Murder Feels Crazy

by Bill Alive

  Chapter 37

  Back in the parking lot, as I climbed back into Thunder, Mark greeted me with a cheerful, “Everything okay?” Then he winced and jolted back like I’d slugged him.

  “Damn, Pete,” he gasped. “What the hell happened?”

  I tossed the stupid USB stick into his lap. “Mission accomplished,” I muttered.

  He frowned, confused.

  I turned and leaned my forehead against the cold window. Outside, the twilight was slipping into night.

  A super expensive sports car pulled out from the lot and glided past us. I already knew who it was, but a streetlight made sure to flash me a glimpse anyway: Dr. Paul and Ceci, already laughing.

  Beside me, I could feel Mark’s wave of concern.

  “Can we go?” I snapped, without looking at him. “You’re going to be late for Gwen.”

  “Hey,” Mark said gently, which hurt worse. “Thanks again for going in there. This guy could be a killer, we’re going to get every single keystroke—”

  “My pleasure.”

  One thing about Mark: sometimes he senses when to back off. He fired up Thunder.

  As we roared toward the bowling alley, I tried to get control of my mushrooming misery. What was my big problem, anyway?

  I wish I could say that I was worried for my friend who, after all, was headed out for a dinner date with a possible murderer.

  And partly, I was. But I couldn’t really believe he’d have any reason to hurt her. Especially not tonight, when he’d been seen publicly escorting her out. If the keylogger did prove anything, I’d have plenty of time to warn her.

  Or, it might prove that Dr. Paul was squeaky clean. And then my best friend since my freshman year in college might finally disappear into a serious relationship.

  Wasn’t this exactly what I wanted for her? A mature, rich, good-looking, successful not-murderer who would give her the devotion she deserved?

  Sure it was. So why was I seething? Why did this hurt so much?

  It’s a dangerous thing, when you’re desperate to stop the pain.

  As we rode over to the bowling alley, so I could spend the evening running Third Wheel for Mark and his Viking goddess, I mulled over my options. They were basically: none.

  Except… all at once, I had a crazy idea.

  And when I say crazy, I mean, of the batshit variety. Unfortunately, in the mood of the moment, it seemed theoretically possible. Plausible, even.

  Before I could rethink it, I tapped out a quick text.

  I felt fantastic for maybe eight seconds.

  But she didn’t text back. And then came the real crash.

  The bowling alley gleamed garish and neon in the night, and the windows were crowded with those depressing glowing signs that each shout their own brand of cheap beer. As we tugged open the glass entrance doors, I felt a thick blast of tension on top of my simmering misery.

  What the hell? Wait, was that fresh sweat glistening on the back of Mark’s head? Was I vibing Mark?

  Please, please no. Never had I less wanted to be an empath, ever. I couldn’t even handle my own drama.

  Thankfully, whatever it was seemed to melt away. I’d probably imagined it.

  Then we saw Gwen.

  She was already set up in a center lane, testing the heft of a bowling ball and wearing those goofy bowling shoes… and her cop uniform.

  This fashion choice had clearly spooked the other patrons, who were crammed into the lanes at either end, as far away as possible.

  When she saw Mark, her pale cheeks may just possibly have shown a touch of rose. It was hard to tell in the crappy light.

  We got our own embarrassing shoes, and as we walked up, she gave us both a curt nod. “Pete. Mr. Falcon.”

  Mark grinned.

  She frowned. “You’ll be happy to hear that the Chief took you seriously on the Katrina Trudy angle. We expect she’ll need to patronize whatever dealer replaces Golitsyn, so we’ve got people watching her house. This could finally be the break we need.”

  Mark chuckled.

  She blinked. “What’s so funny?”

  “You know. Look at me, I’m so tough, flaunting my cop badassery just in case he gets any bad ideas.”

  Gwen tried to look confused. It was like watching a marionette try to do yoga. “I just got off work—”

  “Believe me, you don’t need any uniform to be intimidating,” Mark said.

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  “It is. But you’d be just fine with nothing.”

  Gwen cleared her throat. A gag, really. But she hadn’t quite stifled the flick of a smile.

  All business, she turned to take it out on me. “Pete, is anyone else coming?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” I said, and I went to sit in a corner.

  For some reason, the bowling alley had this awful little booth cafe section, I don’t know why. Maybe sometimes leaguers would bowl for three days straight in a flow trance, and then be so weak from starvation that they had no other option for food.

  Anyway, I plopped down in the cornermost booth and paused to reflect.

  I reflected: THIS IS IDIOTIC! I SHOULD NOT HAVE TO FEEL SO BAD! I KNOW ALL THE TECHNIQUES! I WORK AT A NEW AGE STORE, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!

  And here I’d been lecturing Mark on doing stupid breathing exercises…

  I remembered some meditation I’d listened to once, at least part of it. What had that British lady said? Breathe in peace, breathe out stress… in peace, out stress…

  I breathed in, deep…

  Turned out, this old-school cafe had a smoking section.

  My lungs burned with a surprise gulp of cigarette smoke. When I stopped gagging and coughing, I glared around to see who to rebuke… and frowned right at this ancient grizzled vet in one of those power wheelchair scooters. His eyes crinkled over his fresh smoke; he seemed to have lost his legs, but not his sense of humor.

  Fine, I thought. I’m just going to feel awful and envious and wretched for a bit. Whatever. CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.

  I tried this. It felt pretty damn awful.

  Then I thought, Dude, your best buddy’s finally got Gwen on their first kind-of-date! Where’s the love? Why not partake?

  So I watched Mark and Gwen, trying to work up some gracious joy at their good fortune.

  Unfortunately, the temperature on this date was dropping like a frozen burrito. As it falls out of the freezer. And hits your toe.

  Okay, that similie didn’t work, I’m just saying: they were circling around the bowling-ball-return-receptacle-thing, keeping at least three feet of space between them at all times.

  So much for that date visualization I’d practiced with Mark.

  Except…

  … just as I thought this, they both reached for a bowling ball at once.

  Their hands brushed.

  POW.

  They both literally jolted, yanking back their hands like they’d poked a live socket.

  My neck hairs prickled.

  In case you forgot, that’s exactly how I’d started that date visualization with Mark.

  As I watched with growing disbelief, Mark executed the next beat I’d said, pretty much to perfection. He said something hilarious, and Gwen laughed her honking laugh.

  “Cheater!” she said, and stepped toward him around the barrier. “How am I supposed to bowl straight if I’m laughing?”

  I gulped.

  And then, as imagined, she shoved him… not just with her shoulder, but with her hip too.

  The prickle shivered all down my back. This was getting very, very weird.

  Even at this distance, I could see Mark’s light eyes shine.

  Gwen backed off and got all formal again, and she lined up her shot. And just at the last moment… Mark muttered something that got her laughing again.

  Her ball careened into the gutter, but she didn’t care. Whatever it was, she was laughing so hard she practically collapsed against
the stupid bowling computer thing, like the pent-up pain of way too many years was bubbling up and out in ridiculous goofy joy.

  Zack’s haggard voice suddenly echoed in my mind, You really think the good are meant to spend their short lives taking bad people’s shit?

  “Thanks, Obi Wan,” I muttered. But my heart still basically cracked. For the first time ever, I could see it, I could feel it… those two had no idea how much they loved each other.

  Watching them, I felt this crazy mama bear urge to keep these cubs safe. Why should they, of all people, have to plunge back into the war zone and get slaughtered? It didn’t make any freaking sense.

  At least they could have this tiny oasis.

  Like in Seventh Seal, when that sad knight dude is having the picnic with the family, and he knows that when the meal’s over, he’s going to go off and lose that chess game with Death, but he takes this bowl of milk and he’s like, “I shall treasure the memory of this beautiful day like this fragile bowl of milk…”

  Why the heck was I thinking of Seventh Seal? Wasn’t it Akina who was into those depressing old movies?

  But thinking of Mark’s old girlfriend only made the NOW more poignant. Gwen really was different. Mark too, these days.

  Maybe they really did have a chance.

  “For real, Pete?” said a familiar voice. “You didn’t say you were hanging with the cop.”

  And here I’d thought my body had dumped the day’s supply of adrenalin back at the pain clinic. Nope.

  Remember how I’d sent that text?

  You didn’t think I texted Ceci, did you?

  I texted Rachel. Yep.

  And here she was, all maxed out in her Hot Mom Glam, glittering with makeup and tights and a maternity top I can’t even describe, except to say that heavy metal stars must occasionally get pregnant but still have to go on tour.

  And she was here as my date.

  Sort of.

  Chapter 38

  Okay, let’s clear the air here.

  Yes, I had invited Rachel to come bowling. With a text.

  No, I had not really expected her to come. After those first eight seconds.

  Also, technically, my text had been totally in the friendzone. If I remembered correctly, the exact words had been:

  hey! I know this is super last minute but your number was on your fursuit website and my friends and I are going bowling and I thought you might like to come and take your mind off stuff no pressure especially if you hate bowling (this is Pete)

  “Why didn’t you text first?” I blurted.

  Not my best line, but I was pretty much dumbfounded she was actually standing there.

  “I did,” she snapped. “You didn’t text me back.”

  “Really?” I pulled out my phone. Dead again. Damn it.

  “What the hell?” she said. About now, it dawned on me that she was looking not only fabulous, but rather pissed. “You tried to trick me out here for another interrogation?”

  “What? No! Oh my gosh, that didn’t even occur to me!”

  “Did you guys somehow know I’m into bowling? Are you stalking my Tribesy feed?”

  “No! Geez!” I said, with a fervent hope that the Linux guys weren’t somehow listening in even as we spoke. “This is totally an off-duty, friend thing, they’ve been planning it for weeks—”

  “She’s in her fricking uniform!”

  “That’s just Gwen,” I said. “I think she sleeps in it.”

  But even as I said this, I began to glimpse the full magnitude of this disaster. What the hell had I been thinking? Gwen would see Rachel as a suspect. She’d go into full Cop Mode. The chemistry she and Mark were finally starting to build here would vaporize.

  I had to get Rachel out before she destroyed this whole date.

  “Miss Ferrari?” said Gwen, who was suddenly standing at crisp attention beside my booth.

  Crap. Too late.

  And also… how does she do that?

  “Unbelievable,” Mark grumbled, materializing on my other side.

  I jolted, smacking my knee on the booth’s table. Seriously, their kids are going to have the startle reflexes of a hyperventilating squirrel.

  “Oh, hey guys,” I said. “You both remember Rachel?”

  “Yes. We’ve spoken.” Gwen crossed her arms. “She claims not to know the current whereabouts of her boyfriend Luther Trudy.”

  “Ex-boyfriend,” Rachel snapped.

  “Anyway, she’s super into bowling,” I said, with frantic enthusiasm. “So why don’t you guys just keep bowling, and we’ll get our own lane, like, way down over there on the right.”

  “I hate that lane,” Rachel said.

  I nearly yelped with frustration. But before I could say anything even more epically inane, Mark suddenly spoke, with smooth Client Mode velvet.

  “You won’t get off so easy, Pete,” he said, arching an eyebrow at Rachel as if my bowling ineptitude was a private shared joke. “Besides, Gwen and I were just getting desperate for some real competition. Please join us,” he said, fixing Rachel with a mildly imploring gaze.

  Rachel flicked a glance at Gwen, then shrugged. “This is pretty weird,” she said. “One dumb question from any of you and I’m out.”

  “Absolutely,” Mark said. And then she let Mark lead her off to the bowling lane… with his hand on her back.

  I gaped. What the hell, Mark?

  Then I made the mistake of glancing at Gwen.

  I had never seen her so stunned. And also boiling mad.

  She swiveled toward me like the turret of a tank.

  “I swear, Pete Villette,” she growled. “One day, one of these hot suspects is going to kill you. And I might just let it slide.”

  “I don’t think she’s really still a suspect,” I said. “Remember, Mark got that vibe—”

  “Everyone is a suspect,” Gwen barked. “And at best she’s a single mother with her baby about to pop, the father recently dead, and her boyfriend gone. She is the definition of emotionally vulnerable.”

  “Okay, okay! It was only bowling!” I said, blistering with shame. None of that had occurred to me, which I guess was terrible, but I mean, this was Pete we were talking about. Girls didn’t actually fall for Pete. “She was just being nice,” I said. “And I guess she really does like bowling.”

  “I want her out of here. Now.”

  “I know, I know! I’m working on it!”

  As we hustled over, Rachel bowled a strike.

  Beside me, Gwen’s nostrils flared.

  Rachel whooped, then she flounced over and sat on the little lane bench beside Mark.

  “Well done,” Mark said. “So far, Gwen’s only gotten spares.”

  “Really?” Rachel said. She was starting to glow, in full-on Hot Girl at the Party mode.

  “It’s not every day that you get to trounce a cop,” Mark said, with a mischievous glance at Gwen. He tilted toward Rachel… and their knees touched.

  And they both stayed like that as they chatted, his dress pants rubbing her black tights… what the hell… I mean, Gwen was right there…

  Gwen eyed me with a skewer gaze, then cleared her throat like a shotgun blast.

  Miserable, I plunked down on Rachel’s other side and tried to quip into the conversation. She was too busy laughing at some Markish witticism.

  But as Gwen approached us, Rachel clutched her baby bulge, and she raised her other hand for Mark to stop. “Hold on, hold on, damn I have to pee. This kid’s doing kung fu on my bladder.”

  Mark hopped up and helped her stand, one hand each on her bare arm and elbow. She swayed off.

  Gwen glared. At him, for once.

  But then one of her hundred or so Cop Gadgets of Badassery beeped, and she fiddled with a speaker thing on her shoulder. “Osprey?” she snapped. “I’m off duty.”

  “Yes, I know, sorry,” crackled Officer Osprey (he’s the anxious one). “I really hate to bother you, but I was filling out this evidence form for the Golitsyn thing, and
I just wanted to run this one thing by you. See, I looked again at the shell casings…”

  Gwen groaned, and she stalked off to talk forensics in a corner clustered with ancient gumball machines.

  “Mark, listen,” I said, jumping up while he thoughtfully hefted a bowling ball. “You’ve got to help me get Rachel out of here. I am so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “It’s fine,” he said, trying a test swing without releasing. “She’s definitely intriguing.”

  “Are you serious?” I snapped.

  He frowned, and squinted at me. “Am I missing something?”

  “I’m not blind, dude! I saw you touching her knee!”

  “Yeah, I wish she’d skipped the tights,” he said, reflective. “Skin would be better.”

  “Oh! My! Gosh! You are finally on a freaking date with Gwen—”

  “Wait, what?” Mark said. He looked honestly confused. “I’m vibing, you idiot. Contact helps, remember? She is still a suspect.”

  “Nice try! I didn’t see you feeling up Luther! Or Katrina! Or Aunt Dolores!”

  He shrugged. “Most suspects aren’t into it. I mean, you’re welcome to try touching Luther’s knee…”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this on your date. Are you trying to lose Gwen?”

  Mark went stiff and alert, like he was finally paying attention. He eyed Gwen, who was still arguing with Osprey across the room in the corner. “You don’t think Gwen actually thinks…”

  “Uh, yeah?” I said.

  “Shit.” He grimaced. “Now what do I do?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, thanks—”

  I was interrupted by Rachel’s moan.

  Not that kind of moan. Like, a hurting moan. Okay, I’m just going to stop saying moan. Geez, that word is weird.

  She was leaning against the wall by the bathrooms, clutching her bulge and wincing and breathing hard.

  I rushed over. “Are you all right?”

  Through grit teeth, she said, “Damn. These are some serious contractions.”

  My chest fluttered with panic. “Oh gosh. Do you need to get to the hospital?”

  “Maybe.”

  Gwen materialized again. “I can assist Ms. Ferrari,” she said, with an ice cold glare.