by Ian Bull
“I read about them. He bought a script for her called Betrayed in Paradise.”
Maud then holds up the magazine and reads from the page: “She plays a former New York police detective with a mysterious new husband who turns out to be a murderer.”
She reads it with the authority of an expert, and then looks up at me. “They broke up five years ago halfway through filming, but now that they’ve fallen in love again they’re finishing their movie together on his private island resort,” she says with certainty.
“Do you believe that’s true?”
“Sure. Everyone likes a good romance,” Maud says. “And she’s such a hothead, maybe it’s good she’s with an older man. He can calm her down.”
She turns the page to another shot of them on the boat. Behind them is El Sádico with the streak of white in his black hair, and he’s staring right into my lens like he knew I was there. What he doesn’t know is that he has stared into my lens before.
“He’s scary. It’s like he’s staring right out of the paper and right at us,” she says.
She’s right; he is scary—the worst kind of scary, too. El Sádico’s real name is Rolando Caballero, and he’s not working for this billionaire because he’s a filmmaker. You hire him because he’s a killer, and soon he’ll kill Julia Travers just like he killed the boy.
There’s only one other person who would believe any of this—and that’s the other Ranger who was in the pigpen with me that night, Sergeant Carl Webb, my team leader on the 5th Ranger Regimental Reconnaissance Detachment, or RRD. He lives on Long Island in the Bahamas now, and he’s the reason I’m on this plane.
“You seem tired, you should get some rest,” Maud says.
I look at my watch; it’s 2:00 a.m. PST, three hours into a red-eye flight that will land in Miami in another three hours at 8:00 a.m. EST. She’s right, I should try to sleep. Jammed up against the window with a spongy airline pillow, I close my eyes and manage to drift off.
The dream comes again, but this time Carl is in the dream with me.
We track five FARC rebels through the Colombian jungle and into an Arhuaco village. Carl crawls straight into the muck of the pigpen, and I follow, snuggling between sleeping pigs who grunt as they make room for us. Carl raises his weapon while I switch lenses and raise my camera. We are eighty feet away, but I’m close enough to use my long lens.
Carl nudges my leg, and I glance over. His camo boonie hat is pulled down so low on his bald head that his face is barely visible, but his marble blue eyes still pierce into mine. He points at my eyes, then at his.
I’m your eyes, he’s telling me, because once I put my face to the viewfinder my awareness narrows down to just what’s in the frame. He lays his leg next to mine so we can communicate through kicks, like body-to-body Morse code.
I put my eye to the viewfinder and enter the zone.
The rebels make the kidnapped German tourist toss a log on the fire and stoke the flames, then tell him to lie on the ground. I can see through my telephoto lens that he has blond hair and one of the lenses of his glasses is broken. The rising fire improves the light, and I get a perfect shot of him with a rifle to his neck—click.
Three Arhuaco women bring out bowls of rice and beans and clay mugs with water. The rebels sit at a table and eat. Two feel safe enough to pull off their boots, and I see that boot rot has blackened their feet—click. I get my group photo.
“¿Dónde están los hombres? Quiero que hablar con ellos,” asks a lanky rebel with curly hair and a beard. Where are your men? I want to talk with them.
“En el pueblo de al lado, para la cosecha,” answers a short dark woman with long black braids. In the next village, for the harvest.
“¿O tal vez escondidos en la obscuridad?” he asks. Or maybe hiding in the dark?
The other rebels laugh.
My senses are tingling. This bearded guy is the leader; maybe Caballero. The only intel we have is that he’s tall, lean, and has a Roman nose and a streak of white in his hair. I still can’t see him; he stays in the shadows and the heat from the fire blurs the infrared.
Webb taps my boot three times, and I sense him putting his rifle down. That means he’s transmitting our location from his GPS. I know Webb; he’s afraid more rebels will show up, so he wants to turn in our info to the Colombians now and just disappear.
He taps me twice. That means I have two minutes.
A boy carrying a bucket enters the circle and stops. He must have stumbled out of bed for his pre-dawn chores and wandered into this. The rebel leader gestures from the shadows for the boy to bring the bucket close.
“¿Qué llevas ahí?” he asks. What are you carrying?
“Es basura para los cerdos,” he answers. Garbage scraps for the pigs.
He motions for him to go ahead. We sink deeper into the muck. The boy walks up to the pigpen, opens the gate and steps under the sloping roof and into the dark. He dumps the scraps into the trough behind us…and then inhales quickly.
Webb spins in the mud, yanks the kid down, covers his mouth with one hand and holds a knife to his throat with the other. The boy is maybe eleven. Webb nods to me that it’s time to go.
I should whisper to the boy to lie down and count to a hundred so we can roll under the fence and be gone, but my gut says it’s Caballero by the fire.
I gesture that I want my two minutes. Webb grimaces but doesn’t shake his head “no.”
Webb holsters his knife and turns back to watch the rebels. The pigs grunt and eat their slop which covers any noise we make. I open a MRE packet of chocolate covered coffee beans and shake it under the boy’s nose. He tries one and his eyes widen, so I give him the whole packet.
“¿Odias a estos hombres?” I ask. Do you hate these men?
The boy nods.
“Ayúdame a acercar el lider mas al fuego,” I say, patting my camera. Help me. Get the one with the beard closer to the fire.
Nodding, he hides the MRE packet in his shirt and leaves. Every hair on my neck stands on end as I slide back into place next to Webb, who I can tell is not happy, but I know he’ll give me exactly two minutes.
By now the fire is bright. One of the women puts a clear bottle on the table and the rebels “ahh” in appreciation. Homemade rum. They sip and pass the bottle, each of them wincing as it goes down. One spits a shower into the fire and the flames leap up and scare the German, which makes everyone laugh. The bright light illuminates more faces which I snap quickly—click. I have great close ups of everyone now, except the leader.
The leader notices the boy standing by his mother, half-protecting her and half-hiding in her skirts. He gestures for him to come close.
“¿Dónde están los otros hombres?” he asks the boy again. Where are the other men?
The boy shrugs like he doesn’t understand, then steps closer to the fire. Good boy.
The leader asks again. The boy smiles and shakes his head and steps closer to the fire. The rebel leader grabs the boy’s arm—and something falls from the boy’s shirt—the MRE ration I gave him. The leader grabs it from the ground and shakes it in his face.
“¿Americanos? Dónde están?” he yelled. Where are they?
The other rebels hear him, grab their rifles and aim in four different directions.
Webb gestures with his fingers—mission blown, time to go.
The kid slowly lifts his finger and points at us in the pigpen. The leader looks toward us and for an instant I have his face in the frame, with his Roman nose and the streak of premature white in his long black curly hair—click—and I snap the first ever perfect close up of El Sádico.
Carl rises up on one knee behind a pig just as a flashlight beam lights up his face.
“Allá!” a voice shouts, and they fire their weapons, hitting pigs but not us.
Then El Sádico shoots the boy in the chest. The boy falls to the ground, dead.
And I bolt awake.
The airplane bell chimes. The plane is descending into Mia
mi.
“Did you get some good sleep?” Maud asks.
“A little,” I say.
“I hope you get some time off. You look like you need it.”
“And I hope you have a great time with your family,” I say.
I look out the window and see the ground rising fast. We land with a jolt.
Chapter 14
Julia Day 6: Tuesday
The legs of my lounge chair sink into the pink sand at the water’s edge as tiny waves lap underneath me. I lean back in my black Prada crepe knit bikini and sip a banana daiquiri. In front of me is a long wooden dock that stretches out into the water, where a black cigarette boat is tethered, and anchored further out is Xander’s yacht, The Petrokolus. Behind me is a vast estate that looks like a colonial sugar cane mansion from 1700s Jamaica. All is beautiful and serene.
Inside my head, I’m ready to explode.
I am on Elysian Cay, Xander’s remote island estate in the Bahamas. It’s a five-star luxury getaway so remote that there’s no contact with the outside world, which makes it perfect for a vacation.
And perfect for keeping someone a prisoner.
“Hello, darling. Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice asks.
Xander walks down and stands next to the lounge chair. He looks tan and relaxed, his black hair combed straight back. He sticks his hands in his white linen pants which he’s rolled up so he can walk ankle deep in the shallow water next to my lounge chair.
I want to scream and attack him, but it would only make my situation worse.
“You’ve done an amazing job. The island is tremendous,” I say.
He smiles and pushes his sunglasses into his hair and sits on the edge of the lounge chair. I can smell his cologne, a mixture of lemon and sandalwood. I move my feet as far away from him as I can without levitating.
“Have you changed your mind?” he asks.
“No. I’ll sit here forever before I finish that film.”
“So I have to continue with my presentation. Let’s discuss the second sentence you wrote: ‘You called it love, but you don’t know what love is.’”
“Must we do this?” I ask.
“I spent years thinking about it. All I ask for is five minutes,” he says.
I stare straight out at the water to avoid answering.
“Look at the emblem at the top of each outward facing wall,” he says, and then points up at the villa. “What do you see?”
I twist my body and look up at the villa. Just below the pitched roof is an ornate stone crest embedded in the stucco, and in the middle are the letters V and J.
“V and J?”
“Villa Julia,” he says. “I built all this for you.”
I notice the same emblem with its interlocking V and J letters embossed on the beach umbrellas. Now I remember seeing it on the napkins and the towels.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“The summer you were on Eleuthera at French Leaves, lolling in the sun, where do you think I was? I was here, supervising construction of all this. For you.”
“No, we went to Eleuthera to shoot the second half of our movie, but you stopped production,” I say. “That’s what I remember.”
Xander shakes his head, but he keeps smiling. “You said you loved me. You said you wanted to share my life forever. But it turns out forever for you was three months,” he says.
This is his version. Once we arrived on Eleuthera, all talk of our movie stopped. Xander would leave me for weeks, but when he returned he’d smell of perfume and his pockets would have receipts from restaurants in Miami, Los Angeles and London. His phone would ring with different ringtones and he’d walk down to the beach to answer in whispers.
“You bragged about your island the first night we met. Whatever you were doing here wasn’t for me,” I say.
“You doubt my passion? I bankrolled a movie for you. You don’t think I would build a mansion in paradise for you?” he asks.
I pull my knees up on the lounge chair and cover my legs with my hands. We are now far enough apart on the chair that if he stood up I’d fall backwards into the sand.
“Do you know why I stopped production?” he asks. “Because you weren’t great in the New York scenes we shot. Good, but not great. I think even you know that.”
I feel my face flush. His words sting, because the barbs have truth. I was a beginner then, who had the talent but not the chops.
“How do I tell the woman I love that she’s not good enough?” he asks. “That was my challenge. I decided I wouldn’t, until I had a plan. I decided to build you this and tailor it for filming and editing. We’d edit your scenes, you’d see your work, we’d refine your style, and then we’d shoot the second half of the film here and make it great. And why would I do that? Because I wanted to keep my promise to you and make you a star. Yet you say I don’t know what love is,” he says.
“Please, I know about your other women.”
“Are you shocked that a man like me would have other women in his life? Most of them pursued me. But I was getting rid of them, one by one,” he says.
“I was trapped on Eleuthera. Even when I could’ve gone back to Miami with Trishelle when the storm was coming, you said no. You said I had to get on the seaplane and go to Nassau with you.”
I remember that final afternoon. Etta had convinced Xander to let Trishelle visit for a few days because I was so bored. Trishelle saw my dilemma and cured me of my romantic delusions; I was just another mistress, but the perks were tremendous. If I performed well and beat out my competition, he’d reward me by finishing the movie someday. She thought I should stay, but I didn’t want the job. Luckily for me she had $500 in her pocket, and Hurricane Ike was on its way.
“I knew that if could get enough of a head start, you’d stop looking for me because of the storm and leave without me,” I say. “And that’s exactly what you did.”
“And I thought you were dead,” he says. “Until I read about your success in Hollywood.”
I stare at him, and his weird frozen smile has a tiny quiver on the lips.
“And you can’t stand it. That’s why you’re doing this,” I say.
“It did give me the drive to finish this place and finish the movie,” he says, and leans forward and strokes my foot. “I had to show you that I do know what love is.”
His harsh blue eyes match the color of the flat water in the distance behind him. He completely believes his story. He’s spent five years convincing himself it was true, and now he demands that others agree, which is what narcissists and sociopaths do.
“I’m not doing it,” I say, and pull my leg away in disgust.
His face darkens. I pulled away too quickly, but I couldn’t help it.
“My line producer says we can finish the whole project in seven shooting days. We’re lucky you’re so beautiful. The photos we shot of you yesterday show you haven’t aged a day. Nathan, the new director, and David, the cinematographer, both think that the footage that we shot four years ago in New York will match just fine.”
“Director and cinematographer?”
“They arrive by seaplane tomorrow, along with an entire film crew,” he says.
I’m so shocked I laugh. His eyes narrow.
“This movie will NEVER happen. Even if I agree to shoot it, my agent and lawyer will make sure every studio and distributor block its release.”
“Julia, I understand how important you think you are now,” he says. “But whether you come back to me or not, this movie will be finished. You admit that I invested in you, and I insist on at least getting a return on my investment.”
Xander beckons to someone behind me. I glance over my shoulder and see Rolando walking across the sand toward me, followed by two bodyguards from the yacht. Remi is an unshaven Frenchman who always smokes cigarettes, and Hans is a sunburned, muscle-bound Austrian. Both worked on Eleuthera.
Rolando hands Xander a paper, which Xander hands to me. It’s the latest issue of Celebrity
Exposed magazine, complete with photos of Xander and me boarding his yacht, under the headline: “Julia Travers Runs Back to Billionaire’s Love Nest.”
The banana daiquiri in my stomach curdles instantly and I almost throw up.
“That was published yesterday morning. And yesterday I also sent a copy of our original contract to your lawyer, your agent and the studio.”
“Contract?” I ask.
“I’m exercising the option to restart production at any time, in first position before all other contracts, requiring you to abandon all prior commitments. Although they are upset, the studio executives have no choice but to agree.”
I feel my stomach tie up even more.
“People will be looking for me. They’ll know something’s wrong.”
“No one is looking for you. The world thinks you came here willingly. The studio is furious with you, which doesn’t help your reputation after the madness at that movie premiere. The truth is, you probably need me to get your career back on track again.”
I stand up, vibrating with anger. His bodyguards all come a step closer.
“Temper, temper,” he says.
“It’ll never happen,” I say. “I’m getting out of the sun before it ruins me.”
Remi and Hans block me, forcing me to sit back down on the lounge chair.
“Sorry, darling, just a little longer in the sun,” Xander says, “we need your skin a tad darker and your hair a touch lighter, to match the footage. And we need you four pounds heavier, so keep drinking those daiquiris.”
Xander bends over to kiss my forehead. I slap at his face, but he backs away.
“Never try to kiss me. I hate you,” I say.
I am letting my fear become anger again, which won’t work, but I can’t help it.
“I will continue to try to persuade you, but if I can’t then Rolando will. It’s your choice,” he says, and walks away.
Remi and Hans stand on either side of my lounge chair, their black tennis shoes getting wet in the water, while four smiling waiters descend on the beach. One carries a table, another an umbrella, a third carries folding chairs, and the fourth has a large tray with food, drinks, towels, suntan oil and a script. They quickly assemble a shady spot for Rolando to sit and eat, and then they disappear again. Rolando picks up the suntan oil and a towel and walks over and stands above me.