Cricket Hunters

by Jeremy Hepler

  No response. No movement. Just the breathing.

  Parker’s voice grew stronger, louder. “Who are you? Huh? Who are you? What do you want?”

  The person released a barely audible, airy chuckle, then turned and calmly headed back up the stairs.

  “Hey! Hey! Come back here!” Parker stretched as far forward as he could, balancing on his left foot and holding his chained leg in the air parallel with the floor, watching the top of the staircase as the giant cellar door squeaked and lowered. “Hey! Wait!”

  A moment later, the overhead light buzzed back on, and Parker squinted and aimed his eyes downward. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, the sound of furniture sliding across the floor and heavy objects being dropped on the cellar door filled his ears again. He sat on the foot of the mattress and angrily eyed the cellar door for a long while after the noises ceased.

  Eventually, he crossed his legs and sat up straight, put his hands on his thighs, and started Dr. Gordon’s calm breathing method again. He needed to slow his heart down again. He needed to think rationally, without fear or anger. If the stranger had wanted him dead, he would be dead. They’d left him water. Left him a bucket to piss in. And they’d come down to what…check and see if he’d survived the head blow? Taunt him? Frighten him? Intimidate him? They hadn’t said a word, this time anyway. But surely they wanted something from him. He had no doubts that sooner or later he’d find out what. For now, he was trapped, helpless, like when he’d gotten lost in Carlsbad Caverns as a Cub Scout and had to endure two days of pitch black horror before being rescued. He needed to remain calm and conserve his energy. Wait for an opportunity.

  He continued taking measured breaths until he could no longer feel his heart pounding into the backside of his sternum and his hands stopped trembling. The back of his head still throbbing, he gently lay back and laced his hands behind his head. He gazed up at the ceiling as though he could see beyond the pale cement, wishing he hadn’t gone to Hunter’s Haven. Wishing he hadn’t chased the girl. Wishing he had some Tylenol.

  Wishing he had a book.

  He closed his eyes and pictured himself standing in the closet in his computer room, sifting through the hundreds of paperbacks stacked on the shelves. He pictured himself finding Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card, a book he’d read countless times as a teen and written a book report over in college. He imagined opening it up, flipping to the first chapter, and sniffing the crevice. In his mind’s eye, he could see the words on the first page as clear as day, and he began reading.

  Chapter 13 - Cel

  Cel assured and reassured herself the crickets must’ve come up through the rusty, cast iron drainage pipes. She’d found about ten more in the hall bathroom sink and tub, ten or so more in her own sink and tub. Yes, there must’ve been a temporary mainline backup in the area in the middle of the night, or a neighbor must’ve dumped insecticide or some other caustic chemical down a drain, forcing them her way. It was silly to think they’d come for her, that someone had sent them. She had no enemies like Maria. She didn’t even know any witch other than her abuela. The crickets were, as always, a reminder of the past, a dark stint, a coincidence, a nuisance, nothing more.

  She made short work of slaughtering the crickets, smashing them with a chancla and tossing them outside for the birds. By the time she texted Parker again, fed Mila, showered, and returned to the kitchen to warm her tea and take a shot of wheatgrass, the clock on the microwave read five minutes after eight. Five minutes after the first bell at Oak Mott Middle School had chimed.

  Cel considered driving to the school to see if Parker had arrived but decided a call would answer the question quicker. She knew Patty Hendrix, the office secretary with fire-red hair and an equally fiery voice, and her husband Charles fairly well. They’d both grown up in Oak Mott, and Cel and Parker had sat next to them and their kids at the Baxter wedding two summers back. Cel took a deep, hopeful breath and found the school’s number on her cell. Patty answered on the third ring.

  “Oak Mott Middle School.”

  “Hi, Patty. It’s Cel, Parker’s wife.”

  “Oh, hi. Is Parker okay? Is he sick?”

  Patty’s questions seized Cel by the throat and told her all she needed to know. Parker hadn’t shown up for work. Or called in. Cel struggled to put together a complete, coherent sentence and push it out of her mouth. The words and syllables floating around inside her head somehow seemed too thick and heavy to move. She had no idea if her husband was okay, or sick, or even alive.

  “Cel? Hello? Are you there?”

  Cel hung up. She stood motionless, staring out the window above the kitchen sink. When her phone rang and she saw the school’s number, she silenced the call, hustled to her bedroom, slipped on shoes, pulled her hair up into a tight ponytail, grabbed her Envoy keys, and left. She had delayed going to the Lundy’s house long enough. Parker may not want to talk to her, but if he’d contacted anyone about his whereabouts, he’d contacted Beverly or Jennifer. And they would have a harder time lying to her face than over the phone if he’d asked them to not divulge his location.

  She drove by the middle school on her way to Clifton Heights, the upper class neighborhood on the northwestern side of town where Parker’s mom and sister lived, and found what she’d expected. No red Camry in the parking lot. Lauren’s yellow Jeep was there, though, which served as a modicum of relief. Little Miss Mentee probably had no idea why Parker hadn’t shown up for work, either.

  Cel parked curbside in front of the two-story brick home, checked her appearance in the rearview mirror, and headed for the front door.

  The Lundys had purchased the thirty-five-hundred-square-foot monstrosity and moved from Gateway to Clifton not long after a law settlement handed Beverly a million dollars ten years earlier. Beverly’s mini-van had been T-boned on the driver’s side at the intersection of Main and 10th by an Oak Mott City Maintenance truck. The driver, a broom-handle-thin man named Benny Jameson, was seventy-six years old, almost legally blind, and drunk out of his gourd at ten that morning. He had somehow managed to buckle his seatbelt, though, and thanks to that and a functioning airbag, he suffered only minor injuries. Beverly, on the other hand, sustained a broken left hip and leg, damaged spine, ruptured small intestine, and a brain bleed. She spent three months in Oak Mott Memorial Hospital, one third of that time in a coma, and received the settlement two years later.

  Cel walked between Jennifer’s Audi and Beverly’s Durango which sat nose to nose in the half-circle driveway. Had Parker been with her, they would’ve just walked inside and yelled, “Hello.” But since she was alone, she rang the doorbell.

  Jennifer opened the door a few seconds later. The younger, spitting image of her mom, Jennifer had a round face, calves and ankles as thick as young trees, and carried a tractor tire of blubber around her waist. Her thick bangs hung down to her eyebrows, and her gray sweat suit displayed more than one stain. As the eldest daughter, and because she’d never married or had children like her younger sister Jill, she’d volunteered to quit her job at an Austin Public Library and move back to Oak Mott after Beverly’s accident. She’d lived in her parents’ house ever since, her bedroom the largest spare upstairs. Other than reading paperback romance novels and watching Lifetime, her mom’s care was her sole purpose. She looked annoyed to see Cel. “Hey, Cel. Come in.”

  Cel followed Jennifer past the staircase and into the living room. Beverly sat in a lift chair in the center of the room opposite a sixty-inch flat screen mounted to the wall, watching a Golden Girls rerun. Her pink cane was propped against the side of the chair. A hodge-podge of family pictures covered the wall above a leather couch on Beverly’s left. To her right, on the other side of an end table housing a glass lamp and a cup of sweet tea with a straw, was a dingy recliner, the seat permanently hollowed into the shape of Jennifer’s backside.

  Beverly flashed a half-hearted smile but stayed silent as Cel greeted her, gave her a cordial hug, and sat down on the couch. The cof
fee table in front of Cel was littered with prescription bottles, magazines, and opened mail.

  Jennifer plopped down in her recliner and started scrolling on her cell phone. “So, what’s up?” She sounded unenthused, her face as inexpressive as a rubber mask.

  “I just wanted to know if you’ve talked to Parker lately.”

  Beverly glanced at Cel, then moved her attention back to the TV. Jennifer didn’t look up, continued scrolling. “About what?”

  Cel repositioned herself on the couch, unconsciously shifting into a defensive position, as if minimizing her surface area in preparation for an attack. She leaned forward, closed her knees, and placed her hands in her lap, her elbows tight against her side. She knew that if they truly hadn’t communicated with Parker, they would launch a verbal attack when she revealed how he hadn’t returned home the previous night or shown up for work this morning. They would blame her. They always did. The Lundys, especially Beverly and Jennifer, had made their disapproval of Cel known from early on in the relationship. They had tried to convince Parker not to marry her, claiming she only wanted to marry him because “she came from a family of illegals and probably needed a green card.” Which was as true as an innocent seven in the morning phone call or text from a beautiful mentee. Cel had been born in McAllen, Texas, on December 21, 1984, while her mom was there visiting friends, and Parker had shown them a birth certificate to prove it. They also claimed to “know” Cel’s abuela, and all about her “dark beliefs,” but in reality, they had talked to Yesenia less than a handful of times over the years. What they knew were rumors, the same rumors everyone in Oak Mott knew. On more than one occasion, Beverly had even made off-handed comments in front of Cel about Yesenia’s “wacky voodoo and witchcraft” ways.

  Cel fidgeted with her car keys as she told them how Parker hadn’t come home the previous night or shown up at work this morning. When she finished, she finally had their full attention. Beverly’s head snapped her direction, her right eye rapt with fierce focus, the left, the one that had been damaged and temporarily dislodged in the accident, cloudy and askew. Jennifer looked up from her phone, her lips pinched into a thin line.

  “Why would he…have you…what the hell…” Jennifer said, her tone escalating with each new attempt to voice a question.

  “What did you do?” Beverly interjected. The blame.

  “Nothing.” Cel scooted to the edge of the cushion. “We had an argument yesterday morning, and I figured he was just pissed and stayed the night here to cool off.”

  “Well, he didn’t.” Jennifer found Parker’s number on her cell and put the phone to her ear. “It goes straight to voice mail.” She started typing a text.

  “I know,” Cel said. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of him all night.”

  “What did you start shit with him about this time?” Beverly asked.

  Cel looked down at her keys. She didn’t want to discuss Lauren Page with these two. Parker wasn’t with Lauren. She knew that already. Besides, they would only twist the argument into a blame game, accuse her paranoia of driving him away. “I don’t even remember. It was early. We were both tired.” She looked up. “Something stupid.”

  Beverly grabbed her cane, maneuvered herself out of her chair, and headed into the kitchen. “Where’s my phone?” she called out as her cane clacked on the tiles.

  Jennifer was still staring at her phone, typing. “On the table.”

  Beverly lumbered back into the living room, plopped down, and began poking at her cell phone, as well.

  “Do you guys know anywhere else he might’ve gone?” Cel asked. “A hotel or something?”

  “No,” Beverly shot back.

  “He’s not returning my texts,” Jennifer said, shaking her head. She met eyes with Cel. The fury in her gaze scorched the path between them. “You should’ve called us last night. If anything bad has happened to him, if you’ve done something to him…hurt him again…I swear to God…” They held eye contact for a tense moment, then Jennifer started tapping on her phone again.

  Cel squeezed her keys in her hand hard enough to sting. “I’ve only ever hit him as many times as he’s hit me, but I’ve never hurt him.”

  Jennifer’s eyes stayed down, her jaw clenched. “You’ve paid someone else to do it, though.”

  “Bullshit.” Cel stood. “That’s not how it went, and you fucking know it.”

  “Uncle Pete hasn’t heard from him, either,” Beverly said to Jennifer who was standing up and aggressively moving toward Cel. Beverly threw her arm up in front of Jennifer as though she could hold her three-hundred-pound daughter at bay. Jennifer stopped.

  “I’m calling Chief Sterling,” Beverly said. She cut her eyes at Cel. “Something’s not right here.”

  Anger gripped every muscle in Cel’s body from her face to her feet. “The only thing not right about this is Parker,” she said. “He never came home. He didn’t show up for work. He won’t answer his phone. I don’t know where he is. I didn’t do anything wrong. Why would I come here if I had?”

  Beverly and Jennifer eyed Cel, but neither spoke. Their stern, accusatory expressions answered Cel’s question, though. They thought she wanted to appear like the innocent, gentle, loving wife—the mother—that she wasn’t. They thought she wanted to cover up whatever horrible act she’d committed. They thought she thought she could outsmart them.

  Beverly dialed the Oak Mott Police Department, and dispatch answered on the second ring. “This is Beverly Lundy. I want to talk to Chief Sterling. Now.”

  Cel stormed out of the house as Beverly greeted Chief Sterling in the background. She sped away but pulled to the side of the road half a block away as the realization that Parker hadn’t contacted his sister or mom sank in. Her chest felt like it was caving in, crushing her heart, squeezing the air from her lungs. Her eyes tingled, threatening to spill tears. Where the hell was he? Maybe Jennifer was right. Maybe something had happened to him.

  Something bad.

  Chapter 14 - Yesenia

  After tending to her plants and collecting the chicken eggs, Yesenia sat down on the living room couch with a cup of black tea to watch Telemundo. She had finished half of the cup, and her three-legged cat Mina, seventeen years old and plagued with severe arthritis, had just saddled up against her thigh when Cel walked through the front door. Cel’s dark eyes were bloodshot, red-rimmed from crying.

  Yesenia set her mug on the coffee table and turned off the TV. “What’s wrong, mija?”

  Without responding, Cel sat beside Yesenia and tipped sideways, resting her head on Yesenia’s shoulder.

  Yesenia patted Cel’s thigh, kissed the top of her head, and whispered a soothing spell, the same one she’d whispered over an upset Cel a hundred times before. Some parents responded to their upset children with simple words of encouragement, others, prayers and blessings. Yesenia responded with the same spells her mother had responded to her and Dolores with, spells she still whispered to herself when needed. “It’s Parker, isn’t it?”

  Cel raised her head and nodded. “He’s gone.”

  “What do you mean? Ido?”

  For the next twenty minutes Yesenia stroked Mina and listened as Cel recounted what had and hadn’t occurred over the past twenty-four hours concerning Parker, ending with her visit to the Lundy household and Beverly’s and Jennifer’s reactions to the news Parker had possibly fled, Yesenia’s mouth turned down at the sound of Beverly’s name. She equated communicating with Beverly Lundy to cleaning out litter boxes. Necessary but ultimately worthless.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Cel said, and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her T-shirt. “I don’t know where he could’ve gone.”

  “Well, you know how Chief Sterling and everyone else who works for this city reacts to Beverly. They have had their cabeza en su culo ever since that accident. Ella dice saltar, they jump. I’m sure they’ll move finding him to the top of the list.”

  “What if something bad has happened to him?”


  “Don’t go there, mija. It won’t do any good.”

  Yesenia spoke the platitude with a matter-of-factness, as though she had no experience dealing with the pain and uncertainty of having a missing loved one. But she did have experience. More than enough for one lifetime. She just couldn’t share it with Cel.

  The greatest lie she’d ever told, the one secret she intended to take to her grave, was that Cel’s mom Rebecca had died in a bus accident in Mexico City shortly after dropping Cel off in Oak Mott. Yesenia had concocted the lie to shield Cel, only two at the time her mom abandoned her, from the truth. To shield her from the burden of knowing her mother had chosen the path of a prostitute and drug addict, a life of pipes and dicks, over that of a mother. To conceal the knowledge her father could’ve been one of a hundred men. Yesenia last heard from Rebecca a month after she’d left Oak Mott. Rebecca had called to say she was heading to Mexico with a guy (a pimp named Ivan, if Yesenia remembered correctly), and that she’d keep in touch. She didn’t ask about Cel during the call, and Yesenia never heard from her only daughter ever again. Yesenia spent many nights over the following years worrying about Rebecca. Worrying if she was hungry, or hurt, or sick, or scared, or rotting naked face-down in a ditch somewhere. And in the end, all the worrying did no good. It brought no answers. No relief. Only misery. Yes, she had experience dealing with the pain and uncertainty of having a missing loved one, but she had locked that knowledge in a dungeon deep inside of her, where the pain couldn’t reach Cel.

  “Come on,” Yesenia said, taking Cel by the hand and heading toward the kitchen. “I have some hot water on the stove. I’ll make you a cup of yerba buena.”

  Cel sat quietly with her elbows propped on the table and a faraway look in her eyes while Yesenia gathered the herbs and prepared the tea. It was the same tea she’d brewed daily for Dolores in the months before Dolores’s death, an ancient concoction designed to help soothe sick bodies and calm troubled minds. After Yesenia placed the warm mug on the table in front of Cel, she wrapped her hands around it, and a ghost of a smile touched her lips.