Sandman

by Tammy Bird

  He glanced at the long, black, hand of the clock. It rested on the twelve. The thin, red, second hand ticked past the short hand that sliced through the five. What is taking so long? He picked up the flip phone from its place next to the keyboard and opened it. Nothing. His brow furrowed. He snapped the phone shut and put it on the desk. The phone was the last of a batch he purchased several years ago on the dark web. He made a mental note to find more soon.

  He gazed at the computer monitors. Years ago, he made a deal with the devil.

  “I didn’t ask for this,” he said to the colorful image on the left screen. “Like you, I was recruited.” He looked from left to right and back again. There were five shots of the partially uncovered corpse of Gina Dahl. He sat back to study the angles. His eye rested on the way a raindrop lay on a single speck of sand to create a tiny magnifying glass atop a perfectly polished red nail.

  Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all.

  His face flushed, the quiver in his stomach built with every click of the keys. He moved part of one picture and laid it over another and then another. After an hour of work, he pulled his shoulders back as far as they would go and cracked his neck. The perfect shot. Beautiful.

  He named the finished product, “Meticulous In Death.” He could hear the collective intake of breath of his Pain and Pleasure fans, a site focused on pain, death, and sex. Children and eighteen- to twenty-year-old women brought the most bitcoins. His account would grow exponentially over the next few days as word got out there were new shots from an active crime scene.

  You’re welcome, ladies and gentleman. Enjoy.

  Brent zoomed in on one shot, on the vivid purple of the shoe. He used his manipulation tool to make it an even stronger color, a purple so majestic it demanded the observer’s attention.

  Gina carried herself like a majestic goddess.

  He intended to give her the perfection she deserved.

  He clicked the blurring tool and hovered it over the leg, bloated and splotchy. A light brush created the illusion of muted purple pouring from the majestic purple shoe.

  He rested his hand on the mouse, pulled the corner of his lip between his teeth, and rolled title ideas around in his mind. The title, he knew, was as important as the shading and color and angle of every shot.

  “I shall call you… ‘Her Majesty ’Tis of Thee.’” He smiled at his choice and typed it into the computer, attaching the words to the corner of the photo.

  Such a big personality you were in life; such a big personality you will be in death. He relaxed into memory of the smell, of the faces of those who were witnessing intense death for the first time. The beat of his heart was as strong as the moment he captured the shot. There were so many people around. Brent was so forward, so daring with his craft. Butterflies, almost painful in their tingling of his insides, returned.

  When he was pleased with “Her Majesty,” he moved the picture to the bottom of the right screen and clicked another folder on the left. This one held the children. Gina wasn’t the only subject of his attention on the beach that day. The small Clark child, whom he carried to the transport unit, also made him move through his fear of detection to capture the sweetness of death.

  “Breathless Innocence,” he titled the picture that was now front and center on the screen. He ran his finger across the display, down the arm hanging limply across his own. From the angle of the shot you could see the blue of his EMS sleeve, the emblem edge on the chest. Enough to tease but not enough to know. He never let them know. He was too smart to make rookie mistakes.

  He remembered news reports about the most recent bust of a group of those soliciting the porn he provided. The reports said, “Didn’t change their screen names,” and “Used gateway sites.” Idiots. They deserved to get caught if they used unprotected proxy services to browse.

  His eyes rested on the side of the boy’s face. He contemplated whether or not to darken it slightly or trim it a bit more but decided it captured perfectly the way he felt the moment he slipped his phone out of his pocket and took the photo. There were people all over the beach who were so desensitized to technology that they didn’t even look his way.

  In the moments he rested the phone against his chest and snapped the shots, every nerve in his body tingled. He wanted to open the boy’s eyes as he carried him, but he couldn’t risk the attention a broken stride might create. Pictures with open eyes would have to wait. Now, looking at the photos, he was glad he hadn’t. The result of the pale skin and blond curls against his uniform was beautiful. Open green eyes would’ve created a much different effect.

  He thought about his audience and looked again at the photo. It showed the connection between man and boy but not rape or snuff. This would be a problem for his followers on the Pleasure and Pain site.

  “A different site for you, my ‘Breathless Innocence,’” he murmured.

  He closed the image, went back to the folder, and chose another shot of the same Clark child. In this one, his eyes were open. He looked like a scared boy who stared blindly at the camera. If you weren’t aware of his death, you might allow yourself to believe he was very much alive. His followers were going to love this shot of the child with strong male fingers wrapped in the soft blond curls. The other hand rested under the sheet that served as a prop to give the illusion of nakedness. He had no desire to actually fondle the young boy. His job was to make it appear as if someone did, someone just beyond the reach of the camera’s eye, someone who could be anyone his audience desired.

  He titled the last edit, “Final Desire,” and posted the shot to Pain and Pleasure.

  “Final Desire” was a perfect shot.

  He continued working as the minutes ticked slowly past. He checked his phone. Nothing. Waiting was the hardest part.

  ****

  “He’s asleep,” Katia said, entering the living room. She plopped down across from Papi in the big, cushioned chair. It was obvious from his damp hair and clean skin he recently showered, though one would never tell from his dress. Richard Billings, carpenter extraordinaire, never wore pajamas or shorts. Always Levi’s and T-shirts. Always. She liked the way he smelled after work, like wood and sunshine. As a small girl, she watched for his return and jumped into his arms to breathe in that smell. She wished she could do that now. She was mentally and physically drained from the last six days.

  Telltale clues in the room told her that regardless of her exhaustion, of her wants or needs, a Marco conversation was forthcoming. She made eye contact with her father. His brow furrowed as he glanced down at the bourbon in his hand. She waited. It took less than thirty seconds to get to the conversation at hand.

  “You left him with Mrs. Ellington,” Richard said. His voice was stern, low. “Why?”

  “I left you a—”

  “A note?” His words cut into hers. “I read it. He’s home now, isn’t he?”

  Sarcasm. Great. Katia started to remind her father she was told a million times not to text him or call unless it was an emergency. He was the one who initiated the notes in this age of technology. She decided to keep her mouth shut. This would be over more quickly that way. Maybe she would have a drink of her own.

  Marco was in his safe space when she got home. He rocked and tapped no matter what she said. She finally left him to self-regulate and came downstairs. Her brother’s setback this week was part of her father’s choice for bourbon rather than a beer. Beers meant her father wanted to relax. Bourbon meant he was agitated. Katia saw it as the equivalent to Marco’s tools. She didn’t say that, either. Instead, she sat silently and let her words boil beneath her skin.

  Her dad played with the condensation on his glass. “We need to talk.” His voice went from agitated to kind, his brow less furrowed.

  Fuck. Here we go. Katia leaned to her right and pulled her legs up behind her, her slightly muscular frame filling, but not overflowing, the big chair. She pictured Zahra’s hands, recalled the feeling of her breath on h
er face, the slight hint of coffee, the sincere desire to be with her. She thought of her mother’s arms before the accident, before Katia had to become an adult, when her mom was the one at the stove, stirring the boiling milk and lemon, whisking the egg whites into beautiful soft peaks. When she had filled her body with all of the positivity she could muster, she spoke.

  “Papi, I’m tired.”

  Her father sat with his forearms resting on his upper legs, his right hand swirling the golden-brown liquid across the ice cubes.

  She looked past her father and out the big picture window behind him. It was dark now, but she knew exactly what lay on the other side of the glass. From the time she could stand, she spent hours looking past the large, white, windowpane, hours enjoying the way the stark white framed the tans and greens of the beach and the greens and blues of the sea. She was glad the blues and tans of the room were the same as they were when she was small enough to do somersaults across the overstuffed cushions. She looked around the room and absorbed the memories.

  They sat in silence a moment more. It was impossible, but she swore she could still smell her mother on the strands of soft fabric. She inhaled deeply, gathering strength from the past. “Papi?” She wasn’t going to help him get to his point.

  “I found a place for Marco.”

  There it was. The sentence she heard once before and never wanted to hear again. She pulled herself upright and hugged her knees to her chest. Her whole body tensed. Every inch of her being threatened to betray her. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. She swallowed hard and spoke evenly and with conviction. “He stays with me, Papi. I promised her.”

  “Promised who? Your mom? She’s dead, Katia. She’s dead, and we’re here, and he’s not happy here.”

  “Her. Yes. I kissed her good-bye and promised.” Katia waited. She looked between the bourbon in his eyes and the one in his hand. Neither gave her a clue as to what was coming. The silence engulfed her, engulfed them both, until she felt dizzy. Her throat closed around words that tried to escape. Her lead-filled feet refused to carry her away from this moment.

  He looked through her. The glass rested against his right knee. She waited. The seconds ticked past. Katia’s insides filled with lava, hot and oozing across her organs.

  “Do you think she wanted you to waste your life sitting around here with a brother who doesn’t even know what you do for him?” He drained the last of the liquid from his glass and put it down on the table with more force than necessary. “For God’s sake, Katia, he can’t even stay home alone or tell us what in the hell is wrong. He’s not going to get better.”

  “Papi. Please.” Katia yearned for his understanding. “It wasn’t that bad. He barely ever has them anymore.”

  “You weren’t here, again.”

  “But, Papi—”

  “Katia. He’s a teenager now, with teenager thoughts and teenager strength. How much longer do you think you’ll be able to guide him out of these episodes?”

  Her hands shook in her lap. She looked at her father’s glass. The drops of condensation ran down the sides and created a ring of water on the lighthouse coaster. Katia wanted to throw it at him. Right now, she hated him, real hate. She felt her hand move toward the glass. It would be simple. He was slightly inebriated. If she threw it hard enough…

  “Katia? What are you thinking?” His words broke her from the horrible thoughts. “I know you love him. I love him, too. He’s my son, for Christ's sake.”

  “Love him? Love him?” Katia’s voice rose. She felt her cheeks grow red. “Love isn’t putting him somewhere to make our lives easier. Don’t you get that? I’ll give up everything, anything, for him. That’s love.”

  Her father’s chest rose and fell methodically. His face appeared to be a mix of sorrow and pain.

  “I get it, Papi.” Katia adjusted her voice to a more respectful tone. “I really do. It’s hard. He doesn’t talk much. It’s hard to figure out what’s happening. He’s loud. He flaps. But he needs me. Needs us.” She looked directly in her father’s eyes. “I need him.”

  Still he remained silent.

  Katia debated on how much of the past few days to share with her father, especially tonight. She was twenty-six-years old, but she still felt like a child in his overbearing, overprotective presence. He wouldn’t approve of her playing detective with the county’s criminal investigator and search and rescue dog handler. She wasn’t going to stop. She also wasn’t going to let Marco go anywhere she couldn’t protect him. She didn’t know how they all fit into this sick fuck’s game plan. But she didn’t need one more thing to worry about, and she would worry if her brother was in a strange place without her. She tried again.

  “I know it’s bad right now, Papi. But it’s only bad right now because of whatever happened at the school.” She paused to think about her next words. “Maybe someone there has something to do with what’s going on.” She let the words hang in the air until he answered.

  “What makes you think that?” His voice was steady, even.

  Katia feared him turning the conversation back to the home for developmentally delayed youth, so his question pleased her. “You said he was like this when you picked him up. He freaks at the mention of me dropping him off there.” She talked faster than she meant to. “He’s suddenly afraid to be without me. Even Mrs. Ellington took a few minutes to convince him it was okay for me to leave, and he loves going there.” She took a deep breath. Her lips moved back and forth between her teeth.

  Her father picked his empty glass off of the table and sucked the bit of moisture that had pooled around the ice into his mouth.

  Katia needed to get it all out before she lost her nerve. “It’s just weird. He’s gotten much better since the last time. He’s learned to communicate better. The doctor gave him another camera. I dropped it off. I need to pick up the pictures tomorrow. They’ll soothe him.” She didn’t mean to tell him about the pictures. He’d think she was stupid for the indulgence.

  But he didn’t tell her she was stupid. He didn’t argue or bring the conversation back around. “For now,” he said. “For now, I’ll let him stay. But Katia?”

  “Yes, Papi,” she answered quickly, her voice more cheerful. “I know. I promise. I understand we may have to place him one day.”

  “Go on to bed. You need rest. I need rest.”

  Katia wanted to cry, she wanted to scream, she wanted to ask her father to hold her and say that everything would be okay. But she didn’t. “Good night, Papi.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday, November 25, 2018

  “Death is dark. And then…”

  Nothing.

  ****

  When the text finally arrived late Sunday night, Brent was delighted.

  Ready.

  No more. No less.

  He closed the phone, slid it into his pocket, and moved quickly toward the closet in his bedroom. Before he lost himself in preparing the photographs for his customers, he had carefully poked the edges around the entire back wall with the sharp tip of a pocketknife. The advance planning decreased his arrival time to Elizabeth when the call came, and it left the wall intact to the untrained eye.

  He put his hands against the drywall and pushed, eased up, and pushed again. He lifted the drywall to the side and stepped into the small three-by-five-foot space that lay behind. He looked at the boxes of decals and pictures and newspapers and VHS tapes that sat alongside an old player he still occasionally brought out to relive the early years. He ran a finger through the light film of dust on one of the tapes. Nine of the people presented on these videos, in these papers, were from his pact with the devil the media recently named Sandman.

  Sandman. He was Sandman. The man they were after was the Devil. He felt his pulse in his temples. He inhaled deeply. He needed complete focus for the job at hand.

  He moved past the memories and to the shelf that held a stack of truck decals, also courtesy of the dark
web. He already decided on the decal for tonight. He sifted through several until he found the one that read, “Gecko Sportfishing.” A green-and-brown gecko in captain’s gear, one hand on a large, wooden steering wheel, looked up at him from the center of the clear vinyl circle, the name of the company curved across its top. It was a legitimate business down the coast in South Carolina. He had done his research. It was perfect. The owner was a night fisherman. His boat ramp, dockside café, and store would be as dark as the night, and his dark-colored truck with the gecko decal would be stationary in the darkness.

  Brent used his shirttail to wipe the surface of the decal and laid it to the side. He reached into another box and sifted quickly through a small stack of fake driver’s licenses. He settled on a scraggly-haired blond. Jasper Rigby. He said the name silently, but with the best deep-south accent he could muster. Sounds nautical enough. The patrolman loading the ferry wouldn’t even glance at it. They rarely did this time of year, as there were few visitors and few reasons to suspect anyone crossing was not as they should be. He ran his fingers through his own sandy-colored hair and thought about the other items on his list.

  ****

  It didn’t take long to get from his garage to his destination, approximately two miles away.

  Nothing is far in Buxton. How many times had he said that to tourists stopping by the station? We’re one of seven small villages along the fifty-mile stretch of Hatteras Island. Smile, nod at whatever witty comeback was presented, and point them on their way. The pointing and smiling was the mundane part of a job that allowed him access to the subjects of his art.