Where Bodies Lie

by D. K. Greene

She giggles. “You seem happy.”

  Peter considers this for a moment. “I think I am happy.”

  “Tell me about it.” Jeanne jots a quick note on the pad beside her. She’s probably writing today’s date and Peter’s name. Maybe she’s adding a smiley face and the word happy.

  “I broke up with that woman I was seeing,” Peter announces. He looks at Jeanne with bold sincerity and hopes she understands what this means for them.

  Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “What happened?”

  He speaks with earnest intention. “I realized I was wasting my time with her. I didn’t care about her. She was just there. Even when I didn’t want her to be.”

  The therapist gestures her understanding. “It’s good to know the difference between having a relationship that brings meaning to your life, versus someone taking up space. Often, people get lonely and fill their lives up with companions who don’t have substance, so they don’t have to invest emotionally in the relationships. It’s a foolish way to avoid feeling alone.” She looks at him with serious eyes. “That’s a huge step. I’m proud of you.”

  Peter inches his knee forward in hopes she will touch it with reassurance. He aches to feel her fingers grip his kneecap. She leans back in her chair, busying herself with her writing. He reminds himself she has to keep a professional distance in the office. He can’t help but appreciate her dedication. He hopes she knows he’d never turn her in to the authorities over their relationship. He supposes the risk is too great for her to take, with the receptionist right outside.

  “It upset her when I told her I didn’t think she was a viable partner.” He does his best to mimic Jeanne’s professional posture. Despite his outward attempt at looking sullen, Val’s distress doesn’t bring him an ounce of regret.

  “I’m sure she was. Did you use those terms exactly?” Jeanne peers at him with curious eyes. “Breakups are difficult, especially if you’re on the receiving end.”

  Chuckling nervously, Peter shakes his head. “No, I told her I didn’t think about her when she wasn’t around. I mean, the sex was wonderful...” His mouth puckers as he realizes how calloused he sounds. Jeanne keeps her therapist face firmly in place. “But the feeling was superficial. There wasn’t any...” he snaps his fingers, trying to think of the word.

  “Emotional intimacy?” Joan offers.

  “Exactly.” He bobs his head emphatically. “I couldn’t connect with her. It made it seem she wasn’t real. If I wasn’t in the mood to see her, she didn’t cross my mind.”

  Jeanne shifts in her seat. The motion is stiff and measured. She rests her pen for the moment and her eyes look weary. “Do you find you often have problems connecting with people?”

  He knows just what she’s worried about. He feels he should pacify any fears she might have about his ability to be there for her. “I don’t connect with many people. But when I meet someone who has depth, and personality, and understanding, my bond to them is unbreakable.”

  She looks puzzled. “That’s quite a formal way to describe your emotions.”

  Peter’s shoulders droop. “Maybe, but that’s the way it is.”

  “I suppose it’s good we get along so well, then.” Jeanne’s mouth curls on one side in a partial grin.

  “Seeing you is the highlight of my week, Jeanne.” He clears his throat, feeling unsteady. “I’d see you more often, if I could.”

  She tips her head to the side, considering him. “Do you think you need extra sessions? From where I’m sitting, you seem to manage things pretty well.”

  He scrunches his eyebrows together as he contemplates her question. Scheduling more appointments would allow him to see her more often, sure. But he doesn’t want to give her the impression that he’s having some kind of breakdown. Besides, now that his father is in the hospital, he’s compelled to spend more time in Salem. “No, I don’t think I do. I enjoy talking to you, is all.”

  Her eyes glitter. She leans forward slightly. “I’m glad. That means I’m doing a good job.”

  Thirty-Five

  Peter suspects Dougy’s been staying at the hospital around the clock. All week, he’s been present when Peter has stopped in to share the hospital’s gloppy gray oatmeal with Ollie, and he’s there when the nurse comes in to announce visitation hours are over. Today isn’t any different.

  He raps on the secure metal door three times. He’s been coming with such frequency that the guards have relaxed around him a bit. They open the door and Peter enters the protected area. He pops his head into the room to find Inspector Douglas asleep in the faded armchair crammed in the narrow space beside the hospital bed. He’s snoring so loud, Ollie has stuffed cotton balls in his ears. Peter’s father hunches over a book on the bed, turning the pages so quickly it’s hard to believe he’s reading.

  Tiptoeing over to the bed, Peter waves his hand low enough for Oliver to see the movement. He looks up, smiles, and pulls a bundle of cotton out of his left ear. “How does the oatmeal look this morning?”

  “Looks solid, like Chicken Fried Steak.” Peter wiggles the two cups of oatmeal in his hands.

  “I bet it tastes like Eggs Benedict,” his father jokes with a wink.

  Laughing, Peter settles on the foot of Ollie’s bed. This last week in the hospital has been one of the best in his life. Aside from the guards watching him come and go, Peter doesn’t feel different from any other person visiting a loved one. For a while, he can pretend when they release his father from the hospital, they’ll go home together the same way other patients and their families do. Peter sets a cup and a spoon within his dad’s reach before popping the plastic lid of his own.

  “How are things with the project?” Ollie’s mouth is full and the oatmeal squishes between his teeth as he talks. Peter would tell him he looks disgusting, but he’s so glad to be sharing meals with him, he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

  Peter glances at Dougy, who lets out a snore that makes his chair vibrate against the bed’s rail. “Do you really think we should talk about this right now?”

  Oliver bumps Peter’s arm with a blanketed knee. “Sure. He was up most of the night worrying over my blasted cough. He’ll be out for at least another hour.” He notices Peter’s nervous expression and winks. “I’ve known Inspector Douglas long enough to understand he needs eight hours of beauty sleep to function. Trust me. As long as his phone doesn’t ring, he won’t hear a thing.”

  Stirring his breakfast, Peter’s stomach sinks. Losing his appetite, he puts the remaining oatmeal on the tray beside the bed. “People are calling, but nobody will commit to coming in.”

  “Are the calls going any better?” Ollie’s bushy eyebrows creep up his forehead with the question.

  “It’s taking them longer to hang up on me,” Peter answers. He tries to sound positive, but his voice drips with frustration.

  “Progress is progress.” Oliver smiles and nudges Peter again. “Keep working at it. You’ll have appointments lined up before you know it.”

  As if the cereal boxes can hear Peter thinking about them, the AA phone vibrates in his pocket. “There’s a call now.”

  His father watches as he fishes the phone out. The intermittent buzz tickles his fingers. He hesitates. Oliver smiles, forcing him to find enough courage to hit the talk button.

  “Alphabet Apes Portland Contest Hotline. Ted speaking. How can I help you?” Peter looks over at Oliver. He can’t read his father’s expression, but his heart skips a beat, anyway. He’s sure his dad made note of the name he’s using.

  A young voice titters through the speaker. “Hello? I’m Jesse. My cereal box says I won a prize. Did I really win something?”

  “Yes, Jesse, you sure did! We’re hosting a regional contest for a limited time. All you need to do is bring your cereal box down to our prize office. We scan the box and you go home with a prize.”

  “I show up and get something cool?” Jesse’s adolescent voice cracks and pitches in a warbling tone.

  “Absolute
ly. Do you mind if I ask how old you are?” Peter goes over to the room’s medical counter and hunts for a sheet of paper.

  “Thirteen. Gonna be fourteen in three days, though.” Jesse lets out a nervous croak. “Am I old enough to win?”

  Clearing his throat, Peter winks at his dad. “Well, technically, I can’t release prizes to anyone under the age of eighteen. Do you have a parent or guardian who can come with you?”

  “Yeah!” A crackle coats Jesse’s call. “My mom doesn’t work. She can totally drive me and sign whatever.”

  “That’s great, Jesse. Do you have a pen and paper?” Peter still has nothing to write on himself, but when he turns around Oliver is handing him the inspector’s pocket notebook. He takes the small book and flips through Dougy’s field notes until he finds a blank page.

  The kid tells Peter he’s ready. Peter pulls out his personal cell phone and finds the list of addresses for the temporary office rentals he’s lined up to use. They figure out which location is closest to Jesse, and Peter relays the address as he writes it down in the pilfered notepad. “I have time slots open at two, four, and six today. Otherwise, we’ll push it to Monday. What works best for you?”

  “Today, definitely. Can you hold on a minute?” The line crinkles as Jesse pulls the phone away. He yells at the top of his lungs for his mother. He shouts the address and times, and she hollers back. “We’ll be there at two,” Jesse says, as if Peter hadn’t heard the entire exchange.

  “Great. What’s your full name, Jesse?” Peter pulls the page he’s been writing on out of Inspector Douglas’s book, realizing he doesn’t want to leave it in there for him to find later.

  “Jesse Deere. My bros call me J.”

  Peter stifles a laugh. “Okay, J. What’s your mother’s name?”

  “Tracey.”

  “I have you and Tracey down for two o’clock this afternoon. Please check in at the front desk when you arrive. The receptionist will take care of you. Make sure your mother has a valid form of government-issued identification with her.” Peter pauses for a minute to make sure Jesse has time to take it all in. He adds, “Hey, one more thing. Don’t be late. We’ve got a lot of winners. To get everyone in, I run a tight ship. If you’re over ten minutes late, I won’t be able to get you your prize.”

  Peter hangs up and Ollie grins. He puts his oatmeal on the tray beside him and looks like he’d leap into his son’s arms if he weren’t tied to all the medical machines. He manages to grab Peter’s arm, pulling him in for a warm hug. He kisses Peter on the cheek. “See? It was only a matter of time.”

  Peeling away from his elated father, Peter returns the inspector’s notebook to him. The elder man expertly inserts it in Dougy’s jacket pocket, leaving the sleeping inspector none the wiser. Peter uses the AA phone to call the office building. He books one of their temporary conference rooms, deciding to rent it for a block of three hours. The appointment is late enough in the day that he will have enough time to get out of Salem, back into town, set up a convincing display, and be ready to go when Jesse shows up.

  “It’s going to be a busy day,” Peter says, realizing how much work he has ahead of him.

  “Feast or famine,” Oliver says with a grin. “Do you think he’s the one?”

  “The one... for what?” Peter asks absently as he gathers his things.

  Ollie draws his finger across his neck in silence, the pretend slice across his throat mirroring the thin smile under his oxygen mask.

  “He’s just a kid.” Peter shakes his head. He tosses the cold remains of their breakfast in the bin.

  “Maybe his mother’s a disaster,” his father offers. Peter shoots him a dirty look. “Or, maybe she’s single and looking for a date?”

  Peter grunts, annoyed. “I’ll let you know how it goes, tomorrow at breakfast.”

  Settling against his pillows and retrieving the cotton balls from the side-table, Oliver prepares to block out the sound of the inspector’s continued snoring. “I can’t wait.”

  Thirty-Six

  A foggy separation from reality envelops Peter as he leaves the hospital. He can’t decide if he’s ready for the plan to move forward. He still isn’t sure if he’ll give all the prizes away without incident, or if something deep in his DNA will snap.

  He doesn’t have to murder anyone. The prize winner is a kid. Every kid needs a mom. It doesn’t matter if he likes them or not, he will give them something nice. Once his obligation is complete, they can all move on with their lives.

  The whole drive back to his apartment goes by in a blur. He tries to shake the off-kilter feeling of his father’s reaction to the appointment booking. The joy in Oliver’s eyes made life seem suddenly complete. Peter’s spent twenty years trying to convince himself he didn’t need his father, but now that he’s within arm’s reach, he can’t imagine going back to the blandness of living without him.

  Peter backs into his assigned parking space. He hauls things out of the apartment, filling the rear of his car with video games, guitars, model kits, and collectable toys. The trunk fills more quickly than he expects it to. Soon, he’s packing prizes in the rear and front passenger seats. Somehow, he gets it all to fit, along with a new thrift-store laptop and a dummy UPC scanner he ordered online. Peter tucks his fake Alphabet Apes poster in a gap behind his seat and strings his lanyard around his neck.

  “It’s now or never,” he mutters as he crams himself in the car.

  The collapsed feet of a child-sized art easel poke him in the ribs. He does his best to ignore the stabbing wooden legs as he turns the wheel, starting his journey toward the Beaverton office complex. Traffic slows as he merges onto Highway 217 and he drums the steering wheel impatiently.

  Every once in a while, he glimpses people on the highway eyeballing his overloaded car. He cringes with worry that they’ll figure out he’s up to something. Despite his efforts to ignore the fear that they know he’s an imposter, he’s nervous someone will realize he’s driving around town with a sedan packed with toys to use as bait for a serial killer’s social experiment.

  If they figure that out, they’ll think he’s a terrible person. He isn’t though. He’s just a guy who wants to help people, even if the way he’s going about it is a little out of the ordinary.

  He fights his hysteria the entire way. No one stops him. Not a single person swerves as they pick up their cell phone to call the cops. Nothing happens at all, except that it starts to drizzle and Peter has to turn his wipers on.

  It’s only the second time Peter’s been by the office building. He drove by when he first got the address list from the rental company. Now, he’s struck by how much it looks like a stock photo on the internet. Hedges in the landscape are perfectly groomed. The giant gold building numbers gleam between the second and third floors. The entire scene is spotless. Not a single candy wrapper flutters across the sidewalk. It’s as pristine as one of those Street of Dreams homes no one’s ever lived in. Constructed just for the sake of being beautiful.

  Heading into the building with his arms loaded with stuff, Peter struggles with the front doors. He enters the lobby where a young man sits behind the reception desk. He’s dressed for business in a tailored suit and a narrow necktie. His swooping hairstyle makes Peter wonder where his hair begins and ends. He flips his head to the side as if he’s about to have a seizure, but Peter realizes he’s just trying to get the wild hair out of his eyes without touching it with his hands.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. I’m Ted from Alphabet Apes. I’ve got a conference room booked from one to four this afternoon.” Peter props an armload of stuff on the desk while he fishes a business card out of his pocket.

  The mass of hair slides in front of the receptionist’s face when he leans down to look at his appointment book. He tries to move it with a couple flicks of his head. It doesn’t work. He gives in, pushing the mass out of his field of vision with his hand. Peter fights the building urge to suggest he see a barber. A male barber. One
who never went to beauty school and fixes every hair emergency with a sharp set of clippers.

  “I have a conference room for you on the third floor.” He jots down the room number on a scrap of paper with the hand he isn’t using to hold his hair up. He glances at Peter and nods at the stuff in his arms. “Do you have more to unload?”

  “I do,” Peter says with a dip of his chin.

  The hair bounces atop the receptionist’s head as he spins around in his chair. “I’ll show you where the service carts are.”

  It takes six trips to get his car unloaded. Once he’s moved the last bundle, the room Peter’s in looks like a strip mall threw up in it. Piles of retail therapy crowd every available surface. He’s glad he got one of the bigger meeting spaces and makes a mental note to always ask for a room this size.

  He checks the time. There’s still a half hour before Jesse and Tracey show up. He sorts items into categories, turning each corner of the room into its own department. He separates out electronics, arts and crafts, music, and puts everything else on the conference table. The table overflows with a mishmash of crap Peter never imagined existed. Astronaut ice cream, Mr. Potato Head riding a dinosaur, and stuffed Siamese cats that look indignant right out of the box.

  “Kids these days,” Peter says.

  The last thing to do is hang the banner he had printed. He’s forgotten tape, pushpins, or anything else that might help hang a strip of vinyl on the stark white walls. He leans across the massive conference table, pushing the Furbies aside so he can reach the angular intercom propped up like a decorative centerpiece. He presses a button and the voice of the swirly haired receptionist answers.

  “Sanchez. Front desk. May I help you?”

  “Hey, Sanchez. Ted in room 309. You wouldn’t have any thumbtacks or tape, would you? I’ve got to hang this banner—”

  Sanchez cuts him off. “Please, do not use any devices that will leave permanent marks on the wall. No duct tape, push pins, glue or other semi-permanent adhesives.”