Sterling snaps a picture on her phone.
“All right, these are for you,” Vic announces, handing each of them a ring with a key. Each key is different, the fun decorated ones you can cut at the hardware store rather than the boring silver or brass ones that come standard with a lock. The girls look at the keys, at each other, and then back at him. “This way.” He leads them onto the new mini-sidewalk that curves off from the driveway to the outside of the garage, ending near the back of it at a sturdy door. “Try it.”
“Vic . . . ,” Inara says slowly.
“Try it.”
Her key is bright blue with ladybugs on it, and it slides easily into the lock. She’s immediately met with a narrow, fairly long flight of stairs, and the other two follow after her when none of us show signs of moving. Then we race up after them.
As we round the corner, there’s a bright flash from a camera, which has to mean Jenny and Marlene were already waiting. Over the spring and early summer, the hired crew has been hard at work adding a second story to the garage, the top level fully insulated and wired for electricity. There’s a small kitchen, mostly built for snack purposes, a full bathroom, a bedroom with a set of three staggered beds, a cross between triple bunk beds and a stepladder, and the biggest part, a living room with comfortable couches and beanbags and with a TV in one corner.
“Welcome home,” Vic says simply, as the girls stare around in wonder.
They drop their bags and tackle him in another hug that sends him toppling back onto a couch. Just before he lands, Priya grabs one of the throw pillows and tucks it behind Vic’s back to soften the landing. She grins, bouncing on the seat beside him, and Victoria-Bliss laughs and chatters, but Inara, eyes bright, turns her face into his shoulder and holds tight.
Slipping between me and Eddison in a move that only startles Eddison a little, Sterling puts her arms around our waists. “Today’s a good day,” she says quietly.
In spite of everything that happened earlier, I have to agree.
Eddison doesn’t say anything, but he’s got the small, soft smile that only comes out for family, and that’s better than a cheer.
The next day, Vic drops the girls off at Eddison’s on his way to work with a stern warning to spend the day relaxing, and Sterling joins us shortly thereafter with breakfast. None of the three girls are especially morning oriented, and I’m sure they stayed up far too late with the giddiness over the apartment. When they’re a little more awake, we cycle through turns in the bedroom to change into swimsuits and head down to the pool. Inara and Victoria-Bliss in high-backed one-pieces don’t surprise me. However comfortable they’ve grown with the enormous butterfly wing tattoos that were forced on them, they don’t generally choose to have them show in mixed company.
Priya walks out in a royal blue bikini and an open baseball shirt. I glance over to Eddison, who sighs and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from begging her to put on something more concealing, because, while Eddison is wonderful at respecting bodily autonomy, Priya is his little sister. I don’t know how many brothers are ever comfortable with their little sisters (or sisters in general, I guess) in bikinis. Then Sterling walks out in a bubblegum-pink two-piece with a flirty ruffle along the hips, and Eddison’s cheeks turn a shade close to matching.
As the rest of us settle into deck chairs for some sun, Eddison immediately dives into the pool to start laps. He isn’t going to say it unless I press, but I suspect he’s a little uncomfortable at how his being part of the company could be perceived by people who don’t know us. It does look a little like a harem. I don’t press, though. He’s a genuinely good man, and he’s uncomfortable for our sake more than his. There’s not really a way to talk him out of that one.
“Does your mother know about that?” Sterling asks, pointing to the tattoo that stretches along Priya’s entire left side.
“Helped me pick the parlor and went with me to every session,” the girl answers with a laugh. At the beginning of summer, she kept slipping into French whenever she wasn’t directly addressing one of us, her brain hardwired from three years of living in Paris. She hasn’t done it in a couple of weeks, though.
I lean over in the chair so I can see it better. I knew she was working on it over the spring months, but she didn’t tell us what she was getting. Last time she was down here, at the beginning of summer, the final session was still healing, so she didn’t show us. If the size of it is somewhat surprising, the images are absolutely Priya. A large chess queen, made of colorful stained glass, stands in a base of flowers. Jonquils, calla lilies, freesia, all the flowers left by the serial killer who murdered her sister and then hunted Priya. Chavi’s flowers, sunshine yellow chrysanthemums, ring the queen’s crown. Above the chrysanthemums float two butterflies, large enough to make out their specific coloring.
I don’t have to look them up to know what they are: a Western Pine Elfin and a Mexican Bluewing, which can be found in more detail on Inara’s and Victoria-Bliss’s backs respectively.
“I felt like I could finally leave it behind,” Priya says quietly.
“It?”
“The sense of being a victim. Like somehow it was all finally mine, and under my skin where it belonged rather than shredding me.”
Without conscious thought, my fingers trace the scars on my cheek, covered with waterproof makeup. Priya’s seen them bare, but I don’t think Inara and Victoria-Bliss ever have.
But then, even outside of the tattoos, they have their own scars. Inara’s hands will forever show the trials of the night the Garden exploded, burns and bits of glass leaving their marks when she fought to keep the other Butterflies safe in impossible circumstances. Priya’s hands have thin, pale scars across her palms and fingers where she fought for possession of a knife, and a worse line across her neck, a blade held to her pulse.
Scars mean we survived something, even when the wounds still hurt.
The day offers a much-needed sense of relaxation, even after the heat chases us inside to the air-conditioning. As night falls and the temperature starts dipping a little, we return to the patio with arms overflowing with s’mores fixings, because Sterling learned that Inara has never had a s’more. There isn’t a fire pit in the complex, but shortening the legs on one of the grills places the flames at a comfortable height, and Priya has her camera out to capture Inara’s first bite. She closes her eyes like she’s tasting heaven, a bit of melting chocolate clinging to the corner of her mouth, a blob of marshmallow sticking to her nose, and I can’t wait to show that picture to Vic.
Then my work phone goes off.
We all freeze, staring at it where it sits innocently on top of my shoes. None of us have mentioned the case today. Somehow there was just this sense of agreement to leave it alone for another day, maybe two. Just . . . later.
Sterling leans over to read the screen. “It’s Holmes,” she says quietly.
I grab it and accept the call. “Ramirez.”
“I don’t care what Simpkins says,” the detective says by way of hello, “these kids are hysterical and they need you here.”
“Which kids?”
“The three who wandered into the fire station half an hour ago with teddy bears and your name. Get to Prince William.”
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was scared of crying.
It seemed she’d spent her whole life crying. Those few days in the hospital, after Daddy was arrested, whenever she cried, a nurse or social worker would hurry into the room if the angel wasn’t already there. They’d comfort her with soft voices and gentle hugs, things she’d never known before, and she would feel stronger until the fear got the better of her again. Then it was off to that first foster home, where only tears given to God had any meaning. She didn’t know how to give her tears to God.
She didn’t know how to give anything to God.
But that home didn’t have children anymore, not since one of the boys passed out in class and a doctor discovered they were all being sta
rved. They all got sent to different homes, and the little girl liked the second home. The woman was funny and kind, and the man had sad eyes and a gentle smile and always seemed to know which of the girls were the most broken because he would speak softly to them, hands by his sides. He never touched them, never cornered them, was so careful to give them space and never called them pet names.
He never called her angel, or baby, never called her beautiful.
But then there was a car accident, and unlike Mama’s, this one really was an accident, and another group of kids was scattered. The next house was all right, everyone fairly content to ignore each other outside of meals, but then the man’s sister and children came to live with them, and the sister was sick, too sick for the man and woman to take care of children who weren’t theirs.
That’s when the little girl was sent here, to a woman who passed her days in a haze of pills and her nights with alcohol and sedatives, and never knew what her husband did to the children in their care.
Daddy would have liked the husband.
She cried, because this wasn’t supposed to happen, she was never supposed to have to suffer through this again (ever, the angel had said; she wasn’t supposed to have gone through this ever) but the man came to her room and told her that she liked it, she knew she did, she knew she’d missed this, being taken care of properly.
But she couldn’t stop crying; she never could.
19
“Sterling, get the girls back to Vic’s. Come on, Ramirez, we need to change.” Eddison dumps the emergency bucket of sand over the grill, extinguishing the flames, and grabs up whatever packaging he can. After a moment, the rest of us pitch in, then jog up to his apartment. The girls grab bags and give me hugs or kisses as they follow Sterling out.
It seems stupid to take time to change clothes, especially when we’re not the ones working the case, but I can’t well show up in shorts and a halter top. We yank on jeans, and Eddison tosses me a long-sleeved University of Miami tee to throw on over the halter top. We’re out the door less than two minutes after the girls, and actually pull out of the parking lot before they do.
“They wandered into a fire station,” I tell him, hanging on to the oh-shit handle for dear life. Eddison doesn’t dick around when he’s driving to a scene. “Three kids, they’re being taken to Prince William.”
“Got it.” He curses at a red light, then, seeing no one coming down the cross street, runs it. “Three days. The time between kills is getting shorter and shorter.”
The car screams into the hospital’s parking lot just behind the ambulances, and then we’re running to the ER entrance to follow the kids who are way too small for the gurneys they’re on. The boys look like twins, so thin it’s impossible to guess their age, and the girl doesn’t look any better. Holmes is waiting at the nurses’ station. She draws herself up to greet the children, but upon actually seeing them, her giant coffee slips from nerveless fingers to splash all over the floor.
“Are they high?” she hisses.
One of the boys is shaking, not a seizure so much as a full-body tremor, grinding his teeth as his head sways back and forth. He plucks and tears at the skin around his fingernails, leaving great bloody streaks behind, and he can’t seem to stop talking, the words spilling out fast and half-formed. His twin is silent, but his pupils are blown so wide he can’t possibly see anything, and his skin is bright with sweat. He keeps trying to swallow, but each time, his dry throat clicks and catches, and he tries again. Their sister . . .
Their sister is screaming, stopping only long enough to draw another ragged breath, and her arms are belted to the gurney, I assume to keep her from adding to the scratches all down her arms. She’s absolutely hysterical, pupils blown and eyes unfocused.
“They’ve been exposed to meth,” I say breathlessly. “A lot of meth to have this kind of effect.”
The nurses jump into action, the charge nurse snapping instructions and sending one of them running for doctors.
“How much do you think, to get that?” Holmes asks.
“Their parents have to be cooking it.” Jesus, my hands are shaking. I’ve seen kids under the influence before, but never to that extent. Usually when someone’s drugging a child, it’s to subdue them, not hop them up. “Has anyone made it out to the parents yet?”
“The closer fire station,” she answers grimly.
“The house is on fire?”
Eddison curses under his breath. “Meth kitchens explode pretty frequently, but I’m going to guess this one had help. If the parents were inside . . .”
“Explains why the only blood on the children is what they’ve drawn themselves.”
“Mignone is out at the scene; we called Simpkins, she and some of her agents are heading out, but the girl, Zoe, she kept chanting your name. Can you—”
“Yes.” Leaving Eddison and Holmes mopping up spilled coffee, I head behind the girl’s curtain. Zoe, Holmes said. She’s fighting the nurses as they unstrap her, her bony arms flailing as she continues to scream. “Zoe? Zoe, can you hear me?”
If she does, she’s too worked up to answer.
“Zoe, my name is Mercedes, Mercedes Ramirez.”
The screams stop, at least, and she stares at me, or tries to, her shoulders heaving with labored, gasping breaths. “Mer-mer-mercedes. Mercedes. Safe Mercedes, she said that.”
The charge nurse frees a hand to point at a spot on the bed. Obediently, I sit there, pulling on the gloves she tosses me, and when they transfer Zoe to the bed, I’m at the perfect position to take her hands in mine, gently but too firmly for her to pull free and scratch. Around the long, frenzied scratches, bright rashes bloom up and down her arms.
“That’s right, Zoe,” I say softly, “you’re safe now. You’re at the hospital, your brothers are here. We’re going to help you. You’re safe here.”
The shuddering gasps turn into sobs, and she collapses forward, letting me cradle her against my chest. I carefully prop my shoulder under her cheek, keeping her face away from the exposed skin at my neck. I don’t want to get an accidental contact high from the meth on her skin and clothes. “We’ve got you,” I murmur, holding her steady for the nurses.
They work quickly, getting her vitals settled and an IV started for fluids. With a bit of coaching, Zoe turns her arm to let them draw blood. Meth is a given, but they’ll need to check to make sure that’s all it is.
“My brothers,” she chokes out.
“They’re here, Zoe, it’s okay. They’re getting help, too. They’re just on the other side of those curtains.”
She’s starting to wheeze, and I rub a gloved hand in circles against her back to try to settle her a bit. “The lady. She kept. She grabbed. The lady.” She flaps her hand, hard enough to almost dislodge the second draw needle at her elbow. There are red impressions around her wrist, darker than the rash. Fingers? The beginnings of bruises?
“She grabbed your arm, didn’t she, Zoe? Kept hold of you so your brothers wouldn’t fight?”
Nodding, she draws in a deeper breath. It’s still shaky, but it’s stronger, and followed by another good breath. “An angel, Mercy. She didn’t have wings.”
“Zoe, were you and your brothers sleeping when she came in?”
“Sleeping? Trying. Trying, but our skin was alive.” She looks down at her arms and tries to pull her hands away to scratch. One of the nurses holds her IV arm still, and I keep the other one against Zoe’s thigh.
“When did your skin come alive? Zoe? When did it start?”
“We wanted dinner. The beds were out of food. Mommy and Daddy made us dinner. We never eat in the kitchen. We ate in the kitchen, though, with Mommy and Daddy.”
“Cagaste y saltaste en la caca. Jesucristo.” Those idiots weren’t cooking meth in a shed or garage; they were using their own fucking kitchen. The beds were out of food? Did the kids hide food in their rooms so they wouldn’t have to go to the kitchen? Santa madre de Dios.
“You had dinner, you we
re trying to sleep. Zoe, what happened then? Zoe?”
“An angel came.” Her words are softer, her voice cracked and raw from screaming. “Angels have wings. Didn’t have wings.”
“What did the angel do, Zoe?”
“She . . . she . . .” With a sudden gasp, she starts seizing. The nurses grab her out of my arms to lower her to the bed, supporting her head and neck against the spasms. One of them eyes his watch, timing the fit.
“How long?” snaps a young doctor, pushing through the curtain.
“Forty-two seconds,” answers the one with the watch.
They push an injection into her IV, close to her hand, but it still takes a couple of minutes for the seizure to ease. Once she falls limp, they loop an oxygen mask over her face.
“I’m sorry, Agent, I need you out of here,” the doctor says, and to her credit, she does actually look sorry.
“Of course. Her brothers?”
“Not seizing. You can try.”
I peel off the gloves and get a fresh pair, just in case, and head to the next set of curtains. The quiet one is there, his hands shaking finely as he gulps down water under the watchful eye of a nurse. When the cup’s empty, he tries to hand it back to her, but can only hold it out vaguely in her direction. She pours in a little more from a pitcher and gives it back to him. He’s already got a self-adhering bandage looped around his elbow from a blood draw, the IV taped to the back of his hand. Because they didn’t have to struggle with him the way they did with Zoe, he’s also got heart monitor pads on his chest, and an oxygen mask is sitting on the bed by his hip.
“Dry mouth,” the nurse informs me quietly. “There’s only so much the water can help right now, but we’ll get the mask on him in a couple of minutes.”
I give her a quick smile and look back at the boy. “My name is Mercedes,” I tell him, and he nods, seeming to recognize it. “Can you tell me your name?”
The Summer Children Page 16
