The Girl In The Sand

by L. T. Vargus

  He stopped gritting his teeth long enough to finish off another beer. Burped.

  Why’d she have to bring all of this on them? All of her baggage, years and years of it, cluttering his home, their relationship. Like his life was just supposed to stop and start at the whims of her problems.

  He just wanted to relax. Kick back on the couch. Watch some TV. Pursue happiness one 16-ounce can at a time. But he couldn’t. Not with this black cloud hanging over them. Goddamn law enforcement dropping in whenever to play twenty questions — the 1993 edition — for the millionth time.

  Claire did this to them. It was her fault. Anyone with eyes could see that. She did it, and she welcomed more of the same, didn’t she? She accommodated this Loshak prick more than her own man.

  All Mark got for his trouble was yelled at, a few dirty looks, made to feel like he was some monster for putting his hand on his girl’s back.

  It would never end, if things were left up to her. It’d drag on and on.

  Well, fuck that.

  The tab of the next can sang its song, the crack and pop filling the kitchen.

  By the time Claire got home, Mark was ready to fight.

  Chapter 33

  Darger almost couldn’t believe it when her phone tittered the next day, and she found a text from Nicole asking to be picked up. Her fingers folded into a fist and punched the air. So she hadn’t completely fucked things up after all.

  Still, she didn’t get her hopes up for much friendly conversation. That was fine, though. She’d just focus on her task. Her job was to be vigilant, to keep a trained eye on the surroundings. Other than that, she would keep her mouth shut and stay in the damn car.

  But there was an extra surprise when Nicole slid into the back seat that evening. A little white box in the girl’s hand. She leaned forward, extending the box within Darger’s reach. The clear plastic window on top revealed a cluster of small brown orbs. Chocolate, it looked like.

  “What’s this?”

  “Truffles,” Nicole said, thrusting the box at her. “I made them for you.”

  Darger was so taken aback, she didn’t make a move to take them. A flicker of doubt clouded Nicole’s green eyes.

  “You’re not like… diabetic, are you? Or on some freakish diet?”

  The box retracted an inch, and Darger grabbed it before it could disappear into the back seat.

  “Hell no.”

  She popped open the box and sniffed. Each sphere was smothered with a layer of dark chocolate and sprinkled with sea salt. It smelled like heaven.

  “I can’t believe you made these for me. Thank you.”

  Nicole waved her hand impatiently.

  “Try one.”

  Darger lifted one of the chocolates to her mouth. The outer layer cracked as she bit through it, a hard contrast to the silky smooth interior. It was rich and sweet and bitter, with an extra tang at the end.

  “What is that? Coffee and something else…”

  “It’s espresso and cognac.”

  Darger closed her eyes and popped the rest of the bite into her mouth.

  “Sweet Jesus. They’re delicious.”

  Nicole’s smile was 90% gums and 10% teeth. It made her seem like a little kid.

  “I’m glad you like them.”

  The urge to eat more was strong, but Darger resisted. She closed the box and set it on the passenger seat.

  “I better pace myself. And if I don’t save at least one for my partner, he might never speak to me again.”

  That got a chuckle out of Nicole. Maybe Darger hadn’t screwed up as bad as she thought.

  She found Nicole’s eyes in the rearview mirror as she started the engine.

  “You should be a pastry chef. For real. Open a bakery or a candy shop or something.”

  Nicole shrugged.

  “Maybe someday, but….” She shook her head.

  Darger drove on. A blue light lit up the back seat where Nicole fiddled with her phone.

  Suddenly her head poked between the seats.

  “Do you mind if I turn on the stereo?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Nicole fiddled with her phone and the touchscreen on the dash for a moment. A low hum poured out of the speakers.

  At first Darger thought it was just background noise from the speakers being on, but then she detected a shift in tone, followed by a rattle and soft chimes.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “Oh, it’s my mood cleansing music. It’s like a specific frequency that’s supposed to wipe out negative energy.”

  Darger smiled with half her mouth.

  “Are you a hippie?”

  “No,” Nicole scoffed.

  “You sure?” Darger teased. “Because this sounds an awful lot like hippie music.”

  The girl rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. “I’m not a hippie.”

  “OK, let me ask you a few questions then. Do you enjoy the smell of patchouli?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Darger pretended to ponder this. “Hm. Have you ever had dreadlocks?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever sewn patchwork panels into your jeans to turn them into bell bottoms?”

  “I don’t even know how to sew.”

  “So far you’re doing well. But how many Grateful Dead albums do you own?”

  Nicole laughed. “None.”

  “Have you ever played hacky-sack?”

  “Once, and I was really bad at it.”

  “Final question,” Darger said. “How often do you eat granola, and there are five bonus points if you’ve ever made your own.”

  “That’s not fair! You know that I bake.”

  Darger prodded the air with a finger.

  “I don’t make the rules.”

  Nicole sighed.

  “I suppose I’ve been known to burn a little sage now and then.”

  They were stuck at a long red light near the Strip. People poured out of a movie theater on the corner, a sudden rush of bodies and voices crowding the crosswalk.

  Darger’s phone vibrated. It was a text from Owen.

  I’m sorry. Please call me.

  Darger stared at the black letters on the glowing white screen for a beat before she tucked the phone away again.

  “Boyfriend trouble?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Nicole shrugged. “Or girlfriend. And I know you’re not married, because you don’t have a ring. Either way, I know that look.”

  “Boyfriend. And I guess it must be a face I make often, then,” Darger said with a sigh. “Sometimes I think I’m just not meant for relationships. Maybe I’m supposed to trade men for some weird hobby. Going to bird shows. Or dumpster diving. Maybe pickling.”

  The light finally turned green, and they left the bustling intersection behind.

  “How about you?”

  “Me, what?”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Nicole flung herself back against the seat and crossed her arms.

  “Kinda hard to date for fun when you date for a living.”

  Her head lolled against the leather upholstery.

  “Some days I don’t want to be touched at all when I’m done with work. My son being on the spectrum… he’s not always the most physically affectionate. And those nights, the nights where even a hug would set my teeth on edge, I’m almost glad. That probably sounds horrible. But I would feel worse if he craved that physical affection, and I couldn’t give it to him.”

  The tires bumped over the lip between the road and the parking lot as Darger steered the car into the motel parking lot. She found an empty spot and cut the engine.

  “Can I ask you another personal question?” Darger asked.

  A slight nod indicated she should continue.

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get caught?”

  “I mean, yeah,” Nicole said, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes. “But I have a pretty good system.”

  Darger’s curiosi
ty got the better of her, and she blurted out, “What is it?”

  Nicole’s face pinched into a frown.

  Damn. Maybe Loshak was right about her being too tenacious. She put her hands up, surrendering.

  “Nevermind. You don’t have to tell me.”

  The girl was already halfway out of the car.

  “See you in an hour.”

  The steady click of her heels faded as she moved off to one of the numbered doors.

  The car seemed extra quiet now that Nicole’s music was gone. Darger turned on the radio, but abandoned it almost immediately. All the music sucked, and the ads were worse.

  After twenty minutes, the gun was bothering her again. She’d completely forgotten about the thigh holster, like an idiot. She scooted forward and back, trying to find a comfortable position, but there was something about the design of the seats that was just unbearable in combination with the bulk of her gun pressing against her ribs. It felt like the Glock 22 was trying to burrow itself into her body like a parasitic insect.

  Fuck it, she thought. She slid the gun from the holster and set it on the passenger seat. She stretched out against the seat, arching her spine. So much better.

  Well, mostly. The seats were still hell on her lower back, but at least she wouldn’t have an imprint of the grip on her torso at the end of the night.

  Her eyes wandered the interior of the car and then fell on the box of bonbons. Might as well, she thought. One more wouldn’t kill her.

  It was salty and sweet and boozy and bitter. A nearly overwhelming combination of flavors that made her eyes water.

  Through the windshield, she could see a little of the Strip. The bright colored lights in the distance looked like some kind of 365-day-a-year Christmas display.

  Such a strange city. Darger was used to the tree-lined streets of Virginia and Denver. Not that there weren’t trees in Vegas, if you counted all the palms. But overall it was a flat, desolate-looking place, despite being surrounded by mountains. It really did look like some kind of oasis or mirage that had sprung out of nowhere in the middle of the Mojave.

  Voices approached. An elderly couple sidling up to the car next to Darger’s. She nudged the candy box over her pistol and smiled at the old woman. A lot of people got weirded out seeing firearms out in the open like that, and Darger didn’t want to have to get out her badge to explain. Nicole would be done soon, and the last thing she wanted was to be caught outside of the car again.

  Darger went back to scanning the parking lot and absently drumming her fingers against the steering wheel.

  There were still ten minutes left on the hour when Nicole returned. She tossed her red leather bag in first and then climbed in after it.

  “You’re done early.”

  “He fell asleep.”

  Darger turned in her seat and peered back at the girl. “During?”

  Nicole threw her head back and cackled.

  “No! After. It happens sometimes. Especially with the older guys.”

  The engine started with a mechanical rumble, and Darger headed for the next call.

  They were at another red light when Nicole’s voice piped up behind her.

  “OK. I do tarot readings.”

  Darger glanced into the rearview, almost doubting that Nicole had been talking to her.

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s my system. The guy pays me for a tarot reading. That’s when the money changes hands. Anything that happens after that is a casual encounter between two consenting adults.”

  Traffic moved. Darger accelerated, thinking it over.

  “That’s pretty slick.”

  “In theory, anyway. I’m sure if the cops wanted to bust me, they could.”

  The blinker ticked out a steady rhythm.

  “Well, your secret is safe with me.”

  “That wasn’t what I was worried about, really,” Nicole said.

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No,” she said, holding back a smile. “I was worried that being a tarot reader would add more points to my hippie score.”

  Darger laughed.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything, but yeah. That puts you way over the line.”

  Chapter 34

  Mark picked at the bubbled spot on the laminate countertop, thumbnail chewing at the peeling layer of shiny plastic, pressing into the spongy particle board underneath. The scraping sound his work produced was somehow satisfying. A symphony of crinkles and multi-textured scratches.

  He knew Claire could hear it, too, even if she was in the next room. She hated it when he messed with the flawed spot like this. Maybe that was why he did it so often.

  Yeah, well, we’ve all got shit to deal with. We’ve all got our cross to bear, right? That’s the way he figured it.

  “What’s for dinner?” he said, his voice loud and sharp so she could hear through the wall.

  There was a pause before she answered.

  “I’m not hungry. You should have whatever you want.”

  The heel of his hand thumped the counter, and a breath hissed out of him.

  Of course this was how she’d play things. It was typical, really. She did shit like this. Sulked away into a corner. Closed herself off from everyone. Left him on his own. Abandoned him.

  He took another slurp of beer, and the brew and a small pocket air caught in his throat. Gagged him a little. The muscles in his neck got tight as the swallow descended, and it felt wrong every step of the way down, finally arriving at his stomach and depositing the orb of discomfort there to linger.

  He hitched in a breath, diaphragm flexing to try to coax the burp out. When that didn’t work, he hovered a hand in front of his belly, clenching and unclenching his fist, twisting a little like he manually could loosen up some valve in his belly.

  Stupid Claire. She got him so worked up like that, and he couldn’t think straight, couldn’t even walk or talk or swallow correctly. One of these days, he’d wind up choking thanks to something she did. What was the word? Asphyxiating.

  He burped, the air vibrating out of him, catapulted from his stomach with some oomph. It came with great relief and a burning feeling in his throat that felt a little like acid reflux.

  Enough of this. He wasn’t going to stand around in his kitchen feeling like this. Wasn’t going to be held hostage in his own home for Christ’s sake.

  He stalked around the corner to confront her, head tipped way back to kill off his last beer as he proceeded.

  The bedroom door blocked his path. A panel of wood erected between them.

  Mark hadn’t expected this, and it stopped him in his tracks. She rarely closed it. Even during the worst of their fights, the door stayed open.

  He stared at the grain of the wood, but it offered no answers. His shadow laid a dark shape over the veneer, blocking out some of its glimmer.

  His fingers closed around the empty beer can in his mitt, cinching tighter and tighter. The aluminum crumpled in his grip, and there was something satisfying about that. He liked the feel of it bending and distorting and breaking at his whim.

  He looked down at it, the can pinched in the middle as though he’d given it a woman’s waist.

  A breath sucked into him. A deep inhale. Cool wind gathering in his lungs. Somehow it made his insides feel like wet flaps. Weird moist walls at odds with the air.

  And some clarity came upon him. Some sense that he had a choice. He could let this go. He could walk away, and it would all be over.

  He could walk back into the kitchen, toss the empty can in the recycling bin. Maybe pour himself a glass of water. Then he could head into the living room and watch TV, and the whole thing would blow over. It would be forgotten by this evening. Perhaps never thought of again for as long as either of them lived.

  Instead he cracked his right forearm into the door. It shivered open in slow motion, shaking like a struck gong, humming out a vibrato note.

  And where the door slid out of the frame, Claire took shape. Lips parted. Ey
es open wide. The fear made her look younger. More innocent.

  She lay on the bed, blanket pulled up so high it concealed most of her chin and jaw, and he couldn’t even see her scar. She seemed to be frozen in a partially upright position — perhaps about a quarter of the way up, propped on her elbows.

  He hovered in the doorway, waited a moment for her to speak, but she said nothing. Just blinked a few times, her eyes meeting his and darting away over and over.

  “What’s for dinner?” he said. His voice sounded small and oddly soft, even to himself.

  After another flurry of blinks, she answered.

  “I said you just eat whatever you want. I’m not hungry.”

  He smashed the can against the door jamb, one thrust of his arm, driving it home with the heel of his hand. The immediate violence of it surprised him. He pulled his hand back, the wilted piece of aluminum clenched in his fist. Flattened.

  It didn’t seem like her eyes could get any bigger, but they did. The slightest tremble overtook her bottom lip.

  He strode forward, moved three steps closer to her on the bed, legs solid underneath him despite his drunkenness. He didn’t think anymore. Didn’t analyze anything. Didn’t intellectualize. He just acted, as though the orders came from somewhere else, came from above.

  And he stood over her now, and once more his shadow darkened that which lay before him. Last time it was the door. This time it was her body.

  The long shadow fell over her legs, then torso, then face, and finally it pulled up to a stop. Twitching a little as he brought himself upright. He could see the pride in it somehow — that slight curve to the spine — and he liked that.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time, and I want you to think real hard before you answer,” he said. “What are you making for my dinner?”

  His voice came out slow and controlled. The truth was that he only felt this confident in these moments of conflict, these moments when the possibility of violence became real. She had the upper hand in every other facet of life, didn’t she? But here she couldn’t match him. He had the power.

  Her quivering lip picked up speed, and soon her top lip joined the shaking dance. The skin on her chin puckered into about twelve distinct divots.