Lies We Bury

by Elle Marr

  Her mouth moves up and she looks happy. “It’s kind of like a buttery bread . . . treat. When we get out of here, you’ll all have one.”

  “Three croissants?” Twin asks.

  She nods and looks sad again. “One for each of you to match your bracelets. Now, hurry up with the last one so you can nap. You need rest for tonight.”

  We finish number three and singing the song. Then Twin and Sweet Lily get into the bed and I get in beside them. Sweet Lily is in the middle. I always like to sleep on the left side not touching the middle where the big brown stain is. Mama Rosemary tried to scrub it off years ago but it’s still there. After a minute both sisters’ breathing turns to easy and deep. I slip out of bed. I walk into the main room where Mama Rosemary is sewing a hole in my pants.

  Each of us has two pants that we wear three days a week then we switch to the other pants for four days. Our shirts are more between us because we all share T-shirts. I like Mama Rosemary’s old shirt to sleep in that’s a pattern she calls plaid. I have five underpants to wear. But pretty soon I’m gonna have to give them to Sweet Lily because they’re getting so small and hurting my thighs. Mama Rosemary has a lot of laundry to do but now I help because I’m big enough. Twin has been helping for a while longer because she grew faster than me and could lean over the bathtub without falling in.

  “What is my sweet girl doing out of bed?” Mama Rosemary whispers. She lifts her eyes to mine and smiles but raises a finger to her mouth. So I know to keep quiet.

  “I want to help you,” I whisper back. We both stop and listen if the other girls woke up any. Twin is snoring.

  “You should be sleeping,” she says and lifts me onto her lap. “Oof. You’re getting too big for this, you know.” But she doesn’t make me get down. Instead she tucks a finger around my hair and kisses my head. “We’ve got to make the most of our time left to us. Who knows what the world will be like once we get out there?”

  I shiver and huddle into Mama Rosemary’s neck. “Do you think someone . . . a man . . . will take me away from you?”

  She pulls back to look at me. She lifts my chin with her pointer until I have to look up, too. “That’s not going to happen. I won’t let it.” Her voice is almost like she’s angry but her eyes get wet and shiny. “I won’t let it. You believe me?”

  I believe her.

  “Good. Now, how do you think your sister managed to tear a hole in the front and the back of the knee of her pants?” Mama Rosemary wipes her eyes then picks up the jeans she’s sewing.

  I shrug. Leaning into her neck again I feel safe. Like nothing could tear me from this spot. “I don’t know. Twin is always making trouble.”

  Mama Rosemary makes a soft sound and I don’t recognize her usual laugh. Heh-heh. “Your twin is a rambunctious one—full of energy, I mean,” she adds when I lift my head again.

  Last week Twin kicked and kicked and kicked the dirt wall screaming and crying because she wanted to go upstairs to the outside and away from the man. He only visits three times a week at night on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and always to see Mama Rosemary and the Murphy. Sweet Lily and I just covered our ears and looked at each other while Mama Rosemary had to rock Twin in her arms like Twin was a baby for an hour afterward.

  “That’s for sure,” I whisper in a grumble. “And she’s always asking too many questions.”

  Heh-heh. That same laugh again. She touches my nose. Boop. “All right, let’s get down to work, shall we? If you’re awake, you can help me finish the rope. You’re almost as good as I am at it.”

  I smile so big my ears jump. “Yes, Mama.”

  She pulls out the ball from behind the sink, all squished against the wall. “All right. Show me how you add on to it.”

  I let it roll on the ground until I find the end. “Sheet?”

  “Oh yes.” Mama pulls out the Mama Bethel sheet from where it’s flat under the storage bin. Mama Rosemary says it’s cut to ribbons and bits. What’s left of it looks like long hair or fingers waving hello.

  I rip off three long bits then tie them to the rope ends. I do the over-under, over-under that Mama Rosemary taught us for making bracelets. Only, the rope has to be tight tight. I’m the best at making bracelets.

  “Mama, I’m gonna make jewelry when I grow up. And different kinds of bracelets for you and Sweet Lily and Twin. Necklaces, too, like your Before necklace.”

  “I’d like that very much, baby.”

  “When I grow up, can we have another bed? Maybe a Murphy? I don’t think we can all fit together when I’m fully growed.” I stop and think. “When we’re all fully growed.”

  Mama only breathes heavy. In and out. In and out. In out.

  “Mama Rosemary?”

  She makes a throat noise. “Yes, baby. Very soon, we’ll each have a Murphy bed of our own.”

  Twelve

  Trash litters the quiet street. Industrial big rigs are parked next to sedans with tinted windows. The neon silhouette of a woman’s writhing body sways side to side as the image shifts along two tracks of light bulbs, enticing customers at noon on a Tuesday.

  The vertical bar of the front door is sticky when I grasp it and pull. My shadow stretches across the dim interior of the strip club, and a mirror behind a bar reflects bottles of cheap liquor lining a shelf, a string of vanity lights enhancing the visual. No one occupies the barstools, but two dancers in sequined costumes lean against the far end near a small, round stage. Must be break time. A wiry-looking man in a T-shirt and jeans is talking to them about “new marketing strategies.” The trio lifts their heads toward me, toward the daylight infiltrating the space, and I step inside, letting the entry fall again to blackness.

  A stout bartender squints as I approach. “What can I get you?”

  “Coffee. With Baileys,” I add when he raises a pierced, bushy eyebrow. Behind him, beer taps line up in a row. The handle closest to me is labeled Charles Manson. Another: John Wayne Gacy. There are a few I don’t recognize, like Dayton Leroy Rogers, but I’ll bet he didn’t save kittens from tall trees.

  The bartender snorts. Light reflects off his bald head. He turns toward the mirror and fills a mug with thick, dark liquid from a sputtering machine. He slides the full mug over to me with a grimace. Despite the Baileys, I empty four containers of half-and-half into my cup and succeed in lightening the color to a dull mud shade. Yum.

  The dancers in the corner laugh, pounding their fists on the bar’s red leather border. They appear to be young, maybe in their early twenties.

  “What’s with strip clubs in Portland?” I lean forward, then recoil when something wet touches my arm. “They seem as common as brunch spots.”

  The bartender smirks. “Not from here, huh?”

  “Three hours south.”

  “You like beer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Strip clubs are like beer in Portland. They’re as much a part of local history as craft brew, and Oregon has been protecting them since the 1800s.” He plants two hands flat on the bar top as though giving a sermon. “Free expression or something. We actually have more than anywhere in the country. They’re more embedded in Portland’s culture than a lot of outsiders realize.”

  I slug back some of my tar and feel the Baileys beginning to do its job. A hazy feeling settles over me. “Is the strip club community pretty close-knit, then? Did you know Eloise Harris?”

  Instantly, he straightens, then looks over my shoulder. He licks his lips. “Are you a cop?”

  “Definitely not.” I clasp my hands around the mug. “Just moved here and trying to get a feel for the local dance scene. I saw that she died recently. I’m a dancer, too.”

  Dark-blue eyes sweep down my neck and flat chest, then flick back to my makeup-less face. “You don’t look like a dancer.”

  I take a sip, offer a self-deprecating smile. “The scene is less glamorous where I’m from.”

  He gives a slow nod. “Yeah, Eloise was a sweetheart. We worked together over at El Cody’
s. Real shame how she died. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

  “Yeah, crazy,” I mumble. “Has there been any news on who killed her?”

  “Not that I know of. She volunteered at an animal shelter on Tuesdays—had a big heart, that one. We haven’t spoken in a while, but I can’t imagine anyone would want to hurt her.”

  “Any aggressive boyfriends or—”

  “Oh. I mean, I don’t know.” He scratches the back of his head. “I haven’t seen her in a bit. Although one time, we were ending the late shift together, and a big, angry white dude came in, wearing fur everything—I remember that, because, right?—and demanded that she pay him for her last bump.”

  “She did cocaine?”

  His eyes widen, and he glances to the dancers to see whether anyone heard. “Uh, you sure you’re not a cop?”

  “Would I be—”

  “Nah, forget it. I shouldn’t be talking poorly of the dead, you know? I don’t know why I said anything; it’s all hearsay anyway. None of my business. Did you want something besides Irish coffee?” He grabs a dish towel and starts wiping the spotless counter.

  If Eloise Harris was into drugs and she owed that man in the fur, maybe she racked up a much larger bill in the time since my bartender last saw her. Was her murderer punishing her for not paying?

  I scan the tap handles behind him and note the anxious way he watches the door. Waiting for blue uniforms to come charging in, no doubt. “Who’s Dayton Leroy Rogers?”

  The bartender wrinkles his nose. “One of Oregon’s finest. He killed seven women during the eighties. Pretty gruesome for the Northwest.”

  “And Pierre Arktiq?”

  “Kept a family of four in his basement. Hey, you’re not going to say anything to anyone about Eloise, right? I feel terrible I even mentioned it.”

  I stare at him. At this man’s double chin and the deadpan way in which he recounts what could be a summary of my childhood. “Say that again? About Pierre.”

  He wipes the inside of a shot glass. “Arktiq? The guy was nuts. After getting naturalized from Canada, he broke into a family’s home and made everyone, the teenagers and parents, get in the basement. Made them gorge on fast food for a week, tried to fatten them up, so that he could eventually eat them.”

  Raucous laughter erupts from the women as one dancer takes the stage for the empty room. Music begins to blast through the stereo system. I lean in closer. “What happened?”

  The bartender shrugs. “Just what you’d expect. The teenagers’ friends came calling, and the parents’ coworkers stopped by when they didn’t come to the office. Arktiq was found out and arrested—but not before he shot the family; he prepared one for dinner but didn’t get to enjoy the meal.” I shudder, and the bartender notices. “Pretty creepy, right? We’ve got more stories than that.” He waves a chubby palm at the rest of the beer taps.

  Find the name I most admire and you’ll find the next one first.

  Pierre Arktiq, murderer and basement lover. Just like Chet. Just like the Four Alarm killer.

  I lay a few dollar bills on the counter. “Bathroom?”

  The man points down the hall. “Hurry up, though. You’ll want to see Candy’s set, and she’s on next.”

  I head down a narrow hallway, but instead of going left toward the women’s, I pause outside a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Before I can second-guess myself—wonder what the hell I’m actually doing here—I lean into the door, and a messy kitchen is revealed. Dirty dish towels are slung across a wooden table while a plastic bag of frozen steaks lies on the tile, mostly thawed in a puddle of watery blood. Above the wide basin of a porcelain sink, a professionally printed canvas sign reads BEER BREASTS AND STEAKS TO DIE FOR! Past a wide refrigerator, another door leads down two steps into a cellar. I descend them. The floor here is smooth, flat concrete, matching all the walls except for the farthest one from the door. Potato sacks, stacked three high on each shelf, are the major commodity here, but as my eyes adjust to the semidarkness, I see plates and glasses, tubs of glitter, tubs of chalk, containers of rye, and cartons of light bulbs occupy steel trays. All the essentials. At the very back of the cellar, a walk-in cooler aligns with one wall, nearly touching the ceiling.

  Voices carry from the kitchen. “What the hell happened to the steaks? Are you freaking kidding me?”

  I freeze, not daring to take another step. The stocked shelves leave no hiding place large enough to fit me. My heart clamors against my chest. The bass of the dancer’s set list muffles the conversation, but the voices become louder, heading my way.

  I grip the handle of the cooler, then slide inside and pull the door shut. A light switch is already flipped on. Stainless-steel kegs are stacked upright on tracks along the floor and the ceiling. Puffs of hot air form beneath my nostrils as the grooves of the aluminum handle dig into my palm, and I brace for someone from the other side to wrench it free. Seconds go by. The handle doesn’t move.

  I turn to take inventory. The first row of kegs slides out, like from a drawer. The names of the beers—of serial killers—are written above each row in black pen on laminated paper. The label on the keg beneath “Charles Manson” reads COORS LIGHT.

  “Classy move, Stakehouse,” I whisper. Removing my camera from my case, I position the lens at eye level and capture the cooler’s stock in two frames.

  Moving from row to row, I search the labels. Adrenaline spurts through my veins, warming me, as I pass each row, each killer, until I’m only three labels out from the end.

  Two rows of Pierre Arktiq beer are stacked two high, the letters P.A. on each face in curling font. Behind the last keg lies a bunched black mass—a trash bag. With human legs. Sticking straight out against the tracks of the mobile rack and concealed by the final row of kegs. A body.

  Acid climbs my throat. I stare at the legs, terror locking me in place. My mouth goes dry as I imagine the limbs moving, twitching, this person rising and pulling the bag off its own head.

  Does rigor mortis set in immediately? Is it already well set in if the body has been here since Sunday morning, when I received the note directing me here? Practical thoughts boomerang in my head, shock taking over and stifling a scream inside me.

  A normal person would run. A sane person would alert the police.

  With an unsteady hand, I lift my Canon. Raise the lens to the corner. Click.

  I step backward and at an angle to capture the space between the stacks of beers, a slivered view of what should be the body’s bagged head. Click. Click. Click.

  The screen of my camera displays the most recent shot. Bright colors decorate the body’s wrist. Slowly, I lower the camera to view them directly. Around the left hand is a bracelet made from three strings. My stomach clenches as I identify each color: red, green, and blue. Me, Lily, and Jenessa.

  Gooseflesh ignites along my arms. This bracelet is the second item plucked from my childhood to be placed at the site of a murder.

  Another thought freezes my movements: Did Chet know about these bracelets? We made them only the one day, the day we escaped, but did he see them when he came downstairs?

  I inch closer and get down on my knees. I’m eye level with the trash bag. The feet. The bracelet that resembles those we made during arts and crafts with Rosemary.

  Suddenly, the body slides, falls, then bangs into the back wall, and I scramble away on the cold floor, expecting it to reanimate and beg me to take it out of here. The trash bag has nearly come off the person’s head. Tears pool in my wide eyes, watching the body. Waiting. Anticipating.

  With a trembling hand, I pull up the tip of the plastic bag until a face is revealed. I don’t look. I can’t, not directly.

  Lifting my camera from around my neck, I focus the frame on sallow skin and a round jawline. Then I press down on the shutter button with my thumb.

  Click.

  I zigzag among cars on the freeway, not sure where I’m going until I spy the exit I took this morning. Outside the same coffee shop,
Shia raises his head, a shaggy mane of black curls, from over a journal as I approach. A puzzled smile breaks across his face. “Claire. Back so soon?”

  Standing at the same spot that I left only hours ago, I feel numbness flood through me. Shock. Fatigue. Confusion.

  After wiping the handle of the cooler, then sprinting through the kitchen of The Stakehouse, I slowed my walk through the club and ignored the bartender’s announcement—Candy’s onstage! You’re leaving?—barely making it to my car before the shaking began.

  Part of me wanted to be wrong about the location—wanted the killer to be wrong about me. I didn’t have some special insight into a killer’s mind or riddles, just because I was born into a situation normally seen in horror films or because I share genetics with Chet.

  But he wasn’t wrong; neither of us was. I did find the body. Now I have to wait until the strip club staff and the police find it beneath that specific beer.

  Pierre Arktiq. Pierre Arktiq. If I roll the name around in my head with an American accent, it sounds like—

  Arctic. Pierre Arctic. Peter in French. Or Petey.

  In that cartoon from my childhood, Petey the Penguin lived in the Arctic.

  “Claire?” Shia looks at me with pinched eyebrows. “I asked if cash would be okay. I already went to the bank.” He lays a hand across a white envelope on the table. Crisp one-hundred-dollar bills peek from the top of the open flap. From the looks of Shia’s Boy Scout concern, I’m willing to bet there are ten of them without counting.

  “That’s fine. Thanks.”

  “Are you okay? You look pale.”

  My tongue feels thick. I thought the Petey stuffed animal was there to lure me to take photos of Four Alarm. At no point did I think it was meant to serve as a clue to the next location—a bridge between the first dead body and the second. And if that’s the case, what does that bracelet I saw in the cooler mean?

  “I need to ask you something,” I say and slide into the chair opposite. A barista approaches us, and I order another coffee, eager to blame my nerves on something normal like caffeine. “Do you know anything about a bracelet or some jewelry? I mean, one that would be significant to my childhood?”