Murder Feels Awful

by Bill Alive

  He sighed.

  There ensued a long, pregnant pause. I clenched my mouth shut and tried to bounce less.

  Finally, the pregnant pause delivered. Grudgingly, though, like we’d had to use the forceps.

  “I guess I could stand to eat an actual cooked meal,” he said.

  “Sweet!” I squeed.

  “But no promises!” he barked. He turned to walk again, this time at human speed. “One of us has got to be nuts,” he muttered.

  “No promises,” I agreed, and I may have skipped a little after him. “So where are you parked?”

  “You don’t have a car?” he said sharply.

  This was a tender subject. “See, my parents had given me this ‘loaner’,” I said, “but now Dad’s like, you have to at least start paying the insurance, and I’m like, it’s a nice car and all, but if it’s really that much every month I might as well just get a beater, you know? Something I actually own. So I’m totally going to get one, and Ceci already said she can ride me to work for a week or two. Speaking of which, I’d better let her know I’m riding with you.”

  I rang Ceci, but she blurted before I could say anything.

  “Pete? We found the crash. It’s a woman and she’s dead.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said, and then I felt terrible because, honestly, my first thought had been wow wow wow this is for real.

  Ahead, the empath flinched.

  Had he just vibed my sting of remorse? Exhilaration surged at this fresh proof; I thought my head might explode.

  “Did you get that guy’s name?” Ceci said. “Get his contact info too. Gwen says she’ll definitely need his statement. Don’t lose him!”

  “No worries, I’m taking him to brunch at GORP Gourmet.”

  “Brunch? What, do you know him?”

  “No, but we’re going to be housemates.” Ahead, his head tilted sharply, and I hastily amended, “Maybe.”

  “What?” she cried. “He could be a murder suspect!”

  “Oh, come on,” I said, glancing to make sure that he hadn’t heard this. “He’s awesome.”

  “He just had some kind of medical emergency in the woods and shouted that a woman was dying! That’s all you know about him!”

  “Ceci, he’s cool, we’ve been talking.”

  “Do you even know his name?”

  She had a point there. I lowered my phone. “Hey bro,” I called. “By the way, I’m Pete Villette.”

  “Cool.” He hesitated. “Mark Falcon.”

  “Are you serious?” I said.

  “It’s an actual last name,” he snapped.

  “Oh my gosh, I love it!”

  He sped up again.

  I lifted the phone. “Gotta go, C.”

  “Pete! You can’t go ride off with a murder suspect!”

  But I hung up and hurried after Mark.

  Chapter 3

  As I goat-hopped down the rocky path after Mark’s long strides, my thoughts began to creep with the dead woman and the wreck.

  I kept hearing the crash again in my memory, my imagination flashing visions of crushed metal and jagged glass and blood and brains smeared across a cockpit. I felt sick. Some woman was really dead back there, in these same trees, practically on this path. And not just dead … murdered?

  What the heck had Mark vibed before she died? And how do you murder someone while they’re flying solo in a glider?

  I had to know. And that brought some relief — it’s hard to stay nauseous when you’re burning with questions.

  But Mark was clearly skittish about his superpower. I’d have to be subtle.

  “So…” I began, calling after him.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he interrupted.

  “What? I wasn’t going to—”

  “Yeah, you were.”

  All right then, I thought. Subtlety with an empath might get complicated. I let it drop … for the moment. No worries. I was just getting started. I could bide my time, lull him to lazy security, then pounce.

  In the gravel lot at the mountain’s base, Mark had parked in the farthest corner, so far from the minivans and trucks that his little old car’s left back tire had dug into red clay.

  Did I say old? Try ancient. My parents have never driven anything more than five years old, but this two-door economy clearly predated at least one Gulf War, if not both, and it looked like it might have seen combat.

  I instantly loved it.

  “What’s it called?” I asked, as he leaned across to unlock the passenger door.

  “What’s what called?”

  So apparently he couldn’t always read my mind. Thank goodness. “The car!” I said brightly. “What’s its name?”

  Mark scoffed. And this was some serious, industrial-grade scoffage. The closest I can describe it is a cross between a snort, a cynical laugh, and coughing up a chunk of deeply recalcitrant phlegm.

  No name then, I thought. Seeing the car’s interior, my enthusiasm wavered. I’d never known a car’s roofing felt could come loose and hang like a curtain across the back windshield. The dashboard was engrimed with splashes of brown that I hoped were coffee. I had to nestle a place for my sneakers among a crackling pile of empty plastic drink bottles. And the ancient engine roared to life with clear reluctance, like an outraged orc that hadn’t wanted to be resurrected.

  We pulled out onto the tight twoish-lane mountain road and zoomed toward civilization.

  I struggled to rekindle my initial attraction to the car. I’d choose a name myself. Dumpster? No. Hmm…

  The engine was howling toward fifth gear as if in pain. “Got it!” I shouted over the din. “Thunder!”

  He scoffed again. “I am not calling this thing Thunder,” he said. “And you’re not going to be able to rent my house without a car. It’s at the top of a mountain.”

  This, I admit, was a blow. My soon-to-be-ex-pad was on the outskirts of town, and the one time I’d tried to bike in for groceries, I’d quit after only five minutes. The only way into town was a winding shoulderless highway where every gigantic pickup truck took an extra half lane and did eighty. Mark’s place would have all this plus a mountain?

  “It’s all cool,” I said bravely. “I’ve got Ceci, remember?”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend! Besides, her sister’s the hot one. Even though she is a cop.”

  “A cop!” He eyed me with alarm. “Her sister’s a cop? You guys hang out with cops all the time?”

  “No, no, it’s cool, we barely see her. She’s like this workaholic Viking goddess.”

  “Goddess?” He eyed me further, with deep skepticism.

  “Oh man, very much so,” I said. “If I’d met Gwen on her own, I could totally have fallen hard. She’s like a glacier, tall and cold and majestic, with a sunrise sparkling the ice to blinding glory.”

  Mark eyed me with surprise. He was really into the eyeing thing, even though he was the one driving and the road was going to get jealous.

  But now that I think of it, I suppose I had waxed a bit surprisingly poetic. I don’t normally talk like that … in the moment, everything’s so intense that I can barely find any words in time, much less the good ones. But as I’m writing all this, it’s weird, it’s different somehow. Like I finally have time to find out what I think.

  Mark had his own interpretation of my literary outburst. “You say you could have liked her?”

  “Yeah, I was only in love with her for maybe a week, two tops. She reminded me too much of Ceci. When I looked at that magnificent face, it was like this angular, supermodel-ish, Hobbit—elf-chick-but-also-Ice-Queen version of my chubby friend.”

  “That girl with you was not chubby.”

  “Oh, this was back in freshman year. After graduation, Ceci totally got into fitness, it was this miracle transformation. Now she’s got bigger shoulder muscles than any guy I know. But back then … Gwen was so much older, too … it would have been like being in love with some girl’s mo
m. She had to be at least, like, twenty-five.”

  “Ancient,” Mark said.

  “Oh my gosh!” I said. “I never thought about that, I guess we’re both in our ‘twenties’ now. Holy crap!”

  “Sounds terrifying.”

  “You don’t understand, Gwen’s the kind of person who started out thirty-five. I mean, a super hot thirty-five. Like when the character is thirty-five but the actress is really twenty-six. Except that doesn’t make sense, I’m not even twenty-six.”

  Mark sighed. “Okay, so you have a buff not-girlfriend and her goddess sister who is a cop but never hangs out with the kiddies because she’s actually working.”

  “Ceci works! She’s a nurse!”

  “Do you actually work?”

  “All the time! You kidding? Work is crazy. It’s all day. Classes, you know, you had breaks. A three-hour night class was torture. And now it’s eight hours straight?”

  Mark didn’t exactly smile, but his eyes smile-crinkled. “So where do they torture you?”

  “Valley Visions!” I said proudly. “You know, the New Age store? I got a job there!”

  “Congratulations. An impressive payoff on your college investment.”

  “Hey, come on,” I said, hurt. “You sound like my Dad.”

  “My bad. What’d you get your B.A. in, Ecological Retail?” he said. “Or did you even get the degree?”

  “Yes, I did, for your information. I did the whole business degree thing at Lord Chesney. Well. An Associate’s. Most of it.”

  “Ah.”

  “But then I fell hard for this super spiritual chick, Nahimana. When she talked in that throaty whispery croon about meditation and chakras and loving kindness … talk about mind expansion. I don’t think she ever liked me, but her aura was just … wow. I could feel her across the room, you know? Oh man, I bet you could actually see it!”

  Mark frowned. “Let’s get this straight, kid. I’m really not into all this woo-woo stuff. Whatever’s up with me, it’s some kind of medical condition.”

  “Medical condition!?”

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “I’ve been to doctors about it, and I’d appreciate it if you’d just …”

  He winced. Hard.

  “What? What is it?” I squawked, as his hands shuddered on the steering wheel and the car jolted. We jerked toward the next lane.

  He cursed and swerved back. But my chest felt light and trembly with panic. What if he collapsed? Like before? At the wheel?

  Then I saw the next car over.

  The dude was racing up through our blind spot. We were crossing the bridge that spans the Shenandoah River into town. It’s the last stretch of fast road before you downshift to town speeds, but even so, his giant pickup was taking it way too fast. The dude had a gazillion tattoos, his girlfriend had a gazillion piercings, and he was screaming at her. Literally screaming.

  I couldn’t hear him through the glass, but he was way past yelling, he was spewing. His eyes were glittering hate in his blazing red face and the veins on his temples were throbbing like they’d burst.

  The girl was crying. Just sitting and taking it and nodding, like she’d been sentenced for life and she deserved it.

  The truck careened away down the bridge.

  Mark exhaled.

  He took a slow breath, his gaze firmly on the road (for once). His jaw sagged a little, and his eyelids drooped. He looked very, very tired.

  “Hey,” I said, and reached to pat his shoulder.

  But he jerked away. “I’m fine!” he snapped. His eyes lit up with their usual glare.

  “Okay, okay. But what about them?”

  “What? How should I know? What do you mean?”

  “The girl,” I insisted, though his dismissive tone was making me feel stupid. “She might be in trouble. You could help.”

  “Help? Like what? Pull them over and do therapy?”

  “I don’t know … can’t you use your power?”

  “My power? I’m a radio, not a broadcaster! I just pick up stuff, every stupid fricking wretched burst of human suffering that blasts my way. I can’t do anything about it!”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Besides, what do you want me to do, mind control everyone to be nice? That doesn’t sound abusive.”

  He sounded so bitter. I felt cold and awkward. It was like when you’re in some cool new person’s cool new house, and you think you’re finding the bathroom, but you open the door on a dark bedroom packed with miserable junk.

  But that’s just one room.

  So I shrugged. “I’m sure you’d use your powers for good, Mark. You’re a good guy.”

  And he laughed! Like he was almost happy. “Which one of is supposed to be the empath? You’ve known me for half an hour.”

  “Yeah, but I can see the future. We’ve already been housemates for six months. You’re awesome.”

  Mark sighed. In a serious, quiet voice, he said, “There would have to be some serious ground rules.”

  “Totally fine!” I squeaked. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Rules are awesome. I love rules. I carry a ruler at all times.”

  By now, we had crossed into town. Since we hadn’t hit any lights, and our town, Back Mosby, really only has a few main streets, GORP Gourmet was already approaching on the left. It was flanked by some accountant’s ancient house-office and a Taco Bell that looked lonely in its giant parking lot.

  “I mean it,” Mark said, as we pulled into a parking space. “I take my privacy very, very seriously. I’ve got trust issues.”

  “Totally, man. I would too. Especially if I went around vibing murders.”

  He glowered.

  “Which we’re totally not going to talk about,” I added, super fast.

  He humphed, and we got out and walked into the restaurant. At the entrance, beside the greeter, loomed Officer Ramiro Romero.

  “Pete!” he bellowed. “There you are! Is this the ‘empath’?”

  Mark looked stricken.

  Chapter 4

  Mark turned on me with a baleful glare.

  “It’s not my fault!” I sputter-whispered. “I have no idea how they sent a cop!”

  Would this blow the housemate deal? He scrutinized my face for a long moment. Then he shrugged.

  “Wow! Did you just vibe that I was telling the truth?” I whispered. “WHOA! That’s crazy! Except …” I hesitated. “It might be tricky being your friend.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Officer Romero strode toward us, flashing his patented Manly Man Grin of Uber-Confidence. That’s got to be an entire course at Police Academy. Romero could teach it.

  He wore full cop regalia, and as always I felt like his tool vest must have gained some new Implement of Lawful Kickass since I’d last seen him. I can’t figure it out … so many cops have this presence, like they’re a partial incursion of some other dimension of violence and mayhem. Or, maybe it’s simple: they walk around hauling enough hardware to take Iwo Jima solo.

  “Good to see you, Pete,” he boomed, crushing my hand in his trash compactor handshake. “Ceci said you two would be here. I was close by, thought I could use a bite myself. More convenient than bringing you in to the station, yeah?”

  I promised myself that if I ever got within ten favors or so of Ceci owing me, this would cost her.

  “And you are?” Romero probed Mark.

  “Mark Falcon.”

  “You don’t mind if I join you, right?”

  Mark gave him a tight smile. “Sure thing.”

  “Great!” Romero turned and led us toward a booth.

  I twinged at his booth choice. My favorite booth at GORP’s is on the other side, you can see a whole ridge of lovely mountains looming maternally over a strip mall. But Romero plopped down into a cruddy booth with a ‘view’ of the deserted Taco Bell.

  “I can’t stay too long,” Mark said, as he slid in beside me. “I do have to get back to work.”

  “On a Saturday?” Romero said with sha
rp interest. He had that edgy friendliness so many cops cultivate, that practiced simulation of small talk where they’re trying so hard to pretend they’re not thirsting to pounce and haul you away. Sometimes I wonder if he’s like that with Hermosa. How was your day, babe? Oh, really? Why would you say, ‘tiring’? No, no, just an interesting word choice, I don’t suppose you got all tired out ROBBING THAT BANK IN FAIRFAX?!?

  Mark played along. “I’m a freelancer,” he said, with a professional rueful grin. “Clients don’t always grasp the concept of a weekend.”

  “I hear that!” said Romero. “So you work at home?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Just outside town.”

  Romero smiled. “What’s that address?”

  Mark’s smile tightened.

  Then he winced and grunted in pain. He hunched forward and hissed an indrawn breath. “Damn,” he muttered. “Been awhile since I did a restaurant.”

  “You okay?” said Romero.

  “It’s fine, just a backache.”

  “Me too!” said our waiter, who had somehow materialized at our table. He was a Beard Guy, carefully gelled, with a potbelly that couldn’t be helping his back issues. “My back’s been killing me all morning.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” Mark grunted, through clenched teeth.

  “Whoa,” I whispered. Goosebumps chilled my arms — I’m not going to lie, this was getting creepy. Creepy and awesome.

  Mark darted me a venomous glance, and I realized Romero was eyeing us both. I curbed my enthusiasm, and stashed it behind my trademark poker face.

  “So what can I get you all today, here at Good Old Raisins and Peanuts Gourmet?” said the waiter, in a ritual singsong. He winced, shifted his weight to the other foot, and rebooted his smile. “We got your Trail Mix Taco. We got your Thruhiker Hot Wings. We got your Thruhiker Hummus. We got your Thruhiker--”

  “How about a tranquilizer?” muttered Mark.

  When the litany finally ended and the waiter shuffled off, Mark unbent and resumed functional breathing. And Romero got to work in earnest.

  Mark tried to resist, but Romero easily extracted Mark’s personal address, that Mark was a lone web developer who worked from home for a small number of clients, and that Mark had a habit of taking weekend hikes.