Meet Me in Barcelona (23 page)

“Wait. I'm not done. My ID is gone—my money, my passport—”

“Okay, okay. Yes, we will still need you to fill this out—” She was already looking to the next person in line.

“Wait—I was with a group of people—and they're missing.”

“A policeman will speak with you after you fill out the paperwork.”

“Okay, but I should have said this first—my American boyfriend has been kidnapped.” She felt a little guilty, stressing
American,
as if somehow that would make him more important than anyone else who went missing in Barcelona. The clerk gave her a look that finally sent Grace to the wall of chairs with her paperwork.

She was halfway through filling it out—name, address, how long have you been in Spain, what is the address where you are staying, what is the date of your return flight, what is the airline, what is the date the incident occurred, etcetera, etcetera—when she realized that Jean Sebastian was taking an awful long time in the bathroom. Maybe he was sick, or maybe he had just decided this wasn't his idea of a holiday and he had taken off. The thought left her feeling panicked. Even though she had tried to let him off the hook, he was on it now, and she didn't think she could handle this alone. From her seat in the waiting room she couldn't even see where the restrooms were. Short of finding them and going into the men's room, there wasn't much she could do.

Wait. She did have his phone number, and now that she had two phones, there was no reason why she shouldn't call him. Although it really wouldn't be very polite of her to call him given that he was a grown man who was in a restroom and he knew exactly where to meet her when he was finished doing whatever it was he was doing.

At least she was here, doing what she should have done the minute they returned from the nightclub. And so she waited. And waited. And waited. And listened to people speak Spanish, or Catalan, all around her. There were a few other tourists as well, but no Americans that she could tell. She tried to imagine what it would be like for a Spanish tourist in an American police station. Not fun, wherever you go; not in the guidebooks for a reason.

She was about to give up on Jean Sebastian, when he returned. He sat next to her. She could smell stale smoke. Mystery of why he'd taken so long solved. She almost wanted a cigarette herself. Anything to dull the nightmare.

“I don't know if I should give the name of the club,” Grace said. “If they ask.”

“Because if Rafael is somehow involved—”

“They'll know I went to the police.”

“But you're here. This is the decision you made—to go to the police. Now would be the time to tell them everything.”

“I'll take that into consideration.”

“Otherwise, we shouldn't be here.”

“I hear you.” But she disagreed. She didn't have to play all of her cards. If a bunch of police officers showed up at the club, Carrie Ann would know. And she could use it against Grace. Jean Sebastian meant well, but it wasn't his lover at stake here. If, at a later date, Grace thought it could help, she would call the police and tell them she remembered the name of the club. “Listen,” she said to Jean Sebastian. “I'll meet you somewhere. Back at the hotel even. There's no use both of us hanging out here.”

“But we agreed I am a witness—I was drugged too.” If Jean Sebastian stayed then he might blurt out the name of the club.

“I think you'd have to fill out a report of your own if you plan on telling them you were drugged too.”

“I see,” Jean Sebastian said.

“Otherwise, what's the point of mentioning the crime, right?”

“You are probably right. So you want to be all alone, is that it?” He looked at her, as if trying to analyze her on the spot. “You are a rock; you are an island,” he said. “Is that the song?”

“I appreciate your help. It's just that—”

Jean Sebastian stood. “I understand. I will see you back at the hotel.” And with that, he was gone. It was strange, and she felt guilty. Because, for some reason, it felt as if they'd just had their first lovers' quarrel.
I miss you, Jake. I just want you back. I don't think I can help it if there's something so attractive about Jean Sebastian. I just feel comfortable with him. Maybe because subconsciously I know that without him I'll really start to panic.

Or maybe she was just a terrible person. Finally, an officer came out and called her name. Grace followed him to a busy room filled with desks, filled with people just like her. He indicated where she should sit. Across from her was a short, female police officer who looked as if she was ready to go home. Grace would be too. It was noisy in the station. Chairs squeaked, keyboards clacked, phones rang, and various conversations skittered throughout the space. Next to the officer sat a rotund middle-aged woman who introduced herself as the interpreter. The officer looked over Grace's paperwork. Even though the interpreter was present, the officer spoke in English when she could.

“You have had your wallet stolen?” she began.

“Yes. All my ID. Credit cards, cash, and my passport,” Grace said. The officer shook her head. Grace didn't know if it was an empathy shake, or a how-could-you-be-so-stupid.

“Where was this stolen?”

“I'm not sure. I mean at a dance club, I think, but my friend—well, enemy is more like it . . . or frenemy—took my ID before that—”

The officer waited while the interpreter clarified. Grace wondered if she understood “frenemy,” but kept quiet. The officer held up her hand as if Grace were going too fast, even though she was already finished speaking.

“Wait, wait, wait.
Un momento.
Your friend stole your ID?”

“Yes. Her name is Carrie Ann Gilbert.” Oh, God. She hadn't really meant to blurt that out. The officer turned a piece of paper toward her.

“Write down the name,” the interpreter said.

Grace hesitated. “The real reason I'm here is because my boyfriend is missing.”

“Your boyfriend is missing.”

“Yes.”

The officer looked over her statement on the report. “You were out dancing, and drinking, and doing drugs—”

“No. No. I wasn't doing drugs. I was drugged. They put something in my drink.”

“They. Who are they?”

“I don't know. Carrie Ann maybe—”

“Your friend who stole your ID.”

“Yes.”

“She also drug you.”

“I think so. She was the last person I remember seeing. I woke up on the floor of the bathroom.”

“Where? Where did you wake up?”

“Um—it was a dance club—here in Barcelona.”

“What is the name of the club?”

“I don't remember.”

“Where was it?”

Grace hesitated. If she said it was on the ocean that would certainly help them nail it down. “I don't remember,” she said.

“We can write a police report documenting your missing identification. You can bring this police report to the airport. Okay?”

“Great. But I'm really here about Jake.”

“Jake?”

“I told you! My boyfriend. He's—missing.” Grace hadn't meant to yell at the officer, but her frustration was boiling over.

“Missing?”

Hadn't Grace said this already? “Yes. Missing. Kidnapped. Held hostage!” The police officer looked at the interpreter. The interpreter spoke in low, fast tones. Shoot. They thought she was nuts.

“Jake,” the police officer said, once again looking over Grace's notes. “Carrie Ann,” the officer said. Then she looked at Grace. “Carrie Ann Gilbert,” she repeated. “American.” She turned and shouted in Spanish to an officer a few desks behind her. The only parts of the sentence Grace understood were “Grace Sawyer” and “Carrie Ann Gilbert.” The male officer stood, then rummaged around his desk. He brought over a folder, handed it to the female police officer, and then stood, staring at Grace without a word. The female police officer slowly opened the folder.

“Your friend. Carrie Ann. She was here.”

“She was here?” Grace said.

“Yes, she too had her wallet stolen.”

“Wait. When was she here?”

“Do you want to know who she say stole her ID?” She looked up at Grace with infinite patience.

“Her husband? Stan Gale?”

“No, no, she did not say husband.” The officer picked up something from the folder and turned it around so Grace could see what it was. It was a photograph—of her. Sitting in La Rambla. No doubt the one taken by Rafael. And she had thought she was being paranoid then. Whatever game this was, it had begun the minute Grace had arrived. And here she was, playing her part, going to the police, just like Carrie Ann had known she would. Grace stared at the picture, her mouth open, unable to speak. Should she tell the male police officer that a demented street performer, dressed like a serial-killing eagle, had taken the photo? It probably wouldn't help her credibility. The officer held up another photo. “Is this your missing boyfriend?” It was a picture of Carrie Ann and Jake sitting at a café. Carrie Ann had her arms around Jake, and her head was resting on his shoulder. Grace didn't answer. It was hard to answer when you were trying to remember how to breathe. The officer turned another page of the report and read: “Grace Sawyer is staying at my apartment without paying, and has stolen my driver's license, my diamond engagement ring, and my credit card. She is acting out because she discovered that her boyfriend and I are in love.”

Grace shot out of her chair. “It's not true. He's being held against his will.”

The officer shook her head at Grace as if she was disgusted with her. She looked at the photo of Carrie Ann and Jake with her eyebrows raised. She showed it to the interpreter and spoke in Spanish, then laughed.

“Interpret that,” Grace said. “That's your job.”

“She said he does not look like he is being held against his will.”

“I know what it looks like. She planned this. Every single detail.”

“Do you have her ID, or her engagement ring, or her credit card?” the officer said as her eyes landed on Grace's purse.

“She put her credit card in my purse, and she threw her ring into a pint of beer—”

“So you do have her credit card? You do have her ring. And her ID? Are you still staying in her flat?”

This wasn't good. Grace looked at her purse, wondering how she could just pick it up and run out without drawing attention to herself. “You know what?” Grace said. “It's true what they say. It is hard to travel in Europe with a friend, right? I guess we're a little mad at each other. She took my ID, she stole my boyfriend—it's just a girl thing. We'll work it out. I'm sorry to trouble you.” Grace stood.

“Please, sit down. This report says you are attempting to commit identity fraud. Are you acknowledging you are in possession of the ID and credit card and ring of Carrie Ann Gilbert?”

“No, no. Carrie Ann has them back now. And I wasn't attempting identity fraud. She wanted me to hold on to her ID and credit card because they wouldn't fit in her purse. We were drinking. Dancing. You know?”

“This is not what my report says.”

“Well, bring her into the station then, and the three of us can have a little chat.” Grace wanted to grab the folder, and her own report, but they were on the other side of the desk. This officer wasn't going to care about Jake. Not now. Grace clutched her stomach and moaned.

“I'm going to be sick,” she said.
“¿El baño?”
The interpreter and the officer pointed at the same time.
“Un momento,”
Grace said. Then she was down the hall and out the door. Once she hit La Rambla, she started jogging, then broke into a full-out run. Would they have arrested her? Grace wondered. She had no idea, but she couldn't afford to stick around and find out. The catalogue from Museu Picasso was weighing down her bag. She dug out her phone and texted “Jake.”

You are not going to get away with this. I know this is all you, Carrie Ann. I'm coming for you.

 

Grace was almost to the beach when her phone dinged. She opened up her text to find nothing but a circle in the middle of the screen. One of those text image software programs no doubt, but what did it mean? Who draws and sends a circle? Grace sent back her confusion with a series of question marks.

????????????

 

Next she received a circle with a stem sticking out of it. Like a petal-less flower. Or a human head—

Oh, God. The clues. The blank slashes standing in for letters. The circle and now the stem. The head and the body. Hangman. They were playing a game of hangman.

“This is impossible!” Grace said. Disgusted, she shoved the catalogue away from her. They were seated at an outdoor café high atop Montjuïc on fortress grounds that also held an ancient castle. It was past dark and they probably weren't supposed to be here, but somehow Jean Sebastian had convinced one of the workers to let them in. He'd even wrangled them each a cup of coffee. It must be nice to have money to bribe people, Grace thought. She was lucky he was on her side.

Now open to the public as a museum, back in the day the grounds had been protected by a moat and 120 cannons. Grace could imagine a sign hanging on the stone wall. B
EWARE OF
120
CANNONS
. She wondered if there was a fun song in there somewhere—
Forget the pool, build me a moat.... Get rid of the lawnmower, I want a goat....

Jake wasn't here to tease her about composing in her head, and the pain of it hit her so hard she almost cried out. The other thing crying out to her was the picture in her pocket of Carrie Ann and Jake in the café. She'd swiped it off the police officer's desk just before her run to the bathroom. It was true. He didn't look as if he was being held against his will. His hands were visible atop the table. Why didn't he just run?

She hadn't said a word about it to Jean Sebastian, nor did she mention that the word game was a version of hangman. She just couldn't bring herself to tell him everything. She wouldn't be able to take it if he pointed out the obvious in the photo—that Jake and Carrie Ann looked awfully cozy. And when Grace had seen them in Park Güell, Jake had taken Carrie Ann's hand right in front of her. One thing was for sure: He didn't see Carrie Ann for the manipulator that she was.

“Don't bother,” Grace said. “I think we've been led on a wild-goose chase.” Jean Sebastian was intently studying the Picasso catalogue. Grace's coffee was growing cold. She needed it though; she felt fatigued to her bones. She wanted to share every little thing she was thinking or feeling with Jake. She wanted to text him every thought, every sight, every song lyric. Where was he and what was he doing right now? She knew she should have been paying more attention to the catalogue like Jean Sebastian, but she was too numb. Instead, she mused about the history of the fortress, guiltily taking comfort in the fact that life had been harsh and cruel back in the day. In a strange way, it gave her comfort. She was suffering. Jake was suffering. The people who lived in this castle back in the day had suffered, and in life you had no choice but to build fortresses, and moats, and set up your cannons.

How did she go about building a fortress? What were her cannons against Carrie Ann?

She's angry with me. I forgive you, she had said about Lionel Gale. I forgive you. She thinks I betrayed her. Did I?

Was there the teeniest, tiniest chance that Carrie Ann had told the truth way back when about Lionel Gale? The returning thought literally made Grace sit as straight as a rod. There was a warm breeze, but all she could feel was a cold chill working its way inside her blood. Back then, Grace had never, not once, considered the fact that Carrie Ann might have been telling the truth about Lionel Gale.

I have something to tell you, Grace. But you have to swear—blood swear—you won't tell anyone ever—

Don't think about that.

Five letters. Skirt. Person. “It has to be a woman,” Grace said. “Right? Skirt and person.”

“Unless it's a kilt,” Jean Sebastian said.

“I don't think Picasso was painting Scottish bagpipers,” Grace said.

“True,” he agreed. “He does like Harlequins though.” Jean Sebastian turned the catalogue around to show her a self-portrait of Picasso dressed as a Harlequin.

“Too many letters,” Grace said. “Jester doesn't fit either.”

“The true victim,” Jean Sebastian said. “That's a clue too.”

Lionel? Way too many letters. But he was a victim. He had been Carrie Ann's victim. And there had always been a part of Grace that feared she was to blame too. Maybe if she'd gone to her parents the instant Carrie Ann had told her story—

“Here's another one of Picasso as a Harlequin.
At the Lapin Agile
. A French club. This painting actually hangs at the Met in New York City. It is a portrayal of Picasso with a famous artist's model of the time—it says she was the unrequited love of his friend, Carlos. Carlos killed himself because she didn't love him back.”

“What?” Grace grabbed the catalogue out of Jean Sebastian's hands. Picasso, dressed in a Harlequin outfit, was sitting at a bar next to the actress. It was amazing how red he had been able to paint her lips. The woman who drove his friend to his death. Suicide. Was that the clue she was meant to find? All because of the woman and a reference to suicide?

“What? What are you thinking about?”

“What's the name of the model?”

Jean Sebastian leaned into the catalogue. “Germaine Pichot.”

“Doesn't fit.”

“But it sounds like you're on to something. I feel left out.”

Grace looked at Jean Sebastian. “I think this is about our past.”

“You and Carrie Ann?”

Grace nodded. “And Stan.”

“How so?”

“There's a . . . shared tragedy—a big mess actually, from when we were kids. And even though it was the briefest conversation, Carrie Ann said something that really disturbed me.”

“What?”

“She said she forgave me. As if she wasn't the one to blame.”

“Blame for what?”

Grace looked out at the distance. Ironic—she was in a fortress, but felt wide open and vulnerable. “I don't like to talk about it. I've never even told Jake the whole story.”

“But you think it has something to do with this puzzle?”

“I thought—the true victim—but the person I'm thinking of—the name doesn't fit.”

“Your name fits,” Jean Sebastian said.

Startled, Grace turned to Jean Sebastian. “Me?”

“Did they—do something to you as a kid?”

“They?”

“Carrie Ann and—Stan?” Grace didn't answer. Jean Sebastian watched her with a quiet intensity. “I'm here to help,” he said. “But I can't do much if I'm in the dark.”

“I know. I know. I just hate thinking about that part of my life.”

“Whatever it was—you were a kid, right?”

“Fifteen years old. Old enough to know better. Old enough to do better.”

“Look. I'm not trying to pry. Or judge you. I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of. I've seen a lot of things. There's nothing you could tell me anymore that would shock me. I just want to help you get your boyfriend back.”

“Why? Why are you helping me?”

“Must I have a reason?” He held her gaze long enough for her to deduce exactly what that reason was.

“I have a boyfriend. I love Jake.” A look flashed across Jean Sebastian's face and then it was gone. He looked away. “What?” Grace said. “Tell me.”

“Sometimes it is easier to believe what we want to believe. Sometimes the truth can do more damage than a lie. At least when one is in the middle of a crisis.”

“Oh, God,” Grace said. “What is it?”

“When you kicked me out of the police station, I went back to the hotel. I checked Jake's Facebook page. He had posted a video.”

“What was it? Is he okay?”

Jean Sebastian lifted his shirt to reveal a small traveling pack.

“Is that a fanny pack?” Grace said.

“What is that?”

“That's just what we call it.”

“It is a leather traveling bag that straps to your waist,” Jean Sebastian said.

“Right, right,” Grace said. No use antagonizing him by pointing out that he was indeed wearing a fanny pack. A deep longing hit her as she remembered joking about fanny packs on the beach with Jake. How they were hurrying back to the hotel room to make love. How she had bumped into Carrie Ann and didn't even recognize her. What was wrong with her? How could she literally bump into the girl who was once her sister and not even recognize her?

Jean Sebastian brought out a mini iPad, set it on the table and pressed PLAY. There were Jake and Carrie Ann in the same café where the picture was taken. “Who are you, Grace?” Jake said. “Just who the hell are you?” Carrie Ann put her arm around Jake, then rested her head on his shoulder. Grace put her hands over her face, then slammed them down on the table and clenched them into fists. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

“She's feeding him lies. Or she made him say it.”

“She?”

“This is Carrie Ann. All Carrie Ann.”

“No Stan?”

“No Stan. I'll bet he's back in Tennessee living with his mother. And I'll bet you anything he's not married to Carrie Ann.”

“Why did she lie? What would she gain?”

“She's torturing me. Can't you see that? She's trying to make Jake doubt me.” Grace buried her face in her hands again, trying to keep back the tears. “I'm so alone.”

Jean Sebastian reached over and gently pried her hands from her face. “You're not alone. I'm here. I'm right here.”

“Thank you,” Grace said. “I don't deserve you.”

“You deserve everything.”

“I don't know what to do, Jean Sebastian. Tell me what to do.”

“I think we've got to figure out this puzzle. And it has something to do with your past.”

“But what?”

“Let's just go through this. When did the trouble begin?”

“That should be easy,” Grace said. “Because the trouble always began with Carrie Ann.”