Discretion

by David Balzarini

  “With Natalie being gone, she’s been pissed and taking it out on the rest of the world. Yeah, she probably feels about the same as you.”

  Mike is packing weapons to bring Natalie home.

  “You bringing your rifle?”

  “Bet your rich white ass I am.”

  “See you in thirty.”

  TEN

  I slip the cellphone in my pocket and head to the bedroom. In a swimsuit and T-shirt, I wait out front for Mike, who pulls in right on time.

  Mayra is stretched out in the backseat of Mike’s truck, asleep. Her five-foot frame fits well. She’s wearing tattered form-fitting jeans and a black tube top. The sight of her bare abdomen causes my pulse to jump and I can’t help thinking of Natalie. Her dark hair is cut short, close to the head.

  “So, what’s the plan?” I ask.

  He laughs a little. “No plan. You know that, man.” He finishes a cigarette and flicks the butt out the cracked window. “Unless you consider searching aimlessly a plan.”

  Mike slouches behind the wheel, all five foot eight of him and as thick as a hundred-year-old tree trunk. He looks like he’s mid-twenties, but is not a month over eighteen. He sustains himself on a steady diet of fast food, coffee, and obsessive-compulsive work habits. Mike’s in a multi-generation family business, building decks. He’s an outdoorsman through and through.

  “What’s making you do this? I mean…this isn’t like you. Is it all about Mayra?”

  A quick look from Mike and a sly grimace, and then he lights another cigarette. “Natalie’s my friend. I’m doing for her what I hope someone would do for me.”

  “You never give up and you never walk away from a fight.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “We’re going to find her.”

  He grins, watching the road behind the fat aviator style sunglasses on his face. He pushes up the brim of his well-loved Cardinals hat and wipes sweat from his brow. “Love that optimism about you,” he says and slaps me on the shoulder. He watches the road a moment and then looks my way. “So you think I’m going to get to castrate the fucker who took her?” We share a laugh and for a second, I allow myself to dream of a happy ending.

  “I hope so, Mike. I hope so. She’s got to be alive somewhere.”

  “You know, I’ve been thinking, and I keep asking myself, why would she run? That’s what I don’t get. She’s got tons of friends. Good family. You. That’s a great life. What’s to run away from?”

  “That’s what the PI is trying to find out now.”

  Mike nods, contemplating.

  He’s not surprised.

  “What’s he found?” Mike asks. I think there’s anxiety in his voice, but I can’t be sure.

  “Not much. He thinks he’ll find a witness sooner or later.”

  Mike just nods and says nothing for a while.

  After a few conversations about life, women, and medical use of marijuana, we arrive at Apache Lake. The population in the area is two families, with little kids armed with fishing poles. Mike pulls the red Ford F150 to a stop and shuts down the engine, grabs his tactical bag and a duffel, slings them over his shoulder like he’s carrying pillows.

  Get a boat and go out on the lake.

  “I think we should go east. The cops have been all over the trail. Let’s find some uncharted territory,” Mike says.

  I look at my friend, knowing he will not understand, but he must accept what I have to say. “We have to take the boat, Mike. We need to be on the water.”

  “Really?” Mike says, eyeing me. Mayra sighs while holding a bag of supplies.

  “The cops have been everywhere on the water the last three days, Colin. What do you expect to find?” Mike asks me.

  I pause a moment, debating how to answer him. “Natalie,” I say, and for the first time in a while, I genuinely smile—it’s not to be polite or to hide the pain. I believe she is going to be okay and I’m close to bringing her home. I have nothing to back up that emotion other than faith—Christel, sent from above, will guide me.

  Mike and Mayra look at each other and agree to play along, by body language only, and neither believe there’s a reason for any of this; this is a shot in the dark, hoping to hit a rare bird that flies by day.

  “You’re the boss,” Mike says, conceding to my leadership.

  Fifteen minutes later, we board Mike’s sport boat, a white and black four-seater Stingray he bought last summer with his college savings, and pull away from the dock.

  Head northeast, toward the campgrounds.

  I relay Christel’s instructions to Mike, and he accepts them without question. We are about two miles from the camping grounds, moving at a slow pace on calm lake water. The temperature is about ninety-three and the sun is bearing down from a cloudless sky, with no wind for reprieve.

  We are heading for a destination we don’t understand. An eternal destiny. A quest for redemption that could be our doom.

  Natalie is close by.

  “Colin, so what is the plan?” Mike says, breaking the silence.

  There will be a boat with two men fishing from the bow. White, thirty feet long with brown trim through the middle.

  “It’s not far. Keep going,” I say.

  Mike and Mayra exchange glances, and think about ways to change leadership, as no boats or people are about.

  They are concerned about you. About how you expect to find her.

  “What are you looking for? Do you think after all this time she’s still out here? On the water?”

  Tell him it’s a guess.

  “I know…I know…it’s just that I had the whim…that maybe we could go somewhere no one has.”

  Mike laughs. “Hope for the best, right?”

  Mayra watches Mike for a sign, then shrugs. “Well, we can’t cause any harm, right? Boating on the lake isn’t going to hurt anybody.”

  “Hard to say, Mayra. Don’t jinx us yet.”

  We cruise in silence for several minutes. Around a bend, and there it is—about two hundred yards away is a white and brown Bayliner Cabin Cruiser, anchored about a hundred yards from the shore. A beautiful vessel with a long deck and three windows on the hull, probably to the cabin and kitchen. Two men stand on the bow of the boat, fishing. They have drinks close by and a good tan to match the leisure. Both are well-built. Athletes maybe. Twenty-somethings.

  Kill them.

  ELEVEN

  My body tenses. This can’t be right. I must have misunderstood. Why would Christel want to kill two guys fishing on a boat?

  I wave at Mike to shut down the engine. At my feet is Mike’s tactical bag, containing several guns.

  In the past, I’d struggle to hit paper targets; these are people. Why must they die? What can be gained from killing them?

  The distance closes between us, now about one hundred yards. Seconds pass and we get closer still, yet the men on the boat take no notice of our approach. But then the blond surfer looks my way; his expression changes from lax to tense. He drops his fishing pole and moves for the cooler. What he comes up with is black and narrow and he moves fast toward the rail of the boat.

  He’s holding a gun.

  Kill them before they kill you.

  The blond surfer has a gun in both hands, aimed at us.

  My bladder releases on its own; urine trickles down my leg and puddles on the floor.

  The dark-haired man drops his fishing pole and moves toward the cooler between them, emerging with a black pistol. He takes the same stance, the weapon ready to fire at us at a moment’s notice.

  “What the fuck?” Mike dives for the tactical bag and in one swift motion, draws a rifle from the bag and then a pistol, tossing it to Mayra. She frees the safety and points it at them, in a firing position on one knee. Mike is in position: finger on the trigger, the barrel of his Winchester pointed at the deck—Mike could kill them from here.

  We aren’t assassins. Well, maybe Mike and Mayra could be, but I’m not. I’ve hardly fired a gun. And what does th
is have to do with Natalie? Is she on board?

  Seconds pass. Maybe seventy yards between our boat and the cruiser.

  Christel, do they know we are coming?

  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.

  TWELVE

  This 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?