Starr Sign

by C. S. O'Cinneide

  Once I towel off, I brush my teeth and floss. I’m particular about my mouth. My bite’s come in handy in the past. I’ve got a great smile when I choose to show it, which is not very often. A somewhat clean pair of jeans lie crumpled under my weight bench, along with a State U T-shirt. I slip both of them on, then sit down at the kitchen table with a bottle of pre-mixed rum and eggnog. I bought it at a service station when the Mary Kay lady stopped for gas. The phone on the table, which now has a few bars of charge to it, has a full screen’s worth of messages.

  Most of them are from Deep.

  J and I watching Dr. Who. When u getting back?

  Wondering where u r. Getting late.

  After midnight. J asleep. All ok?

  GN. J has eaten all the bacon. Where the fuck r u?

  But it’s the text from Malone that catches my eye. She must have gotten my number when I called her from Deep’s place. She’s my friend, but for a variety of reasons, I keep my contact details vague. Most of them to do with the fact that I don’t like to be contacted.

  Call me right now.

  I phone her back, figuring they may have found Angela, or perhaps Aunt Stacey, who, with a little arm-twisting, Malone might be convinced to let me unload Janet on. I like the kid well enough, but I’m not cut out for the caregiver role. Already, I’ve left her alone with a guy I barely know who has a limited supply of bacon. Something tells me Malone wouldn’t approve.

  When she picks up the phone she sounds pissed.

  “Did you see my text?”

  “Of course I did. Why else would I be phoning you?”

  “I sent it hours ago.”

  “I’ve been a bit busy.”

  “With what?”

  “Best you don’t know.”

  Silence on the other end. “Where’s Janet?”

  “I sent her around the block to get milk.”

  “You live above a convenience store, Candace.”

  “Majd was all out.”

  I’m enjoying our little back and forth. I used to love twisting Malone up like this when we worked together. Well, I guess, she was the only one really working. I was just trying to look like I was. But I’d saved her life during that unlikely partnership, so I guess I earned my keep.

  “She’s just a kid,” Malone says.

  “And I’m taking care of her,” I say. “Have you found out anything about her dad’s family? Janet told me he might have relatives in Manitoba.”

  “No,” Malone says. “We don’t have any further intel on that.”

  “And Aunt Stacey is still MIA?”

  “She hasn’t contacted us, no.”

  “So, what’s with the urgent text, Malone? You just checking up on me?”

  “We’ve got some more results back, from the pathologist.”

  “And?”

  “The woman we found in the freezer is not your mother.”

  “I thought we figured that out already.”

  “Yes, well it’s confirmed now,” she says. I can sense there’s more, though. And there is.

  “We found amniotic fluid on the woman’s scrubs.”

  “Amniotic fluid? Like the stuff a baby floats around in before it’s born?”

  “Yes,” Malone says. “Amniotic fluid has the same genetic code as the fetus it carries. It was preserved because of the low temperature. It gave us another DNA match.”

  “To who?”

  “To you, Candace,” Malone says. “It appears this woman was present at your birth. Probably as a nurse.”

  Wow, that body had been in the freezer for a long time. That explains the blood on her being a match for my mother. My father told me it had been a difficult birth, so there could have been a lot of blood. Although Dad wasn’t around for my delivery, off at a job out west to get rid of a pesky police informant. Still, this doesn’t explain why a nurse got whacked.

  “There’s more, Candace,” Malone says, while I’m still trying to process what she’s told me.

  “Jesus, what more can there be?”

  “It wasn’t just your amniotic fluid we found.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You have a twin, Candace.” This is something my father definitely didn’t tell me.

  “That can’t be right,” I say.

  “We double-checked the results, Candace. The other baby was definitely your twin.”

  This is all the world needs, I think. Another one of me. But I still can’t get my head around it.

  “We’re working on getting your birth registration,” Malone says. “But there’s all sorts of red tape to go through. You can’t just ask for access to private information like that. You’ve got to get the right paperwork, and even then, they can fight you on it.”

  “Wait,” I say, my well-oiled wheels spinning. “If it was a twin, then the DNA would be exactly the same as mine. How could you tell one from the other?”

  “It was fraternal twins, Candace. Each fetus has its own amniotic sac in that case. Its own distinct set of DNA.”

  “So, you’re saying I have another sister?” I can’t believe I started off this week with no sisters and now I might be saddled with two.

  “No, Candace. The DNA shows the other twin was a boy. You have a brother.”

  I sit down hard on the mattress on the floor.

  Angela, it seems, had a son after all.

  I get Lovely Linda to drive me out to Charlotte’s broken-down car. She’d been working on clearing air out of the draft beer pipes when I crossed the street to The Goon, my mind full of what Malone had told me. The bar didn’t open for a few hours, so after I’d helped her get the brews flowing again, she’d grabbed her 204-piece socket wrench kit and driven us here. Right now, she’s under the orange hood of the hatchback with a pair of greasy gloves on to save her snowman nails. I lean against the fender and hand her tools when she needs them from the case opened up on the ground. Not far in front of me, I can see fresh skid marks on the tarmac, no doubt from whomever was following me last night when they hauled ass after I shot at them.

  “I can get it going,” she says, grabbing another wrench. “But it’ll only be temporary. You really need to take this to a mechanic.”

  Linda grew up with an uncle who owned a garage, learning her way around an automobile from an early age. I often wonder why she didn’t apprentice. I would’ve thought overhauling engines would be better work than slinging beers. But we all have our reasons for how we end up making a living.

  “I just need it to get me back to the city,” I say. And back to Deep’s to pick up Janet. It’s not that far out of the way.

  Linda drops the hood with a thud, puts her gloves away.

  “What were you doing all the way out in the sticks?” she asks.

  “Visiting a friend.”

  “Who do you know around here?” Linda asks, not buying it.

  I tell her about going to visit Roberto, and why. After all, it was her advice that got me looking for Angela in the first place. I don’t tell her what Malone said, about having a twin brother. That information’s too hot to handle, or to share at this point.

  “How’s he keeping?” Linda asks. She’s always had a soft spot for Roberto. Mostly because he was one of the few customers at The Goon who left a tip bigger than a nickel.

  “He’s old,” I say.

  “He was old before they put him in the home,” Linda says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “But he’s older now.”

  I get in the car, put one of the keys from the ring with the dangling pom-pom into the ignition. The engine turns over on the first try.

  “You’re a fucking genius, Linda,” I say.

  “I know,” she says, putting her tools back into the trunk of her car. “But you’re one of the few people who appreciates it.”

  I take the back roads to Deep’s, not because I’m trying to evade a police check, but because I’m concerned the hatchback won’t be able to handle the speed limit of the highway a second time. I put my phone on
speaker and drop it on the passenger seat after pressing Charlotte’s number.

  “Can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a message,” her pert voice says from the passenger seat. I wait for the tone.

  “Hey, Aunt Charlotte, it’s Candace.” I’m not sure what to say next, so I keep it simple. “Call me, it’s important.” That’ll get the old girl’s panties in a knot. She can’t resist a good mystery. I reach out with one hand and press disconnect, returning it quickly to the shaky wheel to steady it.

  Charlotte wasn’t around when I was born. She and my Uncle Rod don’t go that far back. But she’d spent enough years with him to have learned a thing or two about the past. Rod might have known about the twin thing, being as close as he was to my dad. And my dad must have known. He may have been across the country when my mom went into labour, but surely he would’ve been wise to his wife carrying two babies instead of one. That’s something they tend to pick up, even with the most pathetic of prenatal care.

  Then again, Angela might have not told him. I wouldn’t put it past her. Maybe she’d always planned to give one of the kids up for adoption — figured she couldn’t handle two kids with her untested maternal skills. Hell, she couldn’t handle one it turned out. She wouldn’t have wanted my dad to know about that plan. Never leave a man behind, was Mike Starr’s motto. I’m pretty sure that would have included a son. But maybe by the time he got back, the baby had already been signed over to new parents. Or maybe Angela left my twin brother on a doorstep, like she left me in the toy store that time with the stuffed animals.

  In any case, Charlotte is my only possible link to that murky past. Like I said, Uncle Rod and I don’t talk anymore. Plus, I don’t think he would tell me anything if we did. He’s not one to divulge information without putting up a fight. My dad said he once got his jaw broken in custody, refusing to give up so much as his address. A son of Angela Starr’s, formerly Scarpello, would have further-reaching implications than a man’s street number right now.

  Angela might have used one of those adoption registries where they reunite grown-up kids with the parents who ditched them. Although, I suppose that’s not fair. There are lots of parents out there who shouldn’t have a minor in their possession. It’s the right decision to make, I suppose, if you’re not being selfish about it.

  Of course, the situation would be a little different for Angela. If she’d managed to make contact with my long-lost twin brother, it would have given her a major bargaining chip when she showed up in Detroit. Although trying to cash that chip might have cost her her life. And where was my brother in all this? Poor unsuspecting sap could be buried in a shallow grave right alongside his birth mother.

  Distracted as I am with these thoughts, it takes some time before I pick up on the tail following a fair distance behind me. I tilt the rear-view to keep an eye on their progress, but otherwise don’t give anything away. The car is still following about fifty yards behind me when I pull into Deep’s driveway. I get out of the hatchback and quickly double back into the woods, so I can wait in a ditch by the road. Sure enough, along comes the Chrysler sedan I saw outside my place Monday night when Janet and I were watching our chick flick. I recognize the salt-stained car bra. It pulls to a stop on the shoulder a few feet ahead of where I’m hidden. The driver’s window goes down with an automated hum before the engine turns off. Wispy smoke from a cigarette floats up and out before being blown across the roof by a weak wind. I can see a blonde head of hair above the headrest in the driver’s seat. There doesn’t appear to be anyone else in the car.

  I carefully pull out my gun, train it on the blonde head, clicking the safety off. I’m about to make my move, when I see a shadow stretch out over the ditch, cast from behind. I roll over onto my back and pull the trigger without looking. The car engine starts up, and I hear the Chrysler burn rubber as it takes off down the road. Above me, Deep holds a hand vacuum in the air, still smoking from the hole I just blew through it.

  “What the fuck?” Deep yells, dropping the vacuum to the woodland floor. He quickly begins stomping on it with his thick-soled hiking boots, possibly worried the dried fallen leaves will catch and start a forest fire. I look over my shoulder at the road. The car is long gone.

  “What the hell did you think you were doing?” I shout back at Deep. “Sneaking up on me like that!”

  “I saw you pull in,” he says, still stomping. “Then you disappeared into the trees. I thought you might be in trouble.”

  “And you were going to save me by vacuuming someone to death?”

  “I just grabbed what was handy,” he says, making one final stomp on the smoking hand vacuum. His long hair hangs free and a strand gets caught on a low-slung branch.

  “Well, next time, find a handy baseball bat,” I say, standing up and brushing the leaves off my jeans. “I thought you were descended from a race of warriors. I doubt your ancestors rushed into battle with electric brooms.”

  He did come to defend me, though, rather than hide out in the house. I had to give him that.

  “Who was in that car, Candace?” Deep ignores my ancestral taunt.

  “I don’t know.”

  “And yet you were prepared to shoot them.”

  “You know what they say about asking questions later.”

  “Yes, I do. And if you hadn’t been such a crappy shot, I might have never been able to give an answer again.”

  “I am not a crappy shot,” I say. “I hit that fucking Dustbuster head on.” I don’t appreciate having my marksman abilities mocked by a guy who arms himself with household appliances. Plus, I’m annoyed that the Chrysler got away before I could see who the hell has been tailing me.

  I step past Deep and start off back through the woods to the house. He doesn’t follow me at first. Maybe he feels I’ve insulted his manhood along with his choice of weapon. Or maybe he just can’t get his hair disentangled from the branch. But after retrieving the vacuum, he catches up and rushes to stand on the front steps of the house, blocking my way in.

  “Where the hell have you been, Candace?” he asks.

  “It’s a long story.”

  He sighs and looks off down the road to where the Chrysler disappeared. His hair blows across his face in the breeze that’s picked up, and he tosses his head slightly to move it out of the way before turning back to me. Then he steps aside and opens the front door, gesturing with the gutted hand vacuum. The nozzle falls off and shatters on his well-swept concrete steps.

  “Well, then,” he says. “I reckon you better come in and tell it to me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  WHEN I WALK INTO THE HOUSE, I find Janet propped up on the couch with her sketchbook balanced in her lap. The man in the picture she is drawing has dark skin and hair that fans out behind him like a Middle Eastern mermaid. In his hands, he brandishes a frying pan and a spatula, threatening a small group of demons on the opposite page who have bacon where their arms should be. She’s got earbuds in, listening to music on her phone. The tinny foreign lyrics of K-pop leak out from under her ice-blonde hair. She wouldn’t have heard the gunshot, and that’s probably for the best.

  “Hi,” I say, waving my hand in front of her face to be noticed.

  She takes the earbuds out, pausing her playlist. “You find Mom?” she asks me, not pulling any punches.

  “No,” I say. “I didn’t.”

  “Great,” she says, the sarcasm laid on heavy. We both hear Deep outside, cursing as he cleans up the broken vacuum from the front steps. Janet raises an eyebrow, but then goes back to drawing, although she doesn’t put the earbuds back in. I wait a bit, but she keeps on sketching, saying nothing. I suppose she’s mad at me for not coming back last night, but I don’t mind the silent treatment. I’ve got a wicked headache.

  I walk over to the fridge and pull out a cold beer, pop the cap, and take a long swig before I spew it out in the double sink under the window. Fucking near beer. More like near crap. I leave the bottle on the counter and sit down across from
Janet in an armchair, the bad taste still in my mouth.

  “So, there’s been some developments,” I say.

  “I should say there bloody well have been,” Deep says, walking in from outside. He hangs what’s left of the hand vacuum in a wall mount by the front door and then chucks the shards of the broken nozzle into the garbage under the sink before joining Janet on the couch. She puts down her sketchbook on the coffee table and scooches over to make room for him.

  “Your mother was in Detroit to see the old Don,” I say.

  “Tell us something we don’t know” Janet says with a smirk.

  So I do. I tell them about the amniotic fluid they found on the frozen broad’s scrubs and the DNA that proves I had a twin brother and everything else Malone filled me in on.

  Two sets of brown eyes stare at me from across the coffee table. I couldn’t have got a more stupefied reaction if I told them I was abducted by aliens.

  “That’s crazy,” my kid sister says, having lost both her sarcasm and her smirk.

  “Yes, it is,” I agree. I turn to Deep. “You got anything stronger than fake beer around here?”

  “In the kitchen, above the refrigerator,” he says, still stunned. Janet just sits there with her rosebud mouth hanging open.

  I walk over and open up the cupboard, pull down a bottle of Rémy Martin and a cut crystal lowball glass stored next to it.

  “You fancy pouring me some of that?” Deep asks from the couch.

  I grab another glass and bring it over to the coffee table, where I measure out two fingers of brandy each. Deep takes a healthy gulp. I down the whole thing and pour myself another. My headache immediately improves with the top-shelf booze.