It's No Picnic (7 page)

Well, at least that’s the tale so told.

“Here,” Alex said, “put these on,” handing Eli the pants he found on the way.

Dawn was turning to darkness as the two came out of the forest, Alex dragging Eli along, asking questions; all the while Eli simply chanting, “A madman is trying to kill me.”

Maybe Eli was simply over—medicated. Perhaps something new in the coffee. Possibly a genetic mishap. At any rate, Eli was now about as useful as a prayer in free fall.

Thankfully—the edge of the forest became clear, as Alex, dragging Eli through the mud what seemed an eternity, dropped, on the knees, from then on crawling until reaching the path.

Now on the path, the two got up, feet planted, and began walking again as if members of the human race.

The path’s markers were about as useful as they were confusing; seeming at once straight, yet beading, bending, and bowing as Alex and Eli continued to walk toward home.

Home now in sight, Alex felt light, as if an extreme burden lifted off the shoulders. Of course, Eli was still mumbling, chanting the unchanging song.

Now inside, Alex placed Eli in a chair, soon after, going to the phone, dialing…

A K
NOCK
A
T
T
HE
D
OOR
roused Alex from slumber. Vigorously, he rattled himself awake, repeatedly sampling sight of the chair seating Eli; in fact, often enough to notice him fast asleep, snoring; yet still mumbling the chant.

Groggy, Alex went to the door, opening it where he found waiting none other than, Chief Detective Smith.

“Detective Smith. How nice of you to come,” Alex said sedately.

“
Chief
Detective Smith,” he replied in a huffy tone, “And what do we have here? Did you manage to up and kill somebody?”

“No such luck,” Alex said.

Smith—head cocked to one side and scratching an eyebrow—glared at Alex, acting as if to intimidate, cawing as if to cow. Then—he looked at Eli, still fast asleep and chanting away, saying, “What’s he mumbling on about?” all the while actively scratching away at that brow.

“He’s chanting,
a madman is trying to kill me
,” Alex said.

Now Smith, the
chief
detective, seemingly not trusting a word Alex said, went over to Eli, and leaning down close to the chatter—heard, “…is trying to kill me. A madman…”

“What do you suppose that means,” Smith said.

“I suppose it means a madman is trying to
kill
him,” Alex said, ironically.

Now Smith, outwardly a bit mad himself, said, “I’d like to know who this madman is.”

“You and I both
pal
,” Alex said coolly.

“What?”

“I’d like to know too.”

It was then Smith turned to the officer in charge, directing him to call a unit to pick up Eli, of course, leaving the officer to sort out the details. The officer picked up the phone, making a call to the station, afterward, informing Smith that a unit would arrive soon.

In the meantime, Smith continued to question Alex, asking, “So, what brought all of this on?”

Alex paused…slowly brushing back a handful of hair to get a better view of things, saying, “Well, I went to get a cup of coffee this morning…”

Then—Eli jumped up, interrupting Alex; pointing, saying, “Him, the eyes, they were on fire, he reached down, clawing, digging in so deep as to tear the skin from the body, ripping into the chasm of the chest, puncturing the aorta; spewing forth an ocean of blood covering me…”

Of course, Eli had nothing on but a pair of pants, leaving it quite apparent he had suffered no such injury or harm. Yet, there he stood, taking asylum in the mind, spewing forth highly expressive invectives; seemingly naming none other than Alex as a madman. But keep in mind, when wanting to name a madman; it helps if those invectives are sound.

Now the rising oratory changed, shifting, clutching face to fist, going from simple lunacy to violence, prompting Smith to say, “Cuff him.”

With that, two policemen wrestled Eli to the ground, placing him in cuffs.

Moments later, a unit showed up. Alex, Smith and the two policemen with Eli in tow went to greet it. Alex expected a squad car; instead, they sent an ambulance. He went round back of the ambulance, seeing one of the two men, asking, “Can I be of assistance?”

“No thanks. I believe we have it,” said the man dressed in all—white.

Curious, Alex read the name on the partly open transport doors:

—S
U
N
N
I
E
R P
A
S
T
U
R
ES—

Everybody stood around looking at each other as the ambulance pulled away; bewildered complexions painting faces, uncertain casts coating eyes; each seemingly asking the other to break the silence. Of course, it was Smith that coughed up the first word, asking Alex, “So, how did you say it ended?”

“Well, as I told you, I brought him back to the house and called the police,” Alex said, evenly.

“Okay, okay. We’ll follow up,” Smith said, surely, “Oh, and Alex, here’s a copy of
INP
. You never know, you might just need it.”

Oddly, the police seemed uninterested in what transpired. Perhaps it was obvious to the
trained
eye. Maybe years of working in the same place had jaded them. Whatever the reason, they were soon gone, leaving behind Alex and a shadow.

It, whatever, appeared suddenly, as always, but of a different character; this time with a bold entrance echoing through the head like a chorus in a cavern.

S
OMEONE
M
UST
H
AVE
S
AID
S
OMETHING
T
O
S
OMEBODY,
S
OMEWHERE—
S
OMETIME,
for now, Alex found himself inexplicably, on trial.

The room was silent, so much so that it deafened the spirit, each hush seemly taking on a life. How could they stand it?

Everybody was present making possible speech of everything. Yet, not an utterance held forth, not even the hum of a nervous person, each remaining silent, until
he
walked in.

As the old man walked across the room, a certain glee and giggle followed as if a preview of some up and coming comedy act. But who was he to invoke such laughter, and what was he doing here anyway? Perhaps spreading the truth. Maybe preaching it like it is.

Alex did not flinch, choosing instead to sit still and keep quiet in an openly youthful chair provided specially for him.

The old man finally made it to the front where a rather colossal chair stretching to the heavens stood waiting. How was he going to climb into that monstrosity?

The audience exhaled noisily in chorus, suggesting to Alex that he turn and look. As he turned, a rising peace lifted the hall, moving him to revert to a previous pose. It was then he noticed the old man was gone from sight; hearing only a faint voice growing ever more in volume.

As the voice became ever louder, Alex—eyes following the colossal chair

—u
p
p
p
p
p
—

at once, saw the old man perching high, as if suspended in mid air. How on earth?

Then—a voice came from the rear of the room, “This court is now in session, the
sincere
lord residing.”

“Lord?” Alex vaguely mumbled. He was old, greatly aged, with a gray beard—at least two vertical feet—extending from the chin, covering the midsection, for all intents and purposes a man quite open to reading. The eyes, they were light; having dark centers. The brows were similar in aspect, expressing what looked like a faith in defiance. He was not sitting in the chair; rather seeming crouched as if about to deliver the Sermon on the Mount, waving a finger in the air perhaps as a jester of scorn or maybe to indicate the audience quiet down.

“You are so charged,” the lord said.

“With what?” Alex easily retorted.

“The accused is so—self represented. How do you plea?”

“Plea? What are the charges?”

“That is not my occupation young man. The charges are levied and such is now the task I must now assume.”

“So what proof…Where’s the evidence?”

“Proof and evidence are unnecessary, only conviction.”

“Conviction?”

“Charges were filed. Hence, it follows conviction. What is the confusion?”

A massive laughter echoed through the hall, followed by a chorus reciting, “What a fool, who can’t follow the law, always seen, never saw…”

Then Alex—not touched at all by the mob’s chants—asked, “Aren’t you suppressing evidence sir?”

“Conviction is all that matters,” the lord said harshly.

“Okay. Conviction. What conviction am I to have then?”

“How do I know what you are to believe?”

Another laugh from the audience.

“I insist you read the charges,” Alex said, battering the table.

“If you insist. You have been charged with S
NOOPING
.”

“What do you mean? I was just doing a job.”

Now a vast gloom echoed about the hall, followed by a chorus chanting, “S
NOOPING
……S
NOOPING……
S
NOOPING……
S
NOOPING…
”

“What do I mean? Prying, dear friend. Putting the nose in where it doesn’t belong. Cease and desist. Or
DIE
.” the lord said flatly.

The lord struck the mallet down hard

—
b
a
n
g
i
ng—

a loud resounding throughout the hall causing a deep pain to build in Alex. Then—an explosion, glass shattering, woke Alex; at once bringing him back to truth.

M
ISS
T. K. S
TOOD
O
UTSIDE
T
HE
W
INDOW
, an ocean of rain over head; staring inside as Alex came into the kitchen and stepped on a piece of glass, cutting through the thin skin that was the sole of a foot, leaving a trail of blood as he continued toward the door. Finally, he made it to the door, opening it, finding Miss K. standing—wet, soaked like a sponge at sea.

“Come in, come in,” Alex said.

Miss K. walked in; bringing a deluge that flooded the bright marble—white kitchen floor.

Within minutes, it, the deluge that is, mingling with blood on the floor, created a burgundy and rosé issue. Eventually, the mix itself began circulating round the center drain, forming an alternating motif of light and dark, prompting Miss K. to say, “That’s an interesting pattern.”

“What?” Alex said with minor confusion.

“That scene, from—Psycho.”

“Yes, I’ve seen those. Awful sight.”

“Obviously not a fan,” Miss K. said with astonishment.

“Fan?”

“Forget it. Be a dear and fetch a towel. I’m wet and dripping.”

As is common amongst the type, Alex displayed certain bafflement with the statement, soon after realizing the hypnosis that follows effete entrance.

“I must get some manners one day soon,” Alex said politely.

Now Miss K., a certain eye glistening with glitter and glamour, replied in a sweet pretense, “Thank you Alex. You’re such a dear.”

Then the clod, Alex that is, went to the bathroom, grabbing a generous helping of towels, all colors, shapes, and sizes, bringing them back to Miss K., exclaiming, “I’m sure this will do the trick.”

As she dried, caressing, fondling, Alex began to notice a certain affinity—perhaps chemical, maybe biological, but definitely classical—for the engaging Miss K. Maybe a certain arc or vital curve rousing the attention; regardless, something captivated him.

Then—a grave, severe air filled the room, making the once common attraction,
Vanish
. Miss K. reached into a purse she’d plainly attached to a belt, pulling out what appeared at first sight a pair of dentures.

“Are those—” Alex said.

“Yes. But take a look.”

Miss K. gently handed the dentures to Alex, as if handling crystal, or method acting brain surgery.

“Interesting,” Alex said as he glanced at the dentures.

Most of the time, dentures, even if without warranty, do not come doused in blood and badly damaged. But this pair was, and this roused the curiosity. For not only were they doused, but the dispensation, the dispersion, this struck Alex as most odd.

“Notice here,” he said, “part of the central incisor is missing.”

Miss K. bent over; looking; hanging out; replying, “I see.”

“Also notice the extreme concentration of blood around the central and lateral incisors, and what appears to be matted hair. This is odd, very odd.”

Alex thought for a moment, realizing no one nailed these dentures in the usual sense, like a punch to the mouth or a back handed blow, No; somebody struck a heavy hammer with these dentures, possibly over the head. In other words;
a murder weapon
.

“Where did you get these,” Alex asked.

“I found them at the forest’s edge.” Miss K. said nervously.

“Did Nadie wear dentures?”

“You don’t think…”

“I don’t know. But we can’t rule out…”

Tears started to flow, and much to the regard of Alex, they too, were flooding the kitchen floor. But the matter at hand was not that which easily wipes up. No, now it was
true
;
Nadie K. was murdered
.

Alex could only guess at how upset Miss K. must be, unable as it were, to see this utterly moving scene, often blind to what moved others; sometimes opposed, other times hostile to what most find slight; and, as with all things human, not able to guess the time or place. He tried though, often in vain, but he tried.

Then—Miss K. ran out the back door and into the downpour; unsure whether the raindrops were tears, convinced Nadie was dead. Alex followed, without eyeglasses; arriving in the shower with a blurred sense of reality, able to make out only the slight figure of Miss K. running away, into the forest. Barefoot, Alex was sliding back and forth through the mud as if a skater on ice for the first time. He couldn’t keep it up for long, if even for the fact he’d lost sight of Miss K.