Page 65 of Beast

No hero was going to sweep in and save me. I had to find a way out of here, back to my life, back to the United States. I was running out of time before Star wiped every piece of Annie away forever.

I knelt by the side of my bed and clasped my hands in prayer. I was Catholic but stopped praying years ago, after all my prayers went unanswered and I endured daily beatings, rapes, torture, and drugging. But this time I wasn’t praying to Mary, the Saints, God, or the Holy Spirit, the Trinity. I was praying to the man with the deep blue eyes and shaggy blond hair. I prayed he was the man I thought he was. I prayed he was capable of what I thought he was. I prayed he would believe me. I prayed he would return and bust me out of this hellhole so I could discover if life was worth living again.

3

Patrick

I ROLLED OUT OF MY rack the next morning and hit the head to take a piss. A hot shower would’ve been nice, but I had something more important to do.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, black, and went over to our computer and typed in the name she had given me. Annie Hamilton.

The screen lit up—articles, news clips, videos, websites. “American Analía ‘Annie’ Rose Hamilton Vanishes on Spring Break.” There was even a wiki: “The Disappearance of Analía Rose Hamilton.”

Could the drug-addicted prostitute from last night really be America’s missing sweetheart? Maybe she was part of some elaborate con job? A light-skinned prostitute could’ve faked the American accent, learned the story, and used it to bilk johns like me out of cash.

I clicked on the first image—the cover of People Magazine. “Vanished without a Trace: Annie Hamilton.” Those deep hazel eyes from last night stared back at me.

Fuck.

Those eyes were about the only part of her, which resembled the girl from last night. She was hardened, despondent, and scared. Those pretty eyes were now encased by dark circles, and had only given a dead stare.

I skimmed the first line; five years ago, just as she’d said. And by all accounts, she was still missing.

After five years, surely she was dead. Yet no trace of her body had ever been found. I remembered hearing about her disappearance, but I was deployed in Iraq at the time so I never knew all the details.

I read the first article. Annie and her boyfriend, Chris Porter, had taken a spring break vacation to the Caribbean. They’d partied until around two a.m. in the nightclub at their resort and multiple guests saw them dancing together. By all accounts, they’d both been extremely intoxicated and a few guests recalled that Chris seemed to be jealous when Annie climbed up on stage to dance with a professional ballroom dancer from the resort. At two thirty a.m., her boyfriend’s key card was used to enter their hotel room, and he swore she was with him. Chris stated the last time he saw her was around five a.m. sitting on the balcony of their suite the morning she went missing. He figured she wanted to get fresh air and watch the sunrise, so he went back to sleep. A few other guests claimed they saw her around six a.m. in the elevator with the dancer. Chris passed a lie detector test and repeatedly insisted on his innocence. The dancer was also questioned but there wasn’t any evidence to hold him. Authorities believed she’d committed suicide, or was killed by her boyfriend after a fight. Despite a FBI search The FBI had conducted a thorough search of the resort and the nearby ocean but no trace of her had ever been found.

Suicide? Doubtful. She was young, hot, in college and in love. Came from money. I guess she could’ve been depressed, but I figured it was a long shot.

As for the boyfriend? I felt bad for the guy. He was a pretty-boy, wealthy surfer from La Jolla who had probably never worked a day in his life. Tan and blond, he looked like one of those guys who sat on the beach smoking weed, laughing at the BUD/S candidates while they were running around carrying logs over their heads during Hell Week. Came from a good family, played water polo at San Diego University. He seemed normal enough, but how did anyone really know how he treated Annie behind closed doors? Maybe he abused her. If he killed her, then he got away with the perfect crime. If he was innocent, his life was ruined from the suspicion and the guilt he must’ve felt not knowing what had happened to her.

I gazed across the ocean from my porthole. The resort was only a mile away. If she had been killed, surely there would’ve been some evidence—blood, clothes, a body. It didn’t add up.

In the weeks, months, and years, which had followed, there’d been a few sightings of Annie on Aruba and on other neighboring Caribbean islands, but nothing ever panned out. Her family had even reportedly hired a former SEAL to find her, but he turned out to be a fraud.

I fucking hated any motherfucker who lied about being a SEAL. It was easy to figure these assholes out—just ask them their SEAL training class number. Not knowing your SEAL training class number is like not knowing your last name.

I still wasn’t convinced yet that the prostitute was who she said she was. I didn’t want to stake my career on a maybe.

I studied a few more websites. Her parents had created www.findannie.com.

There were childhood photos, lists of sightings, news articles, and links to television programs.

There was a letter begging for her return posted from Chris with pictures of the happy couple.

Then a photo caught my eye.

The tattoo on her ankle.

That surfboard with an American flag. So that’s why she made sure I saw it. Just in case I was the man she thought I was.

The words of the Navy SEAL Code, our warrior creed, echoed in my head.

Fuck.

But tattoos can be faked. I needed more.

I clicked on another picture.