The Summer Children

by Dot Hutchison

  “Cass? Killer left bruises on Zoe’s left wrist; I don’t know if you’ll be able to get fingerprints, but it can probably tell you her general size. Talk to Holmes and her medical examiner.”

  We end up following Vic home and sacking out in his living room rather than separating. Sterling curls up in the armchair, face buried in her knees. Eddison and I each take a couch, and it says a lot that despite the adrenaline, the caffeine, the light pouring in through the sheer drapes, we’re out cold pretty damn fast.

  Several hours later, the ringing of my personal phone snaps me awake in nothing flat, my heart thumping painfully against my ribs. Sterling wakes just as abruptly, flailing off the chair and landing on the floor with a squeak that has Eddison attempting to prop himself up on an elbow, and sort-of managing it three attempts later.

  The screen says Esperanza. “It’s not another kid,” I announce, and Eddison drops back into the couch and blanket.

  “You’re not answering it,” mumbles Sterling, hauling herself up the chair.

  “I’m not sure if it’s my cousin or my aunt.”

  “Are either of them bad options?”

  “One of them is.”

  “Oh.”

  Eddison cracks open one eye. “Why is it still ringing?”

  “Because I don’t want to pick up if it’s Soledad.” I wait for it to go to voice mail, and listen to the message. It’s Esperanza, afortunadamente, but her message doesn’t really tell me much. There’s something big, call me back so I can be the one to tell you, rather than my mother.

  Big or little, I really don’t want to know. Don’t need to know.

  Before I can decide whether or not to call her back, the phone starts vibrating and ringing again, her name lighting up the screen. Damn it. With a bone-deep sigh, I accept the call. “Hello?”

  Sterling winces at how rough my voice is.

  “Mercedes? It’s afternoon where you are; why do you sound like you just woke up?” My cousin’s voice is frazzled, which is uncommon for Esperanza. The biggest reason I allowed the reconnection was her calm and common sense.

  “We were up all night for a case. What’s wrong?”

  “Family meeting this morning.”

  “Oh, God, I do not need to know this.”

  “Yes, you do. Tío is sick.”

  “Which tío?”

  There’s a heavy silence, and after far too long, it clicks. “Oh.”

  My father.

  “Pancreatic cancer,” she continues once it’s clear I won’t.

  “Painful.”

  “The family wants to get him out of prison for treatment.”

  “Probably not happening, but not any of my business regardless.”

  Eddison is almost sitting up now, slumped against the arm of the couch and desperately blinking to keep his eyes from staying closed.

  “Mercedes . . .” Esperanza huffs into the microphone, and it distorts like a hurricane through my speaker. “You really think the rest of the family isn’t going to bother you about this?”

  “That’s exactly what I think, because I’ll be turning off my personal phone until I can switch the number.”

  “Most of the grandkids have never even met him.”

  “Lucky them.”

  “Mercedes.”

  “No.”

  “Pancreatic cancer isn’t all that treatable. You know he’s probably dying.”

  “Mucha carne pal gato.”

  “Mercedes!”

  “Is that her?” I hear her mother in the background. “Let me speak to her, that ungrateful, malicious—”

  I end the call and turn the phone off, which is how it will stay for a while. The kids in the hospital have my work number, as do Priya, Inara, and Victoria-Bliss. Anyone else can email me. Have to admit, I’m disappointed in Esperanza. She was supposed to be the one person in the extended Ramirez familia who understood that that wasn’t my life anymore.

  “Throw it against the wall?” mumbles Eddison.

  “I have some pictures and shit to get off it first. Then we can destroy it.”

  “Okay. You okay?”

  “No. Go back to sleep, though. This problem isn’t going anywhere.”

  He immediately burrows back into his blanket so only his shaggy dark curls are visible.

  Sterling regards me solemnly, and it’s amazing how young she looks when her hair is down and messy around her face. “Need to talk about it?” she offers quietly.

  Sterling doesn’t know the story the way Vic and Eddison do, like her old boss Finney does, for that matter. It took me years and half a bottle of tequila to finally tell Eddison. But Sterling is . . . she’s important, and I’ve finally settled into trusting that sense in a way I hadn’t when I told Eddison. She’s my team, and she’s my friend. She’s my family.

  “Not yet,” I say eventually. “When the world isn’t on fire.”

  “Sounds like a date.” She curls back into a tight ball, a little pill bug twisted into a tag-edged fleece blanket with Care Bears all over it. It is Brittany’s favorite blanket in the world, and she very rarely lets it come downstairs for anyone else to use.

  As tired as I am, as drained, it still takes a long time to sleep again. My arms ache for the comfort of the black-velvet teddy bear on my nightstand, but this case . . . I don’t know if that bear will ever be what it was. It saved my life in important ways, or reminded me my life was worth living, however that distinction can be drawn.

  I stare at the ceiling for I don’t even know how long before Vic’s face swims into blurry focus. His warm brown eyes look somewhere between sad and amused, and his callused hand is gentle as he strokes my hair back from my face, thumb lingering over the scars. “Sleep, Mercedes. You’re not alone.”

  The laugh comes out more like a sob, but I close my eyes, and he lightly pets my hair until I fall asleep.

  Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was scared of change.

  But—

  Some fears, she’d finally learned, were good things. Some fears weren’t the terror and pain, they were just . . . thrills. Sparks of nerve.

  Despite the uncertainty of all of her foster homes, where impermanence was the only permanent thing, the little girl had worked hard at school, learning all the things her lackadaisical homeschooling had never taught her. She worked hard to catch up, and then she worked harder to get ahead. When it came time to apply for colleges, she had stellar grades and a fistful of personal essays that struck a carefully crafted balance between the horrific experiences of her past and a heartwarming determination for her future.

  Her guidance counselor, perhaps the only person the little girl tentatively labeled On Her Side, had laughed herself silly when she read them, promised her she’d strike gold with them.

  She had.

  She got acceptances and scholarships, and when combined with the money the court forced her father to give her nearly four years before, it meant she could even go out of state, start over somewhere entirely new. Somewhere no one knew what had happened to her (unless they worked in Admissions). She even changed her name, legally and officially. It made the school paperwork a nightmare, but it was worth it. Her old name belonged to that other girl, that girl who’d been hurt by so many people and could never do anything to stop it.

  She was someone new, someone without the baggage and the accent, someone from nowhere and anywhere. There was nothing to tie her to where she’d come from.

  She loved college. It was scary and overwhelming and wonderful, with freedoms she’d never dared dream of. She even made friends. Slowly, cautiously, not entirely honestly, but friends enough to make her genuinely happy for the first time she could remember. She didn’t date—she wasn’t brave enough for that, wasn’t sure she wanted to be—but her friends protected her when people didn’t want to take no for an answer, when her old instincts fought against her new courage, and she was grateful.

  She found a job that didn’t require her to interact with people much,
and let her face some of her old fears in small ways, and she was surprised by how restful it was. She enjoyed her friends and classes, liked getting together with other people, but working gave her time alone to recover, to re-center. She liked the balance, and was proud of herself for discovering and maintaining it.

  Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was afraid of change.

  She went out bravely into the world anyway.

  21

  The events at the hospital and the Joneses’ home happen too late to get into the Saturday paper, but they start spinning around on social media that afternoon, and half the front page on Sunday is dedicated to “A Tweaker Tragedy” and I really want to stake whatever asshole came up with that headline. The only blessing to the relentlessly slipshod reporting is that none of the other murders are brought up. The article doesn’t even classify the Joneses’ deaths as suspicious; it makes it sound like the kids wandered away from home to get help and their home exploded while they were gone. It lists the wrong fire station, totally misses the detectives who were present, and misidentifies the FBI agents as DEA agents.

  It’s some form of protection for Brayden, at least, and all the other kids.

  Priya pokes my shoulder at breakfast, which is eaten sprawled out in the living room because there’s too many of us even for the seldom-used dining room. “What time is Mass?”

  “What?”

  “Mass,” she repeats patiently. “What time?”

  I blink at her, too tired to fully comprehend what she’s asking.

  “You feel better when you go to Mass, Mercedes. It’s a Sunday. So what time?”

  “She likes the nine-thirty best,” Eddison tells her around a mouthful of half-chewed apple tart.

  “Hmm.” Priya checks her watch and pushes to her feet. “We should get dressed then.”

  Priya rarely chooses to take charge of things, but when she wants to, she’s a lot like her mother: impossible to resist. Before I’m fully aware of moving, my clothes are changed and I’m sitting in the backseat with my makeup bag and Priya holding a mirror steady, Sterling in the front passenger seat as Eddison drives us to church.

  It’s a bizarre mix. Priya isn’t a practicing Hindu, if that’s the right description, but she does wear a bindi on a daily basis, and Sterling is Jewish, despite her deep and abiding love for bacon. Eddison was raised Catholic, but his faith didn’t survive his sister’s kidnapping and so-far permanent disappearance. He occasionally sits with me, usually at Christmas or when I’m having a rough time, but the memories, so engrained in him through his childhood, make him uncomfortable in churches.

  But there we all are, stretched out in a pew near the back, Priya and Sterling subtly watching others for their cues and Eddison blushing every time he’s standing or sitting or kneeling by rote. When everyone else starts moving, pew by pew, for Communion, Priya gives me a questioning look.

  I shake my head. “You can’t take Communion without confession.”

  “And you can’t do confession because of your job?”

  “Job isn’t really a factor, as long as I don’t share confidential information,” I whisper. “It’s more that I can’t receive absolution for sins I don’t genuinely repent.” She still looks confused, and despite everything, it makes me smile. “I don’t think God hates queers, but the Church isn’t fond of us. What I am, how I feel, is a sin, and I can’t repent.”

  “Oh.” She chews on that the rest of the service. Priya wasn’t raised in any religion, and she has an outsider’s fascination for them, not just the stories and imagery, but the rules and rituals, all the ways we try to structure what people are allowed to believe.

  When the sanctuary is mostly clear after the service, Eddison nods toward the priest. “Go on. We’ll wait.”

  Priya’s head tilts to one side. “I thought she couldn’t—”

  “Confession isn’t the same as counsel,” he tells her.

  Leaving him to explain the distinctions to Priya and Sterling, I ease out of the pew and up to the altar. Father Brendon is only a couple of years older than me, and he’s a good sort. Half the preteen and teen girls have crushes on him, because he’s safe, and because he’s respectful of their feelings without encouraging them. He’s a vast improvement over Father Michael, who used to scowl at me during homilies.

  “Ah, Mercedes,” he greets me, smiling as he hands the last of his regalia to a waiting altar boy. “You’ve been busy these last few weeks.”

  Which is a very nice way of pointing out that I haven’t been to Mass in almost a month.

  “There’s been . . .” How the hell do I even put it?

  Nodding, he sits down on the edge of the dais, clasping his hands between his knees. “Work? Or personal?”

  “Yes,” I answer decisively, sitting beside him.

  He laughs, warm and soft, and I need to remember to thank Eddison and Priya later for this. “Is everything okay with Siobhan?”

  “She dumped me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m not sure I am. Sorry, I mean.”

  He listens gravely as I carefully fill him in on what’s been happening, with the children and Siobhan, even with my father. I never told Father Michael, because being a priest doesn’t preclude the possibility of being an asshole, but Father Brendon is easy to confide in, and this is far from the first time a case has scraped up against the scars.

  “That’s a lot,” he says eventually, and it makes me snicker. “Maybe it feels like you’re besieged on all sides? Lost in the woods?”

  I flinch, but then, there’s a reason he used that phrase. “These kids . . . they’re being rescued from horrendous situations. It’s impossible not to acknowledge that, even as we have to and should abhor the methods.”

  “And you wonder what you’d be feeling if someone had made you one of these children, way back when.”

  “When we catch this person, the media coverage is going to be a zoo. A vigilante rescuing kids? The public will eat that up. It makes our job a lot harder to do. And it . . .” I swallow, trying to work my way through that. “She’s clearly pissed at a system that isn’t protecting these kids, but how is dumping them deeper into that same flawed system going to keep them safe?”

  “Those who turn to violence don’t usually have solutions to offer. Or they tried, and lost, and think this is their only way forward.”

  “Something’s driving them.”

  “Something drives you,” he reminds me. “It’s probably not all that different.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  He nods and hums, waiting for me to continue. I do.

  “Someone who chooses to do this can choose to stop. Someone who needs to do this . . .”

  “Someone who can’t stop must be stopped. It must be hard to do that, if you can see where your lives diverged.” He pauses thoughtfully. “The agent who carried you out of that cabin: Did he do more harm than good?”

  “No,” I answer reflexively. “He saved me.”

  “And you save others. What comes after that isn’t your fault, Mercedes. Your job demands a great deal of you, but not this. Don’t take on more than is yours to bear.”

  That feels like the end of the conversation, something to mull rather than easily accept. I thank him and stand, dusting off the seat of my pants.

  “Mercedes?” He gives me a sad smile when I turn to see him better. He hasn’t moved to stand. “About your father?”

  I brace myself.

  “Give it to God,” he says simply. “How you feel about it is yours and yours alone. Whether or not you should be judged; that’s for God.”

  It’s a lot to think about, and I’m quiet as I rejoin the others and we head back to Vic’s house. We take a detour by my home so I can pick up some more clothing, check the mail, and talk to Jason. He’s kept up with the lawn, and he also shows me the cameras he’s installed on his porch and mailbox, just like mine.

  “I haven’t seen anyone,�
� he tells me regretfully. “I’ve looked.”

  “Thanks, Jason. Listen, my normal phone died, so I’m going to give you my work cell, just in case.”

  “Gotta say, I miss having you around, kid.”

  “Hopefully this will all resolve quickly, and I can come home to stay.”

  After dinner, Sterling takes me home with her. Whatever time-share she and Eddison planned out, it’s fully intact. Rather than making up the couch-bed, though, she gives me a gentle push into the bedroom. “Do you really want to be alone right now?” she asks at my token protest.

  No.

  Knowing what the rest of her apartment looks like, her bedroom is utterly unsurprising, all black and white and blush pink in elegant coordination. A large, light brown teddy bear in an FBI windbreaker sits on the mound of pillows at the head of the bed. I pick it up, touching the black thread nose.

  “Priya gave that to me when I got the transfer request.”

  Of course she did.

  We plug in phones and situate guns, checking emails and messages one last time before setting the alarms. When we’re changed and settled under the fluffy comforter, she doesn’t even blink at me cuddling the teddy bear, even though its jacket is whispering with every movement, like the real ones. She just flicks off the light. Noises drift through the walls: her neighbors walking and talking, playing music or games or watching TV. It’s not obtrusive, just sort of there, comforting in its own way, like Sterling’s steady breathing beside me.

  Then my phone goes off.

  “It’s only been two days,” Sterling whispers over the ringtone.

  I roll over to grab the phone off the nightstand. “It’s Holmes,” I tell her, and answer the call. “What’s happened now?”

  “Eleven-year-old Noah Hakken just walked into my police station,” she reports grimly.

  “Is he injured?”

  “Bruised to hell and back but he swears he’s not abused. We’re taking him to the hospital now.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  The call drops, but the glow of the screen takes longer to dim.