by Bill Alive
Mark winced hard. He literally fell back a step and leaned on Mackenzie’s chair, as if the kid were blasting him with a toxic storm.
Ceci’s eyes went wide, first at the kid and then at Mark. She seemed to be getting that first stab of fear that this empath stuff might be for real.
Mark righted himself, and said stonily, “Your grandfather couldn’t have killed them. At least not your aunt. His alibi there is rock-solid.”
I thought, He must have vibed that alibi. But then I forgot all about it with what came next.
“He did too kill them,” Vincent insisted, in a voice cold and flat. “He is absolutely capable of killing his own daughters. After all, he raised a vicious child molester.”
Dead silence.
Mark was breathing hard. Ceci was gaping in horror. But Mackenzie staggered up and shrieked.
“You filthy-minded brat! Your mother’s dead!” he yelled, jabbing his bony finger. “How dare you spew such filth and lies about your own mother!”
“She was! She was!” the kid yelled. “Everyone talks like she was some kind of saint! But she pulled down my pants in bed and took pictures!”
Mackenzie’s bleary eyes bulged. His frail body recoiled, and he looked hollow, like the kid had just scooped out his heart.
“You’re lying,” he rasped.
“It’s true!” the kid shrieked. “And you did it, you killed them both to get their money and it’s you should go to jail, you you you! I hate you!”
The kid ran off and slammed a door.
We stood in silence.
Finally, Mackenzie said, “I don’t know what he’s talking about … that kid was the love of her life…” His face crumpled, as he realized how terrible that sounded now. “… I don’t … if you bastards breathe a word…”
But we had nothing to say.
Without a word, Mark walked out.
We got in the car and drove away.
We drove in silence for as long as I could stand it, but when we’d nearly reached Valley Visions, I said, “You feel like that kid was telling the truth?”
In the back seat, Mark muttered, “That kid vibed more fear and pain than I’ve seen in prison.” He rubbed his face. “What the hell.”
His phone pinged with a text.
He started cursing. Hard.
Chapter 36
“Hey now,” Ceci said from the front. “I know you’re upset—”
“It’s the damn Linux guys,” he raged. “They totally quit! Bitching about tracking and felonies and shit. They can’t guess a fucking three-word password?”
“I’m serious,” Ceci said. “That’s enough.”
“We don’t even need the password anymore,” I said, trying to soothe him. “We know the photos that were making Sibyl gag.”
“But we don’t know what Lindsay wanted to show her,” Mark said. “You think some fucking child molester’s going to share the pics with her sister?”
We were pulling into the tiny Valley Visions parking lot. “I’m warning you, Mark,” Ceci said. “One more f-bomb—”
“What the fuck’s an f-bomb?”
Ceci slammed the brakes. “Fine. You’re walking home.”
“What?” Mark demanded. “Maybe I really don’t know!”
“Out.”
Mark shoved open his door. “Last time I do you a favor.”
Favor? I thought. Ceci looked surprised and even a little scared, then frowned in deeper anger.
I decided not to ask. I hopped out, then leaned down to talk through the open window. “Thanks for everything, Ceci.”
“Buy yourself that car,” she snapped, and drove off.
Mark was pacing on the hot parking lot.
“Dude,” I said tentatively. “I know it’s a blow—”
“A blow?” he said. “That all our avenging angel shit has been for some fucking child molester?”
“We don’t know for sure—”
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to prove child abuse?” he demanded. “To get all the necessary evidence and testimony and forms signed in triplicate? Kids don’t just make up that kind of shit. About a dead parent.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “So maybe now we leave it to the cops?”
“It’s too late now!” he said. “I’m already broke!”
I stiffened. “You mean, like …”
“I mean no money,” he said. “Did you notice I ran out of coffee, Sherlock? That’s the sign of no new clients, of people taking six months to decide that oh, yeah, maybe they’d like to pay you for your time instead of dicking around with endless epic emails of questions and contingencies and how-much-would-it-be-for-this? Which means you’ve always got to be hustling for more new leads, except, oh wait, funny how you skip that part when you’re too busy playing broke Holmes out of a perverse new sense of justice and glittery life purpose. And then the clients you did manage to scrounge up last year all decide to get together and hold onto your checks for an extra month. Because what the hell, why not? It’s not like you can do anything about it.”
“What do you mean?” I said. “You haven’t been paid?”
“No, little wage slave, out here on the raggedy edge, people pay you whenever the hell they want.”
“But you must have some savings?”
“I HAVE TWELVE DOLLARS!” he shouted.
At the front window to Valley Visions, middle-aged women in tie-dye shirts were peering out at us with concern.
“Dude,” I said, with sympathy, but also trying to calm him.
“TWELVE DAMN DOLLARS!!” he shouted, louder.
The women were whispering.
“Mark, you’ve got to bring it down.” I nodded at the window. “They might call the cops.”
“I know all the cops!” He turned and waved both hands and shouted at the women. “Go ahead and call the cops! They’re my close personal friends! One of them’s afraid he likes me!”
The women flinched and scurried away.
“Mark, listen, Gwen’s already mad—”
“Shut up about Gwen! I’m broke, my car’s shot, I missed the funeral that was my one chance to catch the murderer of some bitch who took nudies of her ten-year-old son, and now I can’t even crawl home and scrabble to make more money that I won’t get paid for months anyway, because I’m stuck at your stupid Yuppie House of Delusions, because I pissed off some uptight Baptist bitch—”
“Leave Ceci out of this!” I snapped. “Your life might look a lot better if you weren’t such an asshole!”
Mark blinked. For a moment, he looked almost impressed. Then his face went hard.
“You’d better get to work,” he said coldly. Then he walked away across the parking lot.
“What are you doing? You can’t walk home!” I said. “It’s like ten miles, on country highways with no shoulder. You’ll get hit!”
“What are you going to do about it?” he said, without turning.
My gut twisted. Mark was totally about to do something deeply stupid.
Behind me, a woman called across the lot.
“Tea before you go?”
It was Vivian. She was standing at her front door with a calm and peaceful smile.
Mark had already reached the edge of the lot, but he stopped and turned back. He glowered.
“I don’t want your perv peace and calm shit,” he said. “Quit grabbing my metaphysical ass.”
Vivian winced and stopped smiling. “I’m so sorry for trying to enjoy your company, Mark. I’ll make a special effort to feel completely blah. Now. Would you like some tea?”
Mark hesitated, one foot off the curb.
Then he grumbled, “Thanks,” and walked back.
Vivian led Mark into the store’s back room. I tried to follow, but behind the busy counter, my co-worker Raindance / Patty lit up.
“Pete!” she cried, with a relieved shake of her gray dreadlocks. “Thank goddess, we’re mobbed here—”
“Give me five minutes!” I pleaded, and nipped
into the back room.
Mark was slouched at the little table, and Vivian was setting down a plate of muffins.
“Blueberry,” she said. “For warding off psychic attacks.”
“Of course,” Mark said. He took a large bite and chewed in silence.
Vivian sat too and poured them both tea. I got the sense that if I asked to join them, she’d officially have to tell me to get back to work. I leaned against the counter, trying to be invisible.
“I should just quit,” Mark said.
She shrugged. “So quit.”
“What?” I said, forgetting my plan.
No one noticed. “Don’t try to reverse psychology me,” Mark said. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” Vivian said. “The cops are pretty good at what they do.”
“Pretty good? They weren’t even interested until Waterbury died, and they’d be executing Samson if I hadn’t been trailing him!”
“True,” she said. “But on the other hand, they’re going to keep investigating even if it turns out that that Lindsay woman was a molester. You know why?”
“Because they have a real job?”
“Because they don’t feel so shitty,” Vivian said. She bit into a blueberry muffin and gave a little moan of pleasure. Those muffins did smell amazing. “The world may or may not need your detective services, Mark, but it definitely needs you to stop feeling so shitty.”
“The world makes me feel shitty!” Mark said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m an empath! Who’s investigating multiple murders! And failing!”
“Who says you’re failing?”
“Are you kidding? I’m in my mid-thirties, doing just enough client work I hate to be utterly broke and living in a shack with a delusional roommate who thinks I’m some kind of swami!”
“Dude, I am actually here,” I said.
“So all this feeling shitty’s going to push you to be the big success?” Vivian said. “That’s your take on human psychology?”
“I’ll feel good when I deserve it!” Mark snapped.
Silence.
In a low voice, Vivian said, “It’s really not so scary.”
“I’m not scared to feel good,” Mark said.
“You’re resisting right now,” Vivian said. “Feeling good feels powerful.”
“What’s wrong with feeling powerful?” I said.
Mark finally admitted I was there. “Sure, lots of really excellent people feel powerful,” he said. “Cops. Crime lords. Dictators.”
“Abusers,” Vivian said.
“Yeah.”
“Child abusers,” she said.
“Pretty much.”
Very softly, she said, “It’s not the only kind of power, Mark.”
He pushed a crumb around his plate. “It sure fricking feels like it.”
“Only if you focus on violence,” she said. “You have your own power to claim.”
“What do you mean ‘claim my power’?” he said. “I’ve been running around raiding people’s brains, you want me to start mind blasting too? I thought that would make my head explode!”
“That’s not what I mean—”
“The good guys don’t get any power! They get crucified! That kid with his saintly pervert mom, where’s his power? Where’s the balance? ‘Balance of power,’ whoever thought that up…”
He stopped short. His eyes glazed, deep in thought.
“Mark?” I said, but Vivian shushed me.
“Balance of power,” he muttered.
He blinked, and the trance faded, he re-entered the room. “I’ve been doing this all wrong,” he said. “I’m not the kid here. I’m the fricking empath.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“I’m an empath, I read emotions. But I keep meeting people one-on-one, on their turf. I’ve got to bring everyone together.”
“A suspect party!” I cried.
“A what?”
“Like Poirot!” I said. “Get them all in one room and see who cracks!”
“Ugh, I hate Poirot,” he said.
“Really? I feel like you mustache guys need to stick together.”
Vivian laughed, but Mark frowned. “Poirot was no empath,” he said in a slow, patronizing tone, though he did unconsciously smooth his stache. “If I mess up an accusation, I can feel which person is relieved.”
“Won’t everyone be relieved?” I said.
“And what about that first funeral?” Vivian said. “I thought you nearly threw up.”
“That was then. I’ve been practicing,” Mark said. “I had some great training, remember?”
“You barely started!” Vivian said. “And you never came back!”
Mark laughed. He suddenly did a Yoda voice that was surprisingly not-terrible. “Beware, Luke! Stay and complete the training!” He leaned across the table and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for the snack,” he said. “Sorry for being an asshole.” He darted me a glance. “You too, Pete.”
I shrugged, happy but embarrassed. Avoiding him, I caught Vivian’s eye. “Are you seeing this?” I said. “What else did you put in those muffins?”
Mark smirked and strode away.
I hopped up to follow, but Vivian zipped across the room and seized my arm. “You have to work for once.”
Mark was already halfway across the store. I called after him. “How are you going to get everyone to come, Mark? How are you even going to get home?”
“It’s all good,” he called over his shoulder. “Just need to make a few calls.”
And the front door tinkled him out to freedom, leaving me alone to face the Saturday morning horde.
But outside, his phone call only lasted seconds before his eyes blazed with surprise. He snapped something into the phone, then scowled and jammed the phone into his pocket. He started pacing back and forth with clenched fists.
I broke free from Vivian and hustled out through the door. My body had relaxed into the store’s cool AC, and now the humid Virginia heat slammed me like a hot brick wall. “What is it?” I said.
“Gwen,” he growled.
My chest went tight. “On the phone?”
“No, that was Mackenzie, I just called him. But he had just gotten an official call from Sergeant Gwen Jensen, reminding him that he has no ‘obligation’ to interact with anyone who isn’t law enforcement.”
“You mean she scared him out of talking to us anymore?” I said. “But she can’t do that! There’s no law! Didn’t you tell him—”
“I didn’t have time,” Mark snapped. “He hung up.”
“What are we going to do?” I said. “What if Gwen calls everyone? How’ll we do a suspect party? How’ll we do anything?”
A hand closed on my arm. Vivian. And she finally looked mad.
Chapter 37
You don’t want to see Vivian mad.
Did you ever have that one teacher who was always super nice? Maybe you were half in love with them? And then that one time they got really mad, and it messed up their face and you felt like you must have accidentally killed a baby or something? Like nothing would ever be right again, like the seasons would probably crash to a halt and it would always be winter and never Christmas?
Yeah.
“I don’t appreciate this, Pete,” she said. “I feel like I was very clear.”
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” I said, forcing myself not to wriggle out of her grip. “It’s just that Mark—”
“Mark doesn’t work for me,” she said. “And lately I’m not sure you do either.”
“Hold up, please, it’s not like that,” I said. I looked to Mark for help, but he had stepped away from us and was furiously dialing someone.
“Hello?” he said. “Fidelio?” He listened a moment, then his face clenched with anger.
“Oh no,” I said. I turned to Vivian. “See? It’s Gwen, I mean Sergeant Jensen, she—”
“Pete, I’ve been very flexible,” she said. “I think too flexible.”
“You totally have,
” I said. “I really want to thank you—”
“I don’t want thanks,” she said. “I want a full day’s work out of you for once. Right now. Or else.”
She let my arm go, slowly opened the door, and held it open for me, roasting me with an expectant glare.
I flicked a gaze at Mark. He was arguing into his phone and didn’t even notice me.
I hung my head and trudged inside.
She made me unpack boxes of plastic statuary in a windowless back room. Somehow, they did not help me feel super connected to my Source.
When I finally escaped back into the store, where I could see through the front glass, Mark was gone.
I wilted.
Then my phone buzzed with a text.
With a thrill of hope and panic, I scrabbled it out of my pocket. Then I remembered Vivian, and gave the room an anxious scan.
At the front counter, Vivian was handling the hunched Mrs. Zapotocka, kindly but firmly explaining to the old woman that she didn’t have to buy any more Golden Topaz crystals to try to attract abundance, she could just recharge the crystals she already had.
“Wash them in running water,” Vivian said patiently. “Or if you use tap water, at least let it sit overnight to evaporate the chlorine.”
“I know what I need, young lady!” Mrs. Zapotocka snapped. “And for your information, the banks just gave me a new credit card!”
Vivian forced a congratulatory smile, but her eyes wandered toward me. I scuttled toward the statuary-rock-garden-fountain in the back corner and tried to look busy while I finally read my text.
It was Mark, thank goodness. But the news was bad. Gwen got to all of them.
what do we do? I texted.
meeting with Gwen. At GORP. 9pm sharp.
9? I texted. i don’t even get off work till 9! and we don’t have a car!
Mark texted back a single word:
feet.
“Great,” I muttered. GORP’s would be at least a twenty minute walk, along cruddy strip mall roads with heavy traffic. Maybe I could sneak out early?
My neck felt a weird tingle, and I looked up. Vivian was eyeing me over the ranting Mrs. Zapotocka with frank suspicion.
I mustered a smile, nodded, and marched back to my dungeon.
Not only did I not get out early, but Vivian casually kept me several minutes late. She only let me go with a final reminder to be on time on Monday, even if it meant a taxi.
