Murder Feels Crazy

by Bill Alive

  “It’s Dr. Paul,” Mark said, his voice flat. “We’ve got proof that he’s selling his pain patients to heroin dealers.”

  The teapot Ceci was pouring jerked and clattered into the tray, splashing the scalding tea so far that a few drops bit my arm. A cup tipped to the floor and smashed.

  “Sorry,” Mark said, and the fire in his eyes tamped a bit. Before Ceci could say anything, he leapt up and handed her his phone. “Just look at these,” he said. “And tell me where you keep your paper towels.”

  By the time he’d cleaned it all up, Ceci was holding her mouth in her hand.

  Her eyes were wet, and she was breathing with the long, slow deliberation of shock. And here I’d thought she was grim before.

  When Mark stretched out his hand, she handed back his phone as if it were a gun. And radioactive.

  “Where…” she tried to say, but she had to clear her throat and try again. “Where did you get all this?” she said, and she sounded almost normal. “What did Gwen say?”

  “That’s the problem,” Mark said, and he leaned towards her in his chair. “It’s basically… off the record.”

  Ceci frowned. Then, for the first time, she looked my way. “That stupid USB stick,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

  I nodded anyway.

  She turned back to Mark. “We have to stop him.”

  “Yes,” Mark said. “We do.”

  Ceci arched an eyebrow, showing a startling sisterly resemblance to Gwen. She sat straighter on the couch and said quietly, “I’ll do it.”

  “Do what?” I said. “I don’t even know what he’s planning.”

  “Whatever it is,” she said. “I’m in.”

  “Thank you,” Mark said. “I need you to ask him out.”

  “What?” I blurted.

  “For Thanksgiving dinner,” Mark said.

  “WHAT?” Ceci said.

  “Tell your folks you’ll be late,” Mark said.

  Ceci sighed. “It’s just as well this year. As far as Gwen’s concerned, I could probably skip it altogether.”

  “Mark, why does it have to be Thanksgiving?” I said. “I mean, the Jensen Thanksgiving, it’s a big deal—”

  Mark glared.

  Really? he mind-blasted. You wouldn’t rather have an alternate holiday plan?

  “Whoa!” I blurted. “You’re doing this because of my folks?”

  I almost felt a warm glow of affection. Who’d have thought Mark would be watching out for my family troubles while he made his plans as a wrathful vigilante? But I say almost because he was still glaring so hard that, if I’d had to hug him or a porcupine, I might have taken the safe route.

  Ceci perked up, alert. “What’s up with your folks?” she said, staring at me.

  “Oh,” I said. I’d forgotten that I hadn’t even told her yet. That showed you just how crazy and crappy the last couple weeks had been. “They… they’re not doing so great. No family Thanksgiving this year.”

  “What? Oh no,” she said. “Oh, Pete. I’m so sorry.” And some of her weariness melted away a little, and she had that look she’d always had when she listened, like she really did actually care.

  And I thought, screw you, rush. I could live without hormone dumps for the rest of my life if I really had to, but kindness? No way. Do whatever you want to me, universe, but please just leave me my friends.

  Mark said, “Thanksgiving’s a good day to do it anyway.”

  “Do what, exactly?” Ceci said. “I assume I’m wearing a mic? And I somehow get him to admit all this over the turkey?”

  “Yes,” Mark said. “But I’m not sending you in there alone. We’ll do it with Aunt Dolores.”

  “Who?” Ceci said.

  I said, “She’s the aunt of the woman who just overdosed. But why Aunt Dolores, Mark? Why not just invite him to dinner here?”

  “Because this place is tiny,” Mark snapped. “Dolores has that huge dark house, and there’s tons of old crap to hide behind, probably even multiple closets. You and I can stand by in case this all goes sideways.”

  I frowned. Something was off. Sure, I’d appreciate the extra hiding options… but Dolores?

  “Did you ask her?” I said. “What are you going to tell her?”

  Mark gave a grim smile. “I think she’ll be more than willing to help nail Katrina’s doctor.”

  Ceci said, “But what am I going to tell him?”

  “Look, we have his credit card statements, last Thanksgiving the guy ordered pizza,” Mark said. “I highly doubt he has holiday plans.”

  “But—”

  “So you call him up, you tell him you’re having family troubles yourself and that you thought you’d reach out to Aunt Dolores, so she wouldn’t have Thanksgiving alone so soon after her loss.”

  “She’s alone?” Ceci said.

  “Yes. Luther’s AWOL, and Katrina was all the other family she had left. And you also tell him you got his apology, and you’ve been thinking about things, and you’d love it if he came along too. Maybe even hint that it could be the perfect gesture to defuse all this tension around the overdoses and his clinic.”

  Ceci stared.

  I said, “There’s no way that’s not a lie somewhere.”

  “No, it all works out,” Mark said.

  “But this guy’s working with organized crime,” I said. “Couldn’t this be dangerous?”

  “Oh, and letting him keep onboarding heroin addicts is totally safe?”

  “But if he gets mad at Ceci—”

  “If I could do it myself, I would,” Mark said. “But I don’t quite get the vibe he trusts me.”

  “It’s fine,” Ceci said. “I’ll do it.”

  “What if this guy hurts you?” I said.

  Ceci glowered. “It’s a little late for that.”

  “I mean really hurts you. Why can’t we just post it all online somewhere?”

  “Online is out,” Mark said. “We can’t be sure those files wouldn’t be traced back to us or the Linux guys. We’re not ready to take on Numb yet. We’re just trying to get this one bastard out of our town.”

  “Then tell Gwen,” I said.

  Mark scoffed. “Gwen’ll either blunder in to ‘interrogate’ him so he has plenty of warning to lawyer up, or else we’re looking at weeks, maybe months, while she gets all the paperwork done in triplicate to officially ‘know’ what we already told her. How many more addicts do you think that’s worth?”

  Ceci’s face went hard. “Call Dolores.”

  Mark nodded.

  I felt a crackle of energy arc between them.

  Vengeance.

  It scared me. Like they had locked into a pact with the power to destroy.

  That kind of power doesn’t come cheap. You let that loose, you might be looking at some serious collateral damage.

  Like us.

  Chapter 50

  The only thing worse than hiding in Dolores’ closet was spending the whole time having to smell the turkey bake. Totally should have eaten first.

  But even on a full stomach, cramming in the closet to wait for Dr. Paul would have been like getting buried alive in a mildewed thrift store.

  You know that back room where they pile all the junk before they price it? I can’t even look in there, I can almost feel my life force draining into those starving ancient board games and broken bikes. Now I was shoved right in under even more depressing crap, with mothballed dress coats that hadn’t seen the sun since John F. Kennedy.

  Mark was jammed beside me, his face watchful in the thin slit of light that slid through the slightly open door. I remembered the last time we’d been stuck in a cramped space. Not a great memory.

  “Relax,” Mark whispered. “This time, we’re not locked in.”

  “Great,” I whispered. “You could have said, this time, no one’s going to try to kill us.”

  He shrugged. With difficulty.

  Out in the cluttered living room, I could hear Ceci making small talk with Dolores, both
of them trying too hard to sound normal. Chatting was nice, but we were still doing a sting on a local drug dealer with connections to Numb.

  A knock cracked across the chitchat, and their voices froze. Through the slit, I could see Ceci perch upright on the plastic-covered couch, stiff and scared.

  Then she smoothed her features into a Southern flirtatious smile.

  Dolores shuffled over out of sight and clacked her front door open. Dr. Paul’s voice rumbled with soft confidence, murmuring urbane thanks for the hospitality, and then gentle condolences on the loss of Katrina.

  He sounded so sincere… half my brain wanted to believe that it was all a big mistake, and the guy was Mr. Rogers.

  Dolores ushered him to the overstuffed easy chair we’d planned for him in the living room. That’s where we’d hidden our best mic; plus, while Mark and I could see his profile, he was facing the couch and wouldn’t see us.

  He turned and snapped a look right toward me.

  My chest spiked with panic. Ceci’s fake smile froze too.

  “Easy…” Mark whispered.

  Dr. Paul looked back toward Dolores and made some compliment about the china cabinet next to the closet.

  I exhaled. He must have been looking at that. Maybe.

  Ceci thawed too, and she freshened her smile. Dolores launched into a raspy monologue about the cabinet’s fascinating (and lengthy) family history. As she droned on, Ceci started to squirm, and even the doctor’s attentive smile began to falter. How long was Dolores going to talk? She knew she needed to leave Ceci alone to work the plan.

  Finally, Dolores heaved up and said, “That bird’s going to take quite awhile. I’ll just make us some tea.” She shuffled off with slow steps and began to clatter in the kitchen.

  The moment she had crossed out of sight, Dr. Paul leveled Ceci a careful, hard stare.

  Ceci’s smile wilted.

  Beside me, Mark whispered, “Shit.”

  “Ceci,” said Dr. Paul with soft reproach. “You don’t look well.”

  “I…” Ceci tried another smile, then gave up. In a cold, flat voice, she said, “I have a proposal, Milton.”

  What? No! I thought. We’d planned a whole lead-in, but she had completely skipped it. This was not good.

  “A proposal?” said Dr. Paul.

  “I know all about it,” Ceci said, still toneless. “Selling the names. Your patients.”

  Mark muttered, “We, Ceci, say we.”

  Dr. Paul hadn’t flinched. Instead, he looked graciously, elaborately confused. “I’m sorry?”

  Ceci closed her eyes and took a breath. Then, very carefully, with her voice betraying only a tiny shake, she said, “You are selling the names of your pain patients to a business conglomerate that sells heroin. I have proof. So you’re going to stop. Today.”

  “Ceci,” he said, and his voice was quiet. “You are very much mistaken.”

  Without a word, Ceci reached under her couch.

  “No no, not yet,” Mark muttered.

  But she slipped out a folder and laid it on the coffee table. “Bank statements,” she said dully, opening the folder and sliding out the top page. “Patient lists. Company structure. Everything.”

  Dr. Paul leaned forward and examined the spread of pages with feigned calm. He kept his face a smooth mask, but his eyes were boiling.

  At last, he said, “Ceci. I would hate to have to sue you for libel.”

  “Libel?” she said. “Dear God, people are dying. You’re a doctor and you’re selling your patients to Numb!”

  Now Dr. Paul did flinch. With an ugly scowl he snapped, “Quiet!” and gave a significant nod toward the kitchen. For a moment, they were both silent, and we all listened to the screech of a kettle and the quiet putters of Dolores in the kitchen.

  Then Dr. Paul eyed her. “Have you included Dolores in this delusion?” he said.

  “She has nothing to do with it.”

  “Just you? And your sister the cop?” Dr. Paul said. “Or perhaps that pathetic kid and his amateur friend?”

  “They don’t have to know,” Ceci said.

  Dr. Paul scowled. “I know I’m a rich doctor in a controversial field, Ceci, but it takes more than a few faked printouts to score a successful blackmail.”

  “I don’t want your filthy money,” Ceci snapped. “I want you to stop. Now. Or all this goes public. Tonight.”

  “You bitch,” Dr. Paul hissed. He swept up the pages and crushed them and lurched up with a raised fist like he would punch her in the face. “You have no idea what you’re putting in jeopardy.”

  Ceci stared in disbelief. Like she was only now accepting that this was his true face.

  From the kitchen, Dolores called, “Tea’s ready.”

  In an instant, Dr. Paul was seated and all smiles. The papers had vanished magically into the closed folder, which he slid beneath his elbow.

  Ceci still looked stunned, but Dolores didn’t seem to notice. She clanked the tea tray on the table, rattling a mismatched cluster of coffee mugs that each had its own little mismatched plate.

  The sudden forced normality strained my nerves to breaking.

  Carefully, slowly, Dolores handed the plate with the biggest mug to Dr. Paul. “I hope you like sugar,” she said, a bit too solicitous. “This kind needs sweetening.”

  He made a show of taking an eager sip, but his lips puckered and he squinted with surprise. He managed to force a smile. “Delicious,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. But she stared at him with such a sudden, odd intensity that he took refuge in another long gulp. When he looked up, she was still making full eye contact, so he nonchalantly downed a third lingering sip, like it was just the best tea he’d ever had.

  “Like it?” she said, as he finally came up for air.

  “Absolutely, yes,” he said.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “You murdering bastard.”

  He choked and snorted tea, spattering drops across her faded dress like blood.

  Chapter 51

  This was not the plan.

  We’d told Dolores to stay in the kitchen for at least half an hour and pretend to be oblivious, for her own safety. Now, as Dr. Paul was coughing and hacking and trying to catch his breath, Aunt Dolores towered over him, her gimlet eyes boring down in hate.

  “Before she met you, my niece wouldn’t have hurt a fly,” she said. “In the end, she shot that boy to get his drugs.”

  I gasped. Katrina had shot Golitsyn? Her own dealer?

  “She told me she didn’t mean to shoot him,” Dolores said. “But he’d cut her off. He said his boss had made him, something about her damn blog. So she steals my house gun and demands his drugs, and when the man refuses, she panics. Do you have any idea what it’s like to spend a week trapped in your house, with the police outside waiting to drag away your niece, and all that while she’s upstairs, working through a mountain of heroin?”

  Mark whispered, “How’d she last a whole week?”

  Dr. Paul was still coughing, flushed and red. “I’m very… sorry… for your loss…”

  “How dare you,” Dolores snapped. “You sold her to those jackals for the price of a cheap suit.”

  “She made… a choice…”

  “She did, did she?”

  And that’s when Dr. Paul moaned.

  It was that kind of moan. Coming from him, writhing right there on the couch, with Dolores glaring and Ceci stunned, it was pretty much the definition of obscene.

  “Oh, shit,” Mark hissed, as Dr. Paul collapsed and sank back to the cushions. The doctor’s eyes had shut and his breathing was slowing. “This is bad,” Mark said.

  “You’re just thinking that now?” I whispered.

  “You don’t get it—”

  But Ceci jumped from her chair, pushed past the old woman, and wrenched open Dr. Paul’s eyelids.

  She blanched.

  “His pupils are pinpoints!” she snapped, both angry and scared. “Wha
t’d you put in that tea?”

  “Sugar, like I said,” Dolores said. She smiled. “When Katrina tried to make it once, she didn’t like it, said it came out terribly bitter. That’s why I had some lying around. Poppy seed tea.”

  “Oh my God,” Ceci said. She covered her mouth.

  “I did try to make it extra strong,” Dolores said. “I do believe our dear doctor’s high.”

  “He’s not high, he’s overdosed,” Ceci shrieked. “That tea might have enough opiates to kill him!” She shook him hard, trying to wake him up. “Milton? Milton! His lips are turning blue.”

  “I hope he’s enjoying himself,” Dolores said.

  “His brain is shutting down! He’s forgetting how to breathe!”

  Then Dr. Paul rasped.

  Blind panic smothered me… he really did sound like a zombie. Struggling to breathe. Right there on the couch.

  But these very same triggers snapped Ceci into Nurse Mode. “He needs naloxone now,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Or he’s going to die.” She pulled out her phone.

  A blue glove closed on her wrist.

  She jolted and screamed.

  She wrestled with an attacker I couldn’t see through the slit, and then there were others, a confusion of five or six bodies crowded around the couch. They all wore jeans and dark hoodies that hid every inch of skin… except their hands, which were covered in blue gloves.

  And their faces, which were completely covered in blue masks.

  They grabbed Ceci and pinned her arms. She struggled and yelled, but even superbuff Ceci couldn’t deck so many at once. The mask people grunted and strained as she wrestled, but no one spoke a word.

  Then Ceci looked back at Dr. Paul. His lips were dribbling with foam.

  She quit struggling, and she called, loud but calm, “He’s dying. You have to call the hospital.”

  At first, I thought she was challenging the people in the masks.

  Then, my sluggish, panicked brain finally got it. She was talking to me and Mark.

  Dimly it occurred to me that we were actually here, not just watching, and maybe we should freaking go help her.

  But I knew she’d want us to call this in first.