The Death Agreement

by Kristopher Mallory

  "No need," she said.

  "What?"

  "I never sent it to the editing department."

  "Why not? We had a deal, didn't we?"

  "Have a deal," she corrected. "But I knew you would call, so I changed it to go out next Tuesday."

  "I, uh…I don't know what to say."

  "Thanks would work fine."

  "Thanks."

  "You're welcome. But Jon, I can't keep this under wraps forever. Once the obituary is out, I'll need to print a story."

  "I know. You'll get a proper interview after the funeral is over. I promise."

  ***

  The service began at three in the afternoon on March 15th. As expected, no one showed up. Mr. Hardesty had laid Taylor out in a simple maple wood box, the only one I could afford.

  Howard Taylor had sent flowers like he said he would, but no other decorations adorned the cheap casket. That sole arrangement felt like a disgrace. Someone at the flower shop must have messed up the order. Instead of a message about loss, hope, or forgiveness, the pink silk banner around the large bouquet read: Get Well Soon.

  "Damned idiots," I said, then sat there silently trying to piece it all together.

  People don't just snap like that. That kind of thing doesn't really happen. In the back of my mind I knew it happened all the time. We've all seen the news: Teen stabs his parents to death. Mother drowns her children. Brother shoots his brother.

  The world is fucked up, people are fucked up, everything is fucked up. We hang on to the illusion that reality is orderly, when in fact it is pure chaos. So who's really insane? The person that gives in to the madness, or the person that pretends the madness isn't waiting just below the surface?

  A voice came from behind me, "The name is Goodtime."

  I whipped my head around to see a man with bloodshot eyes and greying hair. He wore an old-fashioned, grey three-piece suit and brown wing-tipped leather shoes that had been polished to a mirror shine.

  "Jesus, you scared the piss out of me."

  "Didn't mean to startle ya, my boy." The strange-looking man smiled and reached out a hand. "Goodtime," he said again. "Alan Goodtime."

  "Jon Randon. Are you a friend of Jesse Taylor?"

  "Not a friend, per se." He spoke with a slight Southern drawl but I picked up a hint of English as well. Maybe there was something else too, as if the man had spent a fair amount of time traveling overseas. "We met online a while back," he continued. "Jesse read something I had written, and it turned out we had a few things in common. Real shame what happened, my boy. Whole family gone, just like…." He snapped his fingers, "That."

  I nodded.

  He said, "You're not related, are you?"

  "Not by blood. How did you hear about the service?"

  "That's for the best. Oh, I haven't spoken to Jesse in a while, so I did some checking, heard some whispers here and there. Thought I would come pay my respects. Like I said, real shame."

  "Well, Mr. Goodtime, it isn't much of a service, but why do you say that?"

  He cocked his head and squinted as if confused. "Say what now?"

  "You said that it's for the best. Why?"

  He grinned. "Figure of speech. Making conversation."

  "Oh. I thought…I thought…no, never mind." I shook my head.

  "No harm in admitting it if you're going to dismiss it so easily." Alan Goodtime laughed. "You're right, I did mean something by it. I meant it is for the best that you two weren't blood. He'd have done you in too, no doubt. Same as the rest of 'em."

  The suddenness of his opinion hit me like a punch to the stomach. Fists balled, I jumped up and sneered.

  Alan Goodtime raised his hands, palms out, and took a step back. "Relax, my boy. I'd like to be friends."

  "Who the fuck are you to say something like that?" My face twitched from a pure hatred I suddenly felt for the man. "Leave right now or I'll have you thrown out."

  He grinned, pulled out an old pocket watch, and stared at it. "My, my, won't ya look at the time?" He said, taking another step back. "I must be going now. Have to get back to my shop. Busy, busy, busy, you know how it is. Truly a pleasure to meet you, Jon."

  He shuffled over to the exit but paused a moment to sign the register. "You'll let me know if you find it, I hope? I am counting on you."

  "Find what?" I asked, but Alan Goodtime had already turned away. He quickly left the parlor, slamming the front door behind him.

  "Mr. Hardesty?" I called out.

  Stepping from his office, he said. "Yes, Mr. Randon?"

  "Did you see that man, by chance?"

  "I heard him come in and leave, but no sir, I did not see him. May I ask why?"

  "He just…I don't know. Sorry to bother you."

  Hardesty nodded. "I did warn you," he said and returned to his office.

  I walked over to the register. The signature read: Alan Goodtime. A thick envelope sat on top with my name scrawled across it. As I ripped it open, my heart pounded in my chest. I pulled out what I had thought was some kind of folded-up sympathy card, but it was a familiar pamphlet that looked like it had been printed in the seventies.

  I unfolded it and read the full message written in a large, yellow, groovy font: Don't Pack Pain Away. Don't Let It Meld. Don't Let It Grow.

  Below the headline, a smiling man held out a cardboard box kept together by red packing tape, only the flaps were open. I remembered them being closed before. My eyes lingered on the man's toothy smile. At first glance it had looked like happiness or relief on his face, but the longer I stared, the more convinced I became that his expression was actually one of madness and terror.

  Suddenly I realized I was holding my cell, and with a shaky finger, dialed Yang's number.

  "Detective," I said, walking back over to the casket, "do you have Taylor's computer?"

  "I was just about to call you."

  "Do you have Taylor's computer?" I asked again.

  "Of course. It's in the evidence locker."

  "I'm assuming you had your tech guys search it."

  Yang paused for a moment before asking, "What's going on?"

  "I'm also assuming you have a report on all his internet activity."

  "Yeah, of course. Tell me where you are."

  "I'm at my best friend's funeral, but you should know that, damn it. A police car has been following me for days. Now shut up and listen. My final assumption is you didn't find anything you thought was important, but I'd say it's because you didn't know what you were looking for. Have another look. See if there's anything about someone named Alan Goodtime. He was just here and I think you might want to talk to him."

  "I'll check into it, but right now I'm coming to pick you up."

  "Not necessary. I'm fine."

  "No, it is necessary."

  "Yeah? It sounds like you got something to tell me, and I think you know me well enough by now to realize I can't stand waiting on information."

  "I'm breaking every rule we have, you realize that?"

  "Yeah, you're a cop, so par for the course, right?"

  "Don't be an asshole. I just spoke to the medical examiner. He finally got the bodies sorted." Yang took a deep breath. "Pieces are missing."

  "What do you mean pieces are missing?"

  "Well, Mr. Taylor's leg is still missing. I had assumed the police found it in the pond with the rest of the…parts."

  I looked down at Taylor's body, the bottom of the casket covered up to his waist. He still had that same knowing smirk.

  I shook my head and whispered, "Why did you do it?"

  "What?" Yang asked.

  I cleared my throat. "Nothing…sorry. Yang, we'll have to talk here. I can't abandon my vigil."

  "The rules?"

  "Yes. I need to attend his funeral until it's over."

  ***

  Sometime later, Yang walked through the parlor doors.

  "I don't know about you," he said and held up a large brown paper bag, "but I could use a drink." Then he sat ne
xt to me and used his wedding ring to pop the caps off of two beers.

  "How bad is it?" I asked.

  "We've never seen anything like this before. None of the pieces fit together. I can say that you're officially off the suspect list. At least for now."

  "Is that so?"

  "Timelines don't match. We've got hospital staff claiming to have seen you on campus." He reached for a bag by his side. "You hungry? I brought a few burgers."

  "No, the beers will be fine."

  "Suit yourself." Yang reached into the brown bag and pulled out a cheeseburger. He unwrapped it and took a bite. "Tell me about this guy, Goodtime. I saw that he signed the register."

  "Not much to tell, really." I pressed the bottle to my lips and finished off the second beer. "He showed up and said he knew Jesse. Did you find anything on him?"

  "I did actually. Well, found a few people listed with that name. I'm going to look over the records tonight. Thanks for the tip. Taylor's computer might help now that I have a lead."

  "So, Yang, why are you here?"

  "I still want you to help me figure this out."

  "I've been trying."

  "Yeah, but I think we've been ignoring the elephant in the room for far too long. At first we had our sights on you. We had a theory that you cut off his leg because you felt that he was somehow responsible for what happened to you in Afghanistan."

  "That's bullshit."

  "The staff members at the hospital claimed you were angry, more than most. Some even said you were vindictive. You scared them."

  "Maybe I did." I sighed. "So did a lot of other guys. You don't know what it's like being in that place, in that situation. It does something to you."

  "That's exactly what I'm saying. I don't know. You do. Let me put it another way. While the department was convinced that you were involved, you were convinced someone else was involved. No one asked the right question: Why would your friend sever his own leg? I've seen crazy, Jon. This is well beyond, trust me."

  "It's true," I said. "I don't want to admit he did it to himself."

  Yang nodded. "When the medical examiner figured out his leg wasn't the only part missing, I was able to see it from another angle. It isn't about what we know or what we have found. It's about the missing parts. This case has a lot of missing parts, and I doubt we'll ever solve it."

  "Speaking of missing parts," I said, taking another beer from Yang. "What's missing?"

  "I'm sorry, I can't tell you. We never thought we'd find them all anyway. It's a big pond, too big to search it all, but we now know those parts aren't there."

  "How so?"

  "I can't say."

  "Damn it."

  "I know."

  Yang and I both looked up at Taylor's body. The service would be ending soon and there was one last thing left I needed to do.

  I stood up. "I agreed to say a few words. Another part of the agreement we had."

  Yang nodded. "Would you like me to go?"

  "Only if you want."

  Yang sat still. I mouthed the words thank you as I walked to the podium. I looked out at the room and did my best to pretend it was filled with grieving people, those who had known Jesse Taylor, those who had loved him.

  My imagination failed me. Only Detective Yang sat alone in the empty room, his head bowed, his hands folded neatly in his lap.

  In my jacket pocket, my copy of The Death Agreement contained the eulogy I had written for Taylor months before his death. The words were heartfelt and truthful, just as we both had planned them to be.

  Standing there in the cold funeral home, the body of my friend resting next to me, having fallen so far from the man I cared about…it would have been an insult to read those words. Even if the only ears to hear were Yang's and my own, those words were wrong. So I needed to say something else, something which was just as true.

  I cleared my throat and spoke: "Taylor and I used to joke about dying young. It isn't funny anymore."

  I stepped down and walked out the door, leaving Yang alone with Taylor's corpse.

  SECTION V - SHARE FINAL WORDS

  I lit a cigarette and walked into the alley between Hardesty's Funeral Home and a small flower shop named Maria's Memories. Discarded decorations and dead bouquets were piled high in an overfilled dumpster. Dead stems from dozens of funerals were stuck to the outside of the trash bin. The flower petals, once so vibrant, littered the ground, brown and decaying. I nearly gagged from the sweet stench.

  There was still so much to do.

  I removed The Death Agreement from my jacket and stared at it, looking through the words more so than looking at them. The first four sections were complete, but I couldn't continue on to the next part—share final words.

  There hadn't been any witnesses to interview, though if I'm being honest, I suppose I should say there hadn't been any survivors. And there wasn't any audio, video, or a suicide note. Jesse hadn't left any record of his final moment, nothing I could use at all.

  We had planned for that possibility. Inside that section, we had written a short message for the other person to use in conjunction with the last known spoken words.

  As far as I knew, Taylor's last spoken words were in the voice message he had left about not seeing me: "I saw everyone but you…"

  I wondered if I was supposed to record a meaningless phrase like that as his final words, knowing that if I didn't keep my word, I would end up tormenting myself for the rest of my life. Worse, I knew if the situation were reversed, Taylor would have never given up on me. It wouldn't have mattered to him if I had gone crazy and murdered half a dozen people.

  His copy of The Death Agreement hadn't been on him, it hadn't been in his car, and it hadn't been in the house either.

  "Where the hell did you stash it, Jesse?"

  I took a drag off the cigarette and held it in until the smoke burned my lungs. I thought about the voicemail again. I had no idea who he did see, why didn't see me, or where he was when he saw everyone. So many questions and so very few answers.

  The cigarette slipped from my fingers as a sudden disturbing thought took hold. Taylor's exact words and cadence were: "Saw everyone…but you."

  "My god," I whispered. He had sawed off his leg and cut up his family. I wondered if he had wanted to kill everyone except me. Maybe he had tried telling me I was safe.

  The idea should've terrified me, but somehow I found the possible revelation more interesting than frightening. My mind had been numbed to the whole ordeal, as if I knew there were still worse things to discover, as if Jesse Taylor had begun dissecting my soul from beyond the grave.

  I ran back inside the funeral home, but Yang had already left. As I turned toward the exit, I picked up the faint, sweet-burnt odor that hung in the air and realized Taylor's body had also disappeared from the room. It was a smell I remembered very well. It was the smell of burning flesh.

  Standing in the empty parlor, surrounded by the invisible fog of the incinerator, I tried to reach Yang's cell. It rang three times and then went to voicemail. I left him a brief message, "I think Taylor may have confessed to me. Call me back." Then I dialed the number for the cab company. It was late and the only thing left for me to do was to go back to my room and wait for Yang to call.

  So much had happened, I felt as though I hadn't slept in days.

  I yawned and my eyelids grew heavy as I waited on the steps of Hardesty's Funeral Home. I must have nodded off because the next thing I knew, the sound of a horn jarred me awake. I looked up at a yellow cab idling in the road, then stumbled to my feet, wondering why my leg felt so numb.

  I climbed into the back of the cab, and the old cabbie turned around and smiled. "Where to, pal?"

  "Walter Reed Medical Center." I slumped down, leaned my head back against the ripped faux-leather seat, and closed my eyes.

  ***

  For a moment, the world was dark, calm, and silent. I felt myself drifting off…. Suddenly, every inch of my body exploded with pain. I tried to move
but my chest had been strapped down to a military issue cot.

  "What the…." My eyes adjusted to the dim light, and a shadow slid across the room. It paused as if looking at me, then it slithered in a spiral, drawing closer to the cot. Once near enough to kiss, it rose vertically until it towered at least eight feet high.

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "You crashed," the shadow replied.

  "Am I dying?"

  "Part of you is already dead. You know that, don't you?"

  A tear slid down the side of my face. "Yes," I said.

  The shadow trembled, then ripped like an amniotic sac. Teeth gripped the fold of one of the rips and tore the shadow more. Taylor's face, covered in blood spatter, struggled through the rip in the shadow as if he were pulling himself from the gravity of a black hole. The shadow trembled again, then fell to the floor like a pile of dirty clothes. Taylor smiled. In one hand, he held up my severed leg, toes wiggling. In his other hand, he held the white maple handle of a menacing, rusted, antique saw.

  ***

  I awoke in a cold sweat, reaching for my leg but finding only the prosthetic. I wiped the sweat from my brow with my forearm, then looked out the window at the passing cars. I could still feel my severed leg so I clenched my missing toes and parroted what Taylor had said in the dream, "Part of you is already dead."

  "What was that?" The driver met my eyes in the rearview mirror.

  "Nothing. Thinking out loud."

  "Pardon my saying so, pal, but you look like you've been through the wringer. Wanna talk about it?"

  I shook my head.

  He looked over his shoulder at me. "Ol' Frank's been drivin' cabs for twenty years; I can tell when people need to get somethin' off their mind."

  "Thanks, I appreciate it, but I'm fine. Just tired."

  "I'm just sayin' if you want, I can take ya to a meeting. AA? NA? Nine years clean myself. You gotta work the program. Know what I mean?"

  I nodded.

  The cabbie sighed. "Suit yourself," he said, and left me alone for the rest of the drive. When he pulled up to the front gates, I took out the last bit of money I had after paying off Hardesty and handed it to him.

  "Sorry," I apologized while getting out of the cab. "I wish I could give you more of a tip."

  "No worries. Oh, and pal?"

  I raised my eyebrows.

  "Thanks for your service," he said then waved as he drove off.