World's Scariest Places: Volume Two

by Bates, Jeremy

Her expression hovered somewhere between vexed and sulky. But after several long seconds of pointed insolence she moved away.

  “We know why you killed him,” she stated.

  I was growing sick of this accusation, but since I had not killed Nitro, I was curious to hear what she might have to say. “Enlighten me,” I said.

  “You knew Nitro and I were having an affair.”

  It wasn’t so much what she said—I’d known about the affair for the last couple of hours now—that pissed me off; it was the way she said it. She seemed proud of the fact she’d cheated on me.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” I said.

  “So you did know!”

  “I told him tonight,” Elizaveta said.

  “How did you know?”

  “I saw you and Nitro on beach.”

  “You were spying on us?”

  “I went for a walk. You were there.”

  “I can’t believe you’re taking Jack’s side in all this, cariño,” Jesus said. “You know me. You know I’d never murder anyone.”

  “I know you stabbed Jack.”

  “He attacked me.”

  “You stabbed him.”

  “Eliza, you’re my partner. I care for you. Come over here, join Pita and me. I’ll forget all this nonsense.”

  “I can’t do that, Jesus.”

  “Yes you can. Get up and come over here. Now.”

  “No, Jesus.”

  “Don’t say no to me.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t say no to me!” Jesus roared. Then, collecting himself: “You know what you’re doing, don’t you? You’re putting yourself on a one-way plane back to Russia.”

  Elizaveta clamped her jaw. I did too.

  Jesus was back to his usual ways, playing cheap.

  “A couple of calls,” he went on. “That’s all it will take. They’ll revoke your visa and you’ll be on a plane. Is that what you want? To be a schoolteacher making piss all in Russia for the rest of your life? I can offer you so much more.”

  I wanted to say something, to tell Jesus to shut his trap, to tell him he was full of it, but this wasn’t my fight. It was Elizaveta’s. She had to see through his ploy on her own.

  “Offer me what?” she asked.

  “Everything!” Jesus said. “As my wife, you’ll have whatever you want.”

  “You’ll never marry me.”

  “Of course I will. I love you.”

  “He does,” Pita insisted.

  “Don’t you see how ridiculous this is?” Jesus said. “You sitting over there with Jack Goff? He’s a loser. A has-been. He’s an alcoholic and a murderer—”

  “Quiet.”

  “Eliza—”

  “Quiet!”

  2

  My head ached, my neck and shoulders ached, the wound in my side ached. My entire body, in fact, ached. I swallowed dryly. My throat felt mummified. But I was too buggered to get up and refill Elizaveta’s bucket with rainwater. I glanced at my wristwatch through a film of gritty fatigue. It was 4:10 a.m., which meant another hour or so until dawn. Everyone had settled down, and for the last half hour they were either sleeping or pretending to sleep. I yawned silently and fought the urge to close my eyes myself, even for a moment, knowing I would be out as quickly as a man on an anesthesia drip. Whenever my eyelids began to droop, I pressed the tank top harder against the wound in my abdomen. The resulting pain functioned like an electric shock, zapping me awake.

  I was getting worried about the gash. Aside from aching all over, I felt lightheaded and dizzy. I tried to recall what I’d learned about the human anatomy in high school biology, but back then filling my friends’ pencil cases with fish eyes or frog legs during dissection classes had been more important than listening to the teacher or studying the textbook. Nevertheless, I was pretty sure my liver was on my right side, which meant it was safe. Kidneys were on both sides, which scared me a bit. I had no idea where my pancreas was, but I believed my spleen was on my left side too. So had the knife blade punctured a kidney? My pancreas, my spleen? Maybe it nicked an important vein or artery. Like Elizaveta said, I could be bleeding internally. This could explain the lightheadedness…

  My eyelids were drooping. I applied pressure to the wound.

  I inhaled sharply—but the pain was good. It kept me alert.

  I glanced again at my wristwatch. 4:16.

  Christ, the minutes were slugging by.

  Another hour—an hour and a half, tops.

  Yeah, until first light maybe. But what about the boatman? When was he going to show up?

  This was something I’d spent a fair bit of time thinking about. Not if the boatman would return. I was sure he would. He knew we were out here, stranded. He also knew we had money. I wasn’t sure whether Jesus paid him the full fee up front, but I didn’t think so. That would have been stupid, and Jesus wasn’t stupid. Which meant the guy would be back. So the question wasn’t if the boatman would return, but when.

  The worst of the storm had definitely moved on. I could still hear the rain falling against the corrugated iron roof, but it was no longer a full-on assault; more a steady drizzle. Come dawn I was hoping it would have ceased altogether, but even if it didn’t, the canals should be navigable. And this was where it would boil down to the boatman’s character. Was he the type of guy who would wake up bright and early to come get us? Or would he sleep in, go about his morning chores, fill his belly, and come get us when the moment suited him? I wanted to believe the former option, of course, but if I was being honest with myself, which I was, the latter option seemed more plausible. After all, he didn’t know us, he didn’t owe us. He warned us about going to the island. He might think leaving us stranded here for a while was a suitable punishment, a lesson learned.

  A lesson learned.

  Right. And what was that lesson?

  Don’t go snooping around creepy islands?

  Don’t trespass on private property?

  This got me thinking about our reception when we returned to Xochimilco. One thing people couldn’t get enough of was seeing the high and mighty fall, and Mexicans were no different. Jesus might not be a famous politician, or athlete, or movie star. But he ran one of the country’s premiere breweries. He was a bigshot in his own right. Moreover, he was young and handsome, key ingredients for juicy scandal. Throw into the pot an island infested with dolls and supposedly haunted by the ghost of a little girl and you had nationwide headlines.

  Would Jesus be convicted?

  I wasn’t sure. I knew he was guilty, but would a judge reach the same conclusion? After all, Jesus would surround himself with the best lawyers. He would have numerous connections to lean on. Not to mention the crime scene was a mess. We’d tramped through Nitro’s blood, moved his body, handled the murder weapon.

  And you’re forgetting about Miguel and Lucinda and Mr. Peeping Tom. How did they all fit into this? Did I still believe the Peeping Tom was Solano? But if not him, who?

  Nationwide headlines? This was going to be the story of the fucking year.

  And to my chagrin I was going to be right in the center of all it.

  3

  4:24 a.m.

  Nitro’s missing eyes. Black, empty orbits in his bloodied face. I couldn’t rid myself of the macabre image. Almost as bad was the thought of Solano sitting out there, nothing but a wall separating him from us, bent over Nitro’s face, cutting, sawing, pulling.

  4

  4:35 a.m.

  Elizaveta rotated her right shoulder, as if it were stiff. Then she reached her left arm beneath her right armpit and prodded the spot where the scorpion had stung her back with her fingers. She kept her eyes closed. I didn’t think she was doing this in her sleep. She was awake, or at least semi-awake. Even so, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t ask her what was wrong, or how she was feeling. What was the point? She would either tell me she was fine, which would likely be a lie, or she would tell me she couldn’t feel her shoulder, or something equa
lly frightening. And there was nothing I could do about that. There was nothing any of us could do.

  Except wait.

  5

  4:41a.m.

  Lucinda. Was she confused when she mentioned a doll? Delirious? Speaking through a dream? The doll on the table, gone, misappropriated somehow. Did Solano take it? But why? Because he was crazy? Wanted company? A grown man?

  What was I missing?

  6

  4:50 a.m.

  The ghost of the little girl. I hated myself for even contemplating this possibility. I felt like a kid at a sleepover being dared to look in the bathroom mirror at midnight to see Bloody Mary’s reflection, sans scalp, which was said to have been torn away when she got her hair trapped in the doors of an elevator cab. Nonsense, of course. No grown adult could take it seriously. Just as no grown adult could—or at least should—take seriously the legend of a girl haunting an island in the middle of nowhere.

  So why was I contemplating it?

  I wasn’t.

  I couldn’t help it if silly thoughts popped in my head.

  Ghosts didn’t exist.

  Because if they did?

  Well, if they did, I’d be more compelled to believe that my out of body experience hadn’t been dead neurons firing, that I had indeed been crossing over to some other plane of existence, that the white light existed, along with whatever evil dwelled within it—

  That was a dream.

  But was it?

  A dream—or a memory?

  Fuck, Jack. Stop it. You’re going to drive yourself batshit crazy.

  Ghosts didn’t exist.

  Devils didn’t exist.

  Eternal suffering didn’t exist.

  End of story.

  7

  5:01a.m.

  A humming had started in my skull, from fear or hunger or fatigue, I wasn’t sure. My legs had gone numb from sitting in the same position for so long. I stretched the left one out in front of me, then the right, careful not to disturb Rosa, whose head was resting on it. Her eyes were closed, her mouth parted slightly. Her breathing was deep and regular.

  Looking at her, a warmth bloomed in my chest. She was so small and innocent and beautiful. And brave. What other kid her age would cope with all the shit going on as well as she had? I certainly wouldn’t have at her age. I wasn’t really doing such a good job now at twenty-eight.

  Her strength made her inexplicable affection for me all the more endearing. She’d even stood up for me, telling Jesus, “He’ll beat you up!” I smiled to myself, but it was a smile of sadness. She shouldn’t be here, going through this. She should be at home, in her bed, waking to her family and a warm breakfast, perhaps attending Sunday church, and later, playing jump rope and other games with her neighborhood friends.

  Stroking her head affectionately with the back of my fingers, I vowed right then not to let her down, not to let any harm come to her. I would get her home safe and sound.

  Even as I told myself this, however, I wondered whether it was true.

  After all, how could I make such a promise when I didn’t know for certain who or what was out there stalking us, hunting us, plotting our demise?

  Who, Jack. Not what—who. No crazy Pita thinking, okay?

  Okay.

  Rosa’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. Her brown eyes looked up at me. “Is it morning?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  She began to sit up.

  “Go back to sleep,” I told her.

  “I can’t. The floor’s too hard.”

  “Come,” Elizaveta said. As I’d suspected, she wasn’t sleeping. Her eyes were open now, alert, and she held out her hand. “I’ll take you to bed.”

  “I don’t want to leave Jack.”

  “He’ll be okay.”

  “He’s hurt.”

  “I’m fine,” I told her. “Go with Eliza.”

  Elizaveta and Rosa stood and crossed the room quietly, wraithlike in the candlelight and layered shadows.

  Jesus, I noticed, raised his head and watched them until they disappeared into Pepper’s room. Pita remained motionless on her side, sleeping.

  “How does it feel, Jack?” Jesus asked me, speaking for the first time in a while.

  “How does what feel?” I said, suspecting I was rising to some bait.

  “Knowing Pita was fucking Nitro behind your back?”

  I almost told him not so bad after I fucked Elizaveta behind his back. Instead I said, “How does it feel knowing you’re going to be fucked six ways from Sunday in prison?”

  “I’m not going to prison.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “I’m not. You know that. I know that.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Jack, Jack, Jack.”

  “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”

  “I don’t like you, Jack. I never have. I think maybe it’s time I make that perfectly clear.”

  “Oh, it’s been clear for a while.”

  “I don’t know what my father ever saw in you. But he was grossly mistaken.”

  “Not just your father, Jesus. Your sister too. Seems to me like your entire family was a Jack Goff fan. You’re the odd one out.”

  “Seems to me like you didn’t know how to satisfy a woman, otherwise Pita wouldn’t have gone looking elsewhere for a real man.”

  “A real man? You’ve been reading too much Cosmo, pal.”

  “You know why I pulled support for you and your team?”

  “Bad business sense?”

  “Funny, Jack.”

  “No joke, Jesus. Your father built that brewery from nothing. He knew what he was doing. He knew the importance of breaking into the US market. He knew the returns would come. If he were alive today, the company would be worth five times its current value.”

  “You’re dumber than you look, Jack.”

  “I’m not the only one who thinks this.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve followed the company, Jesus. And the pundits seem to agree with me. Pulling out of the US was a massive mistake, and nothing much has been going right for you since.”

  “Where do you get your news?” he snapped. “The Gringo Gazette?”

  “Must be a pretty shitty feeling to know your entire board of directors is thinking about voting to oust you from your own company, huh?”

  “You know nothing. Nothing. Dumping you was absolutely the right decision. Because you’re a fuckup, Jack, a cocky, reckless, impulsive fuckup. I knew that from the moment I met you—”

  “You let your personal feelings cloud your business judgment—”

  “—before you crashed and ruined your career,” he went on, speaking over me, “before you started drinking yourself to the gutter. I knew that, and I was right. I was right. Because look at you now. You’re no longer just a fuckup. You’ve managed to become a drunk as well.” He smiled mirthlessly. “You’re a fucking joke, Jack. So congratulations—you’ve finally lived up to your name.”

  Elizaveta

  1

  Elizaveta helped Rosa into bed next to Pepper, who remained fast asleep, then pulled the sheet and rug up to her chin.

  “What if I can’t fall asleep?” Rosa asked.

  “Huh?” Elizaveta said. Jesus and Jack were speaking to each other, and she was trying to hear what they were saying.

  “What if I can’t fall asleep?”

  “Then you count sheep.”

  “That never works.”

  “Then imagine ice melting.”

  “What?”

  “That is what children in Russia do. Trust me, it works.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “I will come back and wake you soon.”

  “Eliza?” she asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Will I see you and Jack again?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After today?”

  “Da, if you want to. If your mother lets you.”

  “Well, I’
ll probably be grounded for a month. But after that, maybe I can visit you and Jack? Maybe we can have a sleepover. Not like tonight. A fun one, with movies and stuff. I’m allowed sleepovers sometimes.”

  “Oooh. I don’t know about that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Jack and I don’t live together.”

  “You don’t?”

  Elizaveta shook her head. “Jack lives with Pita.”

  “Who do you live with then?”

  “I live by myself.”

  “That’s great then! Jack and I can sleepover at your house.”

  Elizaveta smiled. “Go to sleep, Rosa.”

  2

  Jack and Jesus had fallen silent. Elizaveta returned to her previous spot against the wall and sat down. She wanted to ask Jack what they were talking about—fighting about, more like it—and for a moment she wondered if it could have been her. Had Jack told Jesus what happened earlier? Instead of experiencing guilt over her infidelity and fear of Jesus’s reaction, she felt strangely invigorated. Had Jack been fighting over her? No. This was a fantasy, her ego running away with itself. They’d had sex, that was all. And they’d only had sex because she’d instigated it. There was nothing more to it than carnal pleasure, a temporary escape. Why would there be? He was rich and famous and could have any woman in the world he wanted. She was just some displaced and disillusioned Russian schoolteacher with a closetful of skeletons and a headful of issues.

  Jesus chose me.

  But that was because he wanted a trophy girlfriend, something exotic to show off to his buddies. And that was all she ever was to him, wasn’t it? Yes, it was. In their twelve months together he never told her he loved her. He never spoke of children. Marriage? The first she’d heard of it was earlier tonight, or this morning, and he’d only mentioned it to manipulate her like a pawn on a chessboard, to make her rebuke Jack and join his side. Ironically his efforts made her see the truth. He was simply using her to fulfill his needs and wants, to boost his self-esteem. Their relationship was a farce. It never stood a chance. She supposed, deep down, she always understood this, but she’d been so desperate for security and stability she’d refused to see what was right in front of her face. That was the double edge of hope: it made you weak, blind, foolish.