by Tammy Bird
“Paige told me he could stay here until I get him cleared at home.” Katia scratched the pup under his chin.
Zahra reached across the table, scratched Frankie’s head, and returned to the notes. “Back to the little old recluse who lived in the dune.”
“You’re a sick fuck,” Katia said. She pretended to cover Frankie’s ears. “Don’t listen, Frankie.”
Zahra shrugged. “Some people like it. Just saying.”
Katia looked at Paige and shrugged. “Some people.”
Zahra indicated the paper. “You’re deflecting.”
“Fuck you. Fine.” Katia sighed. She struggled with her anger. She enjoyed being with Paige and Zahra. They felt more like friends in the last few days than anyone since Elizabeth. On the other hand, next to the death of her mom, this was the worst thing to happen in her life. How could she feel anything but sad? Yet she did.
“Back to Helen.” Zahra was fully in investigator mode.
“Teenagers mowed her grass and shopped for her,” Katia said. “Story goes, no one realized she was gone until one of the kids said Whitaker hadn’t answered her door for several weeks in a row and he wanted his money. Officers broke her door down. Found almost nothing personal. Not many clothes in the closet. Furniture went with the house. No signs of foul play.” Katia’s hand moved from ear to ear of the dog in her lap.
Paige jumped back into the conversation. She wasn’t technically from Buxton, so she offered some distance. “It’s hard to comprehend that this woman just disappeared and no one had a clue.”
“Tools weren’t as advanced then,” Zahra said. “She didn’t own the property. She rented it. It’s easy to guess they didn’t spend much time looking once the trail went cold.”
“They did interview the boys, right?” Katia tried to remember the story.
Zahra reached into her bag and pulled out her computer. She talked while she booted it up. “I believe they did. Yes. There was one kid in particular. I remember my dad saying how weird he was.”
Zahra typed. “Hm. This might take a minute. You two continue.”
Paige nodded. Her finger skimmed over the coordinates and field notes and moved to the third line. “Octavia Quinn. Decomp: Completely skeletonized. Age: Mid to late twenties. Notes: Missing since 1984. Worked the Hatteras Ocracoke Ferry. Reported missing by father when she didn’t come home after a shift. Cold case.”
“Lived in Ocracoke,” Zahra said over the top of her laptop. “With two sisters and her parents. Her father said all she wanted was to finish college and work with dolphins and kids.”
Paige and Katia scanned the rows and rows of names and information. Much was still unknown.
“How’d you identify her?” Katia met Zahra’s gaze.
“Dental records on her. Some of the remains will likely not be identifiable for some time, if ever. Got lucky on a few. Like Octavia. Her father also reported she was wearing dolphin earrings and a matching necklace made from nickel. She wore them every time she worked. We found the earrings with her remains. Jogged Detective Levine’s memory.”
“No necklace?”
“No.” Zahra sucked in the corner of her bottom lip, made a tiny air sound through her teeth. She shook her head. “Not yet identified, anyway.”
Katia liked the way she did that. It was one of the things she recognized immediately in the bar. Katia liked unconscious gestures, little telltale signs people used that they didn’t realize they used.
“This unknown one…” Paige pointed back at the top of the first page, toward the first remains listed. “She was the only one found alone in a dune?”
Katia looked to where Paige pointed.
“Yeah,” Zahra said. “Not sure yet what to make of it. She was completely skeletonized. Found with a knife. Likely the murder weapon. No other weapons were found in any other burial site. Working theory is she’s the first. Helen and Octavia likely numbers two and three. Hard to tell for certain just yet.”
Katia took off her glasses and set them on the table. She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips. “How many locals identified?”
“Four. Four so far,” Zahra answered.
“Let’s hope four total. In a population of barely over twelve hundred, how the fuck do even four people disappear without a trace and end up in a fucking dune?” Katia’s frustration rose.
Paige ran her finger farther down the list. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. That, and how bodies from anywhere could disappear and end up in a one-mile strip of dune on a beach that swarms with life for nine of twelve months per year. It’s why I’m here. To put my head together with two other Buxton natives.”
“Well,” Katia chided her, “technically you’re a Manteo native who went to school in Buxton because your father was the school principal. Special treatment and all that.”
“Truth,” Zahra said. “We joked about you back then.”
“Speak for yourself.” Katia puckered her lips to one side as she did. “I didn’t joke about you. Hell, I didn’t even know then your father was important or that you didn’t belong there.”
Zahra and Paige looked at each other.
“Is your name Elizabeth?” Zahra asked.
Paige moved her head from side to side. “Nope.”
“Then I don’t know you.” Zahra finished the friendly jab.
“Fuck you both,” Katia said.
“Oh, pick me.” Zahra grinned.
Paige said nothing but continued to smile.
“Sorry,” Zahra added. “I know this is hard.”
“Fuck yeah. But, you know, laughing helps.” Katia pointed back to the notes. “What else?”
“In addition to Helen and Octavia, there’s Gina.” Zahra’s voice was even and low.
The girls all knew why she was easy to identify. You can’t manage rentals along the Outer Banks and have your face on more than one Seaside Real Estate billboard and not be readily known.
“She was the least decomposed of the fourteen uncovered,” Zahra said. “Still had fingerprints and other identifying marks.” She paused and looked at Katia.
“It’s okay.” Katia gave Zahra a nod. “I need this. And I know this place. Know these people as well as anyone. Maybe I can help, pick up on a thread that pulls this fucked-up shit together.”
“Two others,” Zahra said. “Lacey O’Donnell and Nadia Grey were also listed as missing and easily identified from the database. Lacey was reported missing in Manteo in 2014 by her husband when she failed to return from a work conference. The husband was the prime suspect.”
Katia latched on to the last words. Her back straightened, and her voice grew stronger. “So, are you all going to pick him up? Could he be the one who did all of this?”
“No.” Zahra cut her off before she could get her hopes up. “He was cleared at the time. And he’s thirty-nine now. The oldest decedents have been in the dunes for thirty or more years. Whoever this is, he or she has to be late forties at least. Probably fifties.”
Katia nodded. “Who else has been identified? There doesn’t seem to be any pattern at all. Different places. Different ages.”
The women went through other names. They ultimately came back to Nadia Grey.
“There’s a plaque in the hallway outside the classroom where she taught,” Katia said. “It’s probably still there.” She turned back to Paige. “This world sucks.” She didn’t wait for an answer. None was needed.
Paige looked to Zahra who was now intently reading through something on her screen. “Wasn’t she abducted with someone?”
“Who? Nadia? Yeah,” Zahra said. “I was doing research on her this morning. There was evidence the teacher and a boy from the geometry club were together the day they disappeared. Caused a little stir, but none of that was proven.” Zahra took a sip of her cold coffee.
“Want me to heat it?” Katia reached across the table.
Zahra shook her head. “Every student who was
in the club or who was in her classes at the time was questioned. They all said she was an amazing instructor, that she was always there for her students. All of her students.”
“Says in the notes her purse with all contents was found in—”
“Shit.” Zahra’s voice, low in her throat, drew out the word.
The other women stopped what they were doing and focused their attention on Zahra and her computer.
“Guess who the kid was who was a party of interest in Whitaker’s death?”
The others waited.
“Shelton Fucking Easton.”
Chapter Twelve
Marco heard his sister come in the front door, heard Papi yell. He didn’t like when Dad drank bourbon. It made him act like someone who didn’t belong in their house. When Katia smelled like that, she didn’t yell. Why did Dad have to yell? It made Marco’s head spin faster. It made the sounds in his belly louder, until he had to open his mouth and let the sounds out.
“He’s been like this since I picked him up from school. Sounds like a wounded animal. You need to get him to shut up. Where’ve you been?” His dad swished the ice in his glass. Too loud. The ice was too loud. Like the sounds in his own belly. His sister’s voice was lower, not soft like his mami’s used to be, but nice. The sounds in his belly that always tried to get out when he was spinning in his head liked her voice.
“I texted you, Papi. Paige’s training facility. I met Zahra and Paige to talk about the beach.”
“The beach isn’t our concern. Your brother—”
Marco listened to the pause in his papi’s yelling noise.
“Your brother is our concern. I told you. You want him home; you be here to help when you’re not working. And… Tonight. You. Are. Not. Working.”
“I know, Papi. I’m sorry. It’s just we may have found something. Someone Gina dated one summer.”
“Katia Pilar Mercedes Billings-Castillo.”
“Yes, Papi. I’m sorry. I’ll calm him and get him to his appointment.”
The sounds in Marco’s tummy were alternating between something that resembled a howl and a chant. “One-six-six-M-P-H. One-six-six-M-P-H.” Marco rocked back and forth on the edge of the periwinkle-colored chair in the tiny room his sister decorated for him with periwinkle-blue walls and trim. It felt good to rock. Good in his spinning head. Good in his mad tummy. No white paint. He didn’t like it. “Just periwinkle, Katia. Marco likes periwinkle.” He handed his sister the square in the paint store eight years ago, when he was just a little boy. After mami died in the fiery car, there were so many people around. In and out of his house. Periwinkle helped. His sister’s nice voice helped.
“Autistic. Not stupid. Katia tell the people. The people in my head, too. Tell them, too.” Spinning. Drowning. The taste of dirty ocean water. My lungs. My eyes. My nose. My ears. Piercing shards of pain. He didn’t know why Papi wanted him to go away. Katia said it was the bourbon. Only the bourbon. Did Katia want him gone when she smelled that way?
Marco looked around his space. It was perfectly square. He liked that, too. He liked squares. And he liked the soft pillows thrown on the floor. They were all the same size squares. Marco liked to pile them into walls around him. They felt like clouds. His mom lived in the clouds. The pillows made him feel close to her. When he needed to be soundless, alone in his environment, he brought his books into the center and sat on the big, square pillow Katia bought just for him. This is where he sat now. Right in the center. Legs crossed. Sometimes Dr. Abney gave him a camera. He liked cameras. Take pictures of what is loud, Marco. Take pictures of what makes you happy, Marco. Dr. Abney had a nice voice. Not as nice as Katia or his mom, but a different kind of nice.
Marco turned his head left, then right, then left again. Books and magazines about weather were piled everywhere. He kept them precisely stacked by type and date.
His rocking, which had slowed as he thought about his mom and Katia and the white clouds, increased again. His dad’s voice was loud in his head, not calming like Katia’s.
He blinked rapidly. The sound hurt inside his head. Too loud. He raised his arm to his mouth, bit down on his forearm. Hard. Harder. Blood. My blood. Good. Rock. Bite. My blood. Fill the black noise with pain. My blood. Not hers. I can smell it. Go away, Marco. So noisy. Marco doesn’t like noise. Make her stop screaming. Bite harder. Blood. My blood. He rocked and rocked, faster and faster.
He knew Katia was right outside, back against the wall, sitting, waiting. She always waited for him to center, to regulate against the overwhelming sensory input. “One-six-six-M-P-H. One-six-six-M-P-H. Katia. One-six-six-M-P-H.”
Tell her. She might want Marco gone. Tell her. No. Tell her. Can’t leave the square periwinkle. Tell her, his mind repeated.
His body rocked.
****
Katia sat still, waiting. The fact her little brother was able to add her name into his stream of repetitiveness told her he was almost calm. She was proud of him. Marco was mildly verbal on a good day, but when overwhelmed, all he wanted to do was be alone in his safe place, lights off, and rock to the rhythm of whatever weather stat he most recently read. Weather was one of his special interests, just as it was an interest of most everyone on the island. You couldn’t live on a sliver of sand in the Atlantic Ocean and not be aware of weather. As a child, you learned to listen to weather reports. In the spring and summer, you listened to anticipate tourist season. In the winter and fall, you listened to anticipate storms. Marco internalized the importance of weather and turned it into a compulsion that few understood.
Taking pictures was another compulsion. No one was sure where that one came from. Perhaps from all of the discussions around the island of tourists and their cameras. Whatever the draw, when he combined the two intense interests, he was content for hours. There were hundreds of pictures of raindrops on flower petals and on sidewalks, hundreds of pictures of paper blowing in the wind and hair blowing in Katia’s face or Marco’s face, hundreds of pictures of the sunlight on the floor, on the fence that surrounded their ocean-facing home, on a tiny sand crab on the beach.
She thought about the last seventeen years. She was ten when her brother was born, fifteen when their mother died. Since their mom’s death, Katia was the one who fed his passion for more and more specialized knowledge about weather. She was the one who bought him a digital camera. And she was the one who watched him struggle with interaction, the one who stayed alert to his desire to run away, even from his own home. “Elopement,” Marco’s psychologist called it when Marco was diagnosed at age four. “Very common in autistic children.”
For Katia, it felt personal back then, like Marco was trying to run from her. It took years of therapy sessions for both of them to learn it wasn’t about her or him.
“He has misophonia,” Dr. Abney told her and her parents. “A hatred of particular sounds that can lead to a flight-or-fight-type response. You will need to watch for triggers. Once you learn them, you can avoid them, or at least be aware of them.”
Before their mom died, Katia tuned the doctor out as he rambled on about what was happening in Marco’s head. She remembered words: “meltdowns,” and “stimming,” and “developmentally delayed.” All words she later would not only look up but study incessantly. “My own special interest,” she thought, remembering another phrase Dr. Abney used that day.
She did remember that she felt good after the meeting because it meant Marco didn’t hate her and their parents. She hated that her little brother had to deal with this for life. She vowed that day to pay more attention, to learn all she could about autism, and to always be there in whatever way Marco needed her to be. She watched and listened and took notes. Wrappers were the worst offenders for her brother—and plastic bags that crinkled and rubbed. They sent Marco into flight mode in seconds.
Over the years, the problems with elopement and meltdowns lessened. When he was four, they all worried about him constantly. Locks were placed high on
doors and windows, where little fingers couldn’t reach. Everyone walked through the house as if on eggshells. When he was eight, all plastic bags were removed from the house. For a period of time, dinners were eaten only with a plastic fork so metal didn’t scrape plates. Nothing was done without thinking about how it would affect the boy with autism, the boy who couldn’t or wouldn’t talk, the boy who rocked and rocked and rocked.
Now Marco was a teen and, mostly, he learned to self-regulate, to monitor his own world, to communicate his needs through short semi-sentences and sounds. Now he went to his space and into his head until he was able to return.
So what the fuck happened in the school today? Why was today different? Of all fucking days.
Katia thought about the laughter of the afternoon. She almost felt normal. Maybe she shouldn’t have. Maybe the universe was reminding her how fucked up it was that her ex was missing and Gina was dead. Fourteen people were dead.
She took a deep breath to keep herself from banging her head back and forth against the wall. It might actually feel good, she thought. Might feel better than the pain inside, better than the pain in her heart she felt for the young man on the other side of the wall. Today it was like he was five again. He was alone in a world that he didn’t know how to share, and Katia was outside, shut out and afraid.
****
Marco slowed his rocking and looked at the door. His mind was full of sound bites and smells. A deep voice: Pretty little thing. Almost a whisper. Why? Whispers are for secrets. Grumbled whining in a throat, deep, a sound like when his friend’s dog got hit by a car. Not a man sound. A girl. Blood and sweat: mixed-up. Different. Fear, yes. Smell fear, and taste it. Whose fear? Whose sweat? The person making the hurt-dog sound?
Run, Marco. Run. No. That is called elopement, Marco. Go to your safe place. Go to your safe place. Safe place. Katia. Safe. Home.
When he was three years and 100 days, Marco eloped. He remembered. It was raining. Marco loved rain. Dad loved rain. Katia loved rain. Rain tickled your face when you looked up at it. He only wanted the rain to tickle his face. He didn’t understand why, but Katia smelled like fear when they found him. His mom smelled like fear. She smelled like fear when she took him to Dr. Callum Abney, too. He didn’t understand that, either. Dr. Abney was good. He liked him. He looked forward to his mom and dad taking him there every Monday. He fitted Marco with a special tracking device, one he said would keep him safe. Then his mom didn’t smell like fear so much.