by Willow Rose
"Get out."
He rose to his feet, still holding a hand to his throbbing cheek, then yelled at us.
"Get out of my house. If I ever see your face in here again, it better be with a warrant!"
59
Bahamas, October 2018
Coraline heard steps. At least she thought she did. She was standing in the wine cellar, staring at the skeleton, shaking, when she heard it again. This time closer. The steps seemed angry and determined.
Someone's coming.
Coraline gasped and looked around to find the exit. There was only one door at the end of the room, only one way in and one way out.
There is nowhere to go.
Quickly, Coraline threw another glance around the room and then—as she heard noises coming from the other side of the door—she rushed to one of the shelves and pulled out a dusty bottle of wine to use as a weapon.
She waited by the door as it opened, then as a face peeked inside, she swung it so hard, the person never knew what was coming. There was a thud as the bottle hit the person's forehead, but the bottle remained intact. The man fell to the floor, face first, and Coraline hurried out into the hallway, not even looking down at him.
She ran as fast as she could down the stony hallway until she reached a set of stairs and could see a closed door at the end of it. She took the steps two at a time as she rushed up toward the door, hoping and praying that it wasn't locked.
Please, dear God. Please, let it be open.
As she reached halfway up the stairs, she felt something grab her ankle, and a second later she was forcefully yanked down, slamming her face against each and every step.
Coraline screamed as she was pulled downward, then looked up toward the door, blood filling her eyes from a wound in her forehead, when she saw the door above slide open, and a figure stood hovering on top of the stairs, a figure looking much like an angel in white clothing in the light coming from behind.
"Help!" Coraline exclaimed, reaching out her hands toward this angel, while forcefully being pulled down.
But the angel wasn't there to help, she soon realized. Instead, she closed the door behind her and walked down the steps, balancing on her high heels, while the man behind Coraline pulled her down onto the floor in the hallway. As the pulling stopped and Coraline felt the cold tiles against her cheek, she heard voices above her, distant foggy voices speaking in an agitated manner.
"How did she get out? How could you let this happen?"
"She climbed through the ventilation duct."
"Well, get her back in there and finish it up. We need to get rid of her. The ground is burning under our feet."
"Yes, Mama," the man answered.
"Well, why are you just standing there? Get her out of here!"
"Yes, Mama," the man repeated and, soon after, Coraline felt a pull on her feet as she was dragged across the tiles. She wanted to scream, she wanted to yell at them for treating her like this, she wanted to fight, but her head was pounding so terribly, and she felt so extremely dizzy, she could hardly even…think. Coraline sent signals to her brain to tell her legs to kick, to kick the guy hard and run again, but her legs didn't obey. Instead, she watched through a curtain of blood as her traitorous body was dragged back toward the room, and through an opening in the stone wall. She was placed on the floor and, as the door in the wall closed behind her, she realized she wasn't alone. The man had stayed inside with her.
60
Bahamas, May 1984
"Did you really think you'd get away with it? Did you really think I wouldn't find out? That my son wouldn't tell me?"
The White Lady was fuming as she stood in the kitchen, staring at Carla. The girl was sitting by the counter, cutting carrots when they entered. It was just her and the boy. Dylan stood in front of her, looking at the girl with a mischievous look.
Carla wiped her hands on her apron, then turned around to face The White Lady.
"Answer me, woman!" she yelled at Carla.
Carla didn't look up at her. She stood with her shoulders slumped, staring at her worn out shoes.
"I…I don't…"
"You tried to kill him, didn't you? You wanted him to drown in that bathtub."
Carla raised her fear-struck eyes, then shook her head violently.
"N-no."
"Don't lie to me now. He told me everything. You tried to drown him; then, when it didn't succeed, you told him never to tell on you."
Carla shook her head again. "N-n-o, ma'am, that's not…"
"Oh, I am done with your lies. I’m sick of them, to be honest," The White Lady hissed. "I have done so much for you. You were my favorite. I let you go into town. I risked my life by letting you do that. If you were found by an immigration officer, they would have come for me too; you do realize that, right? I’ve risked my own life for you. For you. I trusted you. And this is how you repay me? By trying to kill my son?"
"N-no, I didn't…I…"
Carla glanced quickly at the girl. The girl winced and shook her head. She clenched the knife between her fingers.
"Look at me when I am talking to you!" The White Lady yelled.
Carla did. She sighed.
"I'm sorry," she said.
The White Lady threw out her arms. "Oh, she's sorry now, is she? The woman tries to murder my son, and now she says she's sorry?"
Carla stared at her feet. "Yes, Ma'am. I am very sorry."
The girl stared at her, small gasps leaving her lips.
"Oh, I'll give you something to be sorry about," The White Lady said.
She then reached over and grabbed the knife out of the girl's hands. She grabbed Carla by the hair and forced her to her knees, holding her face toward the ceiling.
"Dylan, come here," she hissed, and the boy obeyed. He rushed to his mother and stood beside the kneeling Carla.
"You want to keep silent about things?" The White Lady said, strained. "Well, say your final word and then keep silent forever."
"No, Please…I…"
Dylan's hands were shaking as his mother handed him the knife. She then reached inside Carla's mouth, grabbed her tongue and pulled it out between her lips, forcefully. Carla whimpered and sobbed while the girl watched, holding her breath.
As the knife swung through the air and cut Carla's tongue off, the boy lifted his head and locked eyes with the girl. In that second, they shared a moment that would forever determine the course of their lives.
As the knife cut through the flesh and the thick veins, Carla sank to the floor, blood gushing out of her mouth.
"Leave her there," The White Lady said and walked to the door with a grunt.
After she had left, the two children sat on the cold floor, holding hands across Carla's bleeding body, watching her sputter and gargle as her lungs were slowly filled with her own blood.
61
Nassau, Bahamas, October 2018
"How on earth did you find out about the phone numbers?" I asked and looked at Emily. We had left Lyford Cay and were driving toward downtown. "Did you hack again?"
Emily chuckled. "Nah. It was a lucky guess."
My eyes grew wide as we approached Nassau. "You bluffed? There were no transcripts?"
She shook her head. "Nope."
I had to laugh. "You've got some nerve, young lady. I am impressed."
"Can you believe the guy, though?" she asked and shivered. She looked at me. "So, you think he has Coraline?"
"I feel pretty confident that he does. If he hasn't killed her and gotten rid of her body yet, that is."
I drove up in front of the police station and stopped the car.
"Well, if he does have her, then we have no time to waste," she said and placed a hand on my shoulder.
We walked inside and didn't even stop when the secretary told us the commissioner was busy. We just walked straight in. Inside, we found Maycock at his desk, a woman sitting in his lap, kissing him.
I pushed Emily behind me.
"Dad, I’m nineteen,
" I heard her mumble while I cleared my throat. "Excuse me, Commissioner, we have an urgent matter to discuss."
The commissioner let go of the woman, then smiled widely at us. "Detective Ryder. It is good to see you."
He's not even embarrassed?
The commissioner was still smiling as we approached him. He winked at the woman, and she got down from his lap, wiped her lips, and rushed past us.
As she left and closed the door behind her, the commissioner clasped his hands.
"She needed to pick up the kids anyway. They're at my parents’ house."
I gave him a strange look. "She's…that was…your wife?"
The commissioner nodded and smiled widely. "Yes. Mrs. Maycock," he said proudly. "Now, what can I do for you, Detective?"
I exhaled and leaned forward. "We need a warrant and as many officers as you have on hand."
The commissioner lifted his eyebrows. "You have evidence?"
"We know where Coraline Stuart is being kept," I said.
"Let me guess, somewhere in Lyford Cay," the commissioner said with a deep sigh.
I nodded. "Yes, and we need to move fast. I don't know if she’s still alive but every moment that passes is one minute more he can use to kill her."
"And just who are we talking about?" he asked.
I swallowed, bracing myself for his reaction.
"Mr. Sakislov."
The commissioner's eyes grew wide. "Oh, no. Oh, no. No. No. No."
"Before you refuse, you must hear us out. I know he's an important guy around here. I know he owns the biggest piece of land in Lyford Cay. I know he puts a lot of money into your country. I know you’ve renamed an entire point for him, but I am telling you, it all adds up. He had a date with Coraline on the night she disappeared. He was the last person to see her alive. We have a witness who said she was supposed to meet up with him. He was also questioned in connection with the killing of Annie Turner in 2013 and, according to his son, he was sleeping with Ella Maria Chauncey behind the son's back."
"And Nancy Elkington?" the commissioner asked. "Did he see her too?"
I shook my head. "We don't know. We don't know if he was connected to Laurie Roberts either, but the files said she met someone. The same goes for Jill Carrigan, who went home with a guy who drove a Rolls Royce. We don't know if it is Sakislov, but he does own a Rolls Royce."
The commissioner rose to his feet and closed his jacket over his big stomach with a grunt. He pointed a finger at me.
"You better be right about this."
62
Bahamas, October 2018
Coraline felt hands on her body and was turned around. She felt powerless in the hands of this man, this predator who stood above her, looking down at her with those fiery eyes.
"Please," she said with a whimper. "Please."
The pleading didn't seem to help her. Actually, it had the opposite effect.
"I don't want to die, please," she continued nonetheless.
The man leaned forward and wiped blood from her face, then said with a low voice, "But you will. Don't worry. In just a few minutes, it'll be all over."
"No," she said, crying. "No. Why are you doing this?"
The man didn't answer. He grabbed his bag and started to pull out some things. Coraline watched him through blurry eyes as he pulled out needles and ink.
"What are you doing with those?" she asked, remembering seeing similar equipment in the tattoo parlor she had gotten that small heart she had on her ankle when she turned eighteen, much to her dad's regret.
The man now walked to her, then started to unbutton her shirt and pull it off. Coraline tried to fight him, but he held her down, and soon she had to give up. Next, he grabbed her pants and pulled them off. As he spotted the tattoo on her ankle, he stopped and looked at it.
"Huh," he said. "I prefer an empty canvas…" he paused and looked up at her with a smile. "I guess this will have to do."
He turned her around so that he could look at her back, then ran a hand slowly down her spine.
"Some might say it would be easier just to write the word on your back," he said, "using a permanent marker. I understand why they would say that, but since you'll be left in water, I prefer making it more permanent, if you know what I mean. Why water, you might ask? Well, I prefer it because it removes all traces like fingerprints and any DNA I might leave behind."
"P-please," she continued.
His hands were still examining her body, touching the skin all over her back and then turning her around and feeling the skin on her stomach. Coraline was crying heavily now, and soon those cries turned to screams.
The man shook his head. "You really think anyone can hear you? This room is the safest place on the planet. The walls are so thick you couldn't even drill through them."
Coraline still screamed with all the strength left in her small body.
The man searched her stomach, then paused.
"Yes, I think this is the spot," he said. "Right here on your stomach. Now, it might hurt a little bit, but I am sure you won't feel it since you'll be…well, almost dead when I start doing it. Usually, it takes around two to two and a half hours for someone your size to bleed to death, choking on your own blood. So, don't worry; you will hardly feel the needle as I decorate your body. Besides, you'll probably pass out pretty quickly from all the blood loss."
The man looked at her, then reached over and grabbed a butcher's knife. Coraline saw it, then whimpered and tried to crawl away, but the man grabbed her by the feet and pulled her back toward him. He then turned her around and looked down at her, holding the knife close to her face.
"Now, say your final word," he said. "And make it a good one."
63
Lyford Cay, Bahamas, October 2018
It was with great satisfaction that I handed over the warrant to Mr. Sakislov. Meanwhile, what seemed like the entire Royal Bahamian Police Force entered the resort-sized house and started their search.
"They're not gonna find anything here," Mr. Sakislov said, still fuming. "You're wasting your time."
"Let me be the judge of that," I said.
"What's going on?"
Henry Sakislov came out in the great hall that was the size of the three-bedroom apartment where I used to live.
"What's going on?" he asked again. "Dad?"
"They think I murdered Ella," he said.
Henry's eyes grew weary. "Murdered her? No," he said addressed to me. "You misunderstood. He's a playboy; he sleeps with young girls and treats them like dirt, but he's no killer. He didn't kill Ella."
"Just let us do our job," I said. "We have reason to believe he might have killed several young girls around the island."
"Tell them to hurry up. I’m hosting a party tonight," Mr. Sakislov said. "And I don't want your men crawling all over the grounds."
I stared at the son, wondering what kind of grown-up he was going to be with an upbringing like this, with a dad like this.
"Where is your mom?" I asked. "Is there a Mrs. Sakislov?"
"There was. There have been several," Henry answered and sent his dad another look. "But none of them stuck."
"So, where is your mother now?" I asked. "Could you go and live with her in case we need to arrest your father?"
"You're not arresting anyone here," Mr. Sakislov snorted.
"But just in case we do find something, and we have to take him in," I continued. "Could you go live with her?"
Henry looked down at the marble tiles beneath him, then shook his head. "We hardly know one another."
"And it won't be necessary," his dad said.
"Again, let me be the judge of that," I said just as the commissioner came back in the hall followed by a flock of his men. He looked tired and sweaty, and his eyes told me he didn't carry good news. As he approached me, he started to shake his head.
"Nothing. We found nothing."
I didn't see it because he was standing behind me, but I just knew that Mr. Sakislov was smiling fr
om ear to ear. I could almost hear his smirk from where I was standing.
"Keep going," I said.
"We've been everywhere," the commissioner said. "There is nothing, no sign of the girl."
"Try again," I snorted, sounding almost like Mr. Sakislov. "Keep trying!"
"As you wish," the commissioner said, and they disappeared once again. I could hear them running around from room to room and from guesthouse to guesthouse outside, searching up and down while I was standing inside the great hall, suddenly sweating quite heavily.
64
Lyford Cay, Bahamas, October 2018
"Nothing."
Commissioner Maycock threw out his arms as he repeated the word for the third time. We had been there for several hours now, still with no luck. I stared at him, sweat prickling on my skin. I could feel Sergei Sakislov's piercing eyes on my back.
"You hear me? There is nothing here," the commissioner continued. "No Coraline Stuart, none of her clothes or belongings. Nothing that could have belonged to any of the many girls you believe had been kept here before they were killed. Nothing."
The word echoed inside my head, and I felt like screaming. This couldn't be correct; it simply couldn't. I had been so certain.
And yet I wasn't. A small part of me knew it was too easy of an answer. But I had wanted to believe it. I sure did.
Mr. Sakislov approached us, then leaned over with the biggest smirk I have ever seen and said: "Now, if you'll please leave my property before my guests arrive."
I couldn't stand his self-righteous face. I didn't know what was worse, the triumphant look in his eyes or the gloat in his voice. Maybe they were equally terrible.
"Go on, go," he said and almost shooed us out like we were dogs or sheep.
I did feel kind of sheepish; I had to admit.
Outside in the street, as the gate closed behind us, Commissioner Maycock approached me, his eyes scowling.
"I am sorry," I said. "I was so certain."