Blessed are the Dead

by Kristi Belcamino

  When I get close, what looked like a white door is actually a sheet hanging in the doorway. The sliding-­glass door is broken. I kneel and feel around. A large glass shard pricks me. I stifle an exclamation and, clutching the sharp part, carefully slide it into the pocket of my thick wool peacoat.

  Then I ease the sheet back and slip inside, immediately hugging the closest wall. Once in the house, I freeze, listening. Silence. My back is pressed against the wall, and I think I’m in a kitchen area. An area that seems less dark must be another room. Keeping my back on a wall and my gun in front of me, I head toward the other room. Suddenly, my foot touches something soft. A sob catches in my throat, imagining it is Sofia’s body. Slowly, I reach down and feel around. It is a canvas jacket. Lopez. I touch his head, and my fingers are wet and sticky. I try to find a pulse but feel nothing.

  “Nice of you to come visit me, Gabriella.”

  The voice is right in my ear and my heart hiccups in my throat as he knocks the gun from my hand with a clatter. I instinctively scramble away on my hands and knees as terror shoots through me.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Johnson says calmly. “Lover boy isn’t going to help you. You’re too late. He’s gone. But you’re right on time. You can join me and Sofia for some fun and games.”

  I feel the bile rise in my throat. Oh my God, Lopez is dead. What has he done with Sofia? Now I’m on my feet and running. I run into the larger room and frantically claw at the walls looking for a door handle. When I feel one, I yank on it. The tiniest bit of light from the east reveals I’m in a hallway dotted with many doors. Johnson’s footsteps continue, slow, and determined, behind me.

  “Gabriella, there’s no place to run.”

  My breathing is ragged, and I’m gasping for air, hyperventilating in fear. I try to control it, to muffle the frantic sounds. The only thing louder in this silence is the sound of rushing blood pounding in my ears. I’m going to die.

  Inside the hall, I open a door and duck inside, afraid to move or make any sound he might hear. His footsteps and his voice sound too close.

  “I’m a patient man. I’ve waited a long time for you. Why don’t you just save us both some time and come back. I’m sure you’re impatient to see your niece. I know she’s been missing you terribly.”

  The door across the hall from me opens, and I hear his footsteps echo as he enters the room. “So you want to play games. This might be fun. Build up some anticipation until we’re together, huh? Let’s see, ready or not, here I come. Is she in the closet?”

  Now is my chance. I dart out the door and run back down the hall to the main room. He’s behind me, and I can almost feel his breath on my neck. He grabs my hair. I scream and twist and kick him in the groin. “You bitch,” he says, and throws me against the wall.

  I stand and begin to run when I run smack into something. I realize it is a flannel shirt on a hard chest. Suddenly, I’m lifted up and flung into a corner.

  “I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you, Johnson.”

  It’s Donovan. I almost sob with relief.

  “Detective. Nice of you to join us.”

  “Not one step farther.” I hear steel in Donovan’s voice. “Put your gun down.”

  “Oh come on. Who are you fooling? I put the gun down, you’re still going to shoot me. At least this way, I’ll take you out with me. I’m not going back to jail.”

  A scuffling noise in the dark makes me jump, and suddenly we both realize Johnson is gone. He slipped through a doorway right beside him.

  Donovan sprints after him into the other room. I follow. The dim light seeping through the curtains on the window quickly reveals that the large room is empty. There are two doors in the room. Donovan pauses listening, putting his finger to his mouth for me to be quiet, then reaches down to his ankle. When he straightens, I feel him press something cold and metal into my hand. It’s a gun.

  Donovan gestures with his chin that I should go back in the other room. I furiously shake my head no. It’s too dark to see the look in his eyes, but I’m sure he’s pissed. Oh well. He slips over to one of the doors and eases it open. I hear his footsteps on what sounds like stairs. I can tell he’s trying to be quiet, but the house is creaky.

  Quickly and quietly, I ease the other door open, holding the gun tight against my side and my finger on the trigger. But I’m met with pitch-­blackness. It’s even darker than the room I’m in. I slide my foot forward, and it suddenly drops. I recoil. Stairs. It’s a basement. Holy Mary Mother of God.

  A cold chill starts at my scalp and makes its way down my body, settling in my stomach. Beads of moisture form at my temples. I try to move my foot forward, but it’s like a deadweight not attached to my body. My hand holding the gun is now quivering.

  The creak of the floor above me startles me, and I step back. I can easily move back from the stairs, I just can’t move toward them. The noise must be Donovan going room to room upstairs. If he finds Johnson hiding in one of the rooms or Sofia trapped somewhere, I should be able to hear it. But what if he’s wrong, and Johnson went through this door, and Sofia is down there, too? I need to find out. I need to go into the basement.

  Chapter 53

  AS I STEEL myself to take that first step onto the basement stairs, I try to stifle the memory, but it seeps through anyway.

  My mother had sent me to fetch my dad for supper. I saw the light on in his workshop, but he wasn’t answering my calls. I skipped down the stairs, then stopped when I saw his body on the floor. At first, I thought he had fallen asleep on the floor, but no matter how hard I shook him, he wouldn’t wake, so I called my mother.

  My mother didn’t cry. Instead, she slumped into a corner, staring off into someplace I couldn’t reach. I kept calling her name and tugging at her hand, but she never answered. I curled up and put my head in her lap. My aunt found us like that the next morning.

  Until today, that was the last time I ever stepped foot in a basement.

  But if ever there was a reason to overcome my fear, it is for Sofia.

  Sofia might be down there. I can do it. I just need to take that first step. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and shuffle my foot out into thin air before aiming it down until it touches something solid. The first step at the top of the stairs.

  The stair creaks. Just once. I freeze.

  Then I take another step. And another, adrenaline pumping through me so strongly that I hear my heart thudding in my ears. I keep expecting to feel Johnson’s clawlike hand grab my ankle from the side of the stairs. Then, I realize I’m at the bottom. I squint in the darkness, trying to see.

  One area, near a small glass block window is a little less black, but doesn’t illuminate the dark shapes around me. The air is damp and cold. It smells down here. It smells like urine and something else. I just get a faint, faded whiff, but I instantly recognize it from visiting the morgue. It smells like death.

  Once you’ve smelled death, you’ll never forget it. The smell of death is all around me.

  Oh, God, don’t let it be Sofia.

  I try to forget about where I am and concentrate on listening. My breathing is erratic, and I’m trying not to hyperventilate. I can hear my heart in my ears, madly galloping away. Is he here? I don’t hear anything from upstairs, either.

  My mouth fills with sourness. A wave of fear sweeps through my body from my head to my feet. Then, the slightest ripple in the air. Almost as if I sense something in the darkness. Is he here? Is it Sofia?

  I gasp when I suddenly feel a hand over my mouth. The hand is sweaty, and I taste blood on it, which makes me wretch.

  “This hide-­and-­seek stuff is fun, isn’t it?” Johnson hisses in my ear as he wraps one arm around my arms and a leg around my legs. I try to bite his hand and kick my way free, but he overpowers me. “As soon as I get rid of your boyfriend, I think maybe you and me and Sofia will play a littl
e hide-­and-­seek in this house. I’m finding it very arousing.”

  He presses himself hard against me. He moves his hand and stuffs something soft deep into my mouth, gagging me. His wet mouth is on my neck. I fight and squirm, but he places the gun against my head near my ear. His other arm is like a vise, holding both my arms at once, but I continue to try to struggle free. I’m frantic to get away and find Sofia. At this point, I don’t care if he shoots me. I’m not going to stop trying to get away. And if he does pull the trigger, at least one of us still has a chance because Donovan will know where we are and can maybe save Sofia. I’m using my tongue to work the disgusting smelling fabric out of my mouth. It’s almost free. I stop struggling to concentrate on this. At the same time, when he pressed himself against me, I felt his pointy ribs. He doesn’t have the bulletproof vest on anymore. I slowly, nearly imperceptibly work my hand into my jacket pocket where I stashed the shard of glass. Then, I have it cupped in my palm. I wince as I accidentally grasp it too tight and feel a slight cut in the middle of my palm.

  Suddenly, Johnson freezes. So do I. We both hear footsteps on the floor just above.

  They stop at the top of the stairs. The door handle turns with a squeak. Suddenly, the door at the top of the stairs thumps open. I can see a figure at the top of the stairs.

  I spit the wad of material out of my mouth, and scream, “Donovan! Run!” There is a click as Johnson releases the safety on the gun. I scream and with what seems like superhuman strength wrench free from Johnson’s grip enough to turn completely around and thrust the shard of glass into his chest. I push it in until my palm is flat against his shirt and only a millimeter of the shard remains outside him. I can smell his breath against my own mouth, as I am suddenly deafened by an ear-­shattering noise, but I don’t let go. I don’t ease up until I feel his body sink against mine.

  But it’s too late. He’s already pulled the trigger.

  I turn around in time to see the dark silhouette of Donovan’s body slumping into a heap at the top of the stairs.

  “No!”

  Then, I race up the stairs, flying two or three at a time until I’m kneeling by Donovan.

  “Oh my God, are you okay?” I start to shake him, not realizing what I’m doing. “Donovan! Oh my God, Donovan. No!” I’m near hysterics when he groans.

  “Ella? Are you okay?” He struggles to sit up.

  “Me? Are you okay?” My breath is coming out ragged, near hyperventilating.

  “The vest caught the bullet, but it hurts like hell.”

  There is nothing funny about what he’s said, but I’m so relieved to hear his voice, I burst into nervous laughter. He starts laughing, as well. Our eyes meet, and we both grow silent.

  I close my eyes. Nothing seems real. I wonder if I’m going into shock from taking too many blows to the head tonight. Behind my eyelids, all I can see is the image of Jack Dean’s Johnson’s eyes losing what little bit of light they held. My eyes snap open. This is what is real. Donovan in my arms is what is real.

  As we look into each other’s eyes, a whole world of emotion is exchanged. I brush his hair back, and my lips graze his forehead. I want to lean down and kiss his mouth and never want to let him go.

  Then I remember.

  “Sofia?” I close my eyes tightly until I hear his answer.

  “Upstairs. She’s hiding in a closet. I told her not to move until we came to get her.”

  “Oh, thank God.” I sob in relief and start to run away, but pause.

  “Go. Go!” he says. “Second door on the left.”

  I race up the stairs, sending dust motes swirling into the beams of light coming down the stairs. The sunrise is visible in the upstairs windows, which don’t have curtains or sheets. I pant up the stairs and practically throw myself at the second door on the left. There, in an empty room, is the closet door. I fling it open.

  “Sofia!” My voice cracks with emotion I can’t hide.

  At first she sits there blinking, looking confused as she crouches in the corner. But then her eyes register and focus on me, and she comes tumbling out of the closet into my arms. I drop to my knees and hug her close, burying my face in her hair and trying not to cry. I must be strong for her.

  After a few seconds, I pull back, still holding her shoulders and search her face.

  “Are you hurt?”

  With her lips tightly clamped together she shakes her head no. I look her over covertly. Her clothes are wrinkled, her hair is tangled and she has a dirt smudge on her face, but she appears uninjured. At least physically.

  I want to weep with relief, but I hold it in because I don’t want to scare her. I know she can see the relief in my eyes. Then, holding her face in my hands, I search her eyes. They still have that spark of life and wonder at the world that I love so much. She will never ever get over this, but I think we got to her in time.

  “I want my mama,” she says, calmly, and the thin veneer of bravado starts to shatter.

  “Of course you do,” I coo, and hold her close.

  “I tried to be brave, Auntie Ella, but I was scared. I didn’t want to be, but I was. I was really scared. I’m sorry.”

  I hug her closer. “Oh, honey, of course you were scared. Don’t be sorry. It’s okay to be scared. I’ll tell you a little secret. I was really, really scared, too.”

  She looks at me in surprise. “You were?”

  “Yes.” I say solemnly. “The most scared I’ve ever been.”

  She seems relieved. “Can I go home now?”

  I take her hand, and we start down the stairs. The room is now filled with light from the sunrise outside. I’m surprised to see Donovan, sitting up and leaning against the wall instead of standing. He smiles at us, but then winces. His hand is clutching his chest. He must have taken quite a blow with that bullet, even with a Kevlar vest on.

  I put Sofia down, and we’re just making our way across the main room toward Donovan when a bright, deafening explosion sends us flying against one wall. What seems like an army of cops rush the room and throw us both onto the floor before we can even react. Somewhere inside my fuzzy head, I realize it must be a SWAT team using a flash-­bang to storm the house. A little late, I think, as a huge cop in body armor pins me to the ground. The blow has knocked the breath out of me. Again. I’m lightly lying on Sofia so I quickly roll over and hug her head to my chest. In the confusion, I see Donovan being led away by a man in full body armor. Another man is grabbing Sofia and me by the arms and pulling us away when I remember Lopez in the other room.

  “C-­Lo!” I try to shout, but cough and choke from the smoke. I plead and become frantic as my struggles to get free are ignored. In the smoky haze, my ears are still ringing from the flash-­bang, and all I hear is the sound of more shouting and boots thudding through the house. “He’s in the kitchen. I have to go see him!”

  Behind the gas mask, two eyes stare at me unblinking and lead us outside.

  Chapter 54

  OUTSIDE, THE SUNRISE is spectacular, a misty commingling of pinks and oranges lighting up the driveway. A paramedic washes my face for me and puts a new bandage on my forehead, removing the one from last night, which is soaking wet with blood, sweat, and dirt. She has a kind look in her eyes as she gives me another wet rag. I had reluctantly let them take Sofia out of my arms a moment ago, as long as they promised to keep her right beside me as they examined her.

  Then, suddenly I hear her choked gasp and look up to see my sister-­in-­law running through the crowd, dropping her bag as she gets closer, tears streaming down her face as she scoops Sofia up into her arms. My brother, Dante, is not far behind, and his face is covered in tears as he wraps his arms around his wife and daughter. His eyes briefly meet mine, and I try not to cry at the apology and gratefulness I see in them before he buries his face into his family’s hug.

  I look toward the house and watch the cops filin
g in and out. Donovan is by the door talking to them. I don’t want to admit to myself that I’m waiting for them to carry a body bag outside.

  “I need to find my friend Chris Lopez,” I say, pleading with the EMT.

  “Hmm-­mmm. Just one second. First let’s clean you up a bit,” she says.

  Then I notice a figure on a gurney by the ambulance door. I didn’t see them bring anybody out. It must be Lopez. My heart is filled with fear. I jump up and race over there.

  When I get there, he smiles up at me from beneath a huge bandage.

  “Hey, man,” he says.

  “Oh my God, C-­Lo. I thought you were dead.” I lean over and hug him. He grips me in a big bear hug, pressing my face to his chest. “He said he killed you.”

  “That douche bag? No way. I’m Green Beret, man. You forget? Dude would’ve never even touched me, but he had night-­vision goggles. I ripped them off his face, but he still whacked me one.”

  He hugs me tight and talks into my ear.

  Then, over Lopez’s shoulder, I notice Donovan watching us from across the way. He’s sitting on a low wall now and has his shirt off, holding his bulletproof vest in one hand as paramedics examine a huge bruise on his chest. The look on his face makes me struggle to get free. It’s not like that. We’re just friends, I think as I free myself from Lopez’s embrace. By the time I stand up and glance over, Donovan is gone.

  Just then, the paramedics say they are going to load the gurney and take Lopez to the hospital. I rush over when I realize they are also loading Sofia into an ambulance. They tell me it’s just a precaution. She needs to be checked out.

  As I get close, my brother grabs me and holds me close.

  “Thank you,” he whispers in my ear, then pulls away.

  I kiss Sofia good-­bye and tell her I’ll see her soon.

  As the ambulances pull away, I look again for Donovan. Police and forensic technicians are milling around the yard and the house. Several television news crews wait outside the yellow tape. For once, I am on the inside.