by Tammy Bird
Paige was good at puzzles, at clues. It was one of the things she loved about her line of work. It demanded she key in on minute details of each dog, to learn movements and desires and to use them to train and train until each animal reacted exactly the same way in a crisis situation. And yet she felt inept at piecing together the clues that could be hiding in the photos from one teenager’s camera.
Paige went over them again. She tried to focus in on what they hadn’t seen. The crayons. What colors were there? Deep blue? No. Purple. Yes. Majestic Purple. And Gold. Purple and gold. How were they placed? She couldn’t think of anything that made them stand out. What about the box? What was in it? She tried to picture the blurry items. Nothing stood out. A toy phone, maybe. A tiny statue of some kind. A box. Or was it a frame? A picture frame. What was a picture frame doing in a box of stuff set out for children and teens at the center for the disabled?
Her mind went back to Katia’s table again. There was a picture of Yogi Bear and Boo Boo taken by a boy doing what he loved to do best, watch old cartoons. A door knob. To which door, none of them had any idea. The knobs were all the same. Marco’s map. And his map again. And again. Obviously, Marco loves maps. What else? She thought about the mix-match of things, so much like Katia’s brother’s brain.
Paige looked over at Katia, who appeared deep in thought. She touched Katia’s arm and signaled she needed to slow down. “You ready to head back?”
Katia nodded. “Probably should.” She touched her watch with her finger without breaking stride. “Shit. We’ve been gone close to an hour. My father will not be happy.”
Paige motioned toward Frankie who was happily talking to the waves and weaving back and forth between the white foam and the two women. “What about him?”
A half smile came across Katia’s face. She pulled her upper lip into her mouth with her bottom teeth. “Come on, boy.” She patted the side of her leg. “We’re going home.” Katia looked to Paige. “Papi won’t question it until you leave.” She shrugged and sprinted forward. She glanced back over her shoulder. “After you leave, I’ll handle it.”
Back at Katia’s house, the women took the front steps two at a time. Until last week, Paige was slightly covetous of what Katia possessed. From her outsider vantage point, she thought Katia led a life to be envied. She had a sexy, bad boi persona that guys and girls both found attractive. She had the most well-built house on the strip, with the beach outside her back door. Her father doted on her and her brother, and she had no real need to work.
Paige’s own mother was a strict disciplinarian who believed the saying, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” Her father was an equally hard-ass disciplinarian, a principal at work and at home. In high school, she watched the Katias and Elizabeths of the world float through life and she wished she was them. She hated that she was the girl who had to go to a school away from her friends, who had to come home and work with her mom in the training facility, who had to hide who she was from parents and brothers and aunts and uncles and cousins. She loved her adult life, but she was still not the openly gay Katia Billings. In that respect, her life still sucked, yet somehow today that was okay.
Katia was several steps in front of Paige. She held Frankie in her arms. Paige could hear her breathe, slow and deep, as she stood in front of the door. Katia was scared. That was a word Paige never associated with Katia. “You want me to hold him?” Paige asked.
“No,” Katia said. “I got this. How can he say no to Gina’s dog? It isn’t like I just picked a stray up off of the street.”
“True that.”
The phone in Paige’s pocket buzzed as she lifted her foot over the threshold. She was so into her run she hadn’t noticed any of the phone notifications. She pulled it out of her pocket and pushed the door closed behind her. Seven messages. Paige read in order from the first one. It was from Zahra.
Another body. Take Katia home and call me.
Where are you guys?
Paige. Fucking answer me.
The fourth text was from her brother: Did you hear? They found Elizabeth.
Paige sucked in her breath. She hadn’t expected those words, not from her brother. She looked at Katia’s back as she rounded the corner into the living area. Paige touched the arrow to read another message from her brother.
Are you okay? Do I need to come get you?
The final text was from Zahra. Can’t leave beach. NEED to know you have Katia. That she is safe. PLEASE.
The television was blaring Foghorn Leghorn and that pesky chicken hawk. Paige responded to Zahra while she walked to the corner of the living room.
With her. Will tell her in…
Katia’s voice, high and full of palpable pain, pulled her eyes away from the screen.
Katia moved from object to object, calling for Marco. “Paige? Paige? Fuck! He isn’t here!”
“What do you mean he isn’t here? Where would he go?”
Katia appeared deaf to the question. She ran past her, headed for the stairs. Frankie nipped at her heels. Paige tried to keep up, sliding the phone back into her pocket and grabbing the banister for extra propulsion forward.
Katia opened her brother’s door and called his name. And then the closet door. She spun in a circle, her black, fringed hair spinning out as if charged by an unseen current, Frankie still at her heels, spinning, too, barking. The two moved into the room adjoining his, a light-blue room with clouds on the ceiling.
Katia mumbled and Paige strained to hear. She couldn’t get close enough to the spinning woman to make out the words, words that sounded like a chant. Everything was out of control. Paige’s heart was pounding. “Katia. Stop. Just for a minute. Think.”
“He doesn’t go anywhere but these three rooms,” Katia said. “Nowhere. Papi? Papi!”
“Talk to me,” Paige begged. “What’s wrong? Maybe they’re together. Maybe they went to town. Maybe they—”
“Something’s wrong. Very fucking wrong. My father doesn’t, he doesn’t take Marco out on Monday morning unless it’s to school. He isn’t happy I’m keeping him home. The TV’s still on. It wouldn’t be on. Maybe he made him go. Maybe you’re right. Paige, what if he made him go?”
Paige thought about the message in her pocket. So many things seemed wrong. She desperately tried to hold it together for her friend. “Okay,” Paige said. “You told me he has a tracker. Right?”
Katia looked at her. At first, it seemed as if the words didn’t register, but Paige could see a calm slowly returning to her eyes.
“Yes.” Katia sounded less frantic. “Yes. You’re right. I keep it in here.” She headed in the direction of what Paige assumed was her bedroom. She and Frankie entered a room Paige had never been in before. She followed closely behind. It was dark and dreary.
Katia opened a black drawer in a black dresser and pulled out a silver device. She turned it over in her hand, looked at the screen, shook it, looked again, and tapped it against her leg. “What is it,” Paige asked, keeping her voice as even as the circumstances allowed.
“It’s dead.”
They quickly made their way down the long, upstairs hallway to a closed door Paige assumed belonged to Katia’s father. Paige didn’t know a lot about him. She and Katia weren’t close in high school, and until this week, they saw one another only a handful of times. Katia seemed hesitant to open the door or to knock. Katia, who spun out of control two minutes ago, now stood unmoving, staring at the wooden barrier.
“Katia,” Paige said in an undemanding voice. “Katia. Knock.”
Katia looked at the tracker in her hand and again at Paige. “He’s never been out of range. This tracks for up to five miles.”
Paige understood. When Katia knocked on that door, whatever was happening would become very real. She thought about the phone in her pocket, wondered how Zahra was holding up with Dr. Webb on the beach. She needed to tell Katia about Elizabeth, but she couldn’t. Not until they found Marco. “He’s
okay, Katia,” Paige said. “Maybe your father took him for a ride. Maybe the tracker is broken.”
Katia didn’t answer. She made a fist with her right hand and slowly rapped her knuckles against the wooden door. No response. Katia knocked again, and again no response.
The two looked at one another. Paige reached for the handle and turned. Not breaking eye contact with Katia, she eased the door open, allowing Katia to take in the room. Silence greeted them. Total silence. “I don’t think he’s here,” Paige said. “See. They’re off some—”
The sound of the back door opening stopped Paige’s words. The women turned in unison and bolted for the stairs. “Marco? Papi?”
“Marco?” Richard responded, his voice getting louder as he moved closer. “Isn’t he with you? I got your text saying you were going for a run. I jumped in the shower and came down, but he wasn’t here. Figured you decided to take him.”
“No, Papi. No.” Katia held up the tracker. “It isn’t picking up his signal.”
The women were standing mid-staircase, Katia’s father at the bottom, looking up. Paige had her hand in her pocket, her fingers around the phone, trying to will away the text messages. This can’t be happening. She wished she was anywhere but here; at the same time, she was thankful she was here.
Katia started down the rest of the stairs, taking her phone out of her pocket as she went. “I’m calling 9-1-1.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Marco sat cross-legged on the mattress, the left side of his face on fire. He couldn’t remember how he got from the front of the television screen to the room behind the workbench, but he remembered his father’s words.
“This is all your sister’s fault. Your sister and her new little band of bitches.”
Why, Papi? Marco doesn’t like that word. Katia loves us.
His eyes must have said what his mouth couldn’t. He saw his dad’s arm swing back. Something in it. What?
Marco brought his hand to his face. Blood. His blood. His father’s hand on his shoulder. “Can you walk, son? I’m sorry. I didn’t want to. Your sister made me. We have to hide, son. Another storm is coming.”
Marco likes storms. Don’t we like storms, Papi?
“Push the pin in right here, Marco. I put her right here.” His father’s finger on the map and his words don’t match in his head. You didn’t put the storm there, Papi. Why did you put that thing in my neck? Why do you hate Katia? Katia loves us.
He remembered his father’s other hand, the one not on his shoulder, the one not spotted with blood, his blood. The burning from his head shot little electric waves down his arm and into his fingers. The pain made his vision blur. Everything turned black. He wanted to close his eyes, but he knew he shouldn’t. If he held still, he could see a pinpoint of light in the black.
His brain tried to put the pieces together. He didn’t like it here. He wanted the pictures. His pictures. From the toy cameras Dr. Abney gave him. The ones he took after the first time and the ones he took after the last time.
Why did Katia print them? He tried to stop remembering. Rock, Marco. Don’t think about the pictures. About the times in the room. Marco rocked and chanted. But he couldn’t forget.
Slash. Fast. Slash. Fast. Slash fast.
He hit the good side of his head with his palm. Over and over. Smells bad in here. Like the farm. Don’t like the farm. Don’t like the teachers who said learn about animals. No animals at home. Except Frankie. Katia brought home Frankie. Don’t tell. Papi will be mad. Don’t make Papi mad, Katia. Papi doesn’t like bad girls. Bad girls have to be punished. Marco doesn’t like blood. Slash. Fast. No, Papi. Katia isn’t bad. Why did Papi say she is bad? Katia brought Frankie home. Marco petted Frankie. Marco loves Frankie. Frankie loves Marco. Marco is bad. But not bad like Katia. Katia is a bad girl. Papi doesn’t like bad girls.
The pain from the methodical hits of his palm felt good. His body reacted by slowing down. The rocking became less erratic, more soothing. He tried to focus on the outline of the door. “Duck your head, Marco. Do you know why the opening is so small?” His dad told him stories about the door, about the room, about the weather boards, while they sat on the blanket with the bleeding women.
“Before you were born. Before your sister was born. Your mom and I were so in love. She was good then, but I knew. I knew it was possible. So when I built this house, I chose a piece of ground right up against the largest dunes. I planned carefully, worked on this room foot by foot. I placed supports, poured concrete, brought in more sand. It’s soundproof and weatherproof. I wanted it to be bigger, but that would have been a greater risk. Someone would notice the house stuck out here. Twenty-seven years, son. Twenty-seven years and not a single person has stumbled on my room, our room now.”
Marco held still and thought about the cameras. He liked the sound the button made when he pushed, and the way his finger started to move and then stopped just as the click sounded in his ear. Slow and steady, Marco. Push slow and steady. Dr. Abney taught him how to put his eye against the little hole, to feel the button. Gently. Slow. Click.
Marco wanted to tell when he put the camera up to his eye and found the doorknob to the workshop. He wanted to tell when he put the purple and red and white crayons together. Gina’s colors.
Gina loves purple. Marco loves Gina’s purple shoes. Except when they jerk. Blood. Blood from the white skin on the purple shoe. Why were you bad? His breathing started to hurt again, and his eyes filled up with tears.
He wanted to tell when he snuck into Papi’s room and bent way over to see into the box with the camera’s little eye.
He learned about the box after the first bad woman, the one Papi hit in the head because she tried to run away in the garage. She was supposed to stay asleep. “You’re ruining everything,” Papi said to her.
Marco thought she sounded like the dog on the farm. It screamed because Suzi stepped on its foot. Was Suzi bad?
He only opened the door without knocking because he thought it was an animal in the workshop and it was hurt. He was supposed to be sitting still until Katia got home. Seven thirty at the end of the day. Katia comes home. Twenty-four on. Forty-eight off. Sit there, Marco. Nothing for you.
Papi didn’t like him in the workshop during the storms. After the storm, they did the board together. “Don’t go. Don’t. Workshop,” he said into the small, dark room. There are sharp things in the workshop, Marco. His dad’s voice mixed with his own in his head.
He raised his arm to his mouth, bit down on his forearm. Hard. Harder. Blood. My blood. Good. Rock. Bite. My blood. Fast. Slash. Fast Slash. My blood. Not hers. I can smell it. The mattress. Like the farm. Screaming. Like the dog. Frankie. Where is Frankie? Go away, Marco. So noisy. Marco doesn’t like noise. Make her stop screaming. Bite harder. Blood. My blood. He rocked, faster and faster, trying to get his mind away from the blood and the screaming.
Papi was nice after he showed him the room, after they took the woman there, after the blood. They went to his room. His dad spoke slow, quiet. Marco likes quiet.
“Papi keeps treasure in here, son. We can never tell anyone. This is your aunt. She was bad.” She didn’t look bad in the picture in the polished silver frame. She was pretty. Pretty like Gina. But she wasn’t in color. No purple or red in the picture.
“Put the ring in the box, son.” The ring was silver. Like the frame. Like the knife. The knife came back into his head. Papi loves knives. “Look at the glint in the light, son. Isn’t it beautiful?”
The hard, silver edge. Shiny. Papi, why are you pushing so hard? Hard against the side of her white neck. Bad girl. Slash. Fast. Marco rocked.
“Someday you will make the slash, Marco.”
Butterflies. Not good butterflies. Katia gave him good butterflies. Stories of Mami. Of tickling tummies. Good butterflies. He wished his words were better sometimes. But I might tell.
“Don’t tell, Marco. Never tell.”
Bad butterflies
. Bad when the knife slid through the skin, when the blood came out in a line, fast. Slash. Fast. He rocked. Bad butterflies when the scream came out. Bad butterflies when she had good words and then had no words. Bad butterflies when his dad closed his eyes and moaned as he pulled the blonde woman’s head back against his shoulder.
“Did you see that, Marco? Did you feel it?”
Only bad butterflies. And scared. Marco feels scared.
He had never been here without Papi. There was no woman. He thought there would be a woman when Papi took his hand and led him into the workshop, even though there was no storm. They only went to the room when there was a storm.
2-0-0-M-P-H.
Papi shook his head at him, pulled his arm. Asked him why he could say numbers and letters better than words. He didn’t know why. He liked the weather board. Papi smiled when they put dots on the weather board. He hated the room, though. It was past the big weather board.
“Do you remember how to open it, son?”
Papi is proud when Marco opens. Reach way down. Stretch. Finger on the button. Move fast, Marco, or the workbench will scratch you. He liked the way the bench moved when he pushed the secret button. Good butterflies. He wanted to close it and do it again. And close it. Again. Again. Never go in the room. Never go where the bad butterflies live. Too dark. Smelly.
He rocked and chanted, wishing Katia knew his secret. Fast. Slash. Fast. Slash. His tummy was hungry. He wanted a cinnamon roll. He looked around the space lit up only by the yellow bulb. No basket. No woman.
“Sit here, son.” Papi made him sit on the picnic blanket after the blood.
Too many smells. Marco’s tummy didn’t want food after the blood. Eat it, Marco. Papi’s eyes are different. Bad different. Like the bad butterflies. Never tell, Marco. Never tell or we will put Katia here. Katia is a bad girl. Katia’s neck is tan, not white. Papi likes white necks. Fast. Slash. Do you want to do it, Marco? Her eyes. The woman with the white neck has wide eyes. Blue. Like Gina. Like Elizabeth. Like Paige. Marco likes Paige. And Zahra. Marco likes Zahra. Zahra has brown eyes like Katia. Girls are bad. Fast. Rock. Tap. Slash.
