Master of Salt & Bones

by Keri Lake

  The more time I spend here, the more I realize what little discretion the Blackthornes have when it comes to money.

  Nell and I follow after her, and I hold back the covers of her bed, while Nell scurries ahead of Laura to help settle her in.

  “I need to use the ladies room. A little privacy, if you will.” Cane clicking across the floor, Laura shuffles toward the bathroom with little trouble.

  Nell jerks her head toward me. “I’m going out on the balcony. Wanna join?”

  “Sure.” I lock the wheelchair in place, glancing back to see Laura closing the door behind her, and follow Nell out the door.

  With a huff, Nell takes the chair farthest away, presumably to keep her smoke sequestered from me, but the light breeze on the air ensures it’ll blow in my face.

  “Can you imagine? Three-hundred grand for a fucking doll?” she asks, plopping into the seat. “I can’t even afford a decent used car, and she’s dropping cash on a goddamn doll that she keeps locked up in a box with all her other toys.”

  “It’s definitely not something I’m accustomed to. I can think of a lot of things I’d spend that kind of money on.”

  “You and me both.” As she lifts the cigarette to her lips, I notice her shirt pulled up to her elbows, revealing a couple tattoos.

  I nod toward the anchor inked on the back of her wrist. “Nice ink.”

  Taking a long drag, she twists her arm, then blows the smoke to the side. “Thanks. It’s my little reminder.”

  “Of what?”

  “To hold on. Stay grounded.” She pauses for a moment, before taking another drag and staring off. “I got a son. Lives with my sister. Been busting my ass to get him back.”

  “Does he live far?”

  “California. That’s where I’m from. Why I decided to come out to this shit island, I’ll never know, but here I am.”

  “Was it school that made you move so far away?”

  She runs her tongue across the bottom of her teeth, seemingly lost in quiet contemplation. “I was an addict for five years. Alcohol, pills, coke. Whatever I could get my hands on, I did it.”

  A part of me isn’t surprised. Call it radar I’ve picked up from having a junkie mom, but this woman had former addict written all over her face. Just strange that she chose to be a nurse, administering drugs.

  She scratches her chin with her thumb. “Keep that to yourself. I’ve passed all the drug tests, and I don’t have any criminal history. I’m just an LPN right now. Still going to school.”

  “I think that’s great. Takes a lot to turn things around like that.”

  “Yeah. It’s been rough sometimes.” Her eyes fall to my wrist, and she juts her chin toward it. “What’s yours?”

  I run my thumb over the word inked on my arm. The tattoo I got a few months after things started to settle down a bit, and I was finally able to get out of bed. “I’ve been through some stuff, too. Not drugs, but … personal stuff.”

  “I didn’t tell you my shit to get all personal. You asked. I answered.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s not an easy topic for me.”

  “It’s okay. I get it.” Stuffing her cigarette butt into the cup beside her, she blows off the last of her smoke. “Look, I wanted to ask you, I have something going on this evening. I don’t want to make a big fuss and have them call in another nurse. Any chance you can keep an eye on her tonight? Just until about ten, or so?”

  “What if she has a nightmare? I mean, I don’t even know what to give for medications.”

  “Half her medications are sugar pills.”

  “Seriously?”

  “She had a bad addiction to Valium for a while. Sometimes, there’s just no reasoning with her. When she has those nightmares? It’s mostly me settling her down. Haven’t had to give her anything in months.”

  “Here I thought you guys were over-medicating her, or something.”

  “If we don’t give her anything, she freaks the fuck out. One sugar pill?” She smacks her hands together. “She’s down like it’s the real deal.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “So is she. Anyway, is it cool if I sneak out a couple hours?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “If she has a nightmare, you mostly just have to hold her down, so she doesn’t hurt herself. But watch yourself, too.” Her lips twist with a smile. “Woman’s got a nasty left hook.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m gonna go now.” Pushing up from the chair, she grabs the cup full of cigarette butts from the railing of the balcony. A day’s worth, I’d bet. “If she asks where I went, tell her I had to run out to renew a script, or something. That’ll make her giddy. And thanks for this,” she says, before slipping back inside.

  “No problem.”

  Shit. There are a number of things I suck at, but lying certainly takes the cake. As Nell makes her great escape, the door to what I presume is Laura’s bathroom clicks, and I head back in.

  “Nell, please help me to bed!”

  Awkward smile plastered to my face, I enter her room and stride toward her. “Nell went to grab a script. She asked me to help you.”

  “She’s supposed to tell me when she leaves. Suppose I had a heart attack just now. Or a stroke. Are you equipped to deal with that? Certainly not.”

  Definitely not, but I don’t bother to tell her that would be the case whether Nell informed her, or not. Instead, I pull back the covers and steady her arm, while she scoots herself up onto the bed.

  “Will you read to me, Isa?” Laura tucks the blanket around her and lies back on the pile of plush pillows behind her.

  “Of course. Any requests?”

  “That one.” She points toward a murder mystery in the stack beside her.

  I open the book, and something flutters out from the pages of it. Bending forward to grab what looks to be a photograph, I reach out and turn it over. On the other side is an image of two young boys, no more than ten, I’m guessing, standing side by side. By the color of his hair and eyes, it’s clear the one on the left is Lucian. Arm wrapped around the back of Lucian’s neck, the other boy wears a wily smirk on his face that makes me smile. Wet hair and sand scattered over their shirtless chests suggest they’re at the beach.

  “What is it you have there?” Laura asks.

  I hand off the picture to her, and her eyes crinkle with the smile she gives. “Oh, look at this. My Lucian and his best friend, Jude. Ten years old in this picture, if I recall.” The smile on her face withers to a frown. “Such a shame, what happened to that boy.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ah, it was all over the news, his father being so well known. The two were playing down in a cave. Must’ve been about four years after this photo was taken.”

  “How old is Lucian now?”

  “Oh, let’s see.” Tapping her cheek, she looks away, seems contemplative for a moment, and I wonder if she’ll remember, at all. “He’s going to be thirty-three in December.”

  Thirty-three. Strange to think that I wasn’t even born when that picture was taken. “I’m sorry, go on.”

  “So, anyway, they liked to explore. Boys, you know. One of their favorite games was chicken. Seeing how long they could wait out the tide. Well, the tide came in fast, and they tried to swim out. It was believed Jude lost his footing on one of the rocks.” The groove in her forehead deepens, and she shakes her head. “Wasn’t until Lucian was safely out that he watched his friend get swept out to sea. It took a number of years to get over the death of Jude. Even as he got older, he had vivid hallucinations of him. Rand would catch him down in the cave, sometimes, talking to himself.”

  “Lucian had bad hallucinations?”

  “The doctors called it trauma. But then I had him admitted, and they just … stopped.” Gaze cast to the side, it’s like she’s trying to avoid looking at me. “I don’t know what they did. But it worked.” The more she talks, the more troubled her expression turns. “Until it stopped working.”

  She shi
fts on the bed and tugs the blankets up higher. “On second thought, I’d rather you didn’t read. I’m just going to sleep.”

  Chapter 21

  Lucian

  Fifteen years ago …

  “Lucian.” At the sound of my mother’s voice, I turn to find her standing alongside me. “This is Dr. Voigt. He’s going to help you.”

  “Help?” Whatever was given to me has rendered me weak and listless, where I lie flat on my back with bright fluorescent lights blinding me. “Wh … where am I?”

  “We’re in a hospital.” The unfamiliar voice belonging to a man answers this time. “We treat young men and women with your afflictions.”

  “Affliction?”

  “Sexual deviances.” At the side of the bed, a tall, slim man with dark hair and spectacles stands with his hands crossed over a clipboard in front of him, and on his finger, I notice the ring. The same one my father wears.

  Ice curls through my veins, and eyes wide, I shake my head.

  “I don’t … belong here.” Tugging at the straps on my arms is futile, as they don’t seem to give, the leather biting into my skin.

  “For God’s sake, Lucian, you drowned.” My mother opens her purse, rifling around until she pulls out a Kleenex that she lifts to her nose, and it’s then I notice tears in her eyes. “You had to be revived. Don’t pretend like it didn’t happen. Do you have any idea what we’ve been through, the last couple of weeks? How this looks?”

  “I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

  “I wish you were! Do you honestly think the alternative sounds better?”

  Through the haze of drugs, I vaguely remember the bath. Holding my breath. Getting off. Consumed by my loss of Solange. “Mother, I was just playing around. I don’t need to be admitted for this.”

  “Your father insisted that you be admitted here, and I pray to God they can help you. I’ll not have my only son engaging in sick and disgusting acts. You’re sick, Lucian. You need therapy.”

  “I’m not sick! Did it ever occur to you that it might’ve fucked me up a little seeing a dead woman?”

  “That was years ago. You were just a little boy. You wouldn’t have remembered.”

  “What are you talking about? It was a week ago! I saw her in that cave!”

  “Lucian, there was no woman in that cave. Rand investigated himself. There was no woman tied to the post.”

  “There was! It was Solange! I know what I saw!”

  “Who’s Solange?” Dr. Voigt asks, tipping his head with the same curiosity I imagine he’d have for a lab rat curled over the tip of a syringe needle.

  “I honestly haven’t a clue what he’s talking about.” Lifting her chin, my mother diverts her eyes away, as if she can’t stand to look at me through the lies.

  “No. No, no, no. You know who she is. You know who she is!”

  “Tell me, Lucian. Who is she?” Dr. Voigt’s tone suggests he’s humoring me. That he doesn’t believe me any more than I believe my mother’s bullshit right now.

  “The maid!” Lifting my head from the bed, I stare at the side of her face, forcing her to look at me, to give in to whatever facade she’s creating, trying to make me look crazy. “You hated her. You wouldn’t spare her the slightest bit of your attention.”

  “We’ve never had a maid named Solange.”

  “We did.” The rage inside of me festers, in spite of the drugs. My whole body trembles, my head on the verge of exploding from the tension. “And you hated her. So much, you had her killed.”

  When she finally sets her gaze on mine, a tear slips down her cheek. “She was a hallucination, Lucian. Just like Jude.”

  “No. No, no, no. She’s lying. Her name was Solange, and they killed her!”

  Lowering her head, my mother jerks with a sob and daubs her face with the Kleenex still clutched in her palm. “You’re not well, my sweet boy. You haven’t been for quite some time.”

  Through a shield of tears, I stare back at her, realizing there is nothing I can do to convince her. Nothing I can say to convince the doctor, who has already decided that I belong in this place. “Mother, please.”

  “Don’t worry, Lucian.” Dr. Voigt pats my leg and gives a squeeze where my ankle is also bound by restraints. “There is still time for you. Your mother did the right thing, having you admitted here. We have a one hundred percent success rate with our aversion therapy.”

  She still hasn’t bothered to look at me, her eyes cast toward the floor. “He’ll be okay, then, doctor?”

  “He’s in good hands, Laura. Don’t worry.”

  “His father doesn’t want anyone to know he’s here.”

  “You can put your confidence in us. We’ll keep all communications strictly through you.”

  “I appreciate that, Doctor. Thank you.”

  “And, Lucian.” She stares down at me, the sadness in her eyes turning more resolute. “Don’t fight them, darling. This is for your own good.”

  I open my eyes to see masked faces standing over me. A too-bright light bends from the ceiling, like an insect clawing its way inside the room. Nausea gurgles in my stomach. The throbbing ache at my temples is a hammer pounding into my skull.

  I try to lift my arm to shield the piercing brightness, and it won’t move, still bound by the leather straps of the bed. My heart beats in time to the blood rushing through my ears. “What is this?”

  No one answers.

  A white towel is placed over my face, and I snap my head back and forth to remove it, but something is strapped around my neck, holding it in place. Writhing and kicking is futile against the straps holding me down.

  Ice cold fluids are poured over the towel, and when I gasp in shock, the saturated fabric sucks into my gaping mouth.

  The air diminishes.

  A sharp pain strikes my groin, and I arch on the bed, crying out. A burning snap, like a spark on my most sensitive flesh.

  More fluids trickle around my face, and I shake my head back and forth on another gasp. A second zap lashes at my balls, like an electric current running over me. “Fuck!” Teeth clenched against the pain, I arch as much as the binds will allow.

  The pressure at my throat loosens, and the towel is pulled way. Blurred figures stand over me, while I blink away the water dripping from my eyelashes and draw in long, agonizing breaths, my chest pounding with the need for air. Dr. Voigt stands beside a woman I’ve never seen before. Dark hair and almond-shaped brown eyes. Maybe Asian.

  “I understand you have a fascination with water. Do you remember drowning, Lucian?”

  Still trying to catch my breath, I don’t bother to answer them.

  Another jolt of electricity strikes my groin, and my eyes screw shut as my stomach clenches over a cramping ache. “No. I … I remember taking a bath. And I fell asleep.”

  Another snap, like the strike of a whip across my nuts.

  “Ah, fuck!”

  “I don’t think you fell asleep. There was evidence that you had ejaculated. Semen found on the tiles.”

  “Since when is … jerking off … considered a fucking crime?” The pain vibrates in my thighs and lower stomach, stirring cold nausea in my chest.

  “It’s not the jerking off that concerns me, Lucian.” He removes his gloves, revealing the signet ring. The moth etched into steel. “It’s finding out just how far you’re willing to go.”

  “No.” I shake my head, but the room disappears, blurred to a stark white behind the wet towel they place back over my face.

  “No!”

  Chapter 22

  Lucian

  Present day …

  It’s not often that I venture out of the manor, but one thing I’ve learned from doing business with a crook: never let him see where you live. The ferry ride, plus hour and a half drive to Boston, is worth not having a scumbag like Franco Scarpinato step foot in the place where I sleep.

  I sit on a bench at the end of McCorkle fishing pier, elbow kicked over the back, as I watch a young kid eyeing me. Beside
him, an older guy, I’m guessing his father, hooks a worm on a fishing pole, holding it up in as if instruction, but the kid seems too focused on me to care.

  The scars on my face tend to scare the younger ones, but the unwavering stare of this kid has me wondering what he’s seen, so much worse that he can look a monster square in the eyes without flinching.

  I tug my cigarettes from my pocket, and that’s when his father grabs him by the jaw, giving a hard jerk toward the hook. The kid keeps his head cocked where his dad put it, only sliding his eyes toward me when the asshole goes back to baiting the line.

  I light my smoke, thinking back to the one time my father took me on a chartered fishing trip, miles out from shore. The idea of floating out on the open sea with him was unsettling enough, but when I saw the liquor he packed away for the excursion, I wondered if it was worth the risk of him calling me a pansy for backing out. At no point was any part of the trip what I’d consider to be a happy memory, but there was a single moment, before he got too drunk, when he set his hand on my shoulder. He was introducing me to the captain of the boat, and for a fleeting second, I felt like any other son accompanying his father.

  An hour later, the same hand that’d rested on my shoulder pushed me with enough force to knock me over the edge, into the water. He’d gotten trashed and belligerent, and it took three crew members to pull me aboard, while my father sobbed in the galley of the boat.

  As I bobbed in the ice-cold waters with whatever the hell swam below the surface, my lifejacket tight around my throat, all I could think about was how good it felt to scare the shit out of him for once.

  “You had to pick the last fucking bench on this pier, didn’t you?” Franco’s voice reminds me of something out of Goodfellas, a wanna-be mafioso who just didn’t make the cut. Our family lines go way back to the days when my great-grandfather bootlegged liquor for his great-grandfather. Not that we grew up together. My father never trusted the Scarpinatos enough for family barbecues and other recreations. He kept everything business. Smart, considering they were affiliated with the Boston faction of the New England Mafia.