The Swamp Killers

by Sarah M. Chen

  Melody said, “Who are you?”

  Jackie smiled. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is who you are. The daughter of Olivia Duplass, matron of the Duplass family, head of its many enterprises, including the prisons and detention centers sprinkled all across the country.”

  Melody looked confused, but Jackie felt no need to educate her. It was Olivia he wanted. They were wasting time.

  “Get her dressed,” he said to Chaz. “Grab her cell, any computers or ID,” he told Keith.

  For his part, he sat on the bed and stared at the girl secured to the headboard. Not much more than a teen herself, she looked a little like his daughter, a thought he shoved away. She was the devil’s spawn, the reason his life had spiraled out of control. The reason his daughter was dead.

  “Hurry,” he said.

  Keith had uncuffed one hand so she could change into the jeans and top he’d thrown at her. He watched her dress at gunpoint. They all did.

  Another knock on the door.

  “I ordered room service,” Melody said. “They’re here.”

  Another knock. Louder this time. “Room service,” a woman called out.

  “Tell her to leave it in the hallway,” Jackie hissed.

  Melody obeyed.

  “I can’t. You need to sign.” A pause. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes,” Melody said at Jackie’s direction.

  There was another pause, longer this time, and Jackie let out a breath, believing the server gone. A stronger knock proved him wrong.

  “Room service,” the voice said again, angrier this time. “Meatloaf special.”

  The words were a punch to his gut. Jackie motioned toward the door. Chaz nodded. He opened the door and reached out to grab the server. Then he stopped. Something was wrong.

  Chaz backed into the room, hands up.

  “What the fuck?” Keith muttered. He pointed his gun at the intruder, silencer visible.

  Her gun was locked onto Chaz. “Put it down or he’s dead.” Calm, steely voice. A voice that wasn’t fucking around.

  “Boss?” Keith said.

  Only Jackie couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. He stared at the woman in front of him. She was no room service attendant. Red silk skirt that hugged her thighs and ended a few inches above her knees. White blouse tied at the navel. Red bra. Red slash of mouth. Long, flowing dark hair cascading in waves down her back.

  His eyes watered. He blinked, trying to clear his blurred vision. “Ana,” he whispered.

  Keith lunged at her. She shot him in the chest, then pointed the gun at Chaz, then Jackie. “Tell your asshole hitman here to calm down or you’re next.”

  Jackie waved Chaz back. He stared at the woman, disbelieving his own eyes. “Ana,” he said again.

  “Ana was only sixteen. Did you know that, bastard?”

  Jackie shook his head.

  “You wouldn’t have cared, would you? Sixteen. And you left her there, like a piece of motel trash, next to the dirty towels and your used condoms.” She spat.

  “Who are you?”

  The woman smiled. It was a smile so heavy with sadness and crazy, vengeful anger that Jackie took an involuntary step back. This was the anger he felt toward Olivia Duplass. This was the anger that got him out of bed every fucking day in prison. He felt a shudder run through him. He knew what this anger could do to a person. He knew what this anger would mean.

  “Kill her,” he said.

  Chaz kicked out and landed a blow to her knee cap. She was quick, though, and young, and she jumped back before the brunt of it could injure. Righting herself with the grace of a ballerina, she aimed the gun at Chaz, smiled an apology, and shot him. Melody screamed. Blood soaked the carpet.

  Bile rose to Jackie’s throat. He fought the urge to vomit. Do what you came for, he said to himself. Melody. Olivia.

  The woman aimed her gun at him.

  “You never even thought for a moment that someone else could have been in that room, did you? But they were. A scared twelve-year-old who’d been told to wait in the closet until things got quiet.” She took a step closer, holding the gun with ease. One of the bodies made a gurgling sound.

  She shook her head. “You didn’t care, any more than you cared about those kids you locked up. Who cares if a life is ruined for chewing gum in school or yelling at a cop? Who cares if a sixteen-year-old prostitute chokes on her own vomit while you’re screwing her? Who cares?”

  He gulped down bile that had risen in his throat. Dragon bile, searing, acrid. “Ana.”

  “Belize.” She pulled the wig off her head, exposing chin-length blondish hair. “Her sister. Her baby sister.” She watched his face. “You didn’t think for a second that she’d have an aunt, or a grandma, or a sister.”

  Jackie watched Belize’s face. He flashed back to that night. The unrelenting rain, the thunder, the soft flesh of the girl under him. Everything Belize said was right. It was an accident, but he’d been too scared to do anything. He ran away that night, leaving her there for the motel manager and the Texas police. He’d been running for twenty years.

  “Let me go.”

  Jackie and Belize both turned to look at Melody. She was sitting on the bed in a state of semi-dress, one arm locked to the headboard.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Jackie said.

  “That’s what they all said.” Belize closed the distance between them, gun pointed at his chest. “But in the end, they hurt her. They always hurt her.”

  “Please.” And then it dawned on him. With horror, he did the math. He’d started the deal with the Duplass family eighteen years ago. Belize would have been eighteen when he sent his first undeserving kid to detention. “It was you. The photo in my chambers.” Red slash of a mouth, red skirt. “You.”

  She nodded. “I followed you that night. I saw your ID, I knew who you were. When I was old enough, I knew I would get even.” She tilted her head. “I left you the photo for Ana. I wanted you to know you hadn’t gotten away with it.”

  Not the Duplass family. He could have said no to their stupid scheme, their dirty money. He could still have his daughter. Like that, Jackie’s energy left him. He was a rag doll, devoid of purpose, his one objective—making Olivia pay—no longer relevant. He was no longer relevant.

  He glanced at Melody. He had to let her go. Reluctantly, he freed her from the headboard.

  There was another sound at the door. This time he tensed while the lock clicked, the door opened. In walked a tall man, handsome in a cold sort of way. He took in the situation: the dead men on the floor, Jackie and Belize by the bathroom, the woman on the bed. His hand slid into his pants pocket. Calmly, almost serenely, he said, “Drop the gun,” to Belize.

  She smiled again. More sadness. More vengeful rage. With the gun almost touching Jackie’s chest, she said, “I’m afraid not.”

  Belize watched him fall. For twenty-four years, she’d lived for this moment. After a split-second of sublime satisfaction, she felt only contempt—for him, for herself, for the fucking Manchester Inn.

  “Hands up, buttercup.” The tall man with the dead eyes pushed her against the wall. “You’ve been a busy girl.”

  The woman named Melody was zipping her jeans. “You’re late,” she said to the man. She walked over and kissed him. He smiled.

  “What the fuck are we going to do with her?”

  Belize could feel the weight of Melody’s stare. She wanted it to be full of contempt or condescension, wanted to hate her, but she saw only a wary respect and deep exhaustion.

  The carpet stunk. The room was stifling. Outside, a siren wailed.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Melody said. She kissed the man again.

  He pointed the gun at Belize and shrugged. Melody touched his arm. She placed two fingers on the gun and pushed it downward. “Let her go,” she said. “Just let her go.”

  Back to TOC

  Cockroach

  Hilary Davidso
n

  “Joey? Sweetie?”

  Joey Grushcow could hear the tension in his mom’s voice as it rose up the stairs. She was stressed, and it was his fault. His friend Mara had warned him something like this might happen. His stomach knotted up in guilt. He’d seen the Atlanta PD squad car roll up in front of his house, a grand mansion on a boulevard full of equally lavish homes. Even without the sirens flashing, you couldn’t miss the cop car, not with its shiny navy finish and red racing stripe down the side. Joey knew his mom was already agonizing about what their neighbors would say. She’d be crafting a story she could feed them to cover up the truth.

  “There are some men here. Policemen,” she added. “They’d like to speak with you. Sweetie?”

  Joey had been bracing himself, waiting inside his bedroom with the door closed, knowing this moment would come. His head was pounding, even more than usual. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

  “I’ll be right down, Mom,” he called.

  He took one more look at himself in the mirror. People told him he was handsome but he never believed them. He knew they saw sandy hair and tan skin and muscles, like a Ken doll that played football. They didn’t look close enough to notice the spiderwebs of scars and skin grafts. Tarzan, that was what Mara’s creep of a boyfriend had called him—part of it, anyway. He hadn’t looked deeply, either. He thought Joey was a dumb muscle head, nothing more.

  Joey grabbed a zip-front sweatshirt and pulled it over his old Falcons T-shirt, just in case there was a cop who might look at him too closely. His legs were covered by his jeans. His mom kept the house so cold in the summer, it was almost like living in an icebox. He shut the door and headed down the stairs.

  He spotted the two uniformed cops before they saw him. They were standing in the living room, eyes trained on the ceiling. When Joey was thirteen, his family had moved from Jackson, Mississippi, to Atlanta, Georgia, a place where neither of his parents knew a soul. Not that that really mattered in Atlanta; unlike Jackson, where you were measured by your roots, Atlanta was relatively open to strangers, at least ones with money. His parents had managed to buy a spectacular old house, one with a vision of cherubs painted on the ceiling. Everyone who set foot in the parlor for the first time stared at it in wonder. Even Mara, the first time she’d come over. It’s so beautiful, she’d whispered. Like a palace.

  “It’s incredible,” one of the policemen said. “My wife would give our firstborn for a house like this. Your husband must be an incredible scientist, ma’am.”

  “Oh, he is. Truly brilliant. He’s been a consultant to the CDC, you know.”

  Joey took a deep breath. His mom liked to tell everyone that his father was a genius scientist; sometimes, she used the word chemist, like there could be a Nobel Prize in his future. Sure, there was an entire laboratory of chemicals in their basement…chemicals that killed rats and roaches and other pests, because Joey’s dad was an exterminator. At least, he had been, back in Jackson and then for about a year in Atlanta. Joey’s mom never talked about Mr. Grushcow in the past tense. It was always in the present, as if he might pop into the room at any moment.

  “Hey, Mom,” Joey said, forcing a broad smile, which seemed to mollify her slightly. “Hello, officers. What can I do for you?”

  “So, you’re Joey Grushcow,” drawled a voice from the far side of the room. “Local high school football legend. Somehow, I thought you’d be taller.”

  “I’m six-four, sir,” Joey answered stiffly. “And it’s pronounced Grush-ko, not Grush-cow.”

  The man stepped forward. He’d been half-hidden by a tall six-paneled screen his mom had imported from Taiwan. He was maybe in his late forties, black, and dressed in a gray suit. Unlike the uniformed cops, the man didn’t stare at the ceiling. His eyes were on Joey.

  “Of course it is.” He smiled at Joey. “I’m just terrible at cracking jokes. I’ve heard enough people mention you, you know. Everyone knows the name of the star quarterback.”

  “So many colleges tried to recruit Joey,” his mom gushed. “Notre Dame offered him a scholarship.”

  Joey wanted to argue with that, but he knew it wasn’t worth it. The scout from Notre Dame had shown up to see him play, heard that Joey had a traumatic brain injury when he was thirteen, and ran out of the stadium before kickoff.

  “Not that I wanted my Joey going that far north, of course,” his mom added. “Indiana, can you imagine? But it was certainly an honor.”

  “That it is, indeed.” The man gazed at Joey. “Where did you decide to go?”

  “I’m staying here,” Joey said. “Close to home. KSU.”

  “Kennesaw? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe that’s anywhere near where your girlfriend, Mara Dubica, was going to attend college, is it?”

  “Mara’s not…” Joey frowned at him. “Who are you, exactly, sir?”

  “Where are my manners? I introduced myself to your mama already and clearly forgot all about them. My name is Frank Pelletier. I’m with the FBI.”

  Joey felt like he’d swallowed a block of ice. There was a plain black sedan parked behind the squad car, but it hadn’t occurred to him that the feds would be involved. Mara had hinted that things were going sideways—with her family, with her new boyfriend—but this was right off the rails.

  “FBI?” Joey repeated. He glanced at his mom and back at Pelletier. “Seriously?”

  “Very seriously,” Frank said. “I need to talk to you about Mara’s disappearance.”

  Joey’s mother gasped. “Something’s happened to Mara?” She put her hand over her mouth in ladylike shock. Her head swiveled to regard her son. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why aren’t you out looking for her?”

  “Because she’s with her boyfriend, Mom,” Joey answered. “She’s wanted to go away with him. That’s all I know.”

  “Mara broke up with you?” His mother’s eyes went wide, as if this were a not-to-be-believed drama on her favorite soap opera. “When? Why? What happened? You two have been together since you were fourteen.”

  “Technically, since Mara was fourteen and Joey here was…a little older than that,” Pelletier said. “You’re nineteen now, right?”

  Joey swallowed hard. It was like this FBI agent had a file on him. What sense did that make? He hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. “I was in an accident,” Joey said. “When I was thirteen. I lost a year of school. Then I got…held back a bit.”

  “That must’ve been tough,” Pelletier said, his tone genuinely sympathetic. “I just like to be accurate. About ages and about everything else.”

  “You aren’t suggesting that Joey had anything to do with Mara’s disappearance, are you?” his mother demanded. “Because my son would never…”

  “No, ma’am,” Pelletier answered. “But I still need to speak with him. I also need you to do as I asked. Round up as many photos as you can of Miss Mara Dubica and give them to my officer friends here. If I’m being completely honest, her family’s not being as helpful with the search as one might hope.” He looked at Joey. “You and I should talk privately.”

  Joey led him to the sunroom at the back of the house.

  “I still don’t understand why you’re here,” Joey said. “Why would the FBI be investigating if Mara took off with some guy? She’s seventeen. It’s not like she’s a kid.”

  “You better sit down, Joey,” Pelletier said, as if it were his house and Joey were the guest. Even so, Joey obeyed.

  “We’ve got a lot to talk about, Joey. An awful lot.” Pelletier looked serious. “You don’t mind if I call you Joey, do you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Funny. You don’t look like a Joey,” Pelletier mused.

  “My mom’s called me that since I was a baby,” Joey said. “I tried to get her to call me Joe. She says that makes her think of Joe Kennedy and Joe Biden, and that makes her shudder.” He sighed. “My dad calls me Joe. He’s the only one who does.”

  “You keep
in touch with your dad? That’s good. I know parents and kids can lose touch when…” Pelletier blinked suddenly, like he’d fallen into a hole. His smooth, folksy routine had skidded him into a ditch.

  “I talk to my dad every week,” Joey said. “He’s a good guy.”

  “I read a little bit about his case before I came over here this morning,” Pelletier said. “Honestly, I think any parent could understand what he did. If somebody did to my kids what was done to you…”

  Joey nodded. “Thanks. He always was the best dad in the world. Still is. When he gets out, we’re going to run his business together.”

  They were silent for a minute. Joey remembered his dad, the way he stood tall in his fine suit the day he was sentenced. There were tears in his dad’s eyes when he’d looked at him. Joey was fifteen then, big for his age, like he’d always been. I regret nothing, his father had whispered when he hugged him. Except for using a gun. I should’ve used the spray.

  “You go to visit him?” Pelletier asked.

  Joey shook his head. “I’ve never been back to Mississippi, except for his trial. Neither of my parents want me to go back there.”

  “Does Mara know all this stuff about your family?”

  “Yes. Every bit of it.” Joey met his eyes. “Mara’s my best friend. She knows the truth.”

  “Then I’m going to level with you. I’m seriously concerned about your friend Mara’s disappearance,” Pelletier said. “I know she’s an adult, technically speaking, anyway.”

  “Mara’s always been old for her age.” Joey smiled.

  “I heard that from a few folks. But it’s the company she’s keeping that has me concerned.”

  Joey shifted in his chair. “Erik Manson.”

  “From the look on your face, you’ve met him.”

  “A couple times,” Joey admitted. Mara had sworn him to secrecy about her skipping town. She’d warned him that her parents would try to wrangle the truth out of him, beating him if necessary. But she hadn’t said anything about protecting Erik. Joey wouldn’t have the slightest qualm about turning that piece of trash over to the cops.