“Jewels, you missed. Try again,” Kate announced with a dedicated look on her face.
“The police are on their way. Just give me the car. It’s mine.” He fell back to the other side of the circular driveway.
“Not so much- anymore.”
The sound of a siren got louder as it made its way down the long drive, pulling in between Jackson and me. I walked back into the house to locate my gun permit in anticipation of what was to come.
Kate followed me around, nervously. We went from room to room rifling through drawers. The faint sounds of Jackson’s annoying voice could be heard, but the distance filtered it. I’m sure he was delivering a ‘woe is me speech’. He and the truth were like oil and water. I was sad to be missing his performance, but first things first.
“Maybe it’s in the foyer?” I walked back toward the front door talking to myself. No one was in sight. My attention turned back to Kate as she walked up behind me. I was feeling more defiant as each minute passed.
“I don’t care what donut eating cop they send out. This is my property. That’s my car and here- here is the permit for my gun. Ha.” I looked up at Kate feeling very proud of myself, but she had that deer in the headlights look about her. She moved her hand to her chest area and nonchalantly pointed with her index finger in the direction of the door. The wind was knocked out of my sails. I couldn’t move.
“The donut eating cop is behind me, right?”
All she could do was shake her head yes. Before slowly turning in his direction, I mouthed the words, ‘get the car’ to Kate. There he was- the mystery man, wearing the same coat as that night in the cemetery. Turns out, I wasn’t crazy after all. He walked toward me with his hands raised in front of him, his eyes glancing up and down my body, taking in my strange attire.
“I’m not going to shoot you.” I didn’t appreciate his theatrics.
“Thanks for that. I would miss all those donuts,” he jabbed.
“What can I do for you, officer?”
“This man claims that you have a car in your possession that belongs to him.”
“Not true. I own the car.”
Jackson walked up on the veranda, spouting off, “It was a birthday gift.”
I pumped the gun and the officer waved him back.
“Your car. My car. Semantics. My name is on the bill of sale and title. Would you like to see them?”
“That would clear things up from my perspective.”
Kate pulled the red Porsche out of the garage and parked it next to the cruiser.
“Bring the title from the glove box, Kate.”
She was still carrying the club as she stopped in front of the officer, delivering the paperwork to him.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.” Kate was hitting on the officer. She had impeccable timing.
“Sheriff Gabe Martin.”
“Sheriff,” she repeated slowly, looking back at me. Kate was impressed. I was annoyed.
“That was you in the cemetery the other night?”
“Yes. I’m very sorry for your loss. I read about it in the newspaper. I heard you screaming. I’m sorry to have intruded.” His eyes were compassionate, full of understanding and sympathy.
He was very unassuming; the type you would pass over in public without realizing just how good looking he was unless your gaze lingered on his face. He had worry lines around his eyes and on his forehead that gave away his hard life. My eyes thanked him and we shared a moment.
Jackson cleared his throat.
“This isn’t a sympathy call. I just want my car.” He was still an asshole.
Kate was beside herself. Before his very last word made it to my ear, she walked over and slapped him across the face. “Shoot him.”
“I’ll take that.” Gabe intervened, requesting my weapon.
“I have a permit.”
“Just the same, your friend really wants you to shoot him.” He reached for the gun and I complied.
“Of course I do. Someone needs to. That low life is the father.” She gave Jackson a scowl. “I use that term in the biological sense only. You really couldn’t attend your own child’s funeral?”
“Julia knew she was on her own. I never wanted a kid.”
Gabe looked dismayed and handed the gun back to me.
“What are you doing?” Jackson said perplexed.
“She has a permit. She can lawfully own that firearm. Fact of the matter, sir, is that the lady has asked you to leave her property. You’re trespassing.”
“I’m not leaving without the car.”
Straw. Camel. The back was broken. I’d had enough. I aimed the gun at the Porsche and fired, spraying the hood with pellets. Kate joined in, smashing the windshield with her golf club.
“You have to arrest her.” Jackson was becoming unglued.
“She destroyed her own car. I can’t arrest her for that. It might be wise for you to go. I’ll give you a ride into town.” Gabe looked back at me. “No more guns. Lay off the noise. You have neighbors.”
Kate stepped in between us and offered her hand to Gabe.
“Thanks for coming by. Don’t be a stranger. We have lots of donuts.”
Gabe shook her hand out of politeness and escorted Jackson to his vehicle.
“Smooth, Kate.”
We turned to walk into the house, glancing back to watch their departure.
“He’ll be back. Nice outfit by the way. You look like a mental patient.”
5
After tidying up our mess, from searching for the gun permit, Kate retreated to her room to take a nap. A shower was necessary to humanize me before trying to tackle the police statement. Seeing Jackson had unsettled me. I couldn’t shake my anger about the fact that he wasn’t angry. I couldn’t understand how he had no emotional attachment for his own child. How is a man like that allowed to draw air?
I loafed around, busying myself with mundane tasks, trying to delay the recollection of that terrible night. I was clean and dressed. The house was tidy and quiet. I finally convinced myself that I had no more excuses.
Walking around downstairs, I tried to determine which room would be suitable for the grueling job at hand. The drawing room was too open and the kitchen too communal. I couldn’t afford distractions. Choosing the study, I closed both doors and sat at my mother’s desk. The frame with her picture inside was welcoming and calming. I took out some parchment paper and began to write.
To Whom It May Concern:
I’m an idiot.
I killed my child.
I’m the one who should be punished.
I’m the one who should have died.
Regrettably,
Julia Grace Spencer
I stared at the words on the page with frustration, finally, crumpling the paper and tossing it to the floor. –Again, deep breath.
To Whom It May Concern:
My name is Julia Grace Spencer. I am an American citizen that moved to Chimbote in December 2008 to serve as legal counsel to the mission and assist its parishioners with free legal aid. This help usually consisted of land transfers, hospice arrangements, managing education funds from donors, contracting endowments, and being a liaison to missionaries in other countries, regarding the needs of the facility.
In February 2009, Maria Costelano, a woman from a nearby barrio, showed up in my office, requesting help. Her husband, Hector, had been beating her and their four children. Before periods of abuse, he would steal the money she had saved from cleaning houses and disappear, leaving Maria with no funds to satisfy her bills or feed her children.
I advised Maria to move into the battered women’s shelter that the mission ran, but she refused, stating that Hector would find and kill her if she left him. He’d threatened to harm the children if she went to the police. I told her to bring her money to me and we would open a bank account without his knowledge. She agreed to leave some money in their quinta, to dispel any suspicion he might have, and would deposit the remainder in the n
ew account for safe keeping.
Hector Costelano continued to beat Maria. In May, she required an overnight hospital stay to assess the probable diagnosis of having a traumatic brain injury from a blow to the head. He waited for her outside of the hospital with the children, in an act of intimidation, to persuade her not to file a grievance with the police, as I had insisted she do. Due to her fragile state and his custody of the children, she agreed to go home with him.
That violent act necessitated the need for a plan to be put into action, making Maria and her children safe. I contacted a doctor I knew in Lima, urging him to allow them to live in his clinic apartment in exchange for cleaning the clinic and cooking his meals. He agreed, after I made a hefty donation to his practice.
We waited until Hector was in a drunken stupor before making the escape. They left all of their belongings and boarded a bus for Lima in the middle of the night, fleeing for safety and harboring dreams of a better future.
When Hector awoke from his drunken state, he came to my office demanding to know their whereabouts. I dishonestly told him that I wasn’t aware of where they had gone and suggested that maybe Maria had taken the children to see her sister in the mountains. He threatened me, saying that if I had any part in him losing his children, that he would be back to take mine from me. I was thirty-four weeks pregnant at the time.
At first, I didn’t take his threats seriously. However, later in the week, I began to notice that he was following me to and from the mission. I asked Father John if he knew of two men that I could hire to escort me from my quinta to the church each day, until Hector found a new hobby. Juan and Miguel shadowed me for the better part of a month. This show of force seemed to have detoured retribution, scaring him off. Hector seemed to have moved on and was no longer visible in the community.
Our paths crossed again during the Feast celebration of Saint Anthony of Padua. People had lined the streets for the procession of the sacred statue. Many of the children had gathered around me as we sat, waiting for it to pass, enjoying candied apples. A pick up truck with men in the back crept by our location. I saw Hector’s face for the first time in weeks. He looked at me with contempt and slowly drew his finger across his neck and repeated the gesture across his waist. I lost my breath. Some of the people saw his warning and ran to the church to get Father John, who came immediately. He insisted that I move into the dorms at the mission until Hector could be apprehended.
I filed a complaint with the police, but Hector once again disappeared. The following week was my 35th birthday. The traditional celebration of being woken up to Mariachi music at midnight took place. They led me down from my bedroom to the mission courtyard where everyone was gathered under a canopy of strung lights. I had made many friends over the months and we enjoyed a special time of fellowship, food, and dancing.
During the party, a man, who seemed out of place, caught my attention. He walked through the crowds, vanishing behind partygoers and reappearing at will. I scanned the courtyard for him, but he was gone. After my friends sang to me and I cut my birthday cake, he reappeared suddenly, pausing briefly to pull something from his pocket. He placed a black statue in my hand, closed my fingers around the object, and walked away. I didn’t understand its significance and placed it in my jacket pocket, assuming that it was a birthday present.
Later, one of the cooks saw me dump it in my suitcase, and panicked, quickly leaving the room. She returned with Father John and some of the men who inquired after the object. When they saw it lying on top of my clothes, they told me I had to leave Peru. After explaining to me that I had received a death amulet, signifying my intended murder, I became angry, knowing that Hector was behind the statue. I thanked Father for his concern and agreed to leave for Lima until the police could capture Hector. I packed my clothes and prepared to leave on the evening bus.
I was anxious to say goodbye to my friends. Most came throughout the day and wished me well. They prayed that I would have a quick return to Chimbote.
An hour before my departure, I received a correspondence from one of the families I was assisting. I had been trying to get their daughter, who was dying from cancer, into the hospice program. The note read “Cecilia will die tonight. Please come to the clinic now.” I didn’t hesitate. I searched the courtyard for Juan or Miguel, but no one was around. I waited for a short time, but decided to go on alone in order to have time to visit before my bus arrived. My pace was slow. I felt thirty-nine weeks pregnant. The streets were deserted, with the exception of my little friend Daniel. He was waiting for me outside of the mission walls.
We walked along, holding hands and laughing about the numerous dogs that had taken to following us. I stopped to buy him dinner from a street vendor, before we continued on to the clinic. We arrived, expecting to see Cecilia’s parents waiting to greet us, but the lobby was empty. We proceeded in and sat down. No one ever came out so I instructed Daniel to wait while I walked back to the exam rooms. The clinic was eerily silent. The floors were dusty. Lights hung from cords above, swinging gently in the breeze. My search of the rooms yielded no results. Finally, I saw an open door with a light on. A shadow moved across the wall. I pushed the door in and entered. A blue curtain was drawn shut and I assumed that Cecilia was resting behind the drape.
Suddenly, I was startled by the door being slammed behind me. I turned back to find Hector standing in front of it with a knife. Clutching my belly, I began moving back to put some distance between us. The door opened behind him and Daniel ran across the room to my side. I yelled for him to go away, but he stood, motionless and afraid. I pushed him behind me and told Hector to leave. He laughed. He was drunk. The note had been a trap.
I whispered to Daniel that he should move with me and be ready to run. We walked in unison around the edge of the room, hugging the wall, as Hector advanced toward us. I angled my belly away from him, as he lunged toward me, grabbing me by the throat. He slammed me into the wall and began choking me, raising the knife to my cheek. I reached around, struggling for air, trying to find a weapon of any kind. My hand felt an open glass jar of some sort. Gripping the glass, I hit Hector with as much force as I could muster, releasing his hold on my neck. He dropped to his knees. His knife fell to the floor.
I gasped, trying to catch my breath, as I scanned the room for Daniel. He remained in the far corner, paralyzed with fear. The door was within my reach. Safety was at my fingertips, but I couldn’t leave Daniel alone with him. I knew he’d kill him. I had no option but to stay.
I screamed at Daniel to break his trance. He tried to run to me, but Hector caught his shirt as he brushed by him, throwing him back into the far wall. Hector ignored me and began to walk toward Daniel. In an effort to draw his attention, I threw another glass jar at him, striking his head. He recoiled, swung around, and came at me, leaving Daniel alone. His fist hit the side of my face with such force, that blood sprayed his dirty white shirt. The side of my body crashed against the dusty floor. I was gagging on the blood that I couldn’t help but swallow.
Daniel rushed to my side. He wasn’t hurt. The blood seeping into my eyes had clouded my vision. I told him that he must run and not look back when Hector came at me again. I pulled myself up as he taunted me with how he would torture us.
A shiny object caught my attention on the table next to me. I reached for the scalpel. Hector laughed as he picked up the long knife from the floor, realizing that he was better equipped for our final battle. I looked at Daniel and yelled for him to run as I sprinted forward. I saw him clear the door as our weapons met their targets. I thrust the scalpel into Hector’s neck, while feeling a burning tear in my body as I watched him fall to the floor. I looked down and saw the knife sticking out of my abdomen. My hands were drawn to its rubber handle. I pulled it out and stood watching blood pour out of my belly. The handle became slippery. The blade fell off my fingertips, clanging against the concrete. Within a minute, my legs buckled. My body fell hard.
A gargling sound was coming
from my mouth. I tried to spit out as much blood as I could to aid in breathing. I was helpless to move. I saw Hector pulling himself to the door- the scalpel still in his neck. He disappeared around the corner, leaving a blood trail. Every shadow, cast by the swinging light made me worry that he was returning to finish me off. I grew very cold and tired. I heard the sounds of crying before losing consciousness.
These are the events that led to the death of my son, Connor. I urge you to find Hector Costelano and prosecute him for his crimes.
Julia Grace Spencer
I folded the pages and slid them into an envelope. Acknowledging my part in Connor’s death made me feel sad. If I had only stayed at the mission, my son would be alive. One poor decision had robbed me from experiencing life though the eyes of my child. After placing the envelope against the picture of my mom, I pushed the chair away from the antique desk, and decided to leave my troubles behind for a walk on the beach. The crisp air always helped to clear my mind. Perhaps, Kate would be up by the time I returned.
Reaching for the flip-flops that rested by the front door, the wood creaked as I opened it, startling Sheriff Martin who was dropping an envelope onto the monogrammed welcome mat.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he nervously offered.
“You didn’t,” I said puzzled. “I haven’t done anything else wrong today, have I?”
He chuckled, “No. I’m just here for the donuts.”
“Right.” I felt a smile break the tension that paralyzed my somber face.
“I’m just leaving the rent check.”
“Rent check?” I was confused.
He pointed in the direction of the cottage, down the path, beyond the chapel.
It all came together now. He was with the boy on the beach. I was his landlord. Kate would be sorry to have missed this.
“You were flying the kite?”
The Battered Heiress Blues Page 6