Stalking the Dead

by E. C. Bell

  “So, do you think the girl in the blue Sunfire killed him?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. This wasn’t any of his business, and he needed to stop talking about it right now. “I’ll let the police figure that out. I have one more question for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you think you’re ready to move on?”

  No, I wasn’t losing my mind, asking that. The kid was bright light, through and through. I was certain that one little push would do it.

  Something was holding him here, but barely. If he figured out what, he could move on. I was here to give him that little push.

  Call it payment for telling me who was the last person to see Arnie alive.

  “I just wish—”

  Here it was.

  “I just wish I could get home. You know? See my parents one more time. Make sure they’re all right. You know?”

  I looked at him as gently as I could. After all, he was just a kid, and he was about to find out that the one thing holding him to this plane was something he could not have.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That’s not going to happen.”

  The kid was silent for a moment, and then he sighed. “I figured as much,” he said. “But it would have been nice. You know?”

  “I know,” I said. I hoped, when it was my time to go, that I’d be able to say goodbye to everyone who meant anything to me, but guessed it probably wouldn’t happen. It hardly ever did.

  His eyes filled with luminescent tears. Spilled over his cheeks, and he sobbed. “I want to see them so much,” he sobbed. “So much.”

  “I know.” A painful lump formed in my throat. Unless his parents showed up in this salvage yard right away, there was no way in the world he was going to see them again.

  “Maybe you’ll see them when they move on,” I whispered. He wouldn’t, but I thought maybe a little white lie would make the process easier for him.

  Not so much.

  “I don’t want them to die!” The gasp of horror in his voice was absolutely genuine, and matched the look of horror in his eyes, perfectly. “They have years—years to live! I don’t want them to die just so I can see them again!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, hurriedly. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Well, why did you say it then?”

  “You misunderstood,” I said. Another white lie biting me in the ass. Again. When was I going to learn? “No, you didn’t misunderstand,” I finally said. “I misspoke. Even if your parents die together and move on together, you aren’t going to see them again. I’m sorry. ”

  “I knew it.” He sobbed, open-mouthed, like a kid would. “I knew it.” Then his sobs slowed, and stopped. “Maybe I can figure out a way to get home. So I can be with them now.”

  Looked like all I’d done was pull the kid from the brink. He’d been talking about moving on, but now he wanted to try to get home to haunt his parents.

  Lying definitely did not work. Not even the little white kind.

  “No,” I said. “You died here, so you’ll stay here.” I pointed at the crushed truck. “Right here. You can’t leave.”

  His eyes flashed to the cab of the truck, and then to me. “But my body,” he said. “Wasn’t my body sent home?”

  “I assume so.”

  “Then why didn’t I go with it?”

  I sighed. “It has to do with your traumatic death,” I said.

  “You telling me the truth this time?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I am.”

  “Oh.” His eyes leaked luminescence over his cheeks and down his chin. Dripped to the ground, and flared briefly before being sucked down into the oil-soaked earth. “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He wiped his face and snuffled, like the kid that he was. “Could you do me a favour?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Would you send my parents a note? Let them know I love them, and that I’m at peace, or something.”

  “You don’t look like you’re at peace,” I said as gently as I could.

  “Well, I will be if you send that note,” he said, and almost smiled. “What about it? Will you do that for me?”

  I could do that.

  “Yes,” I said. “I will.”

  “Promise?” he asked.

  “I promise,” I said.

  He stared at my face for a long, long moment, then smiled.

  “All right,” he said. “Thank you.”

  He brightened, even as he slid to the ground. “Will this hurt?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “It will be wonderful.”

  He sighed once more, then looked at something just over my right shoulder, before the light storm took him.

  His was a gentle going, all things considered. But as I scrabbled through the wrecked interior of his truck, looking for an address for his parents so I could send them the note I’d promised to send, all I knew for sure was, I needed a drink of water.

  Desperately.

  Arnie:

  I’ve Never Seen Such a Thing

  ALL RIGHT, SO I hadn’t handled not being able to leave Rosalie’s apartment very well at all. I’d thrown myself around that stupid apartment, screaming and wailing and wishing that I could do something—anything—to wreck the place. Then I fell to the floor, pounding my fists until they were bloody. Or would have been if I was alive. Then, I just lay there.

  Eventually, I started thinking about having a nap, because my fit of anger had really taken it out of me, you know what I mean? But when I stretched out on Rosalie’s bed, sleep eluded me.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the blood-spattered wallpaper just above my head. The stupid bitch hadn’t cleaned it up. It looked like she hadn’t even tried. All she’d done was stick a bunch of pictures and shit around the globs and splatters of blood and brain matter. Like a grotesque collage.

  I looked closer at the pictures and shuddered. Those were school pictures. My school pictures.

  There I was, in grade two. Goofy smile, missing my front teeth, and that cowlick that wouldn’t lie down, no matter what my mother did.

  And another one, from grade eight. I wasn’t smiling anymore, and I was still missing a tooth, but that had been from a fight I’d had. No getting a quarter from the tooth fairy for that one. Cowlick still there, but you can be assured, my mother didn’t give a shit about it—or me—anymore.

  And then I saw a picture of me in my football uniform. I was in grade eleven, and remembered trying to look fierce. Just came across looking like I was a retard or something, but I remembered Marie looking at me like I was the second coming when I was in that uniform. Even my mother had taken an interest, for a while. Long enough to put that photo up on the fridge, anyhow.

  I wondered where Rosalie had gotten those pictures. I never gave her even one photograph of me. She’d begged me for something, anything, to carry in her wallet, but I never gave her anything.

  Didn’t want to take the chance of Marie ever seeing it. That was me, always thinking of Marie.

  But now Rosalie had a bunch of pictures of me as I was growing up.

  “Jesus,” I muttered. “Did my mother give them to her?”

  Snorted laughter, because there was no way in the world that old bitch would have kept anything that reminded her, even remotely, of me. Not after what I’d done to my son of a bitching father.

  It happened in my senior year. I was still playing football, and I think that if I’d kept my marks up at all, I would’ve been considered for a college scholarship or two, but I had given up trying by that time. Grade twelve was going to be my last big hurrah. I was going to break bones on the football field, and then Marie and me, we were going to get married.

  But my father wrecked everything.

  All right, so maybe I had stolen some money from him, but it wasn’t much more than I’d taken before, and he had never complained, unless Mom told him to. He never even acted like he noticed me, until it was time to puni
sh me. And Mom always let him know when I needed punishing. Stealing from him wasn’t even on her radar.

  He decided that day that he was going to act like a real father. He pulled me out of class—in front of my friends—and yelled at me, loud. Said he was sick to death of me stealing from him. Said he thought it was time I quick sucking from my mother’s tit. I wasn’t welcome in their house again. Ever.

  I pounded him good. He ended up in the hospital for a couple of months—longer than I spent in juvie. But when he came home, my fucking mother threw me out.

  “Sorry, kid,” she said, finishing her third rye and coke of the day. “He don’t want you here anymore. You gotta go.”

  I left with nothing, not that I wanted any of their shit. Found my own place, and even managed to almost graduate from high school. Didn’t get to play that last year of football, but it didn’t bother me that much.

  No. That was a lie. It did bother me. I could have killed both of them for wrecking my last hurrah like that. I didn’t touch either of them, but I sure thought about it.

  They moved to a different house, but I never even tried to figure out where. Couldn’t be bothered to give a shit one way or another.

  Besides, I had Marie. Or I thought I did. So, I quit focusing on them, and I focused on her. And when she said I was getting too pushy, I focused even more.

  Pinpoint, laser focus.

  I HEARD A key in the apartment’s lock and jumped up from the bed. Rosalie worked tens and wasn’t supposed to be home for at least eight more hours.

  “Who the hell could that be?” I flew down the hallway to the door. And then I was brought up short.

  Rosalie opened the door, humming one of those crappy love songs she always seemed to be singing, and tossed the keys down. She set the grocery bag she was carrying on the table and then took off her coat.

  It didn’t look like she’d run home because she’d forgotten something. She looked like she was in for the night.

  “What the hell is up?” I asked.

  Of course she didn’t answer me. Just pulled a couple of boxes of black cherry Jell-O out of the grocery bag and poured them into a large bowl. Then she turned on the heat under her kettle, humming as she waited for the water to boil.

  Why would she be making that much Jell-O? I didn’t even know she liked the stuff.

  HER PHONE RANG a few minutes after she’d put the Jell-O in her fridge to set.

  “Hello?” she singsonged into the receiver. And then her face wreathed in smiles. “Mrs. Stillwell!” she gasped with that little-girl voice of hers. “I’m so glad you called! We’re still on for tomorrow night, aren’t we? I’m making the Jell-O and everything, just like you asked.”

  I felt frozen. That was my bitch mother on the phone. Talking to Rosalie.

  “What the hell are you trying to prove?” I muttered. I honestly didn’t know if I was talking to my mother or Rosalie.

  Maybe I was talking to both of them.

  Holy shit. What was going on?

  Marie:

  Meeting Vinnie Van Kleif

  I SCRAMBLED THROUGH the small hole in the fence of the salvage yard and looked up and down the street for Lucky. Either the dog or the man would have done, but the street was deserted.

  So, Lucky was on his rounds, whatever they were. I felt a tinge of relief, because I was really afraid that if I helped the old man with his dog while he went to the clinic to find out what was wrong with him, I’d end up with that little dog forever.

  I know, a nasty way to think about helping out an old man, but I was still dying of thirst and really could have used that half to-go cup of Slurpee I’d given to him to help me find a way into the salvage yard. So I wasn’t feeling that charitable.

  “Lucky?” I called, walking around the big tree and out into the open air. Nothing.

  “Where are you, boy?”

  Good grief! Who was I calling? The old man or the dog?

  “Lucky!” I called again. “You around?”

  Still nothing, and I felt a nasty little drop of hope. Maybe I was off the hook.

  “I have stuff to do, Lucky,” I called as I ran for the car. “But if I see you again, I’ll look after your dog while you go to the doctor. Really.”

  Still no old man and even older dog, so I unlocked the car and dropped into the driver’s seat. Looked for a bottle of water, but found nothing. Opened the car window, just in case the old man saw me and called.

  And then I drove away.

  Part of me wished I’d taken just a few minutes more to look for the old man. After all, I’d made a promise to him. But that other, nasty part that just looked out for me patted me on the back and said, “Drive like the wind.”

  So I did.

  I flipped open my cell to check the time and felt a jolt. I’d been in the salvage yard for more than two hours. It had only felt like minutes, even though I was exhausted and dying of thirst.

  No wonder the old man wasn’t around.

  I called Mom, hoping that I wasn’t going to wake her. She answered on the first ring, but sounded exhausted. In the background, I could hear forties-style music and knew without asking that Laurel was still there, still watching old movies.

  “Is James back yet?” I asked.

  “No dear,” Mom said. “I haven’t heard a thing.”

  “This is getting ridiculous,” I replied. “He’s been at the cop shop forever. I’m going and getting him.”

  “Call Vinnie,” Mom said. “The lawyer. I think it’s time.”

  “All right, I will,” I said. “Why don’t you go to bed? You sound tired.”

  “I had a busy night,” she said. “That’s all. You go get that boy. And tell Jackson he’s got to leave James alone. He shouldn’t be harassing him like he is. He’s a good boy. A good boy.”

  “I’m not telling Officer Tyler anything, Mom,” I said. “But I’ll call that lawyer right away.”

  I disconnected, then glanced at the time again and wondered if the lawyer would even answer the phone at this time of night.

  I pulled the business card from the pocket of my jeans, tried to read the phone number, nearly hit a car parked on the side of the road, and stopped the car, shaking and sweating like I’d almost had a car accident, which I had.

  Flipped on the interior light, read the number, and dialed it.

  Vinnie answered on the first ring. Just like Mom.

  “Hi,” I said, wishing I’d taken just a moment to figure out what I was going to say. “I—I’m—”

  “Spit it out,” Vinnie said. “Accident or jail?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s neither. Well, maybe it’s jail—”

  I shook my head and started over.

  “My name is Marie Jenner. My mother—”

  “How’s Sylvie?” Vinnie asked. “I haven’t heard from her in a while.”

  “She—she’s good,” I said, not knowing whether Mom shared her more intimate details, like the fact that she was dying, with this guy.

  “Glad to hear it,” he said. “Now, how can I help you?”

  Right. James needed help.

  “I have a friend, who’s being held by the police—”

  “Have they charged him with anything?”

  “What? No. At least I don’t think so. The cops said he’s just there for questioning.” I licked my lips and wished I’d stopped to get some water before I’d started this conversation. “It’s about a murder.”

  There was a short pause while Vinnie considered his options, and I belatedly wondered how much this was going to cost.

  “Is this the Arnie Stillwell thing?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Is he at Paquette Drive?”

  “No,” I said. “He’s at the station on Franklin.”

  “I’ll meet you there in ten minutes,” he said. “Let me do all the talking. Got me?”

  “Yes.”

  Before I could ask him anything more, he disconnected, and I was left staring at my cell, wonderin
g what the heck I’d just done.

  THE COP SHOP on Franklin looked quiet. I parked the Volvo carefully—didn’t want to get a parking ticket in front of the cop shop for heaven’s sake—and stood on the sidewalk, wondering how I was going to know the lawyer if I saw him.

  The glass front doors of the cop shop opened, and a small man in a seriously nice suit stepped out.

  “You Marie Jenner?” he asked. I nodded. “I’m Vinnie Van Kleif. Lawyer for the masses. Let’s go get your boy.”

  Before I could answer, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the cop shop.

  So he really was going to take charge. Good enough. I followed him inside.

  “How long have they had him here?” he asked.

  I looked down at the time and calculated. “Seven hours,” I said. “More or less.”

  The lawyer tched and shook his head. “They do like to push it, don’t they?”

  “They had him for hours and hours yesterday, too,” I said.

  He glanced at me, his eyebrows high on his head. “Is that right?”

  “Yep.” I looked down at the desk and then glanced at him. “He didn’t do anything.”

  “I think I’ll talk to my client about that,” he said. “What’s his name?”

  “James Lavall.”

  The officer who should have been manning the desk finally appeared. He had the decency to look embarrassed and hustled over to us.

  “Got any money?” the lawyer whispered as he watched the cop double-time it to the desk.

  “No,” I said. “Sorry.”

  The lawyer sighed. “Well, pretend you gave me a dollar. You know, to retain me.”

  “All right.” I felt a bit sick. I wished I’d asked about the money part of this before.

  “Good enough,” the lawyer said, and turned an absolutely blinding smile on the cop.

  “I want to see my client,” he said. Loudly.

  “Aww, Vinnie,” the cop said. “Seriously? Now? Do you know what time it is?”

  “You can call me Mr. Van Kleif, and yes, I’m serious,” Vinnie said.

  “Fine,” the cop said. “Who’s your client?”

  “James Lavall.”