Evil Cries

by Lala Corriere

He squared his body in his chair and sat straight up. “Who and why?” he muttered.

  “I have enough of those kinds of questions in my life right now. I really don’t have time for more. Maybe your redheaded bed-thrashing Rachel hasn’t changed her life around after all.”

  I left before the meals arrived.

  Chapter 38

  Jazz with an Extra Beat Going On

  ZOEY STOOD NEAR AN outdoor bronze horse sculpture framed with a circle of erect cacti on the surrounding walls. Tucson Jazz Society had brought their rhythms and beats and sounds under the stars at Tohono Chul Park. Awkward, but Shirley and I arrived at the parking lot at the same time. Why couldn’t I just like her?

  Zoey, as always, wore her big black body proud, not caring that the horizontal zebra stripes on her tight dress accentuated every extra pound she carried. Her lips boasted a shiny red gloss as thick as an oil-based paint. Her hair, straightened and pulled back from her face, showcased gleaming ebony eyes.

  That’s when I finally looked at Shirley and realized she too looked magnificent, in a shantung silk suit cut to accent her sleek body. And that’s when I realized I was the joke. I looked like crap. I mean they told me the event was in a park. It sort of sounded casual to me.

  Hollywood hugs, and we already had drinks in our hands. The gardens were lit up with a dichotomy of the dazzling and the subtle, and while the chairs in front of the stage were full of eager listeners, there was an abundance of pathways to stroll and mingle and listen, if not see.

  “What a perfect night,” I offered.

  “It is,” Zoey squealed. “But I guess you didn’t bring a date?”

  “No, and before you go off on me, let me put my cards on the table. Gage is still staying at The Club, for now. When he’s in town, that is. Our dog is back home with me, and I’m simply not quite ready for any confrontation with him.”

  “Gage or the Earl of Éclair?” Zoey asked in a deadpan voice unworthy of an answer.

  “So you didn’t take our advice and get some facts from him?” Shirley asked.

  I fired her a warning look, then tried to soften it with two words. “Not yet.”

  The crowd grew thick, but one man at the small outdoor bar caught my eye. Marcus Armstrong. When I felt certain he was alone, with one drink in his hand and lingering, I excused myself from Shirley and Zoey and walked over to him.

  “You’re a long way from home,” I said.

  Marcus looked up, almost spilling his drink. “Wow! I didn’t expect to see you here. I just got back into the country so I guess you could say it feels close to home to me.”

  “How was Zambia?” I asked.

  “Worthwhile. I worked hand-in-hand with a n’anga from Zimbabwe. A faith healer. Fascinating.”

  “You’re never a bit worried about working over there?”

  “Never,” he said. “Too much work to be done.”

  “I admire that. And it’s good to see you,” I said, with a quick scrape of my fingers through my hair while horrified my palm was already moist with a nervous sweat.

  He hesitated, “Are you alone this evening?”

  “I’m here with a couple of friends.”

  “I see,” he said, never taking his eyes off of me. “I’m sorry to hear that. I mean, I better let you get back to them.”

  “Are you alone?”

  He answered with the tiniest of a nod, a blank expression on his face. Stupid question, I thought. He had just told me his fiancé was no longer.

  “Why don’t you come over and meet my friends?” I said.

  After introductions to both Shirley and Zoey and much small talk, he seemed oblivious as to having ever met Zoey, but she winked and smiled and talked non-stop, making it clear to me she remembered him and his arresting presence.

  An interesting exchange occurred between Marcus and Shirley. Not so much in words, but in the way they regarded each other with certain caution. Marcus stood more erect than I’ve seen him, especially knowing he had a bad back. Shirley presented herself by first moving away from Marcus, and then invading his physical space. She pulled her lithe body into a more rigid stance than Marcus, and raised her eyebrows more than once. She wore a condescending smile. Fake.

  Rather abruptly Marcus announced it truly was a long drive back to Reddington Pass, expressed apologies, and departed.

  Chapter 39

  Suspect List

  DETECTIVE STEVE TAYLOR hollered out at his partner. “Hey Junior, quitting time. Let’s go grab a beer.”

  Ten minutes later they sat with two cold ones on the table of a local watering hole.

  “Do you even know my real name?” the younger man asked.

  “Sure do, Elijah. Eli. Want me to call you that?”

  He smirked with a quiet shudder, “Junior works for me, as long as you let me work the jewelry shooting with you.”

  Taylor scratched his chin. “Who said I was working that? The big suits upstairs say the case is closed.”

  “Yeah, I heard that, but first, we don’t have an upstairs. Second, you have free time off and you have a thick stench on your taste buds you can’t scrape off.”

  Taylor stuck out his tongue and rolled it back, using his upper teeth to grate the surface. He took a swig of beer, then said, “Guess you’re right. Pretty grimy stuff.”

  Junior smiled and smacked his hand on the table. “Yes! I’m in. Where do we start?”

  “Gut instinct. Remember? Someone wanted the attention of Sterling Falls. Someone other than our dead gun-wielding Perez.”

  Junior sat, his eyes seemingly staring at the foam of the liquid gold beer as if he was reading tea leaves. “Perez was clean. And maybe a getaway car—certainly a drop-off car, but the car got away and Perez didn’t. So back to what we know. There’s a driver. And maybe someone in the passenger seat in front, since the kid got out of the back. Maybe someone or some ones had some thing on Perez.”

  “Good, but remember the tapes show Perez jumping out of a pretty fancy SUV. Maybe there was enough money in it for Perez to temporarily abandoned his Boy Scout oaths, the Ten Commandments, and his mommy’s tears. Let’s go back,” Taylor said. “Who would want to scare the Falls woman?”

  This time Junior was done being the underdog and ready to share his thoughts. Maybe he got the answers from the beer foam he intently read. He took two more gulps. “Old lover.”

  “Doesn’t seem possible. She’s been with the current one for some time. They seem to have had a spat, but it’s too recent. Times don’t work.”

  “Family? It is a family business.”

  Taylor darted his eyes around the room. He wasn’t about to reveal that Shirley was the mommy and Sterling’s only remaining family. “No. No family. She was the sole and only heir. Mark that off that creepy mental list of yours and give me more creep. What else?”

  “How about competitors? Thinking they could scare Falls and send her off packing, all the way back to Lala Land.”

  “That’s good,” Taylor said. Get a list of local jewelers in the area. More!”

  Junior scribbled in his notepad. “That lady is rich and beautiful. Maybe a jealous woman?”

  “Check it out,” Taylor said, but as far as I know her only female friend is back in L.A. running a magazine, happily married, and richer than Falls three-fold. No motive.”

  Junior slumped back in his chair, draining the last of the beer. “I’m back to the jilted lover or scorned woman theory,” he said.

  “Tell you what. Fall’s significant other is camping out in a room at The Club. Go home, clean up and meet me in an hour at their lobby bar.”

  “I’ll be there,” Junior said standing to rush off. The bill had yet to arrive.

  “And Junior,” Taylor called at him while pulling out his wallet, “bring some money. We can’t exactly expense this out. That’s part of you being in on this adventure. And wear some goddamn shoes that don’t scream cops.”

  Chapter 40

  The Chosen Ones

  DR.
MARCUS ARMSTRONG did not go to Zambia. He didn’t even possess a valid passport. Sacrum, instead, left Reddington Pass for his cherished boat, The Sarah. The world of opportunity.

  He had a humongous agenda, but needed to ensure he had enough time. Enough days. Hours. Even minutes.

  In fact, he had to abate his hunger, in wait, for three long brutal days.

  GAGE CONFRONTED RACHEL via email.

  Ten minutes later she called him. “No. No. I know nothing. It’s ludicrous. Who would do this? Oh my god. Do you want me to talk to her? Tell her it’s all a big mistake? Will that help?” Will that help you, Marcus? I’m so sorry, but you know I did nothing. We did nothing. Maybe it’s some type of cow-town paparazzi stirring up local trouble.”

  “ON THE THIRD DAY GOD created dry land, the seas, and vegetation,” Sacrum whispered to his bottle of Jack Daniels while hearing the sound traps go off near his beloved boat. He held back tears and his throat hushed to a barely audible murmur, “There was a cooling off of the earth and the earth changed from smooth to irregular with oceans and continents.” That was God’s mistake, he thought. Sacrum liked things nice and smooth.

  The kind offer of a cold beer always worked, even as guests were more desperate for water. Never available on The Sarah, such nourishment.

  Without prompting the man said, “My name is Pocko.”

  Sacrum absorbed the sight of the man. Quite young. And they were always so old looking to him, in spite of their age and due to their elements of life. “Excellent. You speak English?”

  “Yes. Pretty good.”

  “Pocko, would you like a cigarette?”

  “I quit.”, but on second thought he said, “Sure. Why not.”

  And the game began.

  “Pocko, have you ever thought that you may be the chosen one? Very special?”

  “Only to my mother,” he laughed, and the lighter was knocked off the table. Pocko bent over to pick it up.

  Pocko’s mouth, arms and legs, now bond in duct tape, seared and sealed in the panic in his eyes. His body, stiff with fear, mimicked the steel of the chair that supported him.

  “This is a great honor for you, Pocko. I want you to know that. And it’s an extra honor for me that you can understand me. Blink once if you understand me and twice if you don’t.”

  The rigid man blinked once.

  “Folks around here know me as Sacrum. A funny story, really, since my mother fucked up my back when I was a kid. My name is really Marcus. Get it? An anagram. A little silly anagram.

  “I’m a doctor. A plastic surgeon. You and I aren’t going to save the world, but we’re going to make it more interesting. You need to relax. Breathe. This will be an extended visit.”

  Pocko blinked twice.

  “Relax and you’ll be fine. Just a little cocktail of perfect doses. A good bit of Doriden to relax you. Calm you. And a bit of Haldol and Aldomet. A perfect prescription. That’s all. I only hope you won’t barf. Don’t barf, Pocko.”

  Pocko took in three deep breaths, in spite of the restraints now across his chest. His clenched fists opened slightly.

  “Do you know the word symmetry?”

  Two blinks. No.

  “That’s okay. I’ll explain it. And for once this won’t be a soliloquy. I get so fucking damn mad talking to myself all the time when no one here understands me,” he yelled.

  “Oh yes,” he said, his voice returning to a melodic richness. “Back to symmetry. Since ancient Grecian time the beauty of the human body has been based upon the perfection in symmetry.

  “Now I’m not particularly prejudiced about the color of a man’s skin. Not really, but just think about it. Think of all the statues of Greek gods and goddesses, all sculpted from white marble. And when you look at them, you see that their bodies are not only white, but flawless in symmetry. The eyes, mouth, nose, ears—all perfectly even. Their chest or breasts, their arms. Legs. This is how beauty is judged. By perfect symmetry.”

  The man began to slump in the chair, his hands losing any remaining grasps on the chair. His eyes closed.

  Sacrum punched him in the stomach. “You stay awake, you little prick. I told you I like it that you understand me. And I goddamn will make sure you hear me, asshole.”

  Pocko wheezed in pain, and then slowly lifted his head. His eyelids fluttered until the ice cold beer poured down his face. His eyes opened, but only two impossible slits that saw that darkness had ponied up a chair next to him at the table of death where he now slouched in his chair, only held up by the restraints.

  “I get it. The drugs have kicked in. I guess I rushed giving them to you when I wanted you to listen to me. Let’s calm down. You see, I could fix your crooked nose and lift up your right eye. I could even chisel out some cheekbones for you. Pop them out. You’ve not stayed away from too many beans and burros, either, Pocko. Basically you’re a fat mess, but not unlike every other prince and princess wannabe I see that walks into my office. You’re not an impossible case.”

  Marcus smiled as the man now slumped, “Not worth it—those narcissistic surgeries.

  For you, I have something else in mind. You are chosen.”

  Chapter 41

  The Truth and Nothing, but the Truth

  ZOEY REMAINED PISSED off at me, as made apparent by her big bulging brown eyes that could turn into a pair of mean swinging bull’s testicles at any moment. It frustrated her that I didn’t want to do anything solo with Shirley. I caved in to those swinging balls of eyeballs and finally agreed to meet Shirley for a quick cup of coffee. Just Shirley and me. Her house. That way, I was in total control of my departure time.

  Idle small chat quickly turned out not so idle. I started it.

  “What’s up with Zoey’s personal life? She’s so secretive.”

  Her answer was a little zinger that ricocheted through my mind and kept coming back like a boomerang.

  “I can trust your total confidentiality? Friend-to-friend-to-friend?”

  “Like you haven’t already told me a whole lot of really private shit,” I said.

  “Is that a yes?”

  I understood the grave importance and cut the crap. “Yes.”

  “To say she’s loose is to be very kind. She just doesn’t kiss and tell.”

  And then another sneaky snake of truth arises out of Shirley’s mouth, “I want to share something with you. Again, I need your complete confidence. You will not tell anyone else what I am going to tell you. Are you in?”

  “You’ve already told me you’re my biological mother. You’ve told me you’re FBI, and you’re a lesbian. Heck. I think I can take anything else you dish out.”

  “Is that a yes? In total confidence?”

  I nodded without hesitation. What else could come out of her mouth?

  “I’m here on official business. Not just to check up on you. You know that. Specifically, I’m here because illegal immigrants seem to be disappearing. Lots of them.”

  “You mean those crossing back over the border?” I said. “I’ve heard of that with our economy being in the tank.”

  “I’m talking about immigrants that are simply vanishing. Here. We all know illegals cross the border every day. For every few that head back there’s a hundred more still coming. We all know the government keeps backing off of defending our borders appropriately.”

  “All political grandstanding,” I said.

  Shirley stared at the Killiam rug on her floor. Studying a pattern she’d seen a thousand times, and somehow she was trying to make sense of her world.

  “The first fact is that often a serial killer will target a fragment of society that can go missing without much fuss. Prostitutes and runaways. And the illegal immigrants, where family members don’t know how to track down their loved ones, prove to be fertile game. Another fact is that we need to protect our borders from the drugs in and the weapons out. It’s largely about the criminal elements that be with the power houses behind them. On both sides of the border.

  “Many c
ome here and they’re good and decent persons. They have a thirst and belief in American freedom. A mindset for hard work to make it possible to dream. Mostly they risk their very lives with a conviction and faith that somehow, coming here, they can support their families left behind. Maybe at some point they can bring their loved ones here.”

  “I understand. It’s a problem. What are you trying to tell me?” And why?

  “I’m not after the most horrendous of the immigrants. I’m not after drug cartels and human traffickers. I’m here because there’s an alarming rise in the disappearance of illegal immigrants, and this is calculated beyond the normal attrition due to the inclement desert conditions and a few vigilantes. Statistics tell us we only know about a small percentage of these disappearances. No one claims them. No one talks. The skeletal remains, if found, end up unclaimed and in small boxes and now, mostly cremains these days. They don’t even bother stacking them on top of one another in paupers’ graves. Their ashes are poured into boxes.

  “Interestingly enough, for me, people are coming forward and reporting these disappearances. They put themselves in great jeopardy, but they are willing to put their lives in danger to tell their stories. That’s where the facts we have don’t add up. Too many are missing and not enough remains.”

  “And all I’ve read about are the enormous number of bodies found each year,” I said. “Why are you telling me this, Shirley?”

  “Because like it or not, I am your biological mother. You are my daughter. I wanted to break more chunks off the iceberg that lie between us, and the only way I know to start is by telling you the true story.”

  “Like honesty is important to you?”

  “I’m a little late. I can’t take that back. I can try and help fashion the future. Our future. I’m not asking to be your mom. I’m just hoping you’ll like me. I can be pretty likeable.”

  “That’s the kind of humor Gage has. Sometimes it’s cute. Sometimes not. Who else knows this latest truth about you?”