by Cameron
The palm trees on the beach are permanently bent from the sea breeze. At that moment, the sky above doesn’t threaten, as it has all day. As the music pumps the bikini-clad crowd into a frenzy, you watch families, children, lovers, on the beach, all preparing for their ritual baptism.
You feel their energy pulse with the beat of the conga drums from the salsa band. They walk around as if the party never stops. You, on the other hand, know exactly when this party will end. You’re in control.
Security is tight. There are armed police in Kevlar vests everywhere. Some convention of elected officials is in town, your only bit of bad luck. But you don’t care. You have the power of life and death. You’re not afraid. You’re God.
Tonight’s festival is a pagan ritual. Every man, woman and child will walk backward into the ocean and throw themselves into the sea, cleansed of their sins. Only, you know that it’s you who will do the cleansing. You look forward to it.
Palm tree trunks glow with artificial light on the manicured grounds. A band performs on a floating stage set up in the shallows of the private beach. Three women dressed in white sway their hips in a motion as old as time.
The crowd doesn’t need encouragement. Grandmas dance on the shore with toddlers, husbands stare adoringly into the eyes of their wives as they salsa knee-deep in the ocean. On the floating stage, men and women wearing cowboy hats follow along in a dance with the natives—a contingent from Texas.
You stare at the ramparts of an ancient fortress dating back to when this was an important military post, its shores decorated with cannons, the walls built to keep out the English Armada. The fortress is lit up tonight. Lightning flashes in the distance.
The women at the Bacardi booth keep the rum flowing. Every other man or woman carries a plastic cup, laughing and drinking. The cups are stamped with the Barcardi emblem: a bat. Here, the bat is a symbol of good luck.
As midnight approaches, the pulse of the party revs up. Couples once dancing poolside become part of the mass migration to the beach. Suddenly, the crowd converges. You stand body to body with strangers, getting drunk on their alcoholic stupor, but your eyes follow only her. You were at dinner when she and her boyfriend fought. You’ve learned women take all sorts of shit from men, but now, she’s alone.
One of the singers in the band explains the ritual for the tourists. People grab hands and begin wading backward into the warm water.
You come to stand alongside the woman. Like everyone else, she wears a barely there bikini. You’ve been waiting all night for this moment.
She takes your hand and smiles. She’s blond with blue eyes. You hear her slur her words as she tells you how amazing this all is. Like New Year’s, she says. You hear a touch of the South in her voice. Texas, then.
Beach balls are tossed into the ocean by hotel staff as the crowd counts backward. Ten, nine, eight…The girl squeezes your hand. She tells you her name is Mary.
Like the Virgin, you think, squeezing back.
At the count of five, you take Mary’s hand to your mouth and kiss the back of her fingers. She has beautiful hands, soft and slim. Mary giggles. You can see she likes her Barcardi.
The crowd is thick now. You stand practically on top of each other, trying to make room for all. You throw yourselves backward into the ocean. The tradition requires you do it twelve times, giving more than enough opportunity.
Mary never comes back up.
No one notices as she fights, kicking her legs. Her struggle blends with the ritual dunking. You’re tall for your age. And very strong. The crowd is throwing balls and dancing in the water. Fireworks light up the sky and the sound of the band covers her fight for air. Slowly, you feel the life slip away as her body grows limp. You submerge alongside her and bring her fingers to your mouth once again. You taste blood with the saltwater.
You lift her into your arms like a lover. You lower her one more time in the water, sending her adrift.
You slip out of the sea and across the sand, exhilarated.
Back by the pool, a giant TV screen shows the NBA finals. Tourists take photographs of loved ones, cataloging the moment.
You don’t need a camera. You will never forget this night.
Kids slide into the pool, screaming. Spanish and English mingle in the warm, muggy night. Off in the distance, the skies now threaten a downpour, while the pool bar glows neon blue. Striped towels are handed out freely; no need for a card key tonight.
The sand poolside feels warm between your toes. You look out toward shore, where people still dance in the water. There are hammocks between a few of the palm trees, as well as striped cabana chairs. You slip into one. Again, you reach into the pocket for your souvenir. Dark clouds drifting in the night sky begin to blur the stars.
You marvel at how well it went. You were careful to slip in at the last second and take Mary’s hand in yours. No one will remember you standing with her. It was dark. That helps.
You head back to the hotel entrance. At the pool bar, an armada of bartenders flip bottles to the rhythm of a song you don’t recognize. They dance and concoct their magic potions for the women smoking and swaying to the music on the submerged concrete seats. You notice a tattoo on the small of the back of one lady, but don’t linger. You’re not greedy.
You slip inside the hotel, passing the emergency personnel scrambling by. They will try to revive Mary. They will not succeed.
They will find the tip of one of her pinkies missing where you bit it off. Not what you want for your treasure, but it will do.
Your heart is racing as you make your way to the hotel gardens. A television shows a newscaster reporting that the festival on the beaches is going well. He reassures viewers that security is tight. It’s safe, folks. Come on down and enjoy.
You enter the gardens. No one is around. Everyone is back at the pool and beach.
You listen to the frogs. They’re famous here, making a soft, coo-kee noise. It sounds like there’s hundreds just here. You open your mouth and take out the tip of Mary’s pinkie.
Now you know why they call this the island of enchantment. It’s beautiful and surreal, listening to the frogs sing.
You look down at the finger piece settled in the middle of your palm. It’s small, only to the first joint, but you did like her hands and there wasn’t a lot of time.
You’re in paradise and now you have a part of Mary. All your wishes tonight have come true….
You open your eyes, returning to time present.
Mimi Tran wasn’t nearly so nice. But she had a purpose.
The eyes, her life source, are yours now.
That’s the way it has to be from now on. You kill with reason. It’s kill or be killed. You are God and you serve a higher purpose.
And you already know who is next.
8
Gia Moon stared at the six-by-four-foot canvas. She’d come home from the police station and headed straight for her studio, dropping her purse on the concrete floor at the entrance.
She’d started work on the painting at one o’clock that morning. That’s when she’d woken from her dream.
She hadn’t woken gently, slowly easing to the surface of wakefulness. That’s not how it happened, these visions. She’d sat up abruptly, gasping for breath, horrified by the images still burning so brightly inside her head. Her daughter had uncharacteristically slept in her own bed that night, a godsend.
In her bathroom, Gia had splashed water on her face. Grabbing a robe for warmth, she’d headed for her studio in the garage.
This is what she did; it was who she was. The woman who painted nightmares.
Her mother had warned her once. You’re so strong. Be careful. Dark spirits are always attracted to the strong.
“No kidding, Mom,” she said, staring at the painting of the demon who had killed Mimi Tran.
That morning, she’d taken only a short break from painting for coffee—it wasn’t her day to drive carpool, another lucky break. She’d had more than enough t
ime for her vision to become almost fully realized on the canvas before she’d read the article in the paper, making the connection.
Gia reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out the detective’s card. When she’d gone to the precinct, she’d wanted to blurt out her story and leave. Mission accomplished.
She propped the card up on the easel.
They hadn’t believed her. She’d expected that.
She took a long breath and stared down at her hands. They were shaking. She balled her fingers into fists.
I’m next.
It had been a bold declaration, one she hadn’t planned on making. But she had a temper, and she’d let herself get pushed.
Not good, Gia.
Sometimes, she could understand what had driven her mother all those years. People wanted proof, something tangible. They wanted the world to make sense. Things needed to add up, like a mathematical formula. Forget about dreams and visions and the kooks who claimed to have them.
Erika Cabral was one of those skeptics. The kind of person who thought Gia only wanted to scam the desperate out of their money.
The interview had been surprisingly nerve-racking. Gia didn’t like the spotlight. She required anonymity. To the outside world, she was an artist, a painter whose pieces some claimed showed a glimpse into another world. But it was all below the radar. Those few souls who managed to find her never asked for more than peace of mind. In exchange for connecting with lost loved ones, they kept her secrets.
Now, that might not be possible.
“Wow. That is one ugly mother.”
Hearing her daughter, Gia turned toward the door. She had no idea how long she’d been standing there. She had a habit of “losing time” when it came to her paintings. Past three o’clock, she told herself, if Stella was home from school.
Her daughter walked into the garage studio, popping her gum, a vile habit she well knew her mother despised. Gia figured that was the point. Stella dropped her backpack in the middle of the floor. Gia didn’t comment on that, either.
The girl came to stand next to her and immediately fell into the painting.
That’s what Gia called it: falling in. It happened all the time with Stella. Gia watched as her daughter’s eyes grew unfocused. That was the problem with Stella’s gift. She was too sensitive, didn’t have strong enough defenses. She hadn’t learned how to guard herself—and, in complete denial of her gifts, she wouldn’t allow Gia to teach her.
Stella took a step back, away from the painting. In complete silence, she reached out and slipped her hand in her mom’s.
Gia pulled her little girl into her arms. At twelve years old, Stella was still under five feet, small for her age. Gia kissed the top of her head. Stella had Gia’s black hair and blue eyes. But the curls—those riotous curls brushing the tops of her shoulders were all her daughter’s.
“Okay,” Stella said, pushing back to once again look at the painting. “I already hate it. What is it?”
“I don’t know, baby. A demon of some sort.”
“It killed somebody, didn’t it?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out,” Gia said. “Maybe lots of somebodies.”
Gia didn’t bother to try to hide things from Stella. She’d learned a long time ago the futility of that—nor did Stella appreciate her efforts at protecting her. Gia chose instead to try and explain what her daughter saw. But even then, she fell short. Half the time it was Stella who told Gia the meaning behind her art, such was her daughter’s talent.
The painting didn’t show Mimi Tran’s lifeless body. Gia rarely painted death, choosing instead to objectify such things.
Mimi’s symbol was the red eye. It faced the beast, ready to do battle. But the monster proved too powerful. Part of the eye melted down the side of the canvas, the heavy red paint flowing like a river of blood off the edge.
Gia used her paintings to make sense of the images that came to her in dreams. Sometimes it worked, other times she just had macabre works of art to show for her efforts.
“They didn’t believe you, did they?”
“The police? No, darling,” she said. “They didn’t.”
She didn’t ask Stella how she knew about the police. Gia hadn’t told her about her trip to the precinct or the conversation she’d had with the detectives there. Her daughter preferred to pretend her ability was a fluke, or a figment of their imagination. She did the ostrich thing, getting angry whenever her mother pointed out the obvious.
I don’t want to be a freak like you! That’s what she’d screamed the first time her abilities came shining through.
There’d been a time when Gia, too, had said those very words to her own mother.
Stella gave a sigh that sounded much too old for her years. “I don’t know why you even try.”
“Because I was supposed to.”
“Your guides,” Stella said, in the voice of a supreme skeptic.
In the world of psychic phenomena, often times guides from the other side would help a medium make contact. They served almost as an umbilical line to the dead spirits trying to communicate. While many had names, Gia’s own guides chose to remain anonymous.
She bit her lip and stared at the simple business card propped on the easel. Detective Seven Bushard. City of Westminster. Homicide.
She remembered the electric shock of his touch.
She’d felt his sadness like a blow to her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She’d seen his story like a movie in her head. His brother and the man he’d killed. The vision had been dark and murky and without a lot of details, but grisly nonetheless.
From the moment the detective had walked in to that interview, he’d been watching her with an almost hungry stare. Gia knew what it meant to have people want something from her.
You say you had a dream?
That was the other detective. The woman, Erika Cabral. Gia recognized that tone. The freak…the nut job. It only made her smile, because she could clearly see an entity standing next to Erika, shedding a protective white light.
Gia never argued with a disbeliever. Sometimes she wondered if that’s not what she wanted. Don’t believe me. I did my duty. My conscience is clear. If you don’t make use of my knowledge, that’s not my concern.
Only, she couldn’t really say that now. Mimi Tran was different. This time, Gia wasn’t the uninvolved observer.
She might very well be responsible for that woman’s death.
She looked back at the card, remembering Seven Bushard’s words on parting.
“Call if you have another…dream,” he’d told her.
“The man. Is he going to hurt you, Mommy?”
The question came from nowhere, as they often did. Gia always forgot how connected she was to her child.
She’d been thinking about the detective when her daughter asked the question. But Stephen Bushard wasn’t who she feared.
She answered, “No, sweetie.” She kissed her daughter again, giving them both the pabulum. “I’ll be fine. We both will.”
9
The county coroner’s office was located in Santa Ana, a city that touted itself as the financial and political center for Orange County. It was over seventy-five percent Hispanic, originating with a Spanish land grant—seventy acres of which had been purchased from the Yorba family by William H. Spurgeon. Driving up the road from Westminster, Seven was always amazed how quickly the signs changed from Pho 54 to Taqueria.
Seven had grown up in nearby Huntington Beach, graduating from Marina High School. Go Vikings! With Little Saigon so close, the school’s Asian population was double that of the state average.
Even back then, there was this idea that Asian students were ruining the public school system, making it too hard for your red, white and blue American to succeed. How could Patty or Jake compete against someone who lived in the library, for God’s sake, tanking up on Top Ramen and green tea for another all-nighter of studying?
Whenever he heard someo
ne spouting that crap, Seven always asked if maybe Asians were inherently more intelligent? No? So it’s all about good old-fashioned hard work? Well, there you go.
People made choices. They sacrificed. So quit bitching and just compete, right? God knows Ricky, his brother, hadn’t been the hit of the party scene. That had been Seven’s job in life.
Back in high school, Seven managed to get into enough hot water that his mom had threatened military school. It was a kind of periodic thing, like Easter or Christmas. Military school, Seven. I will do it! Once, she’d even taken him to tour a couple of places. Seven smiled at the memory, because the tactic had actually worked. Suddenly, he was passing all his classes.
But Ricky…it was the sweat of his brow that got him a full-ride scholarship to the college of his choice.
Still, Seven had to admit, the county coroner, Alice Wang, was the poster child for the Asians-are-hard-to-beat argument.
Alice was in her early fifties. She wore glasses and styled her hair in a sensible pageboy—Alice wasn’t spending a ton of time in front of the mirror. She had places to go, people to cut open.
Alice had a gift. Best damn medical examiner he’d ever worked with.
Mimi Tran lay on a metal table with paper draped strategically over her lower body—an attempt at dignity sabotaged by the fact that half her insides were on display and a tag hung from her big toe like a Christmas present.
Your average Joe didn’t know that it was the smells you remembered most from your first autopsy: body odors and the scent of half-digested food. Seven figured Alice and her crew must be used to it. Him, he was breathing through his mouth.
Alice Wang stood over the body of Mimi Tran. With the scalpel, she’d made a Y incision, from shoulder to shoulder and down to the lower abdomen. She’d already removed the breastplate using the circular saw waiting with other instruments next to the body, exposing the internal organs, which had all been weighed. The quickest way to know if there was something wrong was through weight.
Now she was in the process of ladling the stomach contents into a plastic container, like soup. She used tweezers to examine the particulate matter.