Minka
MINKA
T he shrill whine of a rusty chain plays through my ears on repeat. The rhythmic squeeeeeak as a little girl swings one way, then the next squeeeeeak as gravity takes her the other way. The January chill bites into my skin, so cold it almost feels like a burn.
I huddle into my coat, folding my arms and using my collar as a kind of shield from the icy wind. But it’s the squeeeeeak of the swings that draws my focus most of all. Not the snow slowly drifting from gray clouds above. Not the smell of coffee in the air or the sizzle of bacon over at Ned’s Diner.
Christmas music plays from somewhere nearby, not quite loud enough to make out the words, but certainly enough to hear the melody. Which makes this scene all the more eerie.
The street is packed with last night’s snowfall, three feet deep on the blacktop, and another three feet atop parked cars.
I’m in New York, and yet, not a soul can be seen.
I turn toward the cry of the swings, my breath racing ahead of me on foggy exhales. But no one uses the park equipment. No child squeals her delight at the ride, and no mother stands on the outer edges searching for her daughter.
I turn again, scanning the familiar area until the faded sign for the fruit market brings me up short; then I narrow my eyes and stare into the shadows, searching for Andy.
Where is he?
Why is he hiding?
And why the hell am I dreaming about these people, instead of resting like I should?
I shove up in the darkness, the chill from my dream replaced with a toasty warmth because Archer wraps his body around mine the way I love so much. The heavy bulk of the coat I wore in my dream, replaced with Archer’s heavy leg draped across my thighs. The firm grip of my folded arms in my dream, replaced with Archer’s, now a prisoner to gravity and hung across my lap.
I blink in the shadows, squeezing my eyes shut and opening them again to push the blurriness away, and though I attempt to draw breath through my nose, I choke when I remember I’m all blocked up.
But worse. My snot has dried to a painful, crusty lump, like shoving glass inside my nostrils.
Breathing through my mouth and grunting like a common Neanderthal, I let my jaw drop open and my focus to swing to the only window we have in here. The muted light from outside filters through the curtain to illuminate just my side of the bed, and at the end, the icy-blue stare of Archer’s slutty cat perched on my feet, her rhythmic purr almost loud enough to compete with a subway train.
“Get off me.” I drag my feet out from beneath her heft and carefully pick Archer’s wrist up to remove it from my lap. Then inching out from under his leg, I free myself from his octopus hold and tremble when the cold air clings to my bare skin. Because it’s January here, too, and much like New York, snow drifts from the skies, and the wind outside is like a stinging bite a person who grew up poor never truly escapes.
Shivering, I twist and set my feet on the floor, and pushing up while Chloe meows and jumps from the bed, I tiptoe to the end and snatch up Archer’s hoodie. It still smells of him. It lacks the ‘ just came out of the wash ’ stiffness I hate and radiates softness that means wearing it would almost be like receiving a hug from the man himself.
Shrugging it on and pulling it down to cover my body, I step into a pair of shorts to shield my ass in case Cato is back from sullying his next victim, then huffing my way to the door, I open it in silence and step into a deeper darkness. Chloe races out ahead of me, a heavy-footed gallop that probably wakes the neighbors downstairs.
Closing the bedroom door again to allow Archer quiet, I move into the bathroom and moan when I switch the light on, not because of the ache the bright light puts into the backs of my eyes, and not even because of the wild disarray of my hair. But because of the glowing red skin of my nose, and the dried snot blocking all oxygen access.
“Jesus.” I flick the hot tap on and wait for it to turn warm, then grabbing a soft face cloth, I soak the fabric and bring it up to clean the mess away. This is why I don’t get sick . It’s gross and painful and not at all convenient. A blocked nose means I was probably snoring, and the cold I felt in my dream was, no doubt, my fever-induced chills traveling through my consciousness to remind me I am, in fact, ill.
“Stupid germs.” I peel dried mucus from my nostril and hiss when it takes a layer of skin, too. “Why is no one else sick? Why did the germs target only me?”
Because you work too hard, never eat properly, never listen to your body, or slow down when needed, your water intake is a joke, and the universe wanted Archer to feel smug for once.
That’s why.
I clear away the mess and dab the warm, wet towel over my sensitive skin; then, finishing up and turning the tap off, I stare at myself in the mirror and grab an elastic when my hair is, well… disgusting .
My hands and arms shake, but I wrangle my locks into a ponytail that keeps the frizz out of my face. Heading back to the door, I switch the light out and happily sigh because the darkness is easier on my eyes, and the lack of clogged nostrils means I can breathe again.
I tiptoe along the hall and into the living room to find Cato’s long limbs slung across the couch, his head on one end and his legs dangling off the other. His blanket covers his torso and down to his knees, but his hands and feet fall victim to the cold. His hair is getting longer; his refusal to get it cut means what used to be an inch-long mop is now two and a half, at least. Midnight black. It’s a contrasting spray against a white pillowcase.
I should go back to bed. Slide in beside my husband and drag his arm and leg over me like before, since they’re legions better than blankets, anyway. But I move to the kitchen in silence, snagging my laptop as I go, cracking the lid open and setting the heavy device on the counter while it powers up.
This is how you got sick in the first damn place. Working ridiculous hours and relying on coffee to get you through.
But that doesn’t stop me from putting a mug under the coffee spout or gritting my teeth when the machine fires to life. While it pours, I glance over to a still-sleeping Cato, then toward the hall to make sure Archer is still out. Then I look down at Chloe, who sidles up in the dark and rubs her slut body against my ankle. She thinks we’re friends when it’s just us and we have no witnesses. She thinks I’m stupid enough to feed her early, so her fat ass can have seconds and thirds when the guys wake up. But I stare into her arctic eyes and shake my head, arrogantly knowing I have the upper hand and completely ignoring the fact I may be delirious, considering I’m having an entire telepathic conversation with a cat.
Whatever.
I quietly move to the fridge and take out the creamer, and after dropping a little into my coffee, I return the carton and close the door. Then I turn to the laptop’s lock screen and pause, waiting for my sick brain to click into gear and remember the passcode.
Luckily for me, the camera recognizes my face and allows me entry.
God bless the smart people who think up this technology.
Picking up the laptop and fisting my coffee, I wander across to the living room in silence, knowing I need a larger screen if I have any hope of seeing… anything . So I pass the couch and pray Cato won’t wake because of me.
And if he does, I pray he won’t be too mad about it.
Grabbing the remote and flicking the screen on, I peek back and feel bad for the bright light brutally shining across his face.
But he doesn’t wake, so I set the remote down, cross to the TV, and pick up the cord that connects one to the other. Plugging in my laptop and swallowing when the screens duplicate, I spy the bottom right corner and sigh.
02:37 .
The problem with falling asleep before eight is that six hours later, I’m awake and done with my night. And the problem with waking at two, is that by the time eight rolls around the next night, I’m wrecked and ready to repeat a crappy pattern.
Placing my coffee and the laptop on the floor, I lower to lean against the couch frame and collect the pen and notebook I left behind last night. Opening it to a fresh page, I plan to watch a few hours of footage and make notes of the people I see. Describe them. What they look like. What time they’re there and what time they leave.
If I’m lucky, I might see the same people more than once and put this whole case to bed.
Unlikely.
Navigating to the folders Pax emailed over, I open the one time-stamped December 1997, the month before Diane went missing. My laptop screen turns black, and behind it, the television does the same, dropping the living room into an eerie darkness for a beat before the Bronx Zoo front gates come into view.
The footage is grainy and blurred, the timestamp an ugly robotic font that reminds me of my childhood. Snow trickles from the clouds, just like it did in my dream, but it’s not the snow we see on television these days. Crisp and clear, where current-day cameras allow us to see individual specks and the glitter that sometimes reflects off them. Instead, this footage shows a mere blanket of static white, camouflaging the bodies thirty feet away, on the ground.
Diane is where this all began. So, even if this is the most headache-inducing footage we have, I press play and drag my legs up to rest my notebook on my knees. Immediately, I jot down details.
A couple walks through the gates at 1608. Black coat, cream coat. The cream could be peach, and the black could be navy, but I’ll never know, because the poor-quality video lacked the technology to document such details.
At 1615, a family wanders through. Two adults and two children.
At 1623, an adult—could be a small man or a large woman—and a child enter, hand-in-hand. So I write that down, too.
I make notes until 1707, when Diane and her mother stop at the ticket desk and present their free coupon for entry. Though, if not for Pax’s notes telling me so, I wouldn’t be able to pick them apart from everyone else who visited the zoo that day. But I scribble my descriptions. Lots of moms and their kids, lots of coupons presented, and grainy smiles beaming from people unaccustomed to doing fun things.
The weather is miserable, and the clouds, an ugly gray that promises an unhappy temperature. A vast majority of the zoo’s animals are probably tucked away in their enclosures, hidden from the public and the cold. But a kid who never gets to do anything fun would consider a walk around the zoo the highlight of their year.
I pull Archer’s hoodie over my knees to keep my legs warm, and reaching out for my steaming coffee, I blink through my owlish sleepiness and savor the tang of caffeine on my tongue.
“A woman and her son.”
I jump and hiss, hot liquid spilling over the lip of my mug and dribbling onto my fingers. But my eyes swing to Cato’s, drawn to his sleepy smile that notches up when I twist in place.
“Write that down.” He turns onto his side and wedges his hands under his cheek for support. He tucks his legs up, his knees brushing feather soft against my shoulder blade. Then his eyes move back to the screen, his lips curling into a grin. “You’re missing them.”
“You’re a jerk.” I turn back and quickly make a note of the new bodies moving through the gates, wiping my hand on my hoodie and setting my coffee on the floor. “Why are you awake?”
“I could ask you the same question.” He smacks his lips and exhales a relaxed, sleepy breath that declares he’s a mere blink away from returning to the land of dreams. “That screen says it’s two in the damn morning. I only got to bed at one.”
“Makes you an idiot.” But a new family enters the park, so I write those down, too. “You’re a growing boy, an athlete, and a student. If you were smart, you’d be in bed before ten.”
“Says the doctor who can’t even get through a winter without catching the plague. You only make out with one person and still got the ick, but here I am, out here carrying the family and sampling the whole city, and my immune system is fighting strong.”
“I’m convinced you say gross things purely to elicit a reaction.” I look down at my paper and describe clothes. Bags. Hair colors, if I can make them out and they’re not covered in hats. “My greatest weapon is to starve you of attention.”
“Damn.” Amused, he tugs his blanket up, wafting me with warm air. “You caught me, Doc. I have mommy issues and a deep-seated desire for attention from older women. Is that such a crime?”
“I’m not an older woman.” I’m not even thirty yet . “And yes, it’s a crime. I have a right to peace and quiet. Found someone you wanna marry yet?”
He snickers in my peripherals, his emerald eyes flickering in the light of the television screen. “Not yet. You’re stuck with me a while longer. Found your bad guy yet?”
“No.” I search for a way to differentiate all the black coat and white coat folks. Since, clearly, those were popular colors in the nineties—besides the obvious aqua and purple with yellow slash windbreakers. “Let me know if you see him, though. That’d help.”
“I like being involved in these things. It almost makes me a cop, and that would have pissed my father off more than it did when Arch became a cop.” He draws a long breath and exhales into the darkness. “We’re looking for a guy? Twenty to fifty years old?”
“Actually…” Woman and two children wander through at 1801 . “I’m not so sure about that anymore. I think I’m looking for a couple. Twenty to fifty years old. Could be a married couple who lost their child?” I ponder. “Their daughter died or something. Which could explain why they kept replacing her year after year.”
“Sick.” His teasing expression devolves into a disgusted scowl. “None of the suspects have a missing or dead kid?”
No one except Andy. And he’s not our guy.
“None that we’ve found yet. That’s what makes it all so confusing. Typically, the cops could pool all the people they consider suspects, even the suspect’s associates and cousins and best friends, and find a date that matches. A birthday or a death day or something significant. In eighteen cases spread over nearly twenty-five years, nothing is coming up.”
“So the significant thing wasn’t reported. Obviously.”
Curious, I twist to search his eyes. “What?”
“I mean… Do you think my mother’s death date is recorded so mewhere? Or Archer’s mother? Or Tim’s? These women died, Doc, but the records are hardly accurate. It’s not uncommon amongst the crowds I grew up around.”
“So maybe the daughter who died, the one they’re trying to replace, hasn’t been reported as dead?” I say it like a question, my brain sprinting in a hundred directions in search of clarity. “Like no one even knows she’s missing yet?”
He huddles into his blanket and makes a non-committal sound in the back of his throat. “Maybe. Inaccurate records would explain why you can’t find the date in anyone’s folders. You can’t see the report if there isn’t one.”
“But the psychology…” Frustrated, I turn back to the screen and stare at the grainy images. “They keep taking a five-year-old girl. Always the same age, always the same date. They don’t age their target up, either, like a five-year-old in ‘98 and a six-year-old in ‘99.”
“So they’re stuck in time,” he counters. “They’re getting older, but the girl isn’t.”
“Which brings us back to a very specific data set. Must be five years old, must be female, must be taken from the park—though the last one may simply be opportunity. Each of them belongs to a single mom, and they’re always returned exactly a year later.”
“Because they’re older a year later.” He reaches around in my peripherals and snatches a blanket from the back of the couch. Dragging it forward, he dumps it on my shoulders and smiles when I meet his eyes. “You’re shivering and sick, and though I would offer you a spot up here with me, I figure there are lines a man shouldn’t cross, no matter how big his balls are. Spooning you in the dark is probably that line.”
“Ya think?” I pull the blanket down and cocoon myself in the warmth, tucking the ends under my feet and curling my toes in so they don’t completely fall off after my abuse this week. Then, I tap my laptop to bring me to the next video. Anything to skip past the grainy hopelessness of the nineties. “I’ll call Detective Gilbert in the morning and suggest he look closer at anyone who had a young daughter in ‘98.”
Andy had one of those, and he lost her around that age.
But not in the nineties .
By the time he was running a fruit stall, he’d already served his sentence, and his child was long past five years old.
“This one is from ‘03,” I murmur, adding the date to my notebook and pressing play so a cleaner video illuminates the living room. “A few months before Poppy went missing.”
“The aquarium?” Cato yawns and smacks his lips, snuggling into his hand. “At least it’s inside this time.”
“The Sunday Times ran an article earlier that year. A Mother’s Day special with coupons for heavily discounted entry.” I draw my bottom lip between my teeth and scribble details onto my page. “It wasn’t free like the zoo, but it was cheap and came with a complimentary lunch for any mom who bought a kid’s meal, which was only, like, five bucks back then. Poppy and her mom enjoyed a day out, meals, and seeing the animals, all for about ten bucks in total.”
“Economical when it’s all said and done.” His warm breath tickles the back of my neck. “I went there when I was a kid.”
“The aquarium?”
“Mmm. Arch and Tim had already left New York, and Felix was busy getting his ass beat every day. Micah did what he could to step in the way, so I was just…” He hums in the back of his throat. “I was the forgotten one for a little while. I was about seven, I reckon, so I snuck out of the house and made my way into the city. I spent the whole day watching the sharks swim overhead.” He stops to remember, nibbling on his lip while he does. “It struck me as interesting how they never stopped. They never kept still.”
“Sharks? They must swim to breathe.”
“Yeah. Reminded me of Lix.” He smiles. “If he stopped, he would get the shit kicked out of him, so it was kinda the same. Keep moving or die.”
“Your childhood was horrifying.” A male and female walk through CCTV footage, hand in hand, and since they’re inside, their hoods are off, their hats removed and stuffed into pockets. I add them to my list, but in my mind, I imagine a seven-year-old Cato wandering New York all on his own, at risk of a similar outcome to Diane and the others. Not the same perpetrators since they wanted girls only. But there are monsters out there who prefer boys. There was always a chance that Cato wouldn’t make it home that day. “Did you wish you could get on a bus and come to Copeland to be with Archer and Tim?”
He scoffs. “No. But I thought they left because they wanted nothing to do with me. Why leave one Tim and force myself on another? Especially when the other was younger, stronger, and made it clear he didn’t want me around?”
Aching, I set my pen against my book and twist to search his eyes.
“I know now,” he adds. “But I was young back then, and I’d spent years coming up with new theories. I was so sure they hated me because I’d done something wrong. It haunted me, because I didn’t know what that thing was.”
“That’s so sad.”
He breathes out a soft laugh. “Age grants me the wisdom to know not everything is about me. They escaped to save their own lives, and Lix and Micah stayed to protect mine. I annoy them now. Every fucking day, I test their patience.”
“Because you’re looking for the limit? Searching for the point they say they’ve had enough and want you to leave?”
He grins, releasing his lip and fingering the edge of his blanket. “Haven’t found it yet. So I guess they don’t hate me at all. Woman in a black coat—” He nods toward the television. “She looks kinda sus.”
Unconvinced, I follow his lead and pick up my pen. “Why is she sus?”
“Because she doesn’t have a kid with her, and she’s not looking at the tanks.” He clears his throat, swallowing and humming with contentment. “Who goes to the aquarium to watch people?”
Me, I think to myself, more than a couple of times throughout my youth.