Young Love Murder (31 page)

He freely gave the information I sought after that. Turns out that his best friend was Arturo Martinez’s youngest cousin and he was able to overhear the grownups’ conversation earlier that day about going to the bar. The kid made out good and got forty dollars and my necklace out of the deal. My guilt was assuaged. Hey! I donate money to Feed The Children, I’m not completely heartless. Besides, I could have sworn I saw the kid turn around and smirk as he walked away.

So that’s why I happen to be around the corner from this shitty bar, leaning against a building with powder blue paint peeling off the wall, plotting the death of Arturo Martinez. Why am I always killing men while they’re at bars and clubs? I shrug off the thought, something to think about at a later time. 

“I still think I should go in with you,” Jackson whispers. 

I turn my head back to look at him as I respond, “Having a big strong man with me would ruin the helpless female image. You can hang outside the door and listen for trouble.” Knowing him, he’d try to steal my thunder by taking out Martinez himself.

A grunt is his only reply.
That’s what I thought.

“I’m going in,” I say then saunter around the side of the building toward the bar entrance. Jackson will wait until I’m inside to take his post outside the propped open wood door. While I’m dressed in a brightly-colored touristy getup, Jackson is dressed like one of the locals in this area of the city. T-shirt, jeans and sneakers, all worn out looking enough that not even a thrift store would accept them. Yeah, he looks like shit.

Strolling into the bar, all eyes turn towards me, totally expected with me looking the way I do. I’m like a walking neon sign. The hot pink bikini top straps are peeking out from underneath my tank top. Underneath the bouncy floral skirt, I’m wearing matching hot pink boy short bottoms, and if someone happens to get a peek,
oops
! 

“Hola!” I call out to everyone in the bar in a girly voice, while playing with my blonde ponytail. Then I continue in purposely badly spoken Spanish, “Could anyone tell me how to get back to my hotel? The Miraflores Park Hotel?” I name one of the pricier hotels in the city, seeing dollar signs in a few of their eyes. Shifting from one foot to the other, the linoleum floor is sticky beneath my sandals. It being daytime, the place is lit only by the meager light provided from the cloudy day outside. The shutters on the numerous windows are probably closed once dusk comes, with overhead lights being switched on. 

While speaking, I spy Arturo Martinez lounging in a booth not ten feet away. A guy not much older than Jackson comes up to me with a leering grin. Boy, someone needs to get himself to una dentista. “I could offer you someplace to stay tonight.”

Waste of my time. I brush past him to stand under the large woven ceiling fan. My blonde ponytail strands and ridiculous skirt are lifted slightly in the cool breeze. “No thanks, I just need to get back to my hotel. My parents will kill me if I don’t make it back by dark and I’m lost.”

Slowing down as I’m about to walk past Martinez’s booth, not glancing his way, a dark hand shoots out and wraps itself around my wrist. I halt and give a stunned look to the man that the hand is attached to. Holding back a victorious smile, I stare into the almost black eyes of Arturo Martinez. “Excuse me?” I ask guilelessly. 

His smile is predatory, with white but slightly crooked teeth. “We could give you a ride to your hotel,” he offers and glances boastfully at the two men seated across from him.

I open my eyes wide and gaze worshipfully at him. “Oh could you? I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“No bother. We can take you after our next drink.”
Wow, what a nice guy
, I think sarcastically,
offering to drive me after he drinks more alcohol
. Playing the dumb naive tourist has me thinking about how some people are stupid enough to actually fall prey to men like Martinez. I notice the almost empty Pilsen Trujillo beer resting on the table in front of him as I take a seat next to him. Perfect. 

I turn to him with an innocent expression. “I am so,
so
unbelievably grateful. Let me buy you all your next beer.”

When he and the men nod their agreement, I bounce out of my seat and walk over to the bar, asking the bartender for three more of what they’ve been drinking. As the bartender places the first two on the bar and opens them, I grip the neck of one of the beers. Tucked between my index and middle finger on one hand is a small opened packet of cyanide salt. Tilting my fingers, the packet tips ever so slightly so that the powder pours down the neck of the bottle. This is completed in a matter of seconds and the small, now empty packet, is crumpled in the palm of my hand. 

The bartender turns back to me and places the third opened beer on the bar top. I throw down some bills, gripping all three bottles to deliver them to my ‘savior’ and his amigos. After placing the poisoned beer in front of Arturo, I distribute the other two to the men across from him. 

For the next twenty minutes, I sit angelically with the three men while they converse and periodically check me out. They mostly ignore me and that’s okay, because I’m more interested on Arturo’s progress with his beer. With a shave and haircut, I think the terrorist could actually be almost attractive. Mid-thirties, his build is strong and healthy underneath the black tank top he’s wearing. Well, healthy for the next few minutes.   

A man walks in the bar whose hair color reminds me of Gabriel’s, which just makes me think about how I’d like to hurry back to the real hotel we’re staying at and get on my computer. When Arturo drinks his last sip, I stand up and announce, “You know what? I think I’ll just call a cab.” Cyanide salt is fast-acting, so I better head out before the sucker drops dead in my lap. 

“Not so fast girl.” Arturo once again grabs my wrist, but this time in a firmer grip. Now, that’s just plain annoying. 

“Faster than you think,” I mumble in English and yank my wrist out of his grasp. As he starts coughing violently, I start backing up. Looking at his two buddies, I gesture towards Arturo, saying again in English, “I think something’s wrong with your homeboy.”

Arturo’s body starts to spasm as he goes into seizures.
Time for Annabelle to skedaddle.
One of the men reaches over in a bewildered attempt to help Arturo, a useless endeavor. The other one exits the booth in an effort to grab me, also useless. I guess when you’re dying of cyanide poisoning, you find out who your real friends are. Homeboy number one is concerned about Arturo and homeboy number two is concerned about the potential kidnap victim, therefore ransom money, that’s getting away. 

As I’m walking away from the death scene, I sense homeboy number two come up behind me. Sliding two blades from my tan crocheted purse, I whirl around and jab them into either side of his neck, pulling them out just as quickly. With that, I spin back around and leave the bar, wiping the blades on my ugly skirt and tucking them back into the purse.

Jackson is lounging against a post on the decked porch. “Run,” I hiss at him as I pass by. 

We run.

Gabriel

Sitting down at my computer desk, I lift open my laptop and log into my email account. As expected, another email from Annabelle. I read through her description of Peru and her false words of love for me. 

The morass of emotions I feel when receiving each one of her emails is there again.

Zeroing in on one single emotion, hatred, I email her back: 

Murderer,
Graduation fever is in the air. However, I anticipate my graduation more than my friends do. I feel that I have so much more to look forward to. My hands around your throat. Your last breath leaving your body. Justice being served. 

As I watch my mother’s health and sanity deteriorate, I wonder, does something like you have a mother? Or are you just spawned from hell by a succubus?

I diligently continue my various training classes and exercises. I can only hope that my weapons and fighting skills will be sufficient enough when we meet again. Sadly, my killing skills could never compare to yours. 

I will be anxiously awaiting your devious reply.

Your executioner,

Gabriel

Chapter 23

Annabelle

Miami, FL - May 25
^th

As I step off the plane at Miami International Airport, I glance around, half expecting the Feds to ambush me.
Guess not
, I shrug and mosey along through the terminal, feeling both invincible and elated.

Once at baggage claim, I run into an ambush of another kind, my pain in the ass older brother. The baggage carousel still hasn’t produced my luggage when I hear from behind me, “Naughty Annie.”

I turn around, already knowing who it is. “Dammit Jacks! You are such a stalker!”

He has a pissed off evil grin on his face. “Didn’t think I’d know what you were up to, did you?” His now pitch black hair has grown out enough to give it a good yank and I’m tempted to do just that. 

I break eye contact, trying to hide my guilty look. Caught in the act like the criminal I am! “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He leans close behind me and says in my ear, “What the hell are you doing back in Miami, Annabelle?”

“I’m on vacation.” I stubbornly refuse to admit the truth.

“You came to see your loverboy,” He laughs mockingly. A good yank of the hair and knee to his face would do Jackson some good. He’s way too high almighty.

“I just wanted to go to his graduation,” I mumble pathetically. 

“Somehow,” he begins, “I don’t think he wants you there.”

“You don’t know that!” I pivot back around so he can see my glare. 

“For Christ’s sake! The boy wants you dead!” Instead of yelling, like I know he’s dying to, he whispers his words harshly.

Now I spin away again so he doesn’t see my pain. “He doesn’t mean it.”

Jackson says more gently, “His last email implied otherwise.”

I throw back my elbow into his gut and hear the corresponding grunt. “Stop hacking into my email, asshole!”

“Annie, if someone is threatening my baby sis, you better believe I’m going to know about it.” Damn, can’t fault him in that, I’d do the same thing if some crazy bitch wanted to kill him.

“So, I suppose you’re going to accompany me to his graduation?” I ask in a disgruntled tone. 

“You better believe it,” Jackson answers matter-of-factly.

I grab my suitcase from the carousel and turn to face him again. “You’re going to have to disguise yourself.”
“Annie, who taught you everything you know?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at me. 

I roll my eyes at his arrogance. “Simon.”

Gabriel

I can feel her eyes on me. Don’t know how to explain it, but I know she’s here, watching me. What does she want from me? Is this entertainment for her? I know what I want from
her
, for her to lay down and die. 

She still sends me email love letters or ones pretending that we’re friends. All lies. I think she just likes tormenting me. She’s secretly gloating about what she did to me. What she did to my now dead father and my practically dead mother. I clench my fists, waiting for the principal to call my name as I wait in line behind the other graduates on the grass. A girl named Clara Samuels climbs the steps to the stage ahead of me.

“Gabriel Thomas Sanchez,” the principal announces as I walk up the steps and onto the stage. I take my diploma from him, glancing out into the crowd, searching for her in the bleachers on either side of the football field. Too many flashing cameras blind my view of the crowd. The professional photographer below probably captured a narrow-eyed, searching look. Let them all see my anger. My mom isn’t even here to see me graduate. Couldn’t get her to wake up this morning, she was so doped up.