The Nobody People

by Proehl, Bob

  “Excited yet, O?” she whispers in his ear.

  “I’m concentrating,” Owen says, removing her hand. She looks insulted.

  “And now we walk in,” Tabitha says, leading them up the long driveway. Each dark window of the house holds its own reflection of the sun setting behind them over the desert: four red fireballs dealt out like tarot cards on a table.

  “You sure he’s alone?” Oliver asks. There are three cars in the drive.

  “Doesn’t matter,” says Tabitha. “We kill whoever we find.”

  Any of them could take out the lock except maybe Darren. Owen’s way is the quietest. The doorknob, the whole mechanism of it, along with a piece of the door frame, gone. Darren pushes the front door open with a finger, and they step into an entryway with stairs leading up to the second floor. The house rumbles with music: plodding bass and a dipshit carnival keyboard line.

  “I fucking love this song,” a man shouts from upstairs. His voice is a rich baritone, booming through the house over the music on the stereo. “Three Dog Night. This has gotta be before your time, right? You kids. You perfect little girls.” A woman squeaks and giggles.

  “Not alone,” Andre says. His skeleton fingers scrape along the drywall.

  “Honey, where’s the coke?” yells a girl’s voice.

  “Kitchen,” shouts another.

  Hargrave passes the top of the stairs, towel wrapped around his waist, bottle of whiskey in his hand. He does that dance the guys Owen’s mom used to date did, where he shimmies his shoulders, elbows bent, like he’s trying to squeeze his ass backward into a tight space. The ceiling light explodes behind him as Tabitha lobs a globe of energy into it. Hargrave dives to the ground.

  “Shooter!” he shrieks. “Shooter!” The whiskey bottle rolls down the stairs one step at a time, plunk plunk plunk. It leaves a trail and turns Hargrave’s attention to the entryway. He’s lying at the top of the stairs, towel undone, ass hanging out, hands covering his head. He looks at Owen. “What the fuck?” he says.

  Oliver is the first up the stairs, taking them in two bounds and sweeping Jefferson up in one hand. He pins the naked fat man against the wall. “How many in the house?” he growls.

  “Three girls,” Jefferson says. “Me and three girls.”

  The answer is no longer necessary. The girls, in bikinis and silk robes, are standing in the doorway to the kitchen, gawking at Oliver in horror.

  “Hello, ladies,” Darren says, doffing an imaginary hat. “I wouldn’t move if I were you.” The blender on the counter blows up, spraying strawberry daiquiri and shattered glass onto one of the girls. Andre moves behind her, wrapping a bony arm around her shoulder and wiping daiquiri off her breast with his finger. Marita grabs the bottle of whiskey, takes a swig, and lights the trail of spilled booze on fire. Darren ogles the girls as Oliver eases Jefferson back to the ground. Owen looks at Jefferson the way a sculptor looks at a fresh block of marble. He assesses what needs to be cut away to reveal the beauty beneath.

  Marita passes the bottle to Darren, who takes a long pull off it and holds it out to Hargrave.

  “Take a hit, fat man?” he says. “Everyone’s entitled to a last drink.”

  Owen doesn’t like the way Darren is taking point on this op. He does this every time, and every time afterward Tabitha chews his ass about it. Owen’s never said anything because he wants to let Darren think he’s special. They all have a piece of Owen’s friend in their heads, and for a while that made him jealous. But his friend knew about the jealousy. He felt it. Remember you’re special to me, he told Owen. There are many terrors, but you are my Great Destroyer.

  Hargrave refuses, and Darren shoves the bottle at him. He takes Hargrave by the back of the neck and pours whiskey into him. Hargrave sobs. He’s so scared, he pisses right on Darren’s leg.

  “Holy shit,” Marita says, pointing and laughing as the thin stream of piss soaks Darren’s jeans. Oliver and even Tabitha break out laughing.

  “What the fuck?” Darren screams. He pulls out the pistol he carries in the back of his pants because his ability is basically useless and shoots Hargrave in the forehead. Hargrave slumps against the wall. Owen’s visions of long and painful torture pop like balloons. He waited so long for this. He went with them on every bullshit errand they had to run. He cleaned up after their messes and their murder scenes like a fucking maid to get here, to get in this room with the man who killed Wendy. Might as well have driven the fucking spikes into her wings, and now he’s dead without suffering for one second.

  Owen forms the null into a flat plane, a plate of nothing that slices Darren in half, diagonally, from his left bicep to above his right hip. Darren’s face goes from anger, to shock, to nothing. His left arm, cut free, drops to the ground, and the upper part of his torso sloughs off the rest. It hits the floor and tumbles down the stairs. Darren’s legs fold, and what’s left of him sits down, almost gracefully, at Tabitha’s feet. All the girls are screaming except Marita, who laughs. But her laughter doesn’t sound that different from a scream.

  There’s a pain in Owen’s head like a bright white light. He is sure he’s about to die, and he mumbles, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” clutching his skull as if he can hold it together with his hands.

  Owen, says his friend. My impetuous boy. The white light fades, and its ebbing is a mercy.

  It’s the most powerful love Owen has ever felt.

  The house smells like copper and spoiled meat. A breath of hot bad air comes out the front door when Avi opens it and shoves him back onto his heel. Inside, a plastic sheet is laid over the doormat, covering a lump the size of a dog. Fingers peek out from under the edge.

  “Watch it,” Louis shouts from the top of the stairs. “Don’t step in that fucker’s guts and contaminate my crime scene.”

  Avi steps over the lump under the sheet, wobbling on his cane as he does. The stairs are spattered with blood. It’s all Avi can do to ascend without stepping in it. At the top of the stairs, he puts his cane into a pool of blood that hasn’t dried and leaves a trail of bull’s-eye stamps behind him as he crosses the kitchen.

  “They took Hargrave’s body out a half hour ago,” Louis says. “If you’re looking to get kicks in, you’re out of luck.” He holds out a jar of VapoRub. Avi dips his first two fingers in and slathers it under his nose. It doesn’t cut the smell or cover it, but it distracts. Anything helps. “You knew the guy, right? Didn’t you try to take a swing at him once on The Tonight Show or something? Shit, Avi, are you a suspect here?” Louis laughs, big and overloud. He laughs for the same reason they’re wearing VapoRub. It distracts. Anything helps.

  “You see these guys?” Louis asks, leaning in to Avi and speaking quietly. “They’ll all quit in a week, I guarantee it. You can tell right away.”

  “It doesn’t look that gruesome,” Avi says.

  “The hot tub on the patio,” Louis says. “It’s a fucking cup o’ soup.”

  Avi looks over Louis’s shoulder to the sliding doors. Every few minutes, they spit out another green-faced agent rushing to a nearby trash can to puke.

  “How many?” Avi asks.

  “Hargrave and three girls,” Louis says. “Plus the unlucky fucker in the front hall. We’re guessing he’s a delivery boy or something. Except there’s no car.”

  “His name is Darren Helms.” In the entryway, Patrick Davenport lays the sheet back over the remains. “He was one of our students.”

  “That is surprisingly helpful,” Louis says, writing the name down on his notepad. “Are you positive?”

  “You only forget the nice ones,” Patrick says. “The true assholes stay with you.” Avi remembers Darren Helms from the first day he was at Bishop, the scene in Sarah’s class. Asshole is about the right word. Patrick extends one of his legs across the entire set of stairs, then pulls the rest of his body up after him. It’s a diz
zying effect. Patrick used to be shy about using his ability in front of baseliners. Clearly that’s no longer an issue.

  “Avi, this is Patrick Davenport,” says Louis. “He’s a liaison from the Resonant community who’s been helping us with the investigation.”

  “We know each other,” Patrick says, not bothering to shake Avi’s hand.

  “Of course you do,” Louis says.

  “So this was Owen Curry?” Patrick asks.

  Louis scratches at his eyebrow. “Your friend in the front hall I am almost sure was Curry,” he says. “Clean slice down the middle. Hargrave caught a bullet, but the body got good and fucked with afterward. Again, it looks like Curry. But the precision here…”

  “He’s getting better,” Patrick says.

  “Some would say worse,” Louis says.

  Patrick gives Louis an annoyed look. Patrick’s expressions have a cartoonish element to them, as if he overshoots the mark and his face distorts further than it ought to. “He’s getting more adept,” he says. “We’ve seen that at other crime scenes. He’s more precise. Controlled.”

  Avi turns to them. “There’ve been others?”

  “Nothing like this,” Louis says. “Murders with internal organs missing and no cuts. Disappearances where we’ve found indentations and gaps in the room that don’t make sense.”

  “I haven’t heard anything about this,” says Avi.

  “I took you off speed dial,” Louis says before returning his attention to Patrick. “We think he’s hooked up with other people.”

  “Agent Hoffman has been kind enough to keep Owen Curry’s involvement away from the press,” Patrick explains. He clearly relishes the fact that Avi’s in the dark and needs Patrick to bring him up to speed.

  “Why hush it up?” Avi asks.

  “Things are bad enough without me giving people a boogeyman,” Louis says.

  “And yet you invited the press in on this one,” says Patrick, glaring at Avi.

  “I thought you all were friends,” Louis says. Avi wants to argue that he’s not just “the press,” but his press credentials swing on a lanyard in front of his chest, a scarlet letter. “Hargrave has—had a cult behind him. We’re tracking at least three separate groups who treat him like a prophet. Two of them look a lot like militia. And they’re funded.”

  “By whom?” Avi asks.

  “If we knew, they wouldn’t be funded anymore,” Louis says. “There’s going to be fallout here. Given who the victim was, his followers are going to know it was you.”

  “It wasn’t me,” says Patrick.

  “You people,” Louis says. “Press is going to be unavoidable. The Kindred Network will be tributes for a day, then howling for blood.”

  “They won’t wait a day,” Patrick says.

  “I figured you’d want to go with a friendly face,” Louis says.

  “Might as well go with the devil we know,” says Patrick.

  “What can you tell me about the kid in the hallway?” Louis asks.

  “I wouldn’t have predicted he’d be involved in something like this, but I’m not surprised,” Patrick says.

  “You think he was one of the attackers?” says Avi.

  “I don’t think Jefferson Hargrave invited him to the orgy,” Patrick says. “We try to raise these kids on nonviolence, but you’ve heard the kind of things Hargrave says about us.”

  “Said,” Avi corrects. He’s trying to insinuate himself into the conversation, but it isn’t his place. He feels like a kid listening to adults argue, and he remembers the first time he met any of them. Sarah reprimanding Patrick to let the grown-ups talk. Patrick looks more mature than he did that day. He seems assured where once he came off as arrogant. Avi’s sliding down the opposite slope of age, into decrepitude. Rather than a kid shushed by parents, he’s the elderly father, ignored as his children decide whether to send him to a home.

  “You don’t get to talk that way without consequences,” Patrick says. “A kid like Darren, who hurt people for kicks, figures out a way to do one bit of good in his life, putting his shitty personality to use. Some of us get to be peaceful protesters because others are willing to do this.”

  “Come take a look at the patio before you decide this is one bit of good,” says Louis. Patrick shrugs and heads toward the sliding glass door. “You coming?” Louis asks Avi.

  Avi has spent much of his career describing the horrors done to bodies by bombs, but something about Owen Curry’s ability undoes his strength. The smooth slice taken out of the church haunts him. The thought of seeing the same thing done to a human body is more than he can stand.

  “Feed it to the press pool,” he tells Louis, starting back down the stairs. “I’m done with this guy.”

  “But I thought Owen Curry was your baby,” Louis says. “Your special little monster.”

  Avi opens his mouth to argue, but it’s true. He feels an ownership over Owen Curry, the hole Avi fell through to land in this world. There was a tinge of pride when Louis told him Owen Curry was the one who killed Hargrave, as if Owen was landing the punch Avi threw at Hargrave years ago. My monster, Avi thinks. My boy.

  There were clusters even before they were identifiable to the public as such. From beach houses on Oceanside Way to crumbling apartment buildings in East Oakland, Resonants had quietly clumped together to create spaces they could return to at the end of a day in secret and drop the cloaks in which they’d draped themselves. Since Public Day, there had been a debate about whether this was a good thing. Blanket yes or no answers whitewashed differences within the larger community or populace or however one wanted to define Resonants as a group. Some of those enclaves were created for safety, some for comfort. One person’s intentional community was another’s ghetto. Some groups rose together; others fell.

  North Avenue in Chicago’s posh Wicker Park neighborhood was a Resonant community built out of affinity and privilege. Since the nineties, it had been quietly populated by hip young Resonants of some financial means who wanted to keep to themselves. When Hayden Cohen used the money from an album advance to open a Resonants-only nightclub and recording studio at the fulcrum of the street, North Avenue became the first Resonant community, other than the Bishop Academy, that everyone knew about. There were news coverage, think pieces, plans for a unity concert in Wicker Park proper languishing in perpetual permit limbo. There was a constant stream of tourists and sightseers, pointing and gawking at the residents of the street like animals on safari. But there was also the feeling of a burgeoning neighborhood, a by-us, for-us sense of solidarity.

  Carrie and Miquel, along with a handful of their classmates, found apartments within a four-block span of Hayden’s bar. Bryce said it was self-ghettoization, and when he couldn’t convince Waylon of this, he rented a one-bedroom in the Ukrainian Village. It meant they weren’t all as neatly coupled off as they could be. But it felt like a start.

  Hayden named the bar Vibration, and the goal was for it to be CBGB and Studio 54 rolled into one. Chic but legitimate. Posh but punk. At the same time, Hayden’s career was taking off. They had a new band and tour dates, and they didn’t want to be bothered with the effort necessary to make Vibration big. They hired Waylon to run the place, and he did his best.

  Part of that meant drugs. Waylon dealt pot and mushrooms to supplement the receipts and to provide a value-add to Vibration’s customers. Hayden never explicitly endorsed or forbade selling drugs through the bar, but whenever they were in town, they took the opportunity to regale Waylon with lists of drugs that ran hot and cold through the discos of midseventies New York, buoying before ultimately drowning the scene. Coke and Quaaludes. Angel Dust and alkyl nitrates. Waylon hooked up with a transmuter named Hong Wu from out in Cicero who’d been fired from Dow Chemical when his employers found out he was a Resonant. Hong produced immaculate synthetic drugs out of base materials. By the end o
f Vibration’s first summer, it was an emporium for designer drugs, abetted by the fact that cops never came down North Avenue. They parked at the corners on Ashland and Western, daring the residents of the street to come out into the regular world. Most didn’t. North Avenue was a world in itself, another iteration of the Bishop Academy or the Hive.

  Waylon brought Carrie into the operation that spring. She was temping at the time, moving unnoticed through the offices and steno pools of Chicago and the surrounding suburbs. The widening circle of jobs threatened to land her back in Deerfield, an hour’s train ride away, so she limited herself to gigs she could bike to. It meant a lot of days off. Miquel was struggling to get an in-home counseling business off the ground, and between the two of them, they were barely making rent. Carrie was open to ideas.

  “What does every baseliner want?” Waylon asked her, tenting his fingers and leaning on his elbows. He’d shed the baby fat he’d sported at Bishop. Bryce had him eating better, and he kept himself clean despite the volume of drugs that passed through Vibration. His face was long, thin, permanently dour. He’d waited until Miquel was off playing darts with Jonathan, who was dating Hayden but had left the band the moment before they got big. Waylon must have intuited already that this job offer was best kept secret.

  “No idea,” Carrie said.

  “They want abilities,” Waylon said. “They want to be like us for an hour, then shut it off and go back to their shit lives.”

  It felt true to Carrie. She and Miquel had driven out to Deerfield the night before to have dinner with her family. Her brother wanted his boss off his back. Her mother wanted her daughter to not be a freak. Her father wanted what Carrie had, to be able to move through the world without being seen. They all wished things were different and knew this meant becoming different people. They felt the impossibility of change. Carrie and Miquel, people like them, represented the chance to break through the limits of an ossified self. Her family watched them move through their new lives with a mixture of resentment and jealousy.