Chapter 8

Irene lit the candle and did a recitation. She’d seen the dead woman in the shower and she’d seen the dropped cell phone with a call to 911 that hadn’t gone through. She’d gotten home and found the place empty and the door unlocked. She knew something had happened. She just didn’t know what it was, but she figured it probably had something to do with the man who spoke five languages. She wished she knew what his name was.

It was that place that was in ruins that no one ever knew about because no one ever went up there. No one was around. They could kill her, if they wanted to, in cold blood, and fucking get away with it. Those bastards. How did they know that Annette was having an affair? How long had they been following her.

After miles of driving, she turned on the radio because the intensity of the boredom and the silence was simply too much to bear. She knew what she’d do: She’d pull the knife from the glove compartment, but then she realized that would be stupid. These men had guns. They were experienced criminals. Maybe she could pick one up herself, from one of the makeshift stores that sold them when no one was watching: It shouldn’t be legal, but it was, so she dropped by a little county store and she purchased a solid gun for herself. One she’d knew she’d have to use in self defense when the time came. Irene prepared to kill a man, maybe more than one, in cold blood to save her friend.

The moral barometer of right and wrong quivered back and forth in her heart and in her mind.

Was killing ever okay? What did okay, acceptable, even mean, really? It depended on the circumstances, on the people who would kill her friend for her money, on who sinned and how often, didn’t it? Or was a murderer just a murderer no matter what?

The candle burns not for us, but for all those whom we failed to rescue from prison, who were shot on the way to prison, who were tortured, who were kidnapped, who ‘disappeared’. That’s what the candle is for. Peter Benenson

She sings and hums, chanting to the universe for help, and then she leaves, knowing she cannot stay here if she wishes to be safe. She must find a place where she can call 911 and save her friend.

She wrote a poem in her diary, which had always helped her through troubling times:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

― Marianne Williamson, A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of “A Course in Miracles”

She walked out of the apartment and got into her car. She noticed that Annette’s hat had dropped onto the sidewalk and she picked it up, figuring out what her next move would be.

Where would I go if I was a kidnapper?

She asked herself and the answer came to her immediately.

The Catskills. There weren’t many people, and there was an abandoned cabin up there, perfect for sins of every kind, if they had money, they could probably rent a better one. That’s what they’d done. She was sure of it.

She put her foot on the gas pedal and started driving. She figured she knew exactly where they were.