Life Is Short and Then You Die

by Kelley Armstrong

  * * *

  I kind of froze. A hot electric current ran down my back. My brain stopped thinking for a moment.

  “Did you hear me? I just killed Duffy,” Tyler repeated. “Get over here. I need help. I don’t know what to do. Can you hurry?”

  Of course, I had a whole bunch of questions I wanted to ask him. But I choked them back and said I’d be right over. I told my parents I had a soccer meeting at school—what a joke!—jumped into the car and drove to Tyler’s house.

  My brain was spinning all the way there. My thoughts didn’t make any sense at all. I don’t even think they were thoughts. Just little bursts of fright and disbelief.

  I stopped halfway up Tyler’s driveway. My headlights poured into the garage like spotlights. The garage door was all the way up, and I saw Tyler standing there at the side, and I saw shoes on the concrete floor. Shoes and legs. And I knew it was true without even getting out of the car. Tyler had killed Coach Duffy.

  I ran up to Tyler, my heart suddenly in my throat. Tyler stood stiffly, not loose like usual, as if all his muscles had tightened. “What happened?”

  “I killed him,” Tyler said in a choked whisper. He motioned to the body sprawled on its back.

  Yes. Coach Duffy. Graying hair falling over his forehead. Head tilted to one side. Mouth open in an expression of surprise. One hand was trapped under his body. His legs were spread as if he were sleeping.

  “How? Why?” My voice cracked. “I … I don’t believe it, Tyler. Tell me—”

  Tyler let out a long whoosh of air. He shook his head. “I think he came to apologize. He just came walking up the driveway all unexpected.”

  “Where were you? In the garage?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. My parents asked me to dig holes for some tomato plants in the back. I’d just finished, and there he was.”

  “And he started to apologize?” I asked.

  “I didn’t give him a chance,” Tyler said, gazing down at the body. “I’d just gotten off the phone with Cathy. She broke up with me.”

  “She what?”

  “Broke up with me. She said she didn’t know I was such a jerk, and it just wasn’t going to work out with the two of us.”

  “Oh, wow,” I muttered.

  “I tried to discuss it with her, but she said to stop whining, and she hung up on me.” Tyler took a deep breath. It was a cool evening, but his forehead was drenched in sweat. “I’d just gotten off the phone, feeling really bad. You know. It sucks. I still had the garden shovel in my hand, and there was Duffy walking into the garage.”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “Nothing. I wrapped my hands around the handle and slammed the shovel into the back of his head as hard as I could. He made this unnnnh sound and his eyes rolled up in his head. And he went down. Dead. I dropped the shovel and bent down beside him and saw he was dead.”

  “And then you called me?” I said.

  He turned to me and his eyes were watery and kind of pleading. “I don’t know what to do, Doug. So I need your help. Maybe—”

  “Where are your parents?” I said. “Do they know you’re in the garage?”

  “They’re not home,” he said. “They’re in Cleveland. My cousin is sick there. I’m all alone here.”

  I swallowed. My mouth was suddenly as dry as cotton. My heart was pounding too hard for me to think straight.

  “What can we do?” Tyler asked in a high, shrill voice. “Think, Doug. We’ve got to do something. My life … My whole life could be over.”

  “First thing,” I said, “we’ve got to close the garage door. Anyone who passes by can see the body.”

  Tyler shook his head. “No. Not a good idea. The batteries are weak. If we close the door, it may not open again. We could be trapped in here. We—”

  “We’ll get out,” I said. “Close the door.”

  Shaking his head, he crossed to the wall and pushed the garage door control. We both stared as the door slid down with a loud hum. A hard thud as it slammed shut.

  “Now what?” Tyler demanded. “I can’t think, Doug. How can you think when you’re totally messed up?”

  I put a hand on his shoulder. It was trembling. “We’ll think together,” I said. I gazed at the body. The open mouth, the wide-open eyes.

  “Do you think anyone knew Duffy was coming here?” I asked.

  Tyler shrugged. “Beats me. You know, his wife died last year. So he didn’t have her to tell.”

  “Maybe no one knows he was here,” I said, my mind spinning. “So we could move him.”

  “Move him?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Stuff him into the back of my car. Take him someplace. Maybe the old rock quarry in the canal basin.”

  “No one has to know he was here,” Tyler repeated.

  “Yeah. And look. There’s no blood. We take him away. No trace of him. No one will have a clue how he got there. How he got hit in the head.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Doug,” Tyler said. He started to look a little more like himself. “Maybe you’re a genius. We take him away, and there’s no trace of him here. Yes. We can do it. I know we can do it.”

  He raised a fist and we bumped knuckles. “You’re a real friend, Doug. Seriously.”

  That’s when Coach Duffy sat up.

  Tyler and I both screamed. I staggered back against the garden tools shelf.

  Duffy uttered a long groan and rubbed the back of his head. He shut his eyes and twisted his head as if seeing if it could swivel on his neck.

  Tyler took a step back, his eyes bulging, mouth hanging open.

  “Nooooo,” I moaned. “Noooo.”

  With another groan, Duffy pulled himself to his feet. He grabbed onto the wall with one hand, catching his balance. He rubbed the back of his head again and winced in pain.

  Then he turned his attention to Tyler and me.

  “I’ve been listening,” he said. His voice was clogged. He coughed and cleared his throat loudly. “Listening to you both talk about me.”

  I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

  “Coach Duffy—” Tyler started. But no words followed.

  “You wanted to carry me away,” Duffy said, talking to both of us. “Hide me at the quarry. Was that your plan?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. His eyes burned into mine. “I believe that was your plan, right, Doug?”

  “I … uh…” I guess I was in total shock. I couldn’t put two words together.

  “So you thought you killed me, Tyler?” Duffy said, no expression on his face, his eyes dull, his mouth set, hardly moving as he talked. “You were about as good at killing as you are in soccer.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tyler choked out. “I … I can’t explain it. I just lost it and—”

  “You don’t have to explain it,” Duffy said, twisting his head on his neck again. “You’re worthless. A worthless person.”

  “I realize—” Tyler started. But he stopped as Duffy bent and picked up the big shovel. Duffy lowered the blade to the garage floor and leaned on the handle.

  “I took a hard blow to the head,” Duffy said softly, so softly I could barely hear him. “So I may not be in my right mind. But—”

  “We can take you to the hospital,” I said, finally finding my voice. “Let me drive you—”

  “I may not be in my right mind,” Duffy repeated. “But I think in order to settle this and make it even … one of you has to die now.”

  I gasped.

  Tyler uttered a sharp cry. “No—!”

  The coach raised the heavy steel shovel in front of him. “We want to settle this right,” he said calmly, his voice thin, still just above a whisper. “Even if I’m not in my right mind. I took a blow. Now one of you has to take one. It’s only right.”

  I froze. My knees felt about to fold. I glimpsed Tyler. I saw where his eyes were. On the garage door control against the wall.

  I nodded, signaling Tyler to go for it. I knew we had to get out of there. I took a step toward
the coach to distract him. “Let’s talk about this,” I said.

  Tyler dove for the door control and pushed the button hard.

  The door made a squeaking sound. And didn’t budge.

  Tyler pushed it again.

  Silence.

  “I knew it,” Tyler said. “The batteries.”

  Duffy had a strange grin on his face, sort of lopsided, as if he were drunk. “Looks like it’s just the three of us in here,” he said. “Now, I’m probably a little crazy from the blow I took. But which one of you should die?”

  Tyler and I exchanged a terrified glance. Neither of us spoke.

  Duffy raised the shovel. “It doesn’t seem fair that you both should die,” he said. “Just one death will settle the score.” He waved the shovel in front of him. “Which one? Which one should die? Come on. Let’s have an answer. I’m dizzy and I’m in pain. I don’t have all night.”

  “Please, let’s stop this,” I said. “No one has to die. Let’s get out of here. We can get you to the hospital.”

  “So, it’s you who should die, Doug?” he said, ignoring my words.

  “No!” I cried. “Please—no.” I pointed to Tyler. “He’s the one who hit you. I wasn’t even here. Why should it be me?”

  “It was Doug’s idea to take you to the quarry,” Tyler said. “It wasn’t my idea.”

  The strange smile lingered on Duffy’s face. “So I guess you think Doug should die? Is that right, Tyler?”

  “I … I…” Tyler couldn’t answer.

  “Well, guess what, Tyler?” Duffy said. “I choose you.”

  “No, wait—” Tyler tried to back away but there was only wall behind him.

  “I choose you to die,” Duffy repeated. “And that will settle it between us, won’t it.”

  “Coach, you’re not right,” I said. “Don’t do this. Please. You’re not thinking right.”

  “I think I am,” Duffy said. “Am I the only one here who believes in justice?”

  He handed the shovel to me. “Go ahead, Doug. Get a good grip. And swing it at the back of Tyler’s head. Give it a hard swing.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You want me to do it?”

  Duffy nodded. “It’s only fair. If you don’t do it, I’ll have to kill you both. That’s the way it has to be.”

  Without speaking, Tyler and I both made a run for the garage door. Maybe we could pull it open by hand. But Duffy got there first. He stuck out both arms, blocking our way.

  Now Tyler had his back turned to me and I held the shovel.

  “Go ahead,” Duffy urged me. “Stop wasting time. Raise the shovel, Doug. I don’t want to kill you both, but I will. Kill Tyler, Doug. Now. Or else you both go.”

  How could I do this? My whole body was shuddering. My hands were cold and wet and trembling so hard, I could barely hold the shovel handle.

  “Hurry!” Duffy screamed. “Hurry. Swing now. Kill him, Doug. Then you and I will walk away from here, everything even.”

  Walk away? Walk away from killing Tyler?

  “We’ll take him to the quarry,” Duffy said. “No one will ever know.”

  He took a step toward me, raising both hands. I shuddered again. Was he going to strangle me if I didn’t kill Tyler?

  I raised the shovel. It suddenly weighed a thousand pounds.

  “Turn around!” I shouted at Tyler. “Turn around—now!”

  “You’re not doing this,” Tyler said.

  “I have no choice!” I cried.

  Tyler started to turn away from me.

  I gripped the long handle tightly. I raised the blade and pulled the shovel back.

  And I swung it as hard as I could—into Coach Duffy’s face.

  I heard bone break. I saw bright red blood come gushing up like a fountain.

  Duffy didn’t utter a sound. His knees bent and he went down hard, cracking his head on the concrete floor. He didn’t move.

  Tyler dropped to his knees beside Duffy. He held a hand over the coach’s chest. Then he put a finger under Duffy’s nose.

  “You killed him,” Tyler said. “You killed Coach Duffy.”

  “I had to,” I said. “He didn’t give me a choice, did he?”

  “You killed Coach Duffy,” Tyler repeated. He raised his phone. “I got it on video.”

  “Huh?”

  “Didn’t you see my phone? I got the whole thing on video,” Tyler said. He climbed to his feet, raised the phone, and began punching numbers.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” I stammered, struggling to catch my breath.

  “Phoning 911,” Tyler said. “I have to report it.”

  “What?” I cried. “What are you doing?”

  “I have to call the police,” Tyler said. “You killed Coach Duffy. I can’t let this ruin my whole life. It isn’t right. I have it on video. I’m innocent. You killed him, Doug.”

  “But—but, listen—” I struggled to speak.

  “Hello, 911?” Tyler said into the phone. “I need to report a murder.”

  IN PLAIN SIGHT

  By Y. S. Lee

  Kingston Penitentiary

  Portsmouth Village, near Kingston

  Ontario, Canada

  January 1884

  It’s the screaming that wears you down. Not in daylight: That’s for silent labor, droning sermons, the bump and clank of the laundry press. It happens at night, once we’re locked into our cells. Goderre does battle in her sleep, grunting and hurling French curses. Rochon sobs as much as she shrieks. Only the new girl, to my left, is silent. And I? I once woke myself with my own cries, but even then I couldn’t remember the dream.

  In the morning, nobody makes eye contact. Ice round the edges of the chamber pot, wind whining through the windowpanes, pinch of shoes that are too small (but I’ve had my pair for the year, and Matron Palmer says, You’d think her feet were big enough already). At breakfast, the inevitable bowls of rough gray porridge. We bow our heads to say grace, and everyone’s eyes slide toward the new girl. Corrigan. Her name ripples up and down the bench in whispers.

  She’s maybe twenty. Big-eyed, pale-skinned, dark hair shingled like a man’s. They do it to all the new inmates. For hygiene, they say. I think it’s so we don’t recognize ourselves, but the joke’s on them—Corrigan is beautiful anyway. I can’t look at her for long; it’s like staring at the sun. She must feel our gazes, but she keeps her eyes lowered. She’s a statue: Woman Seated.

  Washington passes me the milk jug and I hand it on quick to Corrigan, who lets it bounce off her palms and smash to the ground. Thirty pairs of eyes on me. Bluey-white fluid bleeds into the crevices between the flagstones.

  Matron’s pale eyes narrow. “Pierce,” she says. “I hope that wasn’t on purpose.”

  “N-no, Matron,” I reply.

  “You’ll scrub the flags to make up for the damage.”

  “Yes, Matron.” I make my voice as bland as skimmed milk.

  “Now.”

  I glance at Corrigan, still examining the contents of her bowl. Unhearing. Unseeing. This is her fault, too. She should offer to help. Ought to acknowledge, at least, that I’m cleaning up her mess. She doesn’t. I won’t look at her again.

  After a few seconds, breakfast resumes: clink of spoons against tin bowls, Matron’s voice droning a psalm. I collect fragments of glazed clay in my apron. Corrigan hunches over her porridge, spoon moving steadily from bowl to mouth.

  “Hard luck,” mutters Washington, as I pick a large sliver from beneath her feet. I clench my jaw. I’ve never known what to do with sympathy.

  I sweep up the splinters, scour the floor. By the time I’m finished, the meal is over. While Matron’s looking the other way, I gulp my coffee anyway and then, like a good girl, tip my congealed porridge into the swill bucket and follow the others to the laundry.

  There’s a bright line of red on my palm from a particularly long shard of clay. I curl my hand tight, into a fist.

  * * *

  Here’s what my prison record says: S
arah Jane Pierce, number 9207, born Ontario, religion Church of England. Eyes gray, hair brown, complexion sallow, height four feet two inches. That last bit’s a laugh; I wasn’t yet ten when I got seven years for larceny, but it’s in the big book, in the curly slanting letters it hurts my eyes to read. I’m sixteen now, and tall with it. I’d change the rest, too, if I could—eyes, hair, skin, name. I’d ink out that line of the register, blacker than black, and leave them scrambling for facts forever blotted out.

  For now, I make my face a blank. My hands sew and launder and sweep. My feet walk but never run. I am a wax figure of a girl, an automaton in a museum. I have just over a year of my sentence left to serve. One day, not so very long from now, I will disappear entirely.

  * * *

  It’s Monday, washday. Ten hours of brushing and soaking, boiling and blueing, starching and ironing, that leave us drenched with sweat and bleeding from the cracks in our lye-parched hands. By the time I get there, the better jobs are spoken for. Washington and Rochon sort the items (aprons and towels need a longer boil than dresses and petticoats). Goderre comes in with an armload of firewood and feeds it to the cast-iron stove, stoking the copper cauldron to boiling point. We leave Gendreau be in the corner; her cough will soon tear her in two. I end up across from Corrigan, checking garments for stains and scrubbing them out. We work without speaking, gazes fixed on the washtub.

  After a while, Corrigan exhales a long sigh, and I can’t help but glance up. Her expression’s the same fixed blank. Matron’s at the other end of the room, fussing with the frizzy curls that poke out from her bonnet, so I chance it. “Pierce,” I murmur. “Larceny.”

  She doesn’t blink, doesn’t reply. Sod her. Laundering’s awkward with the cut on my palm, but I manage. When I was young, I cried when the soap burned my knuckles raw, but it’s been years since I let myself feel that much.

  Midmorning, a youngish man comes in with a small cudgel in his hand and a dirty smirk on his face. “MacDonald, ma’am,” he says to Matron Palmer. “The new rat-catcher.”

  Matron blinks. “R-r … vermin?” He’s wearing an inmate’s uniform and cap: black on one side, white on the other. “We have never had a rat-catcher before,” she complains. “Who sent you?”