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“I didn’t invite you here to ask for your help,” Kim lied, “It’s been a while since we’ve got together.”
Blush streaked across Richard’s cheeks, down to the collar of his uniform, “Aren’t you married?”
“Was,” she slid a hand into his lap.
Richard yanked on the collar of his ballistic vest, the Velcro shricking its way open, ”I’m really sorry about your cousin, but I’m just a patrol officer. We don't have access to homicide files.”
”She isn't - wasn’t my cousin. She was my cousin’s wife. She had a name, ” Kim took her hand away, dug in her purse. ”Here,” she put the picture in front of him, ”Her name was Sol.”
”Your cousin’s wife? And you have how many cousins with how many spouses?” Richard folded his arms, the muscles bunching underneath his sleeves.
Kim slid the 8x10 off the bed, careful to touch only the edges, “Forget I said anything. I mean, who cares if two of my cousins died in the past year.”
“I thought it was three,” Richard took off his vest.
She watched him shrug off his suspenders. He was getting soft around the middle, lines spidering from the corners of his eyes. “I could be next,” she reminded him. After those words, the low hum of the motel air conditioner sounded like a roar, the door slamming two floors up, an explosion. Kim picked up her purse and stood, “I was the last person to see Sol. We were out drinking. You know, a girls night on the town. I made her take a cab. If she hadn’t - “
“Stop,” Richard held up a flat palm, the traffic cop in him trying desperately to keep her from running herself over, “Don’t do that to yourself. This is not your fault.” He shifted on the bed, the springs creaking underneath him, “Come here.”
Kim paused in front of him, “Then tell me what you know.”
“What I know is this perp is weird,” Richard’s lips slimmed as he tightened his jaw.
“Weird how?” she cupped his chin in her hand, tilted his face until his grey eyes met hers.
“I was the first on the scene. Not of Sol, another one of your cousins. The one with the eyebrow rings.”
Kim brushed his lips with hers. He pulled her towards him until she was sitting on his lap. As he moved in for a kiss, she turned her head, “Uh-uh. Not until you tell me: weird how?”
“I come in, and everything looks normal. I’m standing there, thinking it’s a prank call, and then I feel this . . . drip . . .“ Richard flopped backward onto the bed, “I look up and there she is, glued to the ceiling, and this . . . this . . . stuff coming out of her fingers.” He put his fanned hands over his paunch, “It was glued up there . . . it was like an alphabet soup from Hell.”
“Alphabet?” Kim had a feeling she didn’t want to know, and yet she had to.
“It was her insides, pulled out of the tips of her fingers, formed into letters. It said, ‘Lethal,’” Richard’s body was limp underneath her, his face taunt, “Now you know. So get off me, okay?”
Kim ignored his request, “I’m so sorry, Ricky.” She leaned against him, listening to the thrum of his heart. She really was sorry. Sorry he saw that. Sorry she asked. Sorry that all that was left between them was exhaustion.
As she closed her eyes, she could see a man approaching her. He was attired in a checked suit and a bow tie, and even though she knew him, she didn't recognize him in her dream.
“What do you think is in my pocket,” was the first thing he said to her, his full mouth turning up around the edges.
“A handkerchief?” she hazarded.
The man continued to stare at her, even as he answered, “No.” He pulled a kite tail out of his pocket, the red and yellow bows dangling down the front of his suit, “You’re a Fedler, aren’t you? I can tell by the square jaw.”
“Yeah, so? Who are you?” Kim tucked her chin down self-consciously.
He handed her the kite tail, and somehow a diamond-shaped kite emerged from his pocket, “Lyman Cooling, at your service.” Kim held the kite dumbly, as he continued, “I know your cousins Janae and Ellen. They said you used to sing.”
Kim dropped the kite, watching it swoosh to the floor.
”You know, Ellen’s been doing a lot better at softball. It's like she never hurt her shoulder. And Janae’s churning out term papers like writer's block isn’t a thing,” he sat in the chair next to her, ”Let me help you.”
Kim woke, gasping out a cough. Richard still lay on the bed, his face softened by sleep. She went into the bathroom and unwrapped a plastic cup. Rinsing her mouth with the tepid water, she gazed at herself in the mirror. She hadn't had that dream in years, but every time she answered the same. ”No thank you,” she rasped to her reflection, “Anyway, Ellen and Janae are dead. You need to be updated, Mr. Dream.”
“Mr. Cooling,” said a voice behind her.
Kim would have screamed, if she could. Instead, she stared at the texture of the man’s gingham jacket, “This is another dream.”
“Ms. Felder, I gave you every chance to see reason. I’m afraid I have shown too much largesse,” Lyman’s figure filled the doorway to the bathroom.
“If you’re so real, Lyman, then tell me what happened to Ellen, Janae, and Sol.”
Lyman frowned at her, “There is something in your ear.”
“Ah. I suppose it's a balloon,” Kim had seen the trick at least five times. Lyman glared at her, until she gave in, “Go ahead, do your thing.”
“It’s not a balloon,” he reached behind her ear and pulled out a rose. “Now you should be able to hear better,” Lyman handed her the flower with a flourish.
“If you don’t mind, I have things to do,” Kim gestured at the door.
“Leaving will not get you the answer,” Lyman moved to the sink, turning the faucet on, ”Unless you are intending to co-mingle with that washed up police officer.” No water came out of the faucet, and Lyman thumped it with his hand, ”I guess that would have a result of sorts, however temporary.” He tried the faucet again, playing cards spraying out of it, ”Ah, there’s the problem.”
Kim inched her way around him, ”What do you want from me?”
”Pick a card,” he fanned them out into a peacock tail of purple and blue.
”It’s always tricks and games with you, and I am not a fool,” Kim picked a card.
”Queen of diamonds, how apt, ” Lyman shuffled the deck in a blur, ”The surgery didn't work, and yet you still refuse me.”
”I had cancer, Lyman, the surgery was to keep me from dying. Nothing will make my voice the way it once was,” she took the deck from him, slipping the card in the middle.
He reclaimed his cards, and waving his hand over them, transformed them into a swarm of butterflies. The queen of diamonds remained in his hand, and he held it up to her, ”I will answer your question, but you must give up your robe and crown.”
”There’s always a price with you, isn't there? What does that even mean, give up my ’robe and crown?’ Am I selling you my mortal soul?” Kim backed out the bathroom door.
Lyman stretched the edges of the remaining card, distorting it into a legal-sized sheet of paper, ”Read the fine print.”
Kim squinted at the document, ”There’s a typo. It says ’all terms and conditions are lethally binding.’ It should say . . .” She looked at Richard, still sleeping on the bed. ”You,” her finger trembled as she pointed at the checked suit, jittered as she raised it level with the sateen bow tie, ”You did it. I mean, gluing someone to the ceiling, that's something you would do.” Kim ripped the contract in two, throwing the pieces at Lyman.
”I tried. I tried so hard with you,” he was close to her, too close, his breath hot on her face. ”But you just can't see reason. Oh, well, I shall have you anyway,” he reached a gloved hand towards her throat.
Kim closed her eyes.
”Boop,” Lyman squeezed her nose, ”Eyes open. I want you to watch as I rip out your - ”
Lyman’s head seemed to explode, bits of bone and flesh spraying Kim’s face. She flinched as he lurched forward, his weight pulling her down to the jacquard carpet. Somewhere above her, Richard mumbled, “Oh my God, oh my God, Kimmy!”
“I - I’m okay,” Kim gave Lyman’s body a shove. Her hands went straight through his chest, his suit dissolving into a mass of locusts. The air buzzed with the flutter of their wings, and those that didn’t fly, hopped in all directions. Kim sat bemused, while Richard stomped like a tap dancer, crushing as bugs under his regulation black socks.
The cloud of locusts buzzed into the vents, crawled under the door. Soon, there were only the scattered bodies of the dead, lined up to form neat letters. “Throat,” read Richard, his face tense.
”He doesn't like to be interrupted,” Kim grimaced.
There was knock at the door, and both froze. ”I don't think we should answer that,” Richard pulled on his suspenders, tucked in his shirt.
”We’re dealing with someone who can travel through dreams, like a Freddy Krueger who does party tricks. No, the door is way too pedestrian for Lyman,” Kim flipped the latch and unhooked the chain. In spite of her bravado, her anxiety rose inside her like a balloon as she cracked the door open.
A woman in a starched polyester shirt and black slacks stood outside, ”Did you hear the gunshot?”
Kim nodded, she had indeed.
”We’re checking all the rooms to make sure everyone is okay,” the woman peered over Kim’s head.
”I’m a police officer,” volunteered Richard, ”Let me know if you need any help.”
The lines of suspicion ironed themselves out of the woman’s face, ”Oh, Officer,” she squinted at his name tag, ”Dickson. That is so kind of you. If you could just walk around in your uniform a bit, it would make everyone feel better. We have coffee in the lobby, and . . .”
”Of course,” Richard slid into his ballistic vest and carried his shoes to the door.
Once he had gone, Kim sat on the bed and gazed at the walls, searching for a bullet hole. There was another knock, and she answered the door without thinking.
A present sat on a silver tray. Knowing there was no escape, Kim opened the box.
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Cross-posted to 12 Short Stories.
I know I haven't been posting on my blog very much lately, but that's because I've taken on another job and was still working on finishing the sequel to Murder In a Box. Depending on who you ask, I now hold between 2-4 jobs. I personally think of it as two, one part-time, one contract. And I don't mean I'm working for a dark magician (unless that's your personal view of social workers). What I mean is that I'm being paid to accomplish a particular task, and I can do it at home, whenever, however.
Speaking of dark magic, I know the above short story is weird, but I blame the prompt. It was: "Lethal, 1,800 words exactly." That's not really my thing. Dystopian future office romance? Yes. Gritty, gory revenge fantasy? Uh . . . so I tried. And then wandered off into a corner where I could use a dream sequence to express just how much I hate having my nose beeped.
But anyway. Behold: