Murder Feels Crazy

by Bill Alive

  I felt for my phone. Nope, we’d used it as part of the secret recording rig.

  “Mark, you’ve got your phone, right?” I whispered.

  He didn’t answer.

  I couldn’t see his face now. We were less than a foot apart, but he had sunken completely into shadow.

  “Mark!” I whispered. “We have to call!”

  Very, very quiet, he said, “Do we?”

  I gaped.

  That might be the worst feeling there is. The sudden, surprise darkness in the heart of a friend.

  Then Dolores said, “The closet. Quick.”

  Oh yeah. Dolores knew all about us…

  …and the mask people whipped open the door and dragged us out. The stench of their sweat sickened me, and their gloved hands gripped hard.

  Mark didn’t struggle, but a masked attacker still gripped his arm on either side. He squinted at the one on his right, and murmured, “Hello, Luther.”

  The head beneath the mask jerked in surprise.

  “You all are killing him!” I yelled. “Mark, tell them! I know he’s a first-class bastard, but we can’t just stand around while he dies, that’s freaking murder!”

  But the faceless terrors wrenched me into a tighter hold, and I sensed that they were more than ready to make the rest of us hurt.

  On the couch, Dr. Paul was frothing, and rasping, and deathly blue.

  But Ceci shrieked, “Mark!”

  I looked over, and then the floor really fell out of my universe.

  Mark was sagging between his two masked captors.

  His pupils were pinpoints.

  His lips were turning blue.

  Mark was vibing Dr. Paul’s overdose.

  “Shit!” I shouted. “Mark! Shield! Shield! Damn it, you idiots, look at him, he needs to get outside!”

  The masked heads turned, and they grunted with surprise and fear. The grips on my arms went slack, and I wrenched free and wrested Mark away from his dumbstruck guards. Mark was so heavy and weak he nearly toppled us both over, but I managed to pry my shoulder under his armpit and drag him towards the door. He was passing out, all that muscle weighing on me like iron, and his breath was rasping like the undead.

  “Where’s your phone, Mark?” I gasped, as I staggered him step by tiny step away from death. I tried to dig into his flapping jacket pocket, but we both nearly toppled. “Really need an ambulance here, Mark… right now…”

  His jaw hung slack.

  I freaked out. Getting him further from Dr. Paul should have been reducing the effects of the empathy. Why wasn’t the distance helping?

  I twisted us toward the door, which gave me a final sidelong view at the couch. I wished it hadn’t.

  I couldn’t see Ceci, only Dolores. She had covered her mouth now, and she was staring in horror, even shock, at Dr. Paul dribbling on the couch. She turned away.

  But the masked attackers closed around her, locking her into a tight circle of backs as he choked.

  Chapter 52

  After that came a very long Thanksgiving weekend.

  I wound up pounding out most of this book, right up through that last chapter.

  I won’t leave you hanging. I managed to call an ambulance in time, and Dr. Paul did survive. His pill mill? Not so much…

  When the EMTs came, they shot up Dr. Paul with whatever the new potion is that can reverse an overdose, i.e., get zombies breathing again. Magic curse, meet magic antidote.

  It worked, but since he’d been unconscious, they took him to the hospital to check for brain damage from the lack of oxygen. He turned out fine… but Hannigan-Quinn got wind he’d been hospitalized for an overdose on opiate tea.

  Honestly, I didn’t even know “poppy seed tea” was a thing. I guess while cops are out there scouring imports to confiscate the latest insane synthetic opiates, any teen can go to Whole Foods or Amazon, buy cheap unwashed poppy seeds in bulk, and rinse off as much opium as they can drink. Dosage is somewhat unreliable. Kids have died.

  Anyhow, Hannigan-Quinn got the whole story. And you can imagine what our staunch Journalist of the People did with that little tidbit.

  By the weekend, the long-suspicious owner of the clinic building had activated some emergency eviction clause in the lease, and the mill was closed.

  Shuttered.

  Done.

  Hannigan-Quinn was also more than pleased to share the news that the fallen Katrina (not Mark) had pulled the trigger on Golitsyn. Mark’s jittery client was much reassured, and we were back on Team Regular Income. It really is a great feeling.

  By Monday, both Mark and I were spending a full normal day at work. It was weird.

  Oh, Mark was fine too, of course. (Oops, I guess I did leave you hanging.) I had to drag him halfway down the block to get enough distance, but his breathing did come back and his skin re-pinkified. His pupils dilated back to normal too.

  But I found I couldn’t quite meet his eyes. Because I was afraid to ask.

  Would he really have let Dr. Paul die?

  Maybe that explains the weekend writing binge. Funny how writing shuts your actual problems out. Almost like it’s yet another maladaptive coping mechanism for pain. Not that real writers ever use it like that, I’m sure…

  On Monday, Mark picked me up from work and suggested we swing by the closed clinic. For closure. He parked at our caboose town “square”, and as we walked along the busy road toward the clinic, it seemed like forever since that happy time when we’d walked the same road to Jivanta’s reception. It might only have been a few weeks, but the world had turned cold.

  At the clinic, we stood shivering on the sidewalk and took it all in. The parking lot was empty. The entrance had a big CLOSED sign taped to the glass, the kind you buy at the hardware store for a couple bucks.

  I thought again of Dr. Paul dying on the couch, and Mark in the shadows, saying, Do we? Do we?

  I still had to know. But I was still afraid to ask.

  Mark, staring at the clinic and huddled into his jacket against the chill, interrupted my thoughts. “Gwen says she hasn’t seen any new heroin dealers yet.”

  “Gwen’s talking to you?” I said. “After we got Ceci to go all vigilante?”

  He shrugged. “She wasn’t thrilled, but it’s not like the poppy tea thing was our idea.” He nodded at the abandoned clinic. “It could have worked out worse.”

  “I guess,” I said. “But it won’t matter much if Numb just sends someone else.”

  “It depends. This little town might not be worth the hassle. He can’t exactly open a brand new clinic, and he already tried hard to keep this one open.”

  “Numb? How?” I said. “Wait, you think it was Numb who ordered the hit on Hannigan-Quinn? Because Dr. Paul complained?”

  “Probably,” Mark said. “If Paul went down, Numb would lose his leads. HQ doesn’t seem to have earned himself a full-scale determined assassination, but maybe Numb didn’t mind spending on a quick hit-and-run… or having Golitsyn dress in a cheap furry suit and make a scene demanding meds.”

  “Whoa,” I said. “I totally forgot about that! That was Golitsyn? You think Numb made him do that meds thing to discredit the furries? So they’d quit protesting and making Dr. Paul look bad?”

  “I think so. I knew Golitsyn felt familiar when Gwen pulled him over, but I didn’t make the connection until after he got shot. But neither he or Numb knew enough about furries. A true furry wouldn’t wear those cheap suits.”

  “What about a blue mask?” I said.

  Mark frowned.

  “That was Luther, right?” I said. “You said his name.”

  “I did vibe Luther,” Mark said. “But I doubt most furries would want him on their team. Every subculture has its dark fringe. Luther will go to jail, and the furries can do their thing in peace.”

  “So where is he?” I said. “And what about the others?”

  None of those mask people had been arrested. When the sirens had come, they’d been long gone. The only one to cu
ff had been Dolores.

  “Luther must have stayed in contact with Dolores, or she couldn’t have called him in for the dinner,” Mark said.

  “But she won’t give him up,” I said. “She already went to jail without saying a word.”

  Mark shrugged. “I’d be shocked if at least one of those people in blue masks wasn’t also with Luther the day he protested here. Some other furry, maybe Chip, will tell Gwen exactly who those people were. And once she gets one… Luther’d better start shopping for a lawyer.”

  “What was up with those blue masks anyway?” I said. “Why blue?”

  “Opiate overdose, right?” he said. “You stop breathing, you turn blue.”

  “Geez.”

  Silence. A perfect chance for me to just come out and ask.

  “I still can’t believe Katrina actually shot that Golitsyn guy,” I said instead. “I know they found the gun under her bed and it matched with Golitsyn’s bullet, but she just didn’t seem like a killer.”

  “She panicked,” Mark said. “Numb had cut her off. She wanted that stash.”

  “But what about Aidan?” I said. “None of this connects back to him. And no one killed Katrina either; she stole a huge stash and used it till she died.”

  “I know. Maybe the heroin killer theory doesn’t work out after all,” Mark said. “I really thought I’d vibed that Aidan was solid sober, but I don’t know…”

  He sighed again, and scowled at the mill.

  He still looked so angry.

  Do we? looped his whisper in the dark. Do we? Do we?

  Quietly, he said, “Look, Pete. I admit, it’s the doctors I can’t forgive. Even more than Numb.”

  “More?” I said.

  He nodded. “With Numb, who the hell knows what first happened to twist his mind? I can barely imagine his world. But a doctor…”

  My voice sank lower than his. “So… if I hadn’t been there, would you have called? An ambulance?”

  “You were there.”

  “I know, but—”

  “And I don’t know,” he said. “You were there. I knew you’d call. The ambulance would come, and they’d save his ass. Unlike Aidan, and Roxanne, and Katrina, and who knows how many others he sold. This time, I didn’t have to choose.”

  What do you say to that?

  “Here’s what still bugs me,” he said. “Those cat ears behind the couch.”

  “The cat ears?” I said, totally thrown. I had to think a second to remember the stupid ears even existed. “They’re no big deal. Rachel must have been over at Aidan’s house at least once. Or maybe she gave Aidan that pair right when they first met. Jocelyn just missed them.”

  “She would have had to miss them for months.”

  “You can’t charge murder based on someone’s poor housecleaning! They could have slipped in between the couch cushions, it could have been months before they fell out.”

  Mark frowned. “I guess.”

  “What do you mean you guess? You said Rachel’s innocent!”

  “I know!” Mark snapped. “She is innocent.”

  Which is when he got tackle-hugged.

  By Chip Chapman.

  Although Chip was dressed in his respectable restaurant duds, and all out in public and completely cognito, he was hugging Mark with as much playful abandon as any puppy fursona.

  When Chip finally released him, Mark’s smile was tight. “Chip!” he said. “You’re hugging people without your suit. Good for you. Real growth point.”

  “Thanks!” Chip said, and hugged him again.

  With his face smushed into Chip’s shoulder, Mark said, “Why don’t you go show Pete?”

  “You really think Rachel is innocent?” Chip said.

  “Ah. Yes.”

  “I knew it!” Chip wrenched Mark in a final squeeze, then stood back and clapped Mark on his shoulder. “You’ve got to tell Jocelyn,” Chip said.

  “Me?” Mark said.

  “Yes! When I went to see if she and Wallace would help with Rachel’s bail, they said they’re sure she’s guilty, and now they’re going on this cruise. Trying to get away from it all.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “You knew that?” Chip said. “Wow! You really are a sleuth!”

  Mark winced a little. He really seems to hate that word.

  “But Jocelyn might listen to you,” Chip said. “She’s the grandmother of that baby, don’t you think she and Rachel should get a chance to reconcile? Before Rachel gives birth all alone?”

  Mark hesitated.

  “Please! They’re leaving, like, right now.”

  Mark sighed. Clearly, the last thing he wanted to do was go talk to some grieving mother.

  But I thought, as loudly as I could (whatever that means), Might not be so bad to reassure your sidekick you’re still a good guy, even though you’re working on the letting-criminals-die thing.

  Mark flicked me a glare. But he muttered, “Fine.”

  “Excellent!” Chip said, and he crushed Mark in one last celebratory hug. Then he strode off, with a jubilant spring in his autumn step.

  But as he’d turned to go, something had tinkled, cold and hard.

  Mark squinted down. He waited as Chip walked away, then he said, “What’s that?”

  On the sidewalk lay a small crystal. Blood red.

  I picked it up. Even in the darkening gray November evening, it sparkled.

  “It’s the love crystal, remember?” I said. “That he bought at Vivian’s? Must have fallen out of his pocket.”

  Mark frowned, alert and grim.

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  And then it all clicked.

  I felt sick.

  “Holy crud,” I whispered. “It was Chip.”

  Chapter 53

  Mark didn’t answer directly. Instead, he said, “We’d better catch Jocelyn,” and set off at a brisk pace toward her house. She only lived a few streets away, and Thunder was still parked back at the caboose.

  I scuttled after him. “It must be Chip! He could totally drop cat ears by accident at the crime scene.”

  Mark kept walking fast. We turned onto Jocelyn’s neighborhood street, and the friendly, newish houses were glimmering with Christmas bulbs in the fading light.

  “Why would Chip have cat ears in the first place?” Mark asked.

  “Didn’t you see how Rachel was handing them out? She tried to give me a pair too! Chip could have jammed them in his pocket and then forgotten he had them.”

  “Maybe,” Mark said. “But… motive?”

  “Motive? Come on! Rachel!”

  Mark cleared his throat.

  “Okay, I know I’m like the least impartial ever, but seriously, who do you think those love crystals were about?” I started to tick the points off on my fingers. “He buys love crystals—”

  “Which could be about anyone.”

  “Dude, he’s off talking to Rachel’s mom, all worked up about them reconciling! I mean, I told her she should reconcile with Jocelyn too, but that just proves my point.”

  Mark arched an eyebrow. “I’ll put you on the suspect list.”

  I groaned. “Who collects the bail for Rachel? Chip! Who shows up at her apartment the day after Aidan dies?”

  “You,” Mark said. “Well, and me.”

  “He’s the perfect killer!” I said. “He seems so nice!”

  “Great,” Mark said. “And why kill Aidan? The old boyfriend? Why not target Luther?”

  “Because Luther crashed at Chip’s place, remember? They were furry buds! And Luther must have dropped the bomb that the baby was really Aidan’s. Chip had the perfect window: Luther was out of the picture, but she hadn’t bounced back into bed with Aidan yet. He just had to make one call. No Luther, no Aidan, and one very pregnant Rachel who’d really need a ‘friend’.”

  Mark frowned.

  “Admit it,” I said. “Motive, means, opportunity. Boom.”

  “Opportunity?” Mark said. “So Chip actually went over to Aida
n’s house to make sure he took it?”

  “Apparently! Think about it, Luther must have told him how Aidan was alone and the parents were out. Who else would have known that? Plus, Aidan actually knew Chip. He would have let him in.”

  Mark mulled, and we walked in silence, the chilling air scraping my nose and cheeks. The houses and yards were expanding into McMansions, each more spacious and alone.

  “Why are you resisting this?” I said.

  “Because I didn’t vibe any of it,” he said. “Except his thing for Rachel.”

  “You knew that all along?” I said.

  “So what?” he said. “If he were a killer, there’s no way I wouldn’t have vibed at least an inkling of something darker.”

  “Wait, though,” I said. “Remember how you freaked him out when he first walked into Rachel’s apartment? You vibed how Luther crashed at his place, and that totally put him on guard.”

  “Huh,” Mark said.

  I rushed on, my brain buzzing. “And remember the actual moment when Rachel told him Aidan was dead? You couldn’t have vibed how Chip took that because Rachel was having contractions. You were freaking shielding!”

  “Oh,” Mark said. “Crap.”

  He was sold. I knew it.

  And then the rush of the chase hammered up against the horror of this nice guy turning out to be… that.

  We hustled up the porch steps to Jocelyn’s three stories of vinyl. The door’s wreath of wheat had been swapped out for a Christmas number that smelled like real pine… and somehow that tiny bit of loving maintenance, even so soon after losing her son, made my throat clench.

  Mark rang the bell.

  “You’re going to tell her, right?” I said. “About Chip? She still thinks Aidan made that call.”

  Mark gave a quiet groan. “Crap.”

  The door opened… but it was Wallace. His arms were piled high with comfy-looking shirts, and his cheeks creased in a frown of harried surprise.

  Mark went into instant Client Mode. “Mr. Lyall! Sorry to bother you, we heard you’re about to go. Can we talk to your wife real quick? It’s something about… Aidan.”

  Wallace sighed, and he turned and started clomping up his wide stairs. From the back, his short white hair wafted up like a floaty crown. “She went out for a last-minute drugstore run,” he called back. “We’re really leaving in fifteen minutes here. What’s it about? Can you tell me?”