Stolen Grace (39 page)

“This one—this piece is just splendid,” the man went on with a grin, picking up another. “This 700 VTR will wipe out anything in its path. A Beautiful sharpshooter. A classic. Popular with police. Look at that clean line, look at that precision. Perfect marksmanship every time. Here, hold it, see how it feels.”

“Remington?” Tommy croaked, his throat parched, his fingers twitching. He tentatively took up the weapon, its metal cold and sharp, its black lines panther-sleek. “It’s not as heavy as it looks,” he remarked.

The man grinned. “Just over three kilos without optics.”

“What’s that, like seven pounds?” Tommy asked, holding it up. Just touching it eased his tension. “Not bad, pretty light.”

“What do you think? A great tactical rifle, huh? See the profile of the barrel? Not a round profile like a
typical
rifle barrel, but triangulated. Look at that. Real high quality. Also has an integrated muzzlebrake. Check out the X-Mark Pro trigger.”

Tommy let his fingers run along its smooth lines. “What happened to the
regular
Remington trigger? Didn’t it have a wider ribbed shoe and a few more options for adjustability?”

“We can adjust the trigger, no problem. Should cut dead center—on target every time.”

Tommy swallowed. “What about the SPS?”

“This one has replaced that model.”

“What else can you show me?” Tommy felt himself easing into the situation. His nerve cells were relaxing, his breathing more steady. “I need it to be practical. Light. The longest range you have.”

He was beginning to feel chillingly at home.

Sylvia

T
he stench of the dump was vile. Sylvia scanned the horizon of mounds, swathed in smoke, the burning refuse lingering in the atmosphere like the aftermath of a war-zone. Never in her life had she seen such degradation first-hand. Television could not capture the squalor, made all the more heartbreaking by the resilient smiles of the scavengers rootling through the garbage like pigs searching for truffles. Her own life flashed before her like a wedding album. Glamorous, shining: a flawless diamond ring. She had everything and always had. She thought back to the howling winds of Wyoming, her complaints, her spoiled griping about the winter months, and she blessed the fresh air, the chilly crispness of cleanliness there, never, probably
ever,
experienced here by these poor human beings.

A topless child in a red skirt flew upon her—a blustering sail in a stinking wind, and shouted, “Tourist! Money!” Sylvia felt like a giant walking dollar bill.

Sonia said sadly, “Thank God for even the smallest thing you own in your life because these people don’t even have that.”

Sylvia, her throat gathering in a swell, looked at the teenager and answered, “That is so well put. You took the words right out of my mouth.” She thought of her closet stacked with clothes and shoes that she never even wore, ornaments dotted about on tables, and the plethora of treasures in Saginaw. This little girl didn’t even have a T-shirt. Or shoes. She took out some coins and gave them to the child, silhouetted as she was in the stinking haze of beige-brown landscape. Giving coins was useless. These people needed a life to call their own. “I so understand why you’re here in Nicaragua,” she said to Sonia. “These people are desperate. Just
desperate.
”

“But you see how they smile?” Amy pointed out. “Nicaragua has one of the lowest suicide rates in the world, apparently. Ironic, huh? Yet we, who have it all, are so unhappy, so
ungrateful
. Follow me, I’ll take you to where most of the shacks are. It gets even worse, believe me.”

They trampled through the well-worn paths that cut through the waste. A glimmer of the full moon shone on the needle of a used syringe, stacked high upon rotting cardboard. Emaciated dogs whimpered, their eyes caught in the moonlight like spooked specters. “These kids have no footwear,” Sylvia mumbled to herself, “no real food.” She remembered what Melinda had told her, that there were several aid agencies working here and now she saw why.

“Sonia, how many charities are there here in Chinandega?”

“A few. Us,
Christ’s Little Helpers
,
Amigos for Christ
also. There’s a Catholic priest, Padre Marco, or Marcos, Italian I think. He started a school here for the children of the dump. It’s pretty basic but at least he gathers the kids together. Teaches them to have goals, to aim for getting real jobs instead of foraging about here. People say he’s done a great job.”

“Where is he?”

“Follow me. His place is way over there.”

Grace

G
race couldn’t sleep. She was thinking about tomorrow. She wanted that cool uniform and she wanted to go to school, but not the Padre’s school. Not if she had to live here in his little house and play
Pinocchio
. She had come by bus and she could leave by bus. After all, that was where she’d met María, at the station. María could show her how to get there. She’d go back to The Boom and back to Lucho. María could even come with her. Maybe Lucho could help her find her dad? Lucho had a cell phone. She closed her eyes tight and tried to remember the phone number in Saginaw. She’d dialed her grandparents so many times, or rather, her mom had. Her mom usually did the dialing and she the talking, but she had dialed herself, once or twice. Maybe she could remember? And what about her dad’s e-mail address? She didn’t know. Tommykins@something-hot-or-other. Ruth had threatened her not to say anything or her mom could go to Hell, but Ruth wasn’t around, so how would she know if she told? Unless God was on Ruth’s side, but the Padre thought God was on his side, too. Was He? Was God on the Padre’s side? Had God seen them playing Pinocchio? And if he had, would God think it was okay?

She shuffled her little body under the sheets, trying to get into a comfortable position. The bed was like rock. She looked at María, fast asleep, her mouth open, making funny sucking noises, her pink tongue peeping out like a puppy. She thought about her friend—María didn’t seem to mind playing Pinocchio, she thought it was funny and was laughing as if the Padre’s one-eyed Willy was the silliest thing in the world.

But Grace didn’t find the game funny at all.

Just then, she froze. There were footsteps outside.

Followed by The Wheeze.

Padre Marco slipped through the curtain. “Little girls? Girls, are you awake?”

Grace lay as still as a stone and kept her eyes closed tight. Perhaps he’d go away. She could smell his sweet perfume, his breath hot and panty on her face, the loose sheet flopping over them. That meant he was wearing the robe, not pants—that he wanted to play Pinocchio again. Quick to lift up, with no underwear on. And quick to let down if someone came.

“Girls?” he sang, “I’ve bought some colored pens. To paint the eyes. And a flashlight so we can see what we’re doing. You see, I’m going away tomorrow, on a little journey. Taking the bus down south for a few days. Very early tomorrow morning. Thought I’d say a quick goodnight before I go. Couldn’t resist.”

Grace could feel María moving, and then sitting up in bed. She kept her eyes fixed closed like they were glued together. She didn’t want to see. María nudged her with her bony elbows. Grace lay still, her knees rolled up high against her chest.

“Adela, wake up, Padre Marco is here. We’ll get chocolate and money. Ad—el-la. Wake up!” María’s voice was loud in her ear like a squeaking piglet.

“Shush María,” the Padre hissed, like the One Eyed Cobra he was—“What did I tell you, huh? You must keep your voice down. Remember that you’re a quiet little mouse.”

Yes, thought Grace, a mouse to be eaten by the Big, Fat, Greedy Cobra.

“Now girls, I have some—” He stopped mid-sentence. “What’s that? Do I detect voices?”

Grace heard footsteps outside, and people talking. Suddenly, she jumped out of the bed like a jack-in-the-box. The priest’s flashlight was shining around the room and in her eyes. She ripped the sheet from her body and ran to the curtain to look out. Padre Marco pulled his robe down and dropped the pens in surprise. The voices got louder. She could hear English words—women were talking. Grace poked her head through the curtain, outside the hut. She saw the American teenager, the fat one from dinner last night. She saw her walking closer. She was with the others. She was with . . .

It was the ghost of her mom coming toward her through the blue smoke. She was smiling. But she was different. Not exactly the same as her real flesh and blood mom who was in Heaven. This ghost was like her twin. Almost. But not the same.

Grace came out of the hut and gazed at the phantom. She had hair the same as her mom’s, and she remembered how Ruth had tried to make herself look like her. Impossible! Nobody was as beautiful as her mom. But this ghost? She was. She really was.

Grace stood there, her white nighty blowing in the breeze. The ghost had tears running down her cheeks. But they weren’t sad tears because she was smiling at the same time. Her blond hair was soft. She was wearing a dress with pretty flowers.
Maybe I’m in Heaven. I died in my sleep and my mom has come to collect me.
Because the closer the “ghost” got, the more Grace was sure that it was her Real Mom.

“Gracie?” Her mom crouched down on her knees and stared at her as if she didn’t believe it was possible. She flung her arms tightly around her skinny body and hugged her close.

“Mommy?”
Are you real? Am I in Heaven?

Her mom whisked her up in her arms. Her hold was warm and she smelled delicious, like sun and roses and Mommykins. “Oh my darling. Oh my little girl. I’ve missed you with my heart and soul! Thank God you’re alive. My love, my life!”

“Mommy,” Grace whispered, and hugged her neck, her fingertips gripping the fur of Hideous, who was hanging by his ear. “Estamos muertas?”

“No, my darling, we are both very, very much alive.”

“And Daddy?”

“We’ll see Daddy very soon. He loves you so much. We’ve missed you
so
much.”

Grace clasped her war-torn teddy, and a hot tear trickled down her cheek. She wasn’t dead. Her mom hadn’t been dead—or if she had been, it was only for a little while.
Estaba muerta
. She was just paying a visit to Heaven, and Grace knew she’d come back.

“My, my, who’s this?” her mom asked, picking her teddy out of her little hands.

“Se llama Amarillo,” Grace replied, and then nuzzled her head back into her mom’s soft blond hair.

The priest came out of the shack, his forehead oozing with greasy sweat, his bald head shining pink. “What’s going on? Hello, can I help?” Grace saw him out of the corner of her eye. He had the Dragon Look.

But Sylvia was smiling. “Padre Marco?” she said in Spanish.

“Yes, I am he,” the man responded with suspicion. María popped her head out from behind the curtain and smiled shyly at the group of women.

“And you’re Grace’s little friend! The American girls told me about you,” Sylvia said to María.

“Me llamo María,” she answered, twiddling her hair with her fingers.

“María, what a pretty name.”

“And you are?” the priest demanded, his face redder than a ripe tomato.

“My name is Sylvia Garland. I’m Grace’s mother.”

“Grace?”

“I’m Adela’s mother.”

The man chuckled. His Samuel Whiskers teeth looked pointed and yellow.

Sylvia shifted her eyes to the sky. “Any of you girls speak better Spanish than I do? Because this whole mother explanation thing is getting pretty tedious.”

“Ella es mi madre,” Grace piped up.

The priest said, “Now look here—”

“Es mi
Mamá
!” Grace shrieked at him, “y me voy con
ella
! Y María viene también!”

“You want María to come with us?” Sylvia asked her daughter.

Grace nodded. María stood there in her fresh white nighty. Then she walked over to Sylvia and held her hand.

Tommy

H
e’d take the Barrett, after all. The M107. It might not be as light as the Remington and not as tough as some of the others the man had shown him, but he knew the gun. He understood it. He didn’t want a surprise performance from something he hadn’t used before.

“Good choice,” the dealer said with a smirk. “You can’t go wrong with—”

“Excuse me, my cell,” Tommy broke in, fumbling his fingers into his back pocket and taking out the vibrating iPhone. He’d kept it on. Melinda had called him earlier with news that Sylvia might be close to locating Grace. “Hello?” It was Sylvia. He knew by the pause, the way she said nothing for a beat.

“Hi, darling, any joy?” he asked.

“I’ve got her. I’ve found Grace! She’s in my arms.”

Tommy heaved out a sigh. His eyes misted up. “Thank Christ for that. Well done, you. Is she okay?”

“She’s traumatized. Has hardly said a word and she’s very skinny—cuts and bruises all over her, but nothing serious. But I’m going to try and find a doctor to look her over, just in case.”

He felt as if his heart would burst right through his chest. “What a relief—the happiest day of my life, where was she?”

“Being looked after by the Catholic priest, next to his cardboard church on the outskirts of the dump. The methane gases alone at that place are enough to generate a recycling plant—I don’t know why something can’t be done, it’s horrendous. This priest, Father Marco, is doing all he can to help the kids around here. Thank God he’d given Grace a bed and food. I don’t know what we would have done if it weren’t for him.”

The dealer was eyeing Tommy up with impatience. Tommy could feel his hands shaking again. He laid the Barrett on the bed and said in a soft voice, “Listen, darling, can I call you back in five min—”

“Is there something more important than Grace on your mind, Tommy?” His wife’s voice was a cleaver. “Where are you?”

“I just can’t talk right now, I—”

“Are you with Ruth again?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course—”