Undermind: Nine Stories (8 page)

“But I can—“

“Hold on. I ain’t finished. I ended up getting a
warrant…”

Dave felt his bowels loosen as fear washed over
him. He didn’t know what they could find with a warrant, but this
was bad news. They were still focusing on him, and they’d probably
find out somehow that Danny was with him.

“I checked with the phone company,” he
continued, “and they were able to pinpoint your cell phone’s
location last night as being at the hospital well before and after
the shooting.”

“That’s great. Now you know I was there the
whole time.”

“I can’t say I
know
anything. Maybe you
had a stranger hold it for you. But as far as I’m concerned, the
GPS data, combined with the conversation you had with Officer
Frazier shortly before the shooting is good enough proof for me.
I’m closing the case.”

“That’s great. Thank you, Detective. Thanks for
letting me know.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Parsons. And
congratulations.”

“For what?” Dave asked.

But the detective had ended the call and the
phone was silent.

###

The sound of a chainsaw yanked me from my
slumber and when I opened my eyes, I saw a pretty, nude blonde
lying next to me with a knife sticking out of her chest and blood
running down her sides, pooling in the shallow depth of her
abdomen.

Surely I was still dreaming. No one wakes up
like this. I closed my eyes and squeezed them shut really hard,
then I opened them again. She was still there. So was the blood,
and the knife. What the fuck?

I scrambled up and looked around. Where the fuck
was I? How did I get here? The house was empty and looked vacant.
There was no furniture and nothing hanging from the walls. Just
trash scattered around the carpet. Empty beer cans, snack food
wrappers and cigarette butts that had been crushed into the carpet.
The place smelled like bug spray and urine.

I looked down at myself and saw that I was still
dressed, but my hands were stained with blood. That made no sense
at all. I would never kill anyone. And if I did, it would be in
self-defense. The girl lying on the floor did not look anything
remotely like a threat to anyone. She was naked and unarmed. She
looked far more like a victim of a crime than a perpetrator of one.
Even though I had no memories of how I got here, and I did not
recognize this girl from anywhere, I was certain that I didn’t kill
her.

I tried to recall where I was last night but I
couldn’t remember a thing. I had a better chance of remembering the
weird dream I’d been having before I woke, and it was all but
evaporated now. I needed to look at the girl, even though the
thought of doing so filled me with fear and revulsion, but first, I
had to get the blood off my hands. I could imagine someone saying,
“We caught him red-handed.” Great. My sense of humor was intact.
Maybe I really was crazy. This was no time for joking around.

I went into the kitchen and turned on the
faucet. Some rust-colored drops of water sputtered into the sink as
the faucet gave a final exhalation. No water. Despite my foggy and
rattled brain, I still had enough mental processing left to think
of checking the toilet tank. I found the bathroom, and lifted the
lid off the tank. I briskly scrubbed my hands in the rusty water,
urgently trying to get the blood off of them. I got most of it. It
had caked around my cuticles and under my fingernails, but that
would have to do for now.

I went back to the living room for the task I
dreaded. I needed to really look at this girl and see if I
recognized her from sometime before last night, which I had no
memory of. When I walked back into the living room, it seemed as if
her arm was in a different position than it was when I left. Could
she possibly be alive? I bent down and started to reach two fingers
toward her carotid artery, but stopped myself, remembering that
fingerprints could be left on skin.

I know it looked like I was the one who killed
her, but I was still certain that I hadn’t, despite having no
memory of the night before. And if I wasn’t the killer, I wasn’t
going to provide evidence to the contrary – beyond that which
already existed. I placed my hand in front of her nose instead of
feeling for a pulse. While I waited to feel even the tiniest
breath, I looked at her chest for any sign that she was breathing.
I had the strangest feeling as I looked at her. On one hand, she
was very beautiful, but on the other, she was a bloody corpse. She
presented a horrible mixture of beauty and violence. I don’t know
how anyone could do that to another person. I know I couldn’t.

I felt nothing on my hand, and I saw no movement
of her chest. I was pretty sure she was dead. Either someone was in
here with me and moved her arm, or I had just imagined that it was
in a different position. To be sure, I decided I better check the
rest of the house. The real killer could still be here. I started
walking down the hall when I heard a car screech to a halt out
outside.

Shit! That was probably the cops. What the fuck
was I still doing here? I should’ve run away as soon as I woke up.
What difference did it make if the house was empty or not? I had no
reason to be here at all. Well, I guess I could have looked for
clues about what had happened last night, but I don’t even know
what I’d look for.

I ran into the first bedroom on the right and
went to the window. I unlocked it and pushed it up. I kicked out
the screen and crawled through. Now, where to? I didn’t even know
where the fuck I was. So, first thing – get far away. Anywhere
would do.

I ran across the backyard and hoisted myself up
and over the brick wall and into the next backyard. There was a
sliding glass door in front of a covered patio but the blinds were
closed, as were the ones in front of a small kitchen window. I ran
around to the side of the house and reached a wooden fence with a
metal latch. I stopped and waited, listening. No one was pursuing
me. I lifted the latch, opened the gate and walked alongside the
driveway all casual as if I was just heading out for a stroll.

I had to think. How could I have ended up at
that house? At the sidewalk, I turned right, still completely
unaware of what part of town I was even in. I hoped to get a clue
when I reached a corner with a street sign. What was the last thing
I could recall? I remembered being at work yesterday. I left work,
went home. Wait a second. Yesterday? How did I know if I only lost
one day? Maybe today wasn’t even Saturday? I instantly patted my
right, back pocket, knowing it would be empty. It was. Where the
fuck was my cell phone?

Oh shit. What if it was in the house with the
girl? The cops will surely think I was the killer – and a stupid
one at that. My other pocket was empty too. No wallet. This was
just getting better and better. No keys in my right, front pocket,
and no cash or coins in the other front pocket. I realized my car
could be parked right out in front of the vacant house; another
thing advertising that I’m the primary suspect. Could my life be
any more fucked?

***

I passed several street corners without learning
where I was, but when I finally hit a boulevard intersection I got
partially oriented. As far as I could tell, I was in North
Hollywood somewhere. I went south on Lankershim until I came to the
Metro. I could take it to within a few blocks of my apartment – if
I had any money. I resigned myself to walking the seven miles to
where I lived. I was hot, thirsty and hungry. My body was fatigued
as if I’d already walked miles, and my mind felt stunned, as if I’d
been whacked in the head with a two-by-four.

I told myself to try to think rationally as I
walked, blindly stepping into traffic at the next intersection.

“Yo! White boy! You fi’n ta get yo’sef
keelt!”

I stepped backwards suddenly as a city bus
whooshed by inches from my face. I tripped when I ran into the curb
behind me and fell, landing on my ass. The old black man laughed as
I added ass pain to my growing list of miseries.

“Yo mama nevah learnt you to look befo’ crossin
da street? Dayum!” he said, hooting with laughter. When he regained
his composure, he extended an old wrinkled brown hand to help me
up.

“Thanks,” I said. “I was lost in thought.”

“Dey be yo’ last thoughts if’n you don’t watch
yo’sef!”

“Thank you,” I said, not knowing what else to
say. I certainly couldn’t explain my predicament.

I stood there numbly looking at the traffic,
willing the pain in my tailbone to subside. Walking was going to be
a lot more painful now. Seven fucking miles of pain until I could
take some aspirin, lie down, and try to figure out what was going
on.

“Jeet today?”

“Excuse me?” I asked, turning to look at the
man.

“Here, take dis,” he said, reaching into his
inner jacket pocket and handing me a Twix.

At the sight of the candy bar, my stomach kicked
into gear and growled ferociously. I didn’t know when I’d last
eaten. I gladly took the candy from the stranger and tore into the
wrapper with my teeth. It was warm and the chocolate clung to the
inside of the wrapper. After eating the twin bars, I licked the
chocolate off the paper, then walked over to the wire-basket
trashcan next to the streetlight post.

“Now I knows you din’t eat today.”

“Thank you very much, sir. If I had any money,
I’d pay you, but I—“

“You jis pay it fo’ward when you can,” he said,
dismissing my explanation.

The light turned green and I thanked him for the
fourth time in two minutes before complying with the sign that now
said
WALK
. When I reached the other side, my mind went back
on autopilot as far as navigating the obstacles on the sidewalk. I
weaved in and out around pedestrians, newspaper vending boxes, and
the occasional street beggar partially blocking the way with their
outstretched legs, sitting on the sidewalk holding their cardboard
signs with
God Bless
written on them.

I put the sugar from the candy bar to work,
forcing myself to think back to the last thing I recalled. I had
left work and gone home. I checked my email, watched the news on TV
for a while, and then when I got hungry, I decided to eat out
somewhere. I drove to a nearby bar that makes great burgers. But I
didn’t eat. Someone bought me a beer and I think we talked for a
while. I remember that I didn’t want a beer, but I was being polite
and trying to get out of the conversation with the overly friendly
guy who seemed really intent on talking to me and buying me drinks.
Not in a gay way – just an obliging, clueless way, like someone who
wants a friend and doesn’t realize they’re imposing.

That’s the last thing I remember. How is that
possible? I crossed another intersection and strained to recall
more of what happened in the bar. The fact that there was nothing
at all in my mind to be discovered made me wonder if the guy had
spiked my drink. It made perfect sense. He was determined to talk
to me despite my short answers and the fact that I kept returning
my gaze to the menu rather than engage him in conversation. I could
imagine him putting something in my beer, then when I got groggy,
he could’ve walked me out as if he was helping a friend who was too
drunk to drive. Then he could’ve driven me to the house in North
Hollywood. Then what? He went out, found a girl, brought her back,
stripped her and killed her, then laid her out on the floor next to
me?

What the fuck sense did that make? Whoever the
guy was, I had never seen him before. I’d never seen the girl
before either. Maybe the guy just needed someone to be a patsy and
I was dumb enough to sit there accepting his drinks instead of
doing what I wanted to do, which was just eat, and see if any
attractive females showed up while I was eating.

A horn honked, which is not unusual, so I
ignored it. Then it honked again, right beside me from a car that
was moving at the same rate of speed that I was walking. I looked
over and saw the driving leaning over so he could see me through
the passenger window.

“Need a lift?”

It was the guy from the bar! Considering what
he’d apparently done to me, he was the last person I should be
accepting a ride from.

“Sure,” I said, walking over to his car and
getting in.

***

I know it seems stupid that I got in a car with
the person who was most likely responsible for the hell I found
myself in, but he was also the only person in the world who might
be able to shed light on what was happening to my life, and
why.

He pulled forward as soon as I had gotten in,
before I’d even shut the door. The car behind us was honking its
horn and the light in front of us was green. I blurted out
everything on my mind without thinking of what I was going to
say.

“Who are you? What did you do to me? Why did you
kill that girl? Are you fucking insane? What the hell is going
on?”

“Slow down, Tommy boy! One thing at a time. You
sure woke up full of questions, didn’t you?”

“I woke up next to a dead girl! And the last
thing I remember was drinking beer with you, so this is all your
doing. What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you doing
this?”

“Listen, Tommy. If we’re—“

“Stop calling me Tommy!”

“Okay, Tom. Listen up. To have a conversation,
you’re gonna have to slow down. First things first. What’s the
first thing you’d like to know before you go to prison for
murder?”

We stopped at a red light and I couldn’t decide
if I should get out and run, reach over and strangle him, or try to
engage in a conversation that might result in some answers. I also
wanted to ask him where we were going, but that seemed like the
least important matter at the time.

“I didn’t kill her!”

“Sure you didn’t. But you can save it for the
judge. I already know what you’re guilty of. And I know you’re
going to be punished. Justice is being served, as we speak.”