The feel of the barrel was colder than she expected. I began carrying, for nostalgia as well as protection, my Erma Werke KPG-68A in 32acp for just this sort of day. Christina had never seen it before and if she doesn’t answer correctly, she will never see it again.
“I know you went to a publisher with our story. How much did you tell them?”
Her breath became shallow as if it was 17 years ago that fateful night. Tears began welling in her eyes. Even a stranger could tell the wheels in her mind were spinning, looking for another lie to assuage my anger.
Her statement was not to my liking. I squeezed the trigger. Once the smoke cleared and I regained my hearing, I saw her lifeless body reveal the contents of her head. A 32acp hollow point, at this close range confirms her gray matter is actually gray. It also confirms I have much more work to finish today.
The fishing boat could not take the waves the storm brought. The Captain and the two photographers assisted the six of us by distributing the life jackets and firing flares into the darkened sky. The storm came upon use quickly. We never even had the chance to dispense with our bikinis before the craft began taking water. I was not ready when the single rogue wave impacted the boat broadside, capsizing the craft, hurling the six of us into the cold water. When I surfaced, I did not see the boat or the men. However, I did hear my fellow models scream. It took nearly ten minutes for us to converge and begin swimming toward a shadow. Perhaps this was another boat. Perhaps it was an island. Either way, among the frequent lightning strikes, it did not appear to be a mirage. Within the next thirty minutes, all six of us made it to the rocky outcrop jutting less than a meter above the water line.
Five of us were bruised and battered. Cheryl, the sixth was unconscious with severe cuts upon her thighs and back. I held onto her and my rock until the storm passed and the sun rose the next day.
Mimi walked confidently back to her Lexus after dropping off her two grade school children. She had gained some weight after marrying a successful stock broker. Everyone understood it was for money. Everyone knew he was cheating on her. But, she kept her cool, put on a good front for the children, and played her part of “Suzie Homemaker” as well as could be expected.
This gave Mimi oodles of time to perform oodles of tasks under the radar of even the most conspicuous eyes. Since the incident, Mimi grew a spine and became the most deliberate of us to take on life. I hacked into a variety of her financial holdings to discover the total in excess of ten million dollars. Mimi constantly moved her assets, preventing a thorough search. Not much of a papertrail for someone to follow. When I did meet with her, under obviously false pretenses, I displayed a recent spreadsheet of her work.
“What do you want from me?”
She was not the Mimi on the boat. This Mimi had matured, keeping reserved, listening, always listening, for cracks she could exploit.
“I have a job for you. Perform it well and you will never see or hear from me again. Fail to do so and your children might end up watching a variety of step mothers attend their weddings. Kapeesh?”
A simple nod was all of the agreement Mimi offered.
“What do you want?”, she asked again, revealing nothing in her well-rehearsed poker face.
“Where can I find JoAnne?”
Sunrise of the rocks was just as dangerous and midnight a few hours before. We were wet, cold, exposed, and still subjected to the waves of a sea not yet settled in its ferocity. Cheryl would never revive under these conditions. Perhaps it was for the best. Without food or water, none of us may survive. I doffed my bikini top to tie her hands together through a small keyhole in the rocks. I was now a bit more exposed, subject to more sunburn, but alleviated from the responsibility of holding onto her until our rescue.
In time, I took inventory of the survivors.
Mimi stood on a rock searching the horizons looking for help.
Christina hung to her rock, shivering in the cool breeze, adding nothing other than keeping herself from further harm.
JoAnne, the best swimmer in the group, took the time to remove her bikini and dive for fish, crustaceans, or anything edible. She felt better “al natural”. If she had returned with something to eat, I would have felt better.
I discovered Brenda sunbathing topless on her rock, oblivious to the impending dangers abreast of her indifference. She added nothing to a solution, but withdrew nothing from our dilemma. In a nutshell, she didn’t care.
Years later, I tracked down Brenda playing a combination of pageant mom and HOA Karen in the parking lot of a grocery store. She wanted to tell everyone where to park. One young man declined her offer. Brenda insisted that he needed to listen to her. He replied she was confused with the definition of listening and agreeing. Brenda took out her phone to call the police. The young man took out his knife to prevent the former.
I had the opportunity to prevent what was to transpire from transpiring. But, I remember Brenda never lifting a finger to help Cheryl when Cheryl needed help. Brenda was the first to watch Cheryl slip away. I was now the first to watch Brenda do the same. Her blood oozed faster than I thought was possible, pooling midway between her waist and hips. Her cotton pants were perfect for an experiment in capillary action, eventually separating the plasma from the solids of her blood. Some coroner, somewhere, took pictures of her body and filed them under liquid chromatography.
I believe her murderer did me a favor. Eventually, I would have to kill Brenda myself. He saved me from the problem. Also, I believe watching Brenda die made it easier for me to fulfil my eventual destiny.
The details of our ordeal must never see the light of day. For those who cannot agree with this simple truth, I exist.
On day two, Cheryl died from her wounds, Her body just gave up to the forces unleashed upon her. The surviving group (JoAnne, Mimi, Christina, Brenda, and myself) began making difficult choices. We needed shelter from the sun. We needed food and water. Most of all, we needed to be rescued. The last would solve the formers. JoAnne never discovered any fish, but did manage to chip away at an obsidian stone to reveal a sharp edge in case we did catch any fish.
By day three, Christina joked that Cheryl might taste like a fish. On day four, all of us were in agreement. JoAnne volunteered to do the work. It is amazing that none of us voiced any opposition to her proposition. By the night of the fourth day, none of us spoke again to each other of the incident.
We received medical attention and kept silent the entire time. Once we debarked, it was over a dozen years before I became aware of Christina’s book and Brenda’s murder. All that remained was JoAnne. With Mimi’s help, I now know where to look.
Gary Indiana was not the city it used to be. Once glowing with opportunity, Gary now fell upon drugs, crime, and unemployment. I didn’t think I would unearth JoAnne in Gary, but I did.
JoAnne resided in the Center for End Hospice Care in Gary. I told the doctor, I was JoAnne’s friend. He told me that whatever I needed from her or wanted to tell her, I had better do it quickly.
I got the message.
Bedridden JoAnne had two IVs and a button that could dispense morphine. She was at that stage where if she kept the button pressed, her dose would be an end of life dose.
Thus, our conversation was brief.
None of us had any intention in speaking with JoAnne. Once she turned to drugs, none of her friends or family would either. She went from an aspiring model to an HIV+, cancer ridden, drug addict with little time left. I had my Erma Werke with me, but would not need it.
The last thing JoAnne told me was that she was taking all of her secrets to her grave.
I believed her as she pressed her button until she flatlined.
No nurse or doctor arrived to verify her condition.
This was not the place for such a service to be offered or expected.
No one showed me to the door.
It has been nearly ten years since JoAnne died. Mimi took a successful turn with local and state politics. I could have blackmailed her, but declined. A promise is a promise.
We buried Cheryl in a small grave near Sacramento. My hand still traces the small burn scars I have near my breasts that have never healed. If not for her, none of us would have survived. Today would be my last time at her grave. If anyone could have forgiven our actions, it would be her.
I laid my single rose before I walked away forever.
Andy Betz has tutored and taught in excess of 42 years, lives in 1974, and has been married for 33 years. His works are found everywhere a search engine operates.