Murder Feels Awful

by Bill Alive

  “Gut instinct!” I shouted. “Cool!”

  “Gut instinct only works when you’re synthesizing a vast storehouse of experience. When you’re a newbie, it’s useless. There’s nothing to synthesize.”

  “So what’s your useless intuition?”

  “It’s not rocket science, I’m just saying, Hannigan-Quinn is right. There’s unfinished business. Killing her wasn’t enough. The murderer is still taking action.”

  “You mean it could still be dangerous?”

  “More dangerous than angry ex-web-clients.”

  I’d never thought about this angle. Even though, come to think of it, Gwen had pointed out the danger part pretty much every time she talked to us.

  “Should we back off?” I said.

  He shrugged. “We’re a couple of youngish single dudes with no wives or kids. If we’re not going to take down these assholes, who will?”

  I thought, The police? But Gwen kept denying there’d even been a murder. And she didn’t have a superpower. Well, okay, she had several, but not empathy. That left … us.

  And the truth was, catching a murderer would be seriously badass.

  I had to admit that I wouldn’t mind having a nice little addendum to the inevitable Hot Girl Question, “What do you do?” “Oh, I work at this awesome New Age store … and catch murderers…”

  We drove right over to see Waterbury at the airport. In the parking lot, Mark strolled nonchalantly around the squat office building and right onto the runway. I hesitated, then followed. It’s strange how you expect a horde of guards to come shouting whenever you cross onto “private property”, even when you’re so far out in the valley your phone barely works.

  Of course, we had gotten the glaredown from a creepy old bearded dude on a previous visit. This time, though, Jonas Lynch didn’t seem to be around. He must have been off doing his weekend stuff, like monster truck rallies and torturing squirrels.

  We found Timothy Waterbury in one of the steel shed hangars, doing a preflight check in a cockpit. He snapped us a glance of irritated surprise, one of those moments where you catch someone looking like an entirely different person. Then his face changed back to the friendly guy we’d met last time.

  “I’d love to talk to you boys,” he said, “but I’ve got a student coming in a few minutes.”

  “Just a few quick questions,” Mark promised. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier, but did Lindsay have any kind of special payment plan for these lessons? I’m sure your prices are super reasonable, but wasn’t she working at Wal-Mart?”

  The old pilot squirmed. He cleared his throat. “We do sometimes work out a custom payment plan—”

  “Like free?” Mark said.

  Waterbury looked so startled that we already had our answer.

  “Free lessons? Do you do that a lot?” I said. “No wonder you have business problems.”

  “Lindsay was special!” Waterbury snapped. “That bastard husband had just divorced her, she was trying to rebuild her life.”

  Mark said, “We’d heard that the divorce was her idea. Wasn’t she going to inherit millions of dollars?”

  “Sure, but that old bitch might not have died for another twenty years. Samson couldn’t shut up about that.”

  “Fidelio Samson?” Mark said sharply. “He came here?”

  “So you’ve heard about him, have you?” Waterbury grimaced. “Stupid kid acted like her whole pilot license was his idea. ‘I’m ex-Air Force, I can show you how to fly’ … I checked up on his record, you know, and the Air Force booted him out.”

  “Samson’s an ex-pilot?” Mark said.

  “Yeah, emphasis on the ex. She dropped him soon enough, the big loser. I’m telling you, she had spirit. She was a natural born flier. Once we got up there, she’d forget her troubles and soar.”

  He looked so wistful … no way he’d just been being nice giving her the free lessons. He was super old, and maybe to him, Lindsay had seemed young and pretty. That hurt my head.

  Mark burst both our reveries. “What kind of troubles?”

  “I don’t know! She never told me! I tried, you know, even that last day…”

  “The last day? What happened?”

  “I don’t know! I was too afraid to come on too strong, a single guy … maybe if I hadn’t been so damn afraid of her getting spooked …”

  “Single guy?” I blurted. “Aren’t you old enough to be her father?”

  “I am a father,” he snapped, “and my daughter’s nowhere near Lindsay’s age. Let me tell you something, kiddo—”

  “Mr. Waterbury?” squawked a man behind us. He was a potbellied executive poured into a straining suit, with a token lock of carefully styled black-dyed hair clinging to his otherwise bald scalp. His beady eyes glared with authority through thick glasses.

  Waterbury shifted into Teacher Mode. “Come on in!” he called. “I’m just wrapping up here.”

  The executive / flight student harrumphed and checked his floppy gold watch. I’d heard about executives choosing floppy watches, but I hadn’t believed it. If I was spending the price of a new Volvo on a watch, I would make sure it fit.

  Mark drew close to Waterbury. “What was different on the last day?” he said, quick and low.

  “I don’t know, she was just jumpy. Spacey. Like she was scared.”

  “Scared? Of what? Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I’m not sure,” he hissed. “She was preoccupied, mumbling things. Like, ‘I’ve got to.’”

  “Got to what?”

  “If I knew, I’d say! But I bet it was that damn Samson. I did some digging and I could tell you a thing or two.”

  “Then do it!”

  “Excuse me?” squawked the executive. “Aren’t I paying by the hour?”

  Mark winced and stepped away from the guy, sliding behind me so I made a human shield.

  Yeah, it was weird.

  Waterbury sighed. “I’ve got to work. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “But—” Mark started.

  The executive shoved past and heaved up into the plane, taking time to shoot us a parting frown of indignation. Waterbury waved us away with curt impatience.

  Outside, we watched the little plane taxi down the long runway. As it picked up speed, I held my breath … another thing I still can’t believe is that these glorified cars with wings can actually zoom around the sky. My sciencey friends sniff, like some fancy Wikipedia article about wing shape and air pressure magically makes it all normal, that we can stop being amazed that this freaking huge metal thing doesn’t crash.

  The plane executed a perfect liftoff, its engines roaring almost as loud as Thunder. Then it shrank fast, flying toward the distant mountain and banking right.

  “I didn’t realize those little planes were so loud,” I said. “Even now, when it’s far away.”

  “That’s true,” Mark said, without interest.

  “Sorry, I forgot, you already knew I would say that. Super dull.”

  “What? No, I really can’t read every last thing, it’s only when—”

  He broke off and looked up.

  “Only when what?” I pressed.

  “Oh God,” he said.

  He was staring up in horror.

  I twisted to follow his gaze, but everything looked fine, the plane was still banking —

  Then the engine noise died.

  And the plane nosedived.

  PART III

  Chapter 22

  I don’t know how long we stood there on the runway. The distant trees had hidden the sight of the crash, but the sick chaos of the sound kept looping in my head. I felt trapped in that moment, it was like I kept checking. Yes, it really happened, yes, it really happened, yes …

  Finally, I was dragged back onto the shore of reality by some lady jabbering at me. She had big poofy hair and anxious eyes — that receptionist from the airport lobby, what was her name? Peggy?

  “ … the police say everyone has to stay,�
�� she said firmly. Back around her boss Hollister, she’d been a quaking jelly of a wage slave, but now her face was stern with Mommish command. “They’ll be here in a minute, and they need to talk to all of us as witnesses.”

  “Witnesses?” I said faintly.

  But Mark snapped to attention. “Where’s Hollister?” he said sharply.

  “He’s out,” she said, with overdone defiance.

  “Who else is here?” Mark said.

  Peggy hesitated. “I don’t see how you have any authority—”

  “Lynch!” Mark said. “The glaring beard, where is he?”

  Peggy babbled protests, but Mark strode away, back toward the hangar we’d just left.

  As we burst in, a heavy man in coveralls spun around to face us. Jonas Lynch, beard and all. He was standing right where Waterbury’s plane had been parked, and it didn’t take an empath to see that he looked guilty as hell.

  In fact, he made such an absurdly classic villain, lurking in the empty old hangar in his old-school beard and outfit, that I had a major Hardy Boys flashback. I half expected him to snarl, You meddling kids!

  Beside me, Mark twinkled me a glance. “Good night, Pete,” he muttered.

  I almost laughed. But a stab of shock got me first … only minutes ago, we’d been in here talking to Waterbury. Now …

  “What do you want?” Lynch barked across the room. His face flamed red, and he folded bulky arms over his gut. He might be out of shape, but he clearly still had serious muscle. “Who the hell are you?”

  Mark smiled, but his eyes were hard. “I take it you heard that crash? I’d offer you my condolences, but I’m not feeling a lot of grief here.”

  Lynch’s bulgy eyes goggled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “He’s guilty, isn’t he?” I said, buzzing with excitement and fear. “You’re feeling it?”

  Mark nodded. “If he felt any more guilty, he’d be cuffing himself.”

  Behind us, a sharp female voice said, “That’s not exactly evidence, Mr. Falcon.”

  Gwen. She loomed in the doorway, eyeing us both with anger and suspicion. Us … not Lynch.

  “Gwen!” I said. “You’ve got to arrest this guy! He’s hiding evidence right now!” I glanced at the goggling Lynch. “Aren’t you?”

  “Pete!” Gwen snapped, and I instantly shut up. “I’ll ask the questions. And I’ll start with Mr. Falcon.”

  Mark looked surprised. Then he shrugged and walked out.

  “Mr. Falcon!” Gwen barked. She strode after him down the runway, and I hurried behind. “Mr. Falcon, you are required to make a full statement.”

  “What about his Miranda rights?” I called after her.

  “That’s if you’re under arrest. Which I can accommodate.”

  “Arrest? For this?” I said, flabbergasted. “Mark was investigating!”

  Gwen whirled on me, so fast I nearly ran into her. Her dark eyes bored into me with astonishing force. “We’ve had two fatal crashes in less than a month,” she hissed in a low voice. “And your new friend has been right on the scene for both!”

  I gasped.

  My world flipped, like black squares on a white chessboard suddenly grinning white-on-black. As Mark walked away, the bald back of his head seemed to surface as his horrible real face, staring back at me with no face at all, blank and grim and secret. How long had I even known this guy?

  Meanwhile, I’d known Gwen forever. She was practically my aunt. My youngish, super hot aunt, but still.

  Doubt wracked me.

  Then I remembered.

  “Mark feels terrible about these murders!” I said. “I mean literally. It’s obvious! Can’t you tell?”

  Gwen drew back, startled. I was surprised myself — I don’t think I’d ever taken that tone with her. Ever.

  “He’s a great guy!” I said. “Why do you have to be so, so suspicious all the time?”

  Her eyes widened with disbelief.

  I chose to believe she was stunned with the brilliance of my defense.

  Mark had reached Thunder in the parking lot, and he was sliding out the laptop from his backpack. By the time Gwen and I caught up with him, he was sitting sideways in the driver seat with the door open, typing away.

  Gwen towered over him. “Mr. Falcon, I’m only going to ask once—”

  “One sec,” Mark said, not looking up.

  “Mr. Falcon.”

  Mark heaved a dramatic sigh. “What do you think I’m doing, Gwen? I was investigating Lindsay’s death, and I’m trying to do a brain dump before I forget everything Waterbury told me. You know, the guy who was just fricking murdered.”

  “So you admit that you were continuing to investigate, against my express—”

  “I have the right to talk to people!”

  “And I have the right to use my full powers under the law to protect the citizens of this Commonwealth. Including from themselves.”

  Mark eyed her. Slowly he put his laptop on the dashboard and stood, his face unflinching only inches from hers. “Are you threatening me?” he said. “For real? Don’t you have a body cam running?”

  Gwen’s gaze ratcheted up from “angry” to “seething.”

  But Mark smiled, with a taunting twist that even I found irritating. “That’s the thing, Gwen,” he said. “You are stuck in the confines of the law. You can’t actually stop me.”

  I thought Gwen might pull out her stun gun.

  Then, in an instant, her face went smooth and official. In a cold, flat voice, she said, “License and registration, please.”

  “What?” Mark said. “What am I doing, speeding?”

  “I need to see your license and registration, sir. And then I need to hear you start your car.”

  “My car’s fine,” Mark said. But sweat was beading on his bald brow.

  “Is it?” Gwen slipped out her phone, swiped a bit, and read, “Virginia State Code: ‘No person shall drive and no owner of a vehicle shall permit or allow the operation of any such vehicle on a highway unless it is equipped with an exhaust system in good working order and in constant operation to prevent excessive or unusual levels of noise.’”

  “Oh no!” I breathed. “Not Thunder!”

  “Thunder?” Gwen said.

  Mark’s glare skewered me. I felt so stupid that he actually winced. Which, I have to say, was gratifying.

  He turned to Gwen. “Sergeant Jensen,” he said carefully, finally using Client Mode on the one person he should have from the start. “I assure you, my inspection is all up to date.”

  “That inspection sticker expires this month, sir,” Gwen said.

  And, I mentally added, we all know there are at least three shops in Back Mosby that will take your twenty bucks and slap an inspection sticker on anything with wheels.

  With even more cautious deference, Mark said, “I’m not sure you can just demand a random inspection.”

  “Trust me,” Gwen said. “I am wearing a body cam. The jury will get a good view of Thunder.”

  “Gwen, please,” I pleaded. “I need to be able to get to work—”

  Gwen snapped me a glance that would curdle milk.

  Mark said quietly, “I know you’ll be devastated if I can’t drive around talking to witnesses.”

  Gwen folded her arms and waited.

  “I was going to tell you everything I found out, okay?” Mark burst out. “I just didn’t want to do my statement right there in front of Lynch! I have this trigger with fat guys with beards!”

  Behind me, a low bear of a voice rumbled, “I feel the same way.”

  I knew that voice. And now my stomach really wrenched into unsolvable shoelace knots of stress. It was the Back Mosby Police Chief, the top of the local Force food chain, Chief Harry Goff.

  And yes, he’s a fat guy with a beard.

  Chapter 23

  Chief Goff is like some demented juvenile delinquent nightmare of Santa Claus Turned Cop.

  His burly bulk brims with a one-hundred-per
cent-genuine white Santa beard, and his booming laugh can pierce several feet of concrete. I’m not sure whether it’s his extra size, his Chief status, or both, but he seems to lumber around with even more lethal hardware jutting everywhere than Gwen and Ramiro combined. He’s like a jolly tank. And he’ll chortle while he mows you down.

  I hadn’t spoken with Chief Goff in years … in fact, the only time we’d ever actually talked was when I was a kid and he’d been, ironically enough, playing Santa Claus. I don’t know how he’d wound up at some charity function in Manassas, but perching on that vast lap and stammering into that enormous face, all while engulfed in his volcanic laugh, had long lingered as one of my official childhood traumas. At least there was no way he’d remember me.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t little Petey Villete,” he boomed. “Still want that Tenderheart Care Bear?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, no sir,” I stammered, inwardly cursing my parents for corrupting my young mind with retro lovey-dovey cartoons when I should have been starting early on first-person shooters.

  Gwen arched an eyebrow. I was pretty sure she’d never heard ‘Petey’ before. Great.

  “So, Sergeant,” Chief Goff boomed. “These witnesses?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gwen said. “Mr. Falcon here was also present at the Lindsay Mackenzie glider crash.”

  “Ah.” Chief Goff’s jolly face hardened. I quailed.

  But Mark extended a hand with jaunty confidence. “Mark Falcon, sir,” he said. “Private investigator.”

  Chief Goff looked surprised. Then he soured into suspicion.

  Panic nibbled at my chest. Losing Thunder might soon be the least of our problems.

  But Mark was twinkling with that secret half-smile. What did he think he’d vibed?

  Gwen seemed to notice it too. “Mr. Falcon is not licensed,” she said quickly. “He only started this week.”

  “I do have prior experience,” Mark said, “but yes, officially, I have recently begun my studies. Which means that for now, my services are completely free.”

  Chief Goff brightened.

  “Sir—” Gwen said.

  But Chief Goff raised a beefy hand. “Let’s hear what Mr. Falcon has to offer.”

  “But Mr. Falcon senses murder all over the place!” Gwen burst out.