Lovely Red Waters

Lovely Red Waters

Lucas D. Herring

04/17/2023

Chapter One
Desperation’s Journey


Oceans rise, and desperation lives within. Six feet under, and one cannot see their heritage and homes. Physical beings, scattered, taken off their foundations-those who had-all that lays are soggy and teared pictures of mama and papa, of family. Imprinted on beds and over-fixed appliances, now its fingerprints washed away, their souls dying in the dirty solitude of ocean gray. Tears adding to their decay. The homeless-they find a way to survive, to survive with nothing, escaping the risen waters to become as desperate as before-their shadows lay on the dry outskirts of Homestead, or in the Wet Slums of Homestead Campus. No matter if the sun becomes ablaze or clouds show their dark grey, rain drops dropping or rain drops drying, they still wear the same clothes as before; their faces still dirty as before; their eyes still colorless as before; their fingerprints disappearing to quick and unemotional glances, to hurried worry, to manipulation. Chaos, the chaotic influx of illegal immigrants from the South, traveling by makeshift water boats, desperate to find dry land, to heal their childrens’ souls against the police who desire to protect their own, their own family from the growing criminal and dirty density, a destiny that sees all generations suffer in.

No matter how good nature the brown mother or father has, there will always lie snakes, water snakes, that when touched, they retaliate to preserve every ideal of the self. Money, no matter how wet or dry, give him the damn money. ‘We will give him the money, or we will never leave this hell. Food and clothes? Honey, we are going to sell everything we have in the end. Does it matter? As long as the bebe is fine; as long as he is quiet.’

Being let on an unregistered boat, traveling the Everglades, moving past the Navy Wells Reserve-almost there. Almost there, but never on the ground.

Like an eel, like a snake, innocence cannot be spared-desperate eyes and bodies are indeed gold to the narcos and the 13s. A simple phone call, accompanied by lust, Spanish thick in vulgarity and indifferent in every moment-a sense of vibrancy was instilled in the stalkers. They plainly ignored the screams of the father’s bloodied head. A simple disgusting voice can silence the tears, and the mother saw across the brutal man in his human state, hearing, “Mama, dame a tu hija, y te dejare ir a ti y a tu hijo.” The girl obeyed him, hearing her mother cry.

“No…no, mija…Isabel!” But never turning her face back to see her hollow mother burning under the sun.

The two boats left each other, both in opposite directions, and when the cartel stopped, they pinned her down, and each took a turn, cutting her tongue before their excitement spilled over. But Pleasure becomes anger; pleasure becomes guilt; pleasure becomes violence-pleasure is escape-they dumped her dead body in the water thereafter.

Those illegals that did arrive to the ground only crowded the Wet Slums, and local pantries and business on the outskirts-no one knew who the other person was-they was no hello or goodbye, or how is your day, only metal locks and coverings after the government handouts were given for the day.

Natives grew angry that their state became like this. Less food for their children, and more given to strangers; less quality rooms, and more given to strangers-hotels on land had their floors filled with what seem to be abandoned migrant children, their rooms filled with horrendous smells, men and women having open sex on the stairs, and perfectly fine food thrown away in its dumpster-the homeless’s eyes filled with greed, and some killed each other for its beautiful contents.

Hotels and campuses ruined, slums created, slums expanded, misery on the South Miami Dade Busway travels far, and young women and men in their prime are dying for fresh air and distraction. Natives grouped with natives, illegals grouped with illegals, and the homeless grouped with the homeless. Privacy and peace was all that they desired. Away from the judgements, hatred, and indifference. Away from the vices that laid in the dirty waters, and the screams and gunshots heard from the distance. Away from the incompetent politicians and their dense promises.

Money can still be everything in the right places. Peace in the night, love in the moment becomes priced. The little welfare that the natives and illegals had, were stolen by their children while sleeping; the homeless mugged defenseless counterparts to see if the rumors of bliss and ecstasy were true. Traveling south along the South Miami Dade Busway, into Florida City through public water boats, a piece of westward clean green water was finally seen, and a young couple venturing back to the Slums actually had a smile. Flush red on both their faces, hearts still racing while venturing through the breeze, excitedly telling curious boys and girls of what was seen and felt.

Two hours for thirty dollars, one hour for fifteen, and thirty-minutes for eight dollars. Boat driven from the shop’s bay, the roar of the engine and blades become still, anchor in place. Once the couple heard nothing but the Herons gently flying, and the Barred Owl quietly cooing, vulnerability was undeniable. Their naked bodies rocked the boat, ripples cascaded along the waters, and their moans became their hearts’ desire. Collapsed then when it was time, cuddling and hiding in each other's necks through the remaining night.

Ripples ceased, and a white mask lurked underneath. Head gently placed on the edge of the boat, his blood-stained eyes just stared at their naked bodies, stared at them for five minutes until the girl caught a glance and screamed. Quick, unaffected, the man got onto the boat, no matter the kicks or punches to the face, he took the boy’s neck, and squeezed, relishing when he sliced his upper neck. The girl swam, swam desperately while naked, crying while above, and screaming silently when pulled underneath. Drowning the girl, he carried her to the boat. The boy, still alive, tried to punch the masked man, but only hitting the air. Laying her down on his, he swam across, got the boy’s right arm, dragged him, putting it through the bladed window, and turned on the boat. Floating was the arm, and his body drowning in the Lovely Red Waters.



Chapter Two
Callings

Bags heavy, but eyes still focused, he continued to type in the dimly lit dark, enclosed in what his beloved wife would say, “The Rabbit Hole.” Pictures needled on various bulletin boards, tied and connected to origins, majority reneedled, its tiny holes decorating each piece of evidence. Past theories in messy red marker, written on white expo boards to his right and left, and erased constantly, leaving permanent red stains on its surface. Rarely does his boards collect dust, for they are lightly brushed at the subtle pleading to his wife.

His eyes eventually watered in the dim light, and he leaned back while lightly rubbing his pupils. Opening once again, he glimpsed, more so looked with a mixture of pride and sadness at the testaments painted by the red strings In front and above him were pictures of sensational headlines and critics of the breakthrough investigation known as “Project Shadow,” where he and his team uncovered a mass fentanyl drug dealing in connection to a Florida subdivision of MS-13, known as the Tongue-Cutters in 2102. Working for the DEA, he found partial fulfillment in closing the case; he did it at the expense of killing his cousin Daniel Mason, a prominent local drug dealer (recruited by the clan) on the final bust attempt. First and last funeral he attended.

Other cases followed, growing atrociously tedious: a desperate or indifferent drug dealer who makes his and family’s life live cautiously on dirty money. Some led to the death of close team members, and as the bureaucratic and mind-numbing years shaved the vibrancy of his 30 year mind and body, he left the DEA, and decided to better explore his passion in psychology, applying for the Homestead police department due to the rise in homicides.

During the next five years, the pride that covered most of the second-third of his wall: “The Disappearance of the Kennedy Child” in 2106. More ties in more elaborate patterns: zigzags and crosses, and finally the goosebumps and eye glimmer when the suspect revealed herself on the board: his mother. The highs of discovery entailed fulfilling sorrow, but the national media could not stop getting high, even attending the funeral, clamoring with questions in the hollow mother in law’s presence.

Now staring for five minutes, furrows burrowed, jaw tense, and slightly teary eyes, he briefly looked at his watch, cleared his throat, and got back to work, adjusting his shoulders to finish the report of a recent crime scene. It is the apparent homicide of a young sixteen-year-old girl, her tongue sliced when her body was recovered in the Everglades, near the Navy Wells Reserve. “Typical Tongue-Cutter shit; these monsters never go away,” he whispered. “Why is Pattinson giving me this case?” He continued to type in details, making inferences from the case file to complete the report, and finally typing in the date: April 2nd, 2108.

The door slightly opened, and actual light came through, blinding his peripheral vision for a moment, but thereafter, he saw his wife come through with her cute messy red curly hair, freckled face, and drowsy green eyes-he can only adore subtly.

Gently placing her arms around his chest and neck, she whispered, smiling in his ear, “Thank you for putting me to sleep last night, Michael.” He blushed slightly, kissing her hand, and whispering the same, “Of course, Marybeth.” All he could feel was her silent gentle breathing on his upperback, and her half kisses upon his check. Michael turned his head slightly around to embrace her lips, delicately kissing her freckles, while gently caressing her sixteen-month bump. Turning his head back to the computer, Marybeth became more awake, her curious eyes quickly reading her husband’s report. A librarian for the relocated (Northern) Homestead Public Library, she was an expert in grammar and any type of analytical reading. A collection of technical and literary books cluttered her private room, and within, annotations made zigzag and cross patterns on every page.

“Oh, delete that sentence, Michael-be more concise, and add a hyphen before this noun…can I?” Leaning to the side, Michael could only smile as she made passionate changes to his report, turning an average and distracted paper to a meaningful one. “Way better honey.” She curled her hair, and gleefully replied, “I know.”

Quickly she then asked, “How’s the Rabbit-Hole on this one?” Michael went through his hair briefly, replying, “Nothing much really; just a standard narcosis case for some reason; Pattinson gave it to me- “To distract you from the Kennedy Case?”

Michael’s jaw tensed, and he inhale/exhaled sharply. A moment of silence passed, with Michael succumbing to Marybeth’s persuasive eye. “She…she ran off with him, and she, almost as bad as her husband, led him to an abandoned public house in Florida City. Barely above water at the time (now fully underwater), he still found them. A struggle ensued, and she shot her kid and herself, her fucking kid…The more I know what happened, the more I am reminded that innocence cannot be saved, no matter what action I take.”

Solemnity did not cease her love or care for him-it only magnified-she walked, bent her knee and took his face in her hands. “You try because you care, and you care because you sacrifice. No matter what happens my love, your desire for the truth will always outweigh what you cannot control. As long as you have me, and I have you, we will bear the outcome-no matter what it is.”

Her eyes seemed to glow a brighter green throughout, and his furrow, along with his tense jaw, disappeared. Foreheads touching, she then whispered, “You must be hungry, honey what can I make you? “Don’t you have your shift at 9?” She rolled her eyes, “And listen to the old ladies gossip longer, and hear the old man owner demand, then fall asleep? No, you are my priority.”

After eating his breakfast, she straightened his tie, and kissed him goodbye. Leaving Campbell drive, he drove to Wittkop Park, overseeing from his left hand side the growing dots underneath the sun-the crude water reflection is becoming more apparent.




Chapter 3
An Investigation’s Genesis

Oversight over the underwater districts is more or less gone. Down south of Florida City, the Everglades, and parts of Homestead, the rising tides transpired quickly, and state and national guards are desperately trying to contain the influx and quell the crime of relocation and illegal immigration.

Pattinson, the chief of the Homestead Police Department relocated, and with more state and private funding due to increased incredibility, they were able to establish temporary operations to Wittkop Park, about a foot above the risen waters.

Due to the Kennedy Case, Michael’s effectiveness slightly deteriorated, and so Pattinson assigned him the narcos case for distraction, but that path may prove useless, for he received a call from the Florida Governor that there has been a series of killings. A demonic brutality he said, different from the Tongue-Tiers and other narcos-whoever this man is, he is possessed, possessed at the sight of the body-no identity has been disclosed-this matter is strictly private, and private only to your department and Michael. Give him the case as soon as possible. Due to district lines being ruined, you and Michael have full control and backing from me to conduct the investigation down south, and near the Wet Slums if needed. We will set up a conference meeting at the capitol very soon.

Putting the phone down, his concerned brown eyes resurface, calling upon his secretary to request Michael Alverez as soon as possible.

Entering the building, Michael took the elevator up to the second and final floor, entering his cubicle with report in hand to turn into Pattinson. Before he could sit down, Amelia called for his name. A petite young woman, about twenty-three years old, wearing a standard professional attire: white blouse, black jacket, and dress pants, skin-colored high heels to make her five-foot seven. Her nose is small, and her brown eyes slightly wide apart and catshapped. Straight black hair, up in a bun, and always wearing a slightly intrigued countenance. “What does Pattinson need at the moment?” ““He said the matter was of strict confidentiality””, whatever that means…what do you think it is?” Alvarez stayed quiet for a moment, then rising with his report, he handed it to her with a stern, yet subtle excitement. “Maybe a different case, Amelia. May you please catalog this for me?” With her index finger on her lip and a side eye, she only said, “Michael, of course, I will. You know which room to go to.”

The D-1 room, to the left of Pattinson's office, was where cases were briefed, but never to such “confidentiality,” making Michael erase his premature excitement from his countenance before entering its security.


Before he could see Pattinson on the opposite side of the table, he saw a relatively young man. He introduced himself at Lyndoski. Fair skinned, with blonde hair and green eyes, he eagerly shook Michael’s hand, the uncomfortable gesture apparent to Pattinson. Sitting them both down, he plainly said, “Michael, this is your partner for this case. Before you ask for his credentials, he has solved many state murders in Pennsylvania and one in Michigan, including the perpetrator for the infamous Boy in the Box case and the Oakland County Child Killer respectively. Is that enough?” “I assume sir, that it is.”

“Excellent, here are the case files. Except one, the victims, all roughly sixteen to seventeen years old, were found in the Everglades waters, near the Navy Wells Pineland Preserve. The males were brutally murdered, either extreme head trauma, or throat lacerations, with one missing an arm. The women appear farther down the channel, their breasts…their breasts removed with their faces mutilated, also having throat lacerations. With grave curiosity Lyndoski asked, “What about the other one?” Pattinson answered, “She was found dead, naked, wrists tied to a pine tree, nothing removed, and only a throat laceration.” After reflecting silently, Michael asked, “Waterboat murders? And where were the clothes found?” “Apparently already off, so I am presuming, maybe a forced strip down before their death?” “We will see Pattinson… any suspicious locations?” “Yes, apparently there is an unregistered waterboat shop near the murder sites. Look into that and the Wet Slums for mother and father testimony…. Lyndoski, you are dismissed. Alvarez will be there shortly.” “Yes sir.” Closing the door, Pattinson said, “The governor is on my ass with this one. As such, the narcos case is dismissed; this is your sole priority, Michael. Focus on this, and leave the Kennedy case behind, understood?” Michael nodded gravely, “Yes sir.”

He left the office, feeling a wave of new pressure, forcing him, gravitating him to the board and to live in heighten solemnity, no matter the result. His eyes only thirsted for sorrowful descriptions and pictures.

"Hey Alverez!, do you have a moment?" Lyndoski, too eager to begin this case, unsuccessfully tried to distract Alverez's eyes as they were going through the filing brief with candid concern, his distress countenance accompanied. Only when Lyndoski pulled his suit, did he glance at him. Irritated but still attentive to the file, he bluntly asked, "What do you want kid?" Unbrazened by his disinterest, Lyndoski spoke as if he was heard. "The killer is five-foot ten, 200 pounds, and witnesses have said that he has white skin-" A sigh was expressed by Alverez, "Yes, go on," as he continued to methodically flip pages. But as Lyndoski cleared his throat, Alverez read a location’s description that made his eyes glassy, glassy with dread. He briskly walked away, eager, but poised, drowning out Lyndoski's offended and annoying refutation, and only mentioning to walk him, to explore the Lovely Red Waters.





Chapter 4
Unlivable Voices

Only the roar of the blades beat the reflective waters; its sound silencing the voices within his head. Looking at the naked girl, he started to become warm, but not yet-she is not pure. Before entering the Navy Wells Pineland Reserve, he got undressed in the dock shadows, putting his clothes, along with the resuscitated girl, her yells covered by gray duct tape, and eyes crying, along with the bruises upon her cheek. Still hysterical, he pressured his knife’s tip onto her bruised face; her breathing became rabid, deep dry moans were only heard, and he stopped. “Shut your mouth then.” Putting her in the black leather bag, she laid still, shaking upon the cold tools that had blood stains upon them. “The sea water will help with your bruises.” He laid his wet clothes and dried blood mask on top of her, then getting dressed in the humid privacy, he put on his reserve officer attire and hat, zipping up the bag after putting the waterboat to the dock.

Besides him, there was only one other man and woman on a shift, paroling the trees and sawgrasses to make sure they grew at a healthy rate. Both were husband and wife, naturalists at heart, rarely noticing the disguised man in the oppressive afternoon, only needing him to fix light bulbs or any other utility problems; practically invisible, but always nice when confronted, always minding his own business unless called upon. Colleagues always had something pleasant to say about him, despite his awkwardness. Sure he can be weird around people sometimes, but that is because he likes to live and work in solitude, where only the herons gently make ripples, where the owls briskly fly, and where the White-Winged Dove soars.

“Do you two need any help at the office?” Sweaty, but always smiling, they both exuberantly said, “No!” “Alright, I’ll be working on the plumbing near the Aqueduct Authority. A long shift for me tonight; make sure you guys get home safe; the water boat is docked from where I came from.” “Andrew, thank you so much-God bless.” Tipping his hat to them, he went off, his smile disappearing, and lust appearing.

Two miles of walking did not faze him, it did the girl, so he lightly opened the bag, retrieved a freshwater bottle from its side pocket, and doused a little onto the girl's face, her eyes red from the salt. “We're almost there”, he gently spoke, caressing the girl's hair while doing so.
Desperation’s journey ended when they approached a makeshift cabin. Its door possesses three locks, and the windows are covered with dense plastic shutters. Inside the bag, she heard the crunch of leaves and deep-water splashes stop, now hearing boots on wood, locks unlocking, and a door opening. Terrified, she still kept quiet, crying for being placed onto the floor-there is nowhere to go.
Andrew turned on the sink, cleaning his face, becoming excited at the sound of a shower. After taking off his clothes, he then retrieved his handcuffs, dragging the weak and coughing girl to the tub. Amidst dragging her, the tape fell off, and she managed to bite off his left ring and pinky finger. Kicking her into submission, blood flowing onto his feet, his peripheral vision caught an uncovered mirror’s reflection, its gravity causing him to remember, to remember his faults embraced, enforced, and whipped into him. Voices infestation, heart and soul succumbing to its manifestation.

If there’s anything I can’t stand, the one God-forsaken thing I can’t stand are the voices. Alone in my bedroom dissecting squirrels, cats, finding a sense of peace in the blood, I then heard my father’s voice. The fucker put his keys down on the counter-heavy sighs were only heard, and as the belt buckle was loosen, I only heard a whimpering silence. My mother crying, putting ice to her left cheek while my father was stumbling, stumbling up the stairs, now harshly whispering, “Anthony get your ass down here!” My jaw tensed, and my eyes diverted back and forth from my dissection, hands slightly trembling. “Just one more good slice,” I whispered. Adequate pressure on the neck, and then clean round cut-death and life shining its eyes. “Done-beautiful,” as I gently hid my cutting tools and took off my blue latex gloves. His oppressive footsteps were on the second floor, and I hurried to put the corpse under my bed, take off my apron, but did not notice that blood stained the lower part of my jeans. The moment I saw the stain, he was already at my door. I accusingly stared at the stain, as if it had life, my cheeks pulsating, and my back sweating as he came into my room. Devilish eye, brutal in nature, but disgustedly delicate, ordering me to strip the moment he saw the imperfection. My screams only gave him greater strength, so I gripped the sheets, grit my teeth as hard as I could, and ignored the infecting slurs as bruises turned into cuts, and cuts into scars. Voices of my father-killing me and when I look into the mirror, I feel the scars scream, scream passionately, refusing to let me die in my own blood.

Bawling, she tried to drag herself from him, but a minute later, her breasts only burned as she was dragged back. Holding her face in his hands, he cried with serenity. “Tell me I will be okay, woman. Just tell me.” Her voice could only muster, “It will be okay.” Kissing her on her forehead, he rose, dragging her screams again, putting her on a low hanging hook, washing her to be full-breasted anew.