29
Mrs. Barbara Brown was blond, and Mr. Steve Brown was brunette with gray coming in at the temples. He's was taller than she was by about five inches, but other than that, they matched. You could still see the pretty round-faced cheerleader she'd been in high school. The handsome football player was still there in his shoulders and the edges of his face, but the extra weight and the extra years and the grief had covered over who they'd been. Their eyes were bright, but it was an unnatural brightness, almost shocky. She spoke too fast, and he spoke too slowly, as if he had to think about each word before he said it. She spoke as if talking about her son was something she had to do, or she'd explode, or break down.
"He was a straight A student, Ms. Blake, and here's the last picture he painted. It was a water color of his youngest sister. He had such talent." She held up the picture, which they'd brought in one of those art carriers that looks like a thin briefcase.
I dutifully looked at the painting. It was a very soft picture, all watery blues and delicate yellows, and the child's curls were almost white. The little girl was laughing, and the artist had caught a shine in her eyes that usually required a camera to capture. It was good. For a junior in high school, it was spectacular.
"It's a wonderful painting, Mrs. Brown."
"Steve didn't want me to bring it. He said that you didn't need to see it, but I thought if you saw what kind of person he was, that you'd be willing to do what we want."
"I don't think that seeing Steve's paintings will influence Ms. Blake, that's all, Barbara." He patted her hand as he finished, and she didn't react to it at all. It was almost as if he hadn't touched her. I began to understand who was the driving force behind this tragic farce. Because it was a farce. She wasn't talking like she wanted her son brought back as a zombie so he could say who'd murdered him. She was talking like she was trying to persuade me to do a Lazarus on him, to really bring him back. Had Bert heard that in her voice and ignored it, or had she saved it for me?
"He was a track star, and on the football team." She opened the yearbook to appropriate places, and I looked at Stevie Brown running in shorts with a baton in his hand, head thrown back, a look of utter concentration on his face. His hair was dark and not long. Stevie Brown kneeling on the ground in full football gear, helmet on the ground by his hand. He was grinning out at the camera, his bangs spilling over his eyes. He had his father's hair, and a thinner, younger, brighter version of his mother's face, except for the lips and the eyes, which, again, were his father's.
I saw a picture of him on the yearbook staff, bent over a layout table, face very serious. He looked like someone that would run track, thin, muscled, but not much bulk. I wouldn't have picked him for football, not beefy enough. But who knew if he might have filled out in the summer between junior and senior year. But he never got the chance.
Prom night, he and his senior girlfriend had been crowned king and queen. There was a picture of them in front of a background of fake silver stars and too many sequins. He was beaming into the camera. He'd cut his hair and styled it so it was neat and thick and flattered his face more than the way it had when he ran track. His shoulders were a little broader than in the yearbook or track photos. He looked taller in his white tux. The girl was blond and looked like a thinner, taller version of his mother. The girl looked confident and lovely, with a smile that was more mysterious than Stevie's had been. Looking at their pictures, it was obvious they didn't know that in less than six hours they'd be dead.
"Cathy and Stevie had been dating for almost two years. High school sweethearts, just like Steve and me." She leaned forward as she said it, her lips half parted, her tongue moistened them as if she was having trouble keeping her mouth from drying out.
Her husband kept patting her hand and looked at me out of his fine dark eyes, which were so like his dead son's. He told me with those eyes, and his so-tired face, that he was sorry. Sorry I had to see this, hear this, be here now.
I wasn't up to the subtle eye message thing, the best I could do was nod sympathetically and give him more eye contact than I gave her. He gave a small nod where Barbara couldn't see him. There, we'd had our moment, a very guy moment. I see you, I see you, too. I understand what you mean, I understand what you mean, too. If I'd been a better girl, I'd have said something out loud to be sure.
"He sounds like he was a wonderful person," I said.
She leaned forward a little more, she had a small photo album in her hands, one of those thick ones that grandmothers carry in their purses. She fumbled it open, and I was staring at pictures of a dark-haired baby, toddler, grade-schooler.
I put my hand over hers, stopped her from turning the pages. "Mrs. Brown, Barbara..."
She wouldn't look at me. Her eyes were getting shinier.
"Mrs. Brown, you don't need to prove to me that your son was a good kid. I believe you."
Mr. Brown stood up and tried to help her put the photo album back in her purse. She didn't want to do it, and he wouldn't fight her. He stood there, sort of helplessly, with his big hands hanging at his sides.
She leaned into the desk again and turned a page. "Here he is winning the fifth grade science fair."
I didn't know how to stop this without being cruel. I leaned back in my chair and stopped looking at the pictures. I made eye contact with Steve, and his eyes had grown shinier, too. If they both started crying I was going to leave. If I could have helped them, I would have, but I couldn't. And truthfully, I didn't think Barbara Brown had come to me to produce a zombie.
I looked back down at a picture of Stevie in eighth grade, his first year on the football team. That surprised me, I'd have thought his father would have put him in peewee league. It made me think better of Steve that he'd waited until his son wanted to play.
I covered her hands and the book with my hands. I pressed down enough that she had to finally look up at me. Her eyes were wild, as if tears were the least of our worries. There was something almost violent in that look.
I changed what I'd been going to say, because she wasn't ready to hear me say, Leave, I can't help you. "You told me that it happened on prom night, but you didn't give me any details." I didn't really want details, but anything to stop the pictures and the desperate flow of memories. Murder I could handle. The trip down memory lane was getting on my nerves.
Her eyes flicked right, then left, and she leaned back, leaving the album in my hands. I left it open to his thirteenth birthday party. The smiling faces of him and his friends clustered around a cake.
Her breath came out in a long, slow rattle. Not a sound that you hear out of the living much. She swallowed convulsively and reached for her husband's hand. He was still standing. His face relaxed a little just because she'd reached for him.
"They found Stevie's car off the road, as if they'd been run into the ditch. The police think that they were picked up trying to hitchhike," he said.
"Stevie wouldn't have gotten into a car with strangers," Barbara said firmly, "and neither would Cathy." Her eyes were a little less wild. "They were good kids."
"I'm sure they were, Mrs. Brown." People seemed to want to make saints of the dead, as if their very goodness should have protected them. Purity was not a shield against violence, in fact sometimes ignorance got you killed faster.
"I'm not saying they weren't good kids," Steve said.
She ignored him, and she'd taken her hand back. Both her hands were clasped around her purse, clutching it in her lap, as if she had to hold on to something, and his hand wasn't enough.
"They wouldn't have gotten in a car with strangers. Stevie was very protective of Cathy. He wouldn't have done it." She was so certain that there was nothing else to say about that particular speculation.
"Then did they know the people that gave them a ride?" I asked.
That seemed to throw her. She frowned, and her eyes darted from side to side, like something trapped. "No one we know would have harmed Stevie, or Cathy."
She'd been sure about the stranger thing, but she wasn't really sure about this one. Somewhere in her was enough logic to know that either they got into a car with strangers or they got into a car with people they knew. There were no other choices.
"The police think that they might have been forced into another car, maybe with a weapon," Steve said.
She was shaking her head over and over. "I can't bear the thought of someone pointing a gun at them. I just can't think who would have done such a thing."
He patted her shoulder. "Barb, maybe you better wait out in the other room, while I finish talking to Ms. Blake, here."
She was still shaking her head. "No, no, she's going to help us. She's going to bring Stevie back, and he can tell us who did this to him and to Cathy, and it'll be all better. We need to know who could do such a horrible thing." She looked up at me, and her eyes cleared for a moment. "Stevie and Cathy would not have gotten into a car with strangers. We'd talked about it. He knew that if someone pointed a gun at him and tried to force him into a car that they wouldn't let him live. We've talked about that since he was a little boy." Her breath caught, but she didn't cry, not yet. "I know he would have done what I'd told him to do. He would have grabbed Cathy and run into the woods. The car was parked right next to the woods. They could have hidden in there. It had to be someone he knew, or she knew. It had to be someone we know, Ms. Blake," she said, changing her tune from a minute ago. "Our beautiful boy was taken away by one of the people that have been over to our house, eating our food, giving us flowers. Someone we know is a monster and we didn't know it." There, that was the true horror. Not just that her son and his girlfriend had been murdered, but the murderer had to be someone Barbara and Steve Brown knew.
What must it be like to stare into the faces of your friends, your children's friends, and wonder, was it you? Or you? Which one of you did it?
I couldn't even argue with her, because you are more than 80 percent more likely to be killed by someone you know than by a stranger. An ugly statistic, but true.
"You say 'monster.' Do you mean just that they could kill your son, or something about how it was done?" Maybe it had been something supernatural. Maybe there was more than one reason they'd come to me. I could hope there was something I could do for them.
She put her hands over her face and started to cry, not quietly either.
Steve Brown spoke over her sobs, as if he'd heard them before. "What was done to them, Ms. Blake, what was done to them was monstrous." He didn't look like a man who'd had to say monstrous a lot in his life. I didn't think it was a word he'd chosen lightly.
Barbara Brown was rocking back and forth, back and forth, while she wept. Her sobs must have been as loud as I thought they were, because the phone on my desk rang.
I jumped, but got it. It was Mary, our very good secretary. "Is everything alright?"
"No," I said.
"Do you need me to pretend you have another client?"
"Fifteen minutes," I said.
"Or sooner if it gets louder?" Mary asked.
"Yes, that would be fine." I hung up, promising myself to send Mary flowers, or chocolates, or both.
Steve Brown was trying to calm his wife. She'd stopped rocking and was leaning in against him. The sobs had quieted, a little. When her blue eyes turned to me again, they contained that promise of violence again. If she knew who had done it, I wasn't sure what she'd do to them. Looking into her eyes, I wasn't at all certain that she'd wait for a judge and jury.
She spoke very fast, her words almost sliding into one another, "They raped Cathy, raped her, and they mutilated Stevie, they cut..." She just stopped talking, her hands pressed over her mouth, eyes impossibly wide. There wasn't a lot of sanity left in that look.
I kept my eyes on her, while I asked Steve Brown, "So someone gave them a lift after they had car trouble, and then..."
"They found them in a shed in the woods," he said, "and they'd raped them both." He said in such a quiet voice, no change of inflection, as if he felt nothing when he said it, and maybe he didn't, not up where he was aware of it anyway. He'd had to push his pain underground, as far as he could shove it, because Barbara's pain was more important than his, more all-consuming.
"They cut him..." He almost broke then, but he rallied, and I watched him fight his face to hold it all together. "They castrated him." One of his eyes gave an involuntary flutter. "While he was still alive." His voice had gotten softer.
"The police never found it," she said, and her voice was shrill, "they can't find it. The monsters took a piece of him away, and the police can't find it. We had to bury him without it. They took it, and we couldn't get it back for him." Her voice was growing louder and louder, not exactly a scream, but not far from it. The shrill edge of hysteria was in full cry. "They didn't take anything from Cathy. Why didn't they cut her up? Why just Stevie? Why that? Why did they take that? Why that?"
If I'd had a dart gun full of Valium, I'd have used it. But I didn't. It was awful, horrible, but I couldn't fix this for them, and I really didn't need another nightmare to add to my list. I couldn't help them. It was a human monster, and I wasn't an expert on that kind of monster.
I finally went with that. "Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Brown, Barbara!" I yelled it, and it didn't phase her. She was gone, gone into her pain, her sorrow, her loss. I was yelling, but there was no one home to hear me.
Mary opened the door and said something twice before I could hear it over Mrs. Brown's voice. "Your next client is here, Anita. You've gone fifteen minutes over already." Mary was looking at me, but her eyes were a little wide. She'd been a secretary and law clerk once for a criminal attorney, so she'd seen grieving and hysterical clients before, but either this was a new variety, or Mary didn't like it any better than I did.
"I'll use one of the other offices, Mr. Brown. I'll give you and your wife a few minutes to collect yourselves."
Barbara Brown ran to me. "Please, Ms. Blake, please, please help us." She grabbed the front of my jacket. Her hand brushed the butt of my gun, and that made her pause, but only for a second. Then she wadded her hands tight in the cloth of my jacket. If she'd been a man, she might have jerked me into her, but she didn't. She just clung to me, and begged, "Please, Steve show her the check."
"Barbara, she's not going to help us."
She dug her hands tighter into my jacket, making fists of the cloth. It was a girl's jacket, not a man's, and there just wasn't enough material to treat it that roughly. It pulled my shoulders forward and was limiting my mobility, and she'd made it impossible for me to go for my gun. I didn't believe she was going to get so out of hand that I'd need the gun, but it was standard policy for me. No one got to compromise my gun, no one. The trouble was, I couldn't figure a way to get free of her without hurting her physically. And I didn't want to do that.
"Steve, show her the check." She was so close to me, that it was strangely intimate, close enough to kiss, too close to fight.
"Show me whatever she wants me to see, Mr. Brown," I kept my voice calm, no anger, no hint of what I was thinking, which was get her the fuck off me. I wasn't unsympathetic, but a stranger had breached my personal space, and I never liked that.
His face was all apology as he drew something out of the inner breast pocket of his suit coat. It was one of those oversized checks, a cashier's check. He held it up so I could see it clearly. The check was for a hundred and thirty thousand dollars, payable to cash.
"Take the check, Ms. Blake, we'll sign it over to you, now, today. Right now."
I shook my head and put my hands gently over hers, I was going to have to get her off me. "I can't take your money, Mrs. Brown." I tried to pry her hands away, but she gripped them tighter. The jacket was going to be permanently wrinkled.
"It's our life savings, but we could refinance the house. We could get you more." Her eyes were so bright right next to mine. Again that unnatural brightness, and I wondered if she was on something, something prescribed. If it was prescribed, then it was the wrong medication.
I couldn't get her hands off of me without hurting her, and I still wasn't willing to do that. I patted her hands, I'd try to be friendly. "It isn't a matter of money, Mrs. Brown. If I could raise your son and find out who did this, I would. Honest to God, I would, but it doesn't work like that."
Nathaniel was at the door. He gave me a look, like is there anything I can do? I couldn't think of anything, so I gave a small shake of my head.
Mary must have gone for Bert, because he appeared in the doorway with her behind him. "Mrs. Brown, you need to let Anita go. I told you before you had the meeting how it would go." His voice was even, almost singsong, as if he'd done this before. He hadn't done it much for me, but not everyone had my charm and ability to scare people. Usually, the gun made most clients nervous, but Barbara Brown didn't give a fuck about my gun.
She glanced at Bert, but then turned immediately back to me, her hands still strangling my jacket. "You can't say no, Ms. Blake, if you say no, then it's over, and it can't be over." She began to give me a little shake with every other word. "And it," shake, "can't be," shake, "over." Shake.
Mother of God, how do I help her, and how do I get her off me without making it all worse. We had grief counselors on file, but I doubted she'd go to one. She wasn't at that therapy-will-be-helpful stage. She was at that I'm-going-crazy stage.
I stopped trying to pry her off me, but I was tired of being shaken. I decided for truth. "A murdered zombie kills its killer."
"I want them dead," she almost screamed it, and tightened her grip so that she spit in my face, just a little, accidentally.
"The zombie cuts a path of destruction through everything and everyone in its way until it kills its killer. I've seen zombies kill innocent bystanders by accident."
"Stevie wouldn't do that," she said, and her face was so close to mine I wanted to draw my face back to focus on her, but she had too much of my jacket in her hands, so that I was effectively trapped. "Stevie was such a gentle person. He'd never hurt anyone. He'd just tell us who did this awful thing."
"Mrs. Brown, Barbara," I said, and she looked at me, there was a hint of sanity in there somewhere. "It won't be Stevie, Barbara. It will be the walking dead. He won't be your son, he'll just be an animated corpse."
She lowered her face, so that I was looking down at the top of her blond head. Her shoulders slumped, and I thought I'd gotten through to her.
Bert said, "Mrs. Brown, if you'd come into my office for a few minutes, so we can all calm down, so we can all get on with our day."
I think it was the "get on with our day." She stiffened, and I had a second to decide whether I was willing to really hurt her, or not. I hesitated, and that was enough. She had me held too close with the jacket, I couldn't move back, and I couldn't raise a hand until she let me go. She scratched my face. But to do it she let go with one hand. I raised the freed arm up, and blocked her next attempt to scratch my eyes out. She let go with the other arm, but I grabbed her wrist and stepped away, pulling on the wrist at the same time. And used her own momentum to turn her around, and she ended up on her knees with one of her arms behind her back and my other arm across her shoulders. I didn't make it a true choke hold, because I was hoping that someone might drag her off me before it got that far.
My face was burning sharply, from just below my left eye to mid-cheek. Even before I felt the first trickle, I knew it was going to bleed, it just had that feel to it.
She was screaming, loud, ragged screams.
Steve Brown was closest to us, and he said, "You're hurting her."
"I'm hurting her," I said, "she tried to take out my eye."
I didn't have as good a hold on her as I should have, I was still trying to be nice to the poor bereaved crazy woman. She twisted in my grip and dug her nails across my hand. I tucked my elbow tight across her throat and pulled up sharp on her arm behind her back. She cried out, but it stopped abruptly because I was applying pressure to her neck. I knew how to do a choke hold so that all it did was make you pass out. I knew not to crush the Adam's apple or anything stupid. And I admit I was pissed by this point, but Mr. Brown shouldn't have done what he did.
He yelled, "Let her go!"
I said, calmly, I thought, "If you can't control her, I will."
She struggled, and I tucked my head down tight to her. Then two things happened at once: Nathaniel said, "Anita look out," and Mary screamed. I looked up, in time to see Steve Brown hit me in the face.
It rocked my head back and made reality shift just a little to the side, like a television that isn't quite in focus. It didn't really hurt immediately, not like the scratches at all. You can usually judge how bad an injury is by how long it takes for you to feel the pain. Quick pain, small to medium injury; long pain, not good.
It was a good hit, nice and solid. I think he'd expected me to go down, because he had this surprised look on his face. Or maybe he hadn't ever hit a woman that hard before, or maybe at all. We had one of those long seconds that seem to last forever, but are really just the blink of an eye, to look at each other over his wife's head.
I saw his lips move, but couldn't hear what he said. The only sound was a high, white, buzzing, static, and the taste of blood in my mouth. It didn't matter that it was my own blood. It only mattered that it was blood, and I was angry.
I had a moment, a heartbeat, where I smelled Barbara Brown's skin underneath the sweetness of her perfume. A moment where I could smell her skin, salty, sick, almost, sick with her grief like some poison coming out of her skin. She was wounded, she was hurt, I could end that suffering. I tucked myself tight in against her body, tight enough that her husband couldn't hit me without risking her. I still couldn't hear his voice, but I could hear something else. I could hear her heartbeat. So loud, so very loud. It was a thick, meaty sound, not like that fragile tinny sound you get through a stethoscope. This was what a heart would sound like, if you could put your ear inside someone's chest. This was what someone's life sounded like, beating inside their body, beating fast and faster. Barbara Brown had smelled like food before, but now that first flush of adrenaline kicked through her system. Some part of her that she couldn't even name knew something was wrong. Knew that danger was very, very close.
I must have closed my eyes, because I felt him looming over me. I opened my eyes to see Steve Brown about to touch me. I think he was going for my hair to pull me off his wife. But I saw the hand, and I grabbed it, just stopped it with my hand. My hand looked small around his bigger one, but my arm was solid, and when he tried to pull away, he couldn't do it.
I still had his wife on her knees with my other hand around her wrist and her arm up almost to her shoulders. Distantly, I thought, if I kept pulling I'd dislocate her shoulder. But another part of me, which felt much closer, thought, that's alright, we'd have to pull her apart to eat her anyway. True, if we were going to eat her. Were we?
I'd always thought that the beast was a thing of passion, because passionate emotions could bring it on. This wasn't passionate, this was passionless. There was no right or wrong in my head. No sympathy, no sense that these two people were fellow human beings, and it would be wrong to hurt them. That wasn't even in my head. They'd hurt me, and I was hungry, and she smelled so good, and so bad at the same time. She smelled of sickness, and I realized it was drugs. I could smell them in her sweat--acrid, bitter.
I let her go so abruptly she fell forward on the carpet, but I kept my hand on Steve Brown, and I drew him past his wife, because he had bent to see to her, and I'd pulled him off balance. He smelled of fear and anger, but nothing else. He was clean.
He stumbled, and I put a hand in his shirt, while the other used his arm to bring him in closer. I could hear his heart now, thudding, thudding, so thick, so meaty, so... so good.
I felt movement behind me, and I whirled, taking Steve Brown with me, tripping him without thinking about it, so that he was on the ground at my feet, with me still gripping his arm. Food should be on the ground.
Nathaniel was there, touching my face. I jerked back, as if he'd hit me, but with that one touch sound roared back into my head. A woman was screaming. Mary was asking, "Should I call the police?"
"No," Bert was saying, "no, we can handle this."
I doubted that. But the moment I thought that, I looked down at Mr. Brown. He was staring up at me, eyes wide, and he was afraid. I let him go as if his skin burned mine. I backed up, until I bumped into Nathaniel. I grabbed for his hand without looking, and clung to it. Just touching him helped me think. Usually all touching Nathaniel made me think about was sex or food, but today, it helped me remember that I was human and what that meant.
"Help me," I whispered.
"Everybody out," he said.
Everyone stared at him.
I screamed it, "Out, get out, all of you out!" I started to rush at them, but Nathaniel caught me around the waist, and I let him pick me up. I fought not to struggle. But I kept screaming, "Get them out! Get them out!"
Steve Brown grabbed his wife's arm and started dragging her toward the door. Bert finally moved, taking her other arm, and helping. He was looking at me as if he'd never seen me before, and maybe he hadn't. Bert had a gift for only seeing what he wanted to see.
Mary's pale face was the last thing I saw before the door shut, and the words, get them out, changed to a wordless, formless scream. One ragged scream after another, until my throat went raw and I sagged in Nathaniel's arms.
Before I'd only felt the beast like it was some huge pet that rubbed itself against my body and my mind, but today, I knew that that wasn't the most dangerous part of the beast. The most dangerous part was that it was an animal, and true animals have absolutely no sense of right and wrong. I screamed, because to stop and do anything else was to risk that mind coming back up through me, and I wasn't sure I could stop it again.