Those Who Came Before

by J. H. Moncrieff

  “There has to be some kind of help for the—” I groped for the least offensive word, “—indigent.”

  “Have you seen those places? Bedbugs and fleas, no thanks. I’d rather take my chances on the street with the rats. I may get my teeth kicked in now and then, but it’s better than staying at the shelter.”

  “You’re homeless?”

  The man straightened, attempting to smooth his threadbare pants, but it was hopeless. “What, you think you’re better than me?”

  My cheeks flushed. For some reason I couldn’t understand, I felt guilty. “No, not at all. It’s just – it’s going to sound stupid, but I’ve never known anyone homeless before.”

  “It’s okay.” My cellmate shrugged. “I’ve never known an over-privileged white boy before. Oh, wait a minute….” He pretended to think, tapping a finger against his temple. “Yes, I have. I’ve known far too many.”

  “You think I’m over-privileged?” I gestured at our surroundings. “Would I still be in here if my family had a lot of money?”

  The man took in the peeling paint, the stained floor. “You have a point. But trust me when I tell you there are much worse places to stay.”

  Whether he’d meant to or not, the vagrant had put my own problems in stark perspective. What had happened to me was inconvenient and scary, but it was also a mistake. Sooner or later, the cops would figure it out, and I’d go home to my parents’ house, which was the Taj Mahal compared to this place, while this guy would return to the streets.

  “Do you mind if I ask why you’re homeless?”

  He gazed out beyond the bars, the smirk gone from his face. “Told you already. I’ve got a little drinking problem.”

  “But before that – you must have had a home, right? What happened to it?”

  “What makes you think something happened?”

  I suspected I’d made him uncomfortable, but he’d had no problem putting me on the spot. Besides, I was curious. “Well, something had to have happened. No one is born homeless.”

  Even before he raised an eyebrow at me, I got how stupid a statement it was.

  “And that, my friend, is white privilege.”

  “You were born on the streets?”

  He shook his head, smoothing his pants again. His hands were trembling. “No, had a good home. A good family.”

  “Did something happen to them?”

  “No. Something happened to me.”

  The silence between us grew heavy as I waited for him to continue his story. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind about something. “The church took me and my siblings away. Said they’d give us an education, make sure we were ‘properly integrated’ into society.”

  I could hear the bitterness in his voice, but I couldn’t understand it. “Isn’t education a good thing?”

  “Oh, they educated us, all right. They sure did.” The man leaned against the wall, his face darkened by the memory. “If we spoke our language, they beat us. If we said we were homesick or missed our families, they beat us. And some of those priests, well – you better believe they were messing around with us the first chance they got.”

  “That’s disgusting.” Studying the man across from me, his wild, graying hair and missing teeth, the filth caked on his skin, I had a difficult time picturing him as a defenseless child. A child who had, assuming he was telling the truth, been beaten and abused.

  “Disgusting ain’t the half of it. I’ve often wondered if they hired those monsters on purpose, or if a large percentage of them happened to be attracted to the job.”

  “Wasn’t there someone you could have gone to for help? A nun, maybe?”

  He laughed. “The nuns were even worse. Most of them didn’t diddle with us, but they loved to beat us black and blue. All part of converting us from ‘savages’ to upstanding white folk. But we could never be upstanding white folk, no matter how hard we tried. From the start, we were doomed to fail.”

  It was difficult to accept his story. He told it with conviction, but why would a church do such horrible things? It went against everything they claimed to stand for. “Couldn’t your parents help?”

  The man’s expression softened a little, and I could have sworn a tear ran down his wrinkled cheek before he ducked his head. “Here’s the clincher. All this time, all these years we’re getting beaten and messed with, they told us our parents didn’t want us. We were too much trouble to raise. They let us believe our folks didn’t love us anymore, that they’d given away their children the way you might get rid of a turtle that grows too big for its tank.

  “I ran away from the boarding school when I was twelve years old. It took a long time, but I found my way back home. My parents weren’t there, but a woman who had been like a grandmother to me told me the truth. The church stole us from our families. They ripped us from our mothers’ arms and told them they had no choice, that it was the law.” He shook his head. “Even worse, our families had no idea where we were. They’d accepted they were never going to see us again.”

  I suspected I didn’t want to know the answer, but I had to ask. “Did you see your parents again?”

  “Nope. By the time I got out, they were both gone,” he said, his voice breaking. “My father, he never recovered from losing us. He started hitting the bottle hard, and I heard there were other women too. One day he hit my mother instead of the bottle, and she left him. He drank himself to death and she died of cancer while I was rotting in that godforsaken place.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He acknowledged my apology with a nod, never lifting his eyes from his dirty hands.

  “But you still have family, right? What about your siblings?”

  “My brother, he never made it out. He hung himself when he was ten years old. And my sister, she lives on the res.” The man attempted a smile, but it was a poor imitation of his earlier grin. “At least her trailer is nice. She lets me stay sometimes.”

  I was at a loss for words. I’d heard sad stories before, of course, but never anything like this. I’d considered lying down on the cot again, trying to get a couple of hours of sleep, when my cellmate spoke.

  “I told you my story. Now I want to know yours.”

  “I don’t really have one. Before this happened, I would have said I led a boring life.”

  “You do have a story. You must have, or you wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

  Goose bumps broke out along my arms. “What do you mean?” As I asked the question, I thought of Prosper and his warnings. Was it possible the old man was a plant, put here to earn my trust and record a confession? Could he have created that sad story to force a bond between us?

  No. His tears were real.

  The man leaned forward, pinning my eyes with his own. “What is it that’s different about you? Why did they let you live?”

  I felt a chill. “Do you know something I don’t, old man? Do you know who did this to my friends?”

  Somehow the man managed to appear proud and terrified at the same time. “’Course I do. Everyone knows what’s wrong with those woods. It’s the wendigo.”

  “Wendigo?” Is he pulling my leg? “What’s a wendigo? I’ve never heard of it.”

  He opened his mouth to enlighten me, but before he could say a word, someone else answered.

  “A child’s fairy tale, that’s what it is.” Startled, I looked up to see Detective Greyeyes standing at the door to our cell. I’d been so engrossed in the man’s story I hadn’t heard her approach.

  “Wendigos are as real as the two unfortunates sitting in this cell. I hope you’ll never have to pay for your skepticism, Detective,” the man said.

  “I’ll take my chances. Did you get anything to eat, Crazyhorse?”

  He lifted his hand, and I saw how bad his trembling was. The man wasn’t just shaking; he was full-on vibrating. “Can’t. Couldn
’t get the fork to my mouth, and it’s only going to get worse. Can you help me?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” She barely glanced in my direction, but I had nothing to lose.

  “I didn’t lie to you, Detective,” I said, moving closer so she could see my face. “I’ve answered your questions as truthfully as I could. I want to find out who did this to Jess, Dan, and Kira as much as you do.”

  “I believe you,” she replied, startling me so much I almost tripped over my own feet hurrying over to the bars.

  “You do?”

  “Yes, I do. I don’t think you should be in there. I’m going to see what I can do to get you out.”

  Relieved, I rested my forehead against the cool metal of the bars that separated us. In my wildest dreams I hadn’t dared to hope it would be that easy. As much as I hated to admit it, Mom had been right. When it came down to it, Prosper knew what he was doing. “What did my lawyer say to convince you?” I asked, dying to find out what clever strategy he had invoked in my defense.

  She frowned. “Prosper? Not a thing. I haven’t seen him since we booked you.”

  “Was it the beer bottles? Did you find something?”

  “Sorry, no. The results were negative. We couldn’t find anything unusual.”

  Now I was the one confused. “What was it, then? What happened to change your mind?”

  The detective studied me for a moment, as if deciding whether or not she could trust me. Finally, reluctantly, she removed something from the collar of her shirt.

  “It was this.”

  The rawhide cord was gone, replaced by one that appeared to have been braided from human hair. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  The arrowhead no longer looked like rock. It was as swollen and glossy as an overfed beetle. I reached through the bars to touch it, but before I could, it moved. Something was alive under its surface. With a cry, I snatched my hand back.

  “What is it?” I asked, grateful when she tucked it under her shirt again.

  When she met my eyes, her own were wide with fear. Finally I noticed how exhausted she looked. “I don’t know. But I can’t get rid of it.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Maria put more pressure on the gas, praying the drivers ahead of her would move out of the way.

  For the most part, they did, although a few were stubborn enough to need a blast of her horn as well. Her fingers tightened on the wheel, and as she squinted at the road, she forced herself to take several deep breaths.

  Damn Jorge. Any hint of intrigue sent her into a tailspin, and yet he’d refused to tell her what was going on.

  “You’d better get down here right away,” was all he’d say.

  A red Volvo in front of her hesitated before the railroad tracks and almost got rear-ended for its trouble. Maria considered pulling over the elderly gentleman but decided against it. Making someone else’s life miserable wouldn’t improve her own.

  Inhaling deeply, she tried her best to ignore the fact that the reason her life had become a living nightmare was hanging around her neck. Every now and then the arrowhead twitched, and she had to bite back a scream.

  Finally she reached the hospital. After taking the corner tight, she drove into the lot on squealing tires, bypassing the parking-lot maze in favor of emergency. Several attendants in hospital whites rushed outside when she killed the engine, but as soon as they spotted her truck, they left her alone.

  Maria jogged down the antiseptic-smelling hallway, pushing past nurses in candy-colored smocks. Her partner wasn’t hard to find. With that sixth sense he’d always had when it came to her, he was already waiting in triage as she burst into the room.

  “What’s wrong? What is it?”

  His expression was so grave that for a panicked moment, she feared for the safety of her own family. But Jorge would never have been that cruel. If something were wrong with Heidi or Ben, he would have told her.

  “It’s really bad, Maria.” His tone carried more gravity than his words, sending her a warning, but it was a warning she didn’t have the time or patience for.

  “So you told me. Spit it out, Jorge. What is going—”

  It was then she heard the cries.

  The hospital staff flinched as one, but she could tell the outburst wasn’t unexpected. Maria saw matching expressions of sympathy and concern as the staff communicated with each other in that wordless way of nurses everywhere.

  Jorge led the way and she followed, silently urging him to move faster. Another heartrending shriek made her jump. This time she was close enough to make out words

  “Mommy, it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts!”

  A young man in a lab coat raced out of the room, colliding with her partner. Jorge put out an arm to steady him, but it didn’t do much good. The doctor seemed dazed, and no wonder. Running into Jorge would be like running full-tilt into an oak tree.

  “My partner is here,” Jorge said, motioning to Maria. “Detective Greyeyes will need to see the boys and take their statements.”

  The doctor’s eyes flicked over her in a dismissive manner she didn’t much care for. “This isn’t a good time, Detective. They have to be treated for their pain, and, as you’ve no doubt heard, they’re in a bit of a panic. I doubt they’ll be much good to you.”

  Underneath the screaming, Maria could hear a second voice. It sounded very young. “It huuurts. Mommy, it huurts.”

  “I know it does, honey. The doctor’s going to bring you something to make you better. Just hold on.” The reply was calm, but did Maria detect a note of revulsion underneath? What on earth had Jorge gotten her into?

  “We’d like to pop our heads in all the same, if it’s okay with you. I need her to see what we’re dealing with,” Jorge said.

  The doctor shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He was already rushing down the corridor away from them.

  “He’s a charmer,” Maria said. “And what is he, twelve?”

  “They’re not getting younger. We’re getting older.” Jorge waited a beat to make sure his next words sunk in. “Brace yourself.”

  She’d seen some atrocious things in her career, but what she witnessed in those hospital beds would trouble her for years. Before she could stop herself, she winced.

  The first boy was scarcely recognizable as human. His body was covered in vicious-looking blisters. They were on his lips, in his ears, even on his eyelids. Some of the sores were oozing, while others had burst, leaving raw, red wounds. He writhed in pain, and the woman who sat beside his bed reached out a hand to comfort him, but let it hang awkwardly in the air. It was impossible to know where to touch him; Maria didn’t see an inch of unblemished skin.

  The woman, presumably his mother, was dressed in operating-room garb: blue smock, shower-type cap, and latex gloves. Before Maria could wonder why, Jorge caught hold of her wrist.

  “Don’t touch him. The doctors think this could be contagious.”

  She felt weak at the thought of bringing this plague home to her daughter.

  “Where is the other boy?”

  Her partner bit his lip, looking miserable. “They’ve got him in another room. He’s even worse.”

  “Worse? How is that possible?”

  “He keeps passing out from the pain. Probably a blessing.”

  She was growing more and more confused. What was Jorge doing here? And why had he insisted she meet him? As appalling as the two boys’ condition was, this was a job for medical professionals, not cops. There was little they could do, and if the doctors were right, having more people in this room increased the likelihood of spreading the contagion.

  “You’re wondering why I called you.” Jorge always could read her mind.

  “Yes. This is dreadful, and I feel for the families, but I don’t see how we can help.”

  “These boys were fine a few hours ago. Then they
decided it would be fun to sneak into the Strong Lake campground.”

  The arrowhead pulsed underneath her shirt like a heartbeat. In horror, she stared at the boy on the bed, who rolled his blistered, oozing eyes at her and screamed.

  * * *

  “Mrs. Haverstock?”

  Fresh tears cascaded down the woman’s cheeks. “Please help me, Officer. I—I feel so helpless. I don’t know what to do to help him. He’s in so much pain.”

  Standing this close, Maria could hear the boy’s blisters popping every time he moved. Yellow pus ran down his skin to stain the white sheets, and her stomach clenched. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to focus on his mother, who looked to be on the verge of a panic attack.

  “Have they given him anything for the pain?” Maria brought over a chair to sit beside her.

  “They tried to get an IV in him so they could give him morphine, but….” Her voice broke, catching on a sob.

  Maria patted the woman’s arm, trying to imagine how she’d feel if it were Heidi in that bed. She’d be inconsolable. “I understand.”

  There wasn’t an inch of skin free of sores to insert a morphine drip, and puncturing the blisters would have caused unbearable agony.

  “They gave him some pills, but they haven’t seemed to help much. He could barely swallow them. The sores are inside his mouth too, his throat. I just don’t know what to do.”

  She smoothed her boy’s light brown hair back from his bubbling forehead with a gloved hand. He moaned.

  “Mom, make it stop.”

  “I wish I could, sweetheart. Don’t worry, the doctor is going to make it all better.”

  Her eyes pleaded with Maria, begging her to fix this, to make her life return to the way it had been that morning, when everything had been right in her world. “He’s only ten years old,” she whispered.

  “Mrs. Haverstock, do you feel strong enough to answer some questions? If you need more time, we can come back.”