Dead Silence
Page 57
When they’d first found her, less than a month ago, she’d been pretty and fresh faced. Despite her attempts to look urban, he’d pegged her for what she was: a bored rich girl who was trying to rebel against her parents, to prove there was more to her than spray tan and strawberry lip gloss.
To look at her now was like a study in contrasts. Her hair, which had once been a soft shade of reddish-blonde, had since been dyed black, but was now faded and dirty. Her skin, which had been clear, was now marked with pockets of acne, and her cheeks were hollow. Her eyes, although sunken and ringed with dark circles, were the only giveaway to the girl she’d once been, big and silvery green-gray, made more mesmerizing by the pining that tormented her.
He couldn’t help her now though. He had to save enough for Bailey, who was getting progressively worse, her tolerance getting harder and harder to satisfy. Kisha and Boxer and Colton, at least, could function on small hits here and there. Bailey could no longer get up in the morning without the needle. And he couldn’t bear to watch her tweak the way he was watching Butterfly do now.
Bailey had been the first to call him “family.” The first to let him take care of her.
He refused to let her down, but at the rate she was going, she’d used up most of their stash. And he couldn’t afford to let the rest of them come down for too long. He couldn’t risk not having them need him. Not having them depend on him.
He’d need to score some more cash soon. And more cash meant finding a new mark.
“What about them?” Colton said, pointing with one hand while biting a nail on his other. “They look like they have money.”
He watched the picturesque family, spreading out their picnic on the checkered blanket. This was the strange part about being out of the city and in the suburbs: Everyone looking like they’d walked straight out of the pages of a catalog, like they were props or paper dolls. All of them pretending that people like him—and his family—didn’t exist. He scrutinized them for several long minutes, trying to decide if they could be right . . . analyzing their body language, the way they interacted with one another, the way they talked, laughed, and even breathed. He was a lion, stalking his prey, waiting for his chance to pounce.
After several long moments, he shook his head. “No. No good, man.”
“Why not?” Colton whined, his voice fraying at the edges as if he were unraveling right before their eyes.
Something gentle and protective unfurled within him. This was what family did, he told himself. This was his purpose, to protect them. To teach them. “See her purse? It’s a knockoff. And check out her hair. See her dark roots? That kind of grow-out says she hasn’t been to whatever second-rate salon she goes to in months . . . way too long. Even the kid’s shoes are from Wal-Mart or Target.” He pointed at the girl, a preschooler with the kind of golden blonde hair that the mommy had probably been trying to cling to with her discount highlights. “Parents don’t usually skimp on the kids’ shit. Not if they don’t have to.” He looked away from them, no longer interested in what they had to offer. “Nah, they’re no good. We need to find someone else.”
“Dude, you sound like a fag when you talk about handbags and hair salons. You know that, don’t you?” Boxer laughed, shoving him. “So who then?” he asked.
He realized then that Boxer wasn’t shaking as badly as Butterfly or Colton, and he wondered if his old friend had gotten into their stash when he wasn’t looking. He wondered if his authority might be slipping.
But Colton demanded his attention as he still strained toward the picture-perfect family. “We could still do ’em.”
Kisha bit her already chapped lip until it bled. “What’s the point, Colt? Why bother if they don’t have nothing we want?”
Colton grinned, a smile so huge it was almost menacing. It was menacing. “For fun. We could still have fun with ’em. What d’ya say, Butterfly? You wanna have some more fun, don’t you?”
Something flashed behind Butterfly’s eerie greenish eyes, something close to comprehension, as if she nearly understood what he meant. As if she nearly remembered what they’d done to her family.
Not that he cared, really. She hadn’t stopped them. She’d participated with the rest of them as they’d yanked the parents from their bed and dragged them down the stairs. She’d helped tie her mom’s and dad’s hands behind their backs, never even flinching as they’d begged for their lives. As they’d begged their daughter not to do this.
She’d hardly blinked when Colton had pulled his knife out. She’d giggled, even, as Boxer had sliced her mother’s throat.
She was high as shit, but she was there.
He knew, because he was the one who’d given the commands. He’d been the one carefully orchestrating the blitz on her family. And then he’d stood back and watched as his plans were carried out, each of his own family members following orders to a T while he looted the house for stuff that could be sold easily for cash.
He’d been surprised, though, by the intoxicating rush he’d felt at pulling the strings, despite letting the others have all the real “fun.”
It was also when he realized he had a new calling. That he wanted people to see what he’d done, to know what he was capable of.
There were other ways to achieve fame. Other ways to make the world bow at his feet.
When the kid had come down the stairs and recognized his sister, he’d asked her what was wrong, what was happening. It wasn’t until he saw his parents, when his face had twisted with fear and he’d screamed, that Butterfly had lost her shit. That’s when she’d wanted out. That was when the high wore off and reality kicked in.
To look at her now was like a study in contrasts. Her hair, which had once been a soft shade of reddish-blonde, had since been dyed black, but was now faded and dirty. Her skin, which had been clear, was now marked with pockets of acne, and her cheeks were hollow. Her eyes, although sunken and ringed with dark circles, were the only giveaway to the girl she’d once been, big and silvery green-gray, made more mesmerizing by the pining that tormented her.
He couldn’t help her now though. He had to save enough for Bailey, who was getting progressively worse, her tolerance getting harder and harder to satisfy. Kisha and Boxer and Colton, at least, could function on small hits here and there. Bailey could no longer get up in the morning without the needle. And he couldn’t bear to watch her tweak the way he was watching Butterfly do now.
Bailey had been the first to call him “family.” The first to let him take care of her.
He refused to let her down, but at the rate she was going, she’d used up most of their stash. And he couldn’t afford to let the rest of them come down for too long. He couldn’t risk not having them need him. Not having them depend on him.
He’d need to score some more cash soon. And more cash meant finding a new mark.
“What about them?” Colton said, pointing with one hand while biting a nail on his other. “They look like they have money.”
He watched the picturesque family, spreading out their picnic on the checkered blanket. This was the strange part about being out of the city and in the suburbs: Everyone looking like they’d walked straight out of the pages of a catalog, like they were props or paper dolls. All of them pretending that people like him—and his family—didn’t exist. He scrutinized them for several long minutes, trying to decide if they could be right . . . analyzing their body language, the way they interacted with one another, the way they talked, laughed, and even breathed. He was a lion, stalking his prey, waiting for his chance to pounce.
After several long moments, he shook his head. “No. No good, man.”
“Why not?” Colton whined, his voice fraying at the edges as if he were unraveling right before their eyes.
Something gentle and protective unfurled within him. This was what family did, he told himself. This was his purpose, to protect them. To teach them. “See her purse? It’s a knockoff. And check out her hair. See her dark roots? That kind of grow-out says she hasn’t been to whatever second-rate salon she goes to in months . . . way too long. Even the kid’s shoes are from Wal-Mart or Target.” He pointed at the girl, a preschooler with the kind of golden blonde hair that the mommy had probably been trying to cling to with her discount highlights. “Parents don’t usually skimp on the kids’ shit. Not if they don’t have to.” He looked away from them, no longer interested in what they had to offer. “Nah, they’re no good. We need to find someone else.”
“Dude, you sound like a fag when you talk about handbags and hair salons. You know that, don’t you?” Boxer laughed, shoving him. “So who then?” he asked.
He realized then that Boxer wasn’t shaking as badly as Butterfly or Colton, and he wondered if his old friend had gotten into their stash when he wasn’t looking. He wondered if his authority might be slipping.
But Colton demanded his attention as he still strained toward the picture-perfect family. “We could still do ’em.”
Kisha bit her already chapped lip until it bled. “What’s the point, Colt? Why bother if they don’t have nothing we want?”
Colton grinned, a smile so huge it was almost menacing. It was menacing. “For fun. We could still have fun with ’em. What d’ya say, Butterfly? You wanna have some more fun, don’t you?”
Something flashed behind Butterfly’s eerie greenish eyes, something close to comprehension, as if she nearly understood what he meant. As if she nearly remembered what they’d done to her family.
Not that he cared, really. She hadn’t stopped them. She’d participated with the rest of them as they’d yanked the parents from their bed and dragged them down the stairs. She’d helped tie her mom’s and dad’s hands behind their backs, never even flinching as they’d begged for their lives. As they’d begged their daughter not to do this.
She’d hardly blinked when Colton had pulled his knife out. She’d giggled, even, as Boxer had sliced her mother’s throat.
She was high as shit, but she was there.
He knew, because he was the one who’d given the commands. He’d been the one carefully orchestrating the blitz on her family. And then he’d stood back and watched as his plans were carried out, each of his own family members following orders to a T while he looted the house for stuff that could be sold easily for cash.
He’d been surprised, though, by the intoxicating rush he’d felt at pulling the strings, despite letting the others have all the real “fun.”
It was also when he realized he had a new calling. That he wanted people to see what he’d done, to know what he was capable of.
There were other ways to achieve fame. Other ways to make the world bow at his feet.
When the kid had come down the stairs and recognized his sister, he’d asked her what was wrong, what was happening. It wasn’t until he saw his parents, when his face had twisted with fear and he’d screamed, that Butterfly had lost her shit. That’s when she’d wanted out. That was when the high wore off and reality kicked in.
