by Dan Alatorre
Helena stared into the vision, gazing at the man. Some type of arrow stuck out from his chest. His arms lay at his sides, water sloshing back and forth around him as the boat rocked in the waves. Other than that, he didn’t move.
She looked closer. The dead man’s face was covered with a black scuba diving mask.
Slowly, Helena’s gaze moved away from the ambulance wall, a hint of a smile tugging at her wrinkled lips.
Red-faced, Mr. Hollings glared at her, his lips moving.
The last of the fog lifted from Helena’s eyes. The hum faded, and Hollings’ words reached her ears.
“Here, you old bird. What’s happening?”
“Nothing. Just some news for Dr. Kittaleye.” Keeper 27 leaned back, easing into the headrest. “Her nightmares are at an end. The man in the black mask will not be able to bother her any longer.”
Hollings continued ranting—The what? The who?—but Helena was no longer listening. She squeezed her eyes shut, clenching her hands against her belly as the other visions came rushing back.
A little girl lay strapped down on an operating table, held down by people in surgical scrubs.
“You—you don’t use any anesthesia?” an attendant said.
“There was a . . . reaction the first time,” the surgeon replied. “Now, we just go in cold.”
The surgeon sliced the skin of her tiny leg as the little girl kicked and screamed.
Smoke rushed upward as the wound was cauterized to stop the bleeding. The stench of burnt flesh filled the air. The skin and muscles were pried open with large metal clamps, the little girl shaking as the attendants forced them into place.
Then came the drills.
“We must extract from several places if we are to reach the rich marrow,” the surgeon said.
As the girl screamed, they drilled into her. Bits of bone flew from the drill tip until the holes were large enough, then a long, firm wire was shoved into her femur. The child cried, straining against her captors, but to no avail. As her tiny chest heaved, the tubes were inserted and the machine turned on, humming as the marrow was slowly sucked out. When they’d filled a two-quart bag, the procedure was ended.
The girl lay on the table, her cheeks wet with tears, sobbing.
“There,” the surgeon said. “Put a bandage on the leg until we’re ready to go again.”
“A bandage? Doctor, surely we must suture the wound and—”
“This is a business!” The surgeon peeled off the latex gloves and walked toward the exit. “Patch her up and give her an ice cream. We drill again tomorrow.”
In the ambulance, Hollings shouted at Helena. “What’s that you’re mumbling, Keeper 27? They’re killing who?”
Helena turned away from him, wiping the tears from her eyes as the horrid vision faded.
Chapter 20
Trinn pulled a piece of rope through the belt loops of her oversize stolen shorts, tying it in a knot as she ran through the yards, heading toward the hotel.
Hours, the doctor said. I was out for hours!
Wincing, she held her side and climbed over a small fence, hoping to move around undetected from the street. Her t-shirt snagged, leaving a piece of white on the point of the slat and a scrape on her stomach, but she didn’t slow down.
If DeShear’s instructions are still in place, I need to get word to Helena. But I wasted a lot of time in that hospital.
If the plans have changed, how will I know?
She crouched by a dumpster near the marina. A chain link fence separated the civilians’ boats from those of the Defense Force. On the wall outside the duty hut, under a bright street light, was a payphone.
She bit her nail, her gaze going from the phone to the street light.
No. It’s too risky to try a call from here. Too much visibility.
And it might be too risky to call Helena at all now.
She considered the cash she had hidden in a planter box in front of the resort.
If I can get some money, I can get a passport and ID.
But that takes time. If Helena’s at risk, I need to get to her quickly.
Sighing, Trinn closed her eyes and pressed her head against the dumpster.
A noise came from a nearby boat. Trinn ducked, hoping she hadn’t been spotted.
A male and female sailor emerged from the lower deck of a Defense Force vessel, fixing their clothing.
The woman grabbed the radio from the boat’s console. “Unit ten-thirty, checking in.”
“All clear, Ensign Jolie,” the dispatcher said. “You and Mr. Desmond can lock up your craft and head back to quarters. Only unit seven twenty-one is still out.”
“Roger, base. I’ll give them a quick hello.” She adjusted the radio. “Unit ten-thirty to vessel seven twenty-one at sea. Come in, MacPherson.”
The radio squawked. “Seven twenty-one here,” a man said. “Good evening, Ensign Jolie.”
The woman smiled. “That you, Michael?”
“It surely is, Miss. How are things at the marina?”
“Mighty fine, sir. Mighty fine.” She winked at Mr. Desmond. “And what about your distress call? All good?”
“We riding high on the tide, sister. Caught us a murderer, maybe—that man from the other day. The one with the burning fishing boat.”
A jolt went through Trinn’s insides.
Burning fishing boat!
There can’t be two of those in two days.
Trinn crouched lower, craning her neck toward the Defense Force boat.
“Murderer?” the Ensign said. “That’s bad for business on our little island. What this fella’s name?”
“You saw it on the duty sheets for the day. He call himself Hamilton DeShear, from the States. Look like he attack Lieutenant Moray on his diving boat and try something funny.”
“That fella bad news.” Jolie paced back and forth in the little boat’s wheelhouse. “The Magistrate gonna lock him away, come morning.”
“Quick-quick, you bet. And serve him right, too. The lieutenant’s in a bad way. The boys want to gut this DeShear like a fish and throw him over the side.”
A car’s headlights washed the dumpster in light. Trinn recoiled, crawling further behind the blue steel box.
I need to get out of sight but still stay close enough to see and hear what’s happening.
“We gonna sign off,” Jolie said. “When you due in?”
“Be a few hours. This big boat take a while longer than your little speedy one.”
“See you when I see you, then. Unit ten thirty, out.”
“Good night, Ensign. Seven twenty-one clear.”
The ensign locked up her boat and headed toward the base dormitories. Trinn sat on the asphalt, replaying the conversation between the sailors.
Helena might be in trouble, but DeShear definitely is.
Trinn shook her head.
She stood up, lifting the faded plastic lid of the dumpster and peering inside. It was dry, mostly empty, and not very smelly. Gaps along the warped, cracked lid would allow for observation of the boats. It’d make a good enough hiding spot until the boat carrying DeShear arrived.
She put one foot on the side support of the container, hoisting her other leg over the top.
Sorry to disobey orders, Hank. You can be mad at me later—if you live.
* * * * *
As a car went by the front of the dark little house, Nigel stared at the laundry line in the homeowner’s back yard.
One, two, three, four, five.
Five pairs of clothespins—but only four t-shirts.
He ducked his head and walked under the rope, examining the second laundry line. Two pairs of shorts, and three pairs of clothespins. Stepping closer, he took out his phone and turned on the flashlight. The shorts were considerably larger in the waist than the naked woman he witnessed running across the street. Turning, he viewed the tiny yard. A third and fourth line had previously hung from the pole, but now only three did. The fourth had been cut. Part of
it dangled from the pole; part of it was sprawled on the ground, its clothes laying in the short, sparse grass. Nigel bent down and picked up the end of the dismantled laundry line and stared at the pruning shears on the ground next to it.
And then she had a makeshift belt.
If she gets a pair of shoes, she’ll be moving fast.
Coiling a section of rope around his fist, Nigel picked up the shears and sliced off a section for himself. He tied a knot in the middle and yanked the rope tight with both hands.
And this little garrote will go around your skinny neck when I find you, Miss Trinn.
Shoving the rope in his pocket, he continued along her trail. A small piece of torn, white cotton cloth hung from the top of the neighbor’s fence.
And then you went here . . .
The next house had apparently delivered the shoes to his fleeing prey. The occupants left their footwear in a row on the back porch—two small pairs of children’s shoes, one large pair of men’s shoes, and an empty gap between them.
Just enough space for mama’s shoes.
He looked to the next yard. It was the last house in the row.
And where did she go after that?
She doesn’t know anyone’s after her. She just wants to get someplace. Where?
She knows her man DeShear’s been taken away.
Would she think she could steal a boat and go after him? Intervene somehow on his behalf? Or would she just run back to her hotel?
He walked to the edge of the yard of the last house, looking down the road.
She might stay off the main streets—she has so far. She doesn’t want to be noticed. She’s afraid of what will happen if she’s spotted. That will slow her down.
He pulled out his phone to call Trinn’s resort.
Put a word in the desk clerk’s ear. Change the locks on her room and call me if she comes in. With no access to the room, she can’t reacquire her money or clothing, credit cards, identification . . . that will limit her ability to move very far. Then it’s just a matter of—”
A passing car illuminated the fence between the marina and the Defense Force boats. The black lid of a trash dumpster lowered. Under it, a glimpse of white t-shirt and long, dark hair.
Nigel gasped.
Unless there’s magic in the air, there you are, Miss Trinn. Hiding in the rubbish like the irritating piece of trash that you are.
Near the marina. So you can be ready to help your man somehow when he comes back from his little boat ride.
He pressed his hand to his pocket—and the firm lump of rope coiled up inside it.
Very well, miss. Very well.
But I don’t fancy jumping into that bin, do I? Might take a few seconds to climb in, and then I’d lose the element of surprise, wouldn’t I? And possibly have you overtake me? No. Can’t have that. Might be a broken bottle or piece of wood in there that you’ve fashioned into a weapon.
No, we need to get you out, not get me in.
And what would do that? A bit of fire tossed in, maybe? A Coke bottle full of gasoline, with a burning rag for a stopper? Light some newspaper and stuff it into a sack of oily rags from somewhere?
But where am I going to get that on short notice tonight? I can’t exactly run off and leave your bin unattended—you might not be here when I got back . . .
Nigel rubbed his chin, viewing the dumpster from across the wide-open parking lot on his right. On his left, a door slammed. A bus boy carried a trash bag out of a seafood restaurant, tossing it into the dumpster at the rear of the building. As the boy returned inside, the dark, furry shadows of several large rats scurried across a nearby telephone pole wire. One by one, they crawled down the wooden utility pole and across the fence to the restaurant dumpster.
Free meal, eh boys?
And maybe just the way to get our Miss Trinn out of the dumpster without me going in.
Chapter 21
Trinn crouched inside the dumpster with her t-shirt pulled over her nose. Putting her head against the warped dumpster lid, she peered outside. The street light allowed enough illumination to see the quiet boats.
Nothing yet. But the ensign said it would be a few hours.
There was whistling and footsteps in the parking lot behind her. The gravel crunched with every step. Trinn turned toward the sound, lowering her head.
A man approached, carrying a dark green trash bag and whistling as he walked.
Trinn frowned.
Great. Of course someone has to throw trash away while I’m in here.
She hunched down, pressing herself against the front wall.
Just stay still and he probably won’t see you.
The lid opened, letting in light from the streetlight. The bag dropped in, sagging sideways as it hit the floor. The inside of the dumpster was cast in shadows again when the lid banged closed, and the man walked back in the direction he came.
Trinn peered out as the stench of rotting fish guts assaulted her nose. Gagging, she faced the recent bag of deposited trash. Fish heads and entrails seeped out onto the floor of the dumpster. She exhaled, shoving the t-shirt over her nose and putting her face to the wall.
Out of the corner of her eye, the bag moved. Two lumps under the plastic, moving toward the open gap at the top of the bag. Then, a third.
She pressed herself harder into the wall. Goosebumps tingled on her arms.
No, no, no. Don’t be . . .
The first massive rat leaped from the bag, covered in slime and baring its teeth.
Trinn stifled a shriek, throwing herself backwards into the corner of the dumpster.
A second and third rat emerged, dripping with slime and clawing through the goo on the floor.
As a pack, they came toward her.
“Oh, no!” Trinn clawed the top of the dumpster, trying to pick her feet up. “No, no, no!”
As the first rat snapped at her ankle, she threw open the dumpster’s plastic lid and swung her legs upward like a gymnast. With both hands on the steel frame, she righted herself and balanced on the edge of the dumpster, kicking as the attacking vermin bit at her feet.
A slime-covered rat leaped at her, grabbed her calf. Its claws dug into her skin.
Heart pounding, Trinn lowered her belly onto the steel frame and slammed her leg back and forth until the rat let go, then thrust sideways off the dumpster. She crashed onto the hard asphalt of the parking lot, rolling away as fast as she could.
On her back, she crawled backwards, panting. A shiver went up her spine as she stared at the blue steel box.
“Here, miss, what’s happened? Are you all right?” A man rushed forward—the one who’d just thrown the trash away. “I’m frightfully sorry. I didn’t know you were . . . well, were you in the rubbish bin, ma’am? I don’t—I had no idea. Are you homeless, miss? Do you need help?” He put his hand under her arm. “I’m dreadfully sorry. Please, allow me to help you up and let’s get you a proper meal.”
Trinn turned to face him, opening her mouth to speak. The stranger dug his fingers into her arm and yanked a rope from his pocket with his free hand. His grip shot daggers of pain up her arm as the rope uncoiled and he looped it around her head.
Barely stable on her feet, Trinn swung her face away and brought her free hand up to her neck as the rope dropped past her chin. Clawing outward, the back of her hand slammed into her throat as the attacker pulled the cord tight.
The rope crushed Trinn’s fingers against her windpipe. She pushed her hand outward to keep the cord from slicing through her neck and killing her.
The attacker pulled her backwards, yanking her off her feet and dragging her across the parking lot. Trinn tried to yell for help, but nothing got past her windpipe. Flopping over, she swung at the stranger’s legs and feet, the pressure building in her lungs.
“Aw, Miss Trinn,” he grunted. “Is that the best you can do?” Chuckling, he pulled her along the side of the building. “Don’t worry. This will be quick.”
She kicked the gro
und, scrambling to get to her feet and relieve the pressure on her throat. She swung her free hand at his face.
The man leaned back, pulling her up and arching her over his midsection. “No,” he gasped, tightening the rope around her neck. “I don’t think so. Can’t have any scratches, love—DNA and all that.” He jerked her head back and forth. “Now, just be a good little lass—and die. That’s all we want.”
The pressure mounted. Trinn’s eyes pulsed, her lungs aching. No air was getting in or out. Her attacker kept knocking her off balance so she couldn’t get her feet down and relieve the pressure.
“That’s it, girl.” He groaned as he tightened the cord. “It’ll be over soon.”
Splotches of red and green appeared before her eyes. The street light overhead turned pink. She blinked, pushing blood over her cornea. Her mind raced.
Think, Jaden. Get an angle or you’re dead.
He jerked her again. Trinn squeezed her eyes shut, her hand swinging wildly at any part of him. She brushed chin stubble, then hair, but couldn’t connect.
As his chest pressed into her spine, he yanked the cord again. She twisted, sending them sideways. They crashed into a garbage can, knocking it to the ground and spilling its contents.
The rope tightened again.
“You’re done, girl.” His bad breath was hot in her ear. “It’s almost over. The blood vessels are bursting in your eyes, and the tunnel vision’s coming. That’s death, love. Let Uncle Nigel put you down nice and easy. There’s no need to fight. Just let it happen.”
Groaning, Trinn swiped at him again, her fingertips smashing into the wall behind him.
Nigel laughed and pulled the rope tighter. Her eyes felt as though they would pop. Her vision clouded, growing dark around the perimeter like she was falling down a well.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Let it come. Let death take you.”