by Avery Hale
As I filled a glass from the tap in the kitchen, I glanced out the window over the sink. The sky was a dusty rose swirled with orange and purple. It was turning to dusk.
“Oh my God, what time is it?” I muttered. “I gotta call Dez.”
Realizing that Dez must be worried sick about me, I went into the living room to find my purse. I spotted it on an end table where Byron must’ve put it last night when he laid me on the couch. I took out my cell phone.
“Damnit.” The battery was dead. I looked around the room and saw a phone on the desk next to Byron’s laptop.
As I slid into the chair and reached for the phone, my hand accidentally hit the laptop. It must’ve have been on sleep mode because suddenly the screen came on.
My breath caught when I saw the photo that filled the screen. It was a gorgeous close-up shot of a Guaria morada orchid growing in the wild. He must have used a macro-lens because he’d somehow managed to make its shimmery petals appear like a vast landscape of pink and purple hues dusted with crushed diamonds.
“Wow,” I breathed. Admiration welled up inside me for Byron. He was an unbelievably talented photographer. And he was right about people never failing to surprise you. If this was an example of what he was capable of with a camera, then I had no doubt that he’d land his dream job.
Wanting to see more photos of the rare flower, I tapped on the mouse pad to scroll to the next picture in his folder.
But instead of an orchid, the next photo was an exterior shot of a place that looked familiar.
“The Lava Lounge?” I murmured as I recognized the red tube lights. Unlike the sharp focus of the orchid photo, this one was grainy, as if it’d been taken from far away with a high zoom in low light.
I tapped the mouse pad again. The next photo was clearer and taken from inside the bar. The angle of the photo also looked familiar—it was taken from the area at the bar where Byron had been sitting. There were two people in the foreground of the shot. A couple who was sitting a few seats down from Byron. But they were blurry because the focus was on a point beyond them. I tapped on the zoom feature on the screen, enlarging the center of the photo.
I gasped. The person in the distant background that the shot was focused on was me!
I tapped quickly through more pictures. There were several more of me at the Lava Lounge, drinking, talking, and laughing with Carlito. Pictures of me at the Volcano Villas breakfast buffet, chatting with Dez as I sipped coffee. Of me waiting in front of the Villas for the canyoneering shuttle. Of me souvenir shopping in La Fortuna.
Tears welled up in my eyes. I didn’t want to see more, but I couldn’t stop from scrolling through more pictures. It was as if a part of me hoped that I’d come upon one that would make all of this make sense. And maybe even make it all right somehow. But the more I looked, the more apparent that the opposite was true. When I got to a picture of me floating in the pool, my sundress strewn along the pool’s edge, bubbles on the water’s surface from the rain, I stopped.
“It’s not what you think.”
I spun around in the chair to see Byron standing behind me. How did he manage to move so quietly? “What the fuck, Byron.” I stood up and pointed to the laptop. “What is all this?”
“Just let me explain.” He moved toward me slowly, as if I were a frightened deer he was trying to approach.
“Have you been stalking me?” I stepped to the side and moved away from the desk. My eyes flicked to the front door as I tried to figure out the quickest route out.
“You don’t understand. I was going to explain when the time was right—”
“I’m so stupid,” my entire body shook with fear and anger. “You played me out. I can’t believe I actually believed you weren’t a creep. What—are these some sick trophies you keep of your conquests? Am I going to wind up on one of those websites where guys post pics of their vacation hook ups?” I kept moving for the door while keeping my eyes on him.
“Calm down. I’ll explain everything.” Byron moved along with me, taking a step toward me for every step that I took away from him.
“Stay away from me.” I lunged for the door.
“Phin, stop.” I felt his hands grab my arm.
“Don’t touch me!” I flung the door open and ran out. Byron was on my heels as I cut across the lawn between his building and the pool. My head spun with fear, and my vision went blurry for a moment. My foot struck against a rock hidden in the grass, and I went down. Byron hurried to me and tried to pick me up.
“Get away,” I screamed. “Let go of me!”
A few of the tourists on their way to dinner stopped and looked. Others came out onto their balconies to see what the raucous was about.
“Hey!” yelled a burly man who stepped out of his ground floor suite in front of where I lay. “Qué diablos está pasando?”
The man must have seen the panic on my face. His eyes widened and went to Byron next. Seemingly assuming the worst, he said some threatening words to Byron in Spanish and stepped toward him.
A couple of other men from ground floor suites also took notice and began to approach.
Byron put his hands up defensively and began to speak to them. “Todo esto es sólo un malentendido—just a misunderstanding, mis amigos.”
“Phin!” a voice came from my left. I looked over and saw Dez sprinting toward me. Her face was ragged with worry and fury.
Following her were several men dressed in uniforms. Across their hats was the word Policía.
Dez pointed at Byron. “There’s the creep! Arrest that man!”
Before I knew it, the policía blew their whistles and descended upon Byron.
***
“You should’ve called me.” Dez seethed as she paced around our suite. “I looked everywhere for you!” She was livid at me, and rightfully so.
“I can only say sorry so many times, Dez.” I sat on my bed with my arms wrapped around my knees. I’d been in our room for almost an hour since the policía took Byron away, and I was still shaking. “But I’ll say it again—I’m so sorry I made you worry.”
“Worry? I was freaking the fuck out!” Dez’s voice cracked. “I thought you’d been kidnapped and sold into sex slavery.”
“But I wasn’t.” I kept my voice low, hoping to calm Dez down. “And I’m here—safe and sound.”
Dez took a few deep breaths. “Well, fine then,” she said after she’d settled down a smidge. “You should hurry up and shower.”
“Why?” I watched as Dez went to my suitcase and started going through it.
“Because we need to get you down to the policía station to formally press charges against that asshole.” She tossed a fresh T-shirt and jeans onto my bed, presumably for me to change into after my shower.
I felt my head shaking from side-to-side before I realized why. “I’m not going to press charges,” I said quietly and held my breath for Dez’s response.
“Of course you’re going to press charges.” She put her hands on her hips and gave me a stern look. “The policía found the creepy photos he took of us. Of you. He’s a sick freak. And he’s going to rot in Mexican jail. Serves him right.”
“There are no Mexican jails in Costa Rica.”
“Oh right. Well, whatever.” Dez went to the closet and got a pair of sandals for me since I’d run out of Byron’s suite barefoot. “As long as he’s rotting in a jail cell somewhere.”
I chewed on my fingernail as I tried to understand my own feelings about the situation. My gut felt so unsettled. “Dez, Something’s not right.”
“Are you feeling sick? Do you want to go to the hospital?”
“No. I mean, none of this makes any sense.” Abruptly, I jumped off the bed and grabbed my purse, which Dez had retrieved from Byron’s room.
“What are you doing?” Dez asked as I headed for the door.
“I need to talk to Byron.”
Just as I reached for the doorknob, Dez jumped in front of me, blocking my way. “Are you high?” She gr
abbed my purse from me. “Have you been sniffing yucca powder? The guy gave you a roofie, abducted you from the club, did God-knows-what to you, stalked you this entire trip, and you want to go ask him to explain himself? Here’s your explanation—the guy is a fucking psycho.”
“That’s not what happened.” I felt my own eyes widen as I realized the seriousness of the trouble Byron could be in if the policía saw the situation the way Dez did. “He didn’t give me the roofie. The Argentinian did.”
Dez gave me a funny look. “Right, okay. We need to get you to the hospital. That roofie hit must’ve been strong because you obviously hallucinated.”
“I didn’t hallucinate! The Argentinian’s name is Marco. He was there with another guy—Pablo, or something like that. Byron came in just in time to save me. They were going to…”
“Look, honey.” My friend softened her tone as she took me by the shoulders and sat me on the bed. “You were under the influence of a really strong roofie. It makes sense that you don’t remember things the way they really were—that’s how roofies work. They fuck your mind up.
“How do you know Byron wasn’t working with the Argentinian? Don’t you find it at all suspicious that he happened to be show up at that exact moment? Or that he happened to be at the Lava Lounge the same night we were there? And then the pool later that night?”
When I responded with silence, Dez continued with her rationale. “He’s been following you since he met us at the airport. I’ve watched plenty of Dateline episodes to know that’s how stalkers work. They set their sights on a target and that person becomes their obsession. He wasn’t going to stop until he had you. And he was going to use whatever means necessary to satisfy his obsession.”
I didn’t know what to say. The pictures didn’t lie. Byron had been following me. Tracking my movements. Recording them and storing them on his computer. I’d seen them with my own eyes. He had a reason for doing this. Maybe this was what he’d planned on explaining to me. Except, what reasonable explanation could there possibly be for this that would make what he did okay?
Although I already knew what the answer had to be, still something niggled at the back of my head. There was a missing puzzle piece to all of this.
And then it hit me.
I turned to Dez. “We need to talk to Carlito.”
Chapter 14
LA POLICIA
“For the thousandth time, he didn’t rape me.” In the small interrogation room at the policía station, where Dez dragged me after I’d changed, I held my head between my hands.
The detective who questioned me, a portly man with a weathered face that made him look much older than he probably was, leaned back in his chair and scrutinized me. He flipped open the lid of the metal lighter he held in his hand.
“It is common for kidnapping victims to feel sympathy for their captors.” He put a thick cigar in his mouth and held the flame from his lighter to it. He drew on the cigar until its end burned orange. “But, amiga,” he said through the cloud of smoke he exhaled, “this man did a very bad thing to you. You should not defend him.”
“I wasn’t kidnapped.” Annoyed, I coughed and waved away the smoke that floated toward me. “And I’m not defending him. I’m telling you the truth. Now are you going to write this down in your report or what?”
My voice grew shrill as my patience wore out. This interrogation had been going on for more than two hours, and we were getting nowhere. I’d not only repeated the same facts over and over again, but each time I felt as if the detective believed fewer and fewer of them.
He gave me a sad sort of smile, as if he sorry for me. I could sense that this was all just a formality. The “victim’s report” to put away in the file. It seemed as if they’d already made up their minds about Byron’s guilt. Like Dez said, they had all the evidence they needed on Byron’s laptop. Not to mention the fact that he’d taken me from the club while I was drugged and that several witnesses had seen me running away from him. There wasn’t much I could say to change the policía’s mind. It all looked bad.
“What about the Argentinian?” I insisted again. “Are you going to look for him? He’s the one who should be in jail for drugging me.”
The detective snickered, just as he did the first time I’d told him about Marco.
“What’s so funny?” My voice cracked with fury. “You think this is funny?”
The detective looked contrite. “No, it is not funny. Not at all.”
“So then you’re going to look for that creep, right? Before he goes to another club tonight with his bag of roofies looking for a new girl to molest?”
“Amiga,” he said as he tapped the ash off the end of his cigar into his empty Styrofoam cup, “the drug you were given was very powerful. It is common for people to imagine things when they are high on it.”
“Why do people keep telling me this!” I threw my hands into the air with exasperation. “I wasn’t imagining things. I wasn’t hallucinating. The Argentinian’s name is Marco. I can describe how he looks. Don’t you have one of those sketch artists here?”
“Si, but—”
“No but’s!” my voice rose as I pounded a fist on the table. “Bring the sketch artist in here, and I’ll show you what this guy looks like. I’m not going to let you convict a guy for doing something he’s innocent of!”
Another officer came in. He and the detective exchanged some words in Spanish.
I waited impatiently for them to finish, wanting to tell them that it was rude to speak in foreign languages when there were English-only speakers in the room. I glanced at my reflection in the big mirror on the wall behind the detective. Above me, the fluorescent light buzzed and cast a greenish tint onto my skin. I looked pale and sickly. My hair was a mess and my eyes had a slightly crazed look in them. I wondered if there were other officers standing behind it, watching and laughing at the crazy American girl rant about imaginary Argentinians.
After the officer left, I tried again. “If you’re not going to go after the Argentinian, then find Carlito. He knows his cousin was there that night.”
“Yes, we have been looking for this Carlito.” The detective took a long draw from his cigar. “The officer just came in to tell me he could not be found.”
“Did you ask Estevan? Call the tour company he works for— Desafío. Somebody’s gotta know where he is.”
“Unfortunately, chica, in a country that is covered forty-seven percent by rainforest, it is not hard for someone who does not want to be found to disappear. We will not waste our resources looking for a person to vouch for the existence of a man—this so-called Argentinian—we have no reason to question.”
“Besides the fact that he drugged me?”
“By reason, I mean evidence.”
“My testimony isn’t evidence enough?”
“I am going to be honest with you.” He put out his cigar. “The testimony of victims who have been drugged is unreliable, at best. So, no, it is not enough. I am sorry.” He gathered his pen and the sheet of paper he barely wrote anything on and rose from his chair. “Thank you for coming in. You have been through so much. You should go back to your hotel and rest.”
At the door, he turned around. “I am very sorry this happened to you while you were in my country. But it gives me a little comfort knowing we caught the man who committed this crime against you.”
After the door shut behind him, I sat in disbelief. Could this really be happening? I was starting to understand how the insane must feel. I knew the truth, but no one else would believe it.
Dez and Estevan entered the room.
“How’d it go?” Dez asked.
“Not well,” I said dejectedly.
“Shit, they’re not going to let him go, are they?”
“No. They think he’s guilty.”
“Oh, good.” Dez breathed a sigh of relief. “Then as far as I’m concerned, it sounds like everything went pretty fucking well.”
Ignoring her comment, I turned to Est
evan. “Where’s Carlito?” If no one else believed the truth, then it was up to me to keep trying,
“Not this again, Phin!” Dez wailed.
“I came down here for you, Dez. I didn’t want any part of this investigation. But I answered all their questions truthfully. And not only did I have to relive the entire humiliating experience at the club last night, but I had to sit here and be pitied and laughed at. I think I deserve to ask a few questions of my own.”
Dez opened her mouth to say something, but instead she pursed her lips and stepped back by the door.
“Where is Carlito?” I asked Estevan again.
He shook his head apologetically. “I have not seen him since the Aqua Disco. He will not answer his phone. I’ve tried to call him a hundred times.”
“What about this cousin of his? Marco from Argentina.” My steady tone belied my appearance as I questioned him.
“Carlito never spoke of such a cousin. And I know his family very well.”
“So even if we find Carlito, he might not be able to help us find the Argentinian?” I despaired. “I don’t get it. If they’re not cousins, then how did Marco know who Carlito is?”
“Everybody knows Carlito around here,” Estevan said. “Even if Carlito doesn’t know them.”
I grew frustrated. This was going nowhere. Unless we found Carlito and got some answers out of him, Byron would stay in jail for Marco’s crime. That might suit Dez just fine, but I wasn’t okay with it. I didn’t know why he took those photos of me, and I sure as hell didn’t know what he planned on doing with them. All I knew was since the moment I met him, he’d occupied a corner of my mind as well. More than just a corner. Although I didn’t have photographic evidence, the fact remained that he was just as much my obsession as I was his.
My shoulders slumped helplessly. I didn’t know what else to do.
Dez came over and gave me a squeeze. “Come on, Phinny. Let’s get you back to the hotel.”