by Tammy Bird
But he had no choice.
“You understand. Don’t you?” He touched the screen gently. Elizabeth’s face came into view, then her body, then the backdrop, as picture after picture pinged into view on the computer screen. For a moment, Brent sat back and enjoyed the experience of the blurred whites, yellows, reds, and silvers coming together to create minuscule moments of memory.
He considered purchasing one of those new cameras, the ones with Wi-Fi built in to move pictures seamlessly to the cloud, but there was something about the cable lying on his desk, something about the connection, the pulse of the camera beating picture-by-picture onto his screen that made the experience of what he did even sweeter.
He had done so many clean-up jobs over the years. Each one went off without a hitch. Brent followed the rules, never veered from the plan. This should have been no different. And it would have been, except Elizabeth was an artist. Brent was an artist. He owed it to her to take his time, to make everything perfect, every shot perfect. Perfection takes time. For the first time since Nadia died, Brent ignored specific instructions. He didn’t take Elizabeth across to Ocracoke Island. Instead, he worked long past the hour of the last ferry, which left him no choice but to dump Elizabeth sloppily onto the beach.
The thumbnails stopped pinging in. Brent clicked onto the final shot. It was the last picture he took of her on the red-and-black-checkered blanket in the washroom. The shot caught the edge of the brown picnic basket sitting open just above and to the left of her pale blonde hair. He loved her cut. Short. The front edging her celestial face like a gentle frame. A flawless shot.
Brent admired the contrast between the deep pinks and tans of gristle and the pale white of skin. His finger traced the bold line of red along the slash’s edge. Exquisite.
You would be proud of this work, Elizabeth. You would love the ghastly pallor, the love story of a woman’s last heartbeat. The representation of the last push of color up the long, slender, white neck. How could I not sacrifice myself for you? For us? For such a perfect masterpiece?
He would have to die to escape the man to whom he owed last night’s experience. Brent was prepared to do so. But first, he would give to his followers his final artistic portfolio.
He opened each picture in turn. Hundreds of them. Each one took him back to the tiny room under the dune. It was a room so well hidden that even if they found Sandman’s house, the room could easily go unnoticed.
He was the only one who knew what Sandman was capable of. Not even the police officers, rescue workers, and FBI agents that tirelessly worked his grisly graveyard knew his true potential. Last night, when he realized the time, fear swirled in the pit of his stomach. He thought about leaving, getting a message to his contractor, negotiating the move of the body the next night. Ultimately, his draw to being with Elizabeth was too great, and the awareness that breaking the rules meant his demise was too clear. Brent was a walking dead man the moment he missed the ferry.
When he should have been stuffing Elizabeth’s lifeless body into the picnic basket and into the covered bed of his truck, he was rolling the edges of the red-and-black picnic blanket, instead. First one side and then the other, until the rolls of fabric tucked her in tight. He contemplated this last pose in the death room. It needed to be just right.
Should it be her hand or his? His face, perhaps. That would make a final statement. If I pull this off, I will need anonymity. Not my face. Brent decided on her hand, placed carefully between her own legs, one leg bent slightly, almost demurely, her head turned toward the camera and slightly down. He moved her mouth until the lips parted slightly, corners raised enough to give her cheeks the look of pleasure he was after.
When he should have been driving his truck onto the Ocracoke-bound ferry, he was moving the beautiful Elizabeth into the room where Sandman had watched her for the last week. He scanned the walls and ceiling to make sure the man hadn’t placed any new cameras. If he had, and if he pushed the Calculator button on his phone to observe the progress, Brent would be dead before he left the room. But still he continued. The single camera Brent knew existed was covered with a black cloth. Sandman didn’t like this part. He never watched. He covered the camera on the last day of her captivity for every woman who was held here.
“I don’t want to look,” Sandman said. “But I will. I know I will.”
Brent liked that the man knew his own weakness. It guaranteed alone time to snap the pictures he needed to supply the demand of his followers.
Tonight was about more than his followers. This woman was his kindred spirit, a fellow artist, the only person since Nadia he had to get just right.
Moving Elizabeth to the holding room, the room with the mattress and chains, wasn’t difficult. As he gently pushed his hands between her body and the blanket, he contemplated what he would do when he left. The ferry was out, obviously. Weights on her ankles? Risk digging in a dune? Head the other way on Highway 12, out of town? No. He would leave her where she would be easily found. Brilliant. All eyes on you, beautiful Elizabeth. And none on me.
He’d have little time before the Sandman was out for his blood. A merciless prospect.
Brent laid Elizabeth on the mattress that smelled of her urine and sweat. “Where shall I go, Elizabeth? Somewhere warm, with an ocean. I have to have the ocean. Somewhere with my own dunes, not his.”
He smiled at the thought, at how far he’d come from that scared teenager who cried as he recounted the way in which his adult teacher broke his heart. He would be gone before the emergency task force finished working the scene, before the Sandman knew he was forsaken, before his own identity was traced.
He went to the computer. Pictures flickered past on their way to the folder marked Artist to Artist: Elizabeth against the wall, cross-legged on the naked mattress; Elizabeth with her head bowed nearly against her unclothed chest; a close-up of one strand of her hair that formed a comma on her cheek, the end touching lightly against her upper lip.
Brent paused the upload with the touch of a button and reached down to push the band of his sweatpants and boxers down toward his hips. He hadn’t been able to relieve himself last night or this morning. It was too dangerous to leave behind any trace that would connect him to the murders he would never commit. But in the home he’d soon be leaving, he’d allow himself the few seconds to release the buildup of excitement that came from knowing his work was some of the most sought after on the dark web.
“E.Liz.A.Beth,” He said her name in syllables that matched his rapidly beating heart. “I won’t disgrace you by hiding your face. You’re my masterpiece. Our work will gain you the notoriety you sought in life and me the fame I had no idea I wanted until we met.”
He spent his remaining hours in Buxton in his hideaway closet going through the small personal items he’d managed to collect over the past ten years. Ten years he did this. Ten years of rage and despair and hope and ecstasy. He began his relationship with others on the dark web even longer ago. The web wasn’t always the colorful, fast-moving realm of today. Once it was just bulletin boards and pseudonyms as gamers learned from one another the art of Thexder. For him, that was where it all started.
Every weekend, his father let him use the monstrous computer that sat on his desk. He knew it was because they didn’t want to entertain him for that many hours, or for any hours, truth be told. The only person in his life that did matter, his grandfather, died when Brent was ten. With no one left to pull him away from the screen, he quickly became a regular on electronic bulletin boards where gamers exchanged information and learned the art of breaking the law. Being able to exert his will on system after system was invigorating. As the Internet grew, and the dark web grew, so did his skills. Brent became something of a celebrity in a wilderness where the sickest of the sick go to play.
This celebrity status put him in contact with a man who called himself Dr. Blanche. Together with an unnamed third party, Brent and the doctor made a fortune findin
g the names of babies who died prior to their second birthdays and creating false identities for those who needed to disappear forever.
This celebrity status also put him in contact with the most deviant of all humans on the planet—those who derive pleasure from pictures of small children, teenagers, and adults in various stages of death and sex. Fulfilling their need ensured Brent made more money through the partnership than he could spend in all of his life on the small island of Buxton.
After leaving Elizabeth on the beach in the wee hours of the morning, Brent reached out to Dr. Blanche. He needed a new identity immediately, complete with an impenetrable background in case anyone came digging. The good doctor didn’t disappoint. He delivered in less than seven hours.
A few clicks in a different direction netted Brent a private plane and a ride in a car with tinted windows that gave the appearance of clear glass. He coordinated times and places.
He would have the early part of the day, but no longer. Someone would stumble upon Elizabeth. He tried to turn the basket on its side without her body spilling forth, but he miscalculated the weight. Even in the dark, he couldn’t take the time to make changes to the scene. He was too close to the original sandy graveyard, and someone would patrol the area regularly. By noon, she would be on everyone’s television set.
“Breaking news. The body of a woman has been found…”
Perfect. Everyone would be swarming around Elizabeth. Everyone, that is, except the Sandman, who would likely still be in his room, alone. It was Monday. On Mondays, he stayed locked away in his room to balance his books. After a kill, it was also his time to get his head back in the game as an upstanding citizen of Buxton.
Nothing tied Brent to the Sandman except for the summer after Nadia’s death when he worked in his shop. I’ll teach you to be just like me, he told Brent. And he had, but not as a carpenter. Brent was horrible with tools, and after a few months, the man resigned himself to the idea that Brent wasn’t woodworking-apprentice material. There was also nothing to tie him to Elizabeth except for the cookouts he and his ex-wife attended where Katia and Elizabeth were guests as well.
Brent pulled the decals off his truck before going inside last night. All of them. And they were now in the little room where he stood. By the time anyone said anything about the truck, he would be setting up shop on a Costa Rican island, safe and secure.
He would miss his daughter. He would even miss Elliot and his wife, his own ex-wife, and Katia. These were his friends, his meat-world family. But they weren’t his passion. Even his daughter couldn’t replace what he had in the virtual world. Even if she could, staying in Buxton would end in one of two ways. With him dead or with Sandman dead. There was no in between.
A final look around the room, and Brent was finished. The pictures were uploaded; the gas was poured everywhere. He stood in the middle of the living room. In one hand, he held a T-shirt pulled from the back of his dresser drawer. Nadia had given it to him the first time they made love at her home. He swore it still smelled like her. In the other hand, he held the lighter his grandfather used until the day he died. He rolled the thumbwheel slowly. The metal ridges felt good against his skin. It seemed appropriate the shirt and lighter be the tools used to send flames into the room behind the wall and into the room that housed the computer. The fire would spread rapidly through the small, fifteen-hundred-square-foot space while he traveled down Highway 12 and across the bridge. He rolled the thumbwheel faster. He liked the way the blue-and-yellow flame turned his grandfather’s face a golden hue as he puffed his pipe to life. He missed the simplicity of his grandfather.
He raised the old T-shirt and dangled the hem just above the flame. When the shirt started to burn, he dropped it to the floor and stepped out of the tiny room and toward the door. He crossed the threshold at the exact moment a black, Lincoln Town Car slowed in front of his smoldering home.
His grandfather used to say, “Money doesn’t buy happiness, boy. Try to remember that.” He slid into the backseat and motioned for the driver to proceed.
“Maybe not, grandfather, but it can certainly buy punctuality and anonymity. And today, that’s close enough to happiness for…” Brent looked down at the passport in his hand. “For Quintin Finn.” A slight smile crossed his lips. Good-bye, Brent.
Chapter Twenty
Sandman planned the death of Gina Dahl for seven years. Today, he sat in his room and thought through every detail. Somewhere, he made a mistake. It was the only explanation for the week’s events.
When Katia was eighteen, she told him she was in love with Elizabeth. “A couple,” she said.
“Over my dead body,” he answered.
He lost it in that moment. This was his little girl. Rosario’s little girl. Nothing could shake him more than someone who sought to harm his little girl. He shouldn’t have threatened to run over his daughter and Elizabeth with the car. He shouldn’t have chased them to the beach. He shouldn’t have acted like he was out of control. Those choices cost him years. So much lost time while he regrouped and showed Katia he was okay with her choice. Time when she could have been saved.
She can still be saved, he thought. I can still fix this.
Gina laughed at him when he went to her to ask for her help. They sat in Gina’s brightly colored kitchen, adrift in primary reds and yellows and blues.
“They’re in love, Richard. Why in the world would you want to interfere with that?”
He kept his hands under the table, fists balled into tight circles. “Love? Are you serious right now? One, they’re eighteen. Two, they’re both girls. Three, they have no idea what harm they’ll bring to themselves and their families with this bullshit.”
Gina’s lips puffed out with air as she blew an exasperated breath into a sunbeam. She let silence hang between them for a moment, obviously trying to decide the best way to approach such a sensitive topic. “I won’t apologize or pretend I think this is wrong. I just don’t. I told them they have my blessing. You need to get on board. It’s 2010. Civil unions are becoming the norm. Hell, you can even be gay and adopt children in the Netherlands and Quebec. Let them be.”
It was her fault this happened. He thought Gina and Elizabeth would be good for Katia. She appeared so sad since her mami died. She was a brave girl, strong and adaptable, but she needed a mother. I’m so sorry, Rosario. I’ve let the devil into our daughter’s world.
“Richard?”
It was Gina’s voice, but as his anger grew, Gina morphed into the demons he held inside. His vision blurred. His head hurt. He tried to focus on Gina’s face. It twisted and became his aunt’s face, and then it became the faces of the others. One after another, it blurred into the next. How many were there? Fourteen in the dunes counting his auntie. But there were many others. Ones he left exposed. Ones where he took unnecessary risks in response to his youthful needs.
Richard thought back to those early years. He could see them clearly in his head. He spent so many years naming, remembering, and associating—a game he played even today, a game that kept the fantasies, the feeling of completion and accomplishment, alive.
Helen. The Corkscrew. She gave the neighbor boy wine after he mowed her lawn each week, made him weak, made him giggle. That kill was for the pocket knife, blade out and ready; it met her throat at the same moment his fingers wound into her hair. Yank. Slash. Perfect landing. Beautiful. He let her head fall forward so her mouth was next to his face and breathed in her last breath.
Aunt Judith. Not his aunt. The boy’s. Georgie, she called him. He could smell the city, feel the rush of his nineteen-year-old self surrounded by the traffic and lights of New York. Inside, his body thumped with adrenaline as he remembered following Judith and the boy, her hand on his back, her fingers in his messy, light-brown curls, her laugh, so much like his own auntie. In the moment, he forgot Georgie wasn’t him and Aunt Judith wasn’t his own aunt…
“Richard? Richard Billings. Listen to me.” Gina’s voi
ce crushed the thought. “I don’t know what your hang-up is with our girls and their love, but you need to get it together. We’re all they have. They need us to be supportive, not to make them feel unworthy or disgusting or wrong.”
Sandman pictured her blood dripping through the whitewashed boards of the kitchen table where the sunbeam played. He moved his eyes from his fantasy to her face. “You’re right.” He placed the words carefully into the air. “Absolutely. I just needed to talk it through with you.”
For seven years, he pretended she was right, that he didn’t hate her, that he didn’t dream about the feel of the blade as it reached through layer after layer of her too-tan skin until the pink and white lay bare to the primary red she loved so much.
For seven years, when the draw was too strong or the need too great, he found other blondes, blondes who deserved the feel of his knife against their skin, blondes who preyed on the innocence of a child. He learned to swallow his food over the lump of hatred when Elizabeth stayed for dinner. He laughed at Gina’s jokes when they were forced together at a neighborhood bonfire on the beach in front of their house. And he even agreed to attend numerous real estate events over the years as her plus one.
Along the way, Marco learned pieces of who his father was. Richard underestimated the boy who didn’t speak. Each year, even as Richard refused to purchase speak aids for his son, Marco added words and sounds in new ways. Marco knew and now he was trying to tell Katia. Richard couldn’t let this happen. He loved his children too much.
****
Paige ran alongside Katia at a laid-back pace. They ran the length of beach untouched by the catastrophes of the past week. An easy banter drifted back and forth between long stretches of comfortable silence. The last silence had stretched across a quarter mile of sand.
Paige thought about the pictures, about Marco, about the connections between the women who were brought together in this case.
