by N. M. Brown
“So, it’s a … fighting ring of some sorts?” McQueen asked, trying to keep up with her cryptic answers.
“Of sorts.” Was of course, Echo’s answer. “It’s not a sex ring, or a black-market sale which I'm sure you thought of. Nothing… bad happens to these children per-say.”
“Enough with the puzzles Echo.” McQueen demanded. “Why are all the children dead? Why are they taken?”
“Well…” Echo seem to have to think about it. “The thing is, I don’t think you’ll believe me if I out-right told you the situation.” She explained, but at a hard stare from McQueen she shrugged. “Fine, have it your way.” Suddenly she sucked in a breath, ready for her big reveal and in one gust of air, she told all.
“The children are dead because they’ve gotten themselves killed. They weren’t the strongest, the fastest or the hardest kid around. The children kill each other just as any creature would, cut off from humanity and society, thrown into a lawless cult, solely built on the needs of survival.”
McQueen blinked once… then twice, reining in his anger. “I asked you for serious answers Echo.” He stormed, questioning again why he was going down this road. “That makes no sense. Why would they kill each other? And a cult? Really, you expect me to believe that?”
“I did try and tell you, Queenie.” Echo shrugged again. “You asked, so I told you.”
“So, I’m meant to believe all these missing children are dead because they killed each other for the sake of a cult?” He asked sarcastically.
“Oh no.” Echo laughed, “No, no. They kill each other for survival: one kid has a bowl of food and another wants it, they’ll kill for it. They want the warm blanket someone has; they kill and take it. They want the water; kill them. They want the weapon, kill them.” Echo waved off McQueen disbelief. “Of course, this all depends whether they can kill for it. Many end up dying in their own attempts.”
“I can’t believe you dragged me into this again.” McQueen growled to himself.
She was crazy. Why would he believe someone as crazy as she? He wouldn’t believe a beggar woman off the street. Needing to walk off his frustration, McQueen gathered their mugs and tried not to throw them into the sink. Of course, his restraint was tested when he heard the pitter patter of feet behind him.
“You can’t believe? Really Queenie?” Echo asked, “Then perhaps you need a little more to convince you.” McQueen kept his back to her, wishing the tap would drown her out as he scrubbed at the fine china. But alas, Echo couldn’t be drowned out. “You said you had a recent disappearance: Johnny? Well, I haven’t seen his file, but I can guess his story. Shall I tell it to you?” She asked.
Throwing a dish cloth down, McQueen turned and leant against the sink, his arms folded. “Go ahead, Echo. Surprise me.” He agreed. Honestly, he thought she couldn’t come up with any wilder ideas he’d believe.
“Alright, let’s see; Johnny will have come from a broken home, nothing severe but a home with problems. These problems would reflect on his attitude, his need to rebel. So, when a random stranger started talking to him, he vents his frustration instead a of being weary. Frustrated and alone, Johnny would have found comfort with this new stranger; a kindship that would only grow as this new friend gave him sweets. Three to be exact.”
McQueen hid his surprise. She had to be guessing, that or seen the file. There was no way she knew.
“Now, both you and I know these sweets hold more than sugar, but innocent Johnny didn’t, so he eats, happy to have a friend and some sugar. What he doesn’t know what he’s digesting …. What did you stupidly call it again? Dixie?” Echo asked, chopping her story-telling flow. “Whatever. He’s eating Dixie which is a narcotic. Addicted, he looks for this friend more and more while he’s told nothing but stories of a magical place; a place with no bedtime, no rules, no homework, no chores. It was a place he could run and play and do anything his little heart desired.”
McQueen was paying attention now, his gut growing uneasy by the minute.
“And then Johnny was gone. Now, did he go in the middle of the night, or on his way home from school? Maybe on the way to a friend’s? It doesn’t matter when really, because he was gone, addicted and moving onto a better place. Stuck in the cycle of addiction, he’ll forget his home, his family and will stay there until he dies.”
“You can’t prove any of that happened.” McQueen challenged, the damp mugs behind him forgotten.
“No. You’re right I can’t.” Echo frowned comically, clearly enjoying herself. “But how about what will happened after? We’ll assume for stories stake he does kill for his next bowel of food and he does get to keep his warm blanket. Then he’ll hit puberty. Hair will grow, hormones will fly, and he’ll be more aggressive, more challenging and will slowly dominate. Then he’s killed; beaten to the point he’s unrecognisable and his body will never be found.”
“Why? McQueen found himself asking, knowing what she said to be true. “Why will he be killed for being dominant?”
It was at this point Echo allowed a coy smiled to curl her lip. Whatever crazy ideas she’d speculated before, she was now at the panicle point. “Because, dear Queenie, there can only be one dominant in the Under-ert. Only one top dog and he will kill any who challenged that.”
“The Under-ert. That’s what this place is called.” McQueen filed that away to research later; he was thinking an international ring of some kind. “And this top dog, who is he?”
“Shade.” Echo said the name softly.
“Shade?” McQueen repeated, feeling the name of his criminal master-mind roll off his tongue. “Who is he, the leader?”
“Yes. He leads, dictates, thrives off his following. Has been doing for years.”
“This the man was could be looking for. If he produces the Dixie, kidnaps the children…”
“Not a man. A boy.” Echo interrupted and McQueen felt the whiplash of his gullibility.
“A boy?” His disbelief leached into his voice. “A boy is leading a cult of children, feeding them an addictive narcotic drug that’s so complex Cassi can’t break it down, who fight each other for their own survival, and he’s been doing it for years?” McQueen shook his head and gave up. “That ridiculous Echo. I’ve heard enough.”
Back turned, McQueen heard Echo sigh whimsically. “Fine, suit yourself, but I will say this: you’d think as a Detective always searching for the truth, you’d be a little more open minded.” Then she let out a little snort, as if a funny idea had just come to mind. “You know, I bet this is how Shade has survived so long, the principle that no one thinks it’s possible.”
“It’s not possible Echo.” McQueen steamed, annoyed he had to listen to the silly notion. “You said yourself you were there when you were eight. That was fifteen years ago. This ‘boy’ would be a man by now, not to mention, some of these missing reports go back further than that, so what? Shade was building his child cult at the age of … of two?” McQueen groaned in his own frustration. “It isn’t possible Echo and if I stand a chance of finding Johnny, I need real leads and real evidence. Not your silly fairy stories.” He snapped.
“Just like it’s not possible for me to be raised by the Seven Deadly sins?” Echo asked in a cold voice, turning McQueen back around and he felt like an ass.
She had never awoken from whatever dazed she’d been in before and regardless of what front she wore, she was still broken, beaten and exhausted from whatever ordeal she’d been though. Looking at her now, her body had deflated again, her arms had slipped back around her waist and the act had dropped.
She’d been playing him. He needed her help, and she’d asked him right at the start, did he believe? He hadn’t lied, and said he would try to understand, yet here he was, throwing his words aside and spitting in her face.
“Echo… what you believe-,”
“What I believe has no consequence on your case. You wanted my knowledge and my information, so you said anything to make me talk.”
The was a
growl beneath Echo’s words as she bared her teeth at him. “But I am not a fool Queenie. I know when I’m being played. Well, you got your answer and it’s not one you like, so go. Go stumble over your own feet and try and find this boy. If you are his only hope, you’d better pray your God helps him, because otherwise, my family own his soul.”
◆◆◆
McQueen rubbed his forehand again for the fifth, probably sixth time that evening, before looking at Echo. Taking her all in, he didn’t know what to think.
After her venomous words, she’d ignored him, pushing his files off the coffee table and the couch, making herself at home. Lying out flat, she was asleep within minutes, her body covered in nothing but her coat and not even a whisper about needing a shower.
Five, then ten minutes passed before McQueen found himself kneeing by her face, a warm rag in one hand as he gently washed off what blood he could. He could feel his Nana watching over him, scolding him for his abrupt words and making an extensive list of how he should make up for it. Once he’d got as much as he could off, he threw a knitted blanket over her body and dimmed the lights until he was sat in semi darkness.
He, however couldn’t sleep: too wound up, too frustrated, too many thoughts getting stuck in his head. As an alternative to being well rested, he reorganised his files, placing them back in the correct order and - with a little caution - silently started a new one.
It was the same manila outside, and only held rough scribbles, but it was the only file he had open. Sat on the single seater, he read over every question he’d written down, every word or idea he’d scrawled out and felt every hesitation mark from his pen.
How had Echo really known all this? She said she’d been kidnapped, which he scribbled air quotes around because she said it had been undercover work. That had surprised him. She was eight; what eight-year-old went on an undercover mission? Then was her claims of vicious children killing for survival, how would she know that? If it was true, she had really been there and would be invaluable to the investigation. If she was fucking with him, he could be chasing flying pigs and dead ends for weeks to come. What was real, what was make-believe? Could he pick and choose what he believed?
Glancing up at the clock, it was almost three in the morning and he could feel the dust sticking to his eyeballs, begging for him to sleep. Leaning back in his chair, McQueen took off his tie and shoes, finally feeling himself relax, not because he wanted to, but he just couldn’t stop himself.
Closing his eyes, he told himself he just needed to process everything, sort things into categories… decide what was worth following and what…
was just …
pure…
fantasy…
XIX
Queenie's head lolled back as he fell asleep and his mouth dropped wide open. If Echo had been in a playful mood, she might have put something in it; like a live fish, but she could still feel a chill in her bones that a blanket just couldn’t chase away. Delicate fingers traced the ligature marks on her neck, the rough puckered skin flaring with heat and pain each time.
Turning on the uncomfortable couch, Echo rubbed her arms, pleased to know the sticky, brittle stains of blood were gone thanks to Queenie, yet she could still smell it: the sharp, sickly tang of copper and the rotting stench of sweat.
She’d always associated that smell with the Midnight Suit; bodies pumped with rage and anger, it leeched into the walls and floor, stirring the same feelings from one customer to the next. Echo remembered how she’d walk in and watch women attack those who looked like their abusive spouse, controlling mothers or abusive stepfamily.
Then there were the closet homosexuals, beating out their repressed feelings, only to have it heightened by Mara. The lowlifes and unpopular teens would use the firing range that consisted of a handful of guns and a single mannequin at the end of the room: no safety, no lessons; just a pure, unpoliced outlet. It was always a room that buzzed with excitement, release and simmering anger.
But now, she knew different. Echo felt her stomach churn as she understood there had been a third source of that smell, a third source that she ignored because it hadn’t been any of her concern.
Fear.
Fear from those they strung up as punching bags, those who were stupid enough to sell themselves to Cardinal House as tools; they dripped with blood, sweat and pain. Taken from the streets, lured in, bribed with money or tales of a new, exciting, experience, they got the people they needed.
Acid burned the back of Echo’s throat as she remembered one man, muscular with wide shoulders who had reeked of so much fear, Echo had to leave the room. Adin had brought him in with an invitation to the elusive Cardinal House and with just one of Echo’s drinks, he was gagged and bound butt naked in Mara's Suit. A woman, bland in her looks and meek in personality had enjoyed torturing him for hours. Burning flesh seared Echo’s nose as she watched the woman taser him over and over in the same spot, wielding the cattle prod like a sceptre.
Echo recalled how the woman had called him ‘Sir’ mocking the title and taken to pouring bleach all over his feet. “Get cleaning. Get cleaning.” She’d cackled as the madness of her rage took over.
Echo had never liked the smell of bleach after that, or the stench of fear that followed her for days after. She’d never bothered to identify the victims afterwards, knowing they would soon enough become the aggressors themselves and Mara’s cycle of wrath would continue.
But now she had felt that pain and that fear that dripped off in every bead of sweat. She had been those victims and she didn’t feel angry. In fact, she was hiding like a coward, with their blood still under her fingernails and in her hair, twisting into knots every time she moved. Their sweat and saliva covered her, soaked into her underwear and her skin. Her throat burned every time she spoke, and her lungs still begged for more air despite the cord around her neck being gone.
She could smell them; they were still here. Still on her.
With a sudden rush of cooling air, Echo tossed the knitted blanket off her body and sat upright on the couch. The apartment was dark and as she examined every elusive shadow, finding it as silent as the grave, except from a sleeping Queenie. Flushed, and sweaty, Echo forced herself to breath; to prove to herself that her neck was fine, her throat was fine, and she could. She’d made it out of that apartment, not only alive, but left that murderous Bonnie and Clyde act dead on her floor. Leaning forward until her head was practically between her knees, Echo reminded herself; she was alive.
“But Jacob isn’t.” her voice wheezed out, practically biting her lip off to stop the traitorous words from speaking the truth. The silver-tongued devil had helped her, and he’d been killed for it, stabbed in the back with a knife meant for her. “The stupid idiot.” She spat. He shouldn’t have interfered and now look at her, she was hiding like a coward on the dying words of the door man! “It’s not safe.’ what does that even mean?” She snapped.
Rubbing her face, trying to wake herself from whatever pathetic, guilt ridden state she found herself in, Echo instantly regretted it. Her face spasmed in pain as she pushed down on her black eye, bruised jaw, her fingers still swollen. Groaning through clenched teeth, she examined her wounds further: purple shiners on yellow bumps, a few cuts and scrapes, and maybe a bruised bone or two. That was all.
“I am not scared. I am not scared of anyone or anything.” She whispered to herself, but the last words of Camila rang loud and true. ‘Samantha. Samantha, she called in a favour. Said you were to die. We had to kill you but make it fun. She said it was a race…’
Silent tears ran down Echo’s face as she told herself again Camila was lying. Sam didn’t want her dead. Sam loved her; Echo brought her all the best drinks and helped Sam get all the guests’ inhibitions down. Sam always said, 'what would we do without you'. Always. But as Echo felt the last of the heat leave her bone, her aching body begging her to rest, she heard Adin’s voice whispering in her ear like a cold, harsh wind.
“Samantha is th
e deadly Sin of Lust, Echo. She doesn’t love anyone.” Samantha didn’t love her. None of the sins loved her. They coudln't... hadn't that been what she'd told Sydeny...
In that moment, Echo realised was completely alone.
◆◆◆
The manila file turned over in Echo’s hands just as the sun started to peek over the buildings across from the apartment. The file was new, and it pleased Echo to see it held every impossible detail she’d told Queenie. Unable to sleep and unwilling to try, Echo had instead, done what she did best: schemed, plotted, and snooped. Looking through McQueen’s files had been easy; he’d left them all out and without his puppy-dog eyes, she could read them with some interest. She never knew when she might need to kidnap a child; it was always good to make notes.