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Authors: Victor McGlothin

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BOOK: Sleep Don't Come Easy
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Invisible
T
he cops reminded him of roaches, swarming around the place where they found that woman. Damn, he hated cops. But then, they didn't care much for him either, he thought, smirking. Lazarus watched from a distance, failing to blend in with the crowd, but managing to be a part of them anyway. That spot down there was his favorite place at night, next to the river because the sound of the water would lull him to sleep.
Lazarus killed a man and his little girl not far from here years ago when he was a young man. Back then, he drank too much when he drove, and smashed up his 1980 Thunderbird sedan and those people right along with it. He'd always thought it a shame that he managed to walk away. Spent plenty of time in prison, though, but he shouldn't have been the one to live.
He wondered sometimes if he had kids of his own. Lazarus couldn't remember children, at least none that looked like him anyway. His memory was sketchy at best, though, filled with blank and empty spots; he'd lost track of time, and eventually figured that time had probably lost track of him too, so him and time were even as far as he was concerned.
Eventually, the cold started getting to him and Lazarus knew he needed to walk before his joints grew stiff. Another reminder that he'd been living out here too long. Lazarus was fifty-nine or sixty. He wasn't sure which, but he knew he was one or the other. He was old enough in years, but his body felt like it was even older.
He enjoyed this time of year, though. Pretty Christmas lights hung overhead, folks stood in the streets singing for no other reason than the season, and bells rang from every goddamned where. Lazarus startled some people walking ahead of him when he let out a hearty laugh. They turned and looked at him, and he looked right back, and nodded his acknowledgment. Naturally, they hurried along to try and get away from him. Had his knees not hurt so bad, he'd have hurried right along after them just enough to scare the shit out of them.
As he scuffled heavy-footed along the 16th Street Mall, people instinctively made wide paths around him. Anybody else might've taken it personally, but Lazarus appreciated the extra room. “Got a lotta snow for this time of year!” he said much too loudly to no one in particular. Of course he didn't expect anyone to respond, but if someone had, he'd have ignored them. Lazarus never had been much of a conversationalist, and he didn't care too much for people. So most of his conversations were between Lazarus and himself, just in earshot of everybody else.
Everything he owned he carried in his backpack: some extra socks which didn't match, a thin, worn coat that made a better pillow than something to keep him warm, an empty pill bottle with his real name on it. He ran out of pills a long time ago, but kept the bottle to remind him of who he'd once been. And a broken yellow crayon. He found it on the street once and kept it because—hell—he liked yellow. And he carried a key. For thirty years he'd been trying to remember what it went to. He held on to it, though, just in case.
“Got snow I say,” he muttered again. Cold seeped in through the bottom of his boots. The soles had worn thin and he needed to get another pair soon. Sometimes they gave them away at The Broadway, or he'd have to go digging around in the trash to find a pair. People were wasteful, throwing away perfectly good shit without even thinking about it, but it was all good if it meant finding a decent pair of shoes.
He was tired as hell, walking from dawn to sunset, stopping long enough to check for food where he knew people sometimes tossed it. Stopping long enough to stare at his reflection in the windows of the buildings, wondering what he must've looked like before he became the man he was now. Lazarus stared at the ground as he walked. People dropped things—change, something good to eat, and they walked over that shit too, because they were too busy to notice. He noticed, though. Lazarus noticed most things, and by the end of the day, he had a nice chunk of change jingling in his pocket. He stopped in a coffee shop and ordered a cup of hot coffee and a donut. Then Lazarus sat down on one of the benches, and stared up at the Christmas lights above his head.
He tried not to think about her. The police had come and picked her up early, like he knew they would. Lazarus had covered her up, nicely, though, with something to keep her warm. He'd been a hell of a man in his day, he thought proudly. Women like her practically threw themselves at him, because he was so good-looking. Too bad about what happened to her. Hell, he thought they were getting it on, which is why he let them be. If he'd known the mothafucka was killing her, he'd have done something. His mind went blank as to what. He'd have done something. If the cops knew he'd been there, they'd probably think he did it. Which is why he wasn't trying to tell them a damn thing. They were always trying to throw his ass in jail for one reason or another. He wasn't about to make it easy for them.
“The police can't stand a mothafucka!” he spat, startling some woman walking past him.
The brotha cried when he walked away from her. Like his heart was broken and like he was sorry. Lazarus watched him leave, and turn one last time to look at her. He never saw Lazarus because it was so dark and Lazarus knew how to lie still so people would keep on walking and not bother him. Lazarus knew who he was though. His ass had been in the paper, and he'd seen him someplace else too, but damned if he could recall where. That woman looked familiar too. Only she looked even prettier when she wasn't dead.
Hidden Treasure
“M
y father is an important diplomat. I'm sure he has half the world out looking for me.” Alina's Russian accent was almost too thick to understand, but Ivy listened intently, hoping that she was telling the truth. “I came here to attend American university—Brown,” she continued talking in a low voice. “Have you heard of it?”
Alina was nineteen, two years older than Ivy, and she was beautiful, tall—at least five-ten, thin, with silky brown hair cut short, and crystal blue eyes. Ivy had lived in the basement of this old house for months, and she'd seen people from all over the world come and go. Most of them couldn't speak English and the few who did didn't say much because they were afraid and confused. Alina was different, though, and she spoke like royalty. “When my father finds out what's happened to me, he'll have their heads. All of them.”
Across the room were two women and one man, sitting huddled together speaking in Chinese or some other Asian language. “They took my passport,” Alina continued, hardly noticing that Ivy hadn't said a word. “There were four of us who came here to attend university, and they took all of our passports. When I protested, one of them hit me. Can you believe it? He hit me!” Her clear blue eyes clouded over and she pressed her hand against the side of her face. “I told him, my father is Ambassador Petrov, and if he finds out what you are doing to me—” Alina started to sob quietly. “What do you think they will do to us?” she finally asked Ivy.
“I don't know,” Ivy shrugged. Alina had the benefit of being a diplomat's daughter, but Ivy was no one's daughter. She'd run away from home two years ago. Her mother had been a heroin addict and her father, whom she barely knew, had another family altogether and wanted nothing to do with her. Someone had offered her a ride once, and she made the mistake of taking it. She never knew their names, and the faces were always different. But Ivy was a commodity. She'd heard them call her that once, and she was a hot ticket on the Internet. They'd made her strip down to her bra and panties at the first place they stopped, made her swallow a handful of pills and took her picture. Not long after that, the men started coming and doing terrible things to her and there was nothing she could do to stop them. That's what they did to her. But she didn't tell Alina because her rich father might be able to save her and there was no sense worrying her needlessly.
Since Ivy had been in this place, though, she'd been pretty well taken care of. They'd starved her before, but here, she had plenty to eat, and the men hadn't come at all. But she wasn't allowed to leave. The people here were nicer than the rest, but it was still a prison and Ivy wanted her freedom more than anything.
“If she'd have gone for help, the police should've been here by now,” Alina's voice quivered. “Don't you think? Maybe she's one of them. I think she might have been.”
The night before, a pretty black woman had crept down the stairs and seen Ivy and Alina in the basement chained to the radiator by the ankles. She'd gasped at the sight of them, and started to speak, but the sound of voices came from somewhere in the house, and the woman ran away.
“I don't think she's one of them,” Ivy whispered. “She didn't look like somebody who'd do this to us.”
“She should have gone to the police, then. And she should have told them where we were and—”
Alina stopped speaking when she heard the door at the top of the stairs open. Heavy footsteps slowly descended down the stairs. Everyone in the room stared at the man as he approached Alina and Ivy and stood between them. He dropped a newspaper on the floor and without saying a word, left as abruptly as he came.
After he closed the door behind him, Ivy tentatively reached across the floor and picked up the paper. On the front page was a picture of the woman they'd seen the other night. She wouldn't be going to the police after all. Hope sank like a ship in Ivy's stomach, as she covered her mouth with her hand and stifled a cry.
 
Denver Woman Found Murdered
 
Ivy looked at Alina, who knew instinctively that no one would be coming to their rescue today.
The Gathering
A
fter the funeral, family and friends gathered at the house where Toni grew up. Esther and Thomas Robbins were gracious people despite the tragic loss of their oldest daughter. Everyone ate and drank and reminisced about Toni, but Fatema didn't have much of an appetite. Since Fatema moved to Denver from Alexandria, Virginia to attend college, the Robbinses practically had become family, and Toni was as much her sister as her real sisters were back home. They'd grown apart these past few years for different reasons and in different directions.
Toni majored in sociology, but ended up working in the planning division for the city. She'd never gotten married or had children, but she was the one who loved the idea. Between the two of them, they both figured she'd be the first to settle down, but the task fell in Fatema's lap to everyone's surprise. They drifted apart after Fatema and Drew got married, but Toni had been her maid of honor, and she had been slated to be godmomma too, if Fatema had given into Drew's whim to start having babies right away.
The old Park Hill home, was still the most warm and inviting place she'd ever known. The Robbinses were stuck in an eighties time warp, with their decor. The pink and sea foam green striped wallpaper and that atrocious rose-colored carpet made her smile, recalling how wonderful it was that they'd left well enough alone. Fatema fought back tears the way she'd been doing all afternoon, when Tracy, Toni's younger sister, sat down beside her on the loveseat in the family room.
“It never ceases to amaze me how anybody could have an appetite after a funeral,” she said, grabbing hold to Fatema's hand. “I don't think I'll ever eat again.”
Tracy was five years younger than Fatema and Toni, and when she was a kid, Fatema couldn't stand her. Thank goodness they grew up. Tracy was a younger version of her sister, just more random. She wasn't as refined as Toni, choosing to wear sarongs, or tattered jeans, and pulling her natural hair back into a puff. She was as beautiful as her sister, though. Toni had been the shorter of the two, more petite, and Tracy was dangerously curvy. If she wasn't careful, she could easily cause a traffic accident.
“She called me about two months ago.” Fatema swallowed hard. “Left me a message, and I never called her back. I kept meaning to, but—”
Tracy looked at her with tears in her eyes. “Shame on you.”
Fatema squeezed her hand, and smiled weakly. “I know. I suck.”
Tracy managed to laugh. “I always thought so.”
This time, Fatema laughed. “You never did like me.”
“You're like my sister, Fat Ema,” she quipped. “And I didn't like her much either.”
Fatema cringed when Tracy called her Fat Ema, but what could she do? They were both grieving the loss of the most important person between them, and it just felt wrong to protest.
“I miss the hell out of her.”
“I'm lost without her,” Tracy's eyes clouded over.
Fatema pulled the young woman to her and held her. “I know, honey. I know.”
“She used to talk about you behind your back, you know,” Tracy said, as she sat up and wiped away tears.
Fatema looked appalled. “She did? What did she say?”
“Said you were your own worst enemy and your biggest fan.”
The two of them fell into each other laughing hysterically. People in the room looked at them like they were crazy.
“She was so right,” Fatema nodded. “Looking at myself is like watching a train wreck. I don't want to look, but I can't help it.”
“She loved the mess outta you, though.” Tracy squeezed her hand. “And she knew you loved her too.”
“How was she doing, Tracy?”
Tracy sighed. “Well, you know how she always hated drama?”
“Loathed it.”
“She was drowning in it, Fatema.” Fatema looked stunned. “She was a moody mess because of it too.”
“Man problems?”
“Men problems,” Tracy corrected her. “And work problems. And I'm-not-happy-with-the-way-my-life-turned-out blues.”
“She sounds like every other woman I know,” Fatema said sarcastically.
“Speak for yourself,” Tracy shot back. “Because I ain't tripping.”
“Sorry. I forgot that you had your act together.”
“Since birth.”
“So who was she seeing? Anybody I might know?”
“Well, the brotha giving her the most grief is affectionately known as Mr. X because she wouldn't tell me his name.”
“He was married?”
“Of course. He started tripping when she broke it off with him, though, blowing up her cell phone, blasting her with e-mails, even showing up at her job. But the other brotha had her thinking marriage and kids and the house in the suburbs. She was really feeling him. I think she loved him.”
“What was his name?”
“Nelson. Cute too, girl!” Tracy exclaimed. “I met him once, and slobbered all over myself.”
Fatema laughed, and the reporter in her stirred from her slumber, and that inquisitive thing she came by naturally made the hair on her arms stand up. “You think either of them might have some idea of why this happened?”
Tracy cut her off. “Girl, don't ask me. Toni was—I don't know. She'd been acting really strange lately. I don't even think Nelson knew where she was coming from half the time. We all met for drinks one night, laughing and having a good time, then all of a sudden, she gets real serious and brings up something she'd heard on the news about some missing Russian ambassador's daughter. And that led to conversations of other people's missing children and immigrants in this country and disadvantages and exploitation. I lost my buzz real quick. Nelson did too, from the look on his face, but since it was obvious the man had caught feelings over her, he entertained the conversation. I left. But, you know how she got sometimes,” Tracy gave a sly grin. “Every once in awhile she got a wild hair up her behind to save the world and everybody in it and that sociology major came up like the resurrected dead or something.”
“Yeah, I used to have to tell her to back off, because she used to try and drag me along.”
“But she was all obsessed about this chick. I went by her place one day and she was on the Internet, reading all of these articles about her, Alina Petrov or whatever. She showed me some of the articles, and I asked her what was up, but she just said . . . she didn't know for sure.”
Fatema drove home with the conversation she'd had with Tracy heavy on her mind. Toni had been dead for nearly a week, and the police still hadn't found the killer. Maybe she was just looking for a reason to butt in. Tracy hadn't told her anything all that extraordinary. Toni had a man she'd broken up with and who had her tripping. That was a broad term, “tripping,” and it could've meant a lot of things. Jilted lover murders woman for wanting to leave him—seemed mighty clichéd for this day and age, but hey, it happened. And then there was the other thing making her “trip.” That girl who'd gone missing about a month ago that Toni had become so enthralled with recently. How and why would something like that ever pop up on the radar of a city planner? Fatema wondered.
 
Tracy had been kind enough to give Fatema a key to her sister's condo. She needed to see it—to connect with her friend one last time. She stood outside the door with the key in her hand, daring herself to put it in the lock and open the door. Fatema didn't know how long she'd been standing there, but eventually she realized that today was not the day to go inside. She'd burst like a dam if she did, and there'd be no amount of objectivity in her.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered to Toni's spirit. “I'll go inside tomorrow, T.”
BOOK: Sleep Don't Come Easy
11.19Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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