Bad Sons

by Isla Cristeon

  Here we go.

  I sit up in my bed and press my palms into my tired eyes, yawning. “Gimme a minute. I gotta get some clothes on.”

  My parents back out of my room and shut the door behind them. After pushing off the bed, I pull on joggers and a t-shirt then leave the room barefoot. Both parents stand in front of the magnetic key holders by the door.

  I extend a hand to the keys. “Look, they’re both there. Wasn’t me. Call the front desk or something.”

  Normally, I’d huff back to my room and throw myself into the bed to sleep until morning. But I know I need to stay here. Crossing my arms, I sit on the sofa arm, waiting for whatever’s coming next.

  The flat screen TV flicks on. Abram stands with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Hello, Navarre family. I’m sure you’re wondering why the commotion. Well, part of this hotel will also serve as luxury escape rooms for folks who enjoy that sort of sport. We wanted to give your family the first taste of these games. Once I’m done speaking, the living room will seal up, and you’ll be given puzzles to solve in order to move on to the next room. Sit on the sofa, grab the remote, and enjoy!”

  “What the hell?” my dad mutters.

  Abram fades from view, and then a whirring sound starts as a wall lowers to block the hallway to the bedrooms. My father curses as he plops on the sofa, and my mother follows behind.

  What follows is a Jeopardy style board where for the next several minutes we answer questions about our family. When we fill the board with correct answers, the screen fades to black.

  A short message pops up.

  Congratulations! You’ve made it past Level One. Once the wall raises, please move to the Master Bedroom.

  “Good,” my father says with a yawn. “I’m going back to sleep then.”

  With heavy steps, we trudge along the hallway. My mother tests the door to my room, but somehow it locked shut on its own. This reminds me of the nights spent in the Capulet mansion, sealed inside the iron fortress under the guise it was for our protection. In the end, the move had been solely for control. This is no different, and purposefully so.

  Once we enter the master bedroom, the door closes behind us. Through the cracks on either side of the door, I see thick metal bars slide into the frame, barricading us inside, exactly how us kids were once locked inside the Capulet mansion.

  “Oh wow,” my mother says. “That’s intense.”

  My father plops on the bed, and layers his arms over his eyes. “Let me know when it’s done.”

  On the floor in the bedroom lies a simple puzzle, its pieces scattered on the floor. My mother and I sit, quietly assembling the sepia-toned pieces to a beautiful ancient photograph. As the pieces come together, the original three-story mansion becomes visible. Near the stairs of the mansion, a group of four men stand with their arms around one another. Two of them are Uncle Don and my father.

  Several minutes later, my mother looks at me expectantly. “Where do you think the rest are?”

  Two pieces of the puzzle remain unfilled, the heads of the other two men.

  Shrugging, I lift myself to standing. “Let’s look around the room.”

  I extend one hand to my mother, and then pull her to standing. We separate to each side of the room. She checks the closet and dresser, while I study the built-in shelving.

  “What you looking for?” my dad says, peeking out from under his arms.

  “Puzzle pieces,” I say. “There’s a puzzle on the floor over there. It’s a picture of the estate, with you, Donnie, and two other men. The other two men’s faces are missing.”

  My father sits up and swings his legs off the bed, his feet coming to rest on the floor with a thud. With quick steps, he walks over to the puzzle and crouches beside it. A soft murmur comes from him as his hand slides over the top of his head, a nervous gesture I inherited.

  Swallowing hard, he stands and moves beside me. “I don’t like this. We gotta stop playing along with whatever game this is.”

  “What? Why?” Confusion wrinkles my forehead.

  “They know too much.”

  “About?” I don’t wait for him to explain and just forge ahead. “It’s no big deal, papa. The historical records are in the library. They’re paying homage to the original families. Though, why didn’t I know about the others?”

  Eyes downcast, he shakes his head. “It wasn’t important. They went their own way a long time ago.”

  “C’mon, help me find the pieces. Anything on the shelves look relevant?”

  He wanders to the shelf holding crystal grapes and geometric block letters spelling out the original name of this estate: champagne. Grabbing the letter M, he lifts it. Underneath lay the puzzle piece with Eli Montague’s face.

  “Why M?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  “The other family name.”

  I grab the puzzle piece and look at the face, breathing out a soft exhale at the likeness. “This looks like … like Roman Montague.”

  With a sniff, my dad wipes the back of his hand under his nose. “His father, Eli.”

  “Wow.”

  He doesn’t say more, but lifts the P next, revealing the last piece.

  “And who’s this?”

  “Franco Prospero.” He tightens his lips and turns away. “Go on, put them in.”

  After picking up the second piece, I crouch beside the puzzle, fitting each face to its person. The thick pieces are well-crafted, and they slide smoothly in place.

  The bookcase shifts, and one entire section rolls back and then to the side.

  I stand and walk to the opening. “This is probably the last part. Let’s get this over with so we can get back to sleep.”

  “Nah, I’m staying here,” my dad says, grabbing the remote and returning to his place on the bed.

  He points the remote at the wall-mounted TV and presses the On switch. Nothing happens.

  “Guess you need to come with us,” my mother says, swishing through the door behind me with her head regally held as if she were entering The Jefferson Hotel. Stopping, she looks around the next room. “Oh, my goodness.”

  “What?” A few seconds later, my father’s head pokes through the opening before he steps fully inside.

  The doorway seals shut behind him, and he spins around to face the wall with an expression of bewilderment.

  A teasing smile plays at her lips. “Nothing, just wanted you to come over here instead of being lazy. When was the last time we had fun as a family, Alfonso?”

  He says nothing and simply braces his hands on his hips, pursing his lips as he surveys the room. “What’s the point of this? It’s just another suite, almost exactly like ours.”

  I’ve already been in this suite when I first met with Franco Prospero. This is their side. Everything is exactly the same except for the colors. Whereas ours has accents of gold and royal blue, their side is accented in gold and cerulean blue, the colors carefully matched from the family coat of arms. I don’t expect my family to know the difference. It’s subtle.

  What I really want to do is find Aida’s room and bury my face in her pillow so the peace of her scent can soothe the aches in my heart. Since I left her with her father last night, knots of yearning coil in my gut. But if Franco is watching, I don’t think he’d take kindly to me rolling like a happy dog on his daughter’s bed. Instead, I take a seat on the sofa.

  My mother stands in front of the shelves on the side of the television, looking at various items set in a minimalistic arrangement. With a soft exclamation, she reaches out and grabs a small wooden box.

  “Fonso, look. Remember this?”

  His brows draw inward as he walks to her then reaches out for the box. With two hands, he cradles the small rectangle.

  “Wow.” He turns the box this way and that, examining it, before immediately setting it down and taking a step back. “This … I can’t believe this.”

  “You made that for Frank and Mira when they got married, right?” my moth
er says, lifting the box off the shelf again.

  “It looks like the same one. I just don’t understand why it would be here.”

  She deposits the box in his hands. “Let’s find out. I bet you need to open it.”

  “No.” He reaches past her head and sets it on a higher shelf.

  She crosses her arms and lifts her chin. I push off from the sofa and move beside my father, plucking the box from the higher shelf and then extending it toward him. “Let’s just get this over with, papa. Can’t be that bad.”

  Twisting his lips into a disgruntled frown, he walks around us then settles himself on the sofa, legs spread wide and resting his elbows on his knees with the box centered. With his thumbs on the bottom, he exerts outward pressure. The bottom side pieces click open. After flipping the box facedown, he slides the back panel down halfway, then closes the bottom pieces. Next, the top half of the left side panel slides out past the lowered back, revealing a miniature, circular labyrinth.

  Eyes narrowed in concentration, he moves the impossibly tiny steel ball along the concentric labyrinth route. When the ball reaches the center, it falls through the tiny opening, which releases a half circle metallic handle. My father fits his pinky finger into the small ring over the labyrinth, and tugs gently, pulling out a wooden cylinder.

  “That’s so cool,” my mother says in a hushed whisper. “You made that, Alfonso?”

  He gives a brief nod before flipping the cylinder upside down and pinching the end with his fingers. A small metal key slides out. My mother and I watch in silence as he fits the pieces together again, then moves to the front, where there isn’t a spot for the key. This time, he spreads the back and front lower pieces, which seem to be attached by hinges, then slides the front panel down, revealing the keyhole.

  For a moment, my father just sits there with the force of his intention at a simmer, silently holding the key and staring at the lock.

  I break the silence. “Want me to do it?”

  He startles slightly, but then composes himself. “No, I’ll do it.”

  The key slips smoothly into the lock, and as he turns it, a soft click sounds. In hushed awe, we watch the lid of the box crack open.

  Inside, sits an origami beetle, carefully folded from black paper. My mother’s manicured hand reaches for the paper insect, but he swats her away.

  She frowns. “We gotta see what it says.”

  A disdainful sneer curls on his lip as he sets the wooden puzzle box on the table. “I’m not playing this stupid ass game.”

  “Is that because you’re too stupid ass to figure out the clues?” She flicks a speck of lint from her fingernail.

  My parents used to have a loving, passionate marriage that equally sickened and inspired me. For one, it’s gross seeing your parents obsessed with one another all the time. But on a higher level, I knew if I could find a love like that, I’d be more than satisfied with my life.

  Problem is, at some point in the last several years, my father became unsatisfied with the rare treasure he had, and abandoned it for an abundance of counterfeit jewels.

  His features tighten at her remark, and he moves nose to nose with her. “Don’t start, Teresa.”

  “Get that HSV ridden face away from mine.” She shoves both hands against his shoulders.

  With a sigh, I reach for the box and pull out the three-dimensional creature. I tug on various parts of the beetle, until a flap gives way, allowing me to gradually unfold every intricate crease. Inside, white words in my father’s hand scrawl across the page.

  The deathwatch beetle is a promise of death to come.

  The pale ink is faded, probably written more than thirty years ago. Slightly further down the page, lies fresh words in different handwriting. I can almost imagine Franco sitting at his desk upstairs, a mantle of righteousness vengeance about him as he writes the message.

  My friend,

  You fulfilled your promise. Now allow me to repay.

  “What does this mean?” I shove the black paper between my bickering parents.

  When my father sees the unfolded paper, his face pales. He snatches the letter from my hand and scans the words. His lungs suck in a sharp breath as he begins ripping the paper into tiny pieces.

  “It’s-it’s nonsense,” he says with a forced laugh. “An inside joke that was never meant to be seen.”

  A creaking sound causes everyone’s attention to focus on the wall in front of us that’s now inching forward like an avalanche in slow motion. Legs of furniture screech across the wooden floor. Within minutes, we’re forced to stand and move behind the sofa as the wall continues its steady onward movement.

  “What is happening?” my mother says in a shaky voice.

  We shuffle backwards, crowding into the hallway leading to the bedrooms as furniture snaps under the crushing wall. Remnants of broken wood and a section of the sofa push through the doorway, forcing us further back.

  Reaching one arm protectively across my mother, I glance behind us at the open door to the master bedroom.

  “Head to the bedroom,” I say, pitching my voice louder to be heard over the sound of crunching wood and screeching furniture.

  My father hurries into the open door first.

  “Mamá, go.”

  She stands as if frozen, eyes widened on the carnage littering the room we had just been in, her hand gripping my forearm. I shift my hand to guide her along the hallway.

  Her eyes look wide as teacup saucers as I tug her toward the room. Once we pass through the doorway, an arm comes around my throat. My mother screams as a sharp pain pierces my neck. I whip around with the massive man, probably Abram, attached to my back like a damn monkey.

  Franco holds my mother against him, one arm wrapped around her waist, and the other locked around her neck. I throw myself backward, knocking Abram against the tall, wide bedpost. The wooden beam cracks under our combined weight as I thrash against Abram’s powerful hold. His arm around my neck tightens, cutting my arterial blood flow as the drugs work on my system.

  A dizzy sensation floods my brain as I struggle against the inevitable. Bit by bit, my body weakens until I finally succumb to a numbing sleep.

  Chapter 16

  MALE VOICES MURMUR INAUDIBLY somewhere in the distance. A pounding ache pulses in my head with every whoosh of blood siphoning through my heart.

  I flex my hands, testing the bindings anchoring my wrists behind my back. When I attempt to shift my legs, they move as one, bound together at my knees and ankles. With my tongue, I try to suction moisture from anywhere inside my cottony mouth, but realize there’s a rag stuffed inside with another between my teeth and tied around my head.

  Cracking my eyes open, I peer around the room, slight confusion trickling past the head pain. I’m lying on a floor in a bedroom. It looks old-fashioned with cranberry colored walls and floral curtains. Next to a closed closet door stands a tall wicker dresser. I angle my head to look behind me and see another wicker dresser, but shorter and wider with an oval framed mirror on top. The canopy bed in front of me looks antique with its scrolling wooden spires and the cream-colored cotton chenille fringed bedspread. Beneath me, a vintage rug with light green and cream patterns cushions the hardwood floor.

  Flexing my abdomen, I move to sit up. A pair of black boots stop in front of me, and then the owner plants one against my chest, pushing me back to the floor. Franco crouches in front of me, his severe eyebrows drawn together.

  “Don didn’t confess,” he says with a grim thinning of his lips. “I’m so sorry I have to do this. I know I promised you no one would get hurt. Plans have changed.”

  What is that supposed to mean?

  I struggle against the bindings and try to sit up again, but Frank presses my shoulders firmly to the carpet. “Trust me, Fernando. You’re not gonna want to watch this.”

  Frank stands and moves to the closet, then pulls it open. Inside the closet, my father is held suspended from ropes wrapped around his wrists. His eyes nearly b
ulge from their sockets when he sees who opened the door.

  “Franco.” A wobbly smile spreads on his lips. “My friend. Thank God you’re here.”

  “Friend,” Franco says, dropping the word without inflection. “That’s an interesting word to use.”

  “I know things ended badly between us, but I have no hard feelings.”

  A bitter chuckle of laughter comes from Franco. “Well, unfortunately for you, I do. You don’t have much time to confess your sins. And I’ve learned from the best, Alfonso.” He steps away from the doorway, letting my father see into the bedroom. “Does this space look familiar to you at all?”

  My father shakes his head.

  Frank continues. “Eh, why would it? This is what my bedroom looked like twenty years ago. My eight-year-old daughter stayed home sick from school with a fever and cough. She and Mira, were taking a nap when two men broke into our house—”

  A strangled exhalation comes from my father. “Frank, that wasn’t me. I swear it to you.”

  “Thankfully my wife hid our daughter before the men found them. My daughter listened while her mother was raped and then strangled to death by your men.”

  “Frank, I swear—”

  “None of that now. The only thing we have time for is a reparation of sorts.” Franco turns toward the door near my feet. “Abram.”

  The door swings open, and Abram enters, bodily carrying my mother. Her long dark hair hangs wildly about her face as she screams and thrashes against him. After throwing her on the bed, he covers her body with his, pinning her down as he shoots a glance at Franco, waiting for a cue.

  My blood turns to ice in my veins as the harsh realization of what Franco has planned comes to light. I yank my wrists against the bonds and shove my tongue against the gag in my mouth in a futile attempt to dislodge the fabric.

  Franco turns back to my father. “So now you get to see what it was like for my young daughter. You get to listen to your wife be raped and strangled while you’re powerless to stop it.”