by Sam Hawken
“Back here.”
Faith’s voice sounded clotted. Camaro followed it.
Faith was in her bedroom on the bed, back against the headboard. Her hair was everywhere, and her face was blotched with red. Wads of tissue lay all around her.
“I’m here,” Camaro said.
“Thank you for coming.”
Camaro sat on the corner of the bed. “The cop says you need a drink.”
Faith barked a laugh. “I could use ten drinks. But I don’t have anything in the house.”
“I’ll pick something up for you later.”
“I’m old enough to buy my own booze.”
“Then what am I doing here? You want me to cook you breakfast?”
Faith trumpeted into a tissue. The skin above her upper lip was moist. Her eyes were swollen. She screwed her face into an ugly mask. She cried, and Camaro watched. Faith hugged herself. She was in a nightshirt and a pair of baggy sweatpants. She looked smaller than she was.
After a time she quieted. “I can’t do this,” she said.
“You are doing it.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking. You can teach me all you want, but I’m still scared. When I saw him tonight…I thought he was going to kill me, and I couldn’t think of anything to do. Everything I learned was gone. He could have done anything he wanted to me. I couldn’t have stopped him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know exactly.”
“So you keep at it. You train and train until you don’t have to think. You don’t have to remember anything. Your body does it all for you.”
“Is that how it is for you?”
“Sometimes.”
“I’m an accountant. Okay? I’m not some Amazon princess. I had an inhaler when I was growing up. I don’t do stuff like this. I analyze records and I track transactions and I ensure proper bookkeeping. Nobody’s ever going to look to me when they think, ‘Oh, who’s the toughest person I know?’”
Camaro stood. “I guess there’s no point to going on with you,” she said.
Faith’s face blanched. “Wait! I’m not…I don’t…Don’t leave.”
“Why not? You said it yourself: you’re no good, and you’re weak and you can’t do it. I have better things to do with my time. I have a charter leaving in two hours. I should be on the boat getting ready. I don’t need to hold your hand.”
Faith’s expression creased again. She dabbed her eyes with tissue. “Please. I don’t want to cry anymore.”
“Then cut it out!” Camaro said. “You want to feel sorry for yourself, it’s your business, not mine. You came to me because you wanted help. So you could learn how to protect yourself. You didn’t ask me to take care of your problem for you. You asked me to give you what you need to take care of the problem without me.”
“I’m scared! Don’t you get it?”
Camaro stepped forward. She lifted the hem of her shirt away from her jeans and exposed her side. Muscle lay flat under the skin. The skin itself was mottled with scar tissue. “You see that? I took three pieces of shrapnel in my side when a mortar shell went off fifty feet from me. I got shot in the leg dragging a man across a hundred yards of open ground while people tried to kill us both. You think I wasn’t scared?”
Faith looked at her. Her mouth was shut, and the lips twisted. She said nothing.
Camaro grabbed the neck of her shirt and yanked it down to expose another latticework of scars, fresh pink and tender-looking. “I got this less than a year ago. The man who shot me put a gun in my face and told me I was gonna die. You think I wasn’t scared then?”
“Camaro, I—”
Camaro cut her off. “I’ve got more. You want to see them? I’ve got broken bones and torn ligaments and stab wounds and anything else you want to name. And I was scared. I was scared every time.”
Her voice faltered. She glared at Faith on the bed, and Faith shrank under her gaze, wringing a tissue in her hands.
“I’m sorry,” Faith said.
“Don’t be sorry. Make the other guy sorry.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Where’s the gun?”
“What gun?”
“The gun I told you to buy. Where is it?”
Faith shook her head. “I didn’t buy it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like guns! I know you told me to, but I don’t like them.”
Camaro sat on the edge of the bed. “You need to have a gun in the house. It’s important.”
“I’m afraid. I’m afraid of everything.”
Camaro touched Faith on the leg. “We’re going to work on it.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not going to let this happen to you.”
Chapter Seventeen
HE GREW AGITATED. It had been days and weeks since Faith had begun seeing the woman, Camaro Espinoza, and he did not understand what was going on. When he wasn’t watching Faith, he felt worse, but he had to take time to find out about Faith’s new friend. There was infuriatingly little to go on, but he did the best he could. All he knew was that Espinoza was a charter-boat captain and she had the interest of law enforcement in some quarters. She had been in the army and served with distinction. Why she was here, he didn’t know, because she had no family he could find, or any ties to Miami at all.
This unto itself was not unusual. People came to Miami from everywhere to make a new start. Though the city was slowly sinking into the sea, they saw a future for themselves. It was a hopeful place, with much to aspire to. But it all took money, and sometimes money was hard to come by. He knew this.
One day he left Faith at work and returned to her apartment. He lay down on her bed, smelling her on the pillows and sheets. Afterward he straightened everything to leave no sign. She had recently washed all her underthings, so there was nothing in the laundry hamper, which upset him, but there would be other times. He spent a while looking at the pictures on the walls. She loved the Art Deco District and those brilliantly pastel old buildings. She had books on her shelves filled with photographs of them, and of the traces of the past still visible here and there around the city. He looked for the snow globe he had sent her, but she hadn’t kept it. He was not surprised, but he was still disappointed.
He returned to her work in time to see her leave the bank building and walk to the parking garage a block away. Once she was on the road, he trailed her as he always did. Sometimes vehicles slipped between them and obscured his view, but he gave his car the gas and moved ahead so he could always see the outline of her hair around the headrest of the driver’s seat. He wanted to touch her hair, but he had never been that close for more than a few fleeting seconds. He also knew that the moment they made contact it would be over.
Sweet agony was watching her park her car in the lot outside her apartment building and walk carefully to her door. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d seen this exact same thing, and watched her vanish before the sun went down and the soft glow of her lights illuminated the blinds from within.
She’d seen him, of course. He’d suspected it for a while, but the night she came to the window there had been no mistake. He had to be particularly careful now. But she had come to the window, and this was the most important thing. She’d known he was there and she came to him, and this proved to him that they had a connection beyond watcher and subject. She wanted him, even if she didn’t fully understand it yet. And he wanted her more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life.
Tonight he’d creep up to her window and try to catch her in bed asleep. He wouldn’t try to break in. He wanted only to see her in the dim room. Not too much to ask.
He waited, and the sky stained with rose before drifting into a deep, angry red as the sun settled. Thin clouds lay like fingers bathed in the light. He looked up at them as the day faded. They vanished into a night colored with the lights of the city. It was impossible to see a star.
Time passed. Faith’s lights went ou
t one by one. He imagined her dressing for bed in the darkness. She did not wear much, he knew. The thin material of her nightshirts hung loosely against her imperfect body. In recent weeks she’d started to tan, a result of long runs around Camaro Espinoza’s neighborhood. She was looking more like Miami. The real Faith had begun to vanish. He wanted her for her flaws. He wanted her because she was the most unique woman in the world.
He had sat alone in the darkness for a long time, not moving, when his phone trilled. He checked the number and saw it was blocked. He frowned. It was probably a robocall from some scammer in a rented office somewhere trying to fish for credit card numbers. He did not need such nonsense ruining his night with Faith, but he knew he had to answer.
He pressed Accept and put the phone to his ear. “Yes,” he said. His voice sounded strange to him. On his vigils he spoke to no one. It was the silence of worship.
“Are you watching her?”
The man on the other end of the line had a deep voice. He had seen the man only once, months ago, an envelope of money passed under the table of an expensive restaurant. Other envelopes followed, but they came by courier. They spoke once a week.
“Yes, I’m watching her. She’s sleeping now.”
“Is it safe?”
“Yes.”
“Then do it.”
A tingling sensation crawled between his shoulder blades. “Now?” he asked.
“Yes, now. Do it and get it over with. I’ll be in touch.”
The man on the other end severed the connection.
He sat very still, the phone remaining against his ear. He turned toward the apartments and Faith’s darkened windows. His skin crept with adrenaline. He shuddered, and his teeth clicked together. He made himself be calm.
When he was ready, he put the phone away and got out of the car. He crossed the street. He felt his stride lengthening, lungs expanding. It was the moment. It was the moment.
It was now.
Chapter Eighteen
WHEN SHE RETURNED to Miguel’s gym, the beginner class was in session. Already the numbers had thinned from where they had been only weeks before. Still more would drop out and more and more until they were replaced by fresh faces in a new round of classes. Most of these people would quit, too. It was an endless cycle.
She changed and put her things away and went back onto the floor. It was late and only the most dedicated fighters spent time in the gym at this hour. Camaro was one of three besides Miguel and Rey. She saw the two men talking at the desk near the stairs. A pair of fighters were in their own worlds elsewhere, drilling with heavy bags and dummies, practicing controlled destruction.
Camaro decided to warm up with some stretches and a few basic calisthenics. She found herself distracted. An itch at the base of her skull wouldn’t fade, even when her muscles began to burn in the workout itself. Her eyes strayed toward the stairs again and again, but no one appeared. Even the other two fighters in the gym had done enough, and they left for the locker room.
She was in her fifth set when Rey approached her. Camaro sweated heavily, closing out with ten sitting twists that set her core on fire. She had two more sets to complete and then she would step things up. To be at the edge of exhaustion was to be in the right place.
Rey watched her. She finished out the twists, collapsed onto her back on the mat, and breathed. Once she had her wind again, she asked, “What?”
“Your friend,” Rey said.
“What friend?”
“Faith. In the beginner’s class.”
“What about her?”
“She quit.”
Camaro sat up with effort. “What are you talking about?”
“I know, I was surprised, too. Whatever you were teaching her, it was working. She was the best girl in the class. I was going to suggest she take it to the next level and really see what she could do. But she didn’t come in tonight. She never missed a session before.”
The itch was there. It became a tiny coal. “Did she call to quit?”
“No. But I’ve seen it before. You get people who are real dedicated, and you think they’re gonna be something special, and they just stop. They miss one class, then they’re gone for good. Guess she got tired of it.”
Camaro rose to a knee. She was hot and sore. It had been easier once. “Can I use your phone?”
“Yeah, sure.”
She went to the desk by the stairs. Miguel nodded at her. “You’re going to shut me down again tonight. Last one out.”
“I like it when it’s quiet,” Camaro replied.
“Hey, it’s not like I have a life or anything.”
The man smiled. Camaro didn’t. She grabbed the phone on the wall and dialed Faith’s number. It rang a half-dozen times before switching to voice mail. She hung up and tried again, then a third time. She left a message. The perspiration on her skin was almost gone. She stared at the phone. “I don’t think I’m staying,” she said finally.
“You haven’t even worked the bag. And we have to go over your ground game. We got some new battle ropes I thought you might want to break in, too.”
Camaro barely heard him. “I have to go.”
“Don’t cut corners! You have to stay sharp.”
“Next time.”
In the locker room she hurried through her cleanup, washing her face and arms in the sink, skipping a shower. She got into her jeans and boots and hooked a .45 in its holster against her hip. Having the weight there was good.
Half the lights were out when she emerged. Miguel and Rey lingered by the stairs until she came. They descended together. The neon on the street-level windows went out. The gym plunged into semidarkness. As the banks of lights extinguished, Camaro felt drawn along, out of the gym and into the lot behind the building. The night air was heavy enough to feel. Camaro heard Rey talking, but the words themselves were lost in the roar of her bike’s engine.
Nighttime in South Beach was a busy time. Camaro was aware of minutes passing with every clutch of cars blocking the way and every stoplight. The sidewalks were busy with tourists seeking pleasure. None of them knew where Camaro was going, or cared who she was. Camaro breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, but even that was not enough.
She saw the apartment complex in her mind’s eye, and Faith’s apartment. The door was open and it was quiet and dark inside. No one else was around, not a neighbor or a cop. In her imagination she did not go inside, but she knew she had to. She was not afraid to fight, but she was afraid to see.
She picked up speed on the bike, hurtled from lane to lane. The exit was just up ahead.
Chapter Nineteen
SHE DIDN’T KNOW how he’d gotten inside, but it didn’t matter. She hadn’t heard him enter, and she hadn’t known he was there until he was on top of her. His body pressed her to the bed, and when she screamed it was into his covering hand.
Faith heard him now in the front room, wrecking everything. There was the sound of falling books, and the shredding noise of cloth coming apart. She thought maybe he was cutting her furniture to pieces. He’d already dissected part of her mattress with an ugly knife. Scattered bits of fluff were all around Faith on the floor. The drawers were out of her dresser, dumped and searched top and bottom. He’d pulled the furniture away from the wall.
It was hard to see. One of her eyes was swollen shut. She found him and she did everything she learned. She went for the balls, and for the throat and the eyes. She hurt him, but then he hurt her. Her body throbbed where he’d punched her, where he’d kicked her when he threw her to the ground. The collar of her nightshirt was torn. She lay on her side with one hand holding it up to cover herself. She thought it would happen then, when he started to strip her, but instead he descended into a sudden and vicious fury. He beat her with a closed fist and an open hand. The kicking had been the worst, and when she took a blow to the stomach she vomited on the carpet. He talked the whole time, but she understood none of it. The language was meaningless to her.
She heard her phone ringing again and again, but it was in the other room. There was no landline in her apartment, no bedroom phone. It didn’t matter anyway, because he never would have let her call the police. He might have strangled her with the cord.
He was in the kitchen, clattering through her pans. Something fell to the floor and shattered. Moments after that, something else broke. He was rampaging through her cabinets, one after the other. He had asked her for nothing in any way she could comprehend.
She turned her head where she lay and looked under the bed. A few scattered socks and a single shoe lost in the space. The vision in her good eye was cloudy. She focused on each object in turn. Her nose was broken and it was hard to breathe. Camaro had been right: it hurt, but it was not the worst thing.
It took a few moments for her to fix her eye on the gun. She kept it under the pillow beside her as she slept, and when they struggled on the bed it fell between the mattress and the wall. After he moved the bed, it fell still further and it rested out of the light with the butt toward Faith. Faith’s heart tripped when she looked at it.
There was pain in her skull and neck when she rolled her head to look toward the bedroom door. She still heard him in the kitchen. He was searching something else, maybe her refrigerator, though there was nothing to find among the frozen Lean Cuisine meals and salad fixings she’d bought for her new diet.
Faith knew he would return. It was inevitable that he would, and it would be more terrible than it had been before. He was stronger than her, and she was hurt.
She looked at the gun. It was five feet away from where her hand rested on the carpet. Her body was a webwork of agony. She didn’t want to move. She had to move.
Rolling onto her side was torture. Making it onto her belly caused her stomach to churn again. She swallowed hard to keep down what was left. She pushed with her bare feet and clawed with her hands, and wormed her way under the edge of the bed. It was crawling through a field of broken glass. It was an impossible task. The gun seemed no closer, though she knew it must be. She stretched out for it.