Blister

by Jeff Strand

  She was a killer.

  But I probably would've shot Malcolm myself if I were her.

  Well, that was pushing it. I was more of a "practical jokes taken too far" kind of guy. Though until I was hidden away in a shed for five years and then offered to a stranger, I couldn't be sure how I'd react.

  I certainly wasn't shedding any tears for Malcolm. He wasn't the worst person I'd ever known, but if I were asked to compile a list of the Top People I'd Met Recently Who Deserved To Get Shot In The Head By Their Own Daughter, he would've taken the #1 spot.

  This was insane.

  There was nobody in the entire world I could call for insight whose reaction would be, "Yep, Jason, covering up this murder is the way for you to go. Excellent decision-making skills, sir!"

  There was a dead freaking body in the trunk of the automobile I was driving.

  Even Ignatz knew this was a bad idea, and he occasionally made judgment calls in favor of eating his own feces.

  I should turn around.

  Nah. Too late. I was wearing gloves, of course, but if the police really wanted to prove that I'd been driving this car, I was sure they could do it. Hell, my own dog was probably shedding on the seat, and I couldn't guarantee that I'd clean up all of the evidence. I was locked into this course of action, like it or not.

  And, impossibly, I was veering more toward "like it" than "not."

  Muddying up my car wasn't exactly a Professor Moriarty piece of criminal genius, but as far as I could tell (which, admittedly, wasn't very far) it was working. I supposed that my definition of it working was limited to not seeing any cars careening off the road. We could still be screwed.

  When I reached the six-screen movie theater, I parked in the main lot, close to the building, where presumably no sane individual would park a car with a corpse in the trunk.

  I put Ignatz's leash on him, then ran one of those sticky roller things you use on your clothes before a fancy night out over the seat to get rid of dog hair. Once I was satisfied that nobody would look inside and say "Be on the lookout for a guy with a Schnauzer!" I abandoned the car and walked Ignatz a couple of blocks to a grocery store, where Rachel was waiting in the passenger seat of my car.

  I opened the back door, put Ignatz inside, then got into the driver's seat. "Done," I told Rachel. She sniffled and wiped her eyes. "You okay?"

  Rachel nodded. "I guess I'm having an emotional reaction. Who knew?"

  "And you're sure you want to go through with this, right?"

  "I'm the one who should be asking you that."

  "Hey, I'm feeling great. Expanding my skill set. There's not a lot of stability in the world of comic strips, so it's good to learn new things, just in case." I thought about what I'd just said. "Actually, that's not true. Having a successful comic strip is one of the most stable jobs in the world. Newspapers almost never trade them out. Strips run for decades, then when the creator dies, their kids take over. My comment about there not being stability was completely wrong. I apologize. Let's go."

  Rachel had no response, since there was no need to respond to my nervous rambling. I started the engine and pulled out of the parking space.

  We didn't talk during the entire drive back to her house. She cried much of the way, and I considered offering worthless platitudes like, "Everything is going to be okay," but why insult her intelligence?

  I was filled with much less regret and self-loathing than I would have expected. Honestly, even though I knew I'd be haunted by images of blood spurting from the back of Malcolm's head, and though I'd be forever worried about the authorities breaking down my door, I didn't truly regret this. I felt worse about not feeling guilty than I did about hiding the murder.

  I half-expected—well, fully expected—to see a dozen police cars in front of the house when we arrived, but no, it was just as we'd left it.

  I parked and shut off the engine. "I guess we're pretty solidly committed to this now."

  "Yeah."

  "Are you going to be okay?" I asked.

  "I feel like I'm going to have a breakdown."

  "Go right ahead. I'll make the call."

  * * *

  Sheriff Baker stared down at the dead body of Allen, looking ill. He reached for the walkie-talkie that was clipped to his belt, but I raised a hand.

  "Wait," I said. "Let me tell you what happened before you call for backup."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "This relates to...you know, the other thing."

  "Mr. Tray, if you think I'm not going to call this in, you are out of your goddamned mind. But you've got one minute to tell me what happened."

  "Malcolm beat the wrong teenager to death."

  "Excuse me?"

  I pointed to the corpse. "Allen's the one who attacked Rachel."

  "How does a mistake like that happen?"

  "Clown suit."

  I told him the full story about my encounter with Allen, speaking very quickly. I went longer than a minute, but Baker didn't go for his walkie-talkie again. I took him through Allen's grisly death, and Malcolm's shameful bargaining attempt, and Rachel overhearing us.

  Then we veered from the truth a bit.

  "He just ran out of the house, got in his car, and drove off," I said. "Didn't take a suitcase or anything."

  "Where do you think he went?" Baker asked.

  "Not a clue. I couldn't tell if he was fleeing the state or really needed to get drunk."

  "How long ago was this?"

  "Hour and a half, maybe."

  "Hour and a half?"

  "That was me," said Rachel. "I begged Jason to give Dad time to come back on his own. I don't want Dad to go to jail. I don't want to go to jail myself."

  "Why would you go to jail?"

  "I identified the wrong attacker. It's my fault that Brandon's dead." Rachel began to cry. My first thought was, wow, she's a fantastic actress, but then I realized that her tears were genuine. She was legitimately distressed about her mistake. It wasn't a stupid mistake—I would've assumed it was Brandon in the clown suit, too—but the consequences were awful.

  "Oh, now, don't worry about that," said Baker. "You're in no trouble."

  "And Dad?"

  "Well..." Baker looked down at Allen's corpse. "It was a brutal way to do it, but he was defending his own daughter on his own property. If the story checks out, this one was a justifiable kill."

  "Brandon wasn't a justifiable kill," I said. "I hate to say this in front of Rachel, but it would be better for everyone if Malcolm never came back. I hope he's already long gone. At least he can start a new life in Canada or something."

  "I hope you aren't suggesting that I not perform my elected job duties to the best of my ability," said Baker.

  "I suggested nothing of the sort."

  "We'll find Malcolm, and if justice needs to be served, it will be."

  "I just want to say that I have no intention of saying a word about any knowledge you might have had about the incident five years ago," I assured him.

  Baker narrowed his eyes. "Are you threatening me?"

  "I'm doing the opposite of threatening you. I'm anti-threatening you. I'm explaining that my pledge of silence is still completely in effect."

  I was being entirely truthful: no matter how things played out, I had no intention of telling anyone about Sheriff Baker's role in covering up Brandon's death. But I also felt that it might be useful to remind him that Malcolm's disappearance was a good thing, which might discourage him from using every resource at his disposal to find him.

  Sheriff Baker stared at me for a moment, as if unsure what to think, then pulled his walkie-talkie off his belt and said he needed a couple of men dispatched to Malcolm Kramer's home.

  * * *

  They took Rachel to the sheriff's department to give a statement and me to the hospital. The cauterization of the wound had not eliminated the need for stitches, so an elderly nurse sewed up my face while excitedly sharing how much her grandson loved Zep the Beetle. She put oint
ment on the burn, then taped some gauze over the whole ugly mess.

  It might heal to something that I could live with, or there might be a skin graft in my future. Joy.

  Then I was on my way to the sheriff's department to give my own statement. They recorded it with a video camera, and I gave the same "true except for the part where Rachel murdered her father" story that I'd given Baker.

  I was told not to leave town.

  Rachel met me outside, and we got into my car.

  "How'd it go?" I asked.

  Rachel held up her hands. "I'm not in cuffs."

  "Well, that's good. I think it's going to be okay. It's in Sheriff Baker's best interest to keep this as quiet as possible. Our story makes sense. As long as nobody finds the car before we can hide it permanently, we're okay."

  "And as long as nobody finds microscopic traces of Dad's blood in his living room."

  "Right. There's that. But they'd only find that if they had reason to believe that a crime was committed inside the house. Allen died outside. We're in good shape. We're fine."

  "You don't believe that."

  "I believe it ninety-nine percent. That's a good percentage. Maybe ninety-eight. Still good. If you'd pointed the gun at him, and I said that you had a ninety-eight percent chance of getting away with it, you would've done it, right?"

  "I'd like to believe that if I'd put any thought into it, I wouldn't have pulled the trigger. I wasn't calculating any odds at the time."

  "All right. Fair enough. Now what? Want me to take you home?"

  Rachel frowned. "I'd rather not go back yet. They're still investigating the crime scene, right?"

  "Probably."

  "I can't do it. I can't stay there tonight."

  "Okay, that's fine."

  "Do you think we could get a pizza and go back to your hotel room?"

  "It's a motel."

  "Same difference."

  "Sorry. I get pedantic when I'm taken by surprise. Yeah, sure, I mean, yeah, if that's what you want. You mean to stay tonight?"

  "Yes."

  "It's not a double. Just the one bed."

  "That's okay."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  We got an extra-large pizza with double pepperoni, double sausage, and extra cheese. Even if we were compatible in no other way, our pizza preferences were completely in synch.

  Rachel and I sat on the bed, stuffing our faces and drinking caffeinated sugary carbonated beverages. I'd considered asking if she wanted to get a bottle of wine, but I didn't want to imply that I was trying to get her drunk. Also, I didn't want it to feel like we were toasting the death of her father.

  She seemed tense, and kept bursting into tears without warning. I considered this a good thing. I'd be frightened for my personal safety if she were behaving like a robot. Each time she'd cry, I'd give her a hug, she'd apologize, I'd tell her there was nothing to apologize for, and then we'd return to pigging out.

  We ate an alarming amount of pizza on that bed. Rachel was slender, but she could pack that stuff away. Ignatz had tried to join the party several times, but he'd finally been given a slice and now lay asleep in his doggy bed on the floor. When Rachel and I finished the entire pizza (including the toppings that fell off, though we did not lick the crumbs out of the box) I climbed off the bed and set the cardboard box on the dresser drawer.

  "Where do we go from here?" I asked.

  Rachel held up her left hand. "First, you're putting a ring on this finger if you want any play tonight."

  "What?"

  She laughed. "I'm kidding! Relax, Jason. Let's not worry about the future right now. The future is scary." She beckoned to me. "C'mere."

  I walked over to the bed. She scooted over to the edge and leaned toward me, then pulled back. "No, wait, we had pepperoni. Let me brush my teeth first."

  "We both had pepperoni."

  "That's irrelevant." She got off the bed. "Back in a second."

  "You don't have a toothbrush."

  "Can I borrow yours? No, that's gross, sorry. I'll just swish some toothpaste around my mouth."

  "I've got Scope."

  "Even better. Be right back."

  She hurried into the bathroom. I paced nervously for a few moments. We had not specifically said that we'd be having sex. Rachel might just want to cuddle. I definitely wasn't going to push it. I was cool with however far she wanted to take this tonight.

  I'd never slept with a virgin. Tara, my first girlfriend, had said she was, but her vigor implied otherwise. I wasn't sure if there was anything special you were supposed to do. I'd never researched the subject. At thirty-eight years old, it was reasonable to assume that there was no deflowering on my agenda.

  It would be okay. I knew how the parts worked.

  I heard her gargle some mouthwash. It was not a particularly sexy gargle, but I was getting turned on anyway. The grisly violence of today seemed so long ago.

  Dammit. Why had I thought about the grisly violence?

  I needed to get those images out of my head. That's why Rachel and I were spending the night together: to create more pleasant images.

  Rachel spat out the mouthwash, which was not a turn-on, and I heard her turn on the water. I figured she would come out of the bathroom right after that, but she didn't. Though I couldn't tell exactly what I was hearing, it sounded suspiciously like clothing being removed.

  I sat down on the bed.

  Yep, that was definitely a zipper.

  I listened carefully as more clothes hit the floor.

  I heard her taking deep breaths, as if psyching herself up.

  Then she stepped out of the bathroom, completely naked.

  I'd grown so accustomed to her disfigured appearance that I honestly hadn't thought much about the fact that all of the damage had been to her face. The rest of her was stunning.

  She gave me a shy smile. "Hi."

  "Hi."

  "Some women are embarrassed by their bodies, but I think it's my best feature."

  I had nothing clever to say. I was under breast hypnosis.

  "Is it all right if we don't go all the way?" she asked.

  "Of course."

  "We'll have fun. I just decided I'm not quite ready for that."

  "We can do whatever you want."

  "May I invade you with the toothpaste tube?"

  "No."

  "I'm sorry, I should only be saying sexy things. In case you couldn't tell, I'm very nervous."

  "I'm nervous, too," I said.

  "No, you're not. You've had hundreds of women."

  "I wish."

  "Dozens, then."

  "You understand that I draw a cartoon bug for a living, right?"

  "Yes. I'm surprised we were able to get through the whole pizza without some other woman trying to mount you."

  "Get over here."

  "Do you want me to put a bag over my head first?"

  "Stop it," I said. "Don't joke about that, okay?"

  "Shouldn't we address the elephant in the room?"

  "No. Screw the elephant. We're supposed to be enjoying ourselves."

  "Okay. Well, I'm standing here all nekkid, and you're fully clothed, so you need to even things out."

  "I can do that." I took off my socks and tossed them aside. Rachel watched me, smiling, as I peeled off my shirt. I was in pretty good shape by the standards of an almost middle-aged cartoonist, but, yeah, I was a little self-conscious. This was not the first time I'd eaten an alarming amount of pizza. I tossed the shirt aside and sucked in my gut.

  "I hope you don't think you're done," said Rachel.

  "No, ma'am." I stood up, unbuttoned my jeans, and unzipped my fly, being careful not to cause any damage to the monster that lurked beneath. (I did not use this phrasing out loud, nor did I think it at the time. It was neither a beast nor a micro-phallus. It was perfectly acceptable, and I felt neither shame nor undeserved pride.) I slid off my pants, making it very clear, if it wasn't already, that arousal was not a problem at the moment.
I took off my underwear, and then we both stood there, completely naked.

  "Is it rude for me to just stare at it?" Rachel asked.

  "Do whatever makes you happy."

  She walked over, put her arms around me, and kissed me.

  We kissed for several minutes, until she not-so-gently shoved me onto the bed, where we kissed for several more minutes. And then we proceeded to do several other things to take our minds off our troubles.

  With each new act, Rachel was hesitant at first, but once she decided she liked it, her enthusiasm was unsurpassed.

  Afterward, still a virgin, Rachel lay with her head against my chest. "Thank you," she said. "That was a lot of fun."

  "Thank you."

  "You know, if Brandon hadn't behaved like a jerk, he would've gotten laid that night. I was totally ready to go through with it. If he weren't into mean practical jokes, we would've gotten to have sex and my face wouldn't be mangled. I don't think I'd ever have married him, but, God, my life would've been so much different."

  I kissed the top of her head.

  "I like that my life is going to be different now," she said. "I wish the circumstances weren't so extreme, but after five years I think I'm finally going to be happy."

  "Me too," I said. "I mean, I was happy before, I don't want to imply that I was miserable, but now I'll be even happier."

  "You're not going to dump me in the morning?"

  "Nope. You're stuck with me until Ignatz decides that you're evil."

  "What if they find out what I did?"

  The pepperoni grease suddenly felt like it congealed in my stomach. "They won't."

  "If they do, we'll tell them that you were helpless against my feminine wiles. I was like one of those mermaids who lure sailors to their death. You had no choice but to do as I say."

  "That'll work."

  "No, it won't. I'm grotesque."

  "Knock it off."

  "If we get caught, we'll tell them the complete truth. You won't get in much trouble. I did all of the really bad stuff."

  "It doesn't matter, because we won't get caught."

  "Okay."

  "Since you've chosen to mess with our afterglow, what exactly did your dad say when you told him about us?"

  "It didn't go well."