Stolen Grace

by Arianne Richmonde

  He had spent nights fantasizing about what he’d do when he found her. At first, he thought he’d terrify her at gunpoint, to give up the whereabouts of the stolen money. He’d make her transfer it into Sylvia’s account, there and then, online. All of it. Then he’d take her out onto the biggest, shittiest most repulsive landfill wasteland in Rio and dump her there like the piece of garbage she was. Humiliated. Penniless. Maybe he’d even make her remove her clothes and hand them over, so she could feel how demeaning it was to have everything stripped from you. Then he’d call the cops.

  But then, as quickly as he weaved this fantasy, he unraveled it. It could backfire. The whole thing could turn dangerously pear-shaped. No, what he decided to do was impersonal. Well, personal at the root, but impersonal in the execution. This baby could fire at an exceedingly long range. He wouldn’t have to get up close and personal, at all. Ruth wouldn’t even know he was there. It would be like a mercy execution. Clean. Quick. He might even catch her mid-smile, opening her front door, popping out to look at the full moon. Nobody would know where it had come from, least of all Ruth herself. She’d be dead almost before he pulled the trigger.

  And in Rio, in the land of shootings and daily murders, nobody would even notice. Let alone give a damn.

  Perfect.

  ROCINHA WAS LESS of a slum than Tommy had imagined. It was a bustling community of maybe two hundred thousand inhabitants, with shops, banks and businesses, mingled with houses of concrete and brick. It looked like a massive patchwork quilt of jerrybuilt edifices piled on top of each other in a higgledy piggledy jumble, set on a steep hill, edged with trees. Great swathes of electricity and telephone wires crisscrossed in front of houses like curtains of spaghetti. The streets, even at this time of night, throbbed like clogged arteries with putt-putting mopeds, bikes and combi buses. It took a while for him to locate his contact: a drug lord cum arms dealer. Tommy assumed the two professions must go hand in hand in a place like this.

  Tommy had taken no risks. Earlier, he’d called the man from an Internet café and adopted a hammy Mexican accent. At the meeting, he decided, he would pull a bandana across the lower part of his face. Anybody could snap a picture with a Smartphone these days—he didn’t want to be set up: sold a gun and have the very same dealer grass him to the police later. He thought of Grace. That little pen she had taken a fancy to, well, one like that had brought down the News of the World. Its covert recordings opening up a can of squirming, British, hacking worms—clever Grace to have even thought of slipping that pen into her teddy bear. Her instincts obviously told her it could be useful.

  Tommy arrived at his destination. He climbed some concrete steps, topped by a graffiti-torn house. Not quite the abode he expected for a honcho dealer. He could hear a dog barking inside. He stretched his hand through the wrought iron bars of a firmly locked gate, and knocked on the door behind. A woman with a face as charmless as a pair of nail-scissors immediately appeared, her hand clutching the studded collar of a friendly, but simultaneously terrifying-looking pit bull. That wag could turn mean, Tommy warned himself. He already felt scared. What was he doing? He wanted to turn back, tell her he’d got the wrong address, but she opened the door and said in English, “He’s expecting you. Come in.”

  Tommy followed her into a sparsely decorated room. There was a poster of the Brazilian football team in their yellow and blue, taking up prize position on the living room wall. The room was simple, not at all how Tommy had envisaged. No shiny marble, no four-poster beds and gold taps. Al Pacino’s Scarface was a long way from this home. The wife pressed a button and spoke through an intercom. A six-inch thick, metal door buzzed open. Tommy took a step back, paused and turned around. But the unsmiling face urged him inside, and he heard his own, gingered footsteps creep into the room. It housed nothing but a limp double bed, a chair and a table. Tommy’s whole “incognito” guise fell apart even before it had started. His pathetic attempt at hiding his face was hopeless. He stood there, brazenly exposed, green as a virgin at a brothel.

  A smile spread across the man’s face. “Come, I’ve been expecting you. I have what you need.”

  What I need? thought Tommy. The word “need” sent a shiver down his spine. In the army, the idea of killing somebody had never entered his head. The technicality of it, of course, but not the cold reality. Surprisingly. Despite his training. As if being part of a legal killing force had nothing to do with death. He was just in the army as an exchange, his time for help with university fees. The target was always a thrill. Like his fly fishing or photography. But incongruously, he had never imagined the target to be a human being. Certainly not a woman. What was he doing here? Negotiating death? Exchanging his soul for retribution? Revenge? Warped justice? He wanted to walk out, but the intensity of the man’s pockmarked face, the hills and valleys of his foreboding countenance, his summoning eyes, lured Tommy closer.

  The guns were laid out on the bed the way a child might spread out his Action Man dolls.

  “Here’s what you asked for,” the man said. “This one’s a real beauty.” He picked up the M107. His American English was accented but perfect—a consummate salesman, not tripping up once. “A clean, shoulder-fired, semi-automatic with a manageable recoil. Nice and easy. Good for absorbing force, moving inward beautifully toward the receiver against large springs with every shot.”

  Every shot? Tommy had been thinking of one clean shot to the head. But now, his knees buckled beneath him. He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed and sat there trembling. He was speechless. The man’s dancing eyes shifted from Tommy’s edgy face back to his array of toys, taking Tommy’s proximity to the weapons as a sign of enthusiasm. Tommy’s arms felt weightless, floating, his legs like jelly.

  “This one—this piece is just splendid,” the man went on with a grin, picking up another. “This 700 VTR will wipe out anything in its path. A Beautiful sharpshooter. A classic. Popular with police. Look at that clean line, look at that precision. Perfect marksmanship every time. Here, hold it, see how it feels.”

  “Remington?” Tommy croaked, his throat parched, his fingers twitching. He tentatively took up the weapon, its metal cold and sharp, its black lines panther-sleek. “It’s not as heavy as it looks,” he remarked.

  The man grinned. “Just over three kilos without optics.”

  “What’s that, like seven pounds?” Tommy asked, holding it up. Just touching it eased his tension. “Not bad, pretty light.”

  “What do you think? A great tactical rifle, huh? See the profile of the barrel? Not a round profile like a typical rifle barrel, but triangulated. Look at that. Real high quality. Also has an integrated muzzlebrake. Check out the X-Mark Pro trigger.”

  Tommy let his fingers run along its smooth lines. “What happened to the regular Remington trigger? Didn’t it have a wider ribbed shoe and a few more options for adjustability?”

  “We can adjust the trigger, no problem. Should cut dead center—on target every time.”

  Tommy swallowed. “What about the SPS?”

  “This one has replaced that model.”

  “What else can you show me?” Tommy felt himself easing into the situation. His nerve cells were relaxing, his breathing more steady. “I need it to be practical. Light. The longest range you have.”

  He was beginning to feel chillingly at home.

  CHAPTER 46

  Sylvia

  The stench of the dump was vile. Sylvia scanned the horizon of mounds, swathed in smoke, the burning refuse lingering in the atmosphere like the aftermath of a war-zone. Never in her life had she seen such degradation first-hand. Television could not capture the squalor, made all the more heartbreaking by the resilient smiles of the scavengers rootling through the garbage like pigs searching for truffles. Her own life flashed before her like a wedding album. Glamorous, shining: a flawless diamond ring. She had everything and always had. She thought back to the howling winds of Wyoming, her complaints, her spoiled griping about the winter months, and sh
e blessed the fresh air, the chilly crispness of cleanliness there, never, probably ever, experienced here by these poor human beings.

  A topless child in a red skirt flew upon her—a blustering sail in a stinking wind, and shouted, “Tourist! Money!” Sylvia felt like a giant walking dollar bill.

  Sonia said sadly, “Thank God for even the smallest thing you own in your life because these people don’t even have that.”

  Sylvia, her throat gathering in a swell, looked at the teenager and answered, “That is so well put. You took the words right out of my mouth.” She thought of her closet stacked with clothes and shoes that she never even wore, ornaments dotted about on tables, and the plethora of treasures in Saginaw. This little girl didn’t even have a T-shirt. Or shoes. She took out some coins and gave them to the child, silhouetted as she was in the stinking haze of beige-brown landscape. Giving coins was useless. These people needed a life to call their own. “I so understand why you’re here in Nicaragua,” she said to Sonia. “These people are desperate. Just desperate.”

  “But you see how they smile?” Amy pointed out. “Nicaragua has one of the lowest suicide rates in the world, apparently. Ironic, huh? Yet we, who have it all, are so unhappy, so ungrateful. Follow me, I’ll take you to where most of the shacks are. It gets even worse, believe me.”

  They trampled through the well-worn paths that cut through the waste. A glimmer of the full moon shone on the needle of a used syringe, stacked high upon rotting cardboard. Emaciated dogs whimpered, their eyes caught in the moonlight like spooked specters. “These kids have no footwear,” Sylvia mumbled to herself, “no real food.” She remembered what Melinda had told her, that there were several aid agencies working here and now she saw why.

  “Sonia, how many charities are there here in Chinandega?”

  “A few. Us, Christ’s Little Helpers, Amigos for Christ also. There’s a Catholic priest, Padre Marco, or Marcos, Italian I think. He started a school here for the children of the dump. It’s pretty basic but at least he gathers the kids together. Teaches them to have goals, to aim for getting real jobs instead of foraging about here. People say he’s done a great job.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Follow me. His place is way over there.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Grace

  Grace couldn’t sleep. She was thinking about tomorrow. She wanted that cool uniform and she wanted to go to school, but not the Padre’s school. Not if she had to live here in his little house and play Pinocchio. She had come by bus and she could leave by bus. After all, that was where she’d met María, at the station. María could show her how to get there. She’d go back to The Boom and back to Lucho. María could even come with her. Maybe Lucho could help her find her dad? Lucho had a cell phone. She closed her eyes tight and tried to remember the phone number in Saginaw. She’d dialed her grandparents so many times, or rather, her mom had. Her mom usually did the dialing and she the talking, but she had dialed herself, once or twice. Maybe she could remember? And what about her dad’s e-mail address? She didn’t know. Tommykins@something-hot-or-other. Ruth had threatened her not to say anything or her mom could go to Hell, but Ruth wasn’t around, so how would she know if she told? Unless God was on Ruth’s side, but the Padre thought God was on his side, too. Was He? Was God on the Padre’s side? Had God seen them playing Pinocchio? And if he had, would God think it was okay?

  She shuffled her little body under the sheets, trying to get into a comfortable position. The bed was like rock. She looked at María, fast asleep, her mouth open, making funny sucking noises, her pink tongue peeping out like a puppy. She thought about her friend—María didn’t seem to mind playing Pinocchio, she thought it was funny and was laughing as if the Padre’s one-eyed Willy was the silliest thing in the world.

  But Grace didn’t find the game funny at all.

  Just then, she froze. There were footsteps outside.

  Followed by The Wheeze.

  Padre Marco slipped through the curtain. “Little girls? Girls, are you awake?”

  Grace lay as still as a stone and kept her eyes closed tight. Perhaps he’d go away. She could smell his sweet perfume, his breath hot and panty on her face, the loose sheet flopping over them. That meant he was wearing the robe, not pants—that he wanted to play Pinocchio again. Quick to lift up, with no underwear on. And quick to let down if someone came.

  “Girls?” he sang, “I’ve bought some colored pens. To paint the eyes. And a flashlight so we can see what we’re doing. You see, I’m going away tomorrow, on a little journey. Taking the bus down south for a few days. Very early tomorrow morning. Thought I’d say a quick goodnight before I go. Couldn’t resist.”

  Grace could feel María moving, and then sitting up in bed. She kept her eyes fixed closed like they were glued together. She didn’t want to see. María nudged her with her bony elbows. Grace lay still, her knees rolled up high against her chest.

  “Adela, wake up, Padre Marco is here. We’ll get chocolate and money. Ad—el-la. Wake up!” María’s voice was loud in her ear like a squeaking piglet.

  “Shush María,” the Padre hissed, like the One Eyed Cobra he was—“What did I tell you, huh? You must keep your voice down. Remember that you’re a quiet little mouse.”

  Yes, thought Grace, a mouse to be eaten by the Big, Fat, Greedy Cobra.

  “Now girls, I have some—” He stopped mid-sentence. “What’s that? Do I detect voices?”

  Grace heard footsteps outside, and people talking. Suddenly, she jumped out of the bed like a jack-in-the-box. The priest’s flashlight was shining around the room and in her eyes. She ripped the sheet from her body and ran to the curtain to look out. Padre Marco pulled his robe down and dropped the pens in surprise. The voices got louder. She could hear English words—women were talking. Grace poked her head through the curtain, outside the hut. She saw the American teenager, the fat one from dinner last night. She saw her walking closer. She was with the others. She was with . . .

  It was the ghost of her mom coming toward her through the blue smoke. She was smiling. But she was different. Not exactly the same as her real flesh and blood mom who was in Heaven. This ghost was like her twin. Almost. But not the same.

  Grace came out of the hut and gazed at the phantom. She had hair the same as her mom’s, and she remembered how Ruth had tried to make herself look like her. Impossible! Nobody was as beautiful as her mom. But this ghost? She was. She really was.

  Grace stood there, her white nighty blowing in the breeze. The ghost had tears running down her cheeks. But they weren’t sad tears because she was smiling at the same time. Her blond hair was soft. She was wearing a dress with pretty flowers. Maybe I’m in Heaven. I died in my sleep and my mom has come to collect me. Because the closer the “ghost” got, the more Grace was sure that it was her Real Mom.

  “Gracie?” Her mom crouched down on her knees and stared at her as if she didn’t believe it was possible. She flung her arms tightly around her skinny body and hugged her close.

  “Mommy?” Are you real? Am I in Heaven?

  Her mom whisked her up in her arms. Her hold was warm and she smelled delicious, like sun and roses and Mommykins. “Oh my darling. Oh my little girl. I’ve missed you with my heart and soul! Thank God you’re alive. My love, my life!”

  “Mommy,” Grace whispered, and hugged her neck, her fingertips gripping the fur of Hideous, who was hanging by his ear. “Estamos muertas?”

  “No, my darling, we are both very, very much alive.”

  “And Daddy?”

  “We’ll see Daddy very soon. He loves you so much. We’ve missed you so much.”

  Grace clasped her war-torn teddy, and a hot tear trickled down her cheek. She wasn’t dead. Her mom hadn’t been dead—or if she had been, it was only for a little while. Estaba muerta. She was just paying a visit to Heaven, and Grace knew she’d come back.

  “My, my, who’s this?” her mom asked, picking her teddy out of her little hands.

  �
��Se llama Amarillo,” Grace replied, and then nuzzled her head back into her mom’s soft blond hair.

  The priest came out of the shack, his forehead oozing with greasy sweat, his bald head shining pink. “What’s going on? Hello, can I help?” Grace saw him out of the corner of her eye. He had the Dragon Look.

  But Sylvia was smiling. “Padre Marco?” she said in Spanish.

  “Yes, I am he,” the man responded with suspicion. María popped her head out from behind the curtain and smiled shyly at the group of women.

  “And you’re Grace’s little friend! The American girls told me about you,” Sylvia said to María.

  “Me llamo María,” she answered, twiddling her hair with her fingers.

  “María, what a pretty name.”

  “And you are?” the priest demanded, his face redder than a ripe tomato.

  “My name is Sylvia Garland. I’m Grace’s mother.”

  “Grace?”

  “I’m Adela’s mother.”

  The man chuckled. His Samuel Whiskers teeth looked pointed and yellow.

  Sylvia shifted her eyes to the sky. “Any of you girls speak better Spanish than I do? Because this whole mother explanation thing is getting pretty tedious.”

  “Ella es mi madre,” Grace piped up.

  The priest said, “Now look here—”

  “Es mi Mamá!” Grace shrieked at him, “y me voy con ella! Y María viene también!”

  “You want María to come with us?” Sylvia asked her daughter.

  Grace nodded. María stood there in her fresh white nighty. Then she walked over to Sylvia and held her hand.

  CHAPTER 48

  Tommy

  He’d take the Barrett, after all. The M107. It might not be as light as the Remington and not as tough as some of the others the man had shown him, but he knew the gun. He understood it. He didn’t want a surprise performance from something he hadn’t used before.