“You…fucking freaks,” she breathed, turning to look at her captors, who had just finished cutting off Shannon’s and Bonetta Harper’s gags. “What are you going to do to us? How will you fucking live with yourselves?”
Dmitry didn’t acknowledge a word she’d said. He pointed to a door at the far end of the basement and said, “Over there.”
“If you wanna kill us, then do it right here. Right now. This…this is fucking…”
“I told you, we don’t want to kill you,” Dmitry laughed, glancing over at his brother Mikhael. “We want to fuck you.” They laughed together.
Kaley felt nauseous. But instead of throwing up, Shannon did. Little Sister collapsed to the floor and started retching all at once. Kaley’s nausea had passed from her to Shan via the charm, the Anchor, she was sure of it. Why can’t I do something useful with it, like pass it on to Dmitry and the rest of these monsters? Then, while kneeling and hugging her sister, she thought, Why can’t I?
Dmitry had stopped laughing long enough to shout up to Olga in Russian, presumably to tell her to come clean up this mess. Kaley tried to send a wave of her own nausea and fear outward. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to focus it. For a second, for just one single second, she had it in her hands. It was like trying to hold onto a large balloon filled with water without dropping it and letting it explode. Kaley directed it at Dmitry quickly, and fumblingly flung this…this…thing at him.
There was a moment where she felt it strike him. She felt it. Dmitry, halfway through screaming at Olga, stopped, lurched, and belched. Mikhael laughed and slapped his brother on the back. Then, perhaps he caught some of it, too, because he staggered back uncertainly, though still laughing.
The two monsters regained themselves. “Boleesh?” Mikhael chuckled.
“Net, net,” Dmitry said, waving his brother away. But Dmitry’s lips looked incredibly pale, his face drained. He waved at the three girls. “Go. Over there. In that room.” It had worked. For the briefest of moments, her charm had worked for her. She had been able to manage it in such a way as to make it a weapon. But could she do it again? She tried, but it was no good. She couldn’t even get a grasp on what she was trying to do. The power, if it could be called such, was gone for the moment.
Kaley looked at her sister and held her hand. “Are you okay?”
Then, her sister asked her the most innocent question. “K-K-Kaley, what do they m-m-mean, fuck? Wh-what does it mean? I mean, really m-mean.”
“We’re not gonna die,” she whispered fervently. “We’re not. You have to hold on to that. ’Kay?”
With the Anchor reforged for the moment, Shannon showed a surprising bit of resilience to the moment. “M’kay,” she whimpered and wiped her eyes. Then she said, “I threw up.”
“I know.”
“You made me.”
“I know,” Kaley said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” And just like that, they were discussing the charm, as though it had been a secret kept between them all their lives, something that was thoroughly known.
Nearby, the Harper girl sat with her back against the wall, her hands clutching her cross.
“I said, get up!” Oni shouted, reaching down and yanking them to their feet by their elbows. “In that room! Now!” Shannon’s throw-up spell had left him in a terrible mood, and almost throwing up himself left him…embarrassed? Yes, she sensed that. He and his brother had a lifelong game of I’m Better Than You going, and in Dmitry’s mind Mikhael was always in the lead. Vomiting in front of his older brother—older? yes, it seemed that way—had set him back even more in their competition.
They stepped around the various scenes, but had to walk through the sandbox to get to the room. Here, at the door, Kaley paused. There was a smudge on the floor, a dark-red stain that she was not stupid enough to discount as spilled fruit punch, though Shan might have.
Kaley now felt other things. Coldness. Fear. Fear from all around. The walls of this low-ceilinged basement were saturated with it. Fear and pain and degradation. Nan had told her that her charm would allow her to feel the imprint others left on certain things, certain objects, certain rooms. Kaley had never really experienced anything like it until now.
She heard…screaming. She empathized with old fear and humiliation. It saturated her.
As Mikhael opened the door, Kaley dropped to her knees. Dmitry put his shoe to her back and shoved her inside. Mikhael turned on the lights. It was a room with two beds, a mirror on one wall, a sink and a shower with no curtain. There was a wooden table with four foldout metal chairs, on top of which was stacked four board games: Monopoly, Candyland, Battleship and Hungry Hungry Hippos. There was a certain inviting quality to the room, one that made her sick again and she tried to redirect it at her nemesis.
“We bring you food later,” Oni said, unfazed this time.
The door was shut behind them. There was a sharp clicking sound from the other side. She could hear Dmitry and Mikhael talking to one another as they ascended the steps. Kaley stood slowly, her legs turning to water for a moment before stabilizing. She tested the doorknob, and of course it was locked.
Then, there came a wailing like Kaley had never heard before. Shannon leapt into her sister’s arms. But it wasn’t Shan who was wailing. It was the Harper girl. She was backing up against a wall, clawing at her face for a second before falling on her ass and crying into her palms. “This isn’t happening…this isn’t happening…this isn’t happening…this isn’t happening…”
Fear, old and new, washed over Kaley. She was the bearer of her sister’s burden, the bearer of Bonetta Harper’s, and the bearer of every single child who had occupied this room before.
“I’m scared, Kaley,” Shannon said, shivering in her arms like a freezing puppy fresh out of its bath.
“It’s all right, Shan,” she said soothingly. “It’s all right. We’re going to be fine. The police will find us soon.”
“You promise?” Shan whimpered.
Kaley nodded. “I promise.” She thought, They’ll rape us until we die.
The dead body of Spencer Adam Pelletier wasn’t a satisfying sight for Leon, despite what Agent Porter had told him about the man. He needed the SOB alive to tell him what he knew about Kaley and Shannon Dupré, but it appeared he might just take that secret to his grave—
“It’s not him,” Agent Porter pronounced before he’d even reached the body. “That’s not our Musashi.”
Or maybe not. “You sure?”
“This guy’s nearly bald, and not nearly pale enough. He’s white, though, and wearing a black hoodie. In a black neighborhood like this I can see why your people thought they’d bagged him. Close enough, in other words, but no cigar.” He pronounced it cee-gar.
The body lying on the sidewalk in front of Leon was that of a heroin addict, that much was certain. The sleeves of his hoodie were pulled up and both his arms had tracks going up and down them. He had a quizzical look on his face, like somebody had just stumped him with the Double Jeopardy question of the day. Blood leaked from his nose and mouth, as well as from the center of his chest, where Officer Grissom had tapped him twice. The .44 he’d drawn had been kicked away from reach of his hand, lest today be the first day of the zombie apocalypse.
Other officers were now on the scene, as was yet another ambulance. We’re running them ragged tonight. He walked over to Officer Grissom who was halfway through retelling his story to the other officers for the fifth time. “—and the neighbors reported seeing him snoopin’ around, too. I, uh, I knew they’d been reporting a Caucasian snoop for weeks now. They filed a complaint, so we added this little alley here to our new patrol for the last couple of weeks. I happened by here, saw this guy, saw that he matched the description of the guy on the APB. I got out, asked him for his papers, that’s when he threw down.”
“Did you see anybody else with him?” Leon asked, butting in. He shot his hand out. “Hi. Grissom, right?”
“Yeah, Detective Hulsey
, right?”
“You got it.”
“No, I didn’t see anybody else with him. But he’s your guy, right?”
“Nope,” Leon said. “Not according to Agent Porter over there, anyway.” He pointed to the bearded agent, now hunched over the deceased heroin addict’s body.
When Leon looked back at Officer Grissom, the man looked crestfallen. “Well, shit,” he said. “I thought for sure that he…hey, look, he threw down on me anyway! Must’ve had somethin’ to hide.”
“Yeah, must have.” But Leon wasn’t certain the dead man had thrown down first, and he wasn’t going to go there, at least not tonight. He had bigger fish to fry.
He walked over to Agent Porter, who was just standing up and finishing sending off a text. “There’s no ID on this guy,” he said. “Just an unfortunate white boy moving through a neighborhood on a night when a few dozen pissed off cops were looking for a white boy who nearly killed two of their own. Shitty-ass luck, you ask me.”
“Pelletier and our girls are still out here somewhere. White boy can’t be too far, he doesn’t have a car.”
Porter inclined his head. “You sure about that? He hotwired yours fast enough.”
Leon had to admit that it had only been wishful thinking. He nodded. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t get a chance to force this issue back at Hillside Apartments, but I really feel I must do so now,” Porter said. Leon looked at him. The next words came as no surprise, he’d known this was coming. “I’m gonna need to know the name and whereabouts of this contact of yours that spotted Pelletier and gave you Basil O’Connor’s information.”
This wasn’t a pleasant prospect. Not at all. Once Agent Porter had Pat Mulley’s name, he would naturally want to do a thorough background check on the man. He would find out every place the man had worked in his entire adult life, would check and see how much time he’d served throughout the years, and, of course, would want to know about his friends and family. It wouldn’t be long before he knew Patrick Mulley’s wife’s, Melinda Mulley, wasn’t living with him anymore and that her maiden name was Hulsey. How quickly before Agent Porter figured it all out?
Earlier, while speaking about Pelletier, Agent Porter had said, Coincidences are only coincidences for so long. Eventually, he would determine that this coincidence was no coincidence, either. And then how long before he figures out Detective Leon Hulsey, an iron horse of the Atlanta PD, had been turning a blind eye to activities he knew to be detrimental to law and order, as well as keeping information vital to countless auto theft investigations, all because some of it involved his sister’s husband? What would come next? Suspension without pay? Criminal charges for aiding and abetting? Melinda would lose a brother and a husband, the only two men who could ever take care of her high-maintenance ass.
“His name’s Charles Gracen,” Leon lied. “I can probably call him, set up a rendezvous. He moves around a lot, though, so no guarantees.”
“Fine. Set it up.”
“All right,” Leon said, taking out his cell phone and walking away from them all. “Give me a few minutes.” If Agent Porter detected any kind of deception he didn’t show it. He simply nodded and went back to his own cell phone, texting and talking with the other two agents.
Leon walked half a block up. A shirtless, hobbling crackhead crossed the street, and a pair of skanky women were peeking their heads out a window. Three stories above them, a few more heads poked out of windows. All of them were drawn to the flashing police lights and the aftermath of the shooting.
The phone rang once, twice, thrice. “C’mon, you skinny fucking crackhead,” Leon whispered. “Answer the God damn phone.” Another ring. Then another. Then finally the voicemail picked up. “Hey, yo, you just reached Cee-gray. Leave a message at—” Leon cursed, hung up, and dialed again. Seven rings, then the voicemail again. He hung up, dialed again. Same thing.
He did this six times before finally a groggy, high-pitched voice answered, “Hey, what the fuck, yo? Stop callin’ me! It’s like three o’clock in the goddamn moanin’—”
“Get your lazy fucking ass out of bed,” Leon said. “We’ve got work to do.”
“Whu…?”
“You heard me. And don’t talk back to me or I’ll make sure the ATF pays a visit tonight! You feel me?”
“What the fuck, Hulsey? What’s goin’ on?”
Leon glanced over his shoulder, making certain no one was within earshot. “I’ve got feds in town, and they wanna meet one of my informants. You’re it. You gave me information earlier tonight—”
“I ain’t seen you in a month, motherfucker!”
“Yes, you did. You saw me earlier tonight. That’s what you’re gonna tell them or I guarantee I’ll find a reason to send you back to Georgia State Pen! Are you awake? Are you listening to me?”
Charles Gracen, better known as “Cee-gray” to his peeps, sighed heavily. “Yeah, I’m listenin’. So, what did I tell you tonight when we had this mysterious meetin’ that I’m suddenly recollectin’?”
Leon told him, and after issuing one last threat, he hung up and walked over to the three agents. Porter was sitting in the front passenger seat of the SUV and checking a few things on the dashboard computer. Leon saw that it was a map of Atlanta. “Well?” he said, not looking at Leon.
“It’s on. Thirty minutes. About three blocks up in a parking lot behind Grady’s Bar.”
“Great. Hop in.”
Leon had traveled with the agents in their vehicle since his was now evidence and needed to be swabbed for prints. A tow truck would get around to Townsley Drive later to pick it up.
He took a seat in the back with Agent Mortimer, the white man who was sitting quietly to himself behind the driver’s seat and looking deeply concerned with something on his iPhone’s screen.
“So, I’ve had people back at the bureau looking into this Rainbow Room,” Agent Porter said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Wait’ll you hear this.”
9
It was perhaps a long shot, but one worth trying. Spencer had his phone out and was thinking about the story he would give to the Parole Commission’s office. A brief check on the Internet had given him the number to the Valdosta branch. Now he only needed a plausible excuse to search the name.
The excuse was right at the front of his mind, but it was hiding in shadow. This wasn’t like him. It was the third time tonight he’d gotten distracted by a thought that wouldn’t leave him alone, and it was terribly frustrating.
The thought that had so constipated his regular fluid thinking was an image of a fat man. It came to him out of nowhere, but stayed like it had import. He’d been drinking earlier, and sometimes when he got a little buzz on he would think about the past. Spencer was susceptible to that kind of thing, being as “pensive” as he was (thank you Dr. McCulloch for that wonderful word). The fat man in his mind was sitting on a throne…or no, a sofa. His face was in a haze, like how a spot disappeared thanks to your blind spot, but the belly was this great, voluminous orb, and on it was a message.
Is it a message for me?
Spencer pushed the thought aside and started dialing the Parole Commission in Valdosta. Then he paused. He couldn’t think of the next number. He couldn’t think of anything besides the fat man. What the fuck is this shit? Am I high? Were Pat’s cigs laced with somethin’?
“The only way to deal with your demons is to face them.” That was Dr. McCulloch’s advice. No, wait…no, that was from that asshole at that wilderness therapy program he’d been put through in the North Georgia Mountains, way, way back when some people in Spencer’s life had still been convinced there was a chance to lead him away from the road he was on. What was that guy’s name? Spencer smiled. Gary something. Ehrlich? That’s it! Gary Ehrlich. I called him “Gay Lick.” Fucker hated me worse than cholera.
The memory was a fond one, and Gay Lick’s advice was good advice. “Meet the demons head-on,” the councilors had said around their usual circ
le jerk that Gay Lick called the “Circle of Truth,” where everyone shared what was their mind. None of the councilors had liked this confession period when Spencer spoke, and neither did any of the kids, no matter their disposition.
What the fuck am I seein’? A tattoo of…
Letters. Strange font. The letters and font were both familiar, yet different.
“All right, all right, Spence ol’ boy,” he said out loud to himself and the piles of lumber all around him. “Face those fuckin’ demons head-on.” And so he closed his eyes and took deep, steadying breaths just like Gay Lick had advised. Back then, it had worked surprisingly well, though he’d never given Gay Lick the satisfaction of knowing it. And it worked now, too. Spencer saw…well, he wasn’t sure what he saw. The letters looked familiar in some way, perhaps he’d seen them in a movie before.
He definitely saw a big letter M, but then there was a reverse letter N: и. Then there was a small p. Mnp didn’t spell anything that he knew of, and neither did Mиp. All right, what’s the rest? Just get it outta yer head, Spence ol’ boy. It’s like a bad acid trip. Just ride the shit and get it over with. There was an H, then a lower-case e, and then another capital H. And then a lower-case a. Then a capital B, and then a…a…
What the fuck is that? he thought. Some kind of a…an A, maybe?
Without really realizing it, Spencer had already opened his eyes and started moving his fingers across the keys on his phone. He felt like that guy in that urban legend who had woken up suddenly in a bathtub filled with ice, only to discover he’d been kidnapped and left there with one of his kidneys removed. The story went that that guy started off quite calmly looking down at himself, half-dazed, unwilling to believe what he was seeing, and then with increasing alarm he’d fumbled through the hotel room piecing together what had happened to him.
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