Catching it, Dugan grinned begrudgingly but waved his hand and muttered, “Yeah, yeah,” in a blatant, “I don’t want to hear about it” inflection, before turning to stare sullenly out the window. However, his valiant attempt to ignore his uncle did not stop him from being treated to a brief, though Dan stressed, with his tongue planted firmly in his cheek, vitally important lecture about the wisdom of always listening to his elders. Dugan slammed his eyes shut halfway through, even feigning sleep at one point in an unsuccessful effort to block it all out.
When the boy in the passenger seat turned to offer them each a cold beer, Dugan demurred. Dan thought he had died and gone to heaven.
Along the way, they exchanged brief personal stories. The boys were both seniors at Marquette majoring in political science and international relations. Each had grown up outside Milwaukee and had been in Mexico since June. Dan spoke for both he and his nephew, sharing that they were from western Massachusetts, he was retired from Ford, and the two had moved down here a few years ago.
If either of the strangers were curious about Scott’s almost translucent complexion, and Dan did notice the driver raise his eyes to the rear view mirror an inordinate number of times, both were too polite to ask. With an interior smile, Dan chalked it up to plain old Midwestern nice. Lot to be said for that.
They arrived in the foothills outside San Marcos well before midnight, where Dan started providing careful instruction on the sometimes twisting, winding roads that led to his somewhat secluded rental property. Still, the nearer he got, the more difficult it became to contain his excitement. After so many days away, amid so much death and uncertainty, to once again reunite with the blended family he and Scott had made for themselves, well. It was almost enough to make him weep.
You’re getting soft, Dan, he scolded himself, grinning outwardly to know he was already well past soft and hurtling headlong toward whatever came after. Maybe it was just his age, he thought. But as they got nearer, Dugan turned his head to send him a tired, but knowing smile, and Dan understood that his nephew was feeling all the same things he was.
After making the turn onto Dan’s street, where the driver assured him yet again he would be able to find his way out, Dan cautioned him to slow down and then asked him to pull over in front of the house. Even before he did, it was clear to Dan that something was wrong. There were no lights on inside or outside the residence. Neither his nor Dugan’s car were in the driveway where they’d left them, nor was Carlos’s truck.
When the car’s headlights momentarily illuminated the front door, a shiny yellow strip of police tape alerted them all that something was very wrong indeed.
“Dude,” the startled driver uttered quietly.
“Uncle Dan,” Dugan whispered, pointing.
In a strained voice, Dan replied, “I see it,” just before quickly asking the driver, “Keep going . . . just a little ways, if you would.”
The driver understood immediately and drove another fifty feet or so to an empty patch of land, where Dan told him he had gone far enough. Dugan turned to catch his uncle’s eye. Dan acknowledged him with a terse nod before turning his attention to the driver.
“Wow,” he began. “Not sure what’s going on back there. But I can’t thank both you guys enough for what you did for us. I mean it. We are truly grateful.”
The driver dismissed the thanks and said it was nothing before wishing them luck. The passenger turned and raised his beer can in toast, offering them both best wishes. Dan followed Dugan out of the cramped rear seat, and the two stood watching as the car found a turnaround a little ways down the road. They were still there moments later to wave their thanks as it passed them by. Both turned to watch the red tail lights disappear around a corner before they pivoted toward each other with raised eyebrows, ready to investigate whatever the hell happened at the house, where the hell their cars went, and what the hell was up with the police tape.
3
After tearing down the police tape and stepping inside, Dan switched on the light and was confronted with a vision of hell. Furniture and lamps had been flipped over or knocked aside throughout the room. Every surface was covered with overflowing ashtrays and half-full coffee mugs or fast food soft drink containers. Beer bottles and what remained of a days old chicken take-out dinner rotted on fly covered plates left strewn around the dining table.
His mind went a jumble, first thinking it must somehow be connected to the earthquake, before rejecting that. The furniture, maybe, but the rest made no sense. And though Dugan was first to walk into the room, from where he was standing, Dan also saw what looked to be two distinct splotches of dried rusty liquid staining the hardwood beneath the picture window.
Frozen in place, still trying to get his head around it, Dan watched Dugan pad lightly toward the window and crouch. He stared intently into the leftmost stain a while before running his fingers delicately across it, keeping them there a long few seconds before raising his head with a stricken look on his face.
“Carlos,” he said in a strangled voice, and Dan felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Lowering his head, his nephew stared into the second stain for a longer stretch before running his fingers gently across it. He either couldn’t or wouldn’t look up when he added almost inaudibly, “Margarite.”
Dan grasped hold of a nearby table for support. His mind teetered on the verge of shutting down. Before he could even get her name out, Dugan was on his way to the bedroom. Dan’s fingers went white clutching the table while waiting for his nephew to reappear. What seemed a lifetime later, he did.
Lifting his gaze, Dan watched his nephew send him a single relieved shake of his head before once again turning his attention to the crime scene, and Dan realized only then that’s precisely what it was.
Scott stood there a long minute gazing at the floor, his one remaining ear perked up as he sniffed the air around him. After taking time to process that, he returned to the entrance foyer and slowly and deliberately paced back into the room, stopping for a long stare toward the overturned Barcalounger before shifting his gaze to the floor in front of it. Lifting his head, he turned toward the archway leading to Dan’s bedroom and the guest apartment before pivoting again to look down at the hardwood.
Almost beneath his breath, in a tone of deep anguish and utter loss, he muttered the word, “Pruitt,” and Dan understood immediately that his nephew’s mountain sized manservant had also been among the victims. Unconsciously, he shook his head.
Crouching once more, his nephew seemed to taste the air before lowering his left hand and running his fingertips along a carefully chosen section of flooring. Releasing his grip on the table, Dan crossed the room to join him.
From over his shoulder, he watched Dugan lift his hand and bring the ends of his fingers to his nose. Sniffing deeply, he recoiled his head as if smelling something repulsive. Soon thereafter, he watched his nephew start shaking his hand violently, as if that alone would dispel whatever the offending substance was, before giving up on that and obsessively wiping it back and forth on his pants.
After what seemed an appropriate length of time, Dan asked, “What is it?” His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the freshly despoiled space.
His nephew took a long and introspective moment before answering with just one word: “Buttsweat.”
And in that one word, Dan knew exactly who had done it.
4
Probationary Officer Pablo Rodriguez had pulled the graveyard shift at the small police station. So far, knock on wood, it had been a very quiet evening. Only a handful of officers were working at this late hour, some out cruising for trouble, others drawing more lucrative security details at the bars nearest the beach. He would occasionally hear their chatter on the police radio behind him, but wasn’t listening. His eyes were glued to the small black and white television kept behind the counter at the front desk.
Though the earthquake had been centered very near them, San Marcos and nearby towns had suffered only mi
nor damage. Still, he supposed the relatively peaceful night might be related to the ongoing trauma afflicting their nation. He had compulsively followed the news and pictures coming out of Mexico City since it happened. Even now, more than twenty-four hours later, the government had yet to release an official statement. The news also reported that so far, all offers from other nations to render assistance had been rebuffed. To the young cop, that made no sense at all; but then, those decisions occurred at a much higher pay grade than his.
Feeling suddenly as if he were being watched, he glanced up to look out the front doors and saw on the other side of the glass was what looked like a young boy, and about the palest boy he had ever seen. Blinking, he looked again, and the boy was gone, but still, the image of his face remained. And those eyes. He had yellow eyes, like a wolf, he remembered, before getting up from his chair and heading toward the Chief’s office, which was off-limits to probationary officers, of course, most especially when the chief was not there. But he had discovered unexpectedly that he now had a very important mission.
Once inside, he went to a plywood board affixed to the wall, into which dozens of nails were pounded, from which dozens of keychains dangled. The one that unlocked the impound gate was in the lower righthand corner. Located behind the police station, the impound lot often had fifty or more cars crammed behind its tall fence. Most had been seized from tourists who couldn’t pay their fines. Some came from visitors honestly surprised to learn they had drugs in their car. Others were from drivers pulled over for simple moving violations that only escalated from there.
Some cars stayed just a day or two and were returned to their owners with very little of value left inside. Many had been there for years and were now mostly empty shells, their tires and stereos and in a few cases, whole interiors gone. The chief had arrangements with body shops throughout the region. Officers were often called upon to provide specific makes and model years. Every officer on the small police force made more money on vehicle scams and bribery than they would ever make in salary.
Taking the key, Officer Rodriguez left the station and walked around back. Unlocking the chain, he let it fall to the ground with a heavy clank before returning the key to the wooden board in the chief’s office and closing the door. Stepping back behind the desk, he sat down and returned his eyes to the pictures coming out of Mexico City, forgetting all about what he had just done, and all about the boy with the wolf eyes.
5
Torres was downstairs in an office he kept just outside his basement dungeon. Though it was well after midnight, he was at his desk perusing a series of glossy eight by tens he had received back from the developer just that evening. Most were of a young girl, a runaway, he suspected, who had landed in town just three days before. An American, no more than fourteen, she had arrived with an older boy who had since flown the coop, leaving her abandoned and alone in a foreign land. Torres was informed she had slept on the beach the last two evenings.
The photographs were candid shots he had taken from his car window as she solicited donations outside the shops downtown, to help her return home, she claimed. Still very much in the flower of youth, the girl was pert everywhere it counted, with buttery blonde hair and olive green eyes. Already, she was a great beauty. There was one photo in particular he found quite stimulating, taken just after one of her solicitations had been rudely rejected, leaving her disappointed with a verging on despondent look. And despondence was a look that always got Torres’ motor running. This girl was prepared to do almost anything, he knew, and one or two more days on the beach would be all it took to remove the almost. Rocio was sure to pay him well, though this one, he was considering just keeping.
It was a notion that had been percolating in his mind more frequently of late, this idea of keeping one to be his slave. What was just one girl to Rocio? And after his most recent trials with the girl from the beach house, his ribs only now beginning to heal such that he was feeling himself again, it might be wise to have a girl always present to cater to his many needs. He might have kept the last one, had he not already promised her to Rocio. But this one, this one he could think up an abundance of uses for, and he couldn’t imagine himself growing tired of her for a good long while.
Staring at the desperate picture of her once more, he unbuckled his belt and pulled down his trousers. This was another pleasure his cracked ribs had prevented him from indulging in these past few days. Now he thought he might explode if he did not immediately take care of it. And though a pale substitute for the real thing, until tomorrow, it would have to do, he supposed, as he took his manhood into his hand and started manipulating it. For he planned to be on the beach tomorrow evening, where he would at long last meet this young girl in person.
Nearing his climax, he heard something clatter to the floor in the room next door. He letup for a brief second before brushing it off as merely something jarred loose from the earthquake. Seconds before reaching his peak, he heard shuffling sounds come from that same direction, and immediately felt himself go limp. Was someone in there?
Quickly hiking his pants and shorts, he bounced up from the chair and buckled his belt before reaching to the desk for his holster. Withdrawing the pistol, he turned and left the office to walk into his dungeon.
He flicked the light switch, but alas, the one down here controlled only the soft pink lighting from lamps and select overhead fixtures. The master switch was at the top of the stairs. Of course, the windows down here had been barred and blackened so not a wisp of moonlight entered the chamber.
Turning left, he thought the rack holding his collection of lingerie might have shifted slightly. The clothes were swaying gently back and forth. Walking toward it, he reached out with his pistol and shoved the clothes aside, but there was nothing behind it. He next heard what sounded like a snicker from across the room.
Whipping around, he saw the iron maiden he had bolted to the ceiling swaying to and fro. He had purchased it years ago from the haunted house of a going out of business carnival. Though rusted and heavy, it was remarkably realistic. In fact, though he had never used it, the fear it inspired being more than enough, he suspected it worked quite well.
Tiptoeing his way toward it, he said, “Who’s there?” in his most commanding tone. When he received no reply, he added, “I have a gun!”
Reaching the swinging cage, he leaped behind it and saw no one, but did manage to bang his hip on the modified doctor’s examination table he kept right beside it. “Fuck,” he muttered, and heard another snicker, this one sounding like it came from right behind him.
Wheeling, he raised his gun and saw no one, but did immediately feel something poking into his rectum from behind.
“Don’t . . . you . . . move,” a male voice said, though it sounded quite young. Somehow, the voice also seemed to come from the other side of the room. Or maybe it was only in his head, he thought oddly.
Still, for some reason, perhaps fear, he found himself frozen, and whatever was currently being shoved up his ass even through his too tight pants felt very, very real.
“Drop the gun,” the voice demanded, and when Torres didn’t do it fast enough, the cattle prod discharged inside him, causing him to toss the gun across the room and fall to the floor in convulsions.
He must have blacked out, because when he was again able to move and to think, he discovered to his horror he had been stripped naked and placed inside the iron maiden, returning to his senses just as its cage door slammed shut. He flinched out of fear and surprise and immediately felt sharp spikes enter his left buttock and right shoulder. On the edge of a scream, it died in his throat the moment he looked outside the iron bars of his cage and saw a boy standing right in front of him.
It was that Scott kid, he realized. Senor Proctor’s nephew. The pale one with the sun allergy. But, it couldn’t be; and yet, there he was. Flinching again, he felt the sharp sting of spikes exiting his body in some places only to enter him in others. He felt the cold hard steel of one
pressing against his penis.
His bladder and bowels let go. He smelled the foul odor of his discharge, heard the tinkling trickle of his bodily fluids leaking through the bottom of the cage. Tears began running down his cheeks.
Oddly, the boy smiled. Walking toward the cage, he sniffed the air and then recoiled.
“You stink,” he said, and Torres was in no position to argue. But at least, the boy was talking. That was a start.
“Please,” he begged sobbingly. “I will give you anything. It is all a big misunderstanding, I promise. Please, I will give you anything.”
The boy seemed to consider his offer before asking, “Where’s the girl?”
Torres mind was not working well, so it took some time for him to grasp it. Evidently, too much time for the boy, who turned and began walking away.
“Wait!” he shrieked, thinking, the girl, the girl. Which girl would that be? Suddenly, he remembered.
“I gave her to Rocio! Dropped her . . . at the ranch, near you. The big one, with the horse sculpture leading into it. You know the one I mean?”
The boy stopped walking as soon as he began to speak. When he had finished, the boy seemed to take it all in before nodding his head. Then, he kept right on walking, toward the stairs leading to the outside entrance.
“Wait!” he shouted. “You cannot leave me here! Please! I will die!”
He heard the creak of the inside door opening and closing, and because it had been soundproofed, could only imagine the rest. Light footsteps would have gone up the twelve wooden stairs. The outer bulkhead would have opened and closed with the sound of a squeaky hinge it had long been on his list to oil, and he would be all alone.
Feeling a sudden itch where urine was drying on his leg, he instinctively went to scratch it and felt an iron spike sink half an inch into the muscle of his upper arm. Wincing from the pain, he felt another plunge into the fleshy part of his lower thigh and a third into his groin. He almost passed out to feel more warm liquid seeping from the neighborhood of his penis, and with growing horror knew that this time, it wasn’t urine.
Applewood (Book 3): The Space of Life Between Page 28