“Aztec mythology. He was very into Aztec mythology.” Rhiannon and Katherine Young sat together on the wide edge of a fountain in the Neuro wing’s moonlit courtyard. “Do you know anything about it?”

Katherine shook her head. “Well, I know a little. But not much. I had this friend in high school named Tonantzin. She told me some, but I don’t know much about it. I take it you do.”

“Yeah, I know something,” said Rhiannon. “I came across it in college. It was interesting so I read a little more on the subject than I needed to.”

Katherine sipped her coffee. “So what about Aztec mythology?”

“The hummingbird thing is a reference to Huitzilopochtli. Loosely translated, it means ‘Hummingbird of the South’ or ‘of the Left.’ There’s more, something with the different aspects of Tezcatlipoca, which translates as ‘Smoking Mirror.’ And there’s something about colors, but the harder I try to think of it the quicker it runs straight out of my mind.” Rhiannon sipped her coffee. “He had hummingbirds all over his house. I’m sure they found them.”

Katherine smiled. “What do the hummingbirds mean for you?”

“Oh, it’s um…nothing like that.” Rhiannon put her coffee down and shifted her legs. “I liked them when I was a child. We had hummingbird feeders around the house.” She lifted a shoulder. “It’s just a childhood thing. They’ve got nothing to do with Aztec anything.”

“So did you grow up in Nevada?”

“Yes.” Moths whispered through the light. “I was born up north but we moved here when I was five.”

“I’m from San Diego,” said Katherine. “I don’t know how you all live here without the ocean. I guess if you don’t grow up with it, though…you don’t really know what you’re missing.”

“I remember going to Lake Tahoe sometimes. But that’s as close as we got.”

“I noticed his scarification.” Katherine touched the hollow of her own throat. “You wear your hummingbird in the same place. What does it mean?”

Rhiannon colored. “I’m not going there.”

“Fair enough.”

“There’s significance in the bleaching, too, I think.” Rhiannon straightened her legs. “Those FBI guys think it has something to do with me but I don’t think it does. It’s more about Carl’s myth of himself. Anyway, you could get a much better idea if you did some research on the internet. Google it or whatever. I’m just telling you what I remember, and it isn’t much. I hope it helps you.”

“I hope it does, too.” Katherine watched Rhiannon’s profile. “Is there anything else you want to tell me? Do you know anything about his past, his parents, where he came from?”

Rhiannon shook her head. “No. I don’t know any of that. Sorry.”

“All right.” Her smile softened. “I’ll do my best to be kind.”

“That’s good.” Rhiannon picked at the rim of her coffee cup. “Guys like Carl don’t get a lot of kindness. Of course, some think he probably doesn’t deserve it.” She shrugged. “Maybe they’re right. I didn’t know, you know? I really didn’t. That’s tough for the FBI to swallow, but I didn’t know.”

Katherine put a hand on her arm. “Hey. You know, we can talk about this later.”

“Yeah, you have to get going, don’t you?” Rhiannon pulled the plastic lid into shreds. She smiled a slanted smile. “Get all suited up for your big adventure.”

Katherine stood. “Something like that.”

“Good luck.”

“Hey, thanks.”

“De nada.”

“So I guess I’ll see you on the flip side,” said Katherine.

Fucking memories, dammit.

The darkness sliding across her skin, the blue quality of the fading light---these things twine up inside the scent of her skin, falling out of a tank top and redolent of early spring flowers, tiny and white and almost without fragrance, a scent you have to work for; yes, you have to put your face in it, all those petals like tiny pieces of delicate skin, faint and sweet and contrasting with the smell of salt. Thyme crushed underfoot. Sound of the ocean. Mound of a smooth breast, welling up over the edge of the neckline, offered in a cradle of slim fingers. Lifting up. His nose buried between them, inhaling. A dark brown nipple, plump and shiny with spit; he loved the look of her nipples after a good suck, how tight and wrinkled they were, how firm. We’re going to get caught. No we aren’t, it’s all right

Rossi doesn’t know if it’s all right. He didn’t know then and he doesn’t know now. He sits on the toilet with his head against the wall, legs splayed out, trying to get a single deep breath. Send the oxygen to your tight parts, he thinks. Breathe into them and let em loose. Fuck that. Images of dead women come into his mind and he pushes them away. He concentrates on the memory the way he concentrated on the tomatoes: skin, hair, the sound of a woman’s voice at the moment of letting go (not to orgasm but to the burgeoning desire itself, clawing its roots deep into her flesh)--this is nice, I want nice, I need nice right now, just a little something sweet. Dark nipples and breathless words falling into the furled purple lips of a strong hairy cunt

She bounced on his lap, controlling it with the big muscles in her thighs and he felt them where they pressed into his hips, the rhythmic pulse, and he wondered if it was the raw knowledge of her exertion that brought him so close: the outside air, her fluttering breath, her breasts jiggling, her buttocks flexing beneath the light touch of his hands

He breathes hard. The wall digs into his scalp. He cups his denim-encased crotch, lets his fingers stroke the shape of his cock. I wish I’d told her that thing about her nipples, said the words and watched them hit her face. The smell of bleach on the floor stirs up a whiff of memory: bodies wrapped up in plastic, tied with a bow now ain’t that precious, collared like dogs, the skin ghostly and the hair broken with chemicals, eyes cloudy and helpless---no, there will be no more of this shit. He unbuckles his belt, unzips his jeans

Her slickness, her heat, the slow tight constriction like being swallowed and then it is being swallowed, the firm muscle of a tongue pressing just right, lingering in all of the most sensitive places, hot sweet silken friction the petals of those flowers turned inside out sweet flesh working

“Aw, shit,” he whispers, his softened voice sliding along the walls and cracking between the tiles, his cock swelling in his fist

He grapples with the image: long dark hair, breasts loosened and glazed with night, straining thighs, breath filled with plums and wine, night sky and how hot it was, how slippery, but each stroke loosens the frame and sends it sliding down into soft damp relentless suction. His mouth opens, his breath growing harsh. Lips clamped just right and oh that maddening tongue, faces flashing through his mind, all of them falling apart and shattering the pieces sticking to one another

His heels push into the floor. The toilet seat creaks. His breathing is deep, anticipatory, dipping deep into the canned atmosphere and dumping oxygen all over his straining face. She was a long time ago and she is right goddamned now and right now his hand moves faster

Clink clink the sound of the sound of his wrists held tight in a metallic grasp and his shoulders, the flesh inside of them hurting, twisted far back around so the sockets moan and the breath backs up in his throat with nowhere else to go and knees on his feet, knees heavy and sharp on his insteps clink clink fucking clink goddammit it’s okay Dave and you know he liked doing this to me too and I like hummingbirds no more words all of them stuffed down by hands on his thighs all of them grasped twisted buried in a slick-headed mouthful of cock

A long moan spreads out. A wad of toilet paper catches the spill. His breath comes back to him in pieces. For fuck’s sake. “For fuck’s sake, yeah.” He lets out a ragged sigh. “Yeah.” He gets up, splashes some cold water on his face, blots his cheeks with a handful of paper towels. He takes a piss, one hand propped on the wall behind the toilet. He waits for the headrush and when it comes he lets out another drawn-out breath, all the muscles in his body letting go just a little. He looks at the icy bottle of Coke on the floor and starts to laugh.