A Charm of Finches

by Suanne Laqueur

  No help came, only more men.

  From far away he heard Carlos yelling. “Let him go. I did what you wanted, now let him go. You promised…”

  His voice was full of rage. Then it was full of pain. When they dragged him into the bedroom, Carlos was crying. “You promised. You promised.”

  He was cuffed to the leg of Geno’s bed and Anthony started playing with him. Another man held Geno’s head, making him watch. Another man took pictures.

  Geno kicked and bucked in his prison bed, trying to hide his face, twisting and writhing against the rules of the game.

  Then it was Geno’s turn, but nobody made Carlos watch.

  Lying on the floor, his hands still restrained, he turned his head away.

  Geno begged his brother.

  He babbled and bawled like a baby, imploring his twin to look at him.

  Carlos stared off at nothing. As if none of this were happening.

  Forty-four hours, the Caan twins were held captive at Anthony Fox’s house.

  It never stopped happening.

  Now the land of Nos was under attack. A foreign power had invaded, laid siege to the stars and tore apart the sacred bonds of Two.

  In the face of such war machines, the human spirit can only take so much before it breaks.

  Or adapts.

  Survival depends on resiliency while escape relies on common sense.

  You’re the only one around here with a lick of common sense, Analisa said to one of her twin sons.

  Common must become extraordinary to survive what cannot be understood.

  Geno was still common and still trying to understand when Anthony was on him for the second time.

  Or maybe the third.

  With so many men, and so many times, it was hard to keep track.

  He was so tired. He wobbled and flopped when Anthony yanked him up on his knees. Geno’s arms stretched out long, slack and weak, no longer able to pull against the cuffs. He had no fight left in him. His leg muscles ached and buckled and he slumped this way and that.

  Anthony held the deadweight easily, pulling Geno back against him. He was so strong. So much better at this game.

  “Well, look what we got here,” he said. His arm curved around Geno’s waist. “Someone’s enjoying this.”

  Geno made a noise like “Nuh.” Garbled and unintelligible, like his tongue was too big.

  “Sure you are,” Anthony said, laughing, his breath warm on Geno’s shoulder. “Can’t have one twin be gay without the other.”

  “Nuh…”

  “Just give into it. It’s okay to want it. I can feel how bad you want it.”

  As his penis stiffened into Anthony’s grip, Geno started crying.

  “It’s okay, baby. Don’t feel bad. Say you want it.”

  “Nuh.”

  “Say it.” Anthony’s voice grew harder. He had one hand wrapped around Geno’s erection while the other slid into Geno’s hair. “Say it, baby boy.”

  Geno yelped like a frightened puppy as his head was yanked back.

  “Say it or I won’t stop until you’re dead. Say it or you’ll never get out of here alive.”

  “Nuh.”

  “You’ll say it and then you’re going to come in my hand, baby boy. Understand? You’ll say it and then you’ll show it.”

  “Nuh.”

  “Oh yeah, you will. They all do for me. All my baby boys are loyal to me. Including your brother. He brought you here. I said I wanted you and he brought you to me. I had to wait until Daddy was away until I could get my present.”

  Geno moaned like one who wished he were dead.

  “Now show me what a good boy you are. Say you want it.” His hand fisted tighter in Geno’s hair. “Say it.”

  “I…”

  “Say it, you little bitch. Before I fuck you in two.”

  “I…wan it.”

  “Say it.”

  “I wan it,” Geno said, sobbing.

  “Yeah,” Anthony said. “You do. You want it so bad. You’re a whore just like your brother. Say you like it.”

  Geno said it.

  “Now say you love me, baby boy.”

  Geno said that, too.

  “Tell me to fuck you.”

  Geno said it all. He said anything. He said everything Anthony told him to say. He let his mouth go on without him.

  When Anthony told him to come, he let his body go on without him, and he came.

  When he came, he became extraordinary.

  When Anthony scooped up semen and rubbed it on Geno’s face, the last tattered shreds of his mind looked around and became aware of the impossibility of the situation.

  Tasting himself, he stopped trying to understand.

  He started trying to escape.

  This is not happening to me.

  It’s happening to someone else.

  Anthony was done. He won the game again. He pulled out and left, the door clicking shut, leaving Geno alone. Carlos was gone. The other twin bed was empty, a single cuff still clasped to the head rail.

  Lying face down in the soiled sheets, Geno kept plotting his escape.

  Go away. Go away from this place. This thing happening will not stop happening so you must leave it.

  It must happen to someone else. Not you.

  I am not here. I am not me. This is all happening to someone else.

  The room had a single transom window, high in the wall. If Geno tilted his wrist, he could see it reflected in the shiny surface of the handcuff. It was dark outside. He couldn’t see the stars, but he caught a slice of the moon, a metallic crescent marred by the small keyhole.

  The portal.

  The door.

  Geno made himself small.

  He crawled through the keyhole, into the moon and toward the stars.

  He went into Nos. The shared place of Two.

  Mos faced Los and declared, You are not welcome here. Not anymore. You are dead to me.

  Like a conqueror, Mos planted his flag in what had been his brother’s part of the land.

  I am Mos. The one with sense.

  From this mirror-reflection vantage point, he looked over at his bodily self, cuffed in the twin bed. He observed neutrally and felt nothing. He had nothing to feel. It wasn’t happening to him.

  The new universe and its rules swayed on wobbly legs, confused who was who and uncertain this was going to work.

  This is how it is, Mos said firmly. I am Mos. I only watch the things that happen to Geno. This is my job as ruler of Nos.

  Mos was tired. Such secrets were exhausting to carry. It was good to finally rest. He drifted in and out of consciousness, always waking on the other side of Nos, where nothing felt.

  It’s happening to him. Not me.

  I just watch.

  Sometimes he noticed pain when things happened, but he dismissed it as not his.

  Sometimes he sensed fear, but he quickly learned to be sensible about it.

  It’s unfortunate, he thought. But it’s not happening to me.

  Something new was happening.

  Mos watched, dispassionately, as a man burst into the room, wielding a gun. Like a scientific anthropologist, Mos made a careful note on a clipboard.

  Someone is here. He seems different than the others.

  From across the divide came an explosion. The stars of Nos put down their swords, turned their heads toward the sound.

  Another explosion. Instead of being blown back, Mos was pulled in, through the stars, back to Geno. He crashed into his body and was immediately sucked into an airless vacuum of agony. Pain ripped his young bones apart while an impossible, immeasurable weight fell on his back.

  He’s on my back, he’s on me and in me, on my back, get him off me, get him out of me…

&n
bsp; Deadweight smashed him into the earth, crushing his ribs around his heart and lungs. Sending a dirty spike of pain through his backside and up his spine.

  Get out get out get out get out get out.

  His body and brain screamed for air as the room beyond filled with a crackling, shouting energy.

  “Goddamn son of a bitch,” someone cried.

  Another voice, one that made Geno’s ears prick up, yelled, “Jesus fucking Christ…”

  The weight lifted. It took a moment for Geno’s lungs to realize it. Mos blinked, imaginary pencil poised, waiting with detached concern while Geno lifted his head between his outstretched forearms, sucking wind.

  “I got you,” a man said, down on his knees at Geno’s side. “Geno. Look at me.”

  It was Captain Hook.

  “It’s over,” he said. His hands cradled Geno’s face. “I got you. We’re getting you out of here, okay? Look at me. We’ll get these things off you and get you out of here, I promise. Look at me. I won’t let you go.”

  Geno’s body bucked and heaved. Hook held his head as the past forty-four hours came up and over and onto the floor.

  “That’s it,” Hook said. “Let it go. Let it out. It’s all right.” He let go long enough to pull off his jacket and drape it over Geno’s body, covering what he could. “We’ll get you out of here. Hang on, buddy. I won’t leave.” He turned his head and his voice raised into authority. “Bukowski, ETA on the ambulance?”

  “Chief, we need you in here,” someone yelled from the other side of the wall.

  “Where’s EMS?” Hook called back.

  “Just turned down Lantern.”

  “Bukowski, I want a cuff key or a bolt cutter in here now.”

  Many things are happening, Mos thought.

  “Chief, they need you,” another voice said, closer. “He’s in the bathroom.”

  “Get those fucking things off,” Hook said, rocking back on his heels. A rattle and a crunch and Geno’s hands dropped down from the head rail, his shoulders howling in relief.

  “Easy, bud,” Hook said. “EMS is here now, they’re going to take care of you. I’ll be right back.”

  The paramedics gently rolled Geno onto his side. He cried and cried. A silent weep. Air moved through his throat but no sound emerged. His voice was gone.

  Mos turned his head and retreated far into Nos, not watching or listening anymore. The world went deaf, dumb and blind for a long time, finally morphing back into shape as Geno was carefully moved onto a gurney. Captain Hook held his hand as he was wheeled out, then climbed into the ambulance with him.

  “Dad,” Geno said, but no sound came out. His mouth must have made a recognizable shape because Hook put a rough palm on his head.

  “We’ll get him,” Hook said. “He’s in the air right now but we’re getting in touch with his office, they’ll send someone to the airport to bring him straight to the hospital. I promise. He’ll be with you real soon.”

  Geno’s mouth shaped another silent name.

  He’s dead to us, Mos said sternly.

  A ripple of something crossed the captain’s face. “Shh. Lie still and rest now. It’s all over. We’re doing everything we can.”

  We are leaving now, Mos thought, as the ambulance pulled forward, making the gurney vibrate.

  This is good.

  Mos held his clipboard tight and went along with Geno. It was his job now.

  Someone has to be in charge. I am Mos, rhymes with dos, and I’m in command here. I have the strength of two now. I’m the one with the common sense in this family.

  Things happen to Geno.

  I only watch.

  He felt nothing but conviction he was right. This was how it had to be. He knew no other way to survive what couldn’t be understood, other than to have it happen to someone else.

  The New Jersey Star-Ledger

  July 7, 2007

  “Missing Teens Found, One Dead and One Alive, in Child Pornography Ring Bust”

  Two missing Chatham teens were found at a residence in Headley last night. One was being held captive in the basement of the house. The other was found dead in a bathroom, police said.

  Two men were arrested, a third fled and a fourth was shot dead by police.

  Utility worker Milton Johns, 27, of Morristown, and Carl Ferri, 35, a swimming pool installer from Summit, were found at 17 Lantern Drive, sexually assaulting one of the teens. The men face felony charges including sexual assault, sexual exploitation of a child, dangerous crime against a minor, and possession of child pornography.

  FBI and U.S. Marshals are currently searching for a third suspect, Anthony Fox, the homeowner, who fled the scene. A fourth suspect, Ty Pelletier, 33, a contractor from Summit, was shot dead by police.

  A search for two missing Chatham brothers first led police to Lantern Drive Sunday afternoon. The boys had been missing since Saturday night, last seen at a party at a classmate’s home.

  “We knew one of the boys had been at Fox’s house Saturday night,” said Chatham Police Capt. Daniel Hook. “He sent a text message to his brother saying his car wouldn’t start and he needed to be picked up. The brother left the party and that was the last time anyone saw him.”

  Police said they questioned Fox Sunday afternoon. He cooperated and provided an alibi.

  “We had no cause to search the house at that time,” Hook said.

  Sunday night, cash withdrawals from one of the missing teen’s ATM cards gave police a new lead. Video surveillance showed a license plate. Monday, police traced the plate number to a vehicle parked at the Fox residence.

  “I can’t describe what else we found in that basement,” Hook said. “The worst kind of sexual abuse imaginable.”

  Police said the FBI shut down more than two dozen child pornography websites directly connected to what they found at the property. They also seized thousands of pictures and hundreds of videos connected to an international pornography ring that was discovered by Austrian authorities in February. Austria’s Federal Criminal Investigations Bureau is lending their full support to the FBI.

  Fox, a professional photographer who once worked at Franklin Middle School, fled as police arrived, officials said. His car was later found in a commuter lot in Morris Plains. His smashed cell phone and wallet were left inside.

  U.S. Marshals in New Jersey, New York and Pennsylvania are working together with the FBI to locate Fox. He is described as six-foot, two-inches tall and 170 pounds. He has greying brown hair and blue eyes. His left ear is disfigured and misshapen, known as a “cauliflower ear.”

  Anyone with information on the whereabouts of Fox is encouraged to contact the U. S. Marshals Service or the FBI. Callers can remain anonymous.

  The line to the deli counter snaked along one wall, nearly to the door. Those who had ordered and paid clustered in a small scrum by the display of bagged chips, keeping an ear peeled for their number and an eye out for projectiles. Here, your sandwich was literally thrown over the counter, so you had to be ready.

  One of the Puerto Rican cooks bellowed, “Twenty-four, turkey club.” An oblong in white paper sailed into the crowd. Its owner was reading a newspaper and nearly missed the catch. He fumbled, but Javier Landes caught it up in time.

  “Thanks, bro,” the guy said to Javier. “Want the paper while you’re waiting?”

  Jav, whose number was in the forties, took it. The cover of the none-too-subtle NY Post demanded attention in three-inch letters:

  MODERN MENGELE.

  Below, in only slightly quieter type: PORN RINGLEADER - PIMP GROOMED AND TARGETED TWINS. MANHUNT CONTINUES.

  The leader of a child prostitution ring is still at large, despite a manhunt by U.S. Marshals in four states and the FBI.

  Anthony Fox, 32, fled his house in Heading Monday when police arrived to investigate two missing 17-y
ear-old twins from Stockton. The brothers were discovered at the scene, one dead, the other held captive in the basement.

  Police arrested two men at the house, Milton Johns, 27, and Carl Ferri, 35, now being charged with multiple felonies. A third suspect, Ty Pelletier, 33, was shot dead by police. The FBI found evidence of child prostitution and seized pictures, video, computers and flash drives, which police said fetishized twins and, in some instances, triplets.

  Police said the material has been linked to a larger, international child porn ring busted by Austrian authorities earlier in the year…

  Jav grimaced at the sordid details, the newsprint slimy in his hands. A horrific story in general, yet his eyes kept sliding back to one word in particular.

  Prostitution.

  The word was a vocal workout. Pushing the klutzy double-consonant “pr” took effort. The “sti” and “tu” blocked the way like bouncers, trying to get you to stutter or trip. The “shun” sound was an apt ending. Soft, almost genteel, yet loaded with judgment and disdain for the world’s oldest profession. The lowlifes shunned from decent society.

  Javier Landes would know. He was in the business.

  Prostitute, he thought, his mind hefting the syllables like dumbbells.

  Hustler. Gigolo. Rent boy.

  Or, as he preferred to call it, escort. A high-end, highly paid, highly sought-after escort who did business in extremely decent society and made a boatload of money.

  Pimp.

  Now that word was ugly. Swollen and unproductive. Like pump, but no air or water for your trouble. A pimple that wouldn’t pop. Jav never had a pimp. He’d been in control of his own destiny since he started escorting at age twenty-one.

  As his eyes skimmed over the newspaper again, his stomach curled in a nauseous realization he was a there-but-for-the-grace-of-God escort. He was lucky to have such control. Lucky he could count up dates with sketchy clients on one hand. Lucky he could be picky about the clients he chose and had the mature judgment and strength to diffuse or abandon a bad situation.