The Secret History of Las Vegas

Seventeen

It was early, and a mist thrown by the heat and the sprinklers covered the grounds of the Desert Palms Institute. Invisible in the whiteness, peacocks shrieked like god-awful creatures. Water, unable to sleep all night, was wide-awake when the nurse came round on the forty-minute-interval suicide watch. Although Sunil didn’t actually believe the twins would kill themselves, he wanted to be sure.

The nurse brought coffee. Is it how you like it, he asked Water, passing a Styrofoam cup of hot liquid.

Four hundred billion cups of coffee are consumed across the world every year, Water said, sipping gingerly.

You didn’t sleep much, did you?

The record for the longest time without sleep is eighteen days, twenty-one hours, and forty minutes, Water said.

Is your brother still asleep, the nurse asked, pointing to the caul-covered Fire.

Water’s stomach growled loudly in response. The rumbling made the nurse smile.

I’ll bring you something to eat in a minute, he said, closing the door gently.

Water walked across the room and stood by the window. The mist was dissipating, revealing well-manicured Japanese-style gardens rolling down to a fence. Even with the landscaping, the place still looked like a corporate park. The room, decorated as it was like a high-end but impersonal hotel room, added to the effect. The nurse returned.

The kitchen isn’t open yet, but I did find these in the vending machine, he said, holding out a bag of M&M’s and a packet of Red Vines.

The main flavor of licorice candy is anise but for red licorice it’s cherry, Water said, putting a Red Vine in his mouth.

I’ll be back in forty minutes, the nurse said, turning to leave just as the caul covering Fire snapped back like a venetian blind.

Fire blinked, adjusting to the light. Sniffing theatrically, he said: Red Vines.

Water passed one. Fire chewed-on it for a minute, eyes closed, then spat the chewed-up red candy into his cupped hand. The nurse watched from the half-closed door, mesmerized.

Fire looked up. Hello, he said to the nurse.

Hi, the nurse said.

Disgusting habit, I know, Fire said, but I’m not good at digesting anything that isn’t liquid. I get most of my nutrition from Water.

Like a baby, Water said. That’s why I eat for two.

You eat for three, Fire said.

Water laughed so hard, Fire looked like he was riding a mechanical bull.

That’s quite all right, the nurse said, retreating.

Did you sleep, Fire asked Water.

No, Water said.

Is the coffee any good?

No, Water said.

What’s that horrible screeching?

Peacocks, Water said.

What’s with the curt answers, Fire asked. Are you in a bad mood?

Water shrugged. The peacocks screeched again.

Jesus, Fire muttered, how many of those fuckers are there?

An ostentation, Water said.

A what?

A group of peacocks is an ostentation, Water said. Like a bouquet of pheasants, a kettle of hawks, a deceit of lapwings, a descent of woodpeckers, an exaltation of larks, a murmuration of starlings, a siege of herons, an unkindness of ravens—

Fuck, Fire said, you really are in a bad mood. He passed the handful of spat-out Red Vines to Water and retreated under the caul. I’m going back to sleep, he said, voice muffled. Maybe you should try and get some.

The caul snapped shut.

Closed for business, Water said, and finished his coffee.

Eighteen

Eskia crossed his room to look out the window at the still-rising sun. He hadn’t slept much. He never did, really. He had resigned himself to this a long time ago. His insomnia held the full weight of his guilt; the heft of his father’s sniper rifle.

He’d already spent three days at this hotel and would have to check out today. Routine made it easier to be found. To be marked. It made intelligence operatives careless. From following him, he knew the Venetian was Sunil’s favorite, so he decided on there.

Eskia cupped a mug of coffee in his hands. The room service delivery had not woken the sleeping Asia. He studied her sleeping form, sheets half off her. She had impossibly long legs; so long they made her torso seem short. And her hair was thick and worn in a crowning Afro. Flawless amber skin betrayed her biracial identity. Something a South African would spot easier than anyone else. He was somewhat surprised at the abandon with which she slept. He was irrationally angered by it. What right did she have to be so carefree?

Glancing over at the breakfast for two on the cart, Eskia wondered why he had bothered. He wasn’t that hungry, and while he didn’t typically frequent prostitutes, he was sure they didn’t expect breakfast the morning after. But this wasn’t just any hooker. This was Sunil’s special hooker.

He knew Sunil from college, and while he was the closest thing Eskia had to a friend then, their relationship had always been fraught.

Eskia came from Soweto royalty, an upper-middle-class family of Anglican ministers, doctors, and lawyers. People who lived in Orlando, the part of Soweto the locals sometimes called Beverly Hills; people who sat in the front pews at church on Sundays and sent their kids to private schools abroad; people who made up the cream of the ANC leadership.

Eskia’s parents were paying his way but Sunil was on scholarship, one rumored to be bestowed by the apartheid government. Because of that, ordinarily Eskia would never have befriended Sunil, but they were the only two blacks in their cohort and so an uneasy friendship developed between them, an alliance that affirmed each other’s humanity in the face of the crushing shame of apartheid. But Eskia perceived his need for affirmation as a weakness on his part and so he came to resent Sunil for it.

A resentment that festered into a deep hate when they both fell for Jan. But she chose Sunil, and Eskia’s ego couldn’t take the blow. That someone like Sunil, a township rat with no pedigree, could have taken Jan from him was too much, was unimaginable to him. Over time, Eskia realized that it wasn’t just his pride that was wounded. He came to love Jan and he burned with the fire of unrequited love.

When Sunil left for Europe on an internship, Jan fell apart. Eskia consoled her and a firm friendship and then a romantic relationship grew between them. Eskia struggled though. As a member of the ANC it was seen as a betrayal to date a white woman, not to mention that it was illegal under the apartheid government. But all through their relationship, all five years of it, what was hardest was the knowledge, though unspoken, that Jan still loved Sunil. And not even hurting Sunil’s mother made Eskia feel better. Then Jan disappeared in a raid and just like that, Eskia lost her.

He turned his gaze back on Asia and watched her breathe. He smiled cruelly. The nicer you treat a person, the more it hurts when you turn on them. That was a pleasure he knew well. Asia was stretching and he admired the tattoo on her arm as she flexed. It read: Trae Dhah.

Breakfast, she said with a smile, spotting the room service cart and the two place settings. She helped herself and dug in. Eskia watched the unbridled pleasure with which she ate and found himself lost in her delight.

Not hungry, she asked, pausing briefly.

He shook his head.

She smiled, shoved the last of her eggs into her mouth, and stood up, crossed to her clothes, and began to dress.

You can use the shower, he said.

Thank you, she said. Maybe next time.

As the door closed behind her, Eskia returned to the window. Sitting in this kind of meditation was a discipline he knew well. When he was a boy, his father, a former sharpshooter from the British Army, had been very active in the ANC’s armed wing. Many a Boer policeman had fallen to his skill.

He sometimes took Eskia with him. Together they would cross the vast desert of stubby grass and garbage that marked the divide between Soweto and Johannesburg. Keeping to sewers, culverts, and other places only the blacks knew about, they would travel for miles in the night, Eskia bearing the weight of his father’s Lee-Enfield rifle. By all expectations, a Lee-Enfield wouldn’t make a very good sniper’s weapon with its limited range, but the caliber was solid, and in the right hands even a boomerang was a deadly weapon. A relic of the First and Second World Wars, it should not have fired evenly. But Eskia’s father kept the rust away with oil and a leather rag and a high-caliber bullet. In his expert hand, that projectile could travel nearly a quarter of a mile to bury itself into the resolve of his chosen target.

At first light they would arrive on the edge of a leafy, tree-shaded suburb and, climbing a select tree, they would sit the whole day, unmoving, until at dusk, just before the abrupt curtain of night, Eskia’s father would take the rifle from his son, hold it steady, and, with the tender caress of a whisper, pull the ratchet back. He would wait for a long moment and breathe slow, then he would squeeze the trigger, and before the crack could echo and reveal their location, they would be down the tree, melting back into the depth of night. Eskia, carrying the heavy rifle, always struggled to keep up. But this one time he tarried and saw the target fall. A plump man in his forties with a shiny bald spot. He saw a child running down a garden path to meet him. And then he saw the spurt of blood obliterating the bald spot and darkening the face of the child. And then Eskia turned away and ran after his father in the dark, the weight of the rifle heavier than usual.

He turned back from the view of Vegas, put his coffee mug down with exaggerated care, and walked into the bathroom to shower. He had much to do.

Nineteen

Salazar tipped the last of his coffee onto a white shell, staining it brown, flecks of coffee grounds standing out like black growths. He kicked sand at the shell, then watched the sun come up over Lake Mead. He was always amazed that something man-made here in the middle of the desert could look so natural and blue. The tire marks from the night before were still visible.

Unable to sleep after signing the twins over to Dr. Singh, he had returned to the station, typed up his report, and then driven to Jake’s, an all-night diner off Fremont Street. His other favorite diner, right next door to the Gutenberg Museum on South Main, had gone out of business. Now it was a Chinese fast-food joint that closed at ten. When the Library Gentlemen’s Club and the Gun Store, on the other side of the museum, went out of business as well, he figured he should move on and so he’d migrated to this diner ten years ago.

He liked the old parts of Vegas, ever since he moved here as a teenager. Parts that were now seedy and decrepit. Things seemed more honest here, less beguiling than the Strip or the new developments spreading into the desert. Jake’s had been in the same place for more than forty years, and it seemed that the staff hadn’t changed in that time either. It was the only place in Vegas that didn’t have any slot machines or gambling of any kind. Just a simple menu and a loyal clientele of people often down on their luck. He watched an old homeless man carry his bulldog past the diner, pause, then come in.

Spare some change, he asked Salazar.

Why the fuck are you carrying your dog, Salazar asked.

He’s tired, the homeless man said.

Who carries you when you’re tired?

Jesus, the man said. Spare me a dollar?

Get the fuck out of here, the cook yelled from the kitchen.

The old man shuffled out before Salazar could give him the dollar. He melted into the night with his dog, leaving Salazar with his thoughts, his guilt, and his desire. He really wanted to solve this case. Not just for his career, or because he had been working on it for so long, but because there was the matter of the dead teenage girl who had been found in the second batch of dead homeless men two years ago. Her discovery was a shock for everyone working that day. As they pulled the pile of bodies apart, there she was, like the dramatic reveal of a magic trick gone wrong. Salazar could still see it clearly in his mind’s eye. The near emerald-green dress in the midst of all that dirt and gray; an orange high-heeled pump on one foot, the other bare. A shock of red hair and a face twisted in agony. Everything about her was incongruous, not in keeping with the scene. There was no ID on her and even now, no one had come forward to claim her. Putting her to rest was what really drove him. The department therapist told him that his desire had nothing to do with putting her to rest. That it was really all about him.

Fuck you, he’d said then. Fuck you, he thought now. Even if she was right, there was still the fact of the dead girl. Buying a coffee to go, the size of a Big Gulp, he’d driven out to the lake.

All night he sat in the dark trying to figure it out, to get into the killer’s head as he liked to call it. Was it the twins? Why would they do it? How did they do it? The truth was, gruff and tactless as he was, Salazar was no criminal. He couldn’t really understand why people did the things they did, much less how. It was a severe limitation for a detective and he compensated for it by obsessively working his cases, going over the same ground again and again until something broke open for him.

So he sat in his car in the soft light waiting for that break, that crack in time.

Twenty

In the kitchen Sunil filled the kettle and set it on the range. The burner was the only illumination as he opened the cupboards and reached for a teapot, which he then filled with loose-leaf Black Dragon tea. He liked this tactile relationship with the world and had consciously cultivated it — if he could find everything in the dark then there was still order in his world.

He thought about the body dumps from two years earlier. About the testing of his serum that had led to them. All those homeless men recruited from the streets of Vegas with offers of money and sometimes drugs were housed in seclusion in the basement of the institute.

And then when they had enough viable and anonymous subjects, they’d put them into rooms in batches of ten, administered doses of the serum and a placebo to the control group, and then waited for the results. The drug and its antidote were delivered via an implant in the men’s heads that could be controlled from a distance.

Every test had proved disastrous. Not from the perspective of inducing psychotic breaks. That was easy enough. In fact, 50 percent of the placebo group was able to match the ferocity of the medicated. What proved abortive was the ability to control the behavior. The antidote hadn’t worked, and neither had electric collars, subdermal shock implants, or even tear gas. The rage just couldn’t be harnessed. And in the end, in every test, no matter what variations they made to the serum and antidote, all the subjects died. They simply beat one another to death. In any other clinical trial of a drug, adverse events were expected — side effects, some more drastic than others, escalating from a skin rash to a clinical trial subject dying. But the numbers here were beyond belief.

The body dumps that followed had been Brewster’s idea. Sunil hadn’t known any of the details. Brewster had simply drafted him to help the investigation as forensic expert with the intent to steer any possible connection away from the institute. Not that the institute’s possible involvement ever came up. There just wasn’t any reason for the police to suspect them. Sunil surmised that Brewster knew that all along. His motives remained unclear to Sunil. Maybe he should be studying Brewster.

The kettle shrieked. He emptied the water into the teapot and let it brew. From the fridge he took out the other half of the cantaloupe from the night before, laid it on a wooden chopping block, reached for the ceramic knife, and, still in the dark, cubed it perfectly. From the corner of his eye, through the kitchen window, he could make out the spotlight from the Luxor.

He poured some tea, stirred in some sugar, and drank it in the dark, watching the dramatic sunrise through the blue-tinted kitchen windows. He couldn’t make up his mind which he loved best: Vegas at night with all the neon and flashing lights, or Vegas in the morning, when the neon was replaced by a fresh light — an innocence.

It was a Saturday and he wished he weren’t going in to work. It would be nice to hike today. Somewhere hot but shaded, like the many arroyos that hid the scars of an older Vegas, of a past that was now held only in unreliable narratives; a confounding mix of hoaxes and urban legends. Sunil was drawn to those stories because he believed that there was real history embedded in their occluded forms and he loved nothing more than collecting them, sifting through them, and decoding the deeper truths he was sure were hidden in them — as if he could read the mind of the landscape, uncover its intentions and motives, and recalibrate its secret histories.

In the meantime, he’d settle for being able to uncover the secrets the twins were concealing. The real secrets, not the ones they had half buried for him to stumble on. He knew they were playing some strange game, but he couldn’t tell what it was. The thing about half-truths littered in among outright lies is that they distract from the deeper secrets, the ones you really want to find. But Sunil was good at finding secrets. That’s what he’d done at Vlakplaas all those years ago. Found secrets and used them against their owners.

Twenty-one

Sheila, Sunil said as Sheila stepped into his office.

Sunil, she said, and it sounded like a seduction. I was kind of hoping you’d made some of that amazing coffee you have, she said, and pointed to the machine on the sideboard.

Sunil smiled. Of course, he said.

This had become a little game they played. Every morning Sheila came in and pretended she was only asking for coffee. He didn’t know where it could lead, if anywhere, but he liked it just the same. Watching her cross the room he couldn’t help but notice how attractive she was: slim, fit, and tight, with perfect black skin. She stirred something in him. But in that same moment, while Sheila was a rational impulse in his mind, Asia was an ache that made him cross his legs.

As she stirred her coffee, Sheila turned to him. Sleep well, she asked, licking the wooden stirrer before throwing it into the trash.

Not really, Sunil said.

Oh, why?

You mean you haven’t heard about the conjoined twins, he asked. You must have, there aren’t any secrets inside this building.

Sheila gave him a look. What the hell are you babbling about, she asked.

Yesterday while I was meeting with Brewster I got a call from Salazar, he said.

Don’t know him, she said.

The detective from the homeless killing case I consulted on two years ago, Sunil said.

She shrugged: Okay. And someone killed some conjoined twins?

No, he arrested conjoined twins as suspects in the homeless murders.

Sheila looked bewildered. No fucking way, she said. The twins are the killers? How is that even possible? How are they joined?

Sunil opened the folder on his desk and passed her the Polaroid.

Oh my God, she said, holding it away. They’re undifferentiated. I’ve never seen a case like that.

I know. It’s crazy. I mean this one — he pointed at Fire — is barely a foot long and yet he talks incessantly. It’s crazy, the way they are joined. Fire, the small one, looks like a sea slug growing out of his brother’s side. And this one, the normal-looking one, only talks in factoids.

Factoids?

Yes, like, oh, I don’t know, giraffes have no vocal cords. Stuff like that.

Is it true, Sheila asked.

Is what true?

That giraffes have no vocal cords?

Yes, it’s true.

It’s weird that you know that, she said.

Whatever, he said. Anyway, the detective asked me to conduct a psych eval on them last night. I wanted to say no, but Brewster insisted that I do it.

Wow, you certainly had an adventurous evening, Sheila said, taking a sip of coffee. It was really good, as always.

So now I have the twins here, Sunil said. And we’ll keep them for at least seventy-two hours. I think Brewster wants to keep them indefinitely, but we’ll see.

You have them here at the institute?

Yes.

But if you don’t want Brewster to have them indefinitely, why would you bring them here, she asked.

Salazar can’t hold them legally so—

He’s asking you to keep them here. But why?

Well, when he arrested them, they were near a blood dump, but there were no bodies and so no evidence to tie them to the blood dump except proximity.

But if they are the killers—

I know, I know, Sunil interrupted. He filled her in quickly and she sat on the edge of the couch the whole time. When he was done, she sat back.

Jesus, she said. Why does stuff like this always find you?

I don’t know. Another troubling thing is that I think Brewster is running tests behind my back using my research, and I think these two things are connected.

That’s creepy, she said.

I’m not worried about the creepy factor. More important is the blood.

How so?

Well, Sunil said, if the blood dump is connected to my research it can mean only one thing.

Brewster is testing the drug you developed to trigger psychopathic behavior?

Yeah, Sunil said. Human trials of a psychopathic pathogen.

So what will you do, Sheila asked.

I don’t know.

Do you feel conflicted about holding them?

Yes.

That means you haven’t completely sold your soul to Brewster, she said, smiling.

In that moment he felt like he could fall for her, that he could make a life with her. He knew she liked him, was attracted to him. So what was holding him back? Was it because she was unabashedly black?

Sheila, he said, before he could stop himself.

What, she asked with a smile.

And he wanted to say, I like you, we should explore that. Instead he said: They have odd names, the twins.

Really, she said, and he could tell by the tone of her voice that she was disappointed. That she clearly thought he would say something different.

Yes, he said. His speech was quick, awkward, filling the space between them. One is called Fire and the other Water, and the one called Fire is a fire wizard. A sideshow thing, their act is called King Kongo, African Witchdoctor. Anyway, I noticed something really curious. Even though Fire is the wizard, there were burn marks only on Water.

Realizing she’d lost him to his work, she clenched her jaw. I have to go, she said, getting up abruptly. I have something to do. She hesitated in the doorway.

I’ll be brewing fresh coffee all day, Sunil offered.

She nodded and closed the door behind her. He stared at the smudge of lipstick on her coffee cup for a long time.

Twenty-two

So what is your diagnosis, Brewster asked as soon as Sunil picked up the phone.

Fuck, Sunil swore quietly. He wanted to say, Who doesn’t say hello when they call someone? Instead he said: You know how I feel about making hasty diagnoses.

Would you present them as psychopathic, Brewster pressed.

Always this shit with Brewster. Look, Sunil said, nearly every person in the world, at some point and under some condition, presents as psychopathic, from road rage to actual murder, but I don’t want to waste time researching twins who present nothing more unusual than their physicality.

Their twinning is everything, Brewster countered. We haven’t had an opportunity to study monsters before. We need to run an MRI on them. Judging from the photo on file, we may need to ask the zoo to assist, because the twins clearly won’t fit our own machines.

The zoo, Sunil echoed.

Consider their width, Brewster said. We can’t fit them in a regular MRI.

But the zoo?

What do you suggest, Sunil?

I don’t know. Aren’t there facilities that might have bigger MRIs that aren’t zoos? Shouldn’t we check with an obesity specialist first?

Yes, Brewster said, we could. But the zoo is a safe bet.

You don’t think taking a pair of conjoined black twins to a zoo for a medical procedure presents a problem, Sunil asked.

No, Brewster said. Whatever your sentiments, which are duly noted, make the arrangements for the MRI. We should probably try for tomorrow, as it will be less busy there on Sunday and cheaper for us. I’ll send them with a senior intern if that makes you feel better.

Sunil was silent at first.

Fine, I’ll have the intern handle all of it, Brewster said. That way you can keep your moral high ground. Brewster sighed impatiently. Listen, maybe the twins can provide the breakthrough we need for your X7 serum to work.

If they turn out to be psychopaths, Sunil said.

Well, we can only hope, Brewster said.

Twenty-three

Sunil was pacing when Sheila knocked and walked in.

Back for more coffee, she said sheepishly.

Sunil kept pacing.

Sunil, Sheila said. Sunil, stop.

That man, Sunil said.

Brewster?

Sunil nodded.

I know, Sheila said. He is such a dick.

Sunil smiled tightly. This isn’t your problem, Sheila, he said.

I know, but still, you know? So what happened exactly?

He wanted me to take the twins to the zoo to get an MRI tomorrow.

The zoo!

My point exactly.

So what’s going to happen?

An intern is taking them, Sunil said.

Well, that’s not the I-told-him-to-fuck-off I was expecting, but at least you don’t have to do it, she said.

Before Sunil could answer, there was a knock at the door. A nurse stood there with a DVD in his hand.

Good morning, Dr. Singh, he said. This is the recording of the twins’ room from last night.

Thank you, Sunil said, taking the DVD.

You recorded them, Sheila asked as the nurse left.

Yes, they were on suicide watch. Of course I recorded them.

Did they consent?

Sunil crossed to his desk, ignoring Sheila’s question.

Maybe a little of Brewster is rubbing off on you, she said.

Sunil put the disk into his computer and pulled out his chair to sit. As the screen lit up, he became aware of Sheila’s breath on the back of his neck as she leaned over to watch. Goose bumps rose on his skin, but he pretended not to notice. The first twenty minutes of the DVD were uneventful, the twins moved about restlessly, trying to settle down. But then Fire slipped his caul over himself and retreated, to sleep no doubt. Water lay around for a while and then got up to cross to the window.

Sunil moved to fast-forward the video, but Sheila’s hand stayed his, and he felt her breasts brush his back. In the six years they had worked together, this was the closest they had come physically. He had a moment of guilt, like he was cheating on Asia, which was stupid. Asia was a prostitute. But he loved her.

What is he doing, Sheila asked.

They watched Water as he leaned up against the window. He was hugging himself and his lips were moving but the audio was really bad and they couldn’t make out the words. It sounded like a melodic hum.

I think he is singing, Sunil said.

I think you’re right. How odd, Sheila said.

Yeah, that is odd, Sunil agreed.

They watched Water, occasionally forwarding through the footage. Sometimes he was by the window, other times he was in the corner, and then sometimes on the bed. But wherever he was in the room he seemed to be singing the same inaudible song. Finally he fell asleep and then woke with a start less than an hour later when the duty nurse checked in on them.

This is exciting, Sheila said.

About that, Sunil began.

Don’t send me away. I can help, Sheila said. Besides, I’ll be gone on Tuesday. So let me help. Please.

Sunil looked at her from behind his steepled fingers.

I’ll even make the coffee, Sheila volunteered.

Actually, I’ll let you stay only if you promise not to make the coffee, Sunil said.

She smiled. I like this. We should hang out more often. What do you think the singing means?

Sunil was sitting back, legs crossed, crease pinched, chewing thoughtfully on a wooden stirrer. More important than what it means, he said, is the question of his manner.

How do you mean?

When the police and I interviewed the twins yesterday, Water exhibited traits of autism. He spoke mostly in factoids that were only tenuously connected to the conversation, and only when pushed.

So?

Some experts say twins can swap consciousness. What if Fire is the one singing, and Water is the one sleeping?

That’s creepy, Sheila said.

Sunil smiled. Are you going to attempt a diagnosis?

I work on robots, Sunil, not psychopaths.

Some could argue that’s the same thing, he said.

She laughed. I have to get back to work, she said.

Okay.

I won’t wait forever, Sunil, she said.

I know, he said.

Twenty-four

It’s Dr. SS, Fire said as Sunil knocked and entered their room. The twins were sitting in the chair in the corner. Water was surfing through channels on the television, a bored look on his face. He barely glanced at Sunil, who was flicking through their chart, a nurse hovering by his elbow.

I told you not to call me that, Sunil said.

What should I call you?

Why don’t you just call me Doctor?

There are eighteen doctors in the U.S. called Dr. Doctor and one called Dr. Surgeon, Water said.

It is important that we establish some boundaries in our communication, Sunil continued. When you call me Doc, you sound like Bugs Bunny.

Mel Blanc, the original voice for Bugs Bunny, was allergic to carrots, Water said.

How are you feeling today, Sunil asked Fire, changing the subject.

I’m good. We are good.

Could you maybe expand a little on that, Sunil asked.

We had eggs for breakfast, after an early snack of Red Vines and M&M’s. I’m not sure what level of detail you’re looking for.

I see you’re being difficult again. Water, how are you?

Sharks lay the largest eggs in the world, Water said.

Really, Water? You’re going to keep this up?

Tone, Dr. Singh, tone, Fire said with a smirk.

Sunil took a deep breath. Your chart looks good, he said, your vitals are holding strong. How did you sleep?

I slept like a baby, Fire said. But then I always do. Water, on the other hand, he doesn’t sleep much.

And your appetite?

Pretty good, Fire said.

Water?

Selah is a tree, Water said.

I’m sorry?

Selah is a tree and that’s why I can’t sleep, Water said.

Selah was our mother’s name, Fire said, his stubby hand rubbing Water’s face gently. His head, however, never looked in Water’s direction. And even his hand movements seemed forced and clumsy: unnatural. Sunil made a note in the chart.

And why is she a tree, Sunil asked.

Trees are the oldest living organisms, Water said. He still hadn’t looked at Sunil.

Sunil was leaning against the bed. Why is she a tree, Water, he asked again.

Water was silent.

Can you tell me why he thinks your mother is a tree, Sunil asked Fire.

Fire looked away.

What can you tell me about your mother, Sunil asked.

She is dead, Fire said. She passed on when we were twelve.

I see, Sunil said. And your father?

We never knew our father. For all we know he was God.

And that would make you what, Jesus?

The Bible is the Word of God, Water said.

Look, I’m trying to conduct a basic evaluation here of your mental health. If you keep up with these kinds of answers I’m going to have to assume that you actually believe them.

The mustard seed was a parable by Jesus, Water said.

Fire was silent.

Understand that if I take your answers seriously, Sunil said, then I have to conclude that you suffer from delusions.

Delusions of biblical proportions, Fire said, smirking.

Fifty Bibles are sold every minute across the world, Water said.

What does that mean to you, Sunil asked Water.

Water shrugged. Shakespeare was forty-six when the King James Version of the Bible was compiled. In Psalms 46, the forty-sixth word from the first word is “shake” and the forty-sixth word from the last word is “spear,” he said.

Do you both realize the severity of your situation? You will either go to prison or be remanded to a secure wing of a mental hospital. Is that what you want?

What will be will be, I can’t worry about that, Fire said.

I think you should, if not for your sake, then your brother’s.

I’ve been taking care of my brother for years, since Selah died, so don’t tell me how, thank you very much.

Fire and Water are always together because we are born of steam, Water said.

Sunil sighed. This was going to be hard.

Look, Doc, this whole thing is loaded against us, Fire said. We can’t win in a rigged game.

How do you mean exactly, Sunil asked.

I just don’t think the justice system works for people like me, Fire said.

Are you saying you’re above the law?

This is exactly my point, Doc. When I admit that I don’t believe in this country’s justice system, you think I’m saying I am above the law, which you might call a grandiose sense of self-worth. If I keep making jokes you will say I am exhibiting glibness and superficial charm. If you decide that I am not answering your questions or at least not answering them honestly, you will think I am a pathological liar and that I am cunning and manipulative. If I complain about any of this, you will say I am not accepting responsibility for my own actions. If I admit to being bored, which I am by the way, you could read that as a need for stimulation and proneness to thrill seeking. I am living off the side of my brother, so I do qualify for parasitic lifestyle and I think you will agree that I’m pretty high on the aggressive narcissism scale, which makes me think you are going for an evaluation of us that fits with something you’ve already decided.

Such as?

If we’re supposed to be serial killers, Fire said, then my guess is we are supposed to be psychopaths.

An American study found that one in twenty men was a psychopath, Water said.

Well, Doc, am I right so far?

No, Sunil said. I’m here with an open mind. Are you?

If you are, then what am I, Fire said, and cackled.

Interesting how you keep switching between the pronouns we, us, and I.

Is it? I don’t think so. Fire paused, then, taking a shuddering breath, began again. About Selah, she killed herself — hanged herself, to be precise, from the branch of a bristlecone pine that grew on the edge of our property.

I’m sorry, Sunil said. That couldn’t have been easy for you at twelve.

It wasn’t.

Do you know why she did it?

We were downwinders, you know, downwind from the nuclear tests. She had leukemia, she was dying, so she gave us away and hanged herself.

Gave you away?

She gave us to Fred’s dad, Reverend Jacobs, and his freak show, the Lord’s Marvels.

Is that how you grew up? With a circus?

A sideshow, Doc, a sideshow. Not a circus. Yes, we grew up as freaks and hardcore downwinder nationalists. Sideshow or die, Fire said.

Why do you call yourselves freaks, Sunil asked.

It’s a badge of honor, Fire said. That’s what Reverend Jacobs gave us. Pride. You see, freaks are made, not born. Birth defects, unusual genetic formations, they make you less capable in this able-biased society, but they don’t make you a freak. Freakery you learn, you cultivate, you earn.

And what’s a downwinder nationalist, Sunil pressed.

Oh for fuck’s sake, Doc, Fire snapped. Look into it, do your own fucking work.

Your attitude is not very constructive right now, Sunil said.

Yeah, whatever, Dr. Phil, Fire said. We want a phone call. Don’t we get a phone call?

The telephone was invented to talk to the dead, Water said.

Sunil noted that Water’s tongue seemed to protrude a little from his mouth when Fire was speaking, but not when they were both silent. It was a small thing but one he’d noticed the day before at County. He didn’t know what it meant, or if it meant anything at all.

When you say the telephone was invented to speak to the dead, what do you mean, he asked Water.

Just that, Doc, Fire replied. That’s what Edison invented the telephone for.

When Thomas Edison died in 1941, Henry Ford captured his last breath in a bottle, Water said.

If you could have a phone call, who would you call, Sunil asked.

Fred, Water said.

Fred, Fire agreed.

What is Fred’s last name, Sunil asked.

Fred Jacobs, Fire said. So do we get our call, Doc?

The word “doctor” comes from the Latin doctori, meaning to teach, Water said.

Thank you, Water, Sunil said. Is there any way you can get your brother to speak to me, he asked Fire.

He is speaking to you, Fire said.

I see, Sunil said. Giving the chart to the nurse, he said, I’ve modified their medication, be careful with the dosage. And with that, he headed out the door.

What about our fucking phone call, Fire yelled.

Twenty-five

I miss my mother terribly, Sunil thought as the gondola sailed under the fake bridge. In truth, Dorothy had died many years — when her mind folded in on itself and opened along the crease — before her body gave up the struggle. It had been a lonely and difficult time for Sunil and he would most certainly not have made it without White Alice.

A drizzle of crumbs from a bag of chips that a fat Midwestern family were stuffing into their faces on the concrete arch above brought him back to the gondola and the chlorine smell of water and the blue sky that was so blue it couldn’t be real. He watched the family with a mixture of envy and disgust. To be part of a group so oblivious seemed attractive. The gondola turned a bend and his thoughts returned to his mother.

I miss my mother, he said aloud to the gondolier. Is that a childish thing to admit?

The gondolier shrugged.

Sunil was twenty-three when Dorothy died. He was far away in Europe, in Venice, that city she had loved but had never visited. Dorothy was locked up in the Soweto mental hospital for blacks. It was housed in the barracks of an abandoned mine workers’ camp. The barracks consisted of one long bungalow built to house five hundred men and sat in the middle of half an acre of dirt and bush scrub, with broken windows and walls that had not seen paint since it was built. The air of abandonment around it was real.

In Dorothy’s room, pictures of Venice cut out of magazines were pasted across the walls. Other than those colorful walls, the room was bare except for a bed and an altar. On the altar were a single candle, a small statue of the Jesus of the Sacred Heart, and a statue of Mary with a half-melted face, probably from being too close to the candle flame. The altar also held, in a glass jar, a coiled piece of string stained dirt-brown from dried blood. It took all of Sunil’s willpower not to look at the string — it represented everything that had driven his mother here.

On one visit to see Dorothy, Sunil brought a large detailed map of Venice stolen from the library. They spread it out on the floor and she touched each of the sites she loved: the Basilica di Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari, which held Titan’s Assumption of the Virgin, a painting she loved because the model for the Virgin was a famous courtesan; the Piazza San Marco, with the dual columns crested by Saint Mark’s winged lion and Saint Theodore standing on a crocodile, tiles laid out like a flat labyrinth; the Doge’s Palace; the path of the Grand Canal; the Rialto Bridge; and even the brown patch that was the beach at the Lido. Omar Sharif used to holiday there, Dorothy said. Even then Sunil knew she would die in those barracks.

As soon as he left South Africa to study in Europe, Sunil went to Venice and crisscrossed the canals, touching walls, gazing at paintings in churches and galleries and museums, even approaching the statutes that terrified him but held such grace and awe for her. That was when the telegram had arrived announcing her death. He took a ferry to Isola di San Michele and wandered around the graves, watching a bulldozer push the headstones of funeral-plot debtors into a pile for trash against a far wall. Picking a spot by a tree, far away from the giant statue of the angel in the middle of the cemetery, he laid a single rose under it and said the Lord’s Prayer. On the ride back, he tore the telegram into many pieces and watched them flutter into the oily water. Then, and for a long time, he felt nothing more than an overwhelming sense of relief. Years went by before the grief arrived, the way it often does, unannounced, as quiet as the morning when you break down into your cup of coffee, crying.

After Dorothy died, Sunil couldn’t bring himself to return to Venice, the real one, but when he came to Las Vegas and discovered the Strip, he began to come to the Venetian. And there he would ride a gondola for hours lost in this private rosary, this ritual of faith and grief.

The ride has ended, sir, the gondolier said, interrupting Sunil’s thoughts. Do you want to go again?

Sunil had been around twelve times already in two hours.

No, thank you, he said, getting out.

He tipped the gondolier and walked into the hotel lobby. After checking in, he went up to the room to wait for Asia. She’d finally called back and agreed to meet him there. While Sunil waited, nursing a scotch from the minibar, he became aware how sad it was for a forty-four-year-old to have had only two serious relationships, both plagued by gulfs of impossibility. Asia’s arrival brought him back to the present, and with it an animal hunger.

Later, Sunil traced the tattoo on her shoulder. Trae Dah it said in cursive made from the winding stem of a rose. It took him back to the first night they’d spent together. He’d found her online, on Craigslist, and she came over in less than thirty minutes, like her ad promised. That night she’d worn a tank top and he’d noticed the tattoo on her shoulder.

She’d stood at the door for a long time before saying, Aren’t you going to ask me in? Of course, he said, stepping back to let her through. He peered out of the door, down the corridor. It’s okay, she said, I’m alone. Of course, he said, and shut the door. She sat on the couch and looked around. Nice place you have, she said. How old are you, he asked, thinking she didn’t look a day over sixteen. Twenty-two, she said. Then: But I can be younger if you are into that. No, he said, not sure exactly what he was into. What does your tattoo mean, he asked. An ex-boyfriend, she said, and her voice was sad. You can have it removed, he said. I don’t want to, she said. Silence. So, can I get you a drink, he asked. No, thank you, she said, but you are welcome to have one if it helps you relax. She got up and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked out at the city. It looks so beautiful from up here, she said, a wistful tone in her voice. Is your name really Asia, he asked. She turned and smiled. Yes, she said, taking off her tank top. She had a pretty bra on. Do you want to do it here or in the bedroom, she asked. Here, he said, not sure why. She came over to the couch and, sitting down, she took a Bible out of her bag and placed it on the coffee table. The donation. Please put it inside the Bible, she said. There is a bookmark, she added. He opened it at the bookmark, to the book of John, and his eye was drawn to an underlined passage. He slipped the crisp dollar bills between the onionskin and shut the book. He never asked her about this ritual. Not then and not since.

She rubbed her hand over the cushion next to her and patted it. Lie down, she said. He lay. Take your clothes off, she said. As he struggled with his pants, she said, Have you never done this before? What, he asked. This. No, he said, no. What made you call? I was lonely, he said, almost defensively. I know, she said, me too, and there was a sincerity in her voice. Lie back, she said, and he did. You can touch my breasts, she said. Thank you, he said, touching them tentatively. She smiled and bent to wrap him in her mouth, but then winced. What is it, he asked. Do I smell? No, no, she said hurriedly. I just had an abortion, she said. Oh, he said, suddenly uncomfortable, but not wanting to talk about her abortion. He no longer wanted to ask her anything, didn’t want her to speak. He only wanted sex. And she obliged. Later she held him and the move surprised him. Can I stay tonight, she asked. Please. Just tonight. Sure, he said, holding her firmly but gently. When he woke up she was gone. That had been three years ago and he had seen her regularly at least once a week since then.

Why do you keep this thing, he asked, still tracing the tattoo. Do you still love him?

No, she said, eyebrows arching at his tone. I keep it to remind me never to be so stupid again.

Love isn’t stupid, Sunil said, surprising himself.

Of course not, she said. She got up and crossed the room to the minibar. Want something?

No, he said, and headed into the bathroom. When he got back she was draped in a chair sipping on a glass of scotch. Why did we meet here, she asked.

I was at work. It was convenient.

You live closer to your work than this, she said. Is something going on?

It’s not like we’re dating, he said, a little sharper than he’d meant to.

You’re right, she said with a hurt tone.

Look, he said, I’ve been seeing these twins and—

Twins?

I mean at work. They are my patients. Anyway, they are conjoined twins and treating them is stirring up stuff for me.

You’ve never talked about work before, she said. Should you be telling me about your patients?

I’m sorry I brought it up.

She smiled and took a sip of scotch. It’s fine. I just don’t want to talk about work. I mean, imagine if I talked to you about my work.

Point taken, he said, and crossed the room to pull on his pants.

We can talk about other things, she said in a conciliatory tone. Like why you love this hotel so much.

How do you know I love it so much?

Well, I know you come here a lot. You said as much in the past and I’ve seen you here several times.

On dates with other men?

Not talking about work, remember, she said sweetly. So why do you love it so much?

It reminds me of my mother, he said, buttoning his shirt.

That’s a little weird, if you don’t mind me saying. Is that why you wanted to do it here?

I have to go, he said, stepping into his shoes. The room is paid up until tomorrow, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.

She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, her head soft on his chest. I’m sorry, she said, I didn’t say that to hurt you. I was just surprised.

He held her for a moment, nosing her hair. It smelled of sandalwood as always. He pulled away. This was a mistake, he said. I shouldn’t have called you.

Don’t say that, she said, her voice small.

I don’t know what I expected.

I do, she said, knowing full well that he was in love with her. But you know what I do, I can’t, she said. I just can’t. As she spoke she rubbed her tattoo reflexively.

He stopped at the door. It’s in the Bible in the bedside drawer, he said.

She didn’t look at him. Thank you, she said.

He closed the door behind him and immediately wanted to walk back in. He leaned against it for a moment to steady himself, wishing he had showered. Now he would have to stop at home on the way back to work. Just as well, he thought, pushing away from the door and heading down the corridor. He didn’t want to carry the smell of her around with him all day. Unknown to him, she had been leaning on the other side of the door and as she heard him walk away, she rubbed the hard wood of it.

Twenty-six

I have a complaint, Fire said as soon as he got in the door.

Sit down, please, Sunil said, pointing to the couch.

The twins sat.

Some coffee first, and then we can get to your complaint?

Turkish bridegrooms promised their wives on their wedding day to always provide them with coffee, Water said.

We will both have coffee, Doc, Fire said.

Sunil poured two Styrofoam cups of coffee and passed them to the twins. Pouring his into a real cup, he leaned back.

Coffee was discovered in the Kingdom of Kaffa in Ethiopia, Water said. Even though there the bean was called bunna, coffee took its name from Kaffa.

Do you realize that the police think you are killers? That you are connected to a series of deaths from two years ago?

Serial killers? We are the witchdoctor, Doc, not killers. You know this deep down.

I have to keep you here until you tell me what you were doing by that lake with the blood.

We never saw the blood until the police pointed it out. We were there to sightsee.

I find that hard to believe, Sunil said.

I think you’re keeping us here because you are chasing old ghosts, Fire said. Something about us reminds you of them.

Is that so, Sunil asked. But he knew better than anyone that psychiatry was all about chasing ghosts. There was no precision to its science, no technology that allowed a doctor into a patient’s head. It was a game of deep insights, good instincts, and luck — the same as for any good priest. Eugene had told him as much.

We are songomas, you and I, he’d said to Sunil. We throw bones and read them for meaning, for hope, for direction. Your bones are more ethereal than mine. I mean, I usually throw people’s actual bones, but in the end it’s the same, we are both chasing spirits. We are hunting the demons that haunt others. We get a smell and off we go. And you know why, Sunil? You know why we are so good at hunting the demons of others? Because we are so good, gifted even, at stalking and evading our own. But all demon hunters think that they are really heroes, and you know what all heroes need? They need a myth. For me it is the ideal of order, of understanding that the world would spin off its axis without the order I bring. For you… for you it might be the illusion of doing good, of saving others.

The illusion, Sunil asked. What are you talking about?

Eugene smiled, a cruel peeling back of the lips from the teeth. Your myth, Sunil. I mean that you have yet to find your myth. When you do, you’ll be free like me. You will be a pure angel of purpose.

As much as he hated it, Sunil realized that Eugene was right. He hadn’t found his myth. What he didn’t know was what kept him from it.

He looked at Fire and shivered when he saw his lips peel back in a smile not unlike Eugene’s. Were the twins the gatekeepers to his myth? Was that why he was chasing them in a pointless game of bait? Something an intern could handle for him? The twins weren’t the killers from two years ago, but he didn’t know what they were. Two years ago he’d been clear about why he was helping, or pretending to help, Salazar. Now he had lost track of what the charade was about. Was he stalking himself, or Brewster? Or was Brewster stalking him? He remembered something Eugene had said. If a hunter ever loses track of his prey, he becomes prey.

You okay, Doc?

Yes, Fire, I’m fine, Sunil said.

Are you sure? Because you don’t look so good. You look like you’re suppressing something, something unpleasant, like, say, a sad truth?

The truth shall set you free, Water said.

Perhaps you’re projecting something onto me? Something you’d like to share, Sunil said.

Classic evasion, Doc. Very good, Fire said.

Why don’t you leave the psychiatry to me, Sunil said. You may be a little out of your depth there.

You know I’m right, Doc, you know you’re holding us because somewhere deep down you think we can help you with this truth that’s burning a hole in you.

Did you make your call to Fred, Sunil asked.

No, we didn’t and we want to, Fire said.

Fred will come for us, Water said.

And where is Fred right now?

Fred is in the desert, Water said. I love Fred. Fred is whom I love.

Can you tell me where to find Fred, Sunil asked.

Water was drinking his coffee, but Fire was just twirling the cup in his hands, not drinking. Sunil made a note about this, wondering if Fire could actually ingest anything. In spite of his earlier protestations to the contrary, he was looking forward to the results of the MRI that Brewster would be performing.

Why do we have Styrofoam cups and you have a real one, Fire asked.

Institute policy, Sunil said. Patients can’t use breakable crockery.

It’s not like we are terrorists, Doc. That’s apartheid, Fire said.

You never answered the question. Where can I find Fred.

Does it matter? Like Water said, Fred will come for us.

But what if I wanted to see your circus act, Sunil said. Where would I go?

Sideshow, Fire said.

I’m sorry, I don’t understand, Sunil said. What’s the difference?

Circuses are about entertainment and juggling and animals and all that shit. Sideshows are about freaks, about people and the limits of acceptability. We push those limits. If a circus is an escape, Fire said, a sideshow is a confrontation.

I see, Sunil said, writing. And you feel empowered by this difference?

Damn fucking right we do, Fire said.

“Circus” comes from the Latin for “ring” or “circle,” Water said.

What does a fire wizard do, exactly, Sunil asked.

I can show you, Fire said.

You’re not going to burn the building down, are you, Sunil asked.

Fire just glared at him. Watch, he said.

But it was Water who moved, not him, reaching for a piece of paper. With quick but graceful movements, he shaped it into a white origami moth with an eight-inch wingspan. Water held it up to Sunil and cupped his hand around the paper moth.

Fire began a mesmerizing incantation, and as Sunil watched, Water opened his hands and the paper moth fluttered into flight for thirty seconds. It hovered over his palms for another ten seconds and then burst into flames, the ash falling into Water’s cupped palms. He rubbed them together and once again held up the white origami moth.

Smiling, he passed the paper moth to Sunil.

How did you do that, Sunil asked, turning the fragile paper moth gingerly over in his hands.

We are the witchdoctor, Fire said.

Impressive, Sunil said.

Water got up and walked toward the wall of photos. What are these, he asked.

They are photos of cows, Sunil said.

A cow stands up and sits down fourteen times a day, Water said.

I would like to meet Fred, Sunil said.

Well, we all like what we like, Fire said. Did you take these photos?

Yes, a very long time ago, with a dinky old Kodak camera. I was seven or eight. They are Nguni cows. They remind me of home.

Ah, home. More nostalgia than memory, Fire said.

The Nguni name all their cattle, you know? This one here, Sunil said, pointing to one of the cows, is called Inhlakuva, sugar bean, because its markings resemble a sugar bean; and this one is Imfezi, the spitting cobra; and this creamy speckled one is called Amaqandakacilo, egg of the lark, Sunil said.

For real, Doc, Fire asked.

Sunil explained that each beast in a Nguni herd was an individual that carried its uniqueness in its color patterns, horn shapes, and gender, which bestowed on it a status and even a history. With the respect accorded to family, the cows were classified according to what symbols or landscapes the color patterns of their hides resembled. And while the monikers were used primarily for identification, this system of naming was part of a highly sophisticated philosophical worldview.

This one, Sunil continued, is Insingizisuka, the ground hornbill takes to flight. These ones here probably have a compound name, Sunil added, pointing to a group of cows under a thornbush tree. Izinkonwazi Ezikhula Zemithi, I would guess. It means the cows which are the gaps between the branches of the trees silhouetted against the sky. And this one is Inkomo Ebafazibewela Umfula, the women crossing the river.

You’re making that last one up, Fire said, laughing.

No, I’m not. See here? It’s because the cow has white legs and belly and a colored body with this wavy line here separating them. The wavy line looks like water lapping the legs, see?

And all the cows are named, Fire asked. Strange, don’t you think, that the Zulus were so good at classification, and then the Boers came along and used it against them.

Sunil shook his head. It was too much to consider. All empire is about classification, he said. For the Zulu it was cattle, for the Boers, it was blacks. The Boers perverted everything.

They had help, Fire said.

Sunil turned his attention back to the photographs. With his index finger he traced the horns of one of the cattle.

There is a whole other nomenclature associated with horn shapes, he said.

Yeah, Fire asked.

There is a beautiful saying that refers to the first light of dawn that makes me think about cattle horns silhouetted against the byre sky. Kusempondozankomo, I think it is, which means the time of the horns of the cattle, Sunil said.

What’s that one called, Fire asked.

That one is called Umndlovu, the elephant, because its horns are curved down straight like the trunk of an elephant. I can’t really release you if I don’t think there is someone who I trust to vouch for you. I need you to tell me how to find Fred.

You’re not going to release us anyway, Doc, Fire said. Why would you when you can keep us here and study us? Now, tell me more about the cows.

I think that’s enough for now, he said.

Are we ever going to get that phone call, Fire asked.

I’ll call a nurse and I will come by later this evening to check on you.

Twenty-seven

Salazar pulled across the wood, the sharp wood plane shaving a slight curl that fluttered to the ground. He ran his finger over the grain and, satisfied, put the wood plane down. Light balsa wood showed through, contrasted by the walnut stain around it. Salazar had been building boats for almost twenty years, and this one, a replica of a seventeenth-century Spanish war galleon, for about two years.

He’d built them since his first kill on the job: Jim, a junkie kid.

Jim had been something of an institution in the Fremont section of town, and cops were always called out to handle him. He was basically harmless, Sergeant Vines, Salazar’s partner and ten-year veteran of the force, always told him. But then they’d been called out because Jim was wielding a knife and threatening a homeless woman.

Following procedure, Salazar trained his gun on the kid, while Vines, a Vietnam vet who loved to chew on cheroots and was plainspoken, tried to talk Jim down.

Now, son, put down the knife.

Stay back! Jim shouted. I’m warning you.

What’s happening, son? You know you don’t want to hurt anyone, Vines said.

Stay back!

See that man over there with a gun, Vines said. That’s my partner, fresh out of the academy. I don’t want him to shoot you, but right now he’s more scared than you are.

Jim lowered the weapon, then suddenly lurched forward. It was unclear if he meant to lunge or if he had merely felt his legs giving way, but Salazar panicked and squeezed off a shot. The 9mm slug slammed Jim against the wall behind him before he dropped. People seldom die in real life the way they do on TV, and Salazar watched Jim writhe for a long time, bleeding out. When the paramedics arrived, it was too late.

Hell of a fighter, Vines said. As messed up as he was you’d think he would’ve died sooner.

Yeah, Salazar mumbled.

Sorry, rookie, hell of a first week. Listen, there’ll be a board of inquiry to determine if it was a good shooting. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine, just don’t say anything without a union rep present.

Okay.

Good. They’ll also want you to see the department shrink, who’ll try and get you to talk about your feelings.

A shrink?

Don’t worry. It’s procedure. Just do it.

Okay.

That won’t help you much, you know?

How do you know?

Stop asking questions, rookie, and listen.

Sure, yeah.

More than likely, you’ll start drinking a lot to calm yourself, and then you’ll get the shakes every time you draw your weapon, so you’ll drink some more to control those shakes, and then your hands will shake some more and you’ll either kill someone else or you’ll get killed. Either way, it’s no good.

Jesus, Salazar said. Internal Affairs hadn’t even arrived on the scene yet to determine if it was a clean shoot. Everything was moving too fast.

Vines said: The thing that will save you is finding something that you used to love as a kid, something that involves your hands and labor and time. You understand? And I don’t mean masturbation. Find the thing. I don’t care what some newfangled shrink theory says; building things has saved generations of American male souls.

A few months after the shooting, waking up drunk, Salazar decided to take Vines’s advice. He dug deep for the redemption Vines promised would be there and a memory of sailing toy ships in the park with his dad, Elian, came to him. Elian Salazar had been a fisherman in Cuba, but in Miami he worked twelve-hour days stacking boxes. When he could, he would escape to the park with young Joey Salazar, sail toy boats, and regale him with stories about storms off the coast of Cuba that washed up sea serpents and mermaids. His father drank too, and when he did, he was liberal with his fists. Those moments by the small pond in the park, their boats competing with the ducks, were some of the happiest for Salazar.

His first attempt was a lucky accident. As he felt the sharp edge of the wood plane catch and shave the first sliver off, he surrendered to his rage and shaved and shaved, feeling all the fear and self-loathing fall away in soft wooden curls that littered the floor of the garage like the locks of a blond Pinocchio. What he was left with was barely big enough to make a two-inch rowboat out of. But he worked hard and finished it with an exactness that slowly brought peace. A few days later he presented it to Sergeant Vines, who looked at it with something approaching awe as he moved the one-inch oar about.

I see you found your therapy, he said.

Salazar followed that first dinghy with a fleet of craft — slopes, canoes, sailboats, and yachts. Most of them were arranged in display cases around the garage. A few he gave away to friends and to kids at the local hospital at Christmas. Only rarely did he ever put any of his boats or ships into actual water.

The first time had been to honor the junkie he’d shot: a kind of warrior’s send-off. For that, Salazar had driven out to Lake Henderson, where he’d placed the second boat he built on the water, drenched it in lighter fluid, and set it on fire. He watched it sail away until it burned to nothing twenty feet from the shore. Since then he’d built only five craft that had touched water, five for the five people he’d shot over his twenty-year career. It was an unusually high number, but over time Salazar had come to wear his kills with an odd kind of honor.

This new ship, the Spanish galleon, had been ongoing for two years, the longest it had taken him to build a ship. Destined for the water — not in honor of any of his victims, but rather for the girl whose murder he’d been unable to solve — it was growing more ornate. It measured four feet from stern to bow and it had eight sails, twelve cannons, three decks, and real stained glass for the windows of the captain’s quarters. It was essentially finished, but since he hadn’t solved the case, he couldn’t let it go. Then yesterday he began what he realized was the final touch, a masthead, nearly a foot long: a siren with the face of the dead girl. It was a cool evening and Salazar was sanding down the siren, wondering what colors he would paint her.

Vines had dropped by earlier. Long retired, he spent his days playing golf and his nights gambling in the casinos off the Strip where the locals went.

Vines took in the muddy black shoes in the corner. Been fishing, he asked.

Salazar followed Vines’s gaze and shook his head. I’ve been out by Lake Mead searching for shallow graves. Fucking muddy and shitty work.

Still fucking around with that case?

The killings started again, Salazar said, catching Vines up, telling him about the twins, Sunil, and his frustration.

Aha, well, at least you’ve got the divers, Vines said. They find anything yet?

No, and they left this afternoon.

Shit, so you have no help?

Not even a partner, Salazar said.

No partner? That’s just what the department does as you get close to retiring.

It’s not that, Salazar said.

Shit, I was just trying to be nice. You know, maybe no one can put up with you since I left.

Fuck you, Salazar said, laughing. I do have some help though.

The shrink.

Yeah, the shrink.

That’s all well and good, but don’t get lost in all that profiling shit, Vines said. Good police work is about following the small details diligently. Don’t forget who taught you that.

In your fucking dreams.

Any good leads?

No.

Vines walked around the workbench in the middle of the garage. Ever notice how a ship kind of looks like a coffin, he asked. Square at one end, tapered at the other. This one’s about the size of a child’s coffin, he said.

A fly alighted on the ship. Salazar flicked at it. Aren’t you late for senior discount at the casinos, he asked.

Fuck yeah, Vines said, glancing at his watch. At the door he paused and, looking back, he said: Burn this one quick, rookie, and move on.

The moon was full and yellow as Salazar walked Vines to his car. Harvest moon.

Twenty-eight

You look like shit, Sunil said to Salazar.

Salazar, unshowered, unchanged, unshaven, sporting bloodshot eyes and nursing a cup of coffee, stared at himself in the reflective glass of the casino door. Yeah, he said. Well, you’re no fucking beauty queen yourself.

When his cell phone rang thirty minutes before, Sunil had just walked into his apartment and was quite looking forward to some downtime with a beer and basketball on TV. Salazar wanted Sunil to meet him at Fremont Street in front of the Golden Nugget. Immediately. Salazar sounded so like a B-movie gangster, Sunil was tempted to laugh. But there he was, meeting a surly Salazar and wondering to himself how much neon there was in this city. Now, that was a question he was sure Water had an answer for.

See those kids over there, Salazar asked, pointing to a group of kids lounging in the middle of the covered pedestrian walkway that sheltered this part of Fremont. They were sprawled across a white bench reflecting the crazy video projections on the roof of the walkway, eating hamburgers and sipping noisily on drinks. You remember that text you sent me about Fred, Salazar said.

Yeah, did you find anything on her?

No, no record, nothing in the system, not even a social security number.

Then why am I here?

Well, I figured if you were looking for a freak lover with a sideshow, where better to start than with the freaks themselves.

And you need me for what?

Freaks are your thing. Besides, I don’t have a partner so you’re it.

Who are these kids?

Street kids. I try to watch out for them and they in turn keep me informed on things I want to know. They’re kind of like CIs.

Hey guys, Salazar said to the kids. This is Dr. Singh. Dr. Singh, meet the gang. This is Horny Nick, he said, pointing to a teenager with star-shaped horns implanted in his forehead.

Coral probably, Sunil thought. With time it would fuse to look like real bone. They were disturbing but beautiful. When Nick smiled, Sunil could see that his teeth had been filed to points and he was sporting two-inch-long fingernails painted black.

And this, Salazar said, pointing, is Annie.

Annie took off her sunglasses and tucked them over her hair, revealing pointed ears, like an elf or a Vulcan. She ran her tongue over her lips and Sunil saw it had been split down the middle, but it was her eyes that transfixed him. Her sclera were a deep purple and her pupils a royal blue. There were two other teenagers with Annie and Horny Nick, a boy and another girl, and although their entire bodies, faces included, were covered with tattoos and piercings, they looked normal in comparison.

These two delinquents here are Peggy and Petrol, Salazar said.

Sunil nodded. Salazar thinks you might know someone we’re looking for, he said. He reached into his back pocket and took out a photo of Fire and Water. The kids studied the photo for a while before passing it around. Sunil watched their eyes, noticing shifts in expression, but it was only Annie who said: a real freak! She sounded envious.

We haven’t seen them, Petrol said, passing the photo back almost reluctantly.

Who else might have seen them? Where would they go, Salazar asked.

You should ask Fred, Annie said. Fred knows everything.

The others glared at her and Sunil caught the look.

I’m not a policeman, he said. I’m a doctor. I don’t want to harm Fred. I just want to talk to her. In fact, Sunil said, pointing to Water in the photo, this one says he is in love with Fred.

The kids laughed.

Everyone is in love with Fred, they said, almost in unison.

Where can we find this fucking Fred person, Salazar asked.

The kids looked away.

Please, Sunil said.

She lives out in Troubadour, Horny Nick said.

The ghost town, Sunil asked.

Fred doesn’t like uninvited guests, Petrol said.

Here, Sunil said, digging into his pocket and passing a twenty-dollar bill over to Peggy.

As she took it she leaned into him. Be careful, she whispered. Someone is following you.

Why would anyone follow me, he asked.

How the fuck should I know, she said. But I’m never wrong.

As they walked away, Salazar turned to Sunil. What was all that about, he asked.

She thinks I’m being followed, Sunil said.

Do you think you’re being followed?

No. Why would anyone follow me?

Salazar looked Sunil over for a minute, then said: Listen, is the ghost town far from here?

Yes, a couple of hours.

When do we leave?

Why don’t we go tomorrow morning? Come by my place about nine a.m. You’re driving, by the way.

What’s your address?

Like you don’t know, Detective.

As Sunil drove home, he kept glancing in his rearview mirror. Two cars behind him, Eskia smiled.

Twenty-nine

In this dream, Selah is an angel oak and all her leaves are yellow, a bright yellow like the soft down on a chick and irradiated by sunlight so the very air, the sky, is all yellow.

The tree is in a field of yellow shrubs: a yellow sky, a yellow field, and a yellow tree. The only things that are not yellow are the black limbs of the tree.

Water stands in the soft down of the shrubs and looks up at the tree. Selah, he says, crying, Selah.

The yellow tree shakes in a sudden wind until it is stripped of leaves, of everything. Now Water is standing in a brown field next to a small cabin leaning drunkenly.

Selah, he calls again, Selah.

Where is your brother, the tree asks.

Water looks down to his side and Fire is gone. He runs his hands down his sides and he is healed, his skin unmarked.

I don’t know, he says, his voice heavy with awe. What does this mean, Mother?

The tree turns white. A rude tree in a field of green and white and in the distance the white shrubs. Water looks around, confused.

Where am I, he asks no one, because there is no one to ask.

And the sky grows dark and brooding like a storm was coming, but there is a purity to the tree, to it all.

Selah, he calls one last time to the tree.

There is nothing but the searing whiteness everywhere.

Wake up, Water.

When he opened his eyes, a nurse was standing over him in the glare of the fluorescent overhead lights.

Time for your medication, the nurse said.

Water took the pill and swallowed it, then lay back, his breath shallow and ragged. Beside him, wrapped in the smoothness of his caul, Fire snored.