by Tammy Bird
“Elizabeth and I were best friends, Zahr. Before we were lovers.”
“That’s why I need you to tell me everything you can,” Zahra said. “Even if I don’t want to hear it as your… Whatever we are. I have a job to do. And I need your help.”
Katia tried to think of what might help an investigation. She began spouting off information. “Elizabeth’s dad bailed when she was three. It was always just her and her mom. Until me. Gina called us three peas in a pod.” Katia paused as the tears threatened an encore appearance. Katia hated weakness, especially her own. She bit down hard on her bottom lip for several seconds, wiped sand from her drying pant legs, and continued. “She went on a date here and there. And there was Mr. Easton off and on one summer, but it didn’t work out. She said he was too into ice cream. That was her way of saying he was fat. He wasn’t. She worried about appearance—a lot. Had to as a real estate agent, you know?”
Zahra made a few notes on a new page in her small flip tablet. “Anyone else? Anyone lately?”
“Not that I know of,” Katia said. She tried to see what Zahra was writing, but she was turned slightly in her seat, and it was impossible to read the curved scribble. Katia used her finger to follow a drop of water as it ran down the window. “Since Elizabeth left, I wasn’t around her place as much. She broke up with me in a text message. Elizabeth, that is. Pissed me the fuck off. I went to her house. We argued. I told her to call me when she got her head out of her fucking ass…”
Katia’s last few words trailed off and hung in the air until they faded into silence. She turned to look at Zahra. “Those were the last words we exchanged.”
She hoped Zahra wouldn’t hear the hurt in her voice. “She moved to Virginia. I stayed here. I do see her mom sometimes. She cooks out. Did, did cook out. Always invited me. Sometimes I went. Sometimes not. Mostly not.”
Behind them, new activity surged. A flurry of reporters and police officers had gathered nearby.
“What the…” Katia turned toward the noise that came from the edge of the beach. A voice, male, but unrecognizable, sounded. Soon a cacophony of voices arose. Cameramen were setting up their equipment, fighting each other for the best angle. Katia assumed it was to get shots of the body as it was moved from the dune to the waiting transport unit.
An officer who was standing near Dr. Webb moved up the beach. Katia recognized him. He was one of the few who had already arrived from Manteo to help with the aftermath of the storm. He looked anxious.
“You Zahra?” His eyes locked on Katia for a moment and then moved to Zahra. “You?” Zahra pointed her index finger back on herself. “I’m Zahra.”
****
He knew the beach, knew storms, and knew how the elements affected decaying flesh. No DNA evidence would implicate him in the crimes. He was certain of this. Sand dunes held water, water invaded orifices, and invading water killed DNA.
He thought about the first time he felt the sand rub his own skin. His aunt asked him to walk with her. It was late. He was ten.
“Come on, Little Man. Walk with me.”
She winked when she said it, as if they shared a secret they both enjoyed keeping. He hated their secret. He hated the sweet smell of her skin and the warmth of her breath against his mouth that got softer and faster when she made his body react in ways he told it not to react. He didn’t want to go, to walk with her, to listen to her, to feel her. He didn’t want to, but he did. He always did.
It started with a touch through his pajamas as he lay motionless in the quiet dark of his room. When she wanted more, they moved to the beach. No one heard the sounds of her as she pressed herself against him behind a hard, wave-beaten dune.
“Here, Little Man. And here. Let me teach you. You’re old enough to learn.”
He tried at first to argue, to tell her someone might see. But they both knew no one would. It was November in Buxton on a section of beach that was hidden from the world. But at least he tried.
“Auntie, please,” he begged her. “I’m cold. Can we go back?”
“Not yet, Little Man. You know you don’t really want to, do you? Relax. You know I would never hurt you. I love you. I love you so much. So much.”
Her breath increased against his mouth with each word. With each touch, with each movement, his resistance waned until he gave in, again.
He tried to bring his mind back to the present and refocus on the reports, but she was always there, just as she was when he was a weak boy of nine, of twelve, of fourteen. But I wasn’t weak when I was fifteen, was I, Auntie? That walk didn’t turn out the way you intended, did it? His thoughts drifted back to the sand, erosion, old DNA, and her.
“Dad, please. I’m fifteen.” He and his father stood face-to-face in the kitchen. But for a one-inch height difference and his own gangly limbs, it was like looking into a slightly skewed mirror. He spoke to the reflection of himself. “Let me stay, Dad, please. She doesn’t need to come, and I’m old enough. All of my friends stay home alone. Seriously.”
“It’s not just a day, son. It’s a week.” His father never broke eye contact.
“But—”
“No buts. Not for a week.” His father’s voice was firm.
He lost, and he felt sick to his stomach. After six months of avoidance, she won. “Fuck my life,” he mumbled as he stormed off to his room.
His plan of retaliation started on that day.
He had imagined it more than once: The tip of a sharp hunting knife meeting her soft, white skin. One push of the blade, the dent inward, the pop that would release the tension around the blade. He dreamed of the thick, red blood oozing, coating the silver as pain formed on her face. He would breathe his warm breath against her lips, as his pulse quickened. He wanted to feel the life slipping away, body to body, skin to skin. Only then would he find relief. He even had the knife he wanted to do it with hidden in a shoebox deep in his closet.
At fifteen, she was coming. At fifteen, he was ready.
The wooden walkway creaked under their footsteps. He concentrated on the sound and on the way the waves of heat still lingered just above each weather-beaten slat. It was November. The heat would disappear with the sunset. He smiled. The rentals along the beach stood empty. There wasn’t another human in sight. It was the perfect place.
He let his free hand rest along the top of the rail, the other hand in hers. Together, they descended five wooden stairs and stepped in unison onto the soft sand. The sun was almost gone. He pointed above the ocean where the soft yellow-orange was turning a crimson pink. “It’s the perfect night, Auntie.”
“It’s beautiful, Little Man.” Her voice was a whisper against the crashing waves. The two of them stood perfectly still. “You were right. Earlier is better.”
He didn’t respond. If he did, his voice would betray him. For the first time in the history of their secret relationship, he felt excited to be alone on the beach with her.
When he couldn’t contain his excitement any longer, he stepped toward the dune to the right. He had chosen it for its size and position. The fence, which ran parallel to the ocean for ten feet, was built by a restoration company to fight erosion long before he was born. It did its job well, trapping tons of wind-blown sand. And now, it was guarding one side of his chosen death nest. He tugged gently on his aunt’s hand, leading her to the smallest part of the beach-grass-covered dune. “I’ve found the perfect place, Auntie. Come on. Let me show you.”
She smiled and touched his face with her free hand. “My sweet Little Man. So grown. So beautiful. Show me.”
He licked his lips and swallowed hard. So this is what it feels like to want someone completely. The tingling in his stomach built and sent signals downward to his growing manliness. His breath quickened.
He slipped the backpack from his shoulders and pulled out a blanket. Without a word, he put one end of the blanket into her hands. When the blanket was taut, each of them piled sand onto their respective corners.
He moved to the middle of the black-and-red-checkered cloth and patted the spot next to him.
Tonight he would not have to be coaxed. Tonight he would become a man.
“Little Man,” she said, breathing into his mouth, “you have missed me, haven’t you? I can feel it.” Her fingers toyed with his lips and touched his skin.
“I’ve been waiting to get you alone, Auntie,” he said. He reached around to her back. She had taught him well. He eased her down onto the blanket.
He did what he was taught to do, what she wanted. He did what would take her out of this world and into a world where there was nothing but their bodies and their breathing. “Is that good, Auntie?”
She moaned. “You know where. Come on. Please. You know where.”
“I do. I do.” He straddled her like a fervent lover. “You look beautiful.” His breathing was coming too fast. He had to slow down. Come on. Can’t lose control. Focus. Focus. Focus. He calmed his body, ran his fingers over her cheek, down her neck, over her hard nipples. He couldn’t risk her opening her eyes or questioning his movements.
He moved his hand up and into her short, blonde hair. With the other hand, he reached into the open backpack and withdrew the hunting blade. With a single fluid motion, he yanked her head back and slashed through the soft skin of her neck. He hadn’t expected to see the gristle of her windpipe or hear the thin sharp sound that escaped her lips. He hadn’t anticipated the flailing arms or the hands clawing at the gaping hole. He loved her completely in that moment. Like a man.
Her words echoed in his head: “Auntie needs you close. You love me, don’t you? Doesn’t that feel nice? Never tell, Little Man. Okay? Promise your Auntie.”
“I promise, Auntie,” he whispered against her lips. He leaned back and slashed again. This time the sharp blade connected with the jugular. Blood sprayed his hand, his chest, and his face. Warm lines and dots of bright-red liquid. He pressed himself hard against her body until she was completely still, and then he pressed for a moment more.
He was exhausted. He wanted to sleep here at her bosom like a little boy, against her warmth, but he was now a man and there was much to be done, more than he anticipated. The red splotches that colored his body also colored the sand around him, and a pool was forming under the cooling corpse. He discovered that night that murder is harder than it appears.
Years after his first taste of sweet, sticky death, he studied the reporter who was describing the scene where a body was just discovered. His mind clung only to the phrases that were important to him. The rest was just white noise.
“We must warn you. The details of this discovery are disturbing…”
“A woman’s body…”
“Discovered partially buried…”
“Large dune.”
The words filtered into his mind in chunks and filled the spaces between the growing rage. He wanted to hit something, to let the fury control him. It felt good to let it control him, to not think or feel until the moment of release. He took a deep breath.
Too many people. It’s too risky. Just breathe. Focus. He stared forward, every nerve in his body on alert. He listened carefully now.
“An emergency medical responder for Buxton was working with other first responders to search for possible survivors where an E-3 tornado touched down on the ocean side of Buxton when he says he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. The EMS worker didn’t want to speak on camera…”
The cameraman panned the area.
His heart beat faster. From his side of the television set, he strained to see what the cameraman was seeing. His blood warmed as the man behind the camera continued.
“The body is badly decomposed and harmed from the storm. No word on sex or age at this time. We will continue to bring you updates as we get them.”
Too much movement at the beach prevented him from seeing which of his gifts had been returned to him. He thought about the redhead named Megan. She came into a store where he stopped for coffee on his drive back to Buxton. She smelled like apple juice and shampoo. Sweet and clean.
His draw to her was immediate as he contemplated speaking to her only seconds before he noticed her keeping an eye on a young girl who stood near the alcohol. He instantly knew what was happening, and it infuriated him. The woman nodded to the young girl then moved toward the store clerk. As she threw her hair over her shoulder and questioned the clerk about whether or not they carried an obscure item, the girl lifted the six-pack and walked out the door, unnoticed by anyone but him.
Megan was so easy. Outside her apartment at seven forty-five the next morning, he watched the girl get on the school bus and sit, head down, alone. His heart ached for her. Five minutes later, he walked right into the front door, placed the needle in Megan’s neck, and folded her into a large, rolling suitcase. No one even glanced his way when he lifted the bag and placed it in his truck.
He buried her deep into the dune when the sand was soft and malleable. But he pulled her closer to the surface when he returned, wanting to see her when he brought other offerings. It took him several hours to settle her in and fill in the sand after each visit. He didn’t mind, though. He liked her, despite her refusal to do good rather than evil. Perhaps it was her age, which the papers listed as thirty-one, or the way she refused to scream or flail when he pulled her hair back and laid the blade against her neck.
“Do you understand what you did wrong, Megan?”
“Fuck you.” She looked him right in the eye as she spoke, the words coming from low in her throat. She looked almost pleased to be leaving this world. “Little slut likes to steal. She likes to fuck, too. Want to fuck her? Let me go, and you can fuck her for free.”
Oh how good it felt to hear the sound of Megan’s flesh splitting, knowing that little girl would be free.
It might also be Ulma, the worn-out blonde. She was a feisty one. He watched her for months in the diner, as she ran her fingers through the hair of the local boys. He heard her flirt with them. He saw her long, skinny fingers and unkempt nails as they twirled in and out. She lived alone. Babysat when she wasn’t at the restaurant, gave music lessons.
Right. Music lessons. Even now, he cringed at the picture he developed in his mind of the creepy blonde pulling the little boys tight against her at the piano and running her bony fingers up their backs as they pounded away nervously at the keys.
He respected the ones who didn’t scream. He also enjoyed carefully digging out the slender, flowing, Ammophila grass after each kill. The low-tide stench, funky but evocative, built from the merger of ocean and sound, always took him back to the first time. He enjoyed the burn in his muscles as he dug, as he arranged their bodies in the sand. He enjoyed replacing the grass safely on the dune after each visit, each new burial. It was like a puzzle to be solved.
“Female,” the reporter droned, returning him to the present. “Adult. More details as news arrives.”
What they didn’t know yet was that whichever dune they were exploring, digging would reveal more, so many more.
He listened throughout the morning to the Barbie-perfect, twenty-something repeat the words she was being fed from somewhere in the distance:
“Name withheld until next of kin can be notified.”
“Found by EMS workers who were searching for survivors from last night’s tornado that destroyed a row of homes on the ocean side of Buxton.”
“Large area taped off.”
He stood close to the television set and tried to pick out markers that would tell him exactly which body the storm had delivered from its grave. There were so many. For years, he continued to give his gifts to the ocean by way of the dunes. He liked the idea of each one being absorbed through the earth from which they came, continually pushed down by the shifting crystals and pulled down by the hungry sea.
The ground, sea, and air kept his secret, until now. Until now, he felt as though it was the earth’s way of thanking him for ridding the world of
women who would otherwise be allowed to continue hurting children. Had the elements disagreed with a choice? His mind churned in time with the raging sea on the screen.
All of the debris, all of the townspeople and rescue workers trampling about made it hard to tell which body was found. Then he saw it. The snarled tree with burnt branches, black limbs, and thick trunk poked defiantly out of the pale yellows and blues. The coroner and an assistant were to the left of the restaurant, down the beach and down a few dunes.
Soft Gina. A smile formed on his lips as he recalled the feel of her skin in his rough hands. It was harder to get her alone. She had a daughter that was always in tow, a daughter that was a lesbian. He watched her flaunt her daughter’s choice, heard her talk about freedom to marry and freedom to adopt. It enraged him. What does a mother do to her child to convince her it’s okay to follow through on such evil? He watched her for months. She was rarely alone.
He waited.
Finally, her daughter moved away. Still, he waited. When he found his moment, she fought him. Oh how she fought. He rubbed his hands along his biceps where Gina had dug her nails deep into his skin. She was barely a week dead, and the punctures were almost healed. He found a remaining scab, pulled it free of the wound, and pushed his own nail into the lesion to keep the feeling alive.
He smiled at the television set, a smile of dark anticipation, being thankful for technology. He knew what he had to do.
****
Katia stood as close as the crime scene tape allowed to the woman who was now only purple, onyx, and stench protruding from the dune at the edge of Buxton Beach. The rain was no longer consuming their world. The sun shone straight up in the noon sky, and the surf rolled with less force. Under different circumstances, the sea would be littered with locals on their boards. She looked out at the empty waterscape. No celebration of the end of the storm would occur today.
