Broken Monsters (19 page)

There is
a pair of shoes neatly placed in front of the kiln at Miskwabic Pottery. Ladies' rubber boots. Red with ladybugs on them. The feet are still in them, little hard nubs of gray, swimming in blood.
The ankle bone's connected to the foot bone.
A red smear down the kiln door. Bloody drag marks from the back door. The showroom is full of colorful tiles smashed on the floor like puzzle pieces, along with a florist's worth of dead flowers.

From outside, the pottery looks like a twee little pub ripped out of the English countryside, complete with chimney and wooden mock-Tudor frames, and set down in Detroit. Back here, though, it's as creepy as hell.

There's a machine behind her that looks like the rib cage of some terrible beast. The back door to the outside yard is standing ajar—probable access point. They'll need to dust it, Gabi thinks.

In front of her is the kiln and whatever's inside. It's huge, shaped like a sarcophagus, with a curved roof and chalky white bricks, scorched in places, and gas canisters and pipes down the side. A heat gauge pokes out jauntily from the side. It's framed in black iron, with a metal rod handle, and rails to pull it out on, marked with yellow and black hazard stripes. Old-school industry, this.

Gabi thinks of all the fairy tales she used to read Layla. Hansel holding out a chicken bone instead of his finger to prove that he wasn't plump enough to go in the oven. Not yet. Cannibalism and murder and terrible parents. They all got sanitized. Kids can't cope with the darkness, supposedly, but how else are we supposed to wrestle with it? How else are we supposed to prepare for
this
moment when you have to open the door not knowing what's behind it? The dread prickling her scalp. Animal defense. Primitive fear.

Of course, for most people, death behind the door, the monster within, are purely metaphorical. Gabi gets the real fucking deal.

“Is there a trick to opening this?” she calls out to the arty kid who was unlucky enough to find the body. Or the crime scene. Because as of yet, there is no body. Unless you include the feet. But there will be.

“No—” the kid chokes out. He is hovering in the entrance, his arms wrapped so tightly across his chest he might snap a rib.

“Any chance anything is still alive in there?”

“Not if it's been running. It gets up to a thousand degrees.”

“And now?”

“It's cooled right down. It's safe to open.” It's obvious he's hoping she'll do it. She's tempted to draw her weapon. Images of melted things clawing their way out. Why don't you check if the oven is hot, my dear?

“Let's get it over with then,” Gabi says, taking hold of the handle. She can feel residual heat through the bricks. Boyd braces himself on the other side. “One. Two. Three.” They pull hard on the bar and drag the door forward, heavy and steady on the tracks, opening the door a crack and then all the way.

The oven yawns. Gabi moves around cautiously as a breeze whirls in from the back door, puffing greasy ash right into her face.

“Jesus.” She reels back, rubbing frantically at her eyes.

“It's okay, it's all right,” Boyd says, and shouts to the youngster, “Get a wet cloth!”

But she's not waiting. She yanks her shirt out of her pants and uses it to wipe her face. “Fuck's fucking sake.”

“You done?” Boyd asks.

“Swearing? No. I still got some left. Motherfuck.”

“Whenever you're ready.”

“Give me one fucking second, okay?” She takes the wet cloth and scrubs at her skin. Christ, she hopes she didn't breathe any in. “You never got remains on you?”

“Not once. I'm careful, see.”

“All right, I'm ready.” She shoves the kiln door wider with her elbow, holding her breath. It's dark inside, and it doesn't help that they are between the light and whatever is inside the oven. She clicks on her flashlight.

“Jesus,” Boyd breathes. The shape in the oven is not human. Some kind of insect or sea creature, she thinks. All spiny appendages and sharp ridges. A carapace. A clay exoskeleton arranged around the space where the body should be. There are spindly extra legs protruding outwards from the torso, six on one side, eight on the other. A helmet over the absence of the skull, caved in over the eyes, sausagey tendrils hanging down where the jaw would be, like on a caterpillar. The breastplate rises to a sharp point in the center. There are fanciful curls around the arms, leaving gaps where the flesh melted away, like dead coral.

“This is some shit,” Boyd whistles.

“Serial now,” Gabi says. “The feds will want in.”

“If it's the same guy.”

“You don't think it's the same guy?”

“It's not a deer is all I'm saying.”

“Two different killers leaving fucked-up bodies around town? We
really
have a problem.”

“No dead flowers on the other body.”

“He's getting more elaborate.”

“You have to tell the mayor's office.”

“Fuck's sake.”

“Fuck,” Boyd agrees.

“Okay. Tell me this. Where are the bones?” she says. “Even crematoriums leave bones.” She's thinking of her grandfather, the white chips in the ash they threw into the ocean, off Havana, the only time she'd ever been. Appropriate for a fisherman.

“Kilns burn hotter,” the boy says, peering in past them, his lips trembling. “Not a lot of people know that. Oh God, poor Betty.”

“But
some
would,” she seizes on it. “Did the killer know? Was this the result he was going for, melting the bones away? Or was it a mistake?”

“Mistake,” Boyd says. “He would have wanted to put her on display.”

“I think so, too. So did he get interrupted? Or did he not know?”

“Jesus, Betty.” The boy is shaking. He shouldn't be in here, Gabi thinks.

“Back up now.” Boyd goes over, putting his bulk between the kid and the thing in the kiln. “Stand there, against the wall. Deep breaths, and for God's sake don't puke in here. What time did you say you got in?”

“Seven. I was out all night, figured I'd get an early start. It's quiet here in the morning. I…had a girl with me. She gave me a ride.”

“Where is she now?”

“She took off. She freaked out. I have her phone number.”

“You're sure this is Betty?” Gabi nods at the remains in the oven.

“Those are her boots. She's the manager. Betty Spinks.” He's shaking.

“When we're finished here, you're going to show me her office and start making up a list of everyone who has keys to the building, anyone who might have a problem with her, any enemies she might have had. And I'm going to need you to point out anything that looks out of place to you. How long have you worked here?”

“Three years,” he says, miserably. He points at the side of the kiln. “That's not supposed to be there. That drawing.”

Gabi moves around to where someone has drawn an uneven rectangle in pink chalk. It gives her the dreads.

“Hey, Gabi,” Boyd calls. “Look at
this
.” She joins him at the gaping mouth of the kiln and he points at the curve of clay where the woman's shin would have been. There is a mark baked into the surface.

“Perfect fingerprint,” she notes.

“Home and away, now, right?” Boyd grins.

Holding on
to a grudge is one big suck. It sucks that she is lonely at school and her fresh attempt to make an incursion into the Future Promise gang has been deflected with crushing disinterest, like she wasn't the girl who had a whole diner conned into believing she was an undercover cop.

It sucks that Cas keeps trying to catch her attention in history class while she checks her phone under her desk with misgiving, surfing the local news sites for some mention of Cop Impersonator Girl and the Pedophile, which is how she's captioned it in her head.

It sucks getting the increasingly bugfuck crazy messages VelvetBoy2 is sending from his new profile to SusieLee's account, which she's kept active because it's the only way she has to keep tabs on him. Like what if he works out who she really is and comes after her? And there's no one she can talk to about any of this except Cas.

She's managed to get through the day without running into her, but they both have to go to rehearsals at the Masque. Layla slouches up the steps to the theater school like the beast heading toward Bethlehem in that poem. Is she awful for thinking that the worst part is that she's going to have to go to the art party all by herself?

It's a relief and a disappointment that Cas isn't even there when she gets inside. There's the buzz of kids doing warm-up exercises, rehearsing lines, going through a box of shoes and trying them on. Most of them are dressed up, she realizes, the boys in high-waisted pants and button-up shirts, dapper hats and sharp shoes, the girls in fifties skirts and blouses. Keith is tottering around in a pair of heels and a yellow shirtwaist dress, melodramatically misquoting Blanche DuBois: “I want magic! Yes, magic! I try to give that to people. I don't tell truths. I tell what
ought
to be truth.”

“Cut that out, please,” Mrs. Westcott chides affably. “You're going to destroy those shoes.” She spots Layla and jerks her thumb at the ceiling. “Go upstairs and find something that fits you and your character. Which reminds me…” She raises her voice to address the room: “Everyone, please remember to bring your props on Monday. Something that anchors you to your character. Their favorite book, a piece of jewelry. Be creative.”

Layla tramps up to the attic room, a flurry of girls passing her, all dressed up and high on the excitement of it. It's crazy how transformative clothes can be—but she guesses that's the point of army uniforms. She pushes open the door and finds Cas alone, in her bra and a tight pencil skirt, picking through the box of clothes in disgust. Her face is the same flustered pink as the silk blouse in her hand.

“Hey,” Layla says, icicle-cool, not willing to be the one to make the first move.

“Hey,” Cas says, hurriedly getting to her feet, striking a pose with her hand on her waist and flapping the sheer blouse. “Do you know there is not one single thing in here that fits over my boobs? It's like they didn't have full-busted women in the fifties.”

“Maybe that's what the Detroit riots were really about.”

Cas looks miserable. “Can we skip to the hugging-I'm-so-sorry part?”

Layla goes over and leans her head on her shoulder.

“Missed you, bitch.”

Cas pulls her into a bear hug, squashing her face into her chest. “You fucking cow. I missed you too.”

“Can't. Breathe,” Layla gasps. “Mammary. Suffocation.”

“Serves you right. Do you know what you've put me through?” She releases her and Layla comes up for air. “You drooled on me.” Cas swabs at her bra.

“Cas. I'm sorry I was a bag of dicks.”

“Lay. I'm sorry you were a bag of dicks too.” They're grinning at each other. “And I'm sorry
I
was a bag of dicks.”

“You were a truckload of dicks! A whole convoy of trucks loaded with dicks crossing into Canada.”

“That's a lot of dicks. Do you think you need a permit for that?”

“I think Canada probably has an embargo on dicks.”

“That's why they're so nice. No dicks allowed.”

Silence barges in between them.

“So, yeah,” Cas says, snuggling up to awkward, like she's really hoping to change the subject.

“No. Come on. What the hell
was
that? Do you know him? He didn't…when you were little?” She's played it out in her head, but she can't bring herself to say it.

“Jesus. No!”

“Okay.”

“I know I said I would explain or whatever. But it's— Shit, Lay. Can we go easy on each other for a little bit? I'll tell you soon, I promise. I know that sounds lame. But I can't face it right now. I mean, I can't even find an outfit that fits me.” She looks so stricken, Layla lets the anger burn out. In the end, forgiveness is like letting go of a rabid cougar you had by the tail.

“Did you kill someone?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I guess it can wait. But you
are
going to have to make it up to me.”

“What's it going to take? Flowers? Chocolates? Flowers
and
chocolates?”

“You have to come with me to the art party.”

“All right. But
only
if we can get you some new clothes. And they can't be black.”

“Black is the symbol of perfect democracy. All the colors united as one.”

“Give me benevolent dictatorship any day.”

“You'd be a terrible dictator, Cas.”

“By terrible, you mean awesome.”

“Awesome for you.”

“Yuh-huh. I'm a dictator. That's all I care about. Jeez. You really don't get politics, Lay.”

“So…do you want to hear about it?”

It sounds mental when she tells it, of course.

“They seriously believed you were undercover? Lucky they didn't have any cop customers.”

“Coffee's not shitty enough. But it was weird. They were so ready to lap up whatever I said. It was like
The Crucible
. Have you read it?”

“I might have seen the movie. Was Tanning Chatum in it?”

“No. It's about mass hysteria and the Salem witch trials.”

“With robot Nicole Kidman and all the creepy kids with white hair who look alike?”

“No! Fuck's sake. Do you pay attention to anything?”

“Okay, okay. Hysteria. Witch trials.”

“They really, really wanted to believe. I can see how it would be easy to be a con artist. Or, I dunno, start a genocide.”

“One of those careers is probably healthier than the other one. I guess people want a little drama in their life. They want to feel special. You gave that to them for one afternoon. You're going to look back on this as the highlight of your acting career.”

“I hope not. Speaking of drama…”

“I've been getting the messages too. What are we going to do?”

Mrs. Westcott sticks her head in. “Girls? How long does it take to find a costume? On stage in two minutes, please. Everyone else is waiting for you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Westcott,” they chime together.

“Hustle, please.”

“This might work,” Layla says, handing Cas an emerald-green blouse with a bow at the throat.

“Layla Stirling-Versado, ace wardrobe assistant,” Cas says, doing up the buttons. “Is there no end to your talents?”

“You should wear a skirt more often,” Layla says, admiring her friend. “You look amazing.”

“Not gonna happen. Here.” She hands her a ruffled black dress with a cinch waist. “You should wear this. In fact, you should borrow it for the party.”

“Mrs. W would kill us. Besides, I thought you said no black?” Layla slips out of her sneakers without unlacing them and yanks off her jeans.

“It's got polka dots, it doesn't count.” She watches Layla folding her clothes. “Why do you think VelvetBoy is being so crazy? Why doesn't he just walk away?”

“Because he left this behind.” She pulls out the black leather wallet from her bag. She's thought about throwing it in the river, but that seemed like letting him off easy. One hundred and thirty-nine dollars. She's counted it, but hasn't been able to bring herself to spend it, even when she was fifty cents short of a soda at lunchtime. “Bank cards. Social security. His driver's license. Everything.”

“Shit a brick.”

“I think we should tell my mom.”

“You can't! She'll kill you. She'll tell my parents! They'll ground me for life.”

“It's okay. I'll take the blame.”

“You don't understand. Forget going to the art party, forget the Masque, they'll ban me from seeing you, they'll probably pull me out of school. We'll have to move again!”

“GIRLS!” Mrs. Westcott shrieks from below.

Layla, still in her underwear, automatically goes for the door, and Cas grabs her by the arm and drags her back.

“Are you mental? You're not dressed yet. Or were you planning to go onstage naked?”