The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  This was her chance.

  She took it by pushing off the wall and swaying her hips to encourage his grinding. He pulled back at first, no doubt shocked, then, excitedly, he let go of her hands, wrapped one arm around her waist while using his other hand to grope her chest. The plan was going perfectly, until the flashbacks came over her, like they always did. Like they had with all the men she’d ever tried to be intimate with in her life. Like they had with Michael.

  The hands were different. The moves were different. In many ways, during her best moments in the past with the boys she thought she loved, they were even exciting for a few seconds.

  The problem was her fear that . . . each man’s intent . . . was the same. To hurt her. To use her. To violate her as a living, breathing human being. Like that monster of her childhood had. And that was the real crime of it: you could overcome the past but then, as the victim, you had to keep overcoming it, day by day and moment by moment. The therapist she had just begun seeing told her that the key was getting to the point where you could truly and completely redefine yourself from a victim to a survivor. And she had been doing well until . . . all this had happened. No real dates since New York but feeling healed and finally ready to meet a guy and share a kiss and see where things went.

  But now . . . her stomach rolled with nausea.

  She pulled herself back from the cliff in her mind with the realization that she was about to cry. No. That would blow the whole thing. So instead she quickly spun around, causing him to panic before she pulled him close and, suppressing the urge to vomit, buried her face in his neck. He tried to pull back, probably thinking about his boss, before his manhood overtook his better senses and he was all over her.

  Perfect. She reached around and grabbed his ass, exciting him only more, as she slyly slid the dummy’s cell phone from his back pocket. Once it was in her hand, she reached down and stuffed it into the side pouch of her workout pants and then began to scream with all her might. His panicked reaction was to cover her mouth, which caused her even more flashbacks.

  “Shut up, you little bitch!” he whispered harshly. He pressed down hard on her mouth, jamming her lips painfully against her teeth, but it was too late. Luisa was up in a shot and began to scream, too.

  Seconds later, Meenie and Miney came charging through the shack door, guns drawn. Seeing Maggie in his embrace, their faces went raw, and angry Spanish began flying in all directions. Eenie let Maggie go but glared at her as he did so. “I’ll get you for this,” he said in a frustrated voice.

  “I hope you try,” Maggie spat. As his cohorts pulled him away, she added, “Enjoy your blue balls.”

  He said some words to her in Spanish, no doubt insults, but even that was cowardly, as he no doubt knew she couldn’t understand him. He was halfway to the door when Luisa came out of nowhere and punched him in the neck, which was as high as she could reach. She was strong for a little thing, and he arched his body in pain and tried to grab at her as Meenie grappled with him and pushed him outside with even greater urgency.

  The shack door slammed shut and the cross bar fell into place. “Nice punch,” Maggie said with a smile to Luisa. She smiled back, which was encouraging.

  Maggie wasn’t sure how much time she had for her idea, so she wasted none of it. Luisa’s eyes went wide when Maggie pulled the phone from her pouch and punched in the code: 2-8-9-1.

  Sometimes shit just went your way. Sometimes. And they were due a break, weren’t they?

  The display lit up. Luisa came over to shield Maggie and the phone from view of the shack door. “What are you doing?” she whispered urgently.

  “Shh,” Maggie whispered back as her fingers went to work. She had rehearsed this moment in her mind countless times and now she simply followed the steps. Forget about trying to make a call to someone. Screw that. She smiled. He had Facebook.

  She logged him out and logged herself in. First break of the day? His Facebook was in English. She was right. Of the three, Eenie was the most Americanized. Probably was a citizen, or had at least grown up in the US. It was why the other two treated him differently. Regardless, had it been in Spanish she would’ve been ready for it. She had Luisa to translate. It just would’ve made things take a little longer.

  She almost laughed when she saw the standard Facebook status question: “What’s on your mind?”

  Um. Not dying! That’s what.

  Luisa reached up with a tiny, stifled cry of excitement and grabbed Maggie’s forearms as she typed a status update. But the words Maggie typed about their predicament darkened the mood for a moment. At least before Maggie clicked the “Check in” button and they both waited . . . for seconds that felt like weeks . . . for the dial on the phone to spin away. Only three bars of 4G but that was enough. It had to be.

  The push pin came up at last: they were somewhere in Baja California near a place called El Centenario.

  Maggie clicked “Share” immediately and almost began to cry as her status went live. That got the word out to all her friends, coworkers and family. One of them would see it and take action, surely.

  Okay, okay. That’s enough. You did it. Don’t push your luck. He’s gonna notice any minute now that his phone is gone.

  But more than anything she wanted to DM Julie, so she did. “In El Centenario, Baja California being held by three men. With a girl from the shelter. Think they’re heading south next but not sure. Been here three days. Call Detective Murillo or Klink. LAPD Hollenbeck Station. Get help.” Her fingers were shaking as she held back a sob and she added one more thing. “I love you.”

  Outside she heard someone shout a bunch of stuff that included one word she caught loud and clear: “Teléfono!” It was Eenie. He’d no doubt gone off to pout somewhere, reached for his phone and found it missing.

  Luisa gasped. “He’s asking them if they’ve seen his phone.”

  “I know, I know,” Maggie replied. Heavy footfalls were crunching across the dirt to the shack. They were coming.

  Hurriedly, desperately, Maggie signed out of her Facebook account and threw the phone side-handed towards the shack door, where it hit the ground and spun in a few circles before coming to a stop just as the shack door flew open. Eenie stood in the doorway, with Meenie and Miney right behind him, all of them blocking the light from outside.

  Again, Luisa made Maggie proud.

  “Que?” she screamed as she spun to face them all with her tiny baby-bump belly.

  Eenie stepped in and looked around, the damned phone right at his feet.

  Don’t say anything, Luisa. Don’t. It’ll be too obvious. He has to find it for himself. When they walked in, all they saw were two women huddled off in the corner. They’ll never know.

  Maggie’s heart dropped as Luisa began to open her mouth, but just then, Eenie looked down and saw his phone. With anger still on his face, he looked at Luisa. “Cállate, puta!” he screamed at her, before he spun and stomped back out.

  Again, the shack door closed. Again, the cross bar fell into place.

  Maggie and Luisa flew into each other’s arms and hugged each other tightly. They’d done it. Word was out about where they were, and Maggie knew, just knew, that they’d come to help.

  Or at least someone would.

  Chapter Six

  “Take my hand,” Father Soltera said to Gabriella as he stepped off the island and into the water. The shoreline chilled his toes and the silty sand scrunched beneath his feet.

  She complied hesitantly, her slender fingers gripping at his, the tips of her nails tickling his knuckles. Her face, that precious face, here at last, turned up to his with a sudden hope. His heart spun. Love. This was love. Plunging off to nowhere and everywhere. Together.

  It was okay. It would all be okay. He could let go of all the things that kept him from letting go before, if what he felt was genuine. As long as what he felt was sincere. And it was, without a doubt, the sincerest thing he’d felt in his entire mixed-up life. This was the direction of every
winding path he’d ever wandered down, the blind curve of every road, the turnoff to the ultimate view of the wilderness within him.

  They made it waist-deep into the water before she stopped. “I can’t move,” she said with frustration. “I knew it!”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not allowed to leave the island. I’ve tried. Many times. I thought with you here it might be different. But, no,” she said forlornly.

  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This can’t be.

  He pulled on her hand harder. She winced but put all her effort into trying to move forwards. Nothing. It was as if the soil beneath the water had suctioned her feet and wouldn’t let go. Her face twisted with desperation as they struggled, tugging and pushing sideways, then upwards, until downwards finally worked, but only for the briefest of seconds.

  Then, she was stuck again.

  “No!” she cried out, her mouth drawn in sorrow, her eyes closed tight.

  He stood over her for a second before slowly helping her to her feet. Her pants were soaked and her jacket wet, but he watched with fascination as the water coalesced and wicked off of her, as if she were dipped in wax. Clenching her fists, she leaned over and beat on her thighs. “This can’t be happening! I knew it! I knew this was hell.” She looked up at him furiously. “You’re not real. You’re not him. You were just sent to torture me, weren’t you?”

  “Gabriella! No. Listen to me. It’s me. I’m here.” And somehow, saying this aloud made it all more real for him, too. As if, up until now, a part of him was still holding on to the chance this was a dream. A mad, preposterous dream with fire-bellied cats, a female samurai, and dire wolves on the hunt.

  She shook her head and looked away, as if to further deny him. “No. No, you’re not.”

  He clutched at her arms and they both locked their hands on each other’s elbows. “Yes. I . . .”

  Seeing him hesitate, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You . . . what?”

  Father Soltera sighed. “I was about to say that I came for you. But that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?” he mainly asked himself before answering his own question. “Yes. Yes, it would be. I didn’t come for you . . . and I wasn’t brought to you, either.”

  “What does it matter!” She shook him loose, turned and walked back up to the dry sand.

  He followed, but slowly, as he tried to figure things out. He mumbled the words again: “Didn’t come. Not brought.” How? He wanted to be here. Yes. But he had no way of willing himself to this place, of setting her as his destination on some sort of journey. No.

  “How then? How did you get here, Bernie?” she said with sarcasm.

  He’d had enough. “Look. We’ll figure this out. But you know as well as I do that demons don’t love, and demons don’t confess. I’ve done both. So if this is hell, and I still don’t think it is, but if it is? Then I’m certainly not an agent of it. I’m wearing a cross. I’ve prayed while I’ve been here. Even now, despite my feelings for you, I’m a man of God. Fallen, yes, but by no means forsaken!” And now his emotions were getting the better of him. His hands were shaking as he looked up at her with imploring eyes. “Do you understand?”

  The hardness that had settled in her cheeks and chin quickly disappeared. She nodded gently and blinked away the last of the disbelief on her face. “Yes, Bernie. I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” She buried her face in her hands and turned away.

  He gave her some space, put his hands on his hips and mulled over her last question a bit more. How did he get here? Didn’t come. Not brought. The words had him like a bear trap. Michiko had brought him. She had. Wait. No. She brought you to the island, yes. But you awoke here, in this crazy world, first. She’s been a guide, since the first moment you saw her. A guide.

  So, if he hadn’t come here of his own free will and he hadn’t been brought here by anyone, that could only mean one thing . . .

  “I was sent,” he said softly.

  “What?”

  He looked up to the sky, then out over the water. “I was sent. Yes.”

  “Who? Who sent you?”

  Beyond that sky was the answer. Shaking his head in dismay, he looked away and began walking up the island, seeking a distraction to his thoughts. He noticed a bunch of sand piles. “What’re these?”

  She shrugged. “I build sand castles when I’m bored, or pile sand to make a pillow when I’m really tired.”

  The breeze over the water cooled his face and combed through his hair as he walked around the island to the other side. There, heartbreakingly, she’d built a crude shelter with driftwood and rocks. In front of it was a burnt-out campfire. “You know how to start a fire?” he asked, surprised.

  She scoffed. “Are you kidding me? No. It ignites every night by itself, then extinguishes each morning.”

  Curiosity overtook him. “By itself?”

  “Yeah. It’s a trip, I know. But it’s done it since the first day I came here.”

  He looked out over the water again; it was flat as glass, save a few lazy eddies here or there. “Are there ever any waves?”

  “Waves?” she said, perplexed. “No. Why?”

  “Then where did the driftwood for your shelter come from?”

  “It was here, too.”

  “The wood was already here?”

  “Yeah. Not much of a shelter, but it helps on the cooler nights.”

  As a young man at seminary, he was known as a thorough, almost exhaustive researcher. It wasn’t enough to know a biblical text frontwards and backwards, in Hebrew and Greek; he had to know its context and all the possible interpretations. At times, he would delve all the way down to the ideas in Aramaic. It wasn’t that he was super-smart, though others viewed him that way. Quite the contrary. He studied so hard because he felt so dense at times, unable to understand anything. In time, he learned to allow himself to wait on understanding, because that was the true gift of the Bible: it read you, as you read it. As the living word of God, it knew when you were ready for certain truths and when you weren’t. It was like a lifelong friendship with the best college professor you could ever have, ready with encouragement one day, advice the next, wisdom the day after that. And yes, sometimes, it gave you nothing, because nothing was all you could handle that day. And that was okay, too. He remembered his Bible with the blue cover, at home in his apartment, there on his nightstand, and all his scribbled notes inside it, written to himself like a journal to help him to understand things.

  Like now. He wanted to piece things together, and sure enough, he was on to something and he knew it. “Do you mind if I look around a little?”

  “No, of course not.”

  He motioned for her to follow as he walked further down the shore of the island. Besides more driftwood, it was barren, and as such, had no secrets to offer. But wait. Didn’t it? He walked closer to the driftwood and instantly saw them snagged there: tiny pieces of colored thread, blazing oranges and yellows, dense blues and accenting reds. He knew these threads but not in this way. Not in this context. But he knew them. He did. How . . . how . . .

  When it hit him, he gasped.

  Gabriella came up next to him. “What?”

  How was he going to tell her this? In what way could he soften the blow? There wasn’t enough time to mull it over and he doubted it would’ve made much difference, so he shared his realization as gently as he could.

  “These threads?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have they always been here?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I didn’t walk to this side of the island for a few days, so I don’t know if they were here before that. But it’s weird, right?”

  “Yes and no.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “What’s that mean?”

  He gently put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re mother, Gabriella . . .”

  “My mother?”

  “She has visited you every day since your accident, so the staff tells me. I sneak in to see you once a month, to
pray over you, to visit. And each month I see a new blanket laid over your bed, stitched and sewn in these same bright and beautiful colors.”

  As if she were trying to sew her way to you, wherever you were, he was going to add. But he stopped himself short as Gabriella’s face melted instantly into a sea of tears. “What?” she choked.

  “Yeah. To keep you warm. To keep you safe, the only way she still can: with a blanket. Like she no doubt did when you were an infant.”

  As they stood in silence for a few moments, Father Soltera felt the “rightness” of it. The research had been brief but correct. All that was left was to arrive at the correct conclusion, and that was not long in coming, either.

  He cupped his hands over her cheeks and turned her face to his. “The fire? The shelter? All of it. To keep you safe. All of them byproducts of a mother’s prayers. And that’s the key, you see? She has prayed so earnestly over you, and I believe . . . I know . . . God our Father has heard. There is no doubt.”

  Gabriella wept. “How can you be so sure?”

  Father Soltera chuckled softly. “Because I believe that’s why I’m here, too. Your mother prayed for help.” Father Soltera looked up to the sky, because there was always a sky, wasn’t there? And always Someone on the other side of it.

  He sighed, before adding, “And I was sent.”

  The yard split into four sections, four times a day, the inmates dividing like ants from separate colonies into their own groups. Hector had only lasted a few weeks in his sociology class in high school, but he didn’t need it to know that when push came to shove, human beings almost always grouped together with those most similar to them – finding safety in what was familiar. The blacks, browns and whites all in their own corners; Asians and anyone else in the “other” category of the US Census in the last. It was like a chessboard of gang life: the outside world brought inside and boxed into a microcosm of violence.

  Still not seeing Curtis anywhere, Hector made his way to a dirt patch in the worn grass next to a row of green wooden bench tables. The Fresno gangs had affiliations with some of the Los Angeles gangs, if he could find any. A group of six Latin men sat at one of the tables, tattoos running up their arms and necks, the demarcations of which he did not recognize. Four of them were playing dominos. The other two were watching with one eye on the game and the other on their surroundings. Prison life, man. It made you like one of those bug-eyed lizards, constantly looking in all directions. One of the men, bald with a long scar on one temple, sat at the table with his hands folded over the dominos in front of him. “What’s up, lil homie?” he said, nodding at Hector.