Murder Feels Awful

by Bill Alive

  “Do you usually go alone?” Romero asked, with friendly interest.

  “I do,” said Mark shortly.

  “Why? No friends?”

  Mark blinked, and his jaw clenched, but he smiled. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  Romero smiled easily. “What would you say?”

  Mark muttered so low I couldn’t even hear him.

  “Come again?”

  “I said we can’t all have ten thousand Tribesy friends.”

  Romero laughed with genuine enjoyment. “How’d you know I just broke 10K? Are we friends?”

  “Crap,” I breathed, in wonder.

  But the laugh had done something to Mark. His face cleared, and he sat up straight, dropping his defensive hunch. He leaned in toward Romero, and his eyes twinkled.

  “You really hate all this psychic crap, don’t you?” Mark said.

  Romero looked startled, possibly for the first time in his life. I hadn’t known his face could do that. But Mark’s easy smile seemed to soothe him, and he smiled back. “Honestly, yeah.”

  “You think you know someone,” Mark said, “you think you’re close, and then they get into all this New Age shit, they start going to wacko fortunetellers—”

  “You got that right!” Romero boomed. “My mom’s blown so much cash on those frauds, I want to hang their asses out to dry.”

  My mouth was literally hanging open. I closed it.

  “Do it, man!” Mark said. “Prison’s too good for those creeps. Have you ever brought one in?”

  “Oh yeah! There was this one asshole, claimed he could feel your ‘aura’.”

  “Oh man,” Mark said.

  For the next forty-five minutes, Romero told war stories while Mark seemed to eat it up. I nibbled in silence, afraid to break the spell.

  Finally Romero checked his phone and sighed. “I got to split, but man, this was excellent. We’ve got to hang sometime.”

  “Totally!” Mark said. “Maybe I can find you on Tribesy?”

  They both laughed at length, as if this were vintage comedy. Then, with a last wave, Romero lumbered away.

  Behind his back, Mark’s gregarious grin relaxed into a more comfortable smirk.

  But four booths down, Romero turned back.

  “Crap, I completely forgot!” he called. “So what the hell happened this morning? You had some kind of seizure?”

  “Dude, I don’t know what was going on,” Mark called back. “I think I’ve been hiking too hard. You get weird ideas on the trail. Especially if you skip breakfast.” He laughed. “Hope I didn’t freak Ceci out. She seemed a little … I don’t know …”

  Romero laughed. “Gotcha. Yeah. Okay, if I need a statement I’ll let you know, but that works for me. Next time stay hydrated!”

  “Will do!” Mark called. They both laughed again as Romero walked out.

  Mark watched him cross the lot and slide into the police car. The car stayed put for awhile, but when it finally pulled away, Mark relaxed. He took a long breath, leaned against the booth, and closed his eyes.

  Then he jerked up with a cry of pain.

  “You guys want dessert?” asked the waiter.

  “Would you please just go lie down?!” Mark said.

  The waiter looked confused.

  I paid the check and we got out as fast as we could. Out in the car, I said, “So … ?”

  He eyed me sideways, and hesitated. He put the key in the ignition, but instead of starting, he spoke quietly. “That guy was radiating confidence.”

  “I knew that,” I said.

  “At first I was fighting it. But then I just … used it.”

  “You mean you … oh man. You were feeling his confidence! That’s crazy! That’s like emotional jujitsu!”

  “It’s great when it works. Which is … not often. Especially with cops.”

  “This is amazing! Wow! All you have to do to feel great is hang out with super happy people all the time!”

  “There’s a thought,” he said, with a wry hint of irony I didn’t quite get.

  “But why’d you lie to him?” I said.

  “Lie? I don’t lie. I hate lying.”

  “You did too, you told him nothing happened up there.”

  “No, I said I didn’t know what happened. Which is true.”

  “Yeah, but …” I faltered. “It’s still a lie.”

  “No, it’s mental reservation.”

  “Mental what? What the heck is that?”

  “Forget it,” he said, and he started the car.

  “But you’ve got to help the police!” I persisted, shouting over the opening roar. “You know that woman couldn’t have died in the crash — she was already dead, you felt it! What if the cops don’t investigate?”

  “Pete, if the cops do start investigating a murder, guess who’ll be first on the list? The nutcase on the trail who was howling she was dead, maybe? I barely convinced that jerk I wasn’t certifiable.”

  “But what if there’s a killer loose?”

  Mark scoffed. Pretty soon, that scoff and I were going to have to have words. In a voice that was maddeningly precise, he said, “Pete, I do not want a debate. Do you get me?”

  “I guess.”

  “Good. Now, I’ve been duly brunched, as promised, so it’s only fair I at least show you the place. Is this a good time?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course!” I brightened, thinking how great it would be to have my own place, finally paying my own way.

  I pestered him with excited questions, which he mostly deflected, all the way out of town and up a windy mountain road. At first the houses looked trim and cute and cheery, the kind of house that Mom might rent for vacation and gush over when she arrived, and then when she got home, she’d regale her girlfriends for months with how the bathrooms were so tiny and terrible.

  But the higher we got, the worse the houses disintegrated. The altitude seemed to breathe decay — buckling sheds, peeling siding, and dead cars everywhere, like zombie spawn. The road shattered from pavement to gravel, and then the gravel rutted and thinned till we were driving on hard red clay with a gravel decor.

  And still we climbed. The road steepened, and the wooden railing faltered and then quit, leaving unobstructed views of the death plunge that would punish the wrong swerve.

  “Must be a beast in winter,” I ventured.

  “One more reason to work at home.”

  At last the road twisted onto a long steep straightaway that clearly dead-ended at a sheer hill. I looked around, but there were no houses, just overgrown weedy grass and encroaching oaks and maples gobbling up the light. He slowed, and as we passed a dark clump of brooding cedars —

  “Wait, it’s not that?” I said. “That’s your house?”

  He smirked, and his eyes twinkled.

  I stared.

  Chapter 5

  I don’t know what kind of house I was expecting, given Thunder’s obvious unaddressed health issues. But somehow the real thing exceeded my dis-expectations. It was like a … hmm …

  Man, I have to do a lot of describing. I had no idea books needed so much description! Not to rant or anything, but seriously, every time we go somewhere new I have to pull out the verbal paint box.

  It’s exhausting.

  I wish I could just put in photos. But the technical side of all this is already maxing out my limited computer prowess.

  It was a shack, okay? No, not actually a shack, it couldn’t be legally condemned, probably, but it turned out to be literally a hunting cabin that had been semi-retrofitted for semi-year-round semi-habitation. Dull red-painted concrete block walls glowered behind overgrown bushes that wished they had thorns. It was the kind of “house” that a lifelong Wal-Mart greeter entering retirement might purchase for his dying aunt, if he hated her guts.

  As we pulled onto the part of the lawn that had once had gravel, I got a new surprise. Music. Blasting from the house at full volume.

  “You leave your stereo going?” I said. “And is
that ska?”

  “Rule 1,” Mark said, and he cut the engine, immersing us entirely in the spastic trumpets. “Don’t comment on my musical choices. Ever.”

  “Cool,” I said, even though he seemed dead serious. “But can’t you tell whether I like it anyway?”

  He frowned. His eyes narrowed, then he pulled out his phone and swiped it. The track skipped to hard rock.

  “No no! That was fine!” I lied.

  “Don’t lie to me,” he said, and got out.

  I struggled to get out too. (Thunder has a handle issue on the shotgun side.) “That wasn’t lying, that was mental preservation!”

  “Reservation,” he said, unlocking the front door. “Don’t touch the porch column, it’s rotted.”

  The “porch” was just some extra concrete slab that extended past the front walls, and the “columns” were 4x4s that had once been treated. “Which one’s rotted?” I asked.

  “All of them.” The door was sticking, and he gave it a shoulder shove. No success. “Rule 2: We’re not going to talk about the whole empath thing.”

  “What? No!” I cried.

  With the third shove, the door swung in.

  Wow.

  Picture the dorm room of the messiest dude you know, except that he hasn’t had any exasperated roommate to give the place an occasional shovel. Also, he apparently is into collecting newspapers and used books and random crap like masks(?), even when he runs low on shelf space and furniture surface area. Also, he has to eat in here. Also, there’s a smell, big time, and it’s not just gross but also somehow familiar and dangerous.

  Okay, it wasn’t like Hoarders level — the stuff wasn’t trash. Everything laying around looked potentially useful and interesting. It’s just that if you tried to extract it from its pile and anything went wrong, you could trigger a domino effect that might create the next black hole.

  “Nice TV,” I said bravely.

  It was a nice TV. Very big. Wall mounted. Which meant you could see it from almost anywhere in the house. Except this maybe wasn’t saying much, given that aside from the two tiny bedrooms and tinier bathroom, the whole house was right here, one big kitchen / dining room / living room / gym / office / library / attic. Different equipment defined separate zones of interest — sink, weight rack, treadmill desk, actual desk, pile of game consoles. Each zone seemed to think it had way more space than it did.

  “And a wood furnace! Awesome!” I said. The back right corner looked like it had been remodeled into a faux stone fireplace, which was then remodeled again to jam in a bulky black wood-burning furnace.

  He shrugged. “That thing’s a pain.” He made a beeline for the other side of the room, to the mini-fridge crouching by a kitchen stove.

  Seeing the stove, I recognized the smell. “Is that gas?”

  Mom has always been terrified of propane leaks. I can never remember if it’s going to kill us first, like a suicide in a Great American Short Story, or if the spark will blow up the whole block, like in Fight Club. One Thanksgiving we drove three hours to Gran and Gramps, and when Mom walked in, she smelled gas. She evacuated the premises, even though there was a foot of Pennsylvania snow and we had to wheel Gran out in her home hospital bed.

  “It’s fine,” Mark said. He fished out an iced coffee. “It’s not a leak, it just means the tank’s almost empty.”

  “When’s the propane truck coming?”

  “I forget. It’s not like I cook.”

  “I do!” I said. “I make eggs every morning.”

  “Rule 3: Renters have to live with the utilities as-is, no complaints. Includes possible lack of propane, frozen pipes, lack of central heating…”

  But I’d already taken out my phone and found the site for the gas company. “This says they normally deliver every six months, but you can call to schedule.” I started to dial.

  “Hey! Are you paying for that?”

  “My first rent check will totally cover it,” I said. “Unless you’ve already spent it on masks?”

  He folded his arms. “Not that it’s your business, but I don’t even own a credit card.”

  “They’re giving me some stupid message about being closed on the weekend. I’ll call them Monday.”

  “Rule 4: You’re in charge of the damn propane.”

  “Sweet! I mean, how do you even make coffee? You just drink that iced stuff?” I opened a boxy once-white cabinet that had been bolted into the wall above the stove. Ignoring his protests, I rifled through the rows of premade coffee, canned meats and vegetables, and microwaveable everything.

  “I know these brands!” I said. “They’re all online! Do you buy all your food online?”

  “It’s efficient,” he said.

  “Yeah, but you work at home and buy your groceries online. Besides the weekly hike, when do you actually go out?”

  “Rule 5—”

  “So, that would be ‘never’.”

  “Not true!” he bellowed. “I do stuff all the time. I’ve got a Linux Users Group.”

  “Linux users?” I repeated, with some distaste. “What is ‘Linux’? A drug?”

  He smirked. “Basically.”

  “You serious?” I said. I’m not opposed to some gentle, non-addictive mind expansion, but if he was into the harder stuff —

  “No no, relax, it’s just computer stuff.”

  “Oh. So, no girls.”

  “Hey! Don’t be sexist. Plenty of women are into Linux and geekery.”

  “Maybe in New York City,” I said. “But out here?”

  Mark squirmed.

  “Rule 6,” I said. “We get this stud out of the house at least once a week. For real. With girls.”

  To my dismay, his light mood vaporized. He glowered and snapped, “You know what, maybe this is a bad idea.”

  “No, no, it’s cool, no judgment—”

  “Don’t lie to me!” he barked. His face and scalp flushed red. “Don’t you get it? It’s pointless to lie to me!”

  I shrank against the stove. I’m not so great with yelling and direct anger, especially surprise outbursts. This whole empathy thing might turn out to have a dark side.

  I won’t lie … at that moment, I seriously considered getting the hell out of there, away from this stinky man cave and this hair-trigger recluse who couldn’t get through a conversation without a minor crisis.

  But then I saw that Mark was already looking ashamed. He had actually felt my fear, and now he was feeling bad about it. Even miserable. He was like a repentant werewolf.

  “Dude, I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “That TV is amazing.”

  He caught my eye for a millisecond, then loped casually toward the couch. “Speaking of which,” he said, “the second season of Unwinnable State just dropped.”

  “No way!” I said. “I love that show! I mean I only caught the first few episodes—”

  “That’s cool, we can catch you up first.” He shoved space clear on the couch, expertly transferring a teetering stack of game discs.

  My chest warmed at this open ritual of male bonding. But what I said was, “Really? I thought you had work.”

  “I do,” he said, settling into the overstuffed cushions and navigating the TV menu. “It’s all safe and sound. Not going anywhere.”

  I smiled and took my seat, carefully leaving the maximum space between us. The space where a girl or two should have been.

  We watched TV for the next six hours.

  I don’t usually watch that much TV at once. A show or two, three tops. But Mark was all in, totally tranced out.

  It’s a great show, but I kept thinking about the actual dead woman smashed in those trees. I was roiling with questions for Mark, but he wouldn’t even chitchat during the credits, just jump to the next episode. Unwinnable State knows how to rock the cliffhangers.

  Finally I had to pee so bad that as soon as the credits came, I made him pause. The less said about our bathroom, the better, but there’s a tiny window and I realized it was dark. I checked
my phone.

  “Crap, it’s past nine!” I said. “I’d better call Ceci.”

  “Cool,” he said, not making a counter-offer to drive me home instead.

  Ceci wasn’t thrilled, but she’s awesome and was soon on her way. We started the next episode.

  When her tires crunched on the gravel, some obscure impulse made me leap up toward the door before Ceci could come in.

  “Thanks, man!” I called. “You can finish this episode, don’t worry about me.”

  “No, no, it’s all good,” he said, pausing it but not looking away. “Chai Tide just dropped too, I can do that. See you.”

  And he switched to a whole other season. At like ten o’clock at night.

  Outside, Ceci was peering through the windshield with pursed lips. Clearly the darkness wasn’t shrouding much.

  “What’d you find out?” she said, as I got in.

  “Well, at first I wasn’t sure he’d even want a housemate,” I said, “but I think he could use the money.”

  “Pete! I mean about the crash!”

  “Oh, right.” I hesitated. I wasn’t sure how to explain the whole empathy thing to Ceci. I could sense she’d be a tough sell. She’d always gotten jumpy if I mentioned using crystals, even just to absorb negative energy around the house.

  Then I remembered that while I’d been brunching at GORP’s and watching TV all day, she’d actually been right there, working at the crash site. “How was it?” I said quietly.

  Her face contracted with sadness, but she looked away and backed the car onto the gravel. “I’ve seen worse,” she said, over her shoulder.

  “I mean, you okay?”

  She twisted back to flash me a grateful smile. When Ceci’s happy, she can really sparkle.

  “I’ve really seen worse,” she said. We shared a moment — I wish Ceci believed in auras, hers can be so soothing — but then her face clouded and she glanced away, at Mark’s place. “Except maybe in housing. Are you sure this place is legal?”

  “Come on, Ceci. Did you see some of the shacks on the way up the hill? This place is fine. Electricity, four walls, nothing’s rotting … well, nothing load-bearing—”