by Jeff Strand
I don't think it was a full ten minutes before Abigail returned. She sat down on the bench next to me, close but not snuggly close.
"I'm going to help you," she said.
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This answer surprised me so much that I truly believed she was going to follow it by shouting "Psyche!" and then making a citizen's arrest.
"I should clarify," Abigail said. "I'm not going to help you hide bodies or anything. I'm not going to do anything that's illegal or puts me in danger. What I will do is help you talk through what needs to be done to fix this."
What the hell more could I ask for? I could feel tears starting to form, but no, I fought them back. She'd seen me cry enough for one day.
"Thank you," I said.
"Thank me when the problem is solved."
"I don't want to seem needy, but why do you want to help me?"
"Because I like you. You're a good guy. You saved Marc's life. Was it the smart thing to do? No. You should have let them take him away and then called the police. But you did it to rescue him. You were thinking about somebody else. I'm not going to let you hang for that."
I wanted to give her a hug. But she seemed kind of tense and this didn't feel like it would be mutually seen as a hug moment.
"If I called the police, they'd find out that I was with Marc those other times," I said.
"Right. But what was the worst-case scenario there? Maybe some jail time? Maybe not. You didn't sell any drugs. Sounds more like probation, if you were even charged with anything."
"So I made a mistake." I sighed. "Too late now."
"Is it?"
"I've got two bodies in my bathtub. I'd assume so."
"It was to save Marc, and self-defense. You panicked afterward. Obviously, it would be much better if you'd called the police as soon as it happened, but it doesn't change your motive. You can turn the money over to the police to show that you're completely willing to cooperate."
"Wouldn't I be charged with murder?"
"Maybe. Or manslaughter."
"I don't like that."
"We're trying to dig you out of a terrible situation. Not every outcome is going to be good."
"I'd prefer one where I'm not charged with murder."
"If you can find Marc, maybe you can work out a story where you were never involved in his business. You saved his life—surely he'd be willing to say that he came to you as a friendly neighbor."
"I thought about that," I said. "But he wouldn't want me to go to the cops. I assume he's grateful, but not enough to encourage me to turn him in."
"All right, that's reasonable."
"I'm not saying that I won't go to the cops. I'd just like to come up with an idea that doesn't involve me doing prison time."
"So, something along the lines of hiding the bodies and hoping for the best?" Abigail asked.
"That's where I was headed, yeah."
"One of the bodies is still alive."
"I know. It's a complication."
"Are you willing to kill him?"
"No."
Was that one hundred percent the truth? If Abigail suggested that she thought I should kill Wulfe, I'd be willing to put him out of his misery in a compassionate manner. But I sure as hell wasn't going to come right out and tell her that I'd murder the guy.
"Then are you planning to keep him in your bathtub forever?"
"I thought I might drop him off in front of a hospital. Or in front of the seafood place."
"Good. That's two options for Wulfe. We're making progress. Let's talk about the money. If you don't want to involve the authorities, I guess your options are, one, keep the money, and two, give the money back."
"Right."
"How much do you think is in there?"
I shrugged. "Tens of thousands, maybe?"
"When you get some privacy, you should figure out exactly how much you have. If you've got tens of thousands of dollars, that's 'run away' money."
"I don't want to run away."
"And I don't want you to run away. But as we've established, not every outcome is going to be good. If you've got, say, fifty grand in a bag, and you don't think the police will consider you a suspect, you may want to consider hiding the bodies, quitting your job, and driving across the country."
If she'd added "...and I'll come with you," I would've done that in a heartbeat.
Abigail didn't add that part, and I couldn't imagine asking her.
She also hadn't said whether or not the romantic part of our relationship was officially over. Was she helping me just as a friend? Did she have any intention of us staying together—not that we were necessarily "together" yet anyway—after this? I had no idea.
"Okay," I said. "That's something I could do."
"And the other option is to give the money back. Make things right. Quote unquote right, I mean," she said, holding up her fingers to denote quotation marks. "Do you know the guys who work with Wulfe at all?"
"No. I never said a word to any of them. Wulfe did all the talking."
"So maybe they're perfectly happy to have him gone. You said he was an asshole. If it's two less shares to divide between them, they might be thrilled to take back the money in exchange for calling it even."
"They might."
"Which of those ideas sounds better to you?"
It would be entirely inappropriate to ask Abigail if she'd run away with me. Of course she wouldn't. That would be ridiculous. I shouldn't even ask. Only a psychopath would ask something like that. Asking would be a really bad idea.
On the other hand, if she did say yes...
Which she wouldn't.
But if she did...
No.
If she did, I'm not saying it would've been worth the horrific acts I'd committed, but it would certainly be a silver lining to them.
I didn't want to flee on my own. So if I went with that plan of action, I needed to know if she was willing to flee with me. Maybe she would be. This wasn't the only city where she could set up a flower stand. Perhaps business would be better a few states away.
She shouldn't be interested in me in the first place. Even before I'd killed somebody I was no prize. With that additional baggage—giant-sized hard shell baggage—she'd have to be completely out of her mind to agree that we should have a life together.
Screw it. I was going to ask. You only live once.
"If I leave with the money, would you come with me?" I asked.
Abigail did not immediately answer.
I should not have asked.
"No," she finally said.
"Okay."
"I can't look over my shoulder for the rest of my life."
"I understand."
"But if you give back the cash, if you work out a deal where they are satisfied with the arrangement, I will leave with you. We use our own money to start over. I don't have much, but I've got a little, and I don't mind finances being tight for a while."
Holy shit. Had she said yes?
"I...I don't mind finances being tight, either."
Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.
Abigail smiled. She hadn't done this since my breakdown. It wasn't a wide, beaming smile, but I'd take anything.
"I guess you just have to not let them kill you," she said. Her smile disappeared. "I'm sorry. That was insensitive."
"Be as insensitive as you want," I told her. "I'm going to take care of this. By this time tomorrow, my bathtub is going to be empty, and I'll be rid of the bag of money. I'm not asking for any more help. I don't want you to be involved. I'll let you know when it's done."
She leaned over and kissed me on the lips.
"I..." she began. "Good luck."
Had she been on the verge of saying "I love you?" It seemed like it, but that might also have been desperate wishful thinking. It didn't matter. I was going to solve the problem. We'd have plenty of time to fall in love later.
"Thank you for the advice and the sandwich," I said.
"Anytime."
/>
"I'll be in touch."
* * *
I was late getting back to work and my supervisor gave me a disapproving look but didn't actually tap his watch or anything. I took a couple more calls and then said that I had a migraine and needed to leave, which earned me another disapproving look. But he let me go.
I returned to my apartment complex, took the duffel bag out of my trunk, and did another check at Marc's door. The can was knocked over.
It was still basically in the same spot, though. This wasn't proof that anybody had gone into his apartment. If Marc came home and saw an empty beer can in front of his door, he'd either pick it up and throw it away or, if he suspected something, he'd make sure it was exactly as he'd found it.
I knocked on his door.
No answer.
I called out his name a few times and listened carefully for any signs of motion inside. Nothing. He was either not home or was hiding from me. I wished I had his phone number but there'd never been a reason for us to exchange contact information. I put the can back as I'd left it last night, and then returned to my own apartment.
When I walked inside, I wasn't sure if I detected the faint scent of rot, or if it was my imagination. I'd just assume it was my imagination unless I was given reason to believe otherwise.
I went into the bathroom, and, yeah, the scent was stronger in there. Not gag-worthy, just not lemony fresh. To postpone opening the shower curtain for a moment, I retrieved a can of generic brand air freshener and sprayed it around.
"I'm opening the curtain, so I hope you're decent," I said. I was feeling better about the whole situation and could make a joke.
I pulled open the curtain. Oh, yeah, the smell was bad in there. I didn't have nearly as much time as I'd thought to get rid of them. If the smell continued to accelerate at this pace, the neighbors would complain soon.
Wulfe had been bleeding again. It was all over his face and shirt. His eyes and mouth were wide open. His eyes were glazed over and had yellow crust beneath them. I was pretty sure he was dead, but then he closed his mouth a bit.
"I'm going to rinse you off again," I said.
This time I didn't warm up the water. I wanted him as alert as possible, so a blast of cold water was in order. I ran the shower for a minute, and he squirmed a little—not a lot, but enough to show that he was alive and uncomfortable.
After I turned off the shower, I patted him with a towel to get the water off his face.
"Are you hungry?" I asked. "Do you want something to eat?"
He couldn't eat very well with a broken jaw, but if he indicated that he was hungry, I'd mush something up in a Ziploc bag, cut out the corner, and squirt it down his throat. Otherwise, I wouldn't worry about it. It hadn't even been a full day, so he wasn't going to starve to death.
Wulfe blinked twice.
I went into the kitchen to find something to feed him. I wished I had some frozen fruit that I could blend into a smoothie. The softest thing I could find was a package of pre-made cookie dough. It was a fantastic invention: you basically just broke it along the scored lines, put it in the oven, and eleven minutes later you had freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
I opened the package and put four cookie chunks into a plastic bag. This would be way too thick—he'd choke on it for sure. I added some warm water and then kneaded the bag with my hands until I had a very thin cookie dough mixture that wouldn't get stuck in his throat. I'm sure it was kind of gross, but it was the best I could do for now.
I clipped off the corner with a pair of scissors, returned to the bathroom, and shoved the bag into his mouth. I squeezed it gently. Every couple of seconds I'd stop to make sure that the fluid had gone down and that he wasn't choking. Finally there were some larger blobs remaining but he'd drank most of the mixture, and I tossed the bag into the sink.
"Feel better?"
Wulfe did not indicate whether or not he felt better. I used the towel to wipe up some of the tan liquid that was dribbling out of both sides of his mouth.
"I'd like the passcode for your phone," I told him. "That's the only way you're going to get out of this. Otherwise you're staying in that tub until the guy beneath you turns to soup."
Wulfe smiled. Or he accidentally contorted his mouth in the shape of a smile. I wasn't sure. He didn't look like he was actually amused.
"I don't want to be a monster about this," I insisted. "But I need you to cooperate with me. I'm not putting you out of your misery. It'll be a long, slow death. I'll put in a damn feeding tube to make sure you stay alive. Help me out here. Blink twice if you want to go home tonight."
Wulfe didn't blink.
"Fine," I said. "Hope you enjoyed your cookie dough."
I shut the curtain. I might have to step up the pressure later (hopefully not moving into "enhanced interrogation" territory) but for now I'd assume there was another solution.
I didn't like the idea of just showing up at the seafood restaurant. First, there was no guarantee that Wulfe's men hung out there when they weren't actively engaged in drug deals, and second, I didn't want to give them the home team advantage. I wanted to keep control as much as possible. But if I couldn't figure out how else to contact them, I might have no choice.
There was a knock at the door.
I looked through the peephole. It was Marc.
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I quickly let him in.
"Where've you been?" I asked.
"Where do you think? I've been hiding!"
Marc looked pretty bad. I didn't think he'd slept or bathed since I last saw him. Granted, I saw him last night, so it wasn't an extreme amount of time to go without bathing, but he'd done a lot of sweating and getting dirty since then. If he said he'd been on the run for a couple of weeks instead of just one day, I would've believed him.
"Why didn't you try to get in touch with me sooner?" I asked. "I needed to talk to you."
"I said that I've been hiding. You're lucky I'm here now. I'm surprised that you're here. What happened? Did you kill both of them?"
"Just one. Wulfe's still alive."
"Did he get away?"
I shook my head. "He's still here."
"In your apartment?"
"Yes."
"What, you've got him tied up in your bedroom or something?"
"Do you want to see him?"
"I wouldn't mind punching him in the face."
"You can't do that," I said. "He might have a broken neck. I risked his life just by carrying him around."
"Then no, I don't need to see that piece of shit. Did you move his car?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"A grocery store."
"Which one?"
I wasn't sure why Marc needed to know that, though I had a pretty good guess.
"The Publix on 4th."
The car was not at the Publix grocery store on 4th Avenue. If it turned out there was a legitimate reason I should tell him where the car was located, I'd come clean. For now, I had reasons to believe that Marc might not be one hundred percent entirely trustworthy.
"You lying?" he asked me.
"No."
"You're a bad liar."
"Why would I lie about where I moved the car?"
"Did you find anything in it?"
"If you have a question, just ask it. You might've screwed up my entire life, so I don't have time for you to be vague."
"I thought my question was nice and straightforward." There was a sinister edge to Marc's voice. He seemed to suddenly realize this, and also to realize that a sinister tone was not his best choice in this particular conversation, so he cleared his throat. "Sorry. It's been stressful."
"Believe me, I understand."
"I'm in a lot of trouble. I mean, a lot of trouble."
"Right there with you."
"Do you have the duffel bag here?"
I considered saying "What duffel bag?" but Marc was correct when he observed that I was a bad liar. However, telling the truth seemed much
worse. I decided to continue lying but not to play dumb. "No."
"Did you look inside?"
"Yes."
"That's my money, Frank."
"I believe you."
"Good. So this will be easy. Give me my money, and you'll never have to hear from me again."
"Um, I want to hear from you. I was freaking out because I didn't know where you were."
"Where's the bag?"
"It's safe."
"Where the hell is the bag?"
"I said, it's safe. If it truly belongs to you, you'll get it back."
Marc clearly didn't like this answer. And I realized that I'd made a monumental blunder by not grabbing one of the guns before I opened the door. It simply hadn't occurred to me that he might pose a threat. Idiot.
"Look, I need to get out of town as soon as possible," he said. "How about we split it? Fifty-fifty. That's a good haul for each of us, don't you think?"
I pretended to mull that over for a moment. "All right," I said. This would give me the opportunity to open the kitchen drawer and then force him to leave at gunpoint. I sure as hell didn't want to add a third person to the bathtub.
I walked toward the kitchen.
"Hey," said Marc.
I turned back around. He was pointing a gun at me.
Surprisingly, I wasn't scared. I was pissed. Pissed at him for pointing the gun at me, and pissed at myself for letting it happen. I was suddenly so angry that, quite honestly, if I could have guaranteed that his bullet would create a flesh wound instead of a fatal shot, I would have walked over there, yanked the smoking gun out of his hand, and beaten him into a bloody mess with it.
He actually took a step back.
"I didn't want to do this," he said. "It's not my fault."
"Pretty sure it is," I told him.
"Just get the bag."
I started to walk toward the bedroom.
"Where the fuck are you going?" Marc demanded.
"To get the bag."
"Then where were you going before?"
"To get a gun."
Marc seemed unsure of how to respond to that. "Tell me where the bag is. I'll get it."
"I'll give you a hint."
"No, I don't want a goddamn hint, I want to know where the bag is."
