They All Fall Down

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “I won’t.” Despite his assurances, though, the pistol felt weak in my hands. It felt hollow. Made from beer cans and beer tabs and store-brand aluminum foil, held together by Scotch tape and two jumbo paper clips.

  “You shoot a piece before?” Eddie asked.

  Ripley now hid beneath my pillow at home in Los Angeles after helping me scare Prudence McAllister and then joining me at Billy’s back on Thursday night. “I have a twenty-two at home. I go to the range a few times a month.”

  “Good,” he said. “So you won’t freeze up when you have to pull the trigger.”

  When I have to pull…?

  I said, “I don’t freeze,” even though I didn’t trust this peashooter to shoot anyone except me.

  Eddie hurried down the hallway and down the stairs in search of a signal.

  “I guess you’re allies now,” Wallace said.

  I slipped the gun into my back pocket. “The enemy of my enemy and whatnot. So, have you heard from Raul or Andreas or anybody back at port?”

  He shook his head. “They should be en route, even as Edward insists on trying to contact the authorities. A waste of time—we’re already scheduled to head back tonight, and it wasn’t like Raul planned to drop people off, head back to the mainland, then turn around and come right back again this evening.”

  I blinked. “So … he’s gonna stay docked?”

  “Of course,” Wallace said.

  My heart sank—there was no chance to escape Mictlan Island before tonight.

  “You look troubled,” Wallace said. “Bad allergy attack again?”

  My head lolled on my shoulders. “I just can’t believe this is happening. I’m just … I’m so sorry, Wallace. Phillip deserved a quiet weekend.”

  Wallace ran his fingers up and down his arm. “He worked so hard, never asked for much. And I couldn’t even do this right.” He squeezed his eyes shut, then tried to take a deep breath. “I’m going to lie down now. I have to at least pretend to be rested and relaxed before Seth and Drew and Leigh Anne and the others arrive. I’m a mess, the house is a mess, and two of my guests are dead. I hate all of you.”

  “And I hate you, too, Wallace. With all of my heart.” I tried to smile to show him that I was kidding.

  “Ha ha.” But then his face turned the color of persimmon—anger combined with jaundice. “Don’t come bothering me unless something crazy happens. Again.” Then he shuffled across the hallway, touching the wall every now and then for stability, to ensure that he was still here, that this was not a dream.

  The heaviness of exhaustion pulled at my eyelids, and my bottom half felt like it had been dunked and dried in concrete. I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since … since … July 2015. It had been a Saturday. Nothing special. Just quiet. I’d sat in my backyard with its view of Los Angeles, a glass of red wine in one hand and in the other hand a big book about a blind French girl during World War II. That had been a good night.

  Besides being tired, my full bladder jiggled every time I blinked. I needed to pee, like, immediately. But Eddie was counting on me to stand guard.

  I think you’re good shit.

  I rested my ear against Frank’s door.

  Silence.

  What was he doing? Sleeping? Reading a novel? Planning his escape? Praying? Remembering? If Wallace kicked him off Mictlan Island right now, would he still get whatever Phillip had left him? Were all bets off now that he’d killed Desi?

  I really, really needed to go.

  My bathroom was just down the stairs. I wouldn’t take long.

  I’ll go and come right back.

  What could possibly happen in three minutes?

  Toast burns. Pregnancy test results come back. Frank escapes. But Frank had to know that if he tried to escape, Eddie would catch him. Then Eddie would hang him from the highest tree.

  Because Eddie was the hanging kind.

  Oh, well. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

  Sunlight filled the downstairs bathroom, and the CPK-style tile work shone like glass. It was quiet in here and I could exist without being afraid of anything or anyone. Still, though, my head and heart ached like someone had kicked both with steel-toed boots, then poured acid into my ears. My entire body worried about the craziness on Mictlan Island. Two people had died in two days—and I had just been deputized to guard a murderer.

  Me.

  I was a mom. I hadn’t gone to school for this. I wrote copy for used things and made notes like STET and CALIBRI/NOT CAMBRIA and INSERT ℠ HERE. KPIs and calls to action were my jam. This—guarding murderers—was not my kind of call to action.

  And what the hell was I gonna do with a clearance-rack gun? It looked even flimsier sitting on the sink. Really: the liquid soap dispenser, with its stainless steel body, pointy spout, and slipperiness, looked deadlier than Eddie’s gun.

  I hated this place. I hated this place even though the sky beyond the bathroom’s windows was a perfect blue and the waters were clear and soft and filled with God’s most exotic creatures. I would have preferred Los Angeles, too hot and too loud and too crowded with its thundering airplanes and jammed freeways and police chases every third day. Other than the coyotes, the high pollen count, and the wildfires, there was no god in L.A.’s wilderness, not with its planned trails and decent cell phone reception. No one would die from eating fish in my hometown. Sure, lovers killed each other—like Frank had killed Desi—but at least there were cops to call, a few with itchy trigger fingers who sometimes ached to handle the problem right there at the scene. At least you weren’t trapped on an island in a house with two dead people and a murderer afoot. At least.

  Why couldn’t Ashlee be here on Mictlan Island and I be happy at home with my husband and my daughter? I could almost taste that happiness—it was heavy, rich, thick like maple syrup. I’d tasted it before, not realizing that it was a rare and wonderful gift.

  Beyond the bathroom’s closed door, I heard Wallace whisper to Eddie, “Easy … Easy … Be gentle with her.”

  The two men were moving Desi. Guess Eddie had caught Wallace before he’d settled down for his nap.

  I took my time in washing my hands and avoided looking at myself in the mirror. I feared that I wouldn’t recognize my reflection if I did look—Artemis had changed me that much in just two days.

  But I couldn’t stay here forever.

  I left the bathroom and hurried toward the staircase before Eddie spotted me away from my post. As I neared the foyer, I glanced at the Bosch table.

  Oh, crap.

  Because now I saw.

  Two pieces were missing from the tabletop: the naked woman and the man eating cake. I counted the figurines. Five pieces left. On Friday night, there had been seven. With a shaky hand, I reached for the green eye figurine, but I stopped short just in case it was cursed. So I stared at the table a moment more, then carefully made my way up the stairs.

  Who had taken the figurines?

  Back up on the second floor, nothing had changed.

  Eddie and Wallace were probably still in the freezer, placing Desi beside Javier and the other slabs of frozen meat.

  Frank’s door was still closed.

  I placed my ear against the wood to hear, then knocked. “You still in there?”

  “Where else would I go?” Frank snapped.

  I plucked the gun from my pocket, then slid against the wall to land on the carpet. I stared at the toes of my muddy sneakers, then up at a ceiling free of cracks, bumps, and water spots. My wrist, the one Prudence McAllister had kicked way back on Thursday night, was starting to ache again. I hugged my knees to my chest and let out a long, loud sigh. This day … This year …

  * * *

  “Miriam.” Someone touched my shoulder.

  I heard myself snoring and jerked my head up from my knees. I had fallen asleep, and the gun had slipped out of my hand to the carpet.

  Wallace was crouched before me, and his violet eyes bore into mine. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.” He he
ld out a sandwich and potato chips on a plate and a glass of iced tea. “I know you didn’t get to enjoy my fabulous frittata—there will never be another one like it. So I made you this instead.”

  I stared at him, then I stared at the sandwich: a lobster roll made from last night’s forgotten entrée. “You sprinkle it with extra poison?”

  He winked at me, then said, “Of course, I did. It’s to die for.”

  I took his offering, happy that he was smiling again. “Thank you. Hopefully, death by sandwich will be quick.” Wallace had been right: being a bitch was exhausting. And actually, I thought Wallace was pretty funny. And Phillip had liked him, loved him, so he couldn’t have been that bad.

  After taking two big bites, my body took on solidity again. “Desi?” I asked, my mouth full. I offered for him to share my potato chips.

  He took a chip and crunched it. “Desi’s with Javier. Poor, poor thing.” He helped himself to another potato chip.

  “Why do you think Frank killed her?”

  Wallace shrugged. “Maybe it was accidental. Maybe their game went too far. I’ve read about unfortunate instances like that, instances where sex gets away from you.”

  I said, “I guess,” because I hadn’t experienced uncontrolled, dangerous coupling, not ever. “So … the table downstairs. Have you noticed…?”

  “Noticed … what?”

  “Some of the pieces are missing.”

  He peered at me, then laughed. “Oh, Miriam. And we were getting along so well.”

  “And why would I mess that up by lying?”

  Wallace shook his head. He tried to wear a serious face, but the corners of his mouth lifted. Like me, he couldn’t help himself from winning the point. “I apologize, sweetheart. So. Missing pieces.”

  “Yes, missing,” I said calmly. “The gluttony and lust figurines. I’d noticed gluttony earlier and just now, I noticed Desi’s piece. It’s gone.”

  This time, Wallace frowned, and his eyes lost some of that sparkle. “Who took them?”

  I shrugged, then bit into my sandwich.

  “Did you?”

  “No,” I said, my mouth full. “I didn’t.”

  He grunted and looked down the hallway toward the staircase.

  I added, “I’m confused about something else, too.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Just about one thing?”

  “Okay, I’m confused about a lot of things. Like you and Phillip.”

  He grinned at me. “You didn’t know that Phillip was gay, either?”

  I shook my head. “He never mentioned … you. And he and I … He and I…”

  “Flirted?”

  “All the time.” Well …

  “He flirted with everyone, dear. That’s how he got people to trust him. Believe me, it was all an act. He didn’t mean it.” He squinted at me. “I take that back. If he’d meant it, if you had truly mattered to him, then it’s not for me to dash your dreams. Just know, though … he was trained to mislead. Trained to be a listener, to understand. I was lucky that we found each other, and that we chose each other in this awful world.”

  He propped his chin on his knee and smiled wistfully. “Phillip and I both craved a connection, craved being together forever. To be the couple everyone says they don’t want to be but secretly, they do want the house, the dog, the wedding bands … We were so close to that—no dog, but everything else … and now that he’s gone, I feel…” He stared at the carpet as his mind searched for the word. “I feel … undressed … half done. Doesn’t help that I haven’t had a moment to mourn him properly, to give him the send-off he deserves.” He plucked another potato chip from my plate. “Feel free to break into ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ at any time.”

  I swiped at a tear that had tumbled down my cheek, then warbled, “Did you ever know that you’re my hero…?”

  He gave me a sad smile, then said, “Lovely.”

  I dabbed at my eyes with a knuckle. “Whatever happened between Phillip and me … I didn’t know he was involved because I would’ve never … I’m sorry.” Not that we’d slept together. Yet. There had always been the possibility, I’d thought, and if we’d had more time, maybe we would’ve. No. Yes—we would’ve fallen into bed together. I knew that for sure.

  “Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Wallace said.

  “Like what you said about Eddie killing someone? When?”

  “When he was a police officer back in Boston.”

  My jaw dropped. “Is he the cop who shot the kid who was holding a cell phone?”

  “No. He wasn’t that one.”

  “The mom, she was coming home from prayer meeting with her son in the car and the cop—?”

  “No,” Wallace said, shaking his head. “The black motorist…”

  I blinked at him. “Be more specific.”

  “One night, Edward pulled over a black motorist for a traffic violation. That’s what Eddie says, of course. The situation spiraled out of control, as it always does. Eddie shot first and killed the man right there on the sidewalk.”

  “Again,” I said, face warming, “be more specific.”

  “Edward claimed the guy had an Uzi, but the guy didn’t. And then Edward was acquitted of murder—”

  I gasped. “And the people rioted. Orlando Jackson. He was a high school football coach, and—Eddie’s that cop? I’m on an island in the middle of the ocean with that cop? Wait—there was a woman, right?”

  Wallace nodded. “Orlando Jackson was dating Eddie’s ex-girlfriend. Charlotte had just broken up with Edward, so Edward hunted Jackson down, found him, and the rest is history.”

  My pulse thudded in my head. “And where is Charlotte?”

  Wallace studied his fingernails. “Edward won’t say. Well … he says he has no idea, but you know how those types are. She’s in the bottom of the Boston Harbor or divided between twenty trash bags dumped in twenty different landfills.” He nodded at the door. “I don’t know what Phillip was thinking, bringing Trey here. But then, Phillip did invite five of his most awful clients, so why not?”

  Anger burst like lava in my gut. “I was not an awful client. I did everything he told me to. Do not put me in the same category as Eddie’s racist ass.”

  He chuckled. “We obviously have different definitions of ‘awful.’”

  “Phillip agreed with me—Brooke McAllister had it coming. I didn’t hunt anyone down.”

  “True. Still: your approach, my dear. Phillip told me all that you’d done, and to be frank, you were just … mean.”

  I tossed him a glare. “But it was okay for her to bully my daughter until Morgan developed depression and bulimia? Brooke was no Girl Scout—she lied to Morgan, stole her part in the recital. She—”

  “Why are you always looking at what someone else did and not what you’ve done?”

  “Was Brooke’s behavior acceptable? Should I have let fate handle it as my daughter was dying? Was I supposed to turn the other cheek?”

  “Again, being honest?” Wallace said. “I admire you sticking up for your child—especially since the teachers weren’t doing anything. The social media campaign thing you pulled, though? A little over the top.”

  The lobster roll sat in my gut like an anchor. “I didn’t think … I … I didn’t mean…” A sob burst from my gut, and I tried to contain it by clamping my hand over my mouth. But it couldn’t stay contained, and I wept there on the carpet as the old man next to me watched.

  “You’re crying,” Wallace said, “and yet Philip successfully got you off on a misdemeanor and made the McAllisters look like the stupid bigots they were for trying to put you in jail. That’s what you wanted, right? Freedom?”

  I nodded. “But-but pee-pee-people ha-hate me.”

  “It’s their right to hate you,” Wallace said. “You can’t take it back now, Miriam. It’s done. You’re free. Last I’d heard, Morgan hated you. But at least she can hate you to your face and not behind prison bars.” He tapped my wrist. “Go rest—you need it f
or when the others arrive. I’ll watch our friend Trey for now.”

  “But Eddie—”

  “Is busy trying to make that damned phone of his work.”

  I blew my nose into the napkin that he’d included with my sandwich, then dried my tear-soaked face. “Are you still planning on going through with the service today?”

  He shrugged. “Hopefully—don’t despair, though. You’ll get your prize right after his ashes catch the wind and drift away.”

  “You actually have him?” I asked.

  “Of course. I carried his urn over in my tote bag. It’s gorgeous. Or as Desi would say: Gor. Jus. The color of fire. I saw it and had to have it. I chose a matching blue one for me—icy blue—for when it’s my time to shuffle off this mortal coil.”

  Wallace’s tote bag. The one he hadn’t moved for me back in Puerto Peñasco. And now that I replayed that scene in my mind, I saw that Desi had taken the seat on Wallace’s right side. The bag with the urn hadn’t moved from that chair on his left.

  “So,” he said as he stood, “go, dear. Have some quiet time. I’ll take your dishes back down to the kitchen.”

  I sighed, then shook my head. “I came here because I wanted to show the world … to show them that I’m not a monster. That I do have a heart. That none of this has been easy for me.”

  He tossed me a small smile. “And now that I know you, I truly believe that. You’re a momma bear who was just swiping at a Nazi-wolf. And once this is all over, once we’re back in the good ol’ USA, I’ll help you show the world that you deserve forgiveness. You remind me of me in many ways. Misunderstood. Cast as the villain before you even open your mouth. And from what you’re telling me, Phillip had a soft spot in his heart for you.

  “Tell you what, doll. You help me get through this memorial—keep people from wandering into the freezer and the rest of my guests from dying, and I’ll introduce you to some people I know—people who owe me. They will do as I ask because they were you once upon a time, and I will tell them to re-create you. In the end, you will be forever grateful to me—that’s your payment, and whenever I need a favor, you’ll say, ‘Certainly, Wallace,’ because I’ll be funding your resurrection. Good old-fashioned quid pro quo.”