Page 6 of Anchor
My brows furrow as I try to puzzle out what one has to do with the other. I swipe a thumb over the unlock indicator and fifteen missed calls from Taylor appear on the screen. I open the voicemail and find a dozen or so messages blinking for my attention. They all last for a couple seconds at most.
Damn if my finger doesn’t tremble when I swipe over the first message and hit play.
I raise the phone to my ears and all of the outside noise seems to fade away as the message plays.
Out of all the horrors I’ve witnessed and the atrocities I’ve committed, there has never been anything more terrifying in my life than the moment my daughter’s voice screams, “Daddy!” in my ear.
Chloe
The gunman directs the rest of us in line to get on the boat before we attract too much attention. He points the gun in each person’s face and based on his own expression, he won’t hesitate to use it at the first sign of reluctance.
The dock isn’t empty, there are people milling about everywhere. People getting on and off their own boats in distant slips. Official looking attendants checking new patrons in and out.
Any of them could be a potential rescuer. But if I call out, what will happen?
I’ll get shot, or they will, and then there will be more innocent people in danger. The little girl will still be way too damn close to a deadly weapon—or worse. I don’t want to speculate about the possibilities, but it’s hard not to.
Before I have another panic-stricken moment to think, the woman and her daughter reach the man with the gun. The girl is crying and when it’s her turn to board the ferry, she freezes, her little pink tennis shoes clinging to the dock, and her small frame shaking. Her mother ferrets away the little phone behind her back as they get closer. Her daughter whimpers, shaking so hard I can hear her teeth clack together.
“Sweetie,” her mother says with a tone of desperation. “C’mon, Emily.” She tries to stay calm, tries to keep her emotions reigned in, but her voice breaks mid-sentence and her own tears slip down her cheeks.
“No, Mommy. I don’t want to,” she says. “I want Daddy.” She clutches the little wolf like a lifeline and my heart twists inside my chest. “Daddy!” the little girl cries.
Her mother’s face drains of all remaining color, but she manages to slip her phone into her pocket before bringing her trembling hands in front of her.
He says nothing, but his silence is enough. Like a dark, ominous storm cloud, he hovers over the trembling child and gestures with the gun for them to get a move on.
My hands are clammy and I can’t get rid of the moisture collecting on my palms, even when I rub them against my dress. I don’t want to draw attention to myself, I don’t want the gun to jerk in my direction.
I learn a lot about myself in the following seconds, as I’m sure many do when confronted with life or death situations.
When the little girl doesn’t take the step forward, her mother pleads with her in hushed tones, but to no avail. The gunman’s face reddens, his eyes bouncing from face to face until he lands back on the girl. His attention is the last thing she needs if she’s going to make it out of this alive.
He takes a step forward and jerks the mother away from her kid. She fights like a feral alley cat, clawing at his face and shrieking. She screams, drawing the attention of the people around us and faint sounds of alarm erupt at the sight of the gun. It’s a surreal picture, seeing a gun in broad daylight with the sounds of happy families and boats, and the cheerful caw of sea birds in the background.
The man growls and then pushes the mother off the dock where she tumbles like a rag doll down into the choppy blue of the ocean, flipping once, moving all too fast and slow at the same time. Her scream cuts off with a loudthunkand a gurgle of water. A mushroom of red mixes with the froth left in her wake. She must have knocked against the dock or the boat. Either way, a couple seconds pass and she doesn’t resurface. For one terrible second, I think she may be dead.
Forgetting the danger and the inevitable fatal repercussions, I scream to the nearest bystander who’s close to where she fell. “Help her!” I point at the bubbles floating to the surface. “Help! Help her!”
Not one, but two men jump in after her. They either don’t see or don’t care about the man waving a gun. One of them gets an arm under her shoulders and swims her over to a ladder alongside the dock. I can’t tell from the distance if she’s breathing or not, but they’ve got her. They’ll get her help. There’s nothing else I can do for her. I push her limp body from my mind and zero in on the screaming little girl.
Her feet are glued to the planks as she cowers in front of the man, a tiny figure shadowed by his hulking form. Her little body shakes with the effort of her screams. Heads turn in our direction, and her scream resounds through the mouths of every person in the vicinity. Like osmosis, the alarm travels until everyone takes notice.
The people behind me take the chance at escape and flee while the gunman is focused on the little girl. I hear their footsteps slap against the sea-worn wooden planks. My feet itch to follow in their swift retreat, but I can’t leave her alone.
I can’t leave her alone.
Before I can second-guess my decision, I cross the space between us and move the girl’s trembling body behind me.
“Leave her alone,” I say. My heart is hammering its way through my chest and I can taste the salty essence of tears on my lips. I didn’t even know I was crying.
He twitches a finger over the trigger and the sound of the safety flicking off echoes over the crash of the waves against the dock. I stumble backward, but he stops me with a growled, “Get on the boat.”
I swallow around the knot in my throat. “L-let the little girl g-go,” I say.
“Get on the boat,” he repeats. “Both of you.”
There are sirens behind us now and a very small part of me is clinging to the hope that, maybe, they can still save us, so I shake my head. “No. I’ll go, but not until you let the little girl stay. Please, she’s just a kid.”