Girl in the Water

by Dana Marton

  “Shithead ran off.” Her mouth tightened, but only for a second, then her smile came back. “I’m hoping you’ll help me take revenge.”

  He put his hands on her knees and parted them. “I try to step up to the plate for others if I’m in a position to help.”

  And he was in position. Between her legs.

  He ran a hand up her skirt. No underwear. “My kind of woman,” he murmured.

  “Yeah?” She tugged his shirt out of his pants.

  “Yeah.” He grabbed his wallet out of his back pocket, then he unbuckled his pants and shoved them down to his knees, along with his underwear. The next second, the wallet was on the counter, he had a condom in hand, and the second after that, he was protected.

  “You need a little warm-up…Nicole?”

  She flashed a look that began shy and ended up anything but. “I warmed up a little while I waited.”

  “I think we’re going to be friends,” he said as he pushed into her.

  And then she moved on him, like she’d taken lessons. Damn.

  He pulled down her tank top, no bra either, and sucked a raspberry-size nipple into his mouth as they rode off into the sunrise together.

  When they finished, they reconvened to the couch and polished off the bottle. A damn good night, all things considered.

  Unfortunately, the good vibes didn’t last long. As soon as Ian got to work the next day, the boss called him into the office.

  Chandler, the club manager, was short, pudgy, and bald, which he tried to balance out with a beard. A garden gnome in Gucci loafers.

  Two beat cops, both black, waited with him: one man, one woman. Ian knew the mostly Irish cops in his own neighborhood, but not these two, not here on the better side of the tracks.

  * * *

  Daniela

  Daniela stood at the edge of the square and swayed at the sight of the swirling crowd, more people than she’d ever seen in one place. A whirlpool of tourists and locals.

  The Içana had whirlpools just above her village. Sometimes those swirling funnels of water swallowed even strong swimmers. Daniela shivered despite the heat.

  She’d followed Senhor Finch this far, but now her feet wouldn’t move. She could go no farther.

  And even if she could, where would she run?

  Senhor Finch had given her food. He hadn’t beaten her. Yet.

  She wrapped her arms tightly around herself and turned around. Breathed. She felt better with the crowd behind her.

  She walked back toward the house on the river.

  Senhor Finch kept his door open. If he turned out to be a bad man, she could always run away later. So Daniela went back into the house.

  The man didn’t have much. A few cargo pants and shirts hung on pegs on the wall. The bamboo furniture was worn, had probably come with the house.

  Why did he come here? How long would he stay? How long would he keep her? What would he want with her?

  The house gave no answers.

  Daniela aired out Senhor Finch’s pillow and sheets. Swept the floor and washed the boards. Scrubbed the kitchen until it sparkled.

  The girls at Rosa’s house took turn with the chores, so Daniela knew how to do a good cleaning in a fancy house like this. They’d all learned, if only to avoid Rosa’s bony hands.

  The sky had turned dark by the time Senhor Finch came back. He flipped on the lights. Looked around. “Very good,” he said, and smiled.

  He definitely hadn’t seen her leave the house and come back. Daniela relaxed a little.

  She didn’t even mind the sudden swarm of bugs the light drew in through the holes in the window screen.

  He swatted madly at them while Daniela cooked again.

  After dinner, Senhor Finch went for a swim in the river, and then he went to bed.

  Daniela cleaned the dishes, and after that, she washed herself in the barrel of rainwater she’d seen out back. She didn’t like the night river since it had taken her mother.

  Without bothering to put her clothes back on, she slipped into the bed next to Senhor Finch.

  “Whoa,” he said.

  She could see enough in the moonlight to tell that his eyes were wide open, watching her with surprise. But when she slipped her hands between his legs, he didn’t push her away.

  “You don’t have to,” he told her.

  And she said what Rosa had taught her to say to all the men, “I want to, senhor.”

  Daniela wanted to make the foreigner happy. He gave her food, he didn’t lock the door, and he didn’t beat her. He was just one man. She didn’t want him to send her back to Rosa’s. So Daniela did with him what men liked her to do with them.

  * * *

  Ian

  As the cops looked Ian over, his boss, Chandler, said, in a tone of restrained pissed, “We had a complaint.”

  Ian had a fair idea what about. “Listen, two guys tried to take a young lady out against her will last night. I had to step in. It’ll all be on the security recording.”

  The boss queued the video footage right then and there, turned his laptop toward the cops. They all watched as the dickheads went for Ian. He clearly had not initiated the altercation.

  “I’m going to need a copy,” the male cop said, the suspicion not exactly gone from his eyes, but he had another look now too, as if he was impressed, at least a little.

  The lady cop looked at Ian as if she knew where the girl had been headed last night. She said nothing. Gave him no grief. Ian supposed she’d seen a thing or two on the job. He liked her.

  After the cops walked out, Ian stayed, since Chandler’s pointed stare said the man wasn’t done with him yet.

  The manager leaned back in his seat, his mouth still in a pissed, hard line. Eyes still full of unhappy. “You’re a good bouncer. But if the cops have to come here one more time because of you, you’re fired. Just so we understand each other.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Chandler watched him. Shook his head with a slow intake of breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh. As the irritation leaked out of him, his shoulders deflated. “You have to stop punishing yourself.”

  Ian pressed his lips together. He hadn’t discussed his past with Chandler.

  Freaking Dean.

  Dean Shanahan knew Chandler, had gotten Ian this job.

  “I’m not—” Ian bit off the rest.

  To his credit, Chandler didn’t point out that this was Ian’s third fight this month, always outnumbered, always letting the jackasses beat him up first.

  Instead of saying any of that, the boss nodded. “Forget about it.”

  Ian did just that for two mind-numbing, uneventful weeks until, one morning, just before dawn, he woke to the crash of his door being kicked in. The next second, four men were on him with baseball bats.

  Christ, for a second, he didn’t even know where he was, with Linda or in Afghanistan… What the hell?

  Then someone flipped on the lamp, probably so the four attackers wouldn’t accidentally hit each other.

  Ian blinked in the bright light, still fuzzy around the edges, but his body knew what to do without his brain having to be engaged. His military training kicked in.

  He grabbed for a bat, ripping it from the man who held it, knocked him back. Oh, hello. Recognition flashed. One of the jerkwads who’d tried to force that girl into going home from the club with them.

  At one point they must have followed him home to figure out where he lived.

  The idiot’s buddy was here too, and slammed his baseball bat into Ian’s knee. Ian dipped but didn’t go down. Teeth grinding, he forced himself back up.

  Shit. He was too old for this.

  He smacked his bat into the face of the little bastard like he meant it. Blood spurted as the guy went down with a scream.

  His buddies fought harder. So did Ian. He kicked one back so hard, the guy skidded halfway across the room on his back. But, to his credit, he came back up. Hell, Ian hadn’t wanted to kill him. He didn’t want
to have to talk to the damn police again.

  Another idiot flew at him. Gently, Ian tapped him back with a right hook, but not before he got his ribs bruised first. Because he was holding back. All right. This needs to end.

  Most of the time he didn’t mind a good fight, but they’d woken him up when he’d finally been sleeping. That made him grumpy. He wanted them out before he got grumpier and did something he’d live to regret in a jail cell.

  Only two of the jerkwads had a personal stake in the fight. Ian just needed to show those two that they’d made a mistake when they came for a visit. One was already down. Ian sideswiped the other with his bat, and that one dropped too, blinking hard and bleeding harder. And as he felt that blood run down his temple, he panicked, scrambled back.

  As the two injured men crawled for the door, the other two ran too, dragging their buddies with them, yelling back from the threshold, when they thought they were safe. “Don’t think this is finished, asshole. We’ll be back.”

  “I’ll be here.” Ian was breathing hard but buzzing nicely with adrenaline. “Bring a few more friends. We’ll make it a proper party.”

  He limped to the door and slammed it shut behind them, then limped back to the living room.

  The adrenaline ebbed. His knee was throbbing. And his ribs. And his head.

  He limped to the window anyway, saw the douche bags pour out the front door of the building. One had to be carried. At least Ian’s kneecap was only cracked, if that. A bottle of whiskey, a bag of ice, and he’d be good as new by morning.

  He watched them pile into a BMW.

  Rich douche bags. Figured.

  Ian rubbed his knee.

  If Finch had been here… But Finch hadn’t called again after the message he’d left back in December. Summer had arrived since. Finch hadn’t showed like he’d promised, which was unlike him. At the very least, the Finch that Ian knew would have called to say something about the change of plans.

  Ian looked around his destroyed apartment and swore at the broken side table in particular.

  Where the hell was he going to put his whiskey glass?

  And what the hell was the sense in him getting jumped here in DC and Finch getting jumped wherever the hell he was? They used to fight together, back to back.

  Ian kicked the broken table leg across the room. The douche bags were lucky they were gone, because he was full-on pissed now. Anyone he knocked out now wouldn’t get up in a hurry.

  He limped out into the kitchen and went through the cupboards for a bottle, but all the bottles were empty. The fridge had nothing in it either. Not even ice for his kneecap. He slammed the door so hard, it bounced open again.

  The place was shit. The job was shit. The pay was certainly shit.

  Fuck it.

  He grabbed his phone from the counter, glad to see it in one piece. He bought a one-way ticket to Rio and went to pack his bag.

  On the way to the airport, he called his mother in Connecticut, told her he’d be out of town for a while, maybe out of cell phone reach, not to worry about him.

  Whatever he found down in Rio, couldn’t be much worse than what he had up here in DC, could it?

  * * *

  Daniela

  The only thing Daniela feared was having to go back to Rosa’s.

  She cooked for Senhor Finch, she cleaned, and at night, she went to bed with him. He was very little trouble. He didn’t spend a lot of time in the house. He didn’t tell her where he went during the day, and she wouldn’t dream of asking.

  She prayed that whatever was troubling him would go away. He smiled a lot, joked a lot, but he also watched the street. He kept a gun on the top of the fridge, and when he went out, the gun went with him.

  Sometimes, he took her to the market and let her pick whatever she wanted, even clothes, even a new pair of rubber flip-flops that fit her feet exactly. But he kept looking over his shoulder.

  If it rained very hard, he might stay home. On those days, he taught Daniela English. She already knew several words from the missionary in her village, so the learning progressed quickly.

  Senhor Finch seemed happy with her willingness to learn, so she tried hard, eager to please him, although he never beat her and never threatened to send her back to Rosa. But Daniela didn’t want to take the chance.

  Senhor Finch liked her looking happy. “Smile,” he would say in English.

  So she would smile for him. She tried to remember to put a smile on her face when he was at home. It cost her nothing.

  One month passed, then another. During the day, she relaxed. But at night, after he’d gone to sleep, she would hear Rosa’s words echo in her head. You stay here until he sends you back.

  Daniela wanted to ask Senhor Finch how long she had, when he would send her back up the river, but she didn’t dare question him. Maybe he’d forgotten. Maybe, if she didn’t remind him, Senhor Finch would keep her with him forever.

  She never left the house without him. She didn’t like the crowds. Especially when she remembered that one of the girls she’d been with at the red house on the Içana said that she’d been stolen from the street, from a big town, then sold to Rosa. Daniela didn’t want to be stolen.

  Senhor Finch probably sensed her reluctance, because he never sent her anywhere on her own.

  Nobody came to visit them.

  Nobody really paid them any attention.

  So when a man showed up one afternoon across the road and stared at their house, Daniela, home alone, wasn’t sure what he wanted.

  He looked Brazilian—dark hair, dark eyes, but definitely not from the Amazon tribes, bigger, part Portuguese, part something else. He had a little beard on the top of his chin. He wore a white linen suit with a white hat, a city man, maybe even a government man.

  Senhor Finch never asked her to lie down for any others. If this one came in and asked, she wasn’t sure if she should or she shouldn’t. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to so bad, she held her breath until her lungs ached.

  Then the man left. When Senhor Finch came home, Daniela didn’t tell him about the strange visitor. She was afraid that Senhor Finch might say that next time, she had to invite the man in.

  The stranger returned the following day. This time, he came to the door, knocked.

  When Daniela opened up, he looked her up and down. From this close, she could see the scar on his nose. He tossed her a coin. “Tell me who lives here.”

  Her heart raced. “Senhor Finch.”

  She held her breath again. But he didn’t ask to come in. He went away.

  That night, Senhor Finch came home late. Daniela told him everything.

  He had no smiles then, nothing but grim determination on his face. He slammed his fist into the table.

  She ducked her head, but he said, “I’m not angry at you, Daniela. Listen…” He rubbed his stubble-covered chin. “Maybe it’d be best if you went back to that old woman for a couple of days. Take your clothes, whatever you need.”

  He reached into his pocket and gave her a handful of money, more than she’d ever seen. More than he’d given to Rosa when Rosa had brought her.

  Her stomach clenched. She felt tossed around, as if a whirlpool on the river had caught her. She felt as if the dark waters were trying to pull her under. She wished Senhor Finch would take the money back. Just take it back and keep her instead.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked, walking to the window, looking out at the street.

  “Sim, senhor.” She hadn’t, but for once, she didn’t feel like eating.

  “I don’t want anything.” Exhaustion weighed down his voice. He turned from the window. “Let’s just go to bed.”

  For the first time, he locked the door. And, for the first time, he brought his gun into the bedroom from the top of the fridge and tucked it under his mattress, within easy reach.

  After he fell asleep, Daniela lay staring at the ceiling for the rest of the night, understanding that whatever the man in the white suit wanted would be s
omething very bad. Whatever trouble Senhor Finch had been waiting for had arrived with the stranger.

  She must have fallen asleep toward morning, because when she opened her eyes, the sun shone outside, and the house was empty, save for herself. She dressed. She didn’t want to leave, but would Mr. Finch be angry if she was still here when he came back? He had sent her away.

  She picked her favorite dresses, in case Rosa didn’t let her come back here. She rolled them up, tucked them under her arm. The money she had now would buy her a trip up the river in a boat, with plenty left over.

  She glanced at her bundle of clothes and held it tighter. What if getting in and out of the boat tore one of her dresses?

  Senhor Finch had a large green backpack under his bed. She didn’t dare touch that. But he had an old canvas bag under the sink he kept cassava and yams in. The bag was missing one of its handles. He had said for her to take what she needed. And she didn’t think he’d miss the ruined bag. So she dumped out the cassava and yam, shook the dirt out of the bag outside, then neatly folded her dresses in there. And then she left.

  She didn’t think of running away. That had been a stupid dream. If she ran away, Senhora Rosa would find out, and then she would send the policemen after her again. Then they would beat her. She hadn’t been beaten so long, she wanted very much not to be beaten again. She wasn’t sure she could endure now what she’d been able to endure back at the red house. She’d gotten out of practice.

  Daniela couldn’t think of anyplace she could hide from the policemen, not even in her village. The police were always boating up and down the river. And Pedro had taken her to Rosa in the first place. He would just take her back.

  She went all the way to the edge of the Santana harbor and looked at the boats going upriver. For money, any of them would take her. If only she waved and shouted to them.

  She held her bag of clothes tightly under her arm. In a minute. Just another minute.

  She waited for her heart to stop clamoring. It wouldn’t. She even reconsidered running away. She couldn’t hide in her own village, but maybe she could hide in another. She could have her own little hut, and…