Cameron Cruise - The Collector

You feel their energy pulse with the beat of the conga drums from the salsa band. They walk around as if the party never stops. You, on the other hand, know exactly when this party will end. You’re in control.

Security is tight. There are armed police in Kevlar vests everywhere. Some convention of elected officials is in town, your only bit of bad luck. But you don’t care. You have the power of life and death. You’re not afraid. You’re God.

Tonight’s festival is a pagan ritual. Every man, woman and child will walk backward into the ocean and throw themselves into the sea, cleansed of their sins. Only, you know that it’s you who will do the cleansing. You look forward to it.

Palm tree trunks glow with artificial light on the manicured grounds. A band performs on a floating stage set up in the shallows of the private beach. Three women dressed in white sway their hips in a motion as old as time.

The crowd doesn’t need encouragement. Grandmas dance on the shore with toddlers, husbands stare adoringly into the eyes of their wives as they salsa knee-deep in the ocean. On the floating stage, men and women wearing cowboy hats follow along in a dance with the natives—a contingent from Texas.

You stare at the ramparts of an ancient fortress dating back to when this was an important military post, its shores decorated with cannons, the walls built to keep out the English Armada. The fortress is lit up tonight. Lightning flashes in the distance.

The women at the Bacardi booth keep the rum flowing. Every other man or woman carries a plastic cup, laughing and drinking. The cups are stamped with the Barcardi emblem: a bat. Here, the bat is a symbol of good luck.

As midnight approaches, the pulse of the party revs up. Couples once dancing poolside become part of the mass migration to the beach. Suddenly, the crowd converges. You stand body to body with strangers, getting drunk on their alcoholic stupor, but your eyes follow only her. You were at dinner when she and her boyfriend fought. You’ve learned women take all sorts of shit from men, but now, she’s alone.

One of the singers in the band explains the ritual for the tourists. People grab hands and begin wading backward into the warm water.

You come to stand alongside the woman. Like everyone else, she wears a barely there bikini. You’ve been waiting all night for this moment.

She takes your hand and smiles. She’s blond with blue eyes. You hear her slur her words as she tells you how amazing this all is. Like New Year’s, she says. You hear a touch of the South in her voice. Texas, then.

Beach balls are tossed into the ocean by hotel staff as the crowd counts backward. Ten, nine, eight…The girl squeezes your hand. She tells you her name is Mary.

Like the Virgin, you think, squeezing back.

At the count of five, you take Mary’s hand to your mouth and kiss the back of her fingers. She has beautiful hands, soft and slim. Mary giggles. You can see she likes her Barcardi.

The crowd is thick now. You stand practically on top of each other, trying to make room for all. You throw yourselves backward into the ocean. The tradition requires you do it twelve times, giving more than enough opportunity.

Mary never comes back up.

No one notices as she fights, kicking her legs. Her struggle blends with the ritual dunking. You’re tall for your age. And very strong. The crowd is throwing balls and dancing in the water. Fireworks light up the sky and the sound of the band covers her fight for air. Slowly, you feel the life slip away as her body grows limp. You submerge alongside her and bring her fingers to your mouth once again. You taste blood with the saltwater.

You lift her into your arms like a lover. You lower her one more time in the water, sending her adrift.

You slip out of the sea and across the sand, exhilarated.

Back by the pool, a giant TV screen shows the NBA finals. Tourists take photographs of loved ones, cataloging the moment.

You don’t need a camera. You will never forget this night.

Kids slide into the pool, screaming. Spanish and English mingle in the warm, muggy night. Off in the distance, the skies now threaten a downpour, while the pool bar glows neon blue. Striped towels are handed out freely; no need for a card key tonight.

The sand poolside feels warm between your toes. You look out toward shore, where people still dance in the water. There are hammocks between a few of the palm trees, as well as striped cabana chairs. You slip into one. Again, you reach into the pocket for your souvenir. Dark clouds drifting in the night sky begin to blur the stars.

You marvel at how well it went. You were careful to slip in at the last second and take Mary’s hand in yours. No one will remember you standing with her. It was dark. That helps.

You head back to the hotel entrance. At the pool bar, an armada of bartenders flip bottles to the rhythm of a song you don’t recognize. They dance and concoct their magic potions for the women smoking and swaying to the music on the submerged concrete seats. You notice a tattoo on the small of the back of one lady, but don’t linger. You’re not greedy.

You slip inside the hotel, passing the emergency personnel scrambling by. They will try to revive Mary. They will not succeed.

They will find the tip of one of her pinkies missing where you bit it off. Not what you want for your treasure, but it will do.

Your heart is racing as you make your way to the hotel gardens. A television shows a newscaster reporting that the festival on the beaches is going well. He reassures viewers that security is tight. It’s safe, folks. Come on down and enjoy.

You enter the gardens. No one is around. Everyone is back at the pool and beach.

You listen to the frogs. They’re famous here, making a soft, coo-kee noise. It sounds like there’s hundreds just here. You open your mouth and take out the tip of Mary’s pinkie.

Now you know why they call this the island of enchantment. It’s beautiful and surreal, listening to the frogs sing.

You look down at the finger piece settled in the middle of your palm. It’s small, only to the first joint, but you did like her hands and there wasn’t a lot of time.

You’re in paradise and now you have a part of Mary. All your wishes tonight have come true….

You open your eyes, returning to time present.

Mimi Tran wasn’t nearly so nice. But she had a purpose.

The eyes, her life source, are yours now.

That’s the way it has to be from now on. You kill with reason. It’s kill or be killed. You are God and you serve a higher purpose.

And you already know who is next.

Gia Moon stared at the six-by-four-foot canvas. She’d come home from the police station and headed straight for her studio, dropping her purse on the concrete floor at the entrance.

She’d started work on the painting at one o’clock that morning. That’s when she’d woken from her dream.

She hadn’t woken gently, slowly easing to the surface of wakefulness. That’s not how it happened, these visions. She’d sat up abruptly, gasping for breath, horrified by the images still burning so brightly inside her head. Her daughter had uncharacteristically slept in her own bed that night, a godsend.

In her bathroom, Gia had splashed water on her face. Grabbing a robe for warmth, she’d headed for her studio in the garage.

This is what she did; it was who she was. The woman who painted nightmares.

Her mother had warned her once. You’re so strong. Be careful. Dark spirits are always attracted to the strong.

“No kidding, Mom,” she said, staring at the painting of the demon who had killed Mimi Tran.

That morning, she’d taken only a short break from painting for coffee—it wasn’t her day to drive carpool, another lucky break. She’d had more than enough time for her vision to become almost fully realized on the canvas before she’d read the article in the paper, making the connection.