Good & Dead #1 (10 page)

“Thank you,” he smiled at Randy, clearly done with him.  He turned to Michael.

“My name is Detective Paole.”  He handed him a business card. “If you remember anything odd about the evening, give me a call.”  His friendly tone was betrayed by the hardness in his stare.

Both uniformed cops followed him out into the lobby.

“Have a good night!” Randy called after them.

Michael deflated when the last polished black heel disappeared out the door.

“Well, I think you just made yourself a suspect,” Randy teased. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Michael said, staring down at the clean white card.

Randy leaned in so the cast members standing nearby couldn’t hear.  “This doesn’t have anything to do with whatever weirdness was going on yesterday, does it?”

“No.” Michael managed to sound reassuring. “It’s nothing.  Cops just freak me out.” 

Randy nudged him with his shoulder.  “Cops and hospitals, right?”

“Yeah,” Michael said, turning to go. 
And nursing homes.

The hallway was dimly-lit, several different shades of beige, and the last place on earth Michael wanted to be.  There were a dozen rooms, six on each side.  All the doors were open, and soft yellow lamp light filtered out of most of them.  He stood in the middle of the empty hall, feeling foolish in his costume, much more like a child forced into the Halloween spirit than a grown man contemplating homicide. 

Michael shivered with nerves and indecision.  He walked as quietly as he could to the closest room and listened for any movement from within.   Aside from the buzzing of the florescent lights and the whirring of the medical equipment, it was quiet. 

He looked up and down the hallway and groaned. 

This was the nursing home closest to his apartment that didn’t tout high security as a feature on its website.  While other facilities boasted about gates and professional guards in between photos of landscaped exteriors, this place had a one-page html scroller with sparse details listed by bullet points in comic sans.   Michael had circled the building as innocently as he could, giving the windows and doors a side-eye as he pretended to tie his shoes.  There was a reason they didn’t mention security on their website.  One guard sat half-asleep in a chair by the front door, a flashlight held loosely in one hand and a chip bag in the other.  There was no one watching the rear at all.  Michael had opened an unlocked window and hoisted himself and his backpack inside without any trouble. 

The halls were deserted.  Michael had gotten more and more tense at every effortless turn.  He hadn’t realized until that moment that he was hoping something would stop him. 

He peeked into the first open door and whimpered.  He was discovering that theoretical murder was excessively easier than real murder.  Michael didn’t realize until his hand started to cramp that he was gripping the scythe so hard his knuckles were white.  He switched hands and glanced back the way he had come.  He wanted to bolt for the window and never see this place again.  He desperately wanted to be anywhere else, but Bell’s advice kept him there; his own cowardice kept him rooted to the spot, his green sneakers reflected in the overly waxed linoleum floor.  He rolled his shoulders quickly and took several deep breaths. 

Just try
, he told himself,
just see if someone is ready
.

He looked into the nearest room again, steeled himself against the smell of vapor rub and cleaning solution, and stepped inside, his black cloak sweeping in behind.

The curtain was drawn around the bed.  Michael took the reaper gloves out of his pockets and pulled them on, the fabric stretching tight over his skin.  He watched his own faux-skeletal hand pull back the curtain.

A little old lady lay there, tiny in her blankets, reading.  She looked up at the sound of the curtain and immediately started hyperventilating.  The heart monitor next to her bed went crazy.  She mouthed like a fish before crumpling over in a dead faint.

For one terrible moment Michael thought the heart monitor would accelerate into a flat line, but the moment her eyes closed it began to slow down.  He turned and ran out of the room, his heart hammering inside his chest.

He kept running.  He ran all the way back to the window he’d left open for an easy escape.  He would have run all the way home if Bell’s haunting prophesy hadn’t broken through in his frantic mind.

The hunger will choose for you; it is no respecter of persons.

Michael cursed under his breath. 
She’s fine
, he told himself,
she’ll just think it was a dream.  Get back over there and look for someone. 
He traversed the hall again, this time not even allowing himself to slow down.  He knew if he did he would be able to rationalize passing every room.  He marched right in without letting himself think.

The drapes were pulled across the bed, and the patient inside wheezed loudly over
The Price Is Right
.  Michael couldn’t tell whether they were sleeping or just breathing.  He adjusted his scythe and took several deep breaths.

The heart monitor by the bed beeped slowly, rhythmically.  Michael heard the covers rustle.

“Is someone there?” asked a gravelly voice from behind the curtain.

As soon as the old man spoke Michael knew that he could not do this.  Suddenly his thinking that killing someone who was close to death would be less awful was proved miserably, hopelessly wrong. 

But Bell’s words still teased him in the back of his mind, and he stood there silently, unable to go forward and unable to go back.

“Hello?” the old man said irritably.  “Open the curtain, already.  Do you know how annoying it is when you just stand there?”

Michael almost turned and left.  He wanted to.  But this was his only idea.  It was this or… Michael tried to get the image of Tanish’s grip tightening around that woman’s shoulders out of his head. 
You have to do this
, he told himself sternly. 

He reached out and pulled back the curtain.

The old man inhaled sharply, the monitor’s rhythm raced faster.

“Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit,” he said, his eyes wide.  He raised a wrinkled, shaking hand to his mouth.  “Jesus Christ in heaven,” he whispered.

Michael stood there silently, not knowing what he had pictured, but knowing it wasn’t this.  He wanted to make sure that this man was ready to go.  Like, super, extra, uber ready to go.  But how would he find out?  Would the illusion be ruined if he spoke?  But even as Michael’s mind raced for an answer the heart monitor calmed almost to its original pace. 

The man in front of Michael smiled softly, wrinkles framing pale blue eyes.  Michael couldn’t take his eyes off of the man’s purple veins protruding through his transparently thin skin.  His heart beat loudly, excitedly.  A lump of fear and revulsion rose in his throat.  He knew what Bell meant about getting hungry, and he was horrified.  Yet the thought of actually touching this man’s frail body still repulsed him.  It was controllable.

“Well, then.” The old man lifted the remote control and silenced the TV.  “How does this work?”

I have no idea
, Michael thought in a panic.

“I’m sorry I was rude earlier,” the old man said. “I, uh, I thought you were another of those terrified trainees.  They always lurk out there counting their pimples and reading my chart, probably deciding whether or not I’m dead yet.”  He chuckled and looked at Michael expectantly.

“I must say, I was really hoping to make it until the morning.”

Michael cocked his head to one side inquiringly.

The man looked surprised at this.  “My first great-great grand child is coming to meet me.  11lbs, 15 ounces,” he chuckled, adjusting his tiny, withered frame on the bed.  “That’s a properly fat baby, and a girl to boot.”

Crap.  He had to be sweet
.  Michael was hoping for a mean old grandpa, the kind that yells for you to get off his grass or fusses at parents to shut up their children at the supermarket.

Michael glanced at the heart monitor; it had resumed its slow, measured beeping. 

The old man’s gaze moved with Michael’s.  “They have been very positive lately.  Telling me how great I look and all that nonsense.  But I knew when they started bringing me two puddings a day that I was done for.”  There was a sad sparkle in his eyes.

Michael couldn’t do it.  He was more certain of that now than ever before.  There was no way he could hurt this man.  But how could he get out of it now? 

“Sir?” the man asked, his eyes tearing up. “I’ve done some things I’m not proud of, but I’ve taken care of my own.  I think I can look back and say that I’ve led a good life. Lord knows it has been a long one.”  His eyes glistened in the blueish glow of the little lamp on his bedside table.

Michael could only stare at him.

“If it is at all possible, sir,” he said, looking up at Michael hopefully, “may I please have just 24 more hours?  Wait.  What time is it?  Let’s see,” he said, struggling to reach his wrist watch on the nightstand and then working it like a trombone to get it to the right distance from his eyes.  “Not even that long,” he said, holding up a wrinkled finger. “Just 12 hours.”

Michael nodded solemnly, his own heart drumming at this unexpected reprieve. 

The old man laughed out loud.  “Really?” he said, the heart monitor chirping merrily.  “I didn’t—.” He laughed, clapping his hands together with glee. “That was just a shot in the dark.  Thank you,” he said, bowing as best he could in his many blankets.  “Thank you.”

Michael stared at him a few moments more, then turned slowly and glided from the room with a slow, measured pace.  The old man thanked him joyfully the whole way. 

As soon as Michael was out of earshot he broke into a run. 

There was a bathroom conveniently close to the window Michael had used for his entrance, and he ducked inside.  His hands shook as he tore off his costume, throwing his gloves into the bag he’d left in the stall and stuffing it with black fabric like an over-f suitcase. 

Once he was dressed, he crept back to the door and listened for a moment.  Nothing.  He opened it very slightly and peeked out.  No one.  He stepped out into the hall and noticed a chair sitting near a table of pamphlets. 

Michael tiptoed over and stole the chair, placing it underneath the small rectangular window just outside the bathroom door.  He climbed onto it and stuck his head out the window to make sure no one was walking around the yard.  Michael climbed down to retrieve the scythe, laid the heavier end on the window frame, and pushed it out hard.  It kicked up leaves as it slid across the frozen ground.

The backpack was an awkward, lumpy shape, but Michael was able to hoist it up and shove it out of the small window opening.  For once he was glad he was so skinny.  There was room to spare as he climbed through the window.  He landed heavily on the carpet of leaves outside the building. He brushed himself off and retrieved his things.  Every crunch of the leaves underfoot made him tense up and look around. 

Sounds that are boring when one is innocent are suddenly enormous and shocking when one is guilty. 

He began to tiptoe across the lawn toward the fence that bordered the property, but couldn’t help breaking into a run.  Looking back across the lawn, he let out a sigh of relief.  No one had seen him. 
Not bad for my first B & E
, he thought, frowning across the dark yard to the fence that bordered the property.

It was chain link, and it came up to Michael’s eye level.  He had made it over alright the first time, but he had the soft ground to land on then, evidenced by the grass stains that ran up his entire left side.  This time he had the hard pavement waiting for him if he fell.

Michael looked into the street just past the fence.  No one in sight.  He lifted the scythe as high as he could, laid it on the top of the fence and let the weight of the rubber blade swing it over the other side.  It bounced a little on the pavement and flopped over with a frightful clatter that made Michael cringe.  He hoisted the duffle bag.  It caught the chain link on its way down, causing the fence to rattle horribly. 

He froze, listening hard.  He could have sworn he heard someone talking.  Nausea swam in and out again with his hearing.  One second it sounded distant and the next it sounded like it was right behind him.  Then there was a static sound and a blaring beep.  Michael realized he was hearing the guard that sat at the front of the building. 
I’ll never get used to this
, Michael thought, cringing when he heard the cheap folding chair creak as the guard stood up.  He was on the move. 

He hurried to get a foothold in the chain link.  Soon he was perched precariously on top of the six-foot fence.  He sat as lightly as he could on the rounded metal top of the post, trying not to squish anything valuable, one leg on either side. 

“Okay, this is when I fell last time,” he muttered aloud.  “So let’s try…” he said, hooking his left foot into chain link.  As he swung his right leg over his ragged jeans caught on a loose wire and he toppled, arms swinging madly, to the ground.  He thrust his left hand out to catch his fall.  Pain seared through his arm and up into his shoulder. 

Michael winced, his cheek against the cold pavement.  He looked up through the pain to see that his pants had held on tight to the fence.  He lay in the alley in only his boxers. 
Fantastic
.  He sat up with shaky breath and stood carefully, every move setting off alarm bells of pain in his shoulder and back.  He touched his arm gingerly, and had to fight down a gagging sensation as he discovered it was hanging at an odd angle; his shoulder was clearly dislocated. 

“Ew, ew, ew,” Michael groaned. “Gross, gross, gross.”

“Hey!” said a booming voice.

Michael looked up.  The guard was running towards him across the lawn, keys and extra calories swinging madly.  “Stop right there!”

“Crap!” Michael shuffled over to his bag as fast as he could, his shoulder searing with every movement.  He snatched up the scythe with his good hand and started off down the alley. 

“Stop!” the voice came again.  Glancing back, he saw his pants hanging on the fence and remembered that his wallet was inside.  The guard was red-faced and huffing, but moving quickly just the same.