by Tammy Bird
The pictures told him all he needed to know: Yogi Bear and a picnic basket; the underneath corner of his workbench; crayons the color of blood, skin, and shoes; the weather boards, his and Marco’s, the tacks telling the story of where women were abducted and which storm was brewing as they died.
Richard looked at Marco again. It saddened him. He loved his son, more than any other creature on the planet. But what if the boy found the words he was seeking? What if he took his sister’s hand and led her to the bench in the workshop? Would she be smart enough to find the tiny latch built into the wood on the underside of the bench? It was way in the corner, covered by an additional piece of wood, noticeable by touch only. She won’t find it—she can’t.
His daughter was smart. Richard looked at the pictures again. He loved his children, both of his children. He wanted no harm to come to either of them. His plan formed quickly. He would lead Marco to the room, leave him there for a few days while the town searched for him, and then find him late at night and bring him home. Katia would forget the pictures for the moment. He would leave them on the table only long enough to have multiple people in and out. Then they would disappear.
Perfect. He felt pride as the plan came together in his mind. I am the parent. I don’t give a shit how old either of you are. You’ll learn I’m in charge in this house. He practiced the speech in his head as he moved to the living room and touched his son’s shoulder.
****
The fog in her brain and the grunge in the room swirled together behind her eyes. Everything was blurry and seemed far away.
Marco? She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision. Where the fuck? Nothing made sense. Frankie. The voice in Katia’s head was soft, full of pain, as pieces began to reformulate.
Frankie found something. What was it? The pictures. I was going to go look at the pictures. But why? Why was I going back to the table? Something Frankie did. He was sniffing, and whining, and digging. He was sniffing at the workbench. Marco had pictures of a workbench. Marco had pictures. He was trying to tell me something. Something about Papi? Papi, did you find something?
She remembered her father’s face. Papi? Talk to me. He reached out. To hug me? No. What was he doing? A cloth. And that awful smell.
Katia wanted to fade back into the darkness where it was safe and warm, where she didn’t know what was happening. She wanted to go back to a time and place where her family was safe and she wasn’t here with her head in her brother’s lap as he rocked back and forth. Marco stroked her hair. The movement pulled the stench from the soft floor beneath them and sent it wafting into her nostrils. “Marco. Stop. Stop.”
The smell jostled the remnants of cinnamon rolls and coffee, which now moved up her esophagus.
“Marco, please,” she whispered.
****
Paige tried another text and then another call. Until an hour ago, when she told her no other bodies were found on the beach, Katia was texting her every ten or fifteen minutes. Now, silence. She paced the sandy lawn of Brent Grainger’s home with Nietzsche.
“Come on, sis,” Bob said. “Let’s get him home. Let’s get us home.” He motioned for her to join him at the edge of the property where several cars and emergency vehicles were now parked. “We’re all tired.”
Paige breathed in the smell of burned wood and wires. Soot filled her nasal passages. Her throat tightened. She moved slowly in his direction. Bob’s look told her he thought she was way too involved. They trained cadaver dogs. They worked scenes with Nietzsche and Derrida and Voltaire without becoming attached to whomever they were searching for or with. Those were the rules.
But rules don’t apply this time, do they? Some motherfucker is in our house, on our island, killing what we love. She thought about Voltaire lying just inside the door of the center where he had obviously died trying to defend his territory. What paperwork was important enough for you to be killed for, boy? What did we find that cost you your life?
Paige reached her brother.
“Are you ready, little sister?”
“I can’t.” It was all she could manage to say.
Bob lifted a clipboard from the hood of one of the cars. “Well, at least help me load up.”
Andrew arrived just as Paige loaded Nietzsche into the truck. She waved him over and waved her brother away. “I’ll be home later. Take care of the pups.”
She walked toward Andrew, meeting him halfway between his Volkswagen and the empty spot where her brother had been. “Hey,” she said. “You look exhausted.”
Andrew skipped the small talk. “I know we don’t have enough hands. Everyone’s at the beach. Thought I’d come by to see if I could be of help here.” He motioned toward the burned remains of Brent’s home.
Paige knew the girls didn’t trust him, but she found him sincere. Weird. Distant even in his attempt to fit in. But sincere. She fell in step with him, and together they walked back to the house.
“Nietzsche didn’t find anything.” Paige looked sideways to Andrew. Her voice was raspy from the smoke and soot.
“You think he had anything to do with the bodies?” Andrew stopped when they reached the front doorframe. He touched the charred wood with his index finger.
Paige stood several feet back.
They both understood the dangers beyond the opening, and they both respected the men and women who risked their lives, too much to disrespect the parameter.
Paige motioned toward the metal swing in the yard and moved in its direction. Her body ached from work and stress. After they both were seated, she said, “I do. I think it’s all too coincidental. I do hope I’m just paranoid.”
Andrew’s eyes grew wide. “I happen to agree. Looks like those guys agree.”
Several men and women in dark-blue jackets with big, gold letters moved about. Their gloved hands picked up unrecognizable items. They talked in low tones. They placed items in little baggies.
“Why do you think they’re here instead of on the beach?” Paige asked.
“You’ve got me. All I can figure is someone higher up told them to check it out.”
“Guess that makes sense.” Paige wasn’t so sure, but it didn’t seem worth pursuing.
“Above my pay grade,” Andrew said.
“I can’t get hold of Katia.” The words came out like they were punching the air. Paige looked up at Andrew. She wasn’t sure why she shared with him, but her gut said it was safe.
“What? Since when?” His body visibly tensed. His intonation rose with each word.
“Over an hour now.” Her insides were being wrung out like a dishrag by the fear of what that might mean. It seemed more real to say it out loud. She watched Andrew’s reaction.
When Andrew didn’t answer right away, she added, “Going to text Zahra. They’ve gotten really close. If anyone knows where she is, she does.”
She took her phone out of her jacket pocket and placed her thumb over the tiny pad. Her screen jumped to life. She found the string of texts between herself and Zahra. They were a good representation of their relationship. Nothing. And then a flurry. All too fast to digest. She tapped out a message.
Any word from Katia? Worried about her.
Zahra’s text was immediate: Tried her forty minutes ago. Body in Grainger house too burnt to ID by sight. Elizabeth ID’ed. Both headed to Greenville. Her text was accompanied by several emoticons—sad face, angry face, confused face.
And another text immediately after: You?
Paige typed: Tried five or six times. Nothing.
Paige watched her screen, waiting for a response. One minute. Two minutes. Three. She bit her nail while she waited. Her body tingled. Her stomach vibrated in a tickly sort of way, the way it always did when something was going to happen.
Andrew quietly waited while she typed. Paige looked up from the silent screen. “Nothing.”
“Maybe they found Marco. Or he came home.”
There’s that tic
kly feeling again. She looked closely at Andrew’s body language. His back was erect, his head turned methodically from side to side as he took in the scene. His eyes seemed to dart until they found something worth settling on, and then again and again, like an old typewriter. His eyes met the eyes of another man on the scene, and held, and communicated something silently. More tickles.
She thought back through scenes from the week. The man he made eye contact with looked familiar. He was FBI, obviously. Blue jacket. Gold letters. His name was something Wells. She changed her own posture a little, shook her hands out close to her sides, rolled her head slowly, pulling to one side and then the other so she could focus unnoticed on the blue-and-gold-clad man several hundred feet away.
Gerald Wells. That’s it. The executive assistant director for one of the criminal branches of the FBI. She raised her shoulders, pushed them forward, and moved her gaze back to Andrew. Her phone buzzed. She and Andrew both looked at the device in her hand.
Overwhelmed. Doc, too. Can’t leave. And another.
Elliot’s here. He won’t leave. Shock, I think.
Paige swallowed. “I’m finished here,” she said to Andrew. She tried to keep her voice steady. She wanted to believe she was overreacting. “I’m going to bail.”
Andrew nodded. “I’ll see if they need my help. I was in the military in another life. I have a strong stomach for this kind of thing. Whatever I can do, you know?”
“Sure. I get it.”
She didn’t get it, didn’t get any of it. Brent’s house was in ashes. He was or would soon be lying on a steel table in a sterile room with the cold body of Elizabeth and Gina and others who all had some connection to Buxton Beach, North Carolina. Marco was missing. Katia wasn’t answering her phone. She tapped out a response to Zahra, stood, and headed to her car.
Paige fought with herself as she slid behind the steering wheel. She needed to go home to deal with the papers and her brother and the animals and Voltaire. She also needed to know Katia was okay.
“Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof.” The barking came out of nowhere. “That’s not really an answer,” she said out loud to no one. Her brain was obviously trying to offer a moment of levity.
The sound got closer. “Frankie? What the…”
The dog was in her lap before she could finish her sentence.
Chapter Twenty-Three
With every pin Richard touched, he felt a prick in another part of his body. The weather board was his, his and Marco’s.
Marco. His son. His beautiful, autistic son. Richard wanted to share his world with him. It had always been his dream. He started to do just that through the wonderful twist of fate when one of the women woke up too quickly and Marco responded to her screams. He was furious at first. Marco knew to never open the workshop door.
He found the pin that marked the burial spot of the woman who brought Marco to him on that day. He touched it gently before he stepped back to admire the whole board. So many cruel women. So many wicked souls who walked the earth.
He thought about his daughter. He wanted her to be different. He wanted her to be clean. He touched the red pin next to the date of Elizabeth’s death and then the purple pin. He looked at the workbench and felt his blood rise and beat in his temples. He had no storm to wash away the pain of this kill and no dune to house the hurt.
Richard’s finger throbbed where the dog sunk his teeth into the flesh when he tried to grab him. Little piece of shit. Richard wished he would have held on. Should have taken him to the sink and slit his little furry throat. His agitation grew as he thought about his inability to follow through and take care of business. He needed the storm.
He hoped the little mutt was seriously hurt from the hard kick to the side he gave to send him flying out the door and off the back deck. He hoped he drowned in the ocean.
He put his left hand against his pants pocket and felt his phone solid between his palm and leg. He didn’t need to open it again to know what was happening in the room behind the wall. He knew. And he knew she had to die.
****
It took Paige ten minutes to travel to Katia’s house via the sand-encrusted highway that ran from one end of the islands to the other. Fucking storm. Normally Paige wasn’t one to swear. Katia certainly rubbed off on her this week. Fuck was her favorite word. With the events of the past week, she’d come to learn that some situations demanded a one-word response. Fuck the storm. Fuck all of the bodies. Fuck the fire. First Gina, then Elizabeth, then Marco. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Paige scratched the alert pup on the top of his head. She could feel his agitation. “I’m going as fast as I can, mister. What’s up at the Billing’s house, huh? How did you get out?”
Frankie’s yips and wiggles slowed as Paige turned the car into the driveway. His body stiffened and his nose twitched.
Something was wrong. Paige felt it deep inside. But the house seemed exactly the same as it did early that morning when the women sat looking at pictures and eating cinnamon rolls. “Everything can change in an instant,” she said, watching Frankie bounce from the rear seat to the front and back again. She gripped the handle and pushed open the door. “Show me what I need to see, boy.”
Frankie headed behind the house. Paige considered calling him back and going to the front, but her instincts told her to quietly follow where he led—wherever he led. The back door was ajar, and Frankie nudged it with his front paw, looking up at Paige as the door moved inward.
Marco’s pictures were scattered across the tabletop and on the floor. Paige pushed the door fully open and stepped inside. One foot in and one foot out, she paused. The house was too quiet. She opted to enter without a sound. Once inside, her eyes took in the scene. The television set was still on. Some cartoon she didn’t recognize streamed into the room. That was weird and kind of eerie.
Frankie ran to the door of the workshop. Paige followed. She looked back at the TV. She wanted to turn it off, or at least mute the sound, but she couldn’t. As long as seventies cartoons were alive, so was Marco. And if Marco was alive, so was Katia. And Katia had to be alive.
The door made no sound as Paige pushed it open and walked through. She’d never been down here. It felt strange to enter into such a private space. Katia’s father was well-known, his work praised as some of the best in the business. The house she stood in now was his own work. She remembered the story of how he had made it for Katia’s mom before they married. He wanted her to have a place to feel safe and loved, a place to raise a house filled with children. There’s that “Everything changes in an instant” thing again. Katia’s mom was killed by a drunk driver when Marco was a baby. According to Katia, she asked her father to build something smaller. That didn’t go over well. Paige got it. This was his home, his space of memories. And his humongous workshop. She looked around it.
“Geesh,” she said quietly. “What a layout.”
Frankie had parked himself at the workbench that ran from midway of the far wall to the side door. Paige watched her own feet as she moved. One step, then two, three. Deeper into the cavernous space filled with the sweet smells of different wood shavings. Paige inhaled her own childhood memory of her grandpa, his hand on her shoulder. He loved to have her in his shop. She loved to be there.
****
“You act like her, you know,” Richard said. “Your aunt. Not sure why it surprises me.” He knew she could see the disgust in his face. He wanted her to see it. She sat there, now fully awake and aware of her surroundings. He hadn’t planned to come back so soon. But when she took Marco’s face in her hands, when she had kissed his forehead, he knew it was time. He had to save his son from her.
“Papi, what are you talking about? You’re not making sense. Where are we? Why are we here?” Katia met his eyes as she spoke, still not understanding, still hovering between fear and relief that the three of them were here together.
“Marco,” Richard said, his voice stern but loving. “Marco, look at me.” R
ichard paused and waited as Marco moved his gaze from his sister and met his eyes.
Marco was shaking, and tears ran down his cheeks. “Come on, son. I need you to come to me.”
Katia reached for Marco’s hand, but he pulled it away. “That’s it, son. You know who she is. What she’s doing. She’s just like those other women. She’s bad, and bad girls have to pay for their sins.”
Marco rocked. A low guttural sound moved through his lips and turned into words. “Sla. Sla. Slash. Fast. Slash. Fast.” His chant came more quickly. The words blurred together.
Katia looked at her brother.
Richard wondered what she thought. He could see the concern in her eyes for her brother. Marco’s words weren’t all clear, but enough of them were to know that he was chanting two words that told the world he knew what had to happen next. “Yes, Marco. That’s right. It’s your turn. Your sister is a bad girl. She’s given into the sins of others, and she’s trying to take you in, too.”
Richard glared at Katia. “I saw the way you touched him. You pretend to comfort him so you can take advantage of him.” Richard clenched his fists at his sides. “Just like her.”
He paused. He had to focus. He felt the red anger push up from his chest and into his face. “I love you. I do. From the moment we brought you home, I doted on you. I let your mom dote on you and your brother, and I didn’t hurt her. I never hurt her.”
“Papi. Why would I think you hurt her?” Tears welled in her eyes. “You’re not making any sense.”
Richard stood quietly. It was the only way he knew to regain control. He watched Katia’s face. She was starting to remember. He let her remember the pictures on the table, the reason she left the workshop and headed back upstairs.
“The pictures?” Katia pulled her brother toward her.
“Yes. Marco knew.” Richard turned toward his son. “You tried to tell your sister, didn’t you? What did we talk about, Marco? No one can ever know. And now she knows.” Richard pointed at Katia. “And now we have to do this together, son. And then we’ll hunt together during the storms and watch cartoons and mark our weather boards and build a hero’s life—together.”