The Summer Children

by Dot Hutchison

  Blinking, he opens another bottle and hands it to her.

  As we drive, she leans her head against the window, watching the stores and neighborhoods as we pass. “Thank you,” she says quietly.

  “You’re ours now,” I answer, and there’s something about the moment, or maybe just the many hours at the bar, that demands nothing above a murmur. “That undeserving bastard didn’t know what a good thing he had in you, but we do. Thank you for letting us do this for you.”

  “My dad kept asking if I was sure. Said he didn’t care if we lost money on deposits and dresses and things. Just wanted me to be sure.” She sighs, tugging the band out of her ponytail to let her hair flop around her. “I should have told him. I just didn’t want him to get in trouble with Mom.”

  I know something about keeping silent like that. Not exactly like that, but close enough to understand the impulse. I turn onto my street and try to decide if there’s a response that doesn’t start a conversation she is far too drunk to have.

  “Mercedes?”

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “There are children on your porch.”

  I slam on the brake, and she hiccups as the seat belt catches, and when I look out her window, sure enough, there are three children on my porch, two sitting on the swing and one pacing back and forth in front of them, her motions keeping the light on, and even from this distance I can see the blood and the teddy bears.

  7

  I pull all the way up the driveway, because there’s no sense in blocking the way for the emergency responders even as it feels deeply callous to just drive past the children. “Stay here until I call for you,” I tell Sterling, pulling my gun and flashlight out of my purse.

  “Because I’m drunk?”

  “Because you’re drunk.”

  “Okay.” She nods quickly, both of her phones in her hand, and I can see Eddison’s name on the screen as she starts slowly tapping out a text. Good girl.

  Hands crossed at the wrist, so both the gun and the flashlight can point outward, I prowl around the back of my house to make sure no one is lying in wait. There’s no sign that anyone has come this way in the past few hours, though there are some grass clippings that suggest Jason mowed as soon as the police gave him the okay. The back door is still locked, the glass intact, with no visible blood on the step or handle. Around the far side of the house, the edge of the porch slowly comes into relief, and then the children waiting there. I click off the flashlight and put it in my back pocket.

  “My name is Mercedes Ramirez,” I tell the children, and all three flinch. “This is my house.”

  “We’re not trespassing,” the middle child retorts defiantly. “The angel lady brought us here!”

  “The angel lady?”

  The oldest, a girl perhaps twelve or thirteen, still in the early stages of puberty, nods, keeping herself between the steps and the other two. “She killed our parents,” she says bluntly. Blood streaks the sides of their faces, and a little down their arms, not nearly as much as was on Ronnie. She holds her bear—white, with crinkly gold wings and halo, just like Ronnie’s—by one foot, smacking it against her thigh in agitation. The younger ones clutch theirs, seeking comfort she already knows isn’t there. “She woke us up. Said we had to go to their room. She said . . . she said we had to see that we’re safe now.”

  “Safe?”

  “We were safe at home,” the middle one says. She keeps her free arm around the youngest, a boy who can’t be more than five. “Why did she hurt our parents?”

  I glance at the older girl, and there are shadows in her eyes. Maybe the younger one was safe at home, but this one wasn’t. She meets my eyes briefly, then looks away, reaching back for her sister. “They were dead,” she says quietly. “She made us listen for heartbeats to be sure.”

  The blood on their cheeks.

  “First things first, are any of you hurt?”

  The girls shake their heads; the boy buries his in his sister’s shoulder. “The lady had a gun, but she said she wasn’t going to hurt us,” the oldest answers. “Our parents were already dead, so . . . we . . .”

  “Did what she said, and kept yourselves safe,” I finish firmly. “What are your names?”

  “I’m Sarah.” The oldest girl reaches for her brother’s shoulder. “Sammy. And Ashley.”

  “And your last name?”

  “Carter. Sammy’s a Wong, like his dad. Like our mom, after they got married.”

  “Can you tell me their first names? And your address?”

  Sarah gives me the information, and I text it to Sterling. A few seconds later, I get a thumbs-up emoji. A text from Eddison follows. On my way, so is Vic. Okay.

  Moving slowly, I sit on the top step. “Help is on the way,” I tell them. “I work for the FBI, and one of my partners is in the car, calling the police. The others are on the way.”

  After giving me a long look, Sarah apparently decides that I’m not going to move any closer than I already have, and sits on the very edge of the swing to put an arm around her little brother, sandwiching him between her and her sister. “So what happens now?” asks Sarah. She’s so tightly contained, despite the fear and the pain in her eyes, and it breaks my heart to think what she must have gone through to learn that self-control so young.

  “The police are going to have questions for you about what happened, and they’ll take you to the hospital to get you checked over and cleaned up. They’ll make sure there are counselors available to you, when you need to talk. They’ll look for family who can take you in.”

  “Our grandparents are out in California. They might not . . .” Sarah glances down at Sammy, still tucked sobbing into Ashley’s side, and doesn’t finish.

  I can fill in that blank: they might not be willing to take Sammy. “I promise, the police are going to work really hard to make sure that whatever happens, it’s the best possible thing for you.” Unfortunately, it’s the most I can promise. However much I want to, I can’t promise they’ll all stay together. That’s never in my power.

  Detective Holmes arrives on the tail of the ambulance, another car pulling up behind her a minute later. “Ramirez,” she greets me quietly.

  I nod in response.

  She crouches down beside me, keeping her eye on the kids. “The woman who made the 911 call: Is she drunk?”

  “She is; that’s why she has remained in the car the entire time and made the call.” I frown at Holmes’s disapproving look. “It was supposed to be her wedding day. We took her out and got her drunk.”

  Holmes blinks at that, and doesn’t seem to have anything to add.

  “She’s had zero contact with the children or the environment. She has literally not even opened the car door.”

  “All right. Sarah? Ashley? Sammy? My name is Detective Holmes. How are you guys doing?”

  The girls eye her, from her shower-damp blonde hair to her heavy-duty work boots, and shift so close together Sammy can barely be seen.

  It’s harder this time to sit back and do nothing, to wait for Holmes to make decisions and issue orders to her officers and the paramedics. One of the officers, who has children of his own, takes charge of Ashley and Sammy, gently chivvying them into reluctant smiles as the paramedics look them over and escort them to the ambulance. Sarah watches them until they’re out of sight in the vehicle, and even then seems reluctant to look away.

  Holmes studies the girl for a minute or two, then catches my eye and tilts her head in Sarah’s direction. She recognizes that darkness in her eyes as well. It’s a different kind of bruising than Ronnie’s, something that goes beyond painful, something sick and twisting. Getting to my feet, I walk carefully down the porch and hop onto the rail, facing the swing, so I can have proximity without infringing on Sarah’s personal space.

  “Sarah?” I say gently. “When did your stepdad start hurting you?”

  She looks startled, then defensive, but when she sees neither of us is judging her, accusing her, her shoulders slump and her
eyes fill with tears. “A little before Sammy was born,” she whispers. “Mom was really sick all the time, and he said . . . he said she w-wouldn’t m-m-mind, and that he needed it. But then he kept doing it. I wanted him to stop, and I was going to tell Mom, b-but h-h-he said if I w-wouldn’t, he’d go to Ashley.” The tears fall thick and heavy, and my arms ache with the need to hug her, be a shield from the rest of the world, even just for a few minutes. Instead, I clench my hands tightly around the rail. “I d-didn’t t-tell,” she continues, her voice starting to choke. “I never told.”

  “Oh, mija . . .”

  Sarah kicks off from the swing and hurls herself at me, her skinny arms wrapping around my waist as she buries her face in my chest. With a muffled oomph, I hook a foot through the thin rail posts to keep myself from pitching off the porch. One arm against the girl’s back, enough to comfort without making her feel trapped, I stroke her matted auburn hair with the other hand, crooning softly in Spanish.

  Behind me, I can hear other cars approach, Eddison’s and Vic’s voices mingling with Sterling’s as she updates them with what she can from my passenger seat. I tune them out, focused on the girl weeping against me. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Sarah,” I murmur, timing the motion of my hand to my breathing. Gradually, Sarah starts to time her breaths to mine and calm. “You never should have had to, but you’re such a good sister to protect Ashley that way. And you were looking out for them so well tonight, Ashley and Sammy both. I know that can’t be easy.”

  “One of the girls in my class, her dad did the same thing,” she mumbles into my T-shirt. Guido and Sal may never be the same. “She told our teacher and the school nurse. Her mom told everyone she was lying, that she was just trying to cause trouble.”

  “I’m so sorry, Sarah.”

  “I’m glad he’s dead,” she gasps, her tears gaining strength again. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be, but I really am.”

  “Right now, Sarah, it’s been a very long and scary night, and you’re allowed to feel anything you want to feel.” I squeeze her shoulder. “It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

  “She knew. The angel, she knew what he did. I never told anyone, though.”

  “Has anyone asked you? Someone at school, maybe?”

  Sarah stands up a little straighter, her arms still around my waist. “Um . . .” Her eyelashes are clumped together into little spikes, the pale red tear-darkened to brown. “We had scoliosis checks in PE a few months ago,” she says after a minute. “The nurse and one of the lady coaches checked us in the coach’s office. We had to lift our shirts. Fifth period, I got called to the office. My guidance counselor asked if everything was okay at home.”

  “Do you remember if she asked anything specific? Any hint what made them think something was wrong?”

  Blushing fiercely, Sarah nods. “He . . . he grips hard. His hands leave bruises.”

  “Never again,” I remind her. Holmes nods absently, her gaze on the small notepad in her hand. She looks pissed, but like she’s trying to hide it for Sarah’s sake. “He can’t touch you ever again, and he will never touch Ashley.” I wait until Sarah nods again. “What happened with the counselor?”

  “I told her I fell off the counter putting dishes away, and that my stepdad caught me before I hit the floor. I know I shouldn’t have lied, but . . .”

  “But you were protecting yourself and your sister. I’m not trying to blame you for anything, Sarah. You did what you had to do, especially if you saw your classmate get in trouble for telling the truth.”

  “That was all I could think about,” she admits. “She told the truth and everyone yelled at her, and what if . . .” She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “A couple days later, I was pulled out of class again, and there was a social worker with the guidance counselor. I told her the same thing. She . . . she asked if they could see the bruises, and I . . . I told them no. There were fresh ones, and I knew they’d know, but I also knew they couldn’t make me show them without my mom’s permission.”

  “Sarah? Do you think your mom would have given permission?” asks Holmes.

  Sarah starts shaking, and I hold her closer, sure enough of her now to wrap both arms around her for warmth and security. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “She really loves my stepdad. She always says she doesn’t know what we’d do if something happened to him, she doesn’t know how we’d live without him.”

  I close my eyes against her hair, consciously keeping my breathing even. Her mother knew.

  “The social worker drove me home and told my mom everything. When he found out I didn’t say anything, my stepdad bought me a bicycle. I’ve been wanting one for ages, but he always said no, and then he bought me exactly the one I wanted.”

  Abusers commonly reward their victims for staying silent or lying. I’m not about to tell her that, though, especially not when she already seems to know. Sarah seems so smart, and sweet, and so protective of her siblings. I’m not giving her any more to carry than I absolutely have to.

  “Did the angel seem familiar at all? Her voice, or the way she moved?”

  “No. She had a mask on, kind of like . . .” She trails off, frowning, then looks back up at me. “Not the Halloween masks. This is a fancy kind. Heavy. The kind artists paint on. My friend Julie collects the painted ones. She’s got a whole wall of them, all different designs. Her mom writes the date she gets each one on the inside.”

  “I think I collected the same masks when I was a kid,” Holmes notes. “My dad swore they were from Venice, and it took years before I realized he was lying. Still loved the masks, though.”

  “The angel’s was bigger. It covered her whole face and wasn’t painted at all. It was just white. And . . .” She shudders. “Blood. There was blood on it.”

  “Could you see her eyes? What color they were?”

  Sarah shakes her head. “The eyeholes had mirrors. It was creepy.”

  I glance at Holmes. “One-way glass?”

  “Would have to be, wouldn’t it? Sarah, you’ve been saying she this whole time. How did you know the angel was a woman?”

  “I . . .” Her mouth works soundlessly for a moment, then closes. A furrow creases her brow. “She had long blond hair. Light blonde, I think, and straight, and I don’t know. I guess it just sounded like a lady. It wasn’t a super high voice, so . . . I guess it could have been a guy. I don’t know.”

  We continue to ask her questions, carefully spacing out where we push for extra information or clarification so we don’t overwhelm her. Eventually, when we’re out of questions for the moment and Holmes has called one of the paramedics back over, Sarah gives me a tremulous smile. “She said we’d be safe with you, that you’d help,” she says, her voice soft and shy. “She was right. Thank you.”

  I hug her again, rather than try to answer.

  Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was scared of cameras.

  Cameras were entirely too honest; they didn’t know how to lie. They could be made to lie, by a clever enough operator, but neither of her parents was that clever.

  They showed how Daddy’s fingers curled hard into her collarbone, into Mama’s hip.

  They showed how she and Mama both leaned away—from Daddy, from each other—and how Daddy pulled them in.

  They showed her eyes.

  They showed everything.

  She hated seeing herself in pictures because her eyes always yelled the things she wasn’t allowed to say, and still no one listened.

  Then Daddy started bringing the camera with him at night.

  He’d look through the photos whenever he wanted, even out in the living room like he was daring Mama to say anything.

  She didn’t. Of course she didn’t.

  And he’d bring them out for a select group of friends, men who all called her angel and pretty girl and beautiful. They’d look through the pictures together, and any they really liked, Daddy would print them copies. But he’d never let them forget that he
was in control, that he had what they wanted. No matter how much he gave them, he could take it all away again.

  8

  Holmes lets me accompany them to the hospital this time, because Sarah’s confession of the abuse means they have to do a pelvic exam. I don’t know if it’s because I was the one holding her or because mine was the name the killer gave her, but either way, Holmes agrees that my being there with her will probably help her stay calm.

  Eddison and Vic are off to the Wong house to meet Mignone. Sterling comes with me, grave and silent in a corner of the ambulance with another bottle of water in her hands. She doesn’t try to say anything to the children, though, or even to the officers and paramedics. She just watches and drinks her water.

  At the hospital, Ashley and Sammy are bundled off together with a grandmotherly pediatrician whose slow, syrupy Tidewater drawl seems to fascinate and soothe them in equal measure. Sterling refills her bottle from a fountain and takes a seat in the emergency room with her phone. At this point, she’s basically sober, but it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if she asks the hospital to do a BAC test before she engages with the case in any way.

  In a curtained-off exam room, I help a nurse and female officer change Sarah for the exam. Her pajamas are folded and placed in a bag that gets sealed and signed, and then the giant camera comes out. She gives me a startled look.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “We have to have a record of any injuries you came in with. That camera has a kind of filter that helps them see bruises better. We can make sure the doctors know about it, and having that information in your file will help the social workers decide which counselors you need to talk to.”

  “Oh.” She looks at the camera and steels herself with a breath. “Okay.”

  The bruises are terrible. Large handprints overlap on her hips and the inside of her thighs, and one side of her chest is almost uniformly indigo and yellow. Lighter bruising wraps around her neck, front and back, and brackets her face. Through the filter, we can see the shape of fingers.