They All Fall Down

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “Oh, no, please no.” Then he started to shriek and wail.

  My own eyes burned with tears. “Let’s think. Let’s … Maybe there’s another phone somewhere.”

  “I can’t die here, Miriam,” he said between sobs. “I can’t—”

  “I’ll be back. I’m gonna search the house.” I ran out of the closet and back into the room of mirrors. I tossed the drawers, searched the nightstand and the two palatial bathrooms with the sunken tubs and the breathtaking views of the sea, searching for something … searching for anything … but finding nothing.

  Don’t give up.

  I dashed out of Wallace’s room, jammed down the hallway past Frank’s room, and burst into Eddie’s lair. That dangerous red and black lacquer décor made my shoulders hunch. Like there were hidden guillotines and ninja stars waiting to decapitate me.

  Eddie’s cargo shorts—all khaki—and his T-shirts—all black—sat ordered in the dresser drawers. His socks—all white—were rolled into balls. His boxers—all light blue—sat in neat squares.

  I slid my hands through the order in search of something … anything … finding nothing but leaving a mess. I tasted sweet mango, blood, and stomach acid, and I screamed like the screamer in the painting that hung over Eddie’s bed. I collapsed at the black glossy desk that overlooked the jungle. Somewhere out there, Eddie lay dead on the ground with a hole in his eye, all because I’d killed him.

  Nauseous, I placed my forehead against the cold slick wood and tried to catch my breath. But I couldn’t catch my breath and my stomach tightened, so I shifted my head to breathe. That’s when I spotted a handheld radio sitting in a dock—Eddie had used one yesterday to reach Raul back on the mainland. But Wallace had tried again with no success. There was another pistol—Javier’s—as well as the chef’s pill case that Eddie had confiscated. I flipped open the top—not much coke left. Eddie had helped himself. I dropped the container back on the desk and stared at that radio.

  Did it still work? Couldn’t hurt to try.

  I grabbed the pistol and the radio, then raced back to my bedroom. I snatched Desi’s scarf from the vanity—it could be a flag to wave—then grabbed Frank’s gold lighter and Javier’s rum-filled flask—tools needed to start a signal fire. My eyes scanned the room and landed on the chaise that I hadn’t relaxed on, the empty armoire that had never held my clothes, and the bed I’d slept in but never peacefully.

  This had been the worst vacation of my life. The thought of leaving a one-star review on a travel website made me crack the thinnest smile. Don’t eat the fish! There are dead people everywhere. Nothing but bad vibes. Nice terrace, though.

  My legs burned as I sprinted out to the hallway. Desi’s scarf, so blue, so long, trailed out behind me like a banner—until it snaked around my left leg and its tail slipped beneath the sole of my shoe. So slippery, that silk scarf, and right before I reached the staircase landing, I slipped and crashed to my knees, thisclose to tumbling down the steps. The radio, flask, and lighter flew out of my hands and my chin banged against the floor so hard that I saw stars. I waggled my head to clear my vision, but there was no time to think about the pain zigzagging around my face. I wrapped the long scarf around my wrist, told myself to be careful, to not trip again, pulled myself to my feet, then grabbed the radio, flask, and lighter. I tapped the small of my back—the gun was still there and it hadn’t gone off.

  Down in the foyer, I slowed some just to glare at the table of seven sins and three of the remaining game pieces—envy, pride, and anger. Fuck you, I’m not dying today. I’d return with a lit twig and burn it—and Artemis—down to the ground, forever and ever, amen. Now, though …

  I rushed out the front door, not noticing the pretty lilac flowers on the dogwoods or the lime-green butterflies or anything.

  Maybe there’s something useful in the boathouse.

  I raced down the jagged path back to the dock and burst into the tiny hut that smelled of rotting wood and seawater. I swiped my brow with Desi’s scarf as I looked around the little room. Bare. Not a rock, not a rusted tin can, not one thing existed between those four pitiful walls.

  I was out of breath by the time I reached the windswept bluff where Desi and Frank had stood once upon a time. So loud with the waves crashing over the rocks, with the seabirds crying out. Every time a large wave hit the land, the ground vibrated beneath my feet. I didn’t fear slipping off, though, because I’d stood on bluffs like these before. Rancho Palos Verde. San Pedro. Malibu. Big Sur. I was a child of Southern California, land of fire, earthquakes, and bluffs carved by the Pacific Ocean. I knew cliffs and just how far to go.

  I wiped my sweaty forehead with the damp scarf again, then powered on the handheld radio I’d found in Eddie’s room.

  There was a crackle and a burst of static.

  I mashed the key on the radio’s side, then said, “Hello? Anybody there?”

  White noise.

  I twisted a knob and switched channels. Static again, but not as much as before. “Hello?”

  No answer.

  I glanced at the enormous sky, so blue and so forever. You’re out there. Hear me. Please.

  I keyed the radio again. “Hello? Please. Someone?”

  Fizzfuzztchetttshhee …

  Out there! Way out there! Something man-made was racing across the sea.

  Fire! They’d come closer to the island if they spotted fire!

  I scrambled around the bluff and the edges of the jungle to collect leaves and branches. The heap came to my knees. Frank’s Cartier lighter was filled with lighter fluid and the sky was dry. Good. I sprinkled rum on the pile, then selected a branch. Held the lighter to it until the twig caught flame. Then I held the lit twig to the rum-soaked pile. Fire flickered here … fire flickered there … and soon all of the heap burned bright, and soon after that the fire grew and black smoke billowed in the thick air.

  Bravo, Mom! You go, Miriam!

  I smiled and hopped with glee. Then I gathered more brush to keep the flames alive.

  How long had I been standing there?

  What was Wallace doing right now?

  Was there food in his hidey-hole? Was there water? An emergency toilet?

  Way down there, the foamy water churned, and the tops of the rocks were barely visible.

  Way out there, the boat had changed direction and …

  Is it coming this way?

  Yes, it was! White foam trailed behind the boat.

  I whispered a prayer of thanks, then stepped closer to the cliff’s jagged edge. The boat was far out but still charging toward me. I glanced at my phone—ten minutes to nine o’clock—then glanced ahead at the dusty orange moon rising over Mexico, then glanced back at the setting sun and at the mellowing sky of golds, reds, and purples. A perfect sunset. A perfect moonrise. Darkness was coming—the fire would burn brighter in the dark.

  That last email from A. Nansi—Phillip Omeke in real life—told me that there would be times I’d cry and times I’d celebrate. Which time was this, since I was now doing both?

  The wind bit at my face but the fire kept me warm. I unraveled Desi’s long blue scarf in the air, another signal, and I hollered, “Help!”—not for the people in the boat to hear but as cathartic release.

  Could they see the fire? Could they see the scarf? Could they see me?

  I yelled, “Help! Help!” until my throat grew raw. I jumped. I screamed. My arms tired, and I dropped them to my side. Distressed, I rubbed the edge of the scarf between my fingers.

  Doubt had set in—doubt always set in.

  That was a boat, right? Not a mirage? Or was that a whale breaching the surface? A sailfish like the ones that had accompanied us as we sailed over on Friday afternoon?

  I waved Desi’s long scarf again, although a bit unsure now. I jumped. I screamed. Even if I was hailing a watery phantom or a sea creature, it still felt so productive. With the scarf trailing behind me, I ran back to the edge of the jungle for more wood. Bigger fire—I needed bigge
r fire! After dumping the wood onto the blaze, I ran back over to the cliff—

  Just like it had in the hallway, the tail of Desi’s long scarf slipped beneath the sole of my sneaker. And just like I had in the hallway, I stumbled forward. This time, though, I caught myself before falling to my knees, but I was still moving fast, still moving forward because of the silk scarf beneath one shoe and because of the pebbles and loose dirt beneath the other shoe and because my exhausted limbs and my exhausted mind had been beaten up over the last three days and couldn’t work together to successfully upright my body before—

  Too late. My forward momentum launched me off the cliff, and the hard ground disappeared, and I hung in midair.

  I screamed, “Ahh!” as my mind screamed, No!

  I had slipped, I had fallen, I was falling.

  Shit.

  I twisted my body until I saw the sky and the black smoke and the swirling ashes …

  No.

  No!

  Why is this happening?

  Stop this from happening.

  Desi’s scarf. That fucking scarf. I had slipped on that—please, God, help—!

  The crash into the sea came and the world turned white and every nerve in my body shrieked. And then the world and the pain faded and I felt nothing. No hurt. No fear. I tasted copper and salt and teeth. Waves crashed over me, and water filled my eyes and mouth. But I broke through to the surface and saw sky again. And I saw that fat, dusty moon. And the fire, I saw that, too. And I floated on my back as pain and numbness fought over me.

  As I floated, I thought about Prudence McAllister, how she had stood over me on Thursday night, how foamy spit had gathered in the corners of her mouth. Her last words to me … What had been her last words to me?

  Couldn’t think. It hurt to breathe. Like … it was like … every bone in my body had broken and now, every bone in my body had filled my lungs.

  The sweatshirt. I’d promised Morgan that I’d bring her a sweatshirt. There’d be enough time to buy it at the airport or …

  Pain burst around my heart and my arms numbed.

  This is it.

  I’m almost there.

  Wallace will have to find his own way home.

  35

  The blue scarf caressed my ear as it dipped beneath my head and pulled me down into the water.

  It wanted to kill me.

  I could have let the scarf go, but I’d won it. It was mine.

  I was alone, drifting in the warm waters of the Sea of Cortez, floating on my back. Numb. My arms and legs felt so far away …

  It was the first time this week I was truly resting. The first time ever that I’d floated in the ocean.

  So many firsts.

  My cracked lips parted. “I don’t like it here.”

  Jagged rocks poked through my T-shirt and scraped the skin on my back. Salt water dribbled into my mouth, and I swallowed it, knowing that I wouldn’t die from thirst. Not tonight. The sea tasted alive, tasted like tears. Morgan’s tears. She had cried so many times, and I’d held her, wanting to cry, too, wanting to cry now, but no, I didn’t. I wouldn’t. Crying would be admitting that they were right. Crying would frighten me into accepting the hurt. I didn’t feel hurt. No, not at all. I had to resist. Resistance was like the coral now scraping against my back and my arms and my neck. Resistance hurt. Resistance protected.

  I blinked—salt water was burning my eyes.

  The big sky had darkened into oranges and purples, juices and bruises, dragons and sunsets.

  Pretty. So pretty.

  I should’ve climbed out. Should’ve swum to the shore to join the others back at the house. If I stayed in the ocean, though, I’d still … join the others back at the house, just meeting up on the other side. No difference. Not now. Not anymore.

  A wave crashed over me. Pain burst and banged near my eyes. The world brightened, and I winced, and then the bright world spun. Dizzy, I closed my eyes.

  Morgan, swaddled in her nursery blanket, smelled of sunshine and love.

  Mother held my shoulders, so proud of me, then tapped the honor society pin on my collar.

  Daddy had stopped running beside me as wind stung my face, as the spokes on my bicycle’s wheels click-click-clicked as I rode faster and faster down Duncan Avenue.

  Bright light shone above me and made me close my eyes. Desi’s scarf wrapped tighter around my wrist, pulling me down as something behind my heart slipped past my ribs, through my skin, and drifted toward the light.

  There she stood, way up on the cliff, prettier than the sky. Her dark hair blew across her face. Those dark welts on her neck looked like tattoos. She’d torn a hole through a pair of pink tights. Had slipped them over her head and slipped her arms through the legs. Ballerina forever. There she stood, the fairest of them all, way up there, looking way down here at me. Always looking down …

  The edges of my vision brightened and my lungs pinched my chest.

  “I’ll see you in hell,” I whispered to the girl.

  And there, you and I will meet the Devil together.

  Excerpted from the Los Angeles Times

  Wednesday, February 11

  NO FELONY CHARGES FOR MOTHER IN BULLYING CASE

  A Los Angeles mother on trial for cyberbullying a 17-year-old girl who later committed suicide was convicted Thursday of misdemeanor computer charges. The jury convicted 46-year-old Miriam Macy of accessing computers without authorization, punishable by up to one year in prison and a $100,000 fine.

  Prosecutors alleged that Macy’s taunts over social media, followed by a package containing silk scarves fashioned into what prosecutors claim was a noose, led the teen girl to end her life.

  “She’s an evil woman,” said Phoebe McAllister, the girl’s mother. “She went too far. Who was the adult?” When asked about allegations of bullying by her own daughter, McAllister claims it was all a misunderstanding. “Girls are, by definition, awful to each other. Brooke meant no harm when she painted that swastika on Morgan’s locker. And anyway, Morgan’s black. Swastikas shouldn’t mean anything to a black family. Some of our closest friends are black.”

  Earlier, prosecutors sought to charge Macy with murder. “The girl died because of [Macy’s] actions,” argues Fatima Eggleston, who prosecuted the case. “So, no, I’m not satisfied with the jury’s decision.” Eggleston also alleges that Macy posted unflattering pictures of Brooke across social media. She also emailed potential universities and colleges several pictures and screenshots of Brooke wearing White Power regalia, writing the n-word on lockers and leaving frog stickers that are symbols of the “alt-right” on desks. Eggleston points to Nazi materials that were found in Macy’s car. “She planted a lot of these things to fan the flames.”

  “Morgan Macy was a victim of terrorism,” defense attorney Phillip Omeke states. “While [Miriam’s] approach makes us uncomfortable, she did what many parents would do—protect her daughter at all costs. The [materials] recovered from Miriam’s car are totally irrelevant. There is proof that Brooke McAllister engaged in despicable, white supremacist behavior. I am proud of Miriam’s devotion to her family and applaud her bravery. I’m satisfied with the court’s rejection of a murder charge.”

  “Brooke was a child,” Eggleston states. “We’ve all made mistakes in our youth. Mrs. Macy humiliated a minor and she should be punished for it. That’s why the family will proceed with their civil case.” Attorneys also alleged that Macy had associates assault Brooke in a shopping mall parking lot during the busy holiday season. Bystanders reported that the unknown assailants kicked Brooke in the head and shouted, “This is for Morgan, [expletive].” There are uncorroborated reports that Macy drove the car the assailants used to escape. Macy denies her involvement.

  Phoebe McAllister recalls the afternoon her daughter died. “I just had this awful feeling that she was past her regular depression. I don’t know, call it mother’s intuition. And then my oldest daughter, Prudence, called me and said, ‘Bebe’s on her account, live,
and she says she’s gonna do it.’ And she did do it, right in front of the world.”

  “I believe Miriam Macy,” one juror who requested to remain anonymous stated. “Brooke was a white supremacist in the making. She dished it out but couldn’t take it. Yes, Miriam should’ve handled it another way and she should be punished for that, but to send her to jail for murder? That’s ludicrous.”

  McAllister’s older sister Prudence disagrees. “Brooke wasn’t perfect, but Miriam is evil. She may have avoided getting locked up, but this isn’t over. I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but she’ll get hers in the end.”

  EPILOGUE

  Raul Molinero said nothing as he pulled the woman onto La Charon’s deck.

  Andreas climbed out from the sea. He glanced back at Mictlan Island, at the fire burning so bright in the night sky. “Is she alive?” Andreas asked as he clicked off the boat’s bright searchlight. “She’s broken up really bad. And the fish got to her a little.”

  The older man shone a penlight in the woman’s bloody right eye, then her bloody left eye. He moved his wet hand over his mouth, then shook his head. “Ella esta muerta.”

  Andreas sat with his back against the couch and stared at the lifeless body. “We should’ve come sooner.”

  Raul grunted.

  “Think anyone else is alive?” Andreas asked, nodding back at the island.

  Raul thought about Mictlan Island’s secret past for a moment. The truth and the rumors. And how the rumors were truth. He thought about all the bad things that had happened on that piece of land since Felix Escorpion’s drug operations had been halted, since the famous attorney Philip Omeke had completed construction of Artemis a year ago. He thought of the time before that, about the bodies Escorpion had buried all over the island, beneath those twisted banyan trees. He thought of all the people—before they later became bodies—he had ferried over to meet their end without hesitation. He’d done it to please his boss. To settle scores. To stay aboveground.