Lies We Bury(25)

The bartender wrinkles his nose. “One of Oregon’s finest. He killed seven women during the eighties. Pretty gruesome for the Northwest.”

“And Pierre Arktiq?”

“Kept a family of four in his basement. Hey, you’re not going to say anything to anyone about Eloise, right? I feel terrible I even mentioned it.”

I stare at him. At this man’s double chin and the deadpan way in which he recounts what could be a summary of my childhood. “Say that again? About Pierre.”

He wipes the inside of a shot glass. “Arktiq? The guy was nuts. After getting naturalized from Canada, he broke into a family’s home and made everyone, the teenagers and parents, get in the basement. Made them gorge on fast food for a week, tried to fatten them up, so that he could eventually eat them.”

Raucous laughter erupts from the women as one dancer takes the stage for the empty room. Music begins to blast through the stereo system. I lean in closer. “What happened?”

The bartender shrugs. “Just what you’d expect. The teenagers’ friends came calling, and the parents’ coworkers stopped by when they didn’t come to the office. Arktiq was found out and arrested—but not before he shot the family; he prepared one for dinner but didn’t get to enjoy the meal.” I shudder, and the bartender notices. “Pretty creepy, right? We’ve got more stories than that.” He waves a chubby palm at the rest of the beer taps.

Find the name I most admire and you’ll find the next one first.

Pierre Arktiq, murderer and basement lover. Just like Chet. Just like the Four Alarm killer.

I lay a few dollar bills on the counter. “Bathroom?”

The man points down the hall. “Hurry up, though. You’ll want to see Candy’s set, and she’s on next.”

I head down a narrow hallway, but instead of going left toward the women’s, I pause outside a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Before I can second-guess myself—wonder what the hell I’m actually doing here—I lean into the door, and a messy kitchen is revealed. Dirty dish towels are slung across a wooden table while a plastic bag of frozen steaks lies on the tile, mostly thawed in a puddle of watery blood. Above the wide basin of a porcelain sink, a professionally printed canvas sign reads BEER BREASTS AND STEAKS TO DIE FOR! Past a wide refrigerator, another door leads down two steps into a cellar. I descend them. The floor here is smooth, flat concrete, matching all the walls except for the farthest one from the door. Potato sacks, stacked three high on each shelf, are the major commodity here, but as my eyes adjust to the semidarkness, I see plates and glasses, tubs of glitter, tubs of chalk, containers of rye, and cartons of light bulbs occupy steel trays. All the essentials. At the very back of the cellar, a walk-in cooler aligns with one wall, nearly touching the ceiling.

Voices carry from the kitchen. “What the hell happened to the steaks? Are you freaking kidding me?”

I freeze, not daring to take another step. The stocked shelves leave no hiding place large enough to fit me. My heart clamors against my chest. The bass of the dancer’s set list muffles the conversation, but the voices become louder, heading my way.

I grip the handle of the cooler, then slide inside and pull the door shut. A light switch is already flipped on. Stainless-steel kegs are stacked upright on tracks along the floor and the ceiling. Puffs of hot air form beneath my nostrils as the grooves of the aluminum handle dig into my palm, and I brace for someone from the other side to wrench it free. Seconds go by. The handle doesn’t move.

I turn to take inventory. The first row of kegs slides out, like from a drawer. The names of the beers—of serial killers—are written above each row in black pen on laminated paper. The label on the keg beneath “Charles Manson” reads COORS LIGHT.

“Classy move, Stakehouse,” I whisper. Removing my camera from my case, I position the lens at eye level and capture the cooler’s stock in two frames.

Moving from row to row, I search the labels. Adrenaline spurts through my veins, warming me, as I pass each row, each killer, until I’m only three labels out from the end.

Two rows of Pierre Arktiq beer are stacked two high, the letters P.A. on each face in curling font. Behind the last keg lies a bunched black mass—a trash bag. With human legs. Sticking straight out against the tracks of the mobile rack and concealed by the final row of kegs. A body.

Acid climbs my throat. I stare at the legs, terror locking me in place. My mouth goes dry as I imagine the limbs moving, twitching, this person rising and pulling the bag off its own head.

Does rigor mortis set in immediately? Is it already well set in if the body has been here since Sunday morning, when I received the note directing me here? Practical thoughts boomerang in my head, shock taking over and stifling a scream inside me.

A normal person would run. A sane person would alert the police.

With an unsteady hand, I lift my Canon. Raise the lens to the corner. Click.

I step backward and at an angle to capture the space between the stacks of beers, a slivered view of what should be the body’s bagged head. Click. Click. Click.

The screen of my camera displays the most recent shot. Bright colors decorate the body’s wrist. Slowly, I lower the camera to view them directly. Around the left hand is a bracelet made from three strings. My stomach clenches as I identify each color: red, green, and blue. Me, Lily, and Jenessa.

Gooseflesh ignites along my arms. This bracelet is the second item plucked from my childhood to be placed at the site of a murder.