Blister

by Strand, Jeff

  "I do care about her. And I hate to be a dick, but I'm not convinced that you going away for a while would be such a bad thing for her."

  "All right. I'm not going to try to convince you otherwise. But can we at least get Allen's body out of the way so she won't come out here and see it?"

  "No. We cannot. That's evidence about what really happened. For God's sake, Malcolm, if you have Rachel's best interest at heart you can't do this! You're going to make things look worse than they really are! Accept what happened!"

  Malcolm glanced at the shotgun on the ground.

  Was he really going to go for the gun? Seriously? Is that where this was headed? I'd been through a lot today, and I really did not need to be wrestling around in the dirt with Malcolm over a shotgun.

  "Don't do it," I told him.

  "Don't do what?"

  "You know what."

  "Are we getting a little paranoid?"

  "Are we getting paranoid? I don't even know what to..." I trailed off, deciding that this conversation was not worth having. "We're going inside. It's already suspicious that we haven't called this in."

  He was still looking at the shotgun. When the hell was he going to quit looking at the shotgun?

  Also, he was still holding the butcher knife. This could turn bad in so many ways.

  "Like I said, you're the boss." Malcolm walked onto his front porch, leaving the shotgun behind. He paused in the doorway, then tossed the butcher knife over the rail and went inside.

  I wished he hadn't actually tossed it away, since that was another thing that would look weird to the authorities, but I was extremely relieved that the gun and knife were no longer in play. Not that Malcolm didn't have more guns and knives.

  I followed him into the house. Malcolm plopped down on the living room sofa, which is not where he needed to be if he wanted to make a phone call.

  "Do you want me to call?" I asked.

  "Do you really believe that this is the right thing to do? I think it's not. I think that we've been through enough, and there's no reason to drudge up old stuff. It doesn't help anyone. It won't bring peace to anyone. It'll just cause lawsuits and unwanted attention and a shitstorm that will ruin lives."

  His voice cracked, and somehow I actually felt a little bad for him. Not bad enough to drag a dead body into the woods for burial in a shallow grave, but bad nevertheless.

  Then he began to weep.

  This was some awkward shit. One of the most chest-thumping macho men I'd ever met was sitting on his couch weeping. I think I would've been more comfortable if it was an all-out sob, something with a manly volume level, instead of these gentle tears with the occasional sniffle.

  I just stood there, trying to decide if I should go make the phone call, or wait for him to regain his composure.

  I lasted a couple of minutes before I couldn't take it anymore. "I'm calling them," I said. "You go out and tell Rachel what happened so she doesn't walk out and see Allen's dead body."

  "How about a bargain?" Malcolm asked. He sounded desperate and heartbroken.

  "What do you mean?"

  "We don't tell anyone what happened. You leave...and you can take Rachel with you."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I won't stand in your way. I'm pretty sure she loves you. We'll pack up her stuff, get her out of that damned shed, and you can take her back to Jacksonville. I'll wish you genuine happiness."

  This was so bizarre that I had to stand there for a moment, trying to process what he'd said. "Let me get this straight," I said, flabbergasted. "You're saying that if I don't report Allen's death, I can bring Rachel home with me?"

  Malcolm nodded.

  "Like she's property?"

  "No, not like property. This is what you wanted, right?"

  "For her to move in with me?"

  "Yes."

  I could not believe what I was hearing. Suddenly Allen seemed like only the second most insane person I'd interacted with today.

  "Okay, yeah, that's what we'll do," I said. "We'll hide Allen's corpse, clean up the blood, and pretend like we have no idea where he went. Then Rachel can grab a few of her owls, throw 'em in the trunk, and I'll drive her on back to live in wedded bliss with me. That'll work. That's a great bargain, Malcolm. You've got this all figured out, you fucking genius you. I've gotta say, anytime somebody gets stabbed to death with a butcher knife, I want you to be the brains of the operation, because nobody solves problems like Malcolm Kramer. This is especially great because now you don't have to threaten to kill me if I try to let somebody know about the dead guy in your yard! Yay for no more implied murder threats! Well done, sir. Well done. Yes, I accept your offer. I can't wait. Let's go tell Rachel right now."

  Malcolm sat up straight. I thought he was preparing to stand up and kick my ass, so I braced myself.

  But then, because apparently this was a goddamned farce, I turned around and saw Rachel standing in the doorway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I don't know that much about physics, so I might be getting the science wrong when I say that, according to Einstein's Theory of Relativity, Rachel and I stared at each other for approximately ninety-seven hours.

  Finally I spoke: "Okay," I said. Forty-three hours later (in Unbelievably Socially Awkward Situation Time) I followed that up with: "Yeah."

  "Yeah," Rachel said.

  "That whole thing I said was sarcasm."

  "I got that."

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "Why are you apologizing?"

  "I don't know. I honestly don't know. This isn't a situation I've ever been in, or ever thought I'd be in, and no matter how much I try I can't come up with something to say that seems like something I should say in this situation." I was babbling, yes, but I felt no shame over this. If there was ever a time when it was justifiable that I wouldn't be able to come up with a concise way to express my views on the matter at hand, this was it.

  Malcolm didn't even get as far as babbling. He just sat there, looking like he had the worst case of food poisoning in recorded human history. I think he wanted to sob, puke, and then slash his wrists.

  "Dad...?" Rachel said.

  Malcolm didn't respond.

  "Dad? It's really important that you talk to me right now."

  Malcolm wiped his hands off on his jeans. He stood up, moving like an arthritic ninety year-old. "How much did you hear?" he asked.

  "I heard you sell me to Jason in exchange for his silence."

  Malcolm shook his head, although that seemed to take a lot of effort. "That's not accurate."

  "It's simplified," Rachel admitted.

  "It's him," said Malcolm, pointing to me. "Things were fine before he got here."

  Why had this become a common theme? The way people were acting, you'd think I was breaking into the homes of Lake Gladys residents and taking a leak on their dining room tables while the family was saying grace.

  "I thought you were trying to protect me all this time," said Rachel. "You were protecting yourself."

  "That's not true. I love you. I'd do anything to keep you safe."

  If I were Malcolm, I would've abandoned all pretense at dignity and just dropped to my knees, begging for forgiveness. I would've claimed temporary insanity. I would've started speaking in tongues to help shift the blame to Satan.

  I wasn't enjoying Malcolm's struggle, yet I couldn't help but watch him in fascination, wondering how he was going to dig his way out of this deep, deep hole.

  If I'd been watching Rachel more closely, I would've seen her take out the gun.

  My mouth instantly went dry.

  Malcolm closed his eyes and lowered his head.

  Rachel pulled the trigger.

  There wasn't as much blood and brain matter as I might have expected, though there was some of each. Malcolm dropped to the floor.

  I lost all feeling in my legs, but somehow kept from collapsing.

  Rachel lowered the gun.

  "I need a few minutes to process th
is," she said, her voice hollow. "Do whatever you think you need to do."

  She left.

  I just stared at Malcolm's dead body, which lay on its side. A pool of blood was spreading under his skull.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my freaking God.

  I had no idea what to do.

  My permanent facial scar was supposed to be my biggest problem of the day, but it kept getting eclipsed.

  Should I call 911?

  Of course I should call 911. Why would I consider, if even for a split second, not doing that? There was no other plan of action that made the slightest amount of sense except to go straight into that kitchen and pick up the phone.

  Why the hell wasn't I walking into the kitchen?

  Rachel hadn't murdered her father in cold blood, exactly, but it definitely wasn't self-defense, either. She might not get the death penalty, but she'd be going to prison for a long time, possibly the rest of her life.

  I could testify on her behalf. Say that her dad had kept her in a shed. That he offered her to me to hide his own crime. You could pretty easily convince a jury that Malcolm was a terrible father.

  But, ultimately, Malcolm was just an asshole. You weren't allowed to kill people for being assholes.

  I needed to force myself to walk into the kitchen before I made the stunningly stupid decision to involve myself further in this mess. I was a successful cartoonist. I had a good life. I would have to be completely nuts to put it at risk to help Rachel.

  Why the hell wasn't I in the kitchen?

  I hurried out of the house. Rachel stood next to Allen's corpse.

  Rachel looked at me and traced her index finger over her face. "So he's the one who did this to me?"

  "Yeah."

  "I thought it was Brandon. I had no reason to believe it wasn't."

  "Before we go any further, would you do me a huge favor?"

  "Anything."

  "Drop the gun. Or just put it someplace else. Anywhere but your hand."

  "You think I'll shoot you?"

  "No. I'd just rather not have anybody waving around a gun right now. I'm stressed out enough."

  Rachel dropped the gun. I flinched when it hit the ground, as if it might go off, though it didn't.

  "Thank you."

  "No problem."

  "I wish you hadn't shot your dad," I told her.

  "So do I."

  "But it's done." I pointed to Allen. "He's done, too. It's all done. Now we just have to figure out what we're going to do about it."

  "I guess that's up to you."

  "No, it's up to both of us."

  "We're in this together?"

  "All I'm saying is that I haven't called anybody yet."

  Rachel walked over to me. She reached for my face, tracing my cut without actually touching the wound. "This was Allen?"

  "Yes."

  "Was he trying to make you like me?"

  "I guess so."

  "That's really messed up."

  "I agree."

  "I'm sorry I involved you in this, Jason."

  "It's all right."

  "Could you catch me up on what happened?"

  "Allen kidnapped me at gunpoint. Took me out to the cabin. Explained that he was the one in the clown suit. Your dad had murdered Brandon with a shovel and buried him in the woods. Allen slashed my face with a razor and burned me with a blowtorch. I got free. Raced him here. Sheriff Baker came. Your dad sent him away while I hid. Allen got here. Your dad stabbed him to death with a butcher knife. You shot your dad."

  Rachel wiped a tear from her eye and gave me a smile that didn't look remotely sincere. "It sounds like things might be a little out of control."

  "A little."

  "Which stage of grief is denial?"

  "The first one, I think." I counted on my fingers. "Denial, anger, bargaining, depression...um, one more. Acceptance."

  "I feel like I'm going through the first three all at once," said Rachel. "But definitely denial."

  "We need to figure out what to do," I said.

  "What you need to do is leave. Just go. I mean, don't leave town and look suspicious, but go back to your motel. I'll call you when this is cleaned up. Unless you report the murder, which I completely would not blame you for doing."

  "I'm going to help you."

  "No."

  "Yes, I am."

  Rachel shook her head. "I can clean up my own mess. I'm not going to let you crawl into the sewer with me."

  "I choose to crawl into the..." I decided that I didn't like her metaphor. "I choose to help you. My choice. I'm an adult, and I don't want to see you get locked up after you're finally free. Allen was a psychopath and your dad was a prick, and it would be easier for us if they were both still alive, but they're not, so we'll work with what we've got."

  "I can't let you do this."

  "Yeah, you can."

  There would be another death on my conscience when Chuck found out about this, since his head would immediately explode. I had no idea what kind of exit strategy might work out (Rachel and I running off and living happily ever after?) but until I regained my sanity, I was going to help her.

  "All right," said Rachel. "Then I'll let you."

  "Any brilliant ideas?"

  Rachel pointed to Allen. "We'll leave him untouched. Stick to the truth as much as possible. If we can get rid of Dad and his car, it all makes sense. He killed Allen and then fled because he knew that everybody would find out the secret about Brandon's death."

  "Sheriff Baker knows about Brandon, too," I said. "So it's in his best interest for your dad not to be brought to justice. Holy crap, we might be okay!"

  "What about your face?"

  "Like you said, stick to the truth. We'll say that everything happened the way it really did, except that after he stabbed Allen, your dad got in his car and drove off. The only problem is that they can probably tell when Allen died, so they'll wonder why we didn't call right away."

  "I begged you not to call anyone until Dad came back. I insisted that he wouldn't just leave me. You were completely against the idea, but I pleaded and pleaded with you, so you gave me one hour before you called it in."

  I tried to figure out if there was a gaping hole in the story. There didn't seem to be one. "Are we turning into criminal masterminds?" I asked.

  "I hope not."

  "So the first thing we'll do is get your dad's body into his car, so we can dispose of both of them. I'll take care of that part."

  "You're not doing that on your own."

  "Well, it'll be upsetting for you to be that close to him. He doesn't look good."

  "I'm the one who made him look that way. I'm anything but squeamish. If you move him by yourself, his body will slide across the floor and we'll have a much bigger mess to clean up."

  "You're right, you're right. I'm just trying to spare you the gory parts."

  "You don't need to spare me anything."

  I went outside and opened the trunk to Malcolm's car so it would be ready. When I returned, Rachel had put a garbage bag over Malcolm's head to keep the blood from spilling while we moved him. She took his arms, I took his legs, and we lifted him and carried him toward the door.

  Yes, I was officially carrying a dead body with the intention of hiding it from the authorities. I was queasy and mortified and scared, but I also felt like this was the right thing to do. Not many people would agree with me.

  We got Malcolm outside and all the way into his trunk without any splattery mishaps. Rachel slammed the lid shut.

  "You okay?" she asked me.

  "Not really."

  "Me either."

  "Now what?" I asked. "What's a good hiding spot for a car with a corpse in the trunk?"

  "There used to be a twenty-four hour grocery store about twenty miles away," said Rachel. "Obviously, I haven't been there in the past five years, but I assume it's still open. We could leave the car there temporarily until we figure out what to do with it."

  "Do they have secur
ity cameras?"

  "I don't know. I've never scoped the place out."

  "If somebody finds the car, they could review the security video and see who left it there."

  Rachel sighed. "A movie theater would have no reason to monitor the parking lot, right? Dad's car would be the only one left after the movies were all over, but would anybody care? Would the police be checking movie theater parking lots for him?"

  "I wouldn't think so."

  "That's what we'll do, then. Just for tonight. Tomorrow we'll figure out a more permanent solution. I'll drive his car, you drive yours, and we'll ride back together."

  "Won't people notice you behind the wheel?" I asked.

  "We'll take the back way, but yeah, that's a major problem. I could wear a mask, but other drivers would notice that even more than my face."

  "My car has tinted windows," I said. "We could fling some mud on the windshield. When you stop at a traffic light, you can just pretend to be leaning over to pick up something."

  "That works," said Rachel. "And I'll wear sunglasses."

  We scrubbed down the living room as much as possible. Were we missing microscopic blood particles? Perhaps. But if we handled this correctly, there'd be no reason for the police to bring in their experts.

  Then, because we had no mud handy, we mixed our own using dirt from the neighbor's driveway, and then smeared it on my car.

  I scooped up Ignatz, gave Rachel my car keys, and my dog and I got into Malcolm's car.

  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I found myself driving along a desolate back road with a dead body in the trunk.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  What the hell am I doing? I asked myself approximately eighteen thousand times as I followed Rachel through the back roads of rural Georgia.

  This was insane.

  This was more than insane.

  This was insane to the ninth or tenth power.

  This was where I had to admit to myself that I was in love with Rachel.

  What other possible explanation was there? I had a problem with people telling me what to do, which might explain why I'd wanted to stick around Lake Gladys after being threatened, but helping Rachel hide a murder didn't really involve a "You're not the boss of me!" attitude.

  I was in love with her.