Blessed are the Dead by Kristi Belcamino Read Free Book Online Page A

magnet for families and yuppies tired of the big city’s skyrocketing housing costs. But most families with children flock to Rosarito’s northern suburbs on the edge of the San Pablo Bay, with its new, affordable, gigantic track homes.
    The downtown waterfront area of Rosarito where Jasmine lives retains an aura of its bordello past when, during World War II, sailors and shipyard workers from Mare Island Naval Shipyard came to gamble and visit prostitutes.
    I sit with my car idling in front of Jasmine’s building and imagine what it was like on the morning she disappeared. The streets of downtown are preternaturally quiet. It is hard to imagine her leaving this apartment building every morning and walking alone to the bus stop. I’m an adult, but even I experience a shiver of apprehension at the stillness surrounding me.
    Before I pull away, I scribble another note on the back of one of my business cards asking Jasmine’s mother, Kelly Baker, to call me. I jog up to the door of the Victorian and shove my card into her mail slot—­in case she didn’t get the one I left in her door yesterday. I’ll keep leaving them every day until she calls.
    Back in my car, I gently press down on the accelerator and slowly drive the route I imagine Jasmine walked to the bus stop—­three blocks down and one block over. I inch along with my window down. A few homeless men sit on folded-­up cardboard boxes, leaning their backs against cement walls.
    â€œHey, excuse me,” I say, and pull over, leaning out my window. “Can I ask you something? Did you ever see a little girl who wore a purple coat walk this way to school each day?”
    One man scratches his head before answering. “Yeah, I seen her. She walks by every day.”
    â€œDid you see her on Monday?”
    â€œWhat day was that?”
    â€œIt’s Wednesday. That was two days ago.”
    â€œI dunno,” he says at first. “Maybe. Uh, yeah, yeah, actually I probably did see her walk by that day. Hey, do you have any spare change?”
    â€œSorry, no,” I lie. “Thanks for your help.”
    On the road near the bus stop, a group of rough-­looking men stands outside a bar smoking. The smell of the smoke drifts through my open window. I’ll go back and talk to them later. I park across the street from the bus stop. I turn off the engine and close my eyes for a minute, rubbing the miraculous medal that hangs around my neck, listening to the noises around me, imagining what it was like to be a third-­grader waiting for the bus on this deserted stretch of road. My fingertip traces the figure of the Virgin Mary etched on the small oval pendant. “Give me the strength to write about this girl the way she deserves,” I say. Except for some distant traffic noises, it is silent.
    I open my eyes. This stretch of roadway is eerily deserted. On my side of the street, a big empty dirt lot is strewn with trash. Windblown piles of yellowed cigarette butts crowd the black pavement of the gutter. On the opposite side of the road, a former car dealership has seen better days. Boards cover showroom windows. The only signs of life are a gas station about a block down toward the harbor, a deserted taxi stand, and the bar I passed. After a few minutes, kids start to straggle down the street to the bus stop. I grab my jacket and get out of my car.
    â€œHey, guys, do you know a little girl named Jasmine? She likes to wear a purple jacket and rides the bus with you?”
    The group of girls with giant sneakers and oversize backpacks ignore me, whispering and snickering. Finally, one sneaks a glance my way.
    â€œNah, the cops already asked us all this. We don’t know nothing.”
    A brown, late-­model Oldsmobile pulls up with a loud thumping bass, and two boys with long legs unfold themselves out of the backseat. In the passenger seat, a man with bloodshot eyes looks me up and down as he takes a