Authors: George D. Shuman
Café Bo Bo’s was empty by the dinner hour, tourists departing for shuttles or embarkation ramps to one of the half dozen cruise ships in harbor.
The Bishop sisters faced each other across a tall bar table, heels hooked on wooden stools as they sipped their drinks from tiny straws. Jill, who would turn eighteen before their cruise ship returned to Miami, wore a pearl-buttoned peasant shirt and denim miniskirt, with heavy white athletic socks and Nike running shoes, and was drinking a virgin strawberry daiquiri. Theresa, the older sister by five years, was barefoot and blistered, wearing a Versace bikini and wrap and working her way through a second salty margarita. A pair of Anne Klein sequined sandals was heaped on the floor beneath her.
“Did you see Mom’s bracelet?”
Jill nodded, rubbing the goose bumps on her arms, looking at pink ribbons fluttering from the dusty vents of ceiling air conditioners.
“It must have cost a mint,” Theresa said. “Dad’s still paying for taking that trip to the San Diego office last month.”
“Why does he take those trips anyhow?”
“He likes to keep his hand in. It keeps him sharp.”
Theresa adopted a tone of profound wisdom and nodded vigorously. “I have to say I get that,” she added.
Jill rolled her eyes. “You get that,” she mocked. “He’s the CEO, Theresa. He could blow bubbles at his desk and everyone would applaud.”
“And you should start getting some material of your own. Parroting Mom won’t get you very far in life.”
“Mom thinks he’s going to have another heart attack.”
“Mom thinks Oprah should be president.”
“Screw you.”
“No, screw you.”
Theresa sneered, reaching into her Prada handbag—it was slung across her shoulder to keep street urchins from snatching it—for a pack of Marlboro Lights.
“Eeeuuuuw.” Jill made a face as Theresa produced the cigarettes.
“It calms my nerves.”
“Nerves,” Jill said flatly.
“Yeah, nerves. You have no idea how stressful—”
“—law school can be,” Jill interrupted, rolling her eyes.
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you.”
“We’ve got to be getting back soon.” Theresa turned away from the vented air to light her cigarette.
“I told you I want a wrap to wear over my suit tomorrow.”
“Then why didn’t you get one? We’ve only been here for two hours.”
“Two hours of visiting bars so you could drink margaritas. Does the word
blisters
ring a bell? You said we had to stop here because you couldn’t walk another step.”
“I couldn’t.”
“But you ran halfway up the ramp to get a drink,” Jill mumbled, looking around.
Theresa’s eyes strayed to something in the back of the room.
“What?” Jill started to turn.
“Nothing, don’t look.” Theresa clamped a hand on Jill’s arm. “Just wait.”
Jill exhausted a sigh and went back to her drink, emptying it until she was making sucking sounds with her straw.
The noise brought Theresa’s attention back to the table. “Oh nice, what are you, three?”
Jill used the diversion to swivel in her seat to see a woman going down on a man in a booth behind a partition. She turned back as suddenly and sat red-faced, looking past her sister.
“I’m going back to the plaza.”
“Don’t do this, Jill.”
“I’m not doing anything. I just want a beach wrap. That’s why I came here in the first place.”
“And I’m not waiting here until the last minute so I have to run to the ship on my blistered feet. You do this every time.”
“Then go back now. I’ll meet you there.”
Theresa’s eyes drifted back to the couple behind her. “I’ll wait here, but hurry.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Jill scooted away from the table, tempted to turn toward the couple in the back booth again, but decided against it. “I’ll pay you later.”
Theresa shrugged and blew smoke at the ceiling while Jill hurried for the door.
The marketplace was still bustling, crowds inching their way through acres of brightly colored clothes. She found racks in a booth and was sorting through them when a woman tripped behind her, falling into and nearly pushing her to the ground. Then, to add insult to injury, their heads bumped as they stood to face each other.
“Oh, my,” the woman said, looking dazed; she was young and pretty and dressed in an expensive gold top over white capris trimmed in gold. She was a native, Jill thought, her skin brown, her teeth dazzling, her luxurious black hair pinned back with tortoiseshell clips.
“I am soooo very sorry.” She steadied herself against a lamppost to inspect the broken heel of a flimsy gold dress sandal. “I need to start keeping real shoes in the car.” She grinned. “Marie.” She stuck out a hand to shake.
“Jill,” the girl answered, taking it.
Marie looked at her neck. “I have that very same heart, it’s a Tiffany, right? It looks much better on you. I like it with your blond hair.”
“Your hair is beautiful.” Jill stooped to pick up a sarong on a hanger that had fallen to the ground.
“Like straw.” The woman grabbed a handful and shook it self-deprecatingly. Then she tossed her sandals into a barrel of fly-covered trash.
“Wow,” Jill said, staring at the Gucci labels.
“Who would repair them?” Marie shrugged. “Besides, they had bad energy, I wore them to please my ex. You’re looking for a sarong?”
Jill nodded, replacing the hanger and continuing to flip through the racks.
“Occasion?”
“Pool party,” Jill said. “I’m on one of the cruise ships.” She thumbed over her shoulder in the direction of the harbor.
“I design them.”
“Them?” Jill looked sideways.
The woman spread out her hands. “Sarongs,” she said, “though actually I design most everything you see here. I’m a garment manufacturer in Santo Domingo.”
“Get out.” Jill grinned.
Marie shrugged. “We supply half of the booths in El Conde.”
“Really,” Jill said, impressed.
“The high-end resort boutiques as well. You know the Hispaniola Hotel. We have a shop there. The silks do well.”
Jill nodded, raising her eyebrows. Her mother and father visited the casino there.
“You’re so young.” She stepped to another rack of wraps.
Marie laughed. “Not so young anymore, I just buy good makeup. It hides the wrinkles very well.” She looked around, glanced at a diamond Omega on her wrist. “Oh, Lord. Speaking of hotels, I’m meeting my husband at Las Cañas, you know the place.”
Jill shook her head.
“Overlooks the pool at the Hispaniola. Great way to end the day.” Marie turned to leave. “Safe trip. Where are you from, by the way?”
“Chicago.”
“Oh, I love Chicago,” the woman said wistfully, a final wave before she walked away.
Jill pushed her way through more sarongs and a moment later heard her name being called.
“Jill?”
Marie was standing a dozen feet away, hands on hips.
“You know, I don’t even know who I am anymore. Really, I mean I know it’s hard to believe, but I was actually raised with manners. Come follow me”—she swept a hand in her direction—“I’ll give you something worth taking back to Chicago, an original from my collection, pure silk and free for the pretty girl I almost knocked over.”
Jill hesitated.
Marie made a face. “You can’t be seen in one of these. I won’t have it.”
“I couldn’t,” Jill said.
“Of course you could, it’s called kindness and it’s the first thing I should have said, not the last.”
“Are you sure? Don’t you have to run?”
“The stock van’s on the way to my car. I keep a box in the back in case one of my shops calls in. Just do something nice for a tourist when you get back home to America.”
Jill smiled and ran to catch up, keeping step as they pushed their way through bodies from Parque Colón to Parque Independencia, dodging cars across a busy street, cutting through alleys until they reached one filled with teeming Dumpsters and windowless doors. Marie stopped at the side of a pink cargo van, unlocked a side door, and rolled it back on its hinges. Then she climbed inside and Jill could see a rack of clothes and cardboard boxes on the floor.
Marie pounded the top of one of the boxes with her fist, broke the strapping tape, and peeled the lid open. “Jump up,” she coaxed. “Pick any of the smalls, you’re going to love these.”
Jill climbed in as Marie flipped through labels, then she heard footsteps charging up the sidewalk behind her. Jill started to turn but by then the door was sliding closed and a knife appeared at her throat.
“Not a word.” Marie’s voice was no longer pleasant. “Lie on your stomach and put your hands behind your back.”
“No!” Jill yelled. “Please, no.” She struggled.
Marie pushed her face into the clothes piled on the floor of the van and scratched the side of her neck with the point of the knife.
A man got behind the wheel and started the engine.
“Put your hands back,” Marie hissed once more, and Jill did.
Marie taped her wrists, then her ankles, and last her mouth. The whole thing took a minute.
Marie got up and Jill arched her neck to see the curtain between the cab and cargo area swinging sideways with the motion of the van leaving the curb.
Marie went forward, leaving her in the dark.
The van sped through narrow streets, bumping curbs on sharp turns. The back of Jill’s head thumped hard against the ribbed floor. She took deep breaths through her nostrils, trying to calm her pounding heart. Five minutes passed, then ten. No one had seen what happened. No one was chasing them. She had simply disappeared.
Her sister wouldn’t worry for a while. Probably not until her next margarita was gone. By then it would be time to head back to the ship and even then she might not bother to look for her. She would probably pick up her sandals and limp on back for a shower before dinner.
What had happened? she kept wondering. Why her? Had they been following her? Did they know who she was?
She’d heard in school that kidnappings were commonplace in South America. Taking people off the streets was a new form of income for criminals. But they must know there was no way to reach her family. She had told the woman who called herself Marie that she was on a cruise ship.
She tried to quell the panic as the van rushed from the marketplace. The ride was a blur of ear-piercing merengue, city street sirens and angry horns as the driver jerked right and left, sending her rolling between the wheel wells and random boxes of clothes in the back of the van.
She was sure that at any moment the driver would pull over behind some tenement house and rob her and throw her out with her empty purse, but the van just kept on rolling and city blocks turned into city miles.
Where were they taking her?
Jill felt a trickle of warm blood from where Marie’s knife scratched her neck. Her cheek was grinding into the dirt on the metal floor. Through a blur of tears she saw her purse lying near the curtain. Why wouldn’t they have looked in it? It was just lying there, a brand-new leather Coach with four new hundred-dollar bills her father had given her when they left Miami. If the kidnappers wanted money, why didn’t they take what was in her purse?
She lifted her head and looked behind her. Spanning the width of the back door was a steel rod thick with beach towels and flimsy sarongs on wire hangers. Next to her on the floor were open boxes and random pieces of clothing lying about. Were they really street vendors or was the van only a ruse? Only meant for one thing? Bait to lure someone like her into an alley?
She heard the sounds of blaring horns, clashing music, shouting people, the high-pitched whine of a motor scooter zipping by. Then the van sped away from it all; a ramp, a freeway, something was taking them away from the city, until at last there was nothing to hear but the dreary hum of tires.
She knew what would happen when her mother found out she wasn’t on the ship. She would have a freaking meltdown. She would insist that the ship be searched. When they didn’t find her her mom would insist the whole island be searched. She was never going to accept excuses from the police. She would call Uncle Adel. He was a United States attorney for the northern district of Illinois. Jill’s father was a millionaire ten times over, but his brother Adel had clout in Washington. Adel, Jill’s father was always saying, could fix anything.
Sooner or later she’d be told to make a call, either to the ship’s mobile operators to reach her parents or to relatives back in the States. That’s what kidnappers did.
She wished they hadn’t taped her mouth shut. She could have told them her cell phone was in her purse. Her father had bought SIM cards so that the girls’ cell phones would work in the islands. He wanted them to be able to reach each other if ever they were separated.
Minutes later she heard a muffled noise, a familiar melody coming from the direction of her purse.
Her
ring tone,
her
cell phone!