Murder Feels Awful

by Bill Alive

  “Speaking of hills, how are you going to get to work?” she said. “You can’t bike this.”

  “I was thinking … my BFF?”

  “Pete!” she groaned, as she wrestled with the wheel to execute a fifteen-point-turn on the single lane. “I’m not your personal chauffeur!”

  “Just till I get a car!” I promised. “I’ll get a beater as soon as I’m settled. I’ll totally owe you one.”

  “I’ll put it on the stack,” she said. She sighed, and her voice went soft with concern. “You don’t even know this guy.”

  “He’s awesome,” I said stoutly.

  But through the dark living room curtain (which was technically a sheet), the blue light of the giant TV glared alone in the night.

  Chapter 6

  The next few days were a whirlwind of moving in. Although the cabin/house was tiny, my bedroom actually had its own separate outside door in the side wall, complete with a wooden walkway that wrapped around the house to the front. The walkway was slightly rotten and got treacherously slick at the first hint of humidity, but I loved that I could come and go without bugging Mark.

  Except that I also wanted to bug him, of course. I kept looking for a casual conversational opener about his empathy and/or the possible murder. This turned out to be trickier than you’d think.

  And he always seemed to anticipate me and deflect. It was like he could read my … oh … right.

  Besides, I didn’t see him much. Although he did help me move in a couple big pieces of furniture, I mostly hauled the boxes myself in and stacked them on my new concrete floor, while the TV rumbled through the thin walls late into the night.

  Then came my first morning in the new place. In the early light, the living/everything room felt bleak and deserted. The silence was heavy with sleep.

  I showered and dressed, then started making eggs for myself. I’d been making my own breakfast alone for over a year now, but now that I had a roommate again, it felt way different. I thought of Mark’s stockpile of super-processed crap, and it seemed a waste not to get some actual food into his body. It’s not like it would be any extra work. And who knew, maybe the nutritional shock to his system would be so disorienting that he’d actually talk.

  I hovered beside his door, listening for snores. Total silence. Should I knock?

  I tried thinking him an invitation to breakfast. Hey dude, you want eggs?

  Nothing happened.

  I felt pretty dumb.

  Then I realized I could text him. I did, and behind the door, his phone went ping.

  He texted back. thanks.

  (By the way, can I just use bold for texts? They look weird in quotes or italics, and I don’t know how to get this to do a different font. I promise not to use bold for anything else.)

  A few minutes later, the bed creaked, and he stumbled out.

  He’d crashed in the same shirt and jean shorts he’d been wearing last night, and what hair he had was jutting everywhere like a troll doll. Without a word or even a glance my way, he grabbed a pre-made coffee, sat at the tiny round kitchen table, and started reading something on his phone.

  Conversation did not seem encouraged.

  I made his eggs in silence, furiously brainstorming icebreakers. Nothing made the cut, and at last I brought him a plate, feeling like a new au pair on probation.

  “Hope you like scrambled,” I ventured.

  “Sure, thanks,” he muttered, still reading.

  I stewed at my own plate, wondering if this is how Mom had felt all those years. That is to say, pissed.

  I had never understood why she could get so snippy if we forgot to acknowledge her attempts at cooking. Now I had a sudden vision of all those breakfasts from her angle. Yikes.

  I felt queasy, like the world was rocking on its axis and everything I thought I knew might prove topsy-turvy. Desperate for distraction, I snatched the top newspaper off the pile on the table. The Brown County Gazette.

  Ugh.

  The Gazette is our local weekly rag, written almost entirely by Editor-In-Chief Dustin Hannigan-Quinn. Everyone has tried to read it at least once, because it’s free and it lurks in huge stacks at the entrance to every supermarket. The gigantic pages are mostly ads, and mostly created by “designers” who have apparently been under house arrest with no Internet or other outside design influences since 1995.

  Where space is wasted with editorial content, Hannigan-Quinn usually focuses on blow-by-blow accounts of the latest town council “scandal”. I feel like he’s just old enough to have missed covering Watergate, and he’s determined that no such travesty will go unpunished on his watch. He can work himself into an editorial outrage over a budgetary footnote, and even that I could deal with if he didn’t also try to be funny.

  But who am I to talk? Writing is freaking hard. I have no idea how I’d fill a newspaper. I’m not even sure I’m going to make it through this book.

  Anyway, this issue was different. On the third page, I gasped.

  “Listen to this!” I said. “‘Woman Dies in Mysterious Crash. Police Claim Natural Causes.’”

  Mark eyed me sharply. “So?”

  I scanned the indignant prose. “It says her name was Lindsay Mackenzie. She was 43, survived by a kid, ex-husband, sister, and father. She was a novice pilot, just finished glider lessons at the local airport — ugh, there’s a lot here about the possible lack of safety checks and government oversight, and the cops in collusion to hush it up.”

  Mark grunted. “That’s our Hannigan-Quinn.”

  “But he’s making it sound like a plane malfunction, like she didn’t die until the actual crash! You’re not even in here!”

  “Good,” Mark said firmly. “That’s the last thing I need.”

  “But you know she was already dead!” I blurted.

  He frowned, and the air seemed to whoosh from the room.

  Very quietly, he said, “Remember how we weren’t going to talk about this?”

  But I had come too far. It was now or never. Or like, weeks, at least.

  “Dude, you can’t just walk away!” I said. “The murderer wins! And maybe kills someone else!”

  Mark fixed me with his blue stare. “Pete. I am a hermit. Who makes websites. Sporadically. Even if there is some murderous treachery afoot in Brown County, which is statistically improbable at best, what the hell would I do?”

  “Use your power!”

  “And do what?”

  “Well…”

  I thought about it.

  He had a point. I deflated somewhat.

  “Besides,” he said, returning to his newspaper, “cops don’t want outside help. Trust me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I checked.”

  “Really?” I said, excited all over again. “You’ve worked with cops?”

  He groaned. But before he could shut me down, someone knocked at the front door.

  Mark startled, alert, but I said, “It’s okay, it’s just Ceci, she’s taking me to work. Come in!”

  Ceci entered. I think they must teach nurses how to enter a sickroom, because in college I don’t remember that she used to glide in like that, with that purposeful first glance that sizes up the situation.

  She seemed less than impressed. In her bright nurse suit, I could almost see her telling the doctor in low tones that this particular room would have to be fumigated.

  Mark winced and frowned, obviously vibing the same thing and getting insulted.

  “I don’t think you two have properly met,” I said. “Mark, this is Ceci.”

  “Sexy?” he said. “Really?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Wow, that is so original, Mark! I can’t believe I’ve lived my entire life and not one other male anywhere ever has ever thought to make that joke.”

  He shrugged. “You know you’ve always liked it.”

  “Not so much.”

  “Well, I know.”

  “What?” she said, confused.

  “Unless the gu
y was a creep, of course. Or balding.”

  Her cheeks colored, meaning his vibe had been spot on. She was gearing up for a scathing comeback, but I dove into the breach. Although so far I’d failed to convince Mark to step up and use his powers for the greater good, maybe I could get Ceci to believe in the whole empathy thing, and then she could convince him. After all, Ceci was a nurse … she spent all day, every day, convincing total strangers to let her stick them with needles.

  “Ceci, it’s cool, Mark can sense stuff,” I said. “Like he did with the woman in the glider.”

  “What are you talking about?” she snapped, diverting her frustration straight at my head.

  “You were there, Ceci! You saw him. He felt that Lindsay Mackenzie was dying.”

  She frowned and folded her arms. “I saw some kind of medical episode,” she said carefully.

  “It wasn’t an episode, he’s an empath!” I said. “He can feel people’s emotions! He just did with you!”

  Mark started to protest, but Ceci cut him off. “I don’t believe in psychic powers.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot,” I grumbled. “You’re Methodist.”

  “Not Methodist!”

  “Whatever. Mark is an empath, and he knows that woman was murdered, and he should do something about it.”

  “Should?” Mark growled.

  I ignored him. “You’re a nurse, Ceci. I thought you’d understand.”

  “What on earth does nursing have to do with it?” she said. “And even if he could sense people’s emotions, what’s he supposed to do? Go around spying on the secret feelings of suspects?”

  My mind exploded.

  I guess that happens a lot with me, but still.

  All I could say was, “Whoa.”

  (This is why I always tell Ceci it was her idea.)

  “What?” she said. “Wait. No.”

  “The funeral!” I said. “It’s tonight! Mark, you can go and try to vibe who did the murder.”

  Chapter 7

  Mark looked inscrutable.

  Was he shocked at the plan’s sheer brilliance? Or was he finally going to kick me out?

  Ceci interrupted. “Pete, if you’re going to be delusional, do it at home,” she said. “Time crystals are one thing, but this is serious.”

  “Time crystals?” Mark said.

  “I never said time crystals, that’s in Napoleon Dynamite!” I snapped.

  “You can’t go crash a funeral,” Ceci said.

  “Sure we can!” I said. “It’s public! It’s right here in the article!”

  “This is a police matter!” Ceci intoned.

  “Don’t,” I said. “You sound just like Gwen.”

  “I do not!”

  “Come on, Mark!” I pleaded. “You don’t have to do anything. You just have to sit there. And you’re the only one who can do it!”

  His inscrutability tilted toward hesitation.

  “But Gwen’s on this case!” Ceci said. “She’d be furious.”

  Then Mark smirked.

  “Oh dear, not an irritated cop,” he said. “The horror.”

  Bingo.

  I made a mental note to do something nice for Ceci as a thank you. I mean, another thing. I have a long list to catch up on.

  I could see Ceci had realized her warnings had backfired, and I hopped up to usher her out before she could break the spell. “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Let’s go, I don’t want to make you late.”

  But she got in a parting shot. “Mr. Falcon, I really don’t recommend pissing off my sister.”

  “Duly noted.” He waved. “Nice to meet you, Sexy.”

  “That is so not going to be a thing.”

  “And that totally seals it.”

  She slammed the door.

  It occurs to me that so far you mainly keep seeing Ceci get pissed off. It really doesn’t happen that often, and it’s only because she cares. A lot. Usually she’s super awesome and giving, especially with patients.

  One time this kid had leukemia, and she stayed with him through three shifts straight, unpaid, because there was some glitch with the painkillers and he couldn’t sleep for all that time. Whenever she tried to leave, he’d start crying. So she stayed.

  Plus, she’s the only fattish person I’ve ever known who actually lost the weight and even got all buff.

  But Mark doesn’t exactly bring out her best. Hooray for my two best friends hating each other. :/ Okay, not hate. I think…

  The funeral was at one of those stone churches that look like castles. I’d always been curious if the medieval motif continued inside, but the lobby looked disappointingly standard. Not even a suit of armor.

  An easel showed a photo collage of the deceased, but since the service had already started and we were running crazy late (don’t ask … and don’t do your own plumbing, ever) I only got a glimpse of the photos as we rushed past.

  In the main portrait, Lindsay looked pretty nice for forty-three, with a Nervous Mom smile in her thin cheeks. Except her eyes … something in her eyes seemed off. But it might just have been the light.

  The church was almost empty. Most of the mourners were clustered in a pew or two near the front. Mark hesitated, then slid into a pew about halfway through the church.

  At the podium, an old man in a black suit pursed his lips and glared as we sat down, as if we’d made our entrance roaring down the aisle on ATVs. (Which, yes, would have been pretty badass.) He cleared his throat and wiped his pinched and mottled nose.

  “Lindsay was the kindest, sweetest little girl …” His querulous voice broke, and he cleared his throat again and wiped his eyes behind thick bifocals.

  I felt super awkward. The last funeral I’d been to was for some aunt who’d died of cancer at eighty-two. Forty-three was old and all, but not old enough to die.

  “Forty-three is not old,” Mark muttered.

  “Crap! Don’t do that,” I whispered. “I thought you only read minds once a year!”

  He shrugged. “It depends. I thought you thought it was cool.”

  “Point it at them, not me!”

  I tried to scrutinize the mourners, but there wasn’t much to see from the back. A pew full of grownups, plus a boy wedged in there who was maybe ten. “Any vibes?” I asked.

  “It’s all muddled,” he whispered. “I should have sat closer.”

  “Is that how it works? But you felt Lindsay from the plane!”

  “Like I said, it depends. Closer’s usually better.”

  “But—”

  “Shut up! Let me focus! It’s like a swamp in here. Pretty much everyone feels terrible. I can barely breathe.”

  The old man, who turned out to be her father, was telling a story about when Lindsay was a nervous nine-year-old and terrified of the big kid snot next door. Every day, she had to walk past his house to the bus stop, and the snot (who apparently got driven to private school much later in his luxurious mornings) would yell abuse from his porch.

  This went on for weeks, and she never said a word. But one day, another neighbor asked third-grader Lindsay to walk her little kindergarten girl to the bus.

  The snot was thrilled at the fresh meat. He called the little girl every four-letter word he knew.

  “And you know what Lindsay did?” her father asked. “You know what that nine-year-old did, to that huge boy who was two feet taller and giving her nightmares every night?”

  Mark gasped.

  This surprised me. I admit, I’d gotten into the story, but I wasn’t going to cry or anything.

  I glanced his way, and I gasped.

  Mark was doubled over, clutching his stomach and rocking. His teeth were clenched, and his face and scalp were flushing hot red.

  My gut twisted. “Oh my God, are you okay?” I whispered.

  “Messed … up … shit …” he stammered. “Might … hurl …” He breathed hard and pressed his forehead into the next pew.

  My pulse was pounding. “Let’s get you out!” I whispered. I grabbed h
is arm and eased him out into the aisle.

  Again her father stopped cold and glared. This time, people twisted to look. I spun Mark toward the back exit, hoping they wouldn’t remember our faces. Mark was hunched and shuffling like an old man, but I hustled him up the aisle as fast as I could. I could feel their stares boring into our backs.

  We’d nearly reached the exit when I made the mistake of glancing over my shoulder.

  Striding up a side aisle, bristling in full cop regalia, was Gwen. Staring right at us. And looking pissed.

  Chapter 8

  We made it to the lobby, then Mark collapsed into a folding chair and slumped hard against the fake wood paneling. He was forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths, shaking like he was in shock.

  “What is it?” I said. “Another death?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then what? Tell me!”

  “Hate,” he said, through gritted teeth. “I’ve never felt it so hard. At least … not in a long time.”

  “So you are feeling the murderer?” I said. My whole upper body chilled with serious goosebumps. I didn’t know whether to fist pump or run and hide in the closet. “You’re feeling the murderer and they’re right here? Oh my gosh! Who is it? Who killed her?”

  Behind me, a frosty voice said, “So this is the empath.”

  Oh yeah. Gwen.

  The truth is, Gwen has always terrified me, ever since we first met at Ceci’s Freshman Family Weekend. I won’t get into the details, but I didn’t even give Ceci a hug until Gwen wrote out a permission slip. Which I still have.

  Now, here in the lobby, I hadn’t seen Gwen for several weeks. The bones of her face gleamed with even more intimidating perfection than I remembered, as if, in her relentless hunt for justice, the last tiny touches of excess fat had burned away.

  She shot me a stern, questioning glance, like a military mom who’s caught her son fraternizing at the monkey bars with a Bad Kid.

  I instinctively drew away from Mark. Then I defiantly drew back. Well. Sort of defiantly.

  Her lips tightened, but she would handle me later. She shifted her Dark-Eyed Death Ray Gaze of Obliteration onto Mark.

  Mark was still hunched over, but he raised his head and faced her full on with his own Blue Blaze of Scrutiny.