Good & Dead #1 (20 page)

“I should have just died!”
he screamed at himself.
  Why didn’t I?
His head pounded.  He pressed his palms to his forehead and forced himself to take a deep breath. 
I was probably just too scared to choose death.  Nothing more than that.  I just didn’t have the balls to die. 

Michael spotted his bag lying upside down on the sidewalk.  He staggered to his feet and walked over to it clumsily, his vision impaired by tears. 

Bell was absolutely right.  I am a coward.

He shouldered his bag and glanced toward the river, where the scythe had splashed down.  “Great.  What am I going to tell Charlotte?”  Michael started down the sidewalk toward the busier part of town, half wishing Bell had just gone ahead and killed him.  His eyes welled with tears again at the thought of Randy and Charlotte never knowing what happened to him.  Though not knowing was better than them ever finding out the truth.  He didn’t deserve friends like them.  He was just grateful that his stupidity hadn’t cost them their lives. 

Bell’s right,
He thought
.  I have to leave them.

But how can I?

Michael slept poorly.  His dreams were short bursts of stories with no endings, filled with people looking for him even though he was standing right in front of them.  They knocked on doors that never opened. They made phone calls that went unanswered.  Their faces were lined with wrinkled worry.  Their hair was prematurely gray.  Bell stood at the edge of each scene, that slight smile like a curved blade. "Your morals are going to get your friends killed."

In each dream, he told himself to wake up; he assured himself it was only a nightmare and the answer was to wake up.  When he finally crossed from sleeping to waking, he regretted his own advice.  Michael rolled over without opening his eyes. He reached for his blanket, but his fingers grasped only air.  The heady scent of cinnamon and citrus, mixed with the powerful scent of cleaning products, assaulted his senses and brought him fully upright.

It was there on the stove: a pot of orange peels roiling around in boiling water, the water dark with cinnamon.  Michael groaned.  His mother was cleaning.  The bathroom door stood open; his pile of towels had vanished.  He looked around again for his blanket, but it was gone.  So was the one he’d made his makeshift bed out of.  He glanced up to see his bed was stripped, too. 

At least she left me the pillow
, he picked it up and noticed the cover smelled like lavender. "No, she's just returned it." 

The window was open.  He assumed that was to let the stink of toilet cleaner and bleach out of his bathroom.  All the trash had disappeared.  His papers from school were stacked in several neat piles on the table.  He stood, resigned to the coming onslaught of shaming.  It was never enough for her to clean a place; she always had to make sure the perpetrator felt thoroughly ashamed of himself before the job was truly done.

"Mom?" he called. There was no answer. He walked to the bathroom and peered inside, but she was gone.

There was a sharp knock on the door.

Michael jumped. "Who is it?"

"NYPD."

Sickness rose in his throat. He looked down and realized he was wearing only his boxers: covered in Daleks and proclaiming "Exterminate!" across the front.

He opened his pants drawer and found it empty. His shirt drawer was the same. They were all empty.

"Just a minute!"

"We have a warrant to search this apartment. You have ten seconds."

"Blarg!" She had taken everything.  He spotted his bed sheets folded neatly on the edge of the dresser.  He winced at the thought of his Mother's face, but he had no choice.  He threw the thin navy fabric around his shoulders and ran to the door.

There were two uniformed officers in his hall, one tall, squareish man and a wiry brown-haired woman.  Behind them stood Detective Paole.  Michael swallowed hard.  Why did he have a warrant?

The two cops pushed past him even as he said, "Come in."

The detective smiled slowly at Michael, holding out an official-looking piece of paper.  Michael didn't know what to say, so he motioned the man inside.

When the door was closed he cleared his throat.  "Is there anything in particular you are looking for?" he heard the tremor in his voice as he spoke.

The two uniformed cops shared a glance at Michael's expense.

"Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Wallace.  When I see two murders in the same week with corpses without a drop of blood in them, I think to myself that that's a strange coincidence.  I want to find the connection between these two innocent victims.  You know what connects my two victims?"

Michael knew his face was turning white.  The officers were opening all his cupboard doors, all his drawers.  One went in to the bathroom and the other ducked to look under the bed.

"One Barbra Whitfield was found outside your theater on the opening night of a play which features the Grim Reaper.  One Jeffery Westen was found in his bed, with security footage showing a very similar Grim Reaper fleeing the scene.

“Where is the costume, Michael?” he asked the question in a professional tone, but there was a flash of anger hiding in his eyes.

“I…”
I have no idea
.  He held out his hands, clueless.  The tall cop stepped just behind him, looking over his shoulder as if the answer was in Michael’s upturned palms.  A strong smell of cigarettes wafted over Michael, and he gagged on the heavy odor.

“Where is the scythe?”

Michael shook his head, recalling the distinctive splash as it sank into the Hudson.  “I…lost it.”

The brunette appeared at the Detective’s shoulder when she ran out of places to search. "Sir, there's nothing,"

"What do you mean 'nothing'?" he sniped, never taking his dark eyes from Michael.

"I mean nothing.  There's hardly anything in the cupboards, and no clothes at all in the dresser.  The bathroom is spotless.  He's just cleaned, sir. 
Very
thoroughly."

They both looked him up and down, standing there clutching the sheet around himself.  The detective’s eyebrows raised.  Michael didn't like the picture they were painting.  He started to explain, but couldn't find his voice.

“I have a warrant for that costume, Mr. Wallace,” the Detective said, his thick fingernails smoothing the folds in the crisp piece of paper.

“I—” Michael began again, his eyes watering from the smell of smoke.  He tried to step away from the carcinogenous cop, but the man pressed in even closer.

“I want that costume—” the Detective was cut off by a noise coming from the hallway.  They all looked to the door.

It started quietly, a bright humming, and grew louder at the chorus.  “Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, Hallelujah! Glor—” the door banged open, almost hitting the female police officer in the face.

It was Michael’s mother.  She was carrying two baskets full of clean laundry.

She jumped horribly at the sight of the four of them.

“Lord have mercy!” She dropped one of the baskets and pressed a bejeweled hand to her heart. “Scared the tar outta me!”

The detective slipped the warrant into his jacket and extended a hand. “I’m Detective Paole,” he said with an almost imperceptible nod, motioning for the uniformed cops to help her with the fallen laundry.

“What is goin’ on around here? Michael, are you in trouble?” Her eyes and her tone were those of a woman who was ready to throw a child over a knee and start paddling.

“Nothing, ma’am. We were just asking this young man about a recent disturbance.”

Mrs. Wallace pursed her lips. “I keep tellin’ him this city isn’t a place for anybody to be. When he told me where he wanted to go to school, the first thing I said was that he would be shot dead in his bed. New York people are crazy.”  She kept rambling on about rats and “goons" and the price of a gallon of milk, but the detective wasn’t listening.

“May I?” He said, reaching for something in the mess of laundry.

Mrs. Wallace looked confused, but nodded, redirecting her rant to the female officer.

Michael couldn’t see around the cop, who was still kneeling to put Michael’s socks back into the basket.  But the Detective stood again in a moment and in his hands he held the costume.  It was neatly folded, smelling of flowers, and so thoroughly cleaned that it looked to be closer to gray than to black.  She had even mended some of the tears he had put in it during his epic tumble.  Michael forced his face to remember that it didn’t matter to him whether the detective found the costume or not.  His heart beat out a dance of hope against his ribcage.

Color rose in the detective’s face.  He clutched the costume so hard his knuckles were white.  He glared at Michael with such hatred that, for a moment, Michael felt solidly mortal.

“...and now I come in and find three of New York’s finest in my son’s apartment!” His mother gestured wildly, a fistful off socks flinging at the officers.

The female cop nodded along to placate her.  The broad male officer ground his teeth, a sound that electrified Michael’s head like nails on a chalkboard.

The detective tucked the costume under his arm and shot a challenging look at Michael before ordering the officers out.  “See you soon,” he said darkly, though a flicker of frustration in the man’s rodent-like eyes told Michael he knew there was almost no chance of finding evidence on the costume now.

The door banged shut behind him, and Michael’s mother made a sour face. “Rude!” she slammed the basket down on the table and turned to retrieve the other.  “I don’t understand how you can live here, Michael, I really don’t.” She stopped to pick lint off her large front, a curl of graying hair falling in front of her face.

Michael didn’t care that she was controlling, or manipulative.  He didn’t even care that she had said ‘Bless your heart’ to every gay couple they passed on the street, or that she was launching into the move-back-to-the-South-where-the-people-are-decent routine. She was his mom, and she had saved him.

“Mom!” he interrupted, hugging her.

Her arms hung out to the sides, surprised. “What is going on?”

Michael’s eyes stung. He knew Bell was right, and he knew the detective was going to find another way to attack him, and he knew that he would have to leave everyone behind, but for the first time in what felt like years, something had gone his way.  And he knew what he needed to do.

Michael held her tighter. “I love you, Mom.”

“Well, I love you, too, son,” she said, awkwardly patting him in the middle of the back.  “Are you alright?” She pushed him away to search his face.

Michael knew his eyes were red.  “I’m fine,” he lied. “Thank you for doing all this,” he said, gesturing to the spotless apartment.

“Somebody had to do it.” Her eyes flashed, hands on hips, and she opened her mouth to say more, but she closed it again at the look on Michael's face. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just been a long semester.”

“Alright,” her eyes lingered on his for several beats, but he put on a good show and she was convinced.  She put her hands on his biceps and gave them an affectionate squeeze.  “Well, I got done just in time for my flight,” she said, walking around Michael and retrieving her flowery bag from beside the bed.  “I’ll just go freshen up before getting back on that sardine can full of terrorists.” She walked to the bathroom and shut the door quietly.

Michael felt as though he’d been shanked in the lungs. He let out a long breath and rubbed his eyes.  He grabbed a pair of pants out of the basket and pulled them on.

I need to talk to Bell
.

What can I do for you, Michael
?

Michael spun around, startled. There was no one there.

What in the world…

We're close enough to talk telepathically.  I had an errand in the neighborhood.

Michael had no clue how he'd started this and no clue how to stop it.
  How am I doing this?

Bell’s mocking laugh rang in his ears. 

Michael shook his head as though it would make the sound stop.
  I need to talk to you
.

So you said. I'm on my way
.

The bathroom door opened and Michael's mother stepped out, her cheeks freshly bright with coral blush.

God, no!

Well, that's not very nice
.

"Sorry!" he said it aloud by mistake.

"Sorry for what, dear?" his Mother asked.

Curses
.

Bell's laugh tinkled in his ears like some eerie wind chime.
You'll get better at it.

"Um-sorry for the mess.  Thank you again.  For the cleaning!"

"Are you feeling alright, Michael?" his mother set her bag down on the bed and reached a hand up to his forehead.  Michael dodged, remembering Randy's reaction to his new body temperature.

"I'm fine. I'm just a little nauseated."

She pursed her thin lips.

"When is your flight?"

She glanced at her pink-and-gold wristwatch. "Very soon," she rifled through her bag and set her ticket on top, “The laundry room is full of your clothing.  I trust you can retrieve it all?” she said threateningly.  She pulled him down and kissed both of his cheeks, but he didn't mind.  She smiled at the red smudges on his cheeks and was gone.  Michael’s voice caught in his throat.  She couldn’t know that this was goodbye.

Michael stood there staring at the door for several seconds.  Bell had let herself in the window, but it didn't startle Michael.  He was learning to use his powers.

He didn't turn to look at her.  "I'm going to fake my death."