Acosta’s estate is on a street full of other estates. It’s an enclave of wealth and power on a poor island, so of course it’s a gated community. The locals trickle in from the nearby town to work at the villas beyond the security checkpoint, but I’d never pass for one of them. In Vancouver I’m taken to be the help on a regular basis. But that’s not going to work here.
I’m on the side of the road, just before the entrance to Acosta’s street, where Dao lives. Beyond the gates there seems to be damage to some of the houses, but I can’t see a way in to take a closer look. So I turn my scooter around and head into the town.
The town is eerily quiet, and about half of the buildings are flattened. This must be the effect of the recent earthquake. The damage is worse here than I’ve seen anywhere else.
I take a seat at the café across from the restaurant that Dao was photographed going into. It’s possible this is the exact spot Brazuca sat when he took the pictures. I order a Balinese coffee and scroll through the news while I wait. The local journalist who took the photos of Dao and the protester has done profiles of mining issues across Indonesia. There’s a lot of information here, but nothing more on Dao. Maybe I can get some better photos than Brazuca did. Hopefully one or two that would identify him as the man who hurt the protester.
Hours pass, but he doesn’t show up. I’m starting to get some curious glances from the café workers, so I pay my bill and leave.
Turning my scooter around, I head back to the hotel.
In the hall outside the room I share with Brazuca, I take a deep breath before entering. Steeling myself for something. Preparing my excuses for abandoning him after good, even great, sex. Sex that was uncomplicated in a way it has never been before. At least not for a very, very long time.
When I open the door, the breath I’ve been holding releases on a tiny exhale of air and sound.
The room is empty. Brazuca’s things are gone.
The front desk has no idea where he went. “Miss, the room is paid for. We can do no refunds,” says the concierge. He muffles the receiver on the phone, and I can hear people talking in the background but not what they’re saying. When he comes back his voice is urgent. “Miss, please stay in your room. Don’t open the door for anybody.”
He hangs up before I can ask why.
The grounds outside are deserted, but there are a few fishing boats out on the water in the distance. If I squint, I can see the fishermen pointing to an area of the shoreline that’s beyond my view, around the bend I’d seen that waitress hurry away from. The one who’d been rubbing sand into her skin and washing it off in the sea.
In the room, there’s no good-bye note to be found. That’s to be expected, because I hadn’t left him one, either.
There’s movement that draws my eye down by the beach, near the path leading to Lam’s little suite. A head of lustrous hair catching the sunlight.
Four men round the bend and head straight for the beach house, a smaller target than the larger hotel.
Then I’m moving, rushing out of the room, down the stairs, and onto the path leading to the beach house. A hotel porter tries to grab my arm, but I shake him off. As I get close to the house, I hear men whispering to one another, see them move forward. They all seem to be armed. One of them is most definitely the protester Dao had slammed into the wall. The protester leads the pack—they’re about to try the door, when there are a series of shots.
Coming from inside.
Then all hell breaks loose.