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I
sped home. It took me less than a minute
to get there. I quickly sprinted to my
apartment. Nervous sweat ran down my
face. I was also breathing nervously and
couldn’t catch my breath as I put my hands on my knees and doubled over.
Then a thick stream of puke ejected from my
mouth. My stomach heaved, spasming until
everything was out that my body thought would be enough.
I stepped inside my apartment and felt sick
again. This time I was able to hold down
the muscle that wanted to push the puke up.
There
was no fucking way I killed Miss Molly.
But there it was on the tape. My
name clear as day coming out of Miss Molly’s mouth.
But no, I couldn’t have been me. I was at the office all evening. And at my apartment earlier that day.
That woman.
That woman has something to do with this. That fucking screaming bitch who floats
appearing everywhere I do.
I don’t have anything to do with anything.
I went into the kitchen and splashed cold
water on my face. I needed to
sleep. Just like Bobby I had a long
day. That’s it. Sleep.
The bed was a sight to see. Just lay down, go to sleep and tomorrow
morning everything would be just fine.
One long daydream. That’s all this
was. I took my shirt off, then removed
my pants and threw them in the corner.
When they hit the wall, a loud THUD!
Shit.
The tape recorder.
I reluctantly took it out of the pant’s
pocket and stared at it. Play it? Or just forget about it? My name was definitely on the tape, no
mistaking that. But did I need to hear
it again or see this damned thing again?
No.
For now, I lifted up my mattresses with one
hand and tossed the recorder underneath with my other hand.
I pulled back the sheets and slipped
in. Tomorrow everything will be
over. No tape recorder, no dead Miss
Molly. Hell, Old Man Noonan is still
alive I bet.
I drifted…
2
Five years after my mother died, my father
has turned to liquid. Liquid
alcohol. Drinking everyday. Hard stuff, wine coolers, beer. Anything that could take the edge off of the
memory.
I
understood none of it. I only understood
that my mother had been gone for five years and my father was getting more
distant by the day, the week, the year.
Was there anything I could do about it?
Nothing.
One
morning in October, we saw her again.
The woman that appeared when my mother, William’s wife, died. The scream didn’t wake me, just her presence.
My
dad was already up first, a small glass of amber liquid in his right hand. He stood, staring at her. She floated only slightly in the living room,
barely inches above the floor. If she
wasn’t pale or white, she could actually pass for an actual person.
“Dad,”
I said.
He
didn’t move.
“Dad,”
I said again. “Dad, what are you doing?”
He
shuffled back slightly, coming out of his trance for a moment. “Huh,” he murmured.
“Let’s
get out of here,” I said.
“She
hasn’t screamed yet,” was all he said.
“She will, I just know it.”
“Dad? What do you mean?”
The
woman floated towards my dad.
I
grabbed my dad’s hand and pulled him out of the living room.
“She’ll
always be here,” he said menacingly. The
glass slipped from his hand. Shards and
liquor splashed everywhere. On a second
look, I noticed a couple drops of red. I
turned my dad’s hand over and saw a couple of cuts. The blood dripped out, creating small
kaleidoscopic dots in the mess on the floor.
“We
need to clean that up.” I said.
He
looked at the glass and booze.
“Okay.” He knelt down, but I
pulled him back up.
“No,
your cuts.”
His
eyes darted back into the living room.
The woman was jerking around the living room gawking at us. Waiting for our next move? Waiting to scream again? Waiting for more blood? Did I want to know?
I
drug my dad upstairs and into the bathroom and shut the door.
“She
won’t get us in here.” He looked at me
and that made two of us that weren’t convinced.
With
the cold water on, I stuck the bleeding hand under the water until the blood
was washed away and I was sure it had stopped flowing enough to put some gauze
on it.
I
dried the hand off and laid the gauze over the cuts. This shouldn’t be happening. He is suppose to be treating any hurts I
get. Sons should not be tending to their
fathers.
A
tear traveled down my cheek.
My
father saw it I think. He used his other
hand to wipe it free from my face.
“I’m
going to die,” he said.
So
matter-of-fact I actually believed him.
“It’s
her,” he said.
“What’s
her?” I wrapped his hand with tape as
best I could.
“I’m
going to die,” he said again.
“Quit
saying that! You’re not going to
die!” I threw the metal container of
tape against the bathroom door. My dad
shrunk against the toilet.
Meekly,
he said, “I am.”
“I
won’t let you.” Maybe the woman scared
him. Just a little reassurance. He’ll be fine.
“You
won’t let me, but you can’t stop her.”
He stood and left me in the bathroom to fear his last statement.
I
believed him.
3
I woke from the dream delirious, unsure of where I
was or when it was.
Why was I
having those dreams? They didn’t start
until she arrived. I mean, it’s been a
while since my parents died, what was the purpose of me dreaming about it
now? I’ve grieved. I grieved soon after and for some time
after. Did my subconscious find it
necessary to send me signals to grieve again?
I didn’t understand any of this shit.
Just
fucking weird is what it was.
She
comes, 3 people die, and I start having dreams about my mom and dad.
As I lay
in bed, somewhere deep inside me, I knew I didn’t want to go to sleep, but I
couldn’t fight it. My body relaxed and
slowly, my mind drifted off.
And I
quickly found myself dreaming again…
4
The next morning I heard my dad in the
kitchen clanging pans and laying out dishes.
Things must be better, I thought.
Still
groggy, I trudged downstairs. He was
making breakfast. I smelled the
wonderful aroma of bacon, eggs, and toast.
“Morning
dad,” I said.
“Morning.” Monotone.
He was still a little sleepy himself.
He
turned around and opened the fridge. He
was in there for a few minutes, searching for something.
“Shit,”
he mumbled.
“What’s
wrong?”
“No
cheese.”
“It’s
okay. I don’t want cheese.”
He
shut the fridge door. “I do. I’m going to run to the store.”
“Really? But the food.
It’s almost done.”
“Eggs
are no good without cheese.”
“They’re
just eggs.”
He
stopped and looked at me. “I want
cheese,” he said.
“Okay,
okay.”
He
grabbed his car keys from the hook by the back door. The door clicked shut. Moments later the car started and I heard the
gravel crunch as he left the driveway.
Had
I known it would also be leave this Earth, I would have put up more of a fight
for him not leaving the house.
But
would it have made a difference? Would
he have died anyway at some point? I
don’t know. Maybe. I had watched my mom die. I guess in some morbid way I was glad I
didn’t get to see my other parent die.
It
was on the way back from the grocery store.
Another car T-boned my dad’s car.
My dad wasn’t wearing his seat belt, which is odd for him, but
regardless, he wasn’t wearing it. The
paramedics got to him quickly but they say he died about 10 minutes after
impact.
My
neighbor took me to “the scene”. Mr.
Underwood called it “the scene”. Like he
was some detective. He was just my ride
to “the scene.”
I
didn’t get there in time to see him alive.
I got there in time to see him put on the stretcher and the sheet drawn
up over his face.
Mr.
Underwood drew me close. He kept
whispering “I’m so sorry, Grant. So
sorry.” But I barely heard him. Everything went silent around me as I watched
the ambulance drive away with no lights on.
“Let’s
go,” Mr. Underwood said.
I
catch a glimpse of a package on the sidewalk near the car. It gleamed in the morning sun.
I
broke from Mr. Underwood’s grasp and ran to the package. It was a package of Kraft Cheddar Cheese. Still brand new and just from the store: little droplets of water from hitting the
morning humidity ran down the blue and red plastic. Thrown from the car, still fresh.
I
picked it up and jammed it in my pocket.
“Are
you ready now?” Mr. Underwood asked.
I
could only nod.
5
This time when I woke, the clock read
A tear.
My father, died twice. Once in reality, once in my dream. But he said something in the dream.
“It’s
her,” he had said. “I’m going to die.” And “You can’t stop her.”
I jumped out of bed.
“Shit!”
I ran downstairs, threw on my shoes, and sprinted to my car. I had to get to Betty’s.
6
I didn’t even shut the car off as I stopped
in front of Betty’s house. I hopped out
and ran up to her house.
I knocked.
No answer.
I knocked harder, my knuckles stinging from the wood.
“Betty?”
Still nothing.
I sidled to the closes window. A lace curtain blocked my view, but I could
make out a TV on in her living room. I
rapped on the window. The glass TINGED! But despite how loud that was, I
got no answer.
“Betty!”
The door was locked and I pushed against it
with my shoulder. It gave a little. I stepped back and put a little more force
behind it and something splintered on the other side. I felt like everyone on the block had come
out of their houses and was watching me.
I was a little embarrassed that I would actually have to break down
Betty’s door.
Taking a further step back, I pressed off
my feet and launched myself at the door.
Lucky for me it gave on that take and the
door swung inward. I tumbled in and
crouched on my knees, listening for a second.
The TV rattled off some sitcom. Canned laughter, then more talking, then more
canned laughter. Other than that, I
heard nothing else.
I quietly shut the door and stood up.
“Betty?
Are you here?”
Betty lived by herself, widowed 12 years
ago. She never remarried and if you
asked her, she would tell you, “I had the one love of my life for 31
years. There is no other for me. I just need friends now.”
I made my way around the furniture and
followed the sound from the TV. The show
had given way to a commercial. Somebody
was selling car insurance. As I entered
the TV room, an announcer was relaying the effects of some drug called Hertiva, which I recalled had just been
put on the market.
But the room was empty.
“Betty!” I screamed.
I headed towards the kitchen and I had to
stop for a second. I saw thick-soled
shoes protruding out into my view. I did
not like that.
“Betty?”
But I know.
Deep in my soul I know.
Betty was dead.
I calmly entered the kitchen. I was right.
Betty laid on the kitchen floor, face down. One of the shoes was half off. The other had been dragged through a pile of
chocolate pudding. I knelt down and
jabbed my finger in the pile of pudding.
I tasted it. Yup: chocolate pudding. The exact pudding at her restaurant. She must have been making some for the day.
I rounded the wooden kitchen island. Betty’s bifocal glasses spilled to the side,
smashed flat. In her right had she held
a wooden spoon, her grip still tight.
The only thing I could do was call
Bobby. I don’t know how happy he’d be
since I had to call him at home.
He picked up on the first ring, though. “Bobby,” I said. “You need to come to Betty’s house.”
“Why?”
He still sounded asleep.
“She’s dead.”
“What?”
A pause. “I’ll be right there.”
7
Bobby did get right here. Less than five minutes later, I heard his
squad car, complete with sirens screeching up alongside my car.
I met him at the door.
“What the fuck?” he said.
When I realized he wasn’t going to stop, I
swung back to let him through.
“Where is it?”
“It?”
“The body.”
“Betty is not an it.”
“Knock it off, Grant. Just show me.”
I lead him through the TV room and into the
kitchen.
He saw her there and shook his head. “Who the fuck did this. Who the fuck would do this to her. To Betty.” Bobby quickly surveyed the scene and looked
like he was making mental notes. He
paused on the pudding.
“There’s a fingerprint in there.”
“That was me.”
“You got shit for brains? Why would you touch that?”
“Just
wanted to see—“
“Just wanted to see? See what?
How good her fucking pudding was?”
Bobby shook his head again. “I
can’t believe this Grant. I can’t
believe you.”
“It’s just pudding!” I yelled.
Like in a movie, Bobby took a pen and knelt
down. He used the pen to lift up Betty’s
head.
Bobby glimpsed at me in shock. “It’s a crime scene, is what it is.”
“How do you know?”
“The stab wounds.”
I missed those. How could I miss those? I stood next to Bobby.
Three gashes on her neck. How could I have not seen those earlier? I guess the only thing I touched was the
pudding Bobby was having a hemorrhage over.
Chief Bobby Hamilton rose. “So why were you here?”
“Don’t you need to call the coroner or
something?” I smirked. “Or county?”
“Fuck county.” He peered at me for s few second before
asking his next question. “So why were
you here? To get a jump on having some
of Betty’s pudding?”
“I was driving by and didn’t see Betty at
the restaurant and got a little worried.
She’s usually there by
“Mmm-hmm,” was all Bobby said.
“What are you saying Bobby?”
“Chief Hamilton.”
“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?”
Bobby took out a notepad. “If I need to get a hold of you today, where
can I reach you.”
Now I was in shock. “At my fucking office. Am I a suspect?”
“Right now, yes. I may have some more questions for you
later. I need to look over the scene, so
if you’ll excuse me…” He took out his cell
phone and dialed a number.
“Thanks a lot, Chief Fucking Hamilton,” I
murmured.
“Watch it Grant. We may now each other as residents of this
town and former classmates, but I do NOT have to go easy on your or give you
the benefit of the doubt.”
“I guess you don’t follow the innocent
until proven guilty adage that everyone else does.” Bobby and I were back to old times, except in
more extreme circumstances than we’ve ever had.
Bobby snapped his cell phone shut.
“It’s funny,” he said, “that there have
been 3 deaths in this town and one body found and you have been around all of
them!”
“So I caused Noonan’s heart attack? Reality check, Chief, he was having the
attack before I got there. And that
body? It was already dead, you forget
that?”
Bobby waited for me to continue. I know he wanted me to say something about
Miss Molly and Betty, but I had nothing for Betty. Miss Molly though—
“I was not
there when Miss Molly died,” I said.
“But you were there just a couple hours
before, weren’t you?” he countered.
“Yes, but to do a little investigation
myself.”
“Right.
Because you’re a detective.”
“This is ridiculous.” I headed for the door.
“You’ll be at your office, right?”
I didn’t answer. I just left.
Because it was ridiculous.
8
So now I was a suspect. What do suspects do when they find out they
are one? Just go about my normal day, I
suppose. Go home, take a shower, get
dressed, eat breakfast, and leave for work.
That’s what I’ll do.
And oh yeah, probably get a call from Chief
Bobby Hamilton, who graduated 214th in the class out of 229. Perfect police material and perfect for solving
crimes.
I got home, took a shower, got dressed and
ate some Raisin Bran.
I grabbed my set of keys from the key hook
and when I went into the living room to find my wallet, I saw it.
The steak knife.
It lied on my couch. Something red sat in little globs on the
blade and I was afraid of what it might be.
I imagined the worse possible thing it could be and when I walked over—
Shit, it was.
Blood.
I picked up the steak knife by the handle
and a few more drops of blood fell on my couch.
Dammit.
I ran to the kitchen and found two baggies big enough for the knife. I had to hide it. I could put it with the hairbrush.
The knife fit perfectly in the baggie. I was concerned about the blade cutting the
plastic, so I put that baggie in the
second one. That should be fine. Besides it was just going to sit in the
drawer.
9
No one was at the office which was good. My heart still pounded against my chest.
I unlocked the door and sauntered through
the desks. I still half-expected
somebody to either be sitting in here or barrage through the door. I made it to my office in the clear and shut
the door.
My breath finally relaxed and my heart
slowed to normal. I found the keys to
the cabinet.
Before I placed the knife in the drawer, I
checked to make sure the hairbrush still resided behind the files. It was still there.
I heard the main door rattle. Probably Maggie. She’s usually the first one here, if I’m not. I needed some coffee, and good ole Maggie
will set me up. I hurriedly shoved the knife
in with the hairbrush, slammed the drawer and locked it.
The front door creaked open, then
shut. High heels clicked across the
floor. They stopped for a second. Then the started again and they got louder
and louder. She was coming to my office.
There was a knock at the door just as I got
to my chair. “Come in,” I said.
Maggie entered. “Morning Grant.”
“Hey.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
She squinted. “You’re sweating.”
“Am I?”
I wiped my brow. I was. “Wow, I am”
Now that she brought it to my attention, my armpits were damp and I
could feel rivulets of sweat collecting on my chest hair.
“I’m okay,” I said, but she didn’t believe
me.
“You need anything?”
“How about some coffee.”
“You sure?” she asked. “You sure you need the heat?”
“I’m fine, Maggie.”
“Okay.”
She slowly turned and waited a second to see if I needed anything else,
then left.
She shifted some things around on the food
cart and a minute later, I heard the coffee brewing. Good, her mind is on work.
With the paper out, things usually settled
down the following day and today should be no exception. I needed some time to figure some shit out.
“Maggie,” I called.
She returned.
“Make sure that I’m not bothered for the
rest of the morning. I don’t care what
issues there are, they can wait until the afternoon.”
“Um, okay.”
She sounded awfully confused and I felt a twinge of guilt leaving her
out. “If you need me for anything, let
me know.”
“I will, thanks.”
She left again and shut the door behind
her.
I trusted that she would let me have the
time I requested. She can be a hardass
sometime. Not the same kind of hardass
Chief Bobby Hamilton was, but just enough of a hardass that would give me the
morning I need. The others would
probably bug me despite my demand, especially Pete, but with Maggie as my
backup, I am assured.
I turned on my computer. It beeped.
I waited for a moment until it fully booted, then loaded up Internet
Explorer. My homepage Yahoo popped
on. The cursor blinked in the search
box.
What exactly should I type? I wasn’t sure.
But within seconds, I was sure.