Her mouth opens. Water rushes in. The ache in her chest turns to a thousand jellyfish stings. Colin was already inside the house. She left the gate unlatched.
No, no, no. Colin left it unlatched. Not her. Please, not her. In the shadows of her mind, she sees herself running into the house, sees Colin standing by the pool, but the image breaks apart.
Even if the heart can make almost anything real, it doesn’t make it the truth.
The tableau bleeds back into the stone. Her body convulses, and her elbow strikes something hard, knocks it away. All around her float framed photographs, Ben’s smile peeking out from every one. Her body convulses again; the resulting waves send the nearest photo spiraling.
Another image flickers across the rock—Ben floating face-down, the water wings deflated and torn, tattered ends floating like strands of seaweed.
She screams into the water. Pounds against the rock with her fists. She didn’t mean it. It was a mistake, but she can fix everything. She just needs another chance to make things right. She won’t forget to lock the gate this time. But Ben’s image fades, and she knows it’s too late. All the apologies in the world won’t bring him back.
The pain inside her swells. Breaks. The steady thump from the chasm’s walls begins to slow; the stone begins to melt into nothing at all. She drifts down and down, and then there are hands beneath her arms pulling her up, dragging her out. Voices tell her to breathe, just breathe, and she can’t find the words to tell them that she wants to, but she can’t remember how.
The Serial Killer’s Astronaut Daughter
They teach you a lot of things in school, in training. One thing that’s missing: What To Do When Your Father’s a Serial Killer.
* * *
Harrison is quoting from Aliens again, something about hell and express elevators. It was funny the first time. After ten months? Not so much.
And we aren’t traveling down to anywhere; we’re orbiting about 220 miles above Earth on this space station. No xenomorphs, no artificial humans, no acid for blood.
Barring any unforeseen circumstances, I’ll make my return trip to Earth in two months and get back in time for my father’s execution.
Peachy.
* * *
Picture this: four days ago. A broadcast from the station. Your basic hello, how are ya, this is what we’re working on now kind of thing. The folks back on Earth love it.
Harrison, Wallace, and I have the handheld camera floating with us in the corridor outside one of the service modules. The plan is to show the kids how we do maintenance work here in microgravity. Usually the press isn’t involved, but the Russians unveiled a new research project into changes in bacterial virulence before the camera switched to us. By now, half the chairs are empty. Our crew isn’t the celebrity type.
On a different station we might be. People still love to watch astronauts play instruments or pranks, random shit like that. This space station is owned by a private company, though, and for supposed confidentiality reasons, the public isn’t given unlimited access. No song and dance routines or selfies or status updates on social media allowed.
In some ways, it’s better this way; we can do our jobs without having to perform for the masses. But the company isn’t fooling anyone. They do it so they can control the public’s interest. I have to admit, so far it’s working.
A reporter, short and blonde with a cruel twist in her smile, raises her hand, is picked by the Earth-side moderator. (I know the smile. I know the type. Perfect lawn, perfect house, perfect happy fucking family, all the while spreading venom like it’s goddamn hummus on a pita.)
“Is the news about your father affecting your work in any way?” she says.
Camera cut to the confusion on my face. I’m thinking she has me mixed up with Harrison. His father’s in the hospital with heart trouble, but Harrison is a six-foot black man and I’m a five-foot, six-inch white chick.
“I mean, it must be a shock,” she continues, “to know that Mark Coyne, killer of twelve women, is your father.”
The pressroom erupts in chaos—shouts, flashing lights, waving arms. Cut to my face again. More confusion. A hint of anger. The broadcast cuts to the moderator who is asking for the next question. While that happens, I head out of the corridor, out of camera view, with Harrison and Wallace both looking at me with twin expressions of what-the-fuckery.
Film at eleven, right?
* * *
The first marriage proposal is a gem: I FEEL like I know you 4EVER. Your eyes, the smile, plz say yes. I know you’re daddy will luv ME.
I delete it. Proper usage of the apostrophe is hard, but still. The second proposal, written in a far more eloquent manner (and he promises me a lifetime of happiness and love and undying devotion), comes a week later, followed less than twenty-four hours later with the third and fourth. Of those two, the less said the better.
Great, now I have groupies. Like father, like daughter?
(Yes, serial killer groupies exist. Don’t bother looking that shit up; it’ll make your head spin.)
I don’t even know how the fuck they got my email address. I know nothing’s really private if you look hard enough, but shit …
* * *
The folks at the top have been curiously silent, save for one missive I received an hour after the reporter dropped her bomb. It told me that under no circumstances was I to participate in any other planned broadcasts and that further instructions would be forthcoming. Basically, shut your mouth and keep working.
Typical. Still, it makes me uneasy. I know it’s only been a week, but I expected a slew of messages. I guess the company has more important things to worry about. I hope so anyway.
* * *
The reporter who broke the story about my father sent me an email after the broadcast. She says she held onto the information for three months, but he was going to go public if she didn’t. I’m guessing she planned it that way so she can say she didn’t intend to fuck me over career-wise.
Right.
(I got that from Harrison, by the way. I hope I conveyed the correct inflection. Yes, I know it’s from Alien, not Aliens. Harrison is an equal opportunity quoter. And yes, I’m thinking about Alien again. The one character just says “right” over and over and over again. Annoying. It’s even more annoying when Harrison does it. And he does. All the time.
Don’t get me wrong. I like the movies. Seriously, what’s not to like? Ripley is a badass female character who takes on a monster alien and kicks its ass. In space. And in the second film, there are two badass females. Even if Vasquez, the marine, doesn’t get to survive. At least she goes out on her own terms and with a hell of a bang, too.)
And no, the reporter didn’t apologize for blindsiding me with the intel.
Here’s the skinny: my mother dated my father. Briefly. They never broke up, he just vanished. She found out she was pregnant, and, obviously, decided to keep me. Ten years later, he got caught.
I never knew my father, never knew who he was or anything about him. I have my mother’s last name. My mother says she didn’t know, didn’t match up the face from her memory to the one in the news reports, and he used a fake name when they dated. She found out the same day, the same way, I did.
Apparently the reporter, who’s writing a book, tracked my father’s backstory down after he fessed up on some of his aliases. Bam. Hello, birth certificate. My mother used his name, in case I ever wanted to track him down.
After the thousandth emailed apology, I told my mom to stop. It wasn’t her fault. She’s lucky she didn’t end up as one of his victims, but they were all blonde and very young. My mom had dark hair and wasn’t quite so young. Maybe he just wanted to try and act normal for a while. Maybe he was hiding. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
Twelve dead women, all with families and loved ones, and the media has decided to focus on me. No, it doesn’t make sense, but it makes a hell of a headline, so they say. Most people don’t remember the names of the victims anyway.
And somewhere in the middle of this whole mess, the press is having a field day. I’ve become the serial killer’s astronaut daughter. I don’t know who the hell she is, but she isn’t me.
* * *
My official title is Technical Mission Specialist. A space mechanic, if you will, but Harrison, Wallace, and I call ourselves cumscrubs, on account of the special grease we have to use up here.
Crass nickname aside, I’ve been a regular on this station for the past ten years. Usually it’s twelve months up, six back, but I’ve had shorter stints in both places. It sounds cheesy, I know, but they recruited me after my high school science fair. I’m reliable, I play well with others (mostly), and I do my fucking job.
On this mission, we’re here with the Commander, the Flight Engineer, a couple Science Officers, and a few Russian Cosmonauts, including a doctor. Wallace, Harrison, and I try to stay out of everyone’s way while we make sure all systems are in the green. The others stay out of our way, too.
Wallace and I are running diagnostics on the interior of a docking module; Harrison running the same outside. (Don’t tell the bosses, but we rock-paper-scissored for it.)
I pause, wipe a scrim of sweat from my brow, and tip my head in Wallace’s direction. “Did you see the latest? They’re painting me as some Jezebel with sociopathy in her veins. Wondering if I’m safe to be here with all of you, or if that shit is genetic and I’m one step away from snapping and killing all of you. I’m being crucified for something I didn’t do, for someone I’m not.”
“Why are you even watching that shit?”
“How can I not?”
“My advice to you,” Wallace says, “is to stay quiet and dignified. Let it blow over. Two months and we’re out. The novelty will wear off.”
“Quiet and dignified? Are you fucking serious? I’m an astronaut, not a fucking Barbie doll. Would you stay quiet and dignified if you were going through the same thing? And do you really think things will be better once we’re back? That’ll make this shit look like a picnic.”
He doesn’t answer. It doesn’t surprise me, though. Don’t rock the boat—that’s Wallace’s way of doing things.
* * *
Another news broadcast, this one solely Earthbound: him, the blonde reporter, a room in the prison—cinderblock walls, metal table bolted to the floor, shackles around his ankles, handcuffs on his wrists.
She says, “Would you like to talk to your daughter?”
He smiles a fucking Cheshire cat grin. Pity it doesn’t reach into his eyes. (The genetic gods are cruel bastards ’cause my eyes look a lot like his.) “I would, very much so.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. “Fucker.” I exhale the word.
I hear Harrison’s voice in the corridor outside the module and turn off the vidscreen fast.
* * *
I stare into the mirror for a long time. My eyes. His eyes. Mine don’t look so cold, so dead. At least I don’t think so. I look at the palms of my hands, move my fingers. Weird. I never noticed that hands look a lot like facehuggers, the nasty spider-like progenitors of the alien. Yeah, that’s another reference to the movies. I can’t help it, though. Harrison plays them all the motherfucking time, and they stick in your head.
The facehuggers gave life, although not birth, to the alien, but the only similarity between the two was the acid blood in their veins. (Think human head-sized creepy crawler versus a huge monster with a nightmarish double mouth.) I know his DNA is inside me, but there’s even less of a similarity between our life forms. I’ve never thought of hurting anyone. I mean, yeah, I’ve been pissed off enough to want to punch someone in the face, but not like … that. Not like him.
* * *
A few more marriage proposals, emails from people asking me how it feels to be his daughter, another message from the blonde reporter (I delete that without even reading), a quick note from my mom, asking if I’m okay. I look down at my grimy hands, my coveralls smeared with grease. Yeah, it looks about like you think it would.
Then I see the email with the Department of Corrections address. It sits in my inbox, daring me to open it. Delete it, I tell myself. Have the IT folks block the address.
He asks how I’m doing, what I’m doing, tells me he sees a lot of himself in me. I run my tongue around the still sore spot in my cheek. At the end, he adds a P.S. Tell your mother I said hello. No comments about who, what, where he is.
I didn’t even know prisoners on Death Row were allowed email. Then again, somebody like him, the cops probably want him to have access, then they can take a peek whenever they like to see if he’s saying anything that might help. I can’t imagine what that would be, though. They’re just going to kill him in a couple months, case closed. Hell, maybe no one, not even the cops, gives a shit what he’s saying for that very reason.
I’ve read the details of his crimes, bad enough, and imagine there’s plenty worse they haven’t leaked to the public. I have a feeling the reporter will include all the juicy details in her book. People love reading about shit like that the same way they love slowing down when they pass a car accident.
I don’t say a word to the guys about the email. Harrison, Wallace, and I have been working together a long time and we shoot the shit about everything. But this email? No fucking way.
I stab the delete button hard; if he emails me again, I won’t read it.
* * *
When Wallace pulls me into the communications mod, Harrison is already there, his face grave. “Sit down, okay?” he says.
I see his face, paused on the screen. (Strange, I always thought I looked like my mother, but in this frozen shot, I see a lot of myself and I fucking hate it.) “What the hell, guys. This isn’t funny.” I glare at Wallace. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you ask me why I was even watching this shit? So what gives?”
He has the decency to look embarrassed before he holds up one hand. “I know, but you need to see this.”
The blonde is there, sitting by his side. He looks to her. She nods. He gives a hesitant half-smile, looks right into the camera.
“I’ve had an epiphany, and I’ve decided to be completely honest for the first time in my life. I owe this to my daughter, working up on the space station. She really is an amazing woman.” He pauses to clear his throat and look down at his lap. “I want to come clean about the … about some other victims I haven’t talked to anyone about yet. But on one condition. I’ll give the information to my daughter when she returns to Earth.”
A sharp intake of breath—mine. “Motherfucker,” I whisper.
A strange numbness spreads through my limbs. It isn’t bad enough that he’s got the press thinking we were some sort of family? That he was involved? Now he wants to tell me about the women he killed? Uh-uh. No way. Is this some kind of payback for not responding to his email?
Wallace puts a hand on my shoulder. Harrison does the same on the other side.
“That’s some real pretty shit,” Harrison says.
“Why the fuck would he want to tell me? I’m not a cop.”
They both just shake their heads.
“I’m not talking to him about anything,” I say. “This is all so fucked up. It’s ridiculous.”
Wallace nods.
Harrison exhales through his nose. “Yeah, yeah it is.”
* * *
Along with the proposals, the people wanting to be my friend or offering prayers to support me in my time of need or telling me to kill myself before I hurt anyone, there are a slew of messages from the media, all wanting interviews, all wanting to know what I’m going to do. What. The. Fuck.
And the worst?
The messages from families of missing women that fit his preferred type. They’re all begging me to help them: our only daughter, Patty; our sister, Evie; my best friend, Tilda.
I can’t fucking help them. I can’t.
* * *
Another message comes in from the top. Brief and to the point: No
contact whatsoever with Mark Coyne. As if I needed the reminder. As if I’d want to talk to him about anything at all, let alone his crimes.
* * *
Dear Daughter:
Not sure if you’re keeping up with the latest celebrity broadcasts, but you and I are the biggest stars right now. Maybe in an alternate universe, I could’ve helped your Mom raise you, could be sitting with her right now watching all the reports about you. I hope you write. I’d like to get to know you before it’s too late.
No comment about wanting to tell me about other dead women.
My eyes flick back to the Dear Daughter again and again.
Delete.
* * *
I run into the Commander in between the laboratory modules. She smiles but not before I see the pity in her eyes. I don’t smile back. Fuck her and her pity.
* * *
I head over to the Russian side of the station, flick the side of my neck the way they showed me. They grin, hand over the vodka. It burns like a bastard on the way down, but I don’t cough or sputter. They laugh, give me a high-five.
“Your father. Durak, yes?” one says.
“Means like dumb-ass,” another says.
The others laugh. Another high-five. Another swig of vodka all around.
* * *
Dear Daughter:
I’ve been reading about your schooling, your training, everything. I’m really proud of all your accomplishments. Hey, maybe you could contact your Mom for me, ask her to respond to my messages? Maybe the three of us could do an interview together? Elise Paulson, she’s the reporter who’s writing the book about me, would be willing to put everything together. Just let me know, okay?
Delete.
* * *
I’m trying to loosen a bolt that refuses, no matter how much lube I smear around it. “Come on, motherfucker,” I yell, wielding the wrench like it’s a sword. I attempt to anyway. The microgravity turns the movement into some weird underwater ballet-like thing. Under different circumstances, it would probably be funny as hell, but Harrison doesn’t laugh. He puts his hand on my arm, takes the wrench, and steeples his fingers beneath his chin.
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