Life Is Short and Then You Die_First Encounters With Murder From Mystery Writers of America
Page 24
Drew glances at himself in the mirror. He sees his eyes, bleak and desperate, ringed with red. Dark brown circles under them, like bruises. His straight, dark hair flopping in his eyes but not long enough to cover them completely. His mouth drawn tight, lips pressed into a colorless line.
“Just get out of here,” he says to himself.
The lights go out.
It’s a blackout or something. They’ve blown a fuse. Out in the hall, kids start to shriek.
* * *
Drew turns on the flashlight on his phone.
It’s 11:28 P.M.
Everyone is yelling, all excited about the blackout.
Maybe Meghan did it on purpose, cut the lights to make the party memorable. Or maybe she just wants everyone to go home.
Drew exits the bathroom, and a girl pushes in past him grabbing her crotch, like she’s gonna pee in her pants.
The party is now lit by the strobing arcs of phone flashlights.
Drew wishes he could find Malik.
His hand hurts and he can feel blood trickling down his pointer finger. He doesn’t feel that drunk anymore. He just wants to leave.
There’s crying coming from the room to his left.
He wants to leave, but the girl’s crying is pitiful. She sounds scared.
It’s a laundry room, he sees. Of course, it’s a super-nice laundry room. In the light from his phone, he can make out two big machines and a white table for folding laundry and a sink, and in the corner there’s a wheeled, canvas-sided laundry cart.
Next to that there’s a girl sitting, leaning against the wall. He can only see her legs and her sneakers. Keds.
“Hey,” Drew says. “You okay?”
He draws close and the smell of vomit hits him.
It’s Eve, the sophomore.
“Hey,” he says.
“I threw up,” she says. Drew can see this. The girl is covered in puke. It looks like she bent over and vomited right into her own lap.
“It happens,” he says.
She’s crying harder. “Don’t tell Kaitlyn,” she begs. “She’ll be so mad.”
Drew turns to go get her a washcloth.
“Don’t go!” Eve cries. “Please!”
“Okay,” he says.
“I can’t go home like this,” she wails. “My parents are so strict. They’ll kill me.”
Eve has big brown eyes that are pleading with him, glistening with tears. Her thin blonde hair hangs in a limp ponytail. The little bits that have escaped are stuck to her face and neck with sweat.
“Okay,” Drew says. He’s trying his best. “How about I find Kaitlyn, then?”
Eve begins to cry again. “She’s going to be so mad. She’ll say I always ruin everything.”
Drew looks down at her shadowed form.
“I’m sure she’ll be nice,” he says.
Eve doesn’t answer, just cries with her face pressed to the wall. Very dramatic.
“Let me get you a Coke,” Drew says. “It always helps.”
Drew leaves despite her protests. He walks toward the kitchen, pushing past phone-lit, giggling drunk people.
In the kitchen, he keeps his feet down so he won’t slide too much. He skates over to the counter where there are some cases of soda. He takes two Cokes—one for Eve, one for him.
* * *
“Eve?” he asks.
Eve has passed out. She’s slid down the wall and now she’s lying slumped on the floor. Her head’s lolled to the left.
“You okay?” he asks. He sets the sodas down on the dryer and shines his flashlight on her. Can’t really see.
He shoves the laundry cart out of the way with his foot.
“Hey,” he says. He shines the light from his phone right on her face. There’s a rivulet of bright green bile coming out of her mouth, going down her neck and disappearing into the mess on the front of her shirt.
Drew’s heart is hammering.
He leans forward and puts two fingers on her neck. Her skin is cold, clammy.
“Help!” he cries out.
She’s breathing, but she looks green. She looks not right.
“I need help in here. There’s a girl passed out,” he calls.
He gets up, slipping a little. Goes to the door.
He grabs a girl walking by.
“Find Meghan,” he says. “It’s important.”
Drew puts his hands to his face, distressed. He gets a grip on his hair and realizes he’s smearing something wet in his hair. Blood from his hand. His knees go soft.
“Malik!” he shouts into the hallway. “Malik! Kaitlyn! Eve’s really sick!”
He kneels again at Eve’s feet. Maybe he should pull her out of here. The cart is in the way. Maybe he needs a cold cloth. Maybe if he throws ice water on her she’ll wake up.
“What the fuck, Drew?” Meghan says. She’s in the doorway.
“We need to call 911,” Drew says.
“No way,” she says.
“This girl Eve is really sick. We need to call an ambulance.”
“I would get in so much trouble,” she says.
“Malik!” Drew shouts again.
“Stop shouting!” Meghan says. “Can you please calm down?”
Drew can’t calm down. He is fully adrenalized. He feels like his heart is about to explode.
“She’s really sick—”
Meghan pushes past Drew to stand over Eve. Other kids have gathered to see what the shouting is about. Roving lights swarm in the room; it’s all lit up from their phones. He wonders if someone is recording the scene.
“She’s just passed out,” Meghan says. “She’s okay.”
“What’s up, hon?” says Dmitri Miller. He’s Meghan’s boyfriend, and he’s in college.
“Drew’s freaking out over some girl who threw up,” Meghan says.
“We should call 911,” Drew says.
There’s a flurry of talking. Everyone’s got an opinion.
“Don’t be an asshole, man. Don’t ruin the party for everyone,” Dmitri says. He pulls Drew up and gets in his face. His breath smells like garlic and beer. “Why you gotta ruin the party, man?”
Drew pushes out of Dmitri’s grip. He pushes past Meghan and bends over Eve.
“What are you doing?” Meghan says.
“What’s your problem, man?” Dmitri says behind him.
“I’m just going to take her outside,” Drew says.
“That’s a good idea,” someone says. “The cold air might help her wake up.”
* * *
Drew gets his arms under Eve’s body and lifts. She’s very light. She weighs maybe as much as an armful of laundry.
A short girl holds a light so he can see his way down the hall and out through the front. She seems like the type of girl who loves to be helpful.
As they pass through, Drew sees the party has destroyed the living room. Beer cans and crushed cups are everywhere. Chips ground into the sofa cushions. A candle melted all over the coffee table, wax dripping down to the rug.
The girl opens the front door.
Drew carries Eve outside. It’s lighter outside than it was inside. Clouds are lit up from behind by moonlight, casting a silver glow onto the lawn. The driveway is cluttered with cars, some people parked on the grass.
Drew can see Malik’s old red Toyota Camry through the trees, way down on the street where they left it. So at least Drew knows Malik is still at the party.
Drew sets Eve down on the grass, wet now with the first dew of the nighttime.
“What can I do?” the helpful girl asks. Behind her, the front door gapes open and the sound of yelling and laughing and partying spills into the night.
“Can you get me a wet washcloth?” Drew asks.
“Of course,” she says.
As soon as she’s inside, Drew takes out his phone and calls 911.
* * *
The ambulance is escorted by two cop cars. The party breaks up, everyone screaming and running out the back.
Dmitri comes out and shouts over and over in Drew’s face, “You’re an asshole! You’re an asshole!” Drew keeps his eyes on Eve, who lies still on the grass, her skin a sickly green in the moonlight.
The paramedics drive the ambulance right over the grass, tearing up huge ruts in the rich, smooth lawn. Meghan shrieks about the grass. She dissolves in tears in Dmitri’s arms.
Malik and Kaitlyn have finally materialized.
“Her parents are going to kill her,” Kaitlyn screams at Drew. “They’re very religious, you don’t understand!”
“It’s all right. Everyone just calm down,” Malik says.
“You don’t get it. She’s dead! She’s as good as dead!” Kaitlyn says.
Drew wants to shut his hands over his ears, but the paramedics have figured out he’s the one who called them, and now one of them, a young, tall Latino man with terrible coffee breath, is up in Drew’s face, asking him questions. The other paramedic, an older white guy wearing a baseball cap, is at the ambulance, bringing out a stretcher.
Coffee Breath puts his hand on Drew’s arm, trying to get him to focus.
Has she done any drugs?
How much did she have to drink?
What’s her name?
Drew turns to Kaitlyn for Eve’s last name.
Kaitlyn won’t say. She turns her head away, shaking, she’s crying so hard.
“Miss, this girl’s life is in danger. Cut the nonsense. We need her name right now!” Coffee Breath says.
“Robbins,” Kaitlyn says, her voice strangled. “Eve Robbins.”
“I’m ready,” the older paramedic says. Coffee Breath goes over. Together, they lift Eve onto the stretcher. They handle her limp, light body efficiently, but with care. The paramedics buckle her down, then raise the stretcher so Eve’s body is at hip height and push her a short distance down the lawn to the ambulance.
Drew trails behind the stretcher. Somehow he doesn’t want to let Eve out of his sight.
Coffee Breath is talking into a walkie-talkie as they load the stretcher into the ambulance, telling the hospital they’ve got a girl, possible alcohol poisoning, possible drug OD. He gives them her name.
The other paramedic climbs in the back, starts locking the stretcher in place.
“Is she going to be okay?” Drew can’t keep himself from asking.
The paramedic takes off his baseball cap and scratches at his stubbly white hair.
“Yeah, I think so. But only because you called. You did a good thing, son.” He waves dismissively toward everyone else on the lawn. “Don’t let these shit-for-brains give you any grief about it.”
* * *
Kaitlyn stands there sobbing, watching as the ambulance drives down over the grass. Malik tries to put his arm around her.
“Don’t touch me!” she screams. “You and your friend ruined everything!”
Kaitlyn levels a glare at Drew. Her extreme black eye makeup is now running in two gray streams down her face. “Eve will never forgive you.”
“Whatever,” Drew says. He’s suddenly exhausted.
Most of the cops are inside but one is out on the lawn, writing down the license plates of the cars.
“Let’s get out of here,” Malik says.
Drew looks over at the cop. She’s not paying them any attention.
They walk down the lawn toward the street, where Malik’s car is waiting. Drew expects at any second that the cop will tell them to stop and then take down their names, but no one calls out.
* * *
They drive for a while.
“I’m sorry,” Malik says. “We went off and were kind of fooling around, but then she got going on this thing about her parents getting divorced and she started crying and I didn’t know what to do.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Drew says.
“She just kept talking and crying and I didn’t wanna just quit on her, but I knew you were probably looking for me. I’m really sorry, man.”
“It’s fine.”
They pass the Dairy Queen. Then the strip mall where Bowl-A-Rama used to be. Now it’s a shooting range called Longshots. Malik keeps stealing glances at Drew, making sure he’s okay.
“It was good you called 911. If anyone gives you any shit for it, I’m going to tell them what the paramedic said.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does, though,” Malik insists.
They drive some more. The streetlamps are on. There are hardly any cars on the road. It’s 12:33. He made it to midnight and then some.
“Drew…,” Malik says.
Malik doesn’t say anything else. Drew’s name just hangs there. Malik doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.
Drew looks over at his best friend, sitting there, driving him home. Driving him home like he has all year, ever since the accident.
“Malik,” Drew says. His voice is tight and constrained. “Can I tell you something?”
Tears are rising in his eyes. The streetlights get halos on them.
“Of course, man. Anything,” his best friend says.
“Can I tell you about the accident?” he chokes out.
“Of course.”
* * *
Malik pulls the car onto a side street.
Drew starts to talk.
The story spills out of him. Bursts out. He doesn’t leave out a thing. Tells Malik about the sound of the impact, how the old man’s blood splattered on the hood of the car, the smell of it. How Drew went to the funeral with his parents, but they all stood off behind a tree while the mourners buried Mr. Townsend. He had grandchildren, three girls standing by the grave wearing dark dresses, holding their parents’ hands.
Drew’s body shakes as he talks. He’s aware his voice is too loud in the car and that he’s sobbing, gasping to get air so he can push onward with the story.
He wants to tell Malik everything all at once. Get it over with.
“What kills me,” he says, “is I was happy. That’s why it happened. I was … I was singing. Singing to a song on the radio and then I killed a guy! A grandpa.”
Drew shakes and sobs. He presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
He’s been living for so long with the fear of what anyone will say about it that he suddenly doesn’t even want to hear what Malik will say. He wishes he would die, right now, before he can hear what Malik is about to say.
“Oh man, that sucks,” Malik says. His voice is quavering. “That’s fucking horrible and scary and I’m sorry and you’re the best. You can’t forget that.”
Then they’re hugging in the front seat. Across the gear shifter, seat belts in the way. It doesn’t really matter what Malik is saying, what matters is the awkward sideways hug. Feeling someone is there with him.
“It was an accident. It was just bad luck, Drew. It’s not your fault.”
“It was, though,” Drew says. “That’s the thing. It is my fault.”
Malik just hugs him more.
Drew cries into the shoulder of his best friend’s sweater.
* * *
After a while, Drew sits back. He wipes his face off on the sleeve of his shirt.
“You okay?” Malik asks.
Drew nods. “Thanks,” he says.
“That’s what I’m here for, man,” Malik says. He starts the car. “Tell you the truth, I was hoping you would cry all over me tonight.”
“Yeah, I knew you’d be into it,” Drew says. It feels good to joke.
“I didn’t want to get laid,” Malik says. “No, no, no. My goal was just to have my dumb-ass friend cry on me.”
“Well, I live to serve,” Drew says. Malik’s smiling now. They both a
re.
Drew knows his mom will be waiting up, reading a science-fiction paperback in the lamplight. When she asks how the party was, he’s going to tell her that he’s glad Malik made him go.
Drew will tell her it ended up being really good that he went.
WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION
By Jonathan Maberry
1.
It was the sixth time I’d been out on a real job, but the first time they let me fly solo.
And by “fly,” I mean they left me alone to guard a kid.
About every fifteen minutes, the kid—Carlo Palmieri—asked me the same question.
“Are they going to kill me?”
The exact same question. Like clockwork. And I had to staple the same reassuring smile onto my face and repeat the same thing I’d already told him a zillion times.
“Nobody wants to kill you, Carlo. Besides, I got you.”
2.
Seems like everything in my life comes with backstory. So, here’s the short version of why I’m telling an eleven-year-old kid I was going to keep someone from murdering him.
It’s my job. Sort of.
I mean, it will be my job. Currently it’s a trial run with overtones of probation. Right now everyone in the Quinn clan wants me to join the family business after school. They want me to go to college and all, but to study criminal justice and some other related stuff. Then, when I get my bachelor’s, there’s an open door for me to become Dylan Quinn, bodyguard.
And when I say “everyone,” I’m not joking. My family—Dad and his brother, Uncle Bear; Mom and her sister, Aunt Dix; and a couple of cousins—are all in the personal protection game. So’s my older sister, Ayleen. All bodyguards. Or, as one of our clients called us, thugs in suits.
Everyone in the family wears a little silver pin of the ancient Celtic emblem of the solar cross. The four stubby arms symbolize protection from all directions.
Thing is, everyone assumed being a bodyguard was what I wanted to do, too. I mean, I did all the martial arts and gun range stuff, all the lock picking and surveillance after-school classes. Blah blah blah. I don’t recall a single time in my whole life where anyone—any-freaking-one—asked me what I wanted to do. There’s that whole thing about assumptions. You know the joke.