a hundred miles from here. We have a chance to bring him to justice,” I insist.
“The boy got shot because you and I broke protocol. If you want justice, tell your story to the Bahamian Police and the FBI. What you’re talking about is a personal vendetta to erase your own guilt and pain,” he declares.
I keep my poker face. “What makes you think I’m in pain?”
Carl’s eyes grow huge as he laughs out loud. “Looked in a mirror lately? You’re tortured. Hell, those bruises are an improvement.”
I feel my face heat up, and it’s not from the beer. Carl still jabs at me, just like when he was my team leader.
“Sorry to be so harsh, but I talk this way to anyone who wants me to do something dangerous. I did it when I wore a uniform, and now I do it when I wear a suit and go into a corporate office. There’s no difference. You’re still asking me to pick up a weapon for you.”
A trade wind blows across the bay, and I can see the line the breeze makes as it crosses the water. It finally comes ashore and hits the balcony and cools the sweat on my forehead, bringing with it the scent of flowers and sea salt. A bell on an ocean buoy rings far away.
“You’re right, I won’t ask again. I’ll do it myself.”
“No, you won’t,” he says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“It means I won’t let you. As long as your actress is on Elysian Cay, you’re not leaving this island.”
Chapter 20
Julia Day 7: Wednesday Night
It’s 9:00 p.m. and I’m standing on the veranda while a film crew buzzes around me, hanging lights, moving fake plants and wetting down the marble until it glistens. Grips raise a square pop up tent and arrange chairs in front of three monitors. This will be the “video village” where the director, cinematographer, producer and others will watch and listen to the live video feed of our performances.
I’m trying to be invisible. It’s working; for the first time in days no one seems to be watching me. I look at the garden wall in front of me. I could take four steps, jump over and disappear into the darkness. I could maybe hide for a few days and then flag down a fishing boat. Is this my chance? I’ve gotten away from Xander once before—
“Miss Travers?” a voice asks.
Toni the makeup girl is standing ten yards away. She’s a dark-haired girl, around twenty-five, with a cute face and a killer body, which she shows off in black leggings and a Ramones T-shirt over a halter bra.
“Can I finish your makeup?” Toni asks.
I nod, and she skips up to me grinning like we’re high school pals gossiping after volleyball practice. She pulls a brush from her makeup belt and dabs my cheeks, looking everywhere on my face except into my eyes.
“It’s so humid here, I can’t believe how much base I have to put on you. You are so lucky your skin is so light. People with olive skin? Forget it, especially when they’re tanned. Too shiny, their foreheads are mirrors, you know?” she laughs.
“Help me,” I whisper.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Your hair looks great. Marjorie and I will be right at the monitors. You are runway ready, girlfriend.”
“No really, help me. I’ve been kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped? Are you, like, making me part of how you prepare? Awesome.”
I feel someone watching me and I glance over my left shoulder and see Rolando standing just two feet away. He folds his arms and smiles.
The assistant director, a man named Walker, strides up and stops ten yards away. He is a bear of a man with a booming voice that cuts through any crew noise, so he doesn’t have to worry about communicating past Rolando’s perimeter.
“Is she camera ready?” Walker shouts.
“Camera ready,” Toni answers, then she gives me a final dab and walks away.
“I heard what you said to her,” Rolando says. “What do you think she’ll do?”
I watch Toni, who skips over to the monitor and joins Marjorie, the set hair dresser. Toni seems to have already forgotten everything I said.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Pray she doesn’t,” he says. “Because I’m watching you and I can see everything.” He grabs my elbow. I resist, and he pinches my funny bone and pain shoots up my arm. I knock his hand away and try to punch him in the chin with my upright palm, but he catches my hand in midair and squeezes a nerve in my thumb.
“Don’t touch me,” I say, and yank my hand away.
Two grips carrying extension cords pause but keep going. I see Xander fast approaching.
“Getting into character!” he says, so all around can hear him. “Good, I like it.”
The grips glance at each other, but neither of them steps closer. A good crew always has blinders on—especially to the ugly stuff—and this crew is professional to a fault.
“Just work with Rolando, my dear. It makes things so much easier.”
“There’s no need for him to ever touch me,” I say.
“Then behave. If anyone on the crew expresses the slightest concern for your situation, you will be creating a problem for them as well. Don’t be selfish.”
“This is never going to work,” I whisper. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can, you just don’t realize it yet,” he says. “You will give the best performance of your life, Julia, and you’ll get what you so desperately want.”
“My freedom?” I ask.
“No, to be taken seriously as an actor,” he answers.
He’s taunting me, but he’s right about one thing. My acting talent is my only strength in this situation, and I’m already better at it than he could ever understand.
I close my eyes and exhale, pausing for effect. I open my eyes and look at him.
“Teach me, then. You obviously still see things that I can’t,” I say.
He smiles. He likes the idea that he’s my teacher again. “In the first half of the film your character is naive, and so were you five years ago. The second half of the film is where your character is tested, just as I am testing you now. Anything you’re feeling is perfect for the film. Just use it. As you start to do good work, you’ll embrace your role,” he says.
He’s spewing actor-speak that he’s heard before, but it’s partly true. I have to embrace two roles: I’m playing ex-cop, Risa Baker, and I must also play Julia Travers, the kidnapped
actress who seems to be slowly falling back in love with her captor.
“Trust me,” he says, smiling. “You can do it.”
I stare into his eyes and blink. As I feel my eyes moisten I look away and bite my lip, and then look back at him, as if torn with indecision. I nod.
He smiles, buying it. I played him and it worked. But I don’t feel grounded yet. I have my tools, but I don’t have a plan.
“Hello? I need her over here,” Walker the AD says, waving for our attention.
Rolando gestures that we can follow Walker. We pass a long dolly track across the marble veranda and reach the camera crew, which is ready with the first set-up.
Bernard St. Jacques paces in front of the fountain, running his lines to himself as he fans his seersucker suit with his Panama hat. He has crepe paper stuck into the neck of his collar so his makeup won’t bleed onto his shirt. He smiles and air-kisses me hello.
“Actors! Places please!” Walker shouts.
I find my starting mark alongside the track, four feet from the camera lens. The camera is on a dolly on the track, like a train ready to roll backwards. The camera operator, Anthony, sits on a suspended seat on the dolly, and his face disappears behind the camera as he peers at me through the viewfinder.
“Focal length?” he asks.
The second assistant camera, Sammie, does a tape measure from my eyes to the lens, and then from Bernard’s eyes to the lens and adjusts the focus. Anthony looks up from his viewfinder and glances at Rolando, who stands behind my left shoulder.
“You know you’re not in the movie. Right, dude?” he asks.
Rolando just stares. Then Paul, the sound guy, motions to Rolando to move so that he can check the microphone cable that runs up the back of my dress and into my bra.
“I’m sweating. The moleskin is coming loose,” I tell Paul.
“I’ve got a new one ready,” Paul says, and holds up a tiny piece of sticky moleskin.
I lean forward. Paul reaches into my cleavage and tapes down the tiny microphone to the skin of my left boob so that it’s not showing and then quickly retreats.
