Discretion (8 page)

Yes. You have to kill them.

But I’m no killer. This can’t be right.

It is the only way.

“Colin, are these friends of yours?” Mike says, his attention on the men. He maneuvers so he can reach for the throttle.

“Let it go, Mike.”

“This is nuts. Why do a couple of dudes want to kill us?”

You must trust me. Take a gun from the tactical bag and kill them.

Thoughts stir through my mind; possible outcomes, answers—all result in death.

I can’t do this.

You have no choice if you want Natalie.

We drift closer. Four shooters hold position.

“Colin, we need to go back. I didn’t come out here to die today,” Mike says. He moves fast for the driver seat and pulls the throttle to reverse, the engine rumbles. He resumes his stance, ready to shoot.

“I have to do this.”

“Do what? Die in a gunfight? Not me.” Mike’s hand adjusts on the grip. The men on the cruiser stand still, like soldiers. Focused. The blond man draws the hammer on his pistol—a gentle pull of the trigger could kill any of us. We start moving away from the cruiser, yet he seems to be taking dead aim.

Arm yourself now and dive in the water.

I spring from the seat for the tactical bag and grab a pistol, and then lunge off the boat headfirst. I’ve fired this gun several times, but never in water. Time will tell if it’ll shoot. Gunfire erupts above the surface, but I can’t tell whether the shots came from the cruiser or Mike’s boat. My sense of direction is lost in the brown, murky water.

Surface. Target is above on your left.

Swimming with shoes on, I kick with all I have and point at the blond surfer, but the angle is bad, as I am too close to the cruiser. I allow myself to sink, as to tread water and keep the gun steady is impossible. He moves in sight; I take aim and pull the trigger, expecting nothing will happen. The gun fires and he falls out of sight. The kick from the gun nearly pulls it from my wet hands. A high-pitched ring in my ear makes it hard to think, impossible to hear even my own breathing. My legs move a little to keep me above the surface. I struggle to aim the gun at the bow of the cruiser, but know that I must be able to defend myself.

What do I do now?

Get on the boat. You have another target.

I reach the swimming deck at the back of the cruiser and climb on board. A tingle at the back of my head begins. Nerves come alive like a current. Narrow white stairs lead to the bow. Slow movement, intent stealth, firearm held in both hands. The gun shakes. At the top, the surfer is lying on his back, blood everywhere, wriggling about like a fish out of water.

You feel nothing. Kill him.

The gun shakes. It takes a firm grip with both hands to steady it. The back of the surfer’s skull in sight. Fire. The movement stops. I can’t hear a damn thing—I can only feel pain in my ears from the blast. I’m crouched down to the deck, but the other man is not in sight.

So where is he?

Noise from behind me draws my attention and Mike is on the swimming deck. I wave him to the opposite side.

Then a splash from the far side of the boat draws my attention. I run for the rail along the deck and the dark-haired man is swimming away. Mayra stands on the bow of our boat, pistol following him through the water. She takes a shot and he screams out in agony. An impressive hit, considering the distance.

She holds a handheld to her face, and her lips are moving.

“Since when did we become ruthless assassins?” I ask myself. I shot someone in the head a minute ago. A man is now dead because of me. What has happened? What have I become?

Look in the cabin. Back of the boat.

I hustle down the stairs to the cabin door. On opening the door, I don’t believe my eyes. Seeing her is like a dream. Three days gone—of tears and strife. It’s over at last.

Natalie.

T
his is heartbreaking. I’m nauseous seeing Natalie this helpless.

She is unconscious. Her head hangs to the side; her hair is a mess with clumps tangled together. Tied to a small metal chair with a sturdy brown rope, her hands are behind her back. She’s bruised and cut in several places with dried blood on the side of her face, her legs and arms. A series of red marks on her right forearm, with swelling and bruises, comes into focus. Her chest moves slowly up and down, reassuring me she’s alive. Her pink bikini top is untied at the neck strap, her jewels mostly exposed. I retie it, and then check for a pulse, while dialing 9-1-1 on my phone, but no call is made—the swim killed the device. My heart wants nothing of this ugliness. Bittersweet tears run without my consent or care. God only knows what dignity she forever lost.

She’s alive, but needs attention. Hard to know what’s been done to her for the past few days. I start cutting the thick ropes with a pocketknife, clenched tightly in my hand. It occurs to me I should leave the scene untouched, as it may be helpful to the police. Can I really just leave her like this?

Mayra called the sheriff. Deputy Reed will be here in twenty seconds.

I nod, as if I heard someone speak to me.

“Drop the gun, Colin,” says a familiar man’s voice behind me.

My hand releases the pistol without hesitation or thought and it lands with a thud.

Deputy Reed picks it up and two EMTs go in to work on Natalie. Reed yells into a handheld. Mike and Mayra and I are to be taken into custody for questioning, Reed tells me as if he’s my father telling me not to say something stupid. Because I’m under eighteen, I can’t be questioned until my father is present, who will bring his attorney along.

The EMTs make short work of her ropes and place her on a stretcher, strap her down and haul her to a long deck boat. My surroundings feel like a movie, as if none of this is reality and I’m going to wake up. If this isn’t real and Natalie is still missing, then I want to stay in dreamland.

“You’re either lucky or crazy, kid,” Reed says to me, pausing a moment. “But I’m glad you found her. You don’t want to know the odds after seventy-two hours.”

“That bad?”

“Close to zero. Kids only turn up after a few days if they decide being on their own is too damn hard.”

I walk past Reed, thinking only of Natalie. Stepping aboard the rescue boat, I take a seat while the men work on Natalie. I nod back to Reed, who remains on the kidnappers’ cruiser. Two deputies and two others, who I must presume are examiners, search Mike’s boat. Two women dressed in black, carrying official looking suitcases, board the cruiser and disappear into the cabin, past Deputy Reed.

Mayra and Mike make the jump to the rescue boat, as Mike’s boat has to stay behind for inspection.

“Is she going to be okay?” Mayra asks me, her voice quivering.

“I think so.”

She gasps. “Is she hurt?”

“Hard to say what they did to her for three days. The fact that she’s here and alive is a miracle.”

Reed climbs aboard and the rescue boat speeds away. Moments later, they kill the motor and we drift into the north shore. A helicopter is waiting, doors open wide. They carry Natalie on the stretcher and load her in. I chase them and the medic put his hand up to me and shakes his head. He yells over the noise—they can’t bring me. With nothing to say in response, I look back at Mayra, waiting on the boat instead. I back away from the intense gust and noise of the blades; the door closes, and then it takes flight. I watch the red and white helicopter until it’s gone from sight.

We cruise back to the marina. Without a word between anyone, we are there, getting off at the pier where we started at less than an hour ago.

She’s safe. She’s not home yet, but safe. Savor it. Christel brought her home. Now, I must explain how this transpired, without ending up in a padded room for the rest of my life.

I will give you the words to say.

A horde of news reporters approach, cameras, lights and microphones in tow. Like a thundercloud, they move as one unit across the parking lot toward us.

“Fantastic. How’d they know we’re here?” Mike says to no one in particular.

“They probably heard when the cops were called.”

We walk toward the mob, reaching the parking lot at the same time they reach the boardwalk.

“Colin! How do you feel now that it’s all over?” one reporter shouts.

“Relieved, thanks,” I say. Deputy Reed firmly instructs them to make a hole and they follow instructions. I keep walking, Reed’s hand on my shoulder, and ignore the flying questions from journalists looking to get an edge on tomorrow’s paper. The reporters follow, but no matter. The car door is held open by two other deputies with somber looks, waiting close by. I get in without a word. Mike and Mayra join me, and then when the car door slams, reality hits home—I have to explain what happened, which I’m not entirely sure I understand.

But that doesn’t matter. Natalie is found. She’s in good hands, right? She will be fine, I’m sure. The doctors will know what to do.

But what really happened? A gunfight. One man died, the other was…wounded. Can I tell the truth? People say good things about angels, don’t they? That’s not a bad thing if an angel helped me find her. Will they think I’m crazy?

I will be with you.

I know, but why not just tell the truth?

They don’t want the truth.

Why can’t they be told?

Silence. Why did this happen?

I rub my head and try to watch the world pass by. The high-pitched ring in my head is constant since the shooting and my thoughts drift back to Natalie, wondering whether she is all right. How much will she remember?

My eyes find Mayra’s, and the look of worry is evident. Mike is equally somber.

Do not fear.

How can I be confident?

I will give you the words to say.

I’ll feel better when this is behind me and I’m at Natalie’s side again. Deep down, I know that my relationship with her will be different. And like her body when pulled from the boat that held her captive, damaged. Can we get out of this wreckage in one piece?

D
eputy Reed directs me to sit, and then pulls a chair for himself. My father and Viktor Kneifl, his attorney, are at the table, prepared for the meeting. This room at the sheriff’s office is maybe ten by ten with a long window behind me. Cheap mini-blinds cover it. Reed has a small tape recorder and a clipboard. He begins the session by announcing the case number, with the date and time, my name and then his.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” he says.

I nod.

“Why did you go to Apache Lake today?”

To look for Natalie.

“To look for Natalie.”

“Whose boat did you use?”

“Mike Larison’s.”

Reed states the make, model, and tag number of the boat, confirming the vessel. Then he says, “Tell me what happened when you saw the boat with Riley Dasher and Dylan Arocha.”

Tell the truth.

I do my best to explain what happened in detail, stumbling over my words as I go. Nothing is left out. My father flinches. I can only presume he’s restraining himself from berating me for getting involved like this.

“Okay, so to make sure we’re clear, you were approaching the boat on the water, and the two men who were fishing pulled out guns?”

“Yes.”

“And then what did they do?”

“Like I said, I don’t know how the shooting started…I took a gun and dove in the water.”

He writes on the clipboard a moment. “So who fired first?”

“I don’t know.”

Calm, careful note-taking. Viktor makes a subtle gesture to Reed. “When you were in the water, why did you fire at Mister Arocha and Mister Dasher?”

“I could hear gunfire and I thought shots were hitting the water, like I was being shot at. I didn’t know what else to do, so I came to the surface and fired at the guys on the deck.”

“So you shot at the deck of the cruiser and you hit Mister Dasher, is that your understanding?”

“As I said, yes.”

“Then what happened?”

Dasher was armed and ready to shoot.

I explain how I got on the cruiser and told him Christel’s modified version of the event.

“So you’re saying that Mister Dasher was pointing a gun when you reached the deck?”

“Yes.”

“Did Mister Dasher discharge the weapon?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but it happened fast.”

“So, from your statement, you shot Mister Dasher a second time, hitting his temple and killing him.”

I nod.

“The recording can’t hear you nod,” Reed says.

My father shifts in his chair, kicking the table. He grumbles to himself and Viktor gives him a look of contempt. “Yes,” I say.

“How far away were you when you shot him?” Deputy Reed asks.

I shrug. “Maybe twenty feet. Like I said, it happened fast.”

He nods: no expression still, no insight to his thoughts. “Then what happened?”

I reiterate that Arocha, the other kidnapper in question, dove off the boat to swim away. Reed completes the session with his closing script, and then clicks off the recorder.

“That’s all for now,” Reed says, standing from the table. Viktor and my father stand in unison and Viktor nods to me to get moving. My father walks out, without a word.

“Your story doesn’t quite add up for them. I’ve no idea what they will do. It’s peculiar—the questions that they didn’t ask you. I was prepared for a grueling round,” Viktor says to me, once we are alone outside the station.

“I know. I guess we’ll find out.”

T
he alarm clock plays quiet jazz and I press snooze. My habit of waking up before my alarm lives on. The hour of six
A.M.
approaches and I’m near the bottom of my second cup of coffee and enjoying a stimulating read in bed. The powerful morning sunlight beams behind the shutters, covering a wall of glass facing the backyard and a majestic view.

Marisa Staehle lies on her stomach, eyes closed, lips parted, and her face nestled in a pillow. The breeze from the fan teases her long blonde hair. The bed sheet is a white ball of cotton near the footboard. Her tan lines and the small sun tattoo on her lower back draw my attention. Goose bumps form on her backside and little hairs stand up, faintly visible in the sunlight.