A Choir of Ill Children

by Tom Piccirilli

  “It’s not my place to talk about that.”

  “I need to know. It was the last thing that Drabs said to me before he vanished. I promised his father that I’d find him, but so far I haven’t had any luck. I think he’s hiding from me.”

  “Why’s that, you reckon? That boy’s got the good Lord on his side so he surely ain’t scared of you none. And you ain’t afraid of him or any storm. So far as I see you ain’t a’fearing it for nobody else either.”

  “It might have something to do with my parents.”

  “Well now, it just might at that.”

  She puts the jug down at her feet and I notice her hand is bandaged. She’s taken off the tip of her other pinkie.

  “Christ, lady, quit doing that to yourself!”

  “Someone’s got to make up for the sacrifices you ain’t offering.”

  I try not to let out a sigh but it still hisses between my teeth. I take a step forward and the light of the embers rises and falls against the ceiling. “You act like I need to make amends.”

  “That’s right. You owe a debt.”

  “To who?” I ask. “For what?”

  “You don’t really care. You ain’t here for me nor the town nor Drabs Bibbler neither. I know what you got on your mind, Thomas. Now you listen here good. You leave that girl alone.”

  The taste of moonshine has given me a thirst I can’t shake. I grab up the jug and take another sip, and this time it hits the good place. “You’re the one who brought her into this. You brought her to my house.”

  “She come to help, and help she did.”

  “You used her and you’re still using her. Stop sending teenage girls around to seduce me.”

  “That what she done, huh? That what my Dodi done? Them jezebels beguiled an innocent boy like you?”

  “Velma—”

  “They know their duty to Kingdom Come and its people. It’s you who’s shirking your load.”

  “There’s a geek at the carnival.”

  “There usually is.”

  “He wants to talk with me.”

  “Yes, I do believe. The signs say so.”

  There’s a knock from under the floor. Maybe it’s rotting boards giving way or maybe it’s the murdered up to their mischief. “Who is he, this guy who eats snakes, and what’s he want to say?”

  The oily shine of pity swims through her eyes. “You’ll find that out on your own soon enough.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THAT DEAD KID IS WALKING AROUND THE backyard. His mouth’s still full of skimmer dragonflies and mosquitoes that froth from his lips. He’s trying to say something, stumbling across the lawn, maybe skipping. He waves and I head downstairs to meet with him.

  I turn the corner into the kitchen and a dark trifold, predatory figure descends across my way.

  It’s cold down here. Gooseflesh rises along the backs of my arms and legs, my shoulders, my ass. I step back, aware that I’m naked and curiously embarrassed by the fact. Limbs flail about. They move in the darkness in a fashion that I’ve never seen before. I reach for the light switch and one of them grabs my wrist tightly, with much more strength than I could’ve believed. I let out a groan and the grip slackens until I can pull free.

  With three mouths, in one voice, Sebastian says, “He isn’t dead.”

  “The kid?” I ask. “I saw him in the swamp and his throat was crushed.”

  “Not him. I’m talking about the other one.”

  “What other one?”

  “The man.” Sebastian sighs, the breath from three sets of lungs puffing powerfully against my chest. “The man with one leg. He’s back and he wants to put the squeeze on you.”

  “He’ll have to get in line.”

  “This is serious, Thomas.”

  I’m taken aback. My brothers have never spoken my name, and it sounds foreign yet familiar coming from those throats. I can still see them moving in the shadows, no longer in spasms, and I ease myself against the far wall. “A demented prick like that only goes after children.”

  The corpse of the boy is at the back door gesturing me to come outside. Johnny Jonstone wants to take me on a visit to his one-legged daddy. Milkweed bugs cover his shirt, crawling across that horribly bruised neck. Herbie’s black fingerprints can still clearly be seen. I’ve got a powerful urge to follow him through the cypress and titi bushes and hear what he has to say. If indeed he can say anything at all with a crushed trachea, and furthermore being dead.

  He taps at the screen door.

  Cole says, “Thomas, stay out of the yard tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Stop asking so many foolish questions and just trust us.”

  “Do you really expect me to be able to do that?”

  “You have to.”

  Moonlight streams in through the doorway and the kid is silhouetted there, outlined in flaming silver. The insects cling to the screen. When he knocks they fall in clusters at his feet.

  “I’m getting tired of so many folks telling me what I have to do.”

  “Stop whinning,” Sebastian adds. “It isn’t easy trying to reach you this way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Jonah is still focused on Sarah, who’s asleep upstairs in bed, alone, perhaps even hoping for him. I can hear it in his voice though he tries to stay centered. “You left the backyard once and wound up deep in the swamp. The same thing will happen tonight but you won’t be as lucky as you were then. You’re not safe.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re no longer being guarded.”

  “But why? Because I didn’t hand over my vinegar?”

  “Don’t be such an idiot.”

  Silver seeping against my toes, Johnny really kicks up a fuss, stomping on the welcome mat. I walk over. He smiles with teeth covered in dragonflies and scratches harder. His nails are torn but of course there’s no blood. Mosquitoes cloud in front of his weathered face. I check for Maggie but she’s not under the willows. She’s given up her watch. No wonder I’m unprotected.

  “If you’ve got anything to tell me, Johnny, you can say it from there.”

  He shakes his head and beckons me.

  Symbolism is strong even when you’re walking in your sleep. I keep looking around expecting my parents to show up, my mother scampering on the ceiling, my father halfway through the wall.

  I turn to Sebastian and ask, “Why did Lucretia Murteen mention your name?”

  “She didn’t.”

  “But—”

  “It’s also the name of one of the guys crashing at the monastery. They went at it a couple of times and now she’s afraid she’s pregnant.”

  “Oh.”

  I awaken and I’m standing naked by the window. Dodi is in my bed wrapped in twisted blankets but I don’t think we’ve made love. My brothers sleep deeply, two of them snoring heavily. Sarah’s seated on the floor, a sheet draped over her shoulder, watching me.

  THE FOREMAN, PAUL, COMES UP TO MY OFFICE TO TELL me that Lily and the little girl are here to see me. His eyes are spinning and the vertigo has gotten hold of him again. I give him a paper cup full of water to drink until he feels well enough to traverse the stairs once more.

  I say, “Thank you, Paul,” and he looks at me with a mixture of envy and disdain. I really throw off his day when I show up at the mill.

  Lily’s carrying a bulging picnic basket, the top flaps angled open to reveal a bottle of wine, wildflowers, corn on the cob.

  “I hope we haven’t come at a bad time,” she says, “But I thought we might have something of a picnic lunch with you.”

  “That would be lovely,” I say. “Hello, Eve.”

  The girl silently watches me, holding but not licking the all-day sucker. Her sensuality is even more greatly exaggerated now than the first time I saw her. From second to second I’m forced to alter my guess about her age. One moment she might be fourteen, a minute later she’s nineteen at least. It keeps me rubbing my eyes and trying to do things with my hands.
No wonder Nick Stiel is unraveling on his way to hell.

  Eve goes to the window and looks down at the factory workers below us, holding the sucker before her like a scepter, her other fist firmly planted on her hip. Some of the men on the floor look up and murmur among themselves. She’s still wearing bobby socks and tiny plastic black shoes, with her hair in pigtails. She’s no longer wide-eyed or confused but instead appears to have a strategy of some kind, anticipating the right moment to implement it. I wonder what Velma Coots might see in the girl that I’m unable to see.

  The line slows down immediately and the machinery begins to stall. Nobody can concentrate on the task before them with her blazing eyes glaring down at them. The guys are really coming unstrung and the women start asking questions. I hope to Christ that nobody sticks a hand too far into the belts. Paul’s got to be about ready to throw a fit. He calls lunch a half hour early and shuts down the line. I make a note to give him a bonus.

  Lily radiates a postcoital glow from all the sex she’s had this morning with Nick Stiel. She hums, going “la lahh lah la” under her breath, taking paper napkins and plates and plastic utensils from the basket and placing them on my desk. I wonder why she’s so eager to play house with me. We’ve been lovers for years and she’s never acted this way before. Why isn’t she picnicking with the PI?

  Obviously Eve’s advent has also affected Lily. There are worry lines around her eyes but she smiles more easily and naturally. Her hair isn’t fashioned into quite so tight a bun and she wears fewer layers though she still has a sweater on in this heat. Lily’s not wearing her glasses and she’s put a bit of rouge on her cheeks. She appears to sleep more deeply but perhaps for not as long. There’s a little darkness under her eyes that I find strangely stimulating.

  “Has that private detective been getting anywhere?” she asks, as if she doesn’t know Stiel at all.

  “I believe he has some leads.”

  “Really? Well, that’s good for us. I expect that after all this time he should have some information dug up. What sort of leads are they?”

  “I’m not certain. Maybe he’s found something on where’s she’s from and how she got here.”

  Lily perks up at that but doesn’t seem very concerned. Either she knows I’m lying or she thinks Stiel is feeding me false information in order to stay in Potts County with her. In any case, it doesn’t worry her much.

  “How are you and Eve getting along?”

  “Very well. I enjoy her company. I was . . . lonely for a time, and I’m not any longer. She’s a great comfort.”

  “Shouldn’t we be preparing to make other arrangements?”

  She looks up from laying out the food. “Arrangements? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Foster care.”

  “No,” Lily says flat out, offering no chance for argument. “You want to hand her over to a social worker? Absolutely not. The poor thing’s already lost and who knows what else she’s been through. She doesn’t need to be swallowed up by the system as well.” She scoops potato salad onto all three plates and neatly places a piece of corn on the cob on each as well. This is as motherly as she’s capable of getting and she’s enjoying every minute of it. She pours a glass of milk for Eve.

  “Has there been any trouble?”

  “What kind of trouble do you mean?”

  “Anything. Any problems?”

  “No. None at all.”

  “Has she spoken yet?” I ask.

  Eve continues to utterly ignore us. Lily has to think about it for a while, aggressively pensive as she clatters cups of macaroni salad around my desk. I’m prompted to reach over and shake her arm but I don’t.

  When she looks up at me at last Lily says, “She mutters sometimes. In her sleep.”

  “What does she say?”

  “Who can tell? It’s all just mumbling. Would you like some wine?”

  “Sure.”

  From the basket she pulls two plastic glasses and a bottle of Chianti that’s been sitting in a container of ice. She pours the wine and we sit sipping it, staring at one another. I think about the flat rock and what might happen if I brought Eve back to where she was found in the swamp. Maybe I should ask her about the dead kid and Herbie Ordell Jonstone’s leg.

  Undoing a button on her sweater, Lily presses the cool glass of wine to her cleavage. Her burgeoning overt sexuality is something of a turnoff to me. “Sheriff Burke is completely inept. He hasn’t been able to find out anything about her parents. All those computers and interoffice cooperation and still he’s unable to learn anything. He even had the audacity to take her fingerprints.”

  “And there’s no record of her anywhere?”

  “No, of course not. Did you expect there might be? Do you think she’s been in jail?”

  “Sometimes parents print their kids just in case they’re ever abducted. Has Dr. Jenkins taken another look at her?”

  “No. Why?”

  “It might be prudent.”

  “I think that’s unnecessary, Thomas.”

  “All right.”

  “Is it costing very much? Paying for Mr. Stiel’s services?”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “Well, come on, let’s eat.”

  Eve doesn’t turn from the window. I decide to try to shake something free. I get out of my chair and step up behind her, putting my hands on her shoulders. I’d hoped for some kind of reaction from the physical contact but there isn’t anything. Perhaps she’s used to men touching her. She completely disregards me, staring down at the factory floor like she owns the mill. I consider licking her all-day sucker but I’m fairly certain that if I did we’d suddenly be locked in a death match, and I’m not quite ready for that.

  She raps on the glass in exactly the same way the dead kid tapped on the door.

  Lily takes out a glazed ham and puts it on the table.

  IT COSTS A LITTLE OVER TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS TO bail Dodi out of jail. Sheriff Burke takes the cash and hands me papers to sign but he doesn’t let her free from the cell yet. He’s got one boot up on the desk and is tilting backward in his chair, relishing the moment. His hat is planted tightly on his nugget of a head.

  Even though Sarah isn’t pressing charges he considers this to be a big case that’s broken wide open, and he doesn’t want the attention to die down just yet. He’s trying to come up with something that will be hip, street-smart, and witty, with the proper amount of nonchalant jaded attitude, but so far he’s dry. I can see him getting a little worried that he won’t even be able to make the pretense. He wants to be a donut-eating hardass running in homicidal scum every day. He’s watched enough cop shows and read a few true-crime books—Helter Skelter, Zodiac, Son of Sam, all the stuff about Gacy and Dahmer—but nothing quite applies now and it’s bugging him.

  Burke takes some chaw out of his top desk drawer and bites off too large a piece. The miscalculation costs him as his mouth floods with too much juice. It drips down his chin onto his neat uniform and he winds up having to spit the whole thing out into his metal wastebasket.

  Burke finally realizes he isn’t going to utter anything funky and just says, “The Coots tramp coulda killed that girl. The hell’s going on in your house? This never should have happened.”

  “It was sort of a territorial thing.”

  He leans forward trying to be imposing. “That supposed to be funny?”

  “No.”

  “Took seven stitches for Doc Jenkins to close her up. That isn’t funny.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Another inch farther in and she would’ve been spilling her guts out all over your fancy rugs.”

  Burke’s never been inside the house and doesn’t know if we have fancy rugs or not, but it sounds pretty good in the heat of his rant. Dodi wasn’t trying to disembowel Sarah—the slash across her stomach had another meaning. Sarah is New York high class slumming as Dogpatch Daisy Mae knotting her blouse at midriff, wearing the torn cutoffs. Dodi is the real thing and res
ents anyone intruding on her action. I find that understandable. She couldn’t abide anybody mimicking what is hers by default. She was going for the pierced belly button, a sign of pop cultural iconoclasm that doesn’t belong in the bayou.

  But Burke is right about one thing. It never should have happened.

  On the wall behind him are photos and statistics of all the dogs who’ve been kicked, including his own terrier, Binky. There’s a close-up of Binky’s tushy with the size twelve boot print on it. Binky and Burke look as if they may never recover.

  “Those two gals can’t stay in the same house any longer.”

  “You’re right,” I say.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “One of them will be leaving.”

  “Which?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  He’s getting a little too excited and forgets to talk from his diaphragm. That fifelike piccolo voice eases from him as if he’s been sucking helium out of a balloon. “There isn’t much you do know, now is there?”

  “Hm.”

  “That the only answer you got?”

  His tone is getting to me. A light breeze circles his office and flaps the bills I’ve put on his desk. The chair creaks as he tips back again, stretching as if bored, about to yawn. He wags his boot toward me. There’s an open window directly behind him. One shove against his desk and he’d flip right out of it. “Have you found anything on Eve yet?”

  “Who the hell is Eve?”

  “The lost girl who’s staying with Lily.”

  “Who said her name was Eve?”

  “We had to call her something besides ‘Hey, You.’ ”

  “She’s none of your concern.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “And who do you think you are hiring some shoofly from up North to come all the way down here to snoop into the middle of my investigation? You got so much money you feel like wasting it wherever you can?”