Shutter speed: a Snapshot novella

by Freya Barker

  All except Carlos, his eyes are burning into mine, and with a small smile on his mouth, he mumbles something under his breath. Sounds like cheap shot?

  CHAPTER 8

  "I see I'm not the only one who's been looking." The voice from behind me sends shivers down my spine when I enter the trailer, walking straight to the kitchen to drop my take out coffee and my purse. Whatever I'm holding in my hands falls to the floor as I whirl around, finding the shower creep standing in the passage to my bedroom. My eyes instantly slide to the door, trying to gauge whether I could get there before him.

  "Don't bother trying," he says, as if reading my thoughts.

  I back up to the counter as he slowly moves toward me, my hands behind me, hoping I can reach the knife block beside the stove.

  "Nuh-huh." He wags his finger in front of his face, while his other hand comes up holding a gun he points directly at me. "We have some unfinished business, you and I, no? I told you how much I enjoyed seeing you on your knees. Imagined fucking that mouth of yours. Seeing my esé walk out of here this morning pissed me off. Knowing you were giving it to the conjo."

  I can't control the hammering of my heart in my chest, but when he talks about Ben, his esé, leaving my trailer this morning, the blood freezes in my veins. Even with my limited Spanish, I know that means brother. That means this revolting man is more than just a fellow camper, and Ben has obviously not been straight with me.

  "Ahhh, I see this is a surprise?" His face twists into a sneer. "Your boyfriend has not told you. This pleases me."

  I'm confused and terrified, as violent shaking takes over my body. Something the man takes immediate advantage of as he clears the distance in two steps. I find myself with my back plastered against his front, one arm around my waist and the other pressing the gun against the side of my neck. In a brief flash, I see the scar on Ben's neck, and I know instinctively this is how he got his.

  Pressing every disgusting inch of him against me, he pushes me toward the coffee table, where my camera was sitting right on top of the printouts I made earlier in the week.

  "Imagine my surprise to find these while I was waiting," he hisses in my ear. "Spying on us the whole time, were you?"

  I frantically shake my head. "No...No, I wasn't. It was an accident. I was just—"

  I never get to finish my sentence, because I find myself thrown to the side, my head catching the edge of the kitchen table before my world turns black.

  It's closing on three in the afternoon when I pull into the parking lot at The Pony Express to meet with the rest of my team. I've been in telephone contact with them the entire time, strategizing the best way to take down an armed felon, who is holed up in a highly explosive meth lab in the middle of the day. I've made it here in less than an hour and a half, leaving the warehouse in the capable hands of the FBI as I rushed back.

  I barely sit down with my team when a woman with a large framed print in her hands walks out from behind the counter, holding it up against the far wall, obviously trying to pick a spot. When I see the actual image, I'm up out of my chair like a flash, a sick feeling heavy in my gut.

  "Excuse me. Is that Isla Ferris' work?" I ask the surprised woman. The image is of a cow, the early morning sun reflecting off the water creating a halo around its head. In the background I can clearly recognize the dock at the campground.

  "Wow," the lady says with a bright smile on her face. "Now I'm really excited to hang these. Yes—yes, it is. In fact, she just dropped them off maybe forty-five minutes ago."

  I feel a bit of relief to hear Isla was here not that long ago. I nod at the woman and walk back to the table, where my three teammates are watching me curiously.

  "What's with the sudden interest in snapshots?" one of them asks when I sit down. For some reason his question raises the hair on my arm. Something about Carlos’ reaction had been bugging me, but I hadn't been able to put a finger on it. Realization hits like the final tumbler of a lock sliding home, making my blood run cold.

  Snap shot...not cheap shot!

  That's what the fucker said. It was a threat.

  I shoot up from my chair and lean in, my hands on the table.

  "He's got Isla."

  "Isla? Is that the camp manager?" Joe Francisi, my boss, asks.

  "Change of plans," I announce, before wasting precious minutes to outline my intent to go in alone, having the team on stand-by just north of the campground. Ignoring the loud objections behind me, I hurry out the door, jump in my truck, and race up the mountain.

  I don't bother stopping at her trailer, and instead drive straight down to site forty-nine. Either he has her and expects me, or he doesn't, but he'll still be expecting me. The moment I slam the door shut, my weapon at the small of my back, I see the door of the trailer open a crack. Pretending not to notice, I do what I normally do; sit down in one of the folding chairs to the side of the door, waiting for Luis to show himself. I've never been inside the trailer, but I have a general idea of the layout. It's likely been changed somewhat to suit their purposes, but other than the pungent odor associated with cooking, from the outside there's little distinguishing the trailer as a meth lab.

  "Everything go okay?"

  I turn my head to find Luis standing with one foot on the step, half of his body still obscured by the doorframe.

  "Yup," I answer easily, trying not to let my rage show. The thought of any harm coming to Isla forces me to draw on the decades of carefully honed patience and control, just to keep my seat and not rip the bastard apart. I only manage to do that because I fear what he has on the other side of that door is hanging on to life by a mere thread.

  Luis turns his head to look up the road before his eyes find me again, a grin spreading on his face. "Carlos?" he says.

  "Scared the shit out of me," I said, knowing I'd have to tread careful. "Not cool, Luis. Setting me up like that."

  "Just needed to know if I could trust you," he shrugs unapologetically. "By the way, where is he?"

  "Who, Carlos? He said something about stopping for gas. Shouldn't be far behind me."

  He glances up the road one more time before pushing the door a little wider. "Toss your gun in the truck. We've got a problem," he says casually, tilting his head to invite me in. Reluctantly I pull my weapon free and toss it in the back of the pick up, following him into the trailer.

  My head is throbbing when I wake up and find myself on the disgusting floor of a trailer. The head hurts either from hitting the table, or from the God-awful stench that is starting to penetrate. The next thing I notice is the sound of voices. The creep I found in my trailer is standing with one foot outside the door, but with that gun still trained in my direction. The other voice I recognize instantly and the sound causes my stomach to churn. Part of me wants to scream for help, but another, bigger, part is afraid of what will happen if I do. I don't know if I can handle having him confirm he played me all along. So I stay still and close my eyes, even when I feel the trailer move when the men obviously step inside.

  "What's she doing here?" I hear Ben casually ask, and it takes everything out of me not to move at those callous words, tearing into my core.

  "Saw you coming from her trailer this morning, esé. Went to check her trailer out; found those."

  I can't see what he's pointing at, but the rustling of paper tells the story. He's showing Ben the pictures. I don't think I ever ended up actually telling him I had taken those shots.

  "Your puta was spying on us."

  "Son of a bitch," Ben's voice rasps after a brief pause. "Jesus, man. I had no idea."

  Hoping both men's focus is on the pictures or each other, instead of on me, I very carefully try to sneak a peek, my eyelids still mostly closed. All I can decipher is that although Ben is facing in this direction, the other guy is standing level with my hips, his feet slightly turned away.

  "The fuck, Luis?" I hear Ben call out.

  That's when I spot the raised arm, aiming straight at Ben's chest. Before I can
even think it through, I pull up my knees, kicking my top leg out, just as the sound of a gunshot reverberates off the walls of the trailer and chaos ensues. My ears are ringing as I watch Ben hit the floor in front of me. Hard.

  More shots ring out and I wait for the one I know will mean the end for me.

  CHAPTER 9

  "Clear!"

  I'm still trying to suck in air when I hear Joe's call. The slug hit me on the right side of my chest, knocking me clear off my feet. Getting old sucks, because I'm thinking the impact may well have cracked a few ribs.

  Thank God for an unseasonably cool day, which made wearing a vest under my zip up hoodie possible.

  I roll my head to look at Isla, who'd clearly been playing possum earlier, and now has her eyes squeezed tightly shut. I still can't believe she tried to intervene. Too late for the first shot, but she managed to get him off balance, which saved me from a potential second one and gave Joe and the team time to get in here. I knew they'd be right behind me, that they'd see me toss my gun and take their cue from that. They didn't disappoint; Joe took Luis down before he even set foot in the trailer.

  "Pixie." I try to get her attention as I struggle to push myself up, but my voice doesn't reach. With my team crowding into the trailer, there's too much noise drowning me out. I manage to crawl on hands and knees over to where Joe is crouching beside her. "Move," I grunt at his back. He shifts slightly, and finally I see those beautiful hazel eyes on me. Relief shows first, but then weariness clouds them.

  "Who the hell are you?" Her voice sounds rough, almost as rough as mine.

  "DEA," Joe answers for me and I throw him a glare.

  By the time my eyes get back to Isla, hers are firmly closed again, shutting me, or perhaps this entire scene, out. It doesn't stop me from trailing my fingers over her face.

  "Barnes," Joe calls one of my teammates. "Help Gustafson on his feet and get him outside. Right behind you with the girl."

  "Bullshit. I'm taking her," I growl at him, before getting my legs under me. Gritting my teeth I manage to get my arms under her and lift her up. "Come on, Pixie. Let's get you out of here."

  She doesn't struggle or even object as I carry her outside, but I can feel the distance in her. Barnes is right behind me, and drags one of the folding chairs over to the picnic table.

  "Sit her down here," he says. Barnes is the resident medic on our team, which comes in handy from time to time. I step back and let him do his thing, while I take off my hoodie and my shirt, loosening the Velcro straps at my side. It hurts like a son of a bitch when I lift the vest over my head. A sharp hiss escapes my lips and Isla whips her head around, her eyes growing big as she takes me in.

  "He got you good," Barnes observes, checking out the already growing deep purple bruise. "You probably need to get those ribs taped up."

  I don't get a chance. Next thing I know Joe whisks me away to talk to local law enforcement, who've just arrived on the scene.

  -

  "What the fuck do you mean, she's being transported to Flagstaff?"

  With local and federal law enforcement now swarming the campground, I'd lost complete track of Isla. Last I knew, Barnes was driving her to the medical center in Dolores to get her seen by a doctor. Aside from the knock on her head, she didn't seem to be hurt anywhere else, thank God, but better to make sure.

  That had been hours ago.

  Now, with the scene somewhat under control after we'd evacuated the rest of the sites, I finally had a minute to check on her.

  "Just that," Joe replies sardonically. "When she found out the camp would have to be shut down, while we deal with the lab and dive the reservoir, she said that's where she wanted to go."

  "Fuck!" I swing around and hurl the coffee someone handed me earlier at a tree.

  "Word of advice," Joe says behind me. "Not sure what went on with her, but I'm thinking she could use some time to catch her breath. In the meantime, you should consider getting this case sorted and your retirement finalized. Get your own head straight before you chase after her."

  I stalk away without saying anything, but Joe's words follow me all the way to my trailer. I'm pissed things went down like this, that I didn't have a chance to explain things to that waif of a woman, who has clouded my brain and twisted my insides with just a few tastes of her spirit. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

  For years, I'd been biding my time until I could walk away from this life of constant subterfuge. From a role that forced me to rub shoulders and make nice with the literal scum of the earth. I feel caked with the filth I've rolled around in for the past decades, and I know Joe is right. I need time to scrape it off before I pollute anyone else's life. Something I didn't care about before.

  I care now, thinking about that wide, unbridled smile, the sharp little tongue and those gorgeous hazel eyes that are unable to hide the depth of emotion inside.

  -

  "This Gustafson?" The gruff voice on the other side barks when I answer my phone.

  "It is."

  "Al Ferris here. Need to have a word."

  I don't even bother asking how he got my number; Isla's uncle still likely has his connections. I also don't bother asking why he's calling because I know the answer to that, as well.

  "I figured," I simply say, which launches Al into an expected tirade about putting his niece in danger. I let him rant until he slows down before I react.

  "I like her," is what I open with, and from the silence on the other side of the line, I gather he wasn't expecting that. "I had no intention of involving her until I caught her snooping around." I continue to explain, as calmly as I can, the sequence of events, which thankfully the man allows me to do without interruption. After I've given him the story, a heavy silence hangs in the air.

  "You like her?" he finally repeats.

  "That's what you're left with?" I question him, chuckling.

  "Well, fuck yeah...Since the girl I've seen grow up, always with a smile, now has to struggle to slap one on. Nothing brings her down. Nothing. Not since she was a teenager. She won't let it."

  By the time Al ends the call, I haven't only been ripped a new one and made to promise to set thing right with her, I have a deeper understanding of the deep-rooted pain that's never quite hidden behind Isla's broad smiles.

  CHAPTER 10

  "Hey, Isla. Are those the new ones?"

  Jen comes rushing from behind the counter, her eyes on the large tote in my hand. I was absolutely floored when she called two weeks ago to tell me all five of my prints were sold. I'd still been in Flagstaff, spending some quality time with my uncle and Ginnie, before she was moved into her new 'home.'

  Uncle Al had initially been adamant he didn't want me to go back to Dolores. Especially, when I mentioned I'd gotten acquainted with Ben. He appeared to pick up on what I purposely left out, judging by the squint of his eyes.

  "Should never have left you there by yourself," he'd muttered angrily, before disappearing into his office, where I heard him have a spirited conversation over the phone. My guess is he got the nitty gritty of what happened from one of his old police contacts, because when he finally resurfaced, his mood was better. Not good, but better.

  By the time DEA Special Agent Francisi called to let me know they'd have the campground cleared in a day or two, my uncle hadn't balked much at all when I announced I'd be heading back the next day. I have to admit, I was a bit freaked to find out they'd fished the remains of a well-known local drug peddler from the depths of the reservoir. Apparently that was the garbage I'd seen the other man toss overboard. I didn't even want to think what it meant that it apparently had taken several bags to dispose of the body.

  I did ask about Ben. I'd already surmised in the chaos after the shots rang out, he was some kind of cop. It was a relief to find out he wasn’t some vile drug dealer, but it didn't change the deep sense of betrayal I felt. Mostly though, I was angry at myself, for apparently not having learned enough in my life to keep my heart safe. After losing the two
most important people in my life at a young age, I'd known I wouldn't be able to handle going through that kind of profound loss again. Just the prospect of one day losing Uncle Al, as well, was enough to avoid allowing room in my heart for anyone else. Judging by the persistent ache in my chest, I didn't do such a bang up job. In the short time we'd know each other, I'd somehow let Ben in only to discover it was never about me. He'd played his role well. So well, that he left a hole.

  "He's fine," Joe told me. "Will be signing his final papers next week and he'll be on his way."

  Good. That meant there was no risk of running into him. I was packed and ready to go the next day.

  "Yes, they are." I smile when Jen takes the bag from my hand and starts pulling out the frames.

  "Oh my goodness," she whispers. "These are exquisite."

  The shots are ones I took that night on the dock. One shows a hint of the mountains reflected in the surface of the water, with the huge expanse of the star-streaked night sky above. That's the one Jen is holding up.

  "How did you manage this?" She points at the light streaks.

  "Slow shutter speed," I hear a voice behind me, and my heart lodges in my throat. "Isn't that what you told me, Pixie?" he says softly in my ear.

  I fight the urge to turn around, just as I fight the blasted tears flooding and subsequently escaping my eyes. Damn him! I try to focus on Jen, who looks stunned as she flicks her eyes from my now tear-stained face, over my shoulder, where I can feel Ben looming close. The heat from his body is pulling at me, and I curse myself for being too weak to ignore him. As much as I know I'm just handing him more ammunition to hurt me, there's part of me that wants to hear what he has to say.

  "Excuse me," Jen mutters, a little flustered. "I have...I mean, I should check...on things."

  Well, this is uncomfortable.

  "Ten minutes." His soft, raspy voice has a pleading quality I've not yet heard from him. "I get you're mad, but I'm asking for ten minutes of your time."