Blood and Sand

by Michael Lister

  “Nothing for me?” I ask as I walk up to them.

  “I didn’t know how long you’d be on the phone,” Anna says.

  “Really?” I ask.

  I give her a quizzical look, but she is already scanning the small town square.

  The Sandcastle town square is a rectangular green with an amphitheater and recreational areas that include beach volleyball pits and a playground for kids, surrounded by the small shops, boutiques, and eateries that form the heart of the quaint seaside village. Like all the places along 30A, this planned community is unique and yet uniform, the architecture, color schemes, and overall aesthetic of every building—the businesses on the square no less than the residences beyond them—all conforming to and complimenting one another.

  “I’ll share with you, Daddy,” Taylor says.

  My eyes sting as her little hand shoots up, lifting her melting cone toward me.

  “That’s so sweet and generous of you,” I say, “but I’m good. You eat it.”

  “Have some, Daddy,” she says. “It’s gooo-oood.”

  “He can go in and get his own,” Anna says to her, then to me, “We’re right here. Just go in and get what you want. We’ll see you back at the house.”

  “You wouldn’t even wait for me?” I ask. My voice is filled with surprise, but I can also hear the underlying hurt at its edges.

  “Daa-ddy,” Taylor said. “Have some of mine.”

  I squat down in front of Taylor and take a single lick from her cone. It’s a disgusting mixture of bubblegum, mint chocolate chip, and peach with sprinkles on top. It’s the best ice cream has ever tasted to me.

  “Good, isn’t it?” Taylor says.

  “The best,” I say. “Thank you so much for sharing.”

  “Have some more, Daddy.”

  “I’m good,” I say. “You eat the rest. After you finish your ice cream, you want to go to the bookstore and pick out a book for tonight?”

  “Yes, sir, please.”

  I turn to Anna. “I thought we could look around the town square while y’all finish your ice cream and then take her to the bookstore, but if you want to go back to the room and shower and rest, Taylor and I can meet you back there later.”

  “Are you going to the bookstore to get her a book or to interview someone?”

  I frown at her and shake my head. “To get her a book and—”

  “And what?” she says. “To—”

  “I had thought we might get one too.”

  “Oh, well, I brought a few with me.”

  I nod. “So did I. Doesn’t mean we can’t add one . . . or two . . . or a few to our piles.”

  “We spend too much on books as it is,” she says.

  I shake my head emphatically. “No such thing.”

  “Our bank account begs to differ . . . and since you quit the prison . . . But you’ve already mentioned it to her now . . . so . . . I’m tired. I’m going back to the room. I’ll see y’all there.”

  “We can walk you back to the room, get cleaned up, and then come back,” I say.

  Everything in the compact community of Sandcastle is within walking distance of everything else. The houses surround the seaside square on three sides, have no front yards and very little side and back yards, so are extremely close together.

  She shakes her head. “That’d be silly when you’re already here,” she says. “Besides, I’ll enjoy the walk back by myself and some time alone in the room.”

  “Then we’ll look around at the town and give you some extra time.”

  “No need for that,” she says. “Just do whatever y’all want to and have a good time. She’ll need the ice cream cleaned off her before she goes into the bookstore.”

  I refrain from saying something sarcastic or snarky about the obvious nature of her comment and how well I take care of our girls in particular and books in general. Things are strained enough between us without me slinging some kerosene on the dumpster fire that is our relationship right now.

  Day 37

  Day 37

  I dream of Magdalene every night and I always wake up crying. Occasionally they are happy tears that roll out of the corners of my eyes to puddle in my ears, but mostly they are torturous tears that burn like acid from closed eyes that are seeing images no father should ever have to see.

  I know now I will never get her back. Never get to hold her. Never get to kiss the damp hair of her head after her bath. Never get to cuddle with her in her soft footed pajamas.

  She is dead. I know it. I can feel it in my bones.

  I just wish I knew what happened and where her body is. I want to bring her home. Lay her to rest. Honor her short, sweet little life with a fitting memorial service and proper burial.

  But I’ll never even get to do that.

  I’ll never know what happened to her. Never know who took her from us and why. Never get her precious remains back.

  I want to join her.

  I want to die.

  9

  “You interviewing all the suspects?” Rake Sabin asks.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Keith told me he and Christopher were going to ask you to help find Magdalene.”

  “Are you a suspect?”

  “We all are,” he says. “Every one of us who was in that house that night. And I guess one of us did it, but I have a very, very hard time believing that.”

  As Taylor and I were walking back to the Florida House from the bookstore, we passed by Wheel of Time, Rake Sabin’s bicycle rental place—a large white tent on the town square with rolling racks of pastel painted bicycles.

  He had come out to tell us that a bicycle rental for all three of us came with our stay this week and didn’t we want to go ahead and get two now.

  As we looked at and talked about the bicycles, I had asked him a few questions about the night of Magdalene’s disappearance, which is what led him to ask if I am interviewing all the suspects.

  “I only have a few moments,” I say, glancing at Taylor. “Can we just start with what you remember about that night?”

  Beyond the bike rack, Taylor is perched on a wooden bench looking through the book I just got her—a beautiful blue preschool picture book titled Ten Magic Butterflies.

  “The thing is,” he says, “I’m a health-conscious guy. I stay in shape. I bike. I work out. I take Taekwondo.”

  It is obvious that what he is saying is true. He’s dressed in biker shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops, and his trim, muscular body is on full display. I’m not sure how old Sabin is, but it’s as if his head is older than his body. His head, with its lined face, dark-circled eyes, and thinning hair, looks to be pushing fifty, while his trim, athletic body looks to be a youthful thirty-something.

  “I’m not sayin’ I’m like this big badass or something, but I’m no cupcake either,” he is saying. “And here’s what kills me. The one time I get to use it to protect that sweet little baby angel, my sorry ass is passed out. I don’t drink. Except for one night a year, and even then I don’t drink much. Certainly not as much as everyone else. But it’s like this thing. Once a year at our winter solstice party I join in and drink with everybody else. And I guess since I don’t drink any other time, it doesn’t take much to get me buzzed or whatever. So while some sick motherfuckin’ monster is stealing that innocent child out of her bed, I’m passed out on the couch drooling on Henrique who is drooling right back on me. That’s what I remember most. And I feel as guilty as if I had left the front door open and driven the getaway car for him.”

  As he talks, I keep a close eye on Taylor, who is enjoying her new book immensely and even quietly saying words to herself that sound like reading.

  “I’m very sorry,” I say. “I can imagine how you feel. I’ve felt similar guilty feelings before. But maybe we can finally figure out what really happened, who has her, and get her back. I think that would go a long way to assuage your guilt.”

  “If we could get her back to her parents and if she
was okay, I wouldn’t care how I felt,” he says. “But the chances of that are . . .”

  Not good, I think but don’t say.

  I remain silent an extra beat, waiting to see what he’ll say if I’m not guiding him with questions.

  “We used to look forward to that party all year long,” he says. “Now . . . it’s not just that we could never have a party like that again . . . I’m actually dreading the approach of the holiday season. Can feel myself getting physically sick. Been thinkin’ I might try to get away this year. This place is a ghost town in late December, so I could just leave. Drive to my folks place in Norfolk or my sister’s in Gainesville. Hell, I’d go to my ex’s to get away from here. Anyway . . . that night wasn’t all that different from all the others—and believe me I’ve thought about it. I’ve spent more time thinking about those few hours than any other time in my life. The thing is . . . I don’t want anything I say to make you think any of my friends are guilty, because I know they’re not.”

  “I won’t make any assumptions,” I say. “Won’t jump to any conclusions based on anything you say.”

  “I think we were all more tired that year than any other,” he says. “We work hard all season long and the season here is getting longer and longer. But we’re also getting older, so maybe that had something to do with it, but it didn’t seem like anyone was feeling it that night. I don’t know how long it went after I was semi-comatose, but it wasn’t nearly as long as in the past. We’ve had many years—most—where more than a couple of us stayed up all night. Never me, but plenty of others. And you know how they say holidays are stressful? That’s never been the case here. We’re at our least stressed-out during this time of year, but . . . there was some definite tension. Not everybody had it, but something was going on between Keith and Christopher and Clarence and Sarah. I just figured it was normal couple stuff. And I still think it was. I don’t suspect any of them. Especially not Keith and Christopher. They worshipped that child. Christopher is usually such a good host, catering to everyone, but that night . . . he was one of the first to sit down and not get back up. Just sort of like fuck it I’m done. And Brooke, who I’d never seen act like this before, seemed like she was high as hell when she arrived. Just sort of out of it, but not in a good way. It’s like she was on a high but wasn’t happy about it. She wasn’t mellow at all. Just sort of agitated. I don’t know. It was weird. But again . . . nothing that happened that night has ever made me suspect any of them.”

  I nod and think about it and we are quiet for a moment. Just because he thinks Brooke was high doesn’t mean she was, but even if she was, I’m not sure it’s relevant.

  “I’m not trying to give any offense,” he says. “’Cause I appreciate anything anybody will do for . . . Magdalene, but . . . Do you know how many different people have looked at this case? How many cops and detective and forensic specialists? How many reporters and investigative journalists? Hell, how many true crime podcasts and online armchair detectives and citizen sleuths? Do you really think you’re going to figure out something none of them have?”

  I shake my head. “Probably not.”

  “And if not . . . is it worth getting Keith and Christopher’s hopes up?”

  Day 43

  Day 43

  I know now we will never get her back. There’s no part of me left that can even attempt to pretend to the other parts of me that I believe she’s still alive or that we will ever see her again. I’ve never known despair like this before. Hopelessness. No one knows this and no one will until they read this journal, but I tried to kill myself this morning. Maybe “try” is too strong a word. Maybe it was more just that I very seriously contemplated it and looked for ways to do it. I actually held Keith’s handgun to my head for a few minutes before I found that I was too big a coward to pull the trigger. I don’t want to live. But I am unable to kill myself. I just wish I knew what happened to Magdalene. Even if I never get to see her again . . . even if I never get to hold her . . . even if she’s not alive and hasn’t been for a very long time, not knowing is driving me insane. I just want to know what happened to her and know who did it. I’m not even sure what I would do about it. As much as I would like to think I would kill them, it’s hard to imagine if I can’t kill myself feeling the way I do that I could kill anyone else. Not knowing is the coolest torture ever conceived by the universe. I just want to know. Please let me find out what happened to my little girl. Why? Why did this happen? Did I do something to cause this? Did Keith? Is this our fault? Did we let someone into our lives and into our home that put our little girl at risk? We tried so hard to protect her, but ultimately we failed. Maybe all those people who said we shouldn’t be able to adopt because we are gay were right after all, but for the wrong reasons.

  10

  “All I ever wanted was to be a parent,” Christopher is saying. “And for so long I didn’t think it was going to happen. I say parent because I really always thought I’d be like a mother and a father, not just a father. My own dad was . . . Let’s just say he wasn’t what someone like me needed. He was distant, aloof, harsh, punitive. To this day he still hasn’t fully accepted that he has a gay son.”

  It’s late. The house is quiet. As far as I can tell we’re the only two people still awake.

  “I knew I could be a better father than he was,” he says. “A better all-around parent, and I wanted the chance to be. We struggled so long to adopt. Turned down time after time. It felt like we were one of those fertility couples unable to get pregnant no matter what we tried, then having a miscarriage once we did. I had all but given up hope when Magdalene came along—and I think Keith long since had. But from the moment I met her I knew she was mine, meant to be my child. It was obvious to everyone—except for her foster mom, who was part of one of those ‘homosexuals are an abomination’ religious groups, but eventually even she came around. Unlike so many couples attempting to adopt, Keith and I didn’t have our hearts set on getting a baby. We didn’t care what gender or race, and we were even open to adopting more than one child in order to keep siblings together, and yet . . . we got our dream baby. It was . . . I think it was a miracle.”

  His voice is soft and quiet, his mouth dry. It’s late and he’s sleepy, but it’s more than that. He’s bone-weary and broken.

  The weight of his sadness and grief haven’t aged him any. He’s so slight and has such a youthful face that beneath the bangs of his blond-highlighted hair he appears to be far more boy than man.

  “I’d never been happier in my life,” he says. “I had a husband I loved and adored and who loved me. I had a baby—a baby—a precious little angel baby girl who was heaven itself. We had a family. We were a family. And we had a business we loved. Everything was . . . well, it was perfect. It didn’t last long, but while it did, it was perfect. It was perfect and it was Christmas—my favorite time of year—and . . . then it was . . . she was . . . gone. First we had each other, then we had her, and then we had everything. And then we had nothing. That’s what it feels like. I mean, I know we still have each other and we still have our business, but none of it seems right now. None of it can ever be . . . what it was. The cruelty involved in letting us have her only to snatch her away is unfathomable. Not many people know this—maybe only Keith—but since it happened I have no sense of taste or smell and I’ve gone colorblind. Nearly a year now without smelling or tasting a thing and without seeing colors. I feel like someone who can’t quite completely come out of anesthesia and everything that touches me or that I bump up against gives only the slightest sense of pressure. No real feeling. No actual experience of being awake and alive—just this limp, deadened thing without sensation.”

  His eyes are moist and his voice is hoarse, but he hasn’t broken down and no tears are falling.

  “Before all this happened, I used to be a big true crime buff,” he says. “Used to read all the books I could get my hands on. Used to watch the films and TV shows, listen to the podcasts. Since it happened I can�
��t . . .” He shakes his head and makes an expression like he might be about to vomit. “I haven’t listened to even part of any show. I have no appetite for it. And all I can think about are the poor families—the husbands and wives, friends and siblings, moms and dads of the missing and murdered . . . And I think . . . I was never sensitive enough to their plight, never felt as horrified for them as I should, never grieved or experience grief for them to the level I should have. It was on some of those true crime podcasts and in some of those books that I first heard about you. It’s how I recognized Merrick McKnight’s name when I saw his first byline on an article relating to . . . to what happened to Magdalene.”

  He pauses and I wait, the desultory sounds of the large, old, wooden house creaking and the low hum of the central air-conditioning system momentarily moving from the background.

  “I feel like I’ve been such a fool,” he is saying. “You know how they say that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?”

  I nod.

  “We’ve been trying to find Magdalene the same way, by doing the same things, for almost a year. It hasn’t worked—at all. And yet we keep trying it. Keep doing things the same way.”

  He pauses but I don’t say anything, just continue to wait while actively listening.

  “Asking for your help is doing something different,” he says. “New and different eyes on everything, a different approach to investigating the case.”

  “Probably similar to what’s been done in a lot of ways,” I say. “But certainly some difference too.”

  “The thing is . . . this whole time I’ve take such pride in the fact that even when the entire world thought that Keith and I killed her, accidentally or otherwise, or sold her into sex slavery—that not a single one of our closest friends, the ones who were actually here that night, ever believed it. And I’ve thought how much trust and integrity it showed that we never suspected them.”