Everyone Dies in the End

by Brian Katcher

  The room was surprisingly uncluttered, but considering the recent construction, it wasn’t all that strange. Oily footprints led from an interior staircase, but Sammy couldn’t imagine what would bring any of the important people down here. A few wooden crates and boxes lined the walls. A tarp-covered workbench stuck out from under some built-in shelves. Exposed cobwebby pipes lined the ceiling.

  Sammy didn’t like it down there; it reminded him of the many jail cells and lockups he’d stayed in. A heady odor of decay hung in the air. He had almost convinced himself to leave when he noticed faint markings on the bare concrete floor. He inched closer.

  Yes! There was something drawn on the floor in chalk. To Sammy, it looked like a giant star inside a circle. It covered nearly the entire floor, centering around a loose slab (probably some sort of drain for the basement). On the slab, someone had scribbled the Northern Synod’s insignia: sideways E over the X.

  And what was this? Something else was painted—no, this was no design, just a stain. A dark stain. Like someone had spilled an almost-empty can of paint. Or dragged something covered in dark liquid. The stains started at the interior stairs, crossed the floor, and stopped at the workbench.

  Sammy’s protective voice was urging him to saunter off, that discretion was the better part of valor, that curiosity led to dead cats. But those guys back in town were depending on him. He crossed to the bench and pulled back the tarp.

  The man was young, bearded, and probably had two or three bullets in his torso. He lay on his stomach, his back soaked in blood, his face turned towards Sammy in a voiceless scream.

  Sammy would have thought he was the type of guy to run like hell in a situation like that. Instead, he calmly reached into the man’s back pocket and retrieved the wallet. An identification card told Sammy that the corpse was Alanzo, Rev. Gowen’s former parishioner. Sammy replaced the wallet, covered the body, and left the cellar, pausing to replace the chain. Then he ran like hell.

  I must have lain there for an hour after Charlie fell asleep, my hands behind my head, a dopey grin on my face.

  Wow. So that’s why Dad was always trying to get me to ask out a girl. That’s why other guys paid so much attention to their clothes and attitude.

  Beside me, Charlie slept, her bare back to me. She snored, lightly. I found this adorable. I wanted to wake her up and thank her. Again. I wanted to snuggle her, to kiss her, to hold her, to…

  I wanted to call up L.J. and brag. I wanted to compose a sonnet. I wanted to kick someone’s ass. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so energized.

  Just a day ago, Saberhagen had forced me to look through the gates of hell. And now Charlie had shown me the way to heaven. It took a lot of self-control for me not to climb on top of her right then.

  Glory.

  Too bad it took nearly dying to achieve such bliss. I kissed her cheek and fell into a restful slumber.

  The sun was already shining when I awoke. I was disappointed to see Charlie was already up and half-dressed, stretching to fasten her bra. I quickly got up and wrapped my arms around her, hoping to interrupt the action. She wriggled free.

  “You know, Charlie, checkout isn’t till noon.”

  She’d already re-bandaged herself. She reached down to pick up her sweater. “Get a move on, Romeo. I have to work this afternoon. Plus, someone keeps trying to kill you.”

  I tried not to sound whiney. “Can’t you call in sick?”

  She showed her teeth. “Plenty of time for that later. Plenty. But not now.” She kissed me on the lips, then fished my wallet out of my discarded pants and emptied it of the cash. “I’ll go check out while you’re dressing. Meet me at the car.” She gestured toward the takeout box with Gowen’s ruined diary. “Don’t forget that.”

  I glanced at the sopping volume with little hope. “What’s the point?”

  “I have a friend who works in the rare books department. They do amazing restoration work.” She kissed me again and left.

  I quickly dressed. Before leaving, I risked opening Gowen’s diary. Every page had congealed together. Trying to pry apart the leaves would only destroy any chance of Charlie’s friend resurrecting the thing.

  On the very last page, I could just make out one line. My heart stopped for a moment. It was another Bible verse. The book of Job! I began to sweat as I opened the nightstand and pulled out the Gideon. I rapidly located Job, chapter two, verse eight.

  And he took him a potsherd to scrape himself withal; and he sat down among the ashes.

  I replaced the book back in the food container and left to join Charlie at the office. If I ever talked to Rev. Gowen again, I’d have a thing or two to say about being specific.

  That morning, I drove Charlie’s car the two hours back to Columbia while she slept on my shoulder. I tried not to think about poor Steph or Gowen or the issues with the underworld. For now, Saberhagen was someone else’s problem.

  Idiot! Do you really think spending the night with Charlie (an amazing night, but still) was worth the danger you put her in? Don’t go back to Columbia! Go to the airport, buy two one-way tickets to Fiji. Beg, whine, threaten to marry her, but don’t take her back toward Saberhagen!

  I rolled down the window and let the humid, post-storm air fill the car. I massaged Charlie’s thigh, enjoying my new physical privileges. Everything was going to be okay.

  – Chapter Twenty-One –

  Columbia, Missouri, November 16th, 1935—By 1950, the room that held Professor Roebuck’s office would become a storeroom, a place where all the unwanted documents of the Sociology Building went to languish. As it was, there was hardly enough room for the four men. The professor sat in the moth-eaten chair behind his desk, almost obscured by the books, exams, and papers in front of him. Sgt. Knowles leaned on the window ledge to the left of the professor. Behind him, students crossed St. Francis Quadrangle, bundled against the cold autumn afternoon. Across from Roebuck, Rev. Gowen sat awkwardly on a stool, crowned by a hunting trophy hung just above his head. The deer’s horns gave the reverend a cuckold appearance.

  Sammy was the only one who was not sitting. Though there was barely three feet of clear floor space, the young hobo managed to pace. Since entering the office he had not stopped smoking, dropping ashes on the professor’s already crusty carpet.

  “So then I covered the body back up, locked the door, and high-tailed it to Columbia.”

  Knowles took Sammy by the shoulder and gently forced him down onto a small table. “It would seem,” said the sergeant, lighting a pipe, “that we have a murder on our hands.”

  “I vote for calling in the police,” said the minister. “We finally have some proof.”

  “What proof?” asked Prof. Roebuck. “Saberhagen is obviously well-connected, wealthy, and powerful. Do you think the police will knock down his door, based on Sammy’s testimony? No offence.”

  For the first time in two days, Sammy smiled.

  “So should we go back to snooping?” asked Knowles, belching a cloud of dense smoke into the unventilated office. “This is the only break we’ve had so far. The Synod, or whatever they are, ain’t going to leave that body in the basement forever.”

  Roebuck shifted his considerable weight, then moved some books so he could lean on his desk. “There is another option. But it’s risky. And by risky, I mean we could get shot.”

  “I thought we could’ve got shot before,” said Sammy.

  “I talked to a friend of mine in the law school,” continued the professor. “According to Missouri law, we can legally enter the Synod’s headquarters and make a citizen’s arrest, provided we feel that a significant crime has been committed. We can sort of deputize ourselves in order to prevent more violence. Of course, if we don’t discover any evidence, we could find ourselves in legal trouble.”

  The three other men pondered this. Knowles eventually spoke.

  “And Saberhagen and his gang could shoot us as trespassers, right?”

  Roebuck shrugged. “We
’d be in the legal right, but I guess at that point it wouldn’t matter.”

  “I don’t like it,” the reverend said flatly. “I still say let the police handle it.”

  Knowles shook his head. “What Louis says makes sense. The police would have to serve a warrant, knock on the door, give everyone plenty of time to cover up. And since Saberhagen’s rich, I doubt the cops would yank open a lot of closets.”

  Knowles paused, thinking. “There were a couple of times during the war…if you can really surprise the enemy, numbers don’t mean much. We’d have to tear in there like a bunch of wild Comanches, not give anyone any time to think. If we see anything, then you two,” he pointed to Roebuck and Gowen, “could convince the cops to raid the place.”

  Roebuck reached into his desk and pulled out a new Brownie camera. “And a picture is worth a thousand words. I say we do it.” His enthusiastic grin gave him the confident air of someone much younger and thinner.

  “Same here,” said Knowles.

  Sammy nodded with enthusiasm. Gowen shrugged, and sighed resignedly.

  “All for one, I guess. So when should we do this?”

  Sammy spoke again. “Is today Monday? There’s not a lot of action at the headquarters at the beginning of the week. We could go tomorrow evening, I bet there won’t be a lot of folks there.”

  “Then let’s meet here tomorrow at noon,” said the professor. “In the meantime, could I tempt you fellows with some lunch?”

  As the four men headed out of the Sociology Building, Roebuck paused.

  “That camera’s borrowed. I want to make sure it works. Hang on.”

  In two minutes, Roebuck returned with both the camera and a graduate student. The four men sat on the back steps of the Sociology Building and had their picture taken.

  Charlie dropped me off at Mark Twain. I kissed her, and attempted to continue to do so.

  “Come back to my dorm for a while.”

  She playfully, yet forcefully, pushed me away. “I’m late for work and my parents are probably climbing the walls. Besides, you have work to do.”

  Ah, my war with the undead. Not very conductive to a budding romance.

  “Sherman, I’m going to do some more digging about our friend. There are old archives at the library, stuff that might have info you’ve missed. I’ll call you later. You go back and ask about your friend, Steph. Use your press pass. Find out why she might have been targeted.”

  The mention of Steph’s name killed my amorous thoughts. Charlie squeezed my knee. “We’ll compare notes later. Right now, you take care of yourself, okay? You have one or two good qualities, and I’d hate to have wasted all this time on you.” We hugged, and I left the car.

  I could see the smokestacks from the power plant. Just a block away. That’s where Steph had died. Had she been taken there? Was she hanging around there for a reason? The rage that had consumed me earlier was back. I felt guilty for having fun with Charlie…kind of.

  Inside the building, someone had already set up a gaudy memorial to Steph, consisting of a badly cropped photo and lots of plastic flowers. I lowered my head and walked upstairs.

  L.J. was gone. I took a quick shower and a half-hour nap. I had no interesting e-mails, though I probably should have been curious about the eight unread messages from Dr. Hopkins. I knew that I’d blown any chance to schmooze scholarship money from him, but that wasn’t important right now.

  None of the local newspapers had any new information about Steph’s murder. I choked up a little when I read her little biography, and had to shut down my computer before I could read about her parents’ reaction. I stood up and finished dressing. Armed with my necktie and press pass, I prepared to show the world that Saberhagen was a murderer. According to the Columbia website, the police station was within walking distance. I took off, determined not to leave without an interview. And to maybe plant the name ‘Saberhagen’ in a few official ears.

  My phone rang. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Charlie. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Andrews?” came a familiar, rasping voice. “I…” the speaker dissolved into a fit of coughing.

  “Denton? Is that you?”

  There was the sound of someone spitting up a large wad of phlegm. “Andrews? I’m in town. Where can we meet?”

  L.J. had mentioned that Shakespeare’s Pizza was a popular meeting place, and near campus. Standing in the shadows of the Lutheran Student Center (which obviously used to be a Wendy’s), I hung around until I was reasonably sure no one was lying in wait for me.

  Too early for the dinner crowd, the restaurant was a chaotic hot box of old agricultural ads, Mizzou Tigers posters, and classic pinball machines. A vintage Harley Davidson motorcycle stood bolted to the top of the condiment station with a sign that read “Free, with purchase of 10,000 large pizzas.”

  The only customers were a group of teenagers clustered around a circular table, rolling a twenty-sided die and arguing about armor class. I found Denton sitting at the bar, drinking a beer through a straw and flirting with the bartender. His hard plastic neck brace had been replaced with a soft collar, and he wore a V-neck sweater and jeans. He still had no belt and his BVDs peeked over his pants line.

  “So how long until you graduate?” asked Denton, his voice phlegmy and forced.

  “Well, I’m still here for two, maybe three semesters,” said the bartender, a petite brunette in a Chi Alpha cap. “Then, I dunno. Maybe get my MBA.”

  “Ah, Amy, it’s not every day you meet a woman with brains and beauty. I’m surprised no man has snatched you up.”

  A line like that would have gotten a drink thrown in most guys’ faces, but Amy just giggled and snapped Denton with her bar rag. I had to interrupt this spectacle.

  “Denton?”

  He turned quickly and immediately winced. “Hello, Mr. Andrews.” Unable to look down, he picked up his beer on the second try. “Grab a drink. I’ll get us a table.”

  I ordered a Coke and joined my unhinged associate in a booth.

  “For shame, Denton. She’s young enough to be your daughter.”

  “Ah, but she’s not, is she? Give an old man a break, I’m not free to keep company with the young ladies like I used to.”

  It was somewhat irritating that a middle-aged mental patient was more at ease with girls than I’d ever been. “Speaking of freedom, did you get another pass? I didn’t think you were allowed to leave the county.”

  “Nah. They released me.” He tried to sip his beer and nearly stabbed himself in the eye with the straw.

  “Released? I thought you were being held forcibly.”

  “They play dirty, I play dirty. I told them if I wasn’t out by today, you’d tell the press about all the horrible things that happen in the hospital. The drug abuse, the beatings, the sodomy, the electroshock torture…”

  “Jesus Christ!” I thought of kindly Dr. Garcia and overprotective Martin. “That really goes on?”

  “No. But there’s been cops sniffing around since I was attacked. I think Garcia is afraid of more bad publicity. I’m staying at a halfway house on Cherry Street now.”

  “Denton, you never fail to amaze me. But get this.” I glanced over my shoulder, but Amy the bartender was busy washing glasses. “Saberhagen tried to trade my soul for immortality. And Rev. Gowen is still alive!”

  It took about twenty minutes to update Denton, from the attack in the cemetery, the murder on campus, the visit to St. Louis, and Saberhagen’s proffered bargain. Denton listened so raptly I feared he was actually staring at Amy over my shoulder. When I finished, he toyed with a cheese shaker.

  “May I ask a rhetorical question, Mr. Andrews?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you.”

  We stared at each other for a moment.

  “So what now, Denton?”

  “You could get something to eat. I’m still on a liquid diet, but if you’re hungry…”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Denton fixed me with his innocent e
yes and smiled. Reaching up, he removed the collar, exposing a neck mottled with blue and purple bruises. Without moving his head, he began to scratch.

  “Mr. Andrews, I don’t know. Quite frankly, I wish you hadn’t told me.”

  “What the hell? You were the one who got me into this mess. You wanted me to prove that you weren’t nuts.” Which, I wasn’t entirely sure had been proven.

  “Perhaps,” he replied. He sounded almost bored, as if I were rehashing a problem that he’d stopped caring about years ago. “But it was a lot easier when I was crazy. Think back to when you were five years old. It’s one thing to believe in Santa Claus. It’s another thing to have a strange bearded man come down your chimney at night. But let’s get back to the problem at hand.” With a look of regret, he replaced the neck brace. “Do you have any ideas?”

  I didn’t like that he was dumping this on me all of a sudden. “I’m going to ask around at the police station, see if I can link Saberhagen to…the murder.” I found I couldn’t say Steph’s name.

  Denton twisted his torso. It took me a moment to realize he was shaking his head. “You can try, but Saberhagen’s been at this for hundreds of years. His hands will be clean, even if he killed that girl himself. Which he undoubtedly did.” He lapsed into thought. “We need to do something nasty. Something so brutal, so decimating that he’d never see it coming. Never…”

  Denton’s face broke into a somewhat disturbing grin. His bloodshot eye seemed to glow. “Mr. Andrews, have you ever been forced to fill out a Missouri 27B-6 form, authorizing the inspection and removal of lead paint, pipes, asbestos, and Freon-based appliances?”

  “Now who’s asking rhetorical questions?”

  His grin widened. A lone tear oozed out of his bad eye. “I used to have to fill them out all the time when I worked in real estate. Perhaps that’s why I went mad.”