Spiders in the Grove

by J. A. Redmerski

  “Oh, now you want him to have his freedom,” Joaquin taunts; he moves in a careful half-circle so that he can face the stunned, wide-eyed crowd, the gun still pointed at Naeva sitting on the stage floor. “Now she wants Moreno to have his freedom!” he repeats for the audience.

  A round of laughter makes its way around the room; Cesara joins in. I glance over at her standing next to me—almost everyone is standing now so they can see over the heads of the people in front of them—and the enjoyment in her face disgusts me. Cesara may have been like me once upon a time, she may have endured the same horrors, and came out stronger on the other side because of them, but she and I are two very different people, who went in entirely different directions.

  Joaquin looks down at Naeva.

  “He gave up his freedom a long time ago, Miss Brun,” he says grimly, “for you. You should never have come back here”—he gestures a hand at the crowd, seeking their praise—“Moreno isn’t the man he used to be! He isn’t the fighter he used to be! And his services are no longer needed!”

  The crowd claps; heads nod; voices rise up all around me, most of them agreeing with Joaquin, or, at the very least, just wanting to see bloodshed.

  Joaquin makes a motion with his head at the guard standing nearest Naeva, and the guard grabs her by her arms and lifts her from the floor.

  “Don’t touch her!” Leo barks; his breathing is labored; blood is running down his arm and chest; he’s beginning to show signs of distress from his wound.

  “I’m going to do more than touch her,” Joaquin tells him with satisfaction. “I’m going to show my buyers what happens to runaways”—he gets closer to Leo—“and thieves.”

  No… He’s going to kill them both, right there on the stage; he’s going to set an example with Naeva who ran away, and Leo who they say ‘stole’ her from them.

  “I’m so sorry, Leo,” Naeva cries.

  “Don’t be sorry—don’t you ever be sorry,” he tells her.

  Joaquin and the guard holding Naeva nod at one another, and the guard raises a gun to Naeva’s head.

  No…

  My eyes dart around the room frantically. What am I looking for? Someone to burst in here any second and save them? And although I know that’s not going to happen, I look anyway, desperately hoping that I’m wrong. And in the small fraction of a moment that feels longer than it is, I see Dante leaning forward, his hands braced upon his knees, and he’s vomiting onto the floor. I see Frances Lockhart…she’s walking, almost sprinting, toward the stage. Stop, Frances! Don’t do it! Don’t do it, or you’ll die with them! And I feel Sabine’s hands gripping my leg; the tips of her fingers digging into my skin.

  The guard cocks the gun, and in slow-motion I see his finger sliding toward the trigger; I see Naeva’s eyes closing, tears streaming down her face. I see Joaquin’s finger dancing on the trigger of the gun pointed at Leo; I see Leo’s eyes wide open, unafraid; he’s trying to console Naeva; his lips are moving, but I cannot make out the words. I love you always, Naeva. Through life, and in death, I love you. Those are the words I imagine him saying; those are the words his beautiful face reads.

  “STOOOOOP!!!”

  My voice carries stridently over the crowd like the aftershock of a whip, and every eye in the room is on me.

  Izabel

  “Stop,” I repeat, calmer, but with resolve.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Lydia?” Cesara hisses behind me.

  Ignoring her, I make my way toward the stage, and the crowd parts for me. Sabine tries to follow, but I push her back with my hand.

  Naeva’s eyes follow me, but they’re all she dares to move. I look at her once, briefly, long enough to let her know that I refuse to let them die.

  Joaquin’s grinning face follows me all the way to the table where Iosif Veselov stands. For one moment, I look right at Iosif; one look into his eyes, and it will tell me what I need to know. He sees me, and there it is—the unreadable tyrant who came here knows me. He knows exactly who I am. But he remains quiet—and I hope he stays that way.

  Looking away from the man I believe to be Vonnegut, I turn my attention to the second most important matter now that I’ve accomplished the first.

  “Is there something you need, Miss Delacourt?” Joaquin asks me.

  “I need you to let me have them both,” I say, and Joaquin laughs, and so does the crowd as he looks out at them all with a comical expression of disbelief.

  “And why in actual fuck would I do that for you?” Joaquin says.

  “Because I believe they’re both worth more alive than dead.”

  “Oh, that’s what you believe, is it?” He smiles crookedly, and presses the gun against the side of Leo’s head. “Well, I happen to disagree. Moreno is an out-of-style fashion, and he’s worth about as much as you are”—he smirks, satisfied he could get back at me publicly for denying him—“and the girl…well, she’s worth absolutely nothing, like most women.”

  A few heads in the crowd—of the female sort—look up at Joaquin, offended, but it’s not enough to shake him.

  “Let me prove otherwise,” I offer. “Give them to me, and give me one week—”

  “Fuck you,” Joaquin snaps, cutting me off. “I promised the crowd retribution, not mercy. Isn’t that right?!” He looks out at the audience, and they clap and nod and urge him to do what he promised.

  “Joaquin—don’t.” I’m getting desperate; I feel like I know there’s no role I can play, no excuse I can come up with that will save their lives. “I’m…” I take a deep, nervous breath. “…I’m asking you to spare them.”

  Something clicks in his eyes; he peers down at me. And then he laughs, and looks for Cesara in the crowd. “This is what you trained?” he accuses. “This is your ‘special find’? What a joke, Cesara! Well, guess what? Guess who will pay for her fuck-ups?”

  Cesara comes up behind me; she grabs my elbow. “What the hell is your problem? You can’t do this here, in front of all these people,” she whispers, her fingernails digging into me. “I’ll deal with her now,” she tells Joaquin, and tries to drag me away.

  Snatching my arm from her grasp, I shoot her with a look. “I’m not going anywhere,” I say. “And if they die, I will never forgive you, Cesara.”

  She stands shell-shocked, her eyes blinking rapidly, her lips parted.

  “So, you do care for that girl,” she says, growing angry and jealous, and feeling more betrayed by the second. “You lied to me; all this time you’ve been lying to me—about everything!”

  “No,” I lie again, “Not about everything, Cesara—my feelings for you—”

  I see a flash of white light cross my vision after Cesara’s hand lays across my face. She grabs me by the wrist and pulls me to her chest. “I can save you, Lydia,” she whispers, “but you have to stop this now; come with me and we’ll talk about it privately.” Her willingness to forgive me is even more reason to believe her feelings for me are real.

  Many faces in the crowd are pushing in on us from both sides, trying to hear what Cesara is saying to me, but she pushes them back, and attempts once again to drag me with her out of the theatre. And once again, I snap my arm free and refuse to move, glowering at her. She glowers back. And then she steps back. And she stands there, looking at me as if she doesn’t know what to do with me. But Cesara is the least of my worries—Joaquin has already lost interest in us.

  “Joaquin, I’m…I’ll give you what you want from me, just please, let them go.” I know I’m wasting my breath.

  “I don’t want anything from you anymore,” he says.

  The demon inside Joaquin smiles for him, and I see his finger move to press the heavy trigger; the guard’s finger moves to press the heavy trigger.

  No…no…NOO!

  I play the only card I have left.

  “IF THEY DIE, I’LL MAKE SURE JAVIER KILLS YOU FOR IT!”

  The world stops moving on its axis; stunned silence stretches on forever; the only movement in the theatr
e now is that of my own, is that of me sealing my fate and carving my betrayals in stone.

  I don’t look at Cesara standing behind me, but I sense she’s there, unable to move, uncomprehending. I keep my eyes on Joaquin, watching as his finger moves away from the trigger; as the guard’s finger moves away from the trigger. Naeva’s lungs fill up with air, relieved that, at least for a moment longer, she and Leo are going to live. Leo doesn’t change; he remains solid, vigilant in Joaquin’s grasp, waiting for any moment he can to grab Naeva, and he never looks at me.

  But everyone else is looking at me; even I am looking in at myself from the outside, stunned, wondering why I’ve done this.

  “What did you say?” Joaquin asks—demands—breaking the silence.

  I move toward the steps leading up the stage, and I take them slowly.

  “You heard what I said,” I tell him on the second step. “Let them go now—and let me go—or I make the rest of what life you have left, a living hell.”

  “And just how would you plan to do that?” Joaquin is detracting from the obvious—because he and I, as far as I know, are the only people in this room who know the truth.

  “If you kill them,” I begin, on the fourth step, “there’s nothing going to stop me from killing you—unless you kill me. And if you kill me,” I say, on the fifth step, “or harm me in any way, your brother will have your head.”

  He’s beginning to lose focus; he swallows, and nervously licks the dryness from his lips; he rounds his chin; his nostrils flare. “M-My brother? I don’t think you understand—”

  “Javier Ruiz is alive and well,” I say, not just to Joaquin, but to everyone else in the theatre. “And I know this because I am the one who didn’t kill him that day. I am the one he went after himself, because I am the one he loved.”

  Cesara gasps behind me on the theatre floor; a flurry of voices carries overs the room.

  “Who are you?” Joaquin asks, probably already knowing inside who I am.

  I take the final step and stand before him on the stage; then I take a deep breath, clear my throat, and whisper apologies to Victor in my heart.

  “I’m the only person in this room as famous as Leo Moreno was. My name is Sarai. I was once called La Princesa. And I demand you let them go, and get word to Javier that I’m here.”

  “What the fuck is she talking about, Joaquin?” Cesara snaps; her eyes dart between him and me.

  “Is she who she says she is?!” someone from the crowd shouts.

  “She’s a liar!” someone else puts in.

  “Javier Ruiz is dead!” shouts a man.

  “La Princesa? The woman who took Ruiz down? I can’t believe it!”

  I have everyone’s attention, but the one that interests me most is Iosif Veselov; even he looks mildly shocked. And to my own shock, Iosif steps away from his table; his tall, looming Russian form approaching the stage. No…don’t do this now; don’t make this impossible for me.

  “I vill pay ten million dollarrrs forrr prrrincess.”

  Even I gasp.

  “My apologies, Mr. Veselov,” Joaquin begins—forces himself to say, “but…the truth is”—he pauses, licking the dryness from his lips again; tiny beads of sweat have formed upon his forehead—“the truth is that if this woman is who she says she is, then my brother will want her alive.” It took everything in him to say it.

  Cesara’s mouth practically hits the floor at his confession; her head darts from Joaquin to me; her eyes filled with a shockwave of disbelief. And betrayal. And heartbreak. And…vengeance? For a moment, she can’t speak; she just stands there, waiting, trying to get the wheel inside her head moving again.

  Iosif’s broad shoulders rise and fall; I halfway expect him to argue, even threaten Joaquin—after all, whether he’s Vonnegut or just Iosif, he is technically still the most powerful man in this room, even more-so than Joaquin Ruiz, event planner, and shadow-dwelling brother.

  “I-I-I need to excuse myself,” Dante says from his table; he hurries toward the nearest exit with a handkerchief over his mouth, and his other arm crossing his midsection.

  I feel Frances Lockhart’s eyes on me; I look at her long enough to see how confused she appears. But she’s no longer crying, and if I saved only her life tonight, at least I can feel good about that.

  The audience wants answers, and they continue to shout at Joaquin:

  “Where is Javier Ruiz?!”

  “What of El Segador?!”

  “I’ll pay one million for El Segador!”

  “One-point-five million for El Segador!”

  “Where the fuck is Javier Ruiz?!”

  “TWO MILLION FOR EL SEGADOR!”

  Two buyers—one woman and one man—get into a shouting match, briefly drawing the attention of the crowd.

  “What do you need him for?” the man asks the woman with a sneer. “A sex slave?”—he laughs—“He’d kill you before he ever fucked you.”

  The woman snarls. “And you? You think someone like him will be forced to fight again?”

  “Three million dollars for El Segador and Naeva Brun!” another man shouts. He turns to the crowd, smiling smugly. “She’s how to control El Segador!”

  Amid all the shouting, I look over and see Iosif exiting the theatre; his burly form pushes through the crowd, his bodyguards on all sides of him. And just where are you going, Vonnegut? I can’t lose him—but I have no choice. At least I have a lead. A name. A face.

  Joaquin’s voice piercing the microphone, drowns all others out:

  “None of them will be sold!” he announces. “Now, due to…unexpected circumstances, the auction is ending early tonight! I thank you all for coming, and I do hope to see you again in six months! Goodnight!” He repeats everything in Spanish.

  Some buyers grumble their protest, but most leave their tables with whispers and stares, all shuffling toward the exits with a plethora of exciting news that is sure to spread all over Mexico in under twenty-four hours. Javier Ruiz is alive! Leo Moreno is alive! Naeva Brun was there! La Princesa came back! Oh, such headlines!

  In an eerie display, as the crowd thins, Jorge Ramierz’s body is left on the theatre floor in a pool of blood, and no one looks at it much less acts to move it.

  Once the theatre is nearly emptied, Joaquin orders guards to seize Naeva first—he holds Leo Moreno still with the gun pressed to his head. “If you try anything,” Joaquin warns, “my men will kill your woman. Do you understand—do you understand?!” Spit spews from Joaquin’s mouth onto Leo’s enraged face.

  “Si. Entiendo,” Leo replies, calmly, coldly, with Death himself in his eyes.

  Naeva and Leo are dragged away; Leo in front, and guns always pointed mostly at her in case Leo tries anything. Naeva looks back at me once before being shoved through the exit. “Thank you, Sarai,” she mouths, and a tear slips down her cheek.

  In the split-second I was distracted by her, I see a flash of Cesara’s enraged face coming at me. Weaponless, and taken by surprise, she throws me to the floor; the back of my head bangs against the wood; spots spring before my vision.

  “YOU!” One hand winds violently within the top of my hair; the other holds a gun underneath my chin, forcing my head back painfully against the floor. Straddling my waist, Cesara’s eyes swirl with fury as she bears down on me. “It was you! IT WAS YOU!” she roars.

  “Get off of her!” Joaquin’s voice rips through the air.

  He grabs her from behind to pull her off; drags her by her hair onto the floor where his size-fourteen shoe makes contact with her ribs. Cesara drops the gun and recoils against the pain.

  And then he comes after me.

  I don’t struggle. I don’t scream. I move willingly with the flow of the raging waters that will take me downstream to the place I’ve always dreaded, but knew I would have to face one day.

  Fredrik

  “I-I-I-I can’t fucking do this anymore, boss—” Dante stops to clear his throat again; I hear the rustling of a napkin or cloth rubbin
g against the phone. “Just l-l-let me catch my breath.”

  I’m trying to be patient and let him pull himself together, but the anticipation of whatever he’s called to tell me—and the vomiting and the breath-catching—is quickly trying that patience.

  “Calm down, Dante,” I say. “Take your time.”

  Hurry the hell up, already!

  He clears his throat once more.

  And then he tells me everything that happened.

  Stunned into silence, for a moment I can’t see anything but the streak on the window beside my table in the diner.

  “Are you absolutely sure she said Javier Ruiz?”

  “Yes, boss—one hundred percent.”

  The silence still has me; I breathe in and out deeply.

  “Where are you right now?” I gather my things from the table and put them away in my briefcase.

  “I’m still in the mansion.”

  “Listen to me, Dante,” I begin, “you need to get out of there right now. Do you think your vomiting episode has compromised you?”

  “N-No, I don’t think so,” he says. “No one was paying any attention to me by that time—nobody was paying attention to anyone except the girl and the one they called Leo Something-Or-Another. And your girl, Izabel. A bomb could’ve went off in that place and no one would’ve noticed. She’s in trouble, boss; she’s in some serious shit.”

  “OK,” I say, and leave the diner in a rush, “leave the mansion and take the first flight back here.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “Just leave that place before you get yourself killed.”

  We hang up and I drop my phone in my jacket pocket, heading straight for the airport, my tires squealing on the asphalt.

  Niklas

  “Jackie,” I say sharply into the phone—she’s a blubbering mess. “Get the hell out of that hotel, get to the airport and come back here. Don’t waste another minute.”

  “But what about the girls, Nik? Not one of them has ID; how am I going to get them on the plane?” Her voice shudders; she tries choking back tears, but it only makes her cry more.