by Tammy Bird
He listened to the woman’s voice. “We have crews en route and will—”
A different woman’s voice interrupted the calm weatherperson. “Breaking News” flashed on the screen. “We interrupt this broadcast to bring you breaking news from Buxton Beach. Authorities have confirmed at least five people have been killed.”
His senses came alive as he watched reporters and rescue workers converge on the scene.
The announcer enunciated every word. Slow. Methodical. To him, it sounded like chalk on a chalkboard. “With us now is Dennis Clancy, owner of one of the houses left untouched here in Buxton. Dennis, can you tell us what happened?”
He leaned forward and squinted, trying to look past the man and the reporter holding the mic to his face.
“The sound was excruciating. We could hear it. We ran out and jumped in the car. We were, we were driving. God. I saw it in my rearview mirror. Told my wife and kids to get on the floorboard. Drove for our lives. Literally. Drove for our lives. And now Alex is dead. And Ashley. And the boys.”
The watcher opened his mouth wide and stuck his tongue out. He flattened it and turned it until the sides touched the upper and lower lip. His tongue was sore on each side from pressing it hard against his teeth as he strained to see what was happening on the beach.
The reporter on the scene held the edge of the hood on her navy-blue poncho. The body of the garment hugged her hourglass figure. She tried to look composed, but lost, as she fought the strength of the wind and rain. “Homes have been leveled, just wiped clean. It’s hard to put into words.” Her voice wavered. “Just piles of debris.”
Behind her, first responders and neighbors combed through rubble. Her cameraman scanned the area. Cars were tossed around, flipped over. They were close to the Dune Café. He could see it in the background, securely rooted above the dunes and beach where water pounded relentlessly. It appeared untouched. This made him happy. The Dune Café was his place, the place his family lunched, tired from hours of kiteboarding and castle building. He loved the way his feet dangled from the lime-colored bar stools and the way the booths squeaked when he slid across the colors of pineapple and mango and lime. As a child, he used the long mirror behind the counter to assess the offerings of freshly baked pies. As an adult, he found the mirror gave him a multidimensional glimpse into the lives of the other patrons. From child to adult, he loved the mirror the most.
He knew this strip of sand just as he knew the inside of his own home. These were his dunes, his special burial ground. He rarely worried that his work would be discovered. Each time a storm neared the area he watched the news a little more closely, felt his mortality a little more keenly. But each time since his first gift to the dunes, Mother Nature left intact the area of the beach where he kept those who deserved to die, those who thought children were objects to be toyed with, and those who couldn’t be saved.
His eyes went back to the reporter.
“At least four children are among those dead…”
Her voice crawled under his skin. Women like her always kept secrets. The slick, navy-blue material that cut into her dark hair and the sway of her body against the elements made her look vulnerable and kind. That’s what the television station manager wanted the viewers to feel. Look at me. I won’t hurt you. How could I hurt you? I love you. Don’t be afraid.
He was afraid of a woman once, too afraid to tell, and too afraid to run. He would never be afraid of one again. Never. Now he was always on the lookout, always listening, always ready.
Again, he panned the beach behind the deceitful, dark-haired woman. His heart thudded in his chest as she talked about the children. The area around the tornado’s aftermath had changed since his own childhood. The dunes regularly changed shape, growing when sand was piped in and shrinking when storms came to call. Buildings were constructed and torn down. People came and went. Each summer brought new visitors, new children to play with when he was young, new women to watch as he grew into a man. Through every season of change, every time he returned to his dunes, his treasures remained safe.
Will they find them all now? One kick of sand. One wind gust hitting a dune just so. His breath quickened. His jeans tightened around his arousal. He let his hand drop to his bulge. The thrill of potential capture was something he hadn’t anticipated. He stepped closer, something between awakening and agitation growing in his gut. He knew he would soon strike again.
Chapter Two
Katia sat silently in Elliot’s SUV. She and Elliot were twenty-one hours into a twenty-four-hour shift when the call came in for the mass casualty incident. That was seven hours ago. Her mind churned to the rhythm of the storm. Death at the hands of a killer doesn’t happen in Buxton. She felt nauseous. Outside the windows and in her head, fury reigned. Thoughts pinged against her cerebral cortex, like hail against street signs, until every part of her body throbbed. She tasted the salt of her tears and the salt of the sea that blended together on her cheeks before sliding between her lips and onto her tongue.
The years of laughter she shared with Elizabeth and her mom rang in her head. The three of them spent hours together in Gina’s living room. It was where she learned to dance and where she felt safe enough to cry. It was where she learned about menstruation and sex and protection against unwanted pregnancy and disease. It was where she fell in love with Elizabeth.
Memories of her first real kiss flooded Katia’s mind. She and Elizabeth stood in front of a full-length mirror. They watched their own reflection as their lips met and tongues touched. Elizabeth giggled mid kiss and Katia stepped away. Katia recalled the conversation.
“What’s so funny?” Elizabeth said. “Am I doing it wrong?”
“Nothing,” Katia said. “It’s just. Well, it’s weird, I guess. I don’t know.”
“Which? Kissing or just kissing me?”
“Watching us kissing.”
There was more laughter.
They told their parents on Katia’s eighteenth birthday.
Katia’s father yelled at the top of his lungs until Katia and Elizabeth rushed out of the house in fear. Within moments, Katia’s father chased them down in his car.
“Get in the street!” he said. His head was hanging out of the driver’s side window, moving back and forth to look between the narrow road and the two girls. “I brought you into this world, and I’ll take you out of it.”
“Papi,” Katia said. “Please stop. We can talk when you calm down. I’m not getting in the street.” Katia was afraid to go any farther, so Elizabeth stood with her and waited. Eventually, Katia’s father left them standing on the sidewalk.
Gina’s reaction was the opposite of Katia’s father. She knew it would be. Gina never made either girl feel bad or different. Now Gina was dead.
How could this be happening? What fucking monster has invaded our world?
A tear formed at the corner of her eye and spilled over, cutting a tiny new stream through the sandy grit. That one tear opened a dam and the tears flowed freely. As her cries turned to sobs, she began to rock back and forth rhythmically. No. No. No!
Elliot’s large hand grasped her shoulder. His silent attempt to create a sense of stability was appreciated. She knew he meant well. He knew her, at least the EMS her. Katia couldn’t have asked for a better partner or friend. Katia also appreciated that. She didn’t have a lot of friends. After her mom died, she closed herself off to everyone other than her dad and her brother. Elizabeth and Gina were the only other people she let in. And look where that got me, she thought. Katia leaned back, head against the seat, and closed her eyes.
She heard her father’s words echoing in her head: “Get hold of yourself, Katia Pilar Mercedes Billings-Castillo.” She hated it when he used her full name. The only way to the other side is through. Where was her dad now? She hoped at home with Marco. Her brother wouldn’t be afraid. He would be in his room with his weather magazines and his weather board. Children on the autism spectrum could
have any number of obsessions. Weather was one of Marco’s.
Marco wouldn’t be afraid, but she was afraid for him. Katia worried that Marco would one day get so excited about the rain and wind that he would wander away from the house with his camera. Taking pictures was another of Marco’s obsessions, and it often led to eloping. That’s what they called it when a child with autism spectrum disorder wandered or bolted to get to or away from something without forethought.
“Katia.” Elliot bent toward her across the console. “Katia, look at me.” His face was inches from her own. “Who is it?”
Katia took another deep breath, opened her eyes, and looked at her partner. She trusted him. He was her brother-in-arms. Smell the flowers. She gave herself the same instructions she had used since she was three when her best friend pushed her off a swing and she couldn’t catch her breath. Blow out the birthday candles. Her mom said the act of inhaling and exhaling while picturing the items would take her mind off the scraped knee and bruised ego.
Elliot was chewing on his bottom lip, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. “It’s her, isn’t it? Elizabeth’s mom?”
Katia counted her own breaths and matched them to his.
“Yes. And I have to—”
“You have to do nothing. Not right now. We need food and rest.”
She hoped he knew how much she appreciated him. In the upcoming days, she was going to have to talk about this day, and about her past, over and over again. She wanted to, but not yet.
“Elliot, I’ll do whatever. Whatever it takes. I just need a minute.”
“I told you,” Elliot said. “I got you.”
She was not one to back down from responsibility. One minute. Just one minute. She closed her eyes. “El.” She rubbed her palms down her thighs, drying the sweat on the rough fabric.
“I know,” he said. “It’s okay. In your own time.” His voice was deep and slow. The sound and southern rhythm felt like sweet tea tasted on a hot summer day. Katia drifted into a half-asleep state. It was the kind of sleep where you feel awake, but you know you’re sleeping. Her dad was there. And Marco.
“Make a wish before you burn down the house with those flames.” She heard her dad, but she didn’t see him.
She felt the pain of her first birthday without her mom.
Wish? She didn’t have a wish. What could she possibly wish for? I wish I could erase these stupid fucking thoughts. That’s what I wish.
She read the pink-and-yellow words on the cake: Happy Sweet 16.
Mom is dead. Dad hates me. Marco lives in an autism-governed world. And Elizabeth is too busy to be here to eat cake. Fuck sixteen.
Katia watched Marco.
“Cake? Cake, Ka-tee-ah? Cake? Cake?” Marco’s words were full of six-year-old excitement.
She tousled the dark waves of thick hair on her little brother’s head. It wasn’t him she hated. It was autism. She loved him a lottle. The word made Marco laugh. He knew he was the only one she loved a lottle.
“Yes, Marco. Cake.” His fawn-colored eyes sparkled.
Katia gave him her best smile.
“Thank you, Papi,” she said. “It’s been a wonderful birthday.”
She continued to watch the memory unfold.
There was her father pouring his first two fingers of Kentucky Bourbon.
There was dream Katia cleaning away the last remnants of a pretend happy birthday, tucking Marco into his pajamas, putting him to bed, and reading a text message from Elizabeth.
There was Katia sitting cross-legged on her childhood bed and hearing a knock on her bedroom window.
Her half-asleep self knew that wasn’t right, but her dream self turned, expecting to see denim-blue eyes and pale, freckled skin. Instead, Gina was staring at her through a translucent sand dune, eyes unblinking, a gaping hole where her smile should have been. Katia’s throat tightened and her heart picked up speed. Another knock. The pull toward consciousness increased. The knock was real. She blinked herself fully awake.
Zahra Knox, a police officer trained in forensic crime scene investigations, stared through the window. Her soft, black curls, dense but yielding, filled the upper half of the glass, and her bright-yellow windbreaker filled the rest of the opening. Katia knew Zahra years ago in primary and high school and more recently from The Pink Clover, a bar both women frequented during their time away from work.
Elliot pushed the button to lower the window an inch. “Zahra.”
“Elliot. Katia.” Zahra gave a slight nod at each in turn. “The high school gym has been made available. Dr. Webb is ready to begin transport.”
“I can help,” Elliot said. He turned and looked at Katia. “Unless you need me to stay.”
“No need,” Katia said. “I’m okay.” She tried to sound better than she felt. The thought of people she knew and loved being housed on the floor of the gym until they could be moved to the mainland didn’t sit well in her already aching gut.
Elliot slid out and Zahra slid in.
An awkward silence hung in the air between them. The last time they spoke, Katia was leaving Zahra’s bed in the wee hours of the morning. Zahra sent a text message the next day. Katia didn’t respond.
“Are you okay?” Zahra asked, finally breaking the silence. “I wish I didn’t have to, but I need to take a statement for the record.” Zahra’s voice was soft and soothing. There was no indication of animosity or bitterness.
Katia began to relax. “Sure. Close the window.” She reached into the bag that rested on the floorboard in front of her and pulled out a T-shirt. She handed it to Zahra to use as a towel.
“Chivalrous, even here.” Zahra met Katia’s gaze with her own.
Katia smiled at the words.
The women had connected in August after a chance meeting at The Pink Clover. Katia wasn’t interested in a full-fledged relationship, but the electricity between them was unquestionable. Three times in as many months, beers had turned into sex. Each time, Katia avoided follow-up conversation. Each time, it freaked her out a bit more. Since the breakup with Elizabeth, Zahra was the only person Katia spent more than one night with.
“You need to tell me what happened down there.” Zahra inclined her head in the direction of the beach.
“Not much to tell,” Katia said.
“Here or at the station?” Zahra’s voice stayed low and kind.
Katia shrugged. “Here’s cool.” She stared straight ahead and recalled out loud the movements she made that took her to the dune. “Something bright, out of place, caught my eye. It was purple. Shiny. It was Gina Dahl’s shoe…” Katia’s voice trailed off.
Zahra pulled a pen and a small pad of paper out of her shirt pocket. She scribbled a few words on the pad before looking back at Katia.
Katia added, “And her ring.”
“ID hasn’t been confirmed.”
“For me it has.” Katia’s voice cracked.
“I know.” Zahra laid her hand on Katia’s leg and moved her thumb back and forth.
Katia watched Zahra’s thumb. The dark-brown digit blurred against the navy khaki fabric of her pants. She looked at the woman whose touch could set off a reaction of wetness and warmth. She tried to focus on the movement. Her throat burned. An increasing stickiness arose just under the outer layer of her skin.
“Katia? Hey. Put your head back.”
Circles formed around Zahra’s figure. The circles pulsed to the sound of Zahra’s voice. Katia swallowed hard.
Zahra put her hand on Katia’s forehead and eased it back until her head rested against the tan headrest of the SUV.
The wave of nausea subsided. “I’m okay.”
Zahra was quiet.
“It’s her, Zahr.”
“Tell me about your relationship with Elizabeth.” Zahra pressed forward with the interview.
“Why Elizabeth? She doesn’t even live…” Katia’s eyes widened as she realized where Zahra’s line of questio
ning was leading. “You can’t think… Fuck, Zahra. Come on.”
Katia’s relationship with Elizabeth was beautiful. Until it wasn’t. Then it was toxic. They were as bad for each other as they were good—on again off again for the last three of the five years. When they were off, Katia spent whole weekends at The Pink Clover in Manteo picking up women who were willing to fill her emptiness with reckless sex. Elizabeth used those weekends to prove Katia didn’t really love her. She could still see her face as the red crept up her neck and settled in her cheeks while she screamed, “If you loved me, you wouldn’t be able to just fuck anyone, Katia. Do I look stupid? Do you see me fucking other women because we’re fighting? No. That’s the answer. Fucking, no.”
How much should Katia tell Zahra? In the end, she decided to give a condensed version and answer whatever questions followed. Let the police figure out what was important and what wasn’t.
“Elizabeth moved down the street from me when we were in high school,” Katia said. “We were lovers. Then we fought. A lot. Finally, we couldn’t work through the bullshit and she left to go find herself. The end.” Katia put the palm of one hand on each side of her head and pushed against the throbbing of her temples. Gina was dead, and Katia didn’t even have Elizabeth’s fucking number. “Has anyone called Elizabeth?”
“No,” Zahra said. “The identity hasn’t been confirmed.”
“Fuck you.” Katia’s voice sounded as tired as she felt. She knew Zahra was asking legitimate questions and providing the appropriate responses to Katia’s statements.
The Hatteras Island coroner, Dr. Stewart Webb, was a few hundred feet away picking through the skin and bones of the woman who was the closest thing Katia had to a mom. She had to give Zahra whatever information she could to help her figure out how Gina ended up under several feet of packed sand. She knew that. It just seemed wrong to be doing any of this without Elizabeth.
“I know you’re tired, Katia. We all are.” The soft tone in Zahra’s voice never wavered.
