Where Bodies Lie

by D. K. Greene

  “A Portland area man is the only survivor in what officials are describing as a domestic terror attack. He, his girlfriend, and their two children appear to have been poisoned.”

  Peter turns the volume to its max setting and rubs the sleep from his eyes. The reporter takes a deep breath and announces, “Here’s Aliyah Williams with the details.”

  A woman standing in front of a hospital’s emergency doors appears on the screen. “Thank you, Rob. I’m here just outside the E.R. where Vincent White says he’s lucky to be alive. The family was hit hard by the recent economic crisis. Like so many others, they’d resorted to receiving meals from a food pantry near their home to put food on the table.

  “Everything seemed normal as they unloaded the groceries at their small, Southeast apartment. That changed after the family prepared their first meal.”

  A picture appears on the screen, showing a box of Alphabet Apes and an empty bowl. Peter’s heart hammers inside his ribcage. He accidentally switches channels when his thumb twitches against the remote. Frantically, he changes the station back, not wanting to miss a word of what’s said.

  “White states approximately twenty-four hours after eating Alphabet Apes cereal, the entire family became ill. They experienced symptoms of nausea and intense gastrointestinal distress. He says they didn’t initially report the food poisoning because they’d used milk near the end of its shelf life. They assumed it was the milk, and not the cereal, that had caused the ill effects.”

  A photo of the family appears. A husky man with ebony skin, a petite white woman and two beautiful children stand with arms linked in front of a grove of trees. Each has a demure, but content smile on their faces.

  “It wasn’t until three days later, when the family again ate the cereal, that they realized the Alphabet Apes itself may be the culprit. White says he and his girlfriend Susan Anderson, contacted Alphabet Apes to report the problem.

  “Both times they ate the tainted cereal, the family’s symptoms appeared to clear, just as you’d expect from food poisoning.”

  Aliyah returns to the screen, now standing directly in front of the glowing hospital sign. “A week after the second meal, symptoms returned. The children showed signs of jaundice, a yellowing of the skin and eyes. White says he knew something was wrong. He took his family to an urgent care clinic on Tibbetts Street. It was there they discovered all four individuals were experiencing liver failure.

  “They were brought here, where staff fought to save their lives. Their children, aged six and eight, died within hours of admittance. Their mother soon followed. White was able to survive long enough to enter surgery. He’s expected to make a full recovery.

  “We contacted Alphabet Apes regarding the poisoning, and a company representative sent this statement via e-mail.”

  The image of the cereal box returns to the screen, overlaid with text.

  Alphabet Apes and its subsidiaries send our condolences to the White and Anderson families.

  In the face of this tragedy, we are issuing a recall of all Alphabet Apes cereals purchased after June First of last year. We are cooperating with the FDA during their investigation, including a full review of our processing procedures.

  We are committed to the safety and security of our customers. Discovering the source of this heartbreaking situation is our highest priority.

  Peter mutes the TV as Aliyah and her coworkers memorialize the dead mother and children. He sits in silence for a moment, processing what he’s seen. The shock that froze him in front of the TV melts away, replaced with a boiling rage stronger than anything he’s ever felt before.

  An entire family has been destroyed. They believed someone was helping them. Peter flexes his hands, feeling their strength for the first time. After a lifetime of waffling on decisions big and small, he knows just what to do.

  He grabs his jacket, picks up his keys, and marches out the door.

  It’s time to take care of Glen.

  Sixty-Two

  After he rings Glen’s doorbell, Peter stands outside the view of the peephole. Every second ticking by without answer enrages him even more. He holds a length of rope between both hands, waiting for the right time to use it. The door swings open and Peter takes another step back, hiding from Glen around the stoop’s narrow corner.

  “Hello?” The screen door rattles as Glen forces its latch open. Peter hears it swing wide. Two heavy steps on the concrete announce the homeowner is nearly within reach. Peter squats, peering around the corner while staying out of view. The bastard has his back to Peter, looking at the ground as if searching for something. Peter takes his chance, moving silently forward until he’s close enough to wrap the rope around Glen’s neck.

  The large man bellows, but Peter cuts the sound off by crossing the rope behind his neck. He squeezes, stopping the flow of air. “Get inside.”

  He loosens his grip enough for Glen to take a gasping breath, allowing him a chance to follow his direction. Instead, the man thrusts his arm backward, attempting to grab Peter. He avoids the fruitless swat, drawing his body outside Glen’s limited range of motion. He tightens the rope around Glen’s thick neck again.

  “Listen, or so help me, I’ll end you right here,” Peter hisses.

  Glen claws at his neck. He squeaks, “Okay! I’ll go inside!”

  “Where’s your TV?” Peter barks as they pass through the entryway. He loosens the rope and waits for Glen to catch his breath and answer.

  “Is this a robbery?”

  Just as the question comes out, Peter notices Glen’s steering him toward a wall covered in swords, axes, and shields. He remembers his companion’s comments from the day they met. He stiffens the rope’s tension, pulling Glen backward and keeping the display of gleaming blades out of reach. He repeats. “The TV.”

  Glen nods, staggering along the safe side of the entry until they’re in the living room.

  “Sit down.” Peter commands, steering his charge toward a recliner. He moves around the back as Glen stumbles into the plush chair, adjusting his hold on the cordage as they go. Once seated, Peter forces the footstool to unfold, locking the furniture in place and making it difficult for the giant man to make a run for it. “Don’t move.”

  Peter swings the rope around Glen’s shoulders. He unrolls more line in his hands, tying him from torso to elbow. Only once he’s reasonably sure Glen can’t lunge and grab him does Peter step around the side of the chair.

  “Hello, Glen.” The homeowner’s eyes follow Peter as he moves around the room. Adrenaline pumps through his limbs and he marvels at how he wrestled the giant man into his recliner. Breathing heavily, he scans the area.

  “Ted?” Glen blinks in confusion. A sheen of sweat covers his pale skin.

  “Where’s the remote?” Peter searches through magazines and fast-food wrappers on the coffee table.

  “The... what?”

  “The remote, Glen!” Peter points to the monstrous TV mounted to the wall. “I want to turn it on. Where’s the fucking clicker?”

  His thick hand gestures toward his lap. “It’s usually in the cushion.”

  Peter takes a step toward the bound man, then thinks better of it. He leaves the living room to find the kitchen. He throws drawers open until he finds a long, sharp chef’s knife. His footfalls sound loud on the hard linoleum, and he’s relieved when he returns to the quiet of the carpet in the living area. He points the tip of the knife at Glen.

  “I’m getting the remote. Which side?”

  Glen dips his chin to the right of the chair. He moves close, hovering the knife over his victim’s hand. “If you move, I’ll cut your hand off.”

  Glen looks like a frightened child under his unkempt beard. He nods that he understands, then presses himself back in the upholstery to give his captor more room. Peter rests the knife’s edge against the back of his wrist, letting it press into his flesh enough to remind him to keep still. Quickly, he shoves his hand between the chair’s arm and its cushion, locating th
e edge of the remote and pulling it free.

  He backs away, leaving a bright red line in the back of Glen’s hand. He moves to the center of the room and points the remote at the television. The volume blares as it comes to life and Peter mashes the button to make it quiet. He flips through the channels while Glen breathes loud, haggard breaths.

  The familiar view of the hospital flashes across the screen on a local channel and Peter drops the remote. This time, it isn’t Aliyah Williams holding the microphone, but a slight man with glasses. The newscaster doesn’t matter. Peter points the tip of the knife at words scrolling across the screen.

  Alphabet Apes recall after family poisoned.

  “That was supposed to be you.” Peter’s hate compounds when they cut to the giggling children playing in a sprinkler in a home video. “They’re dead because of you, you son of a bitch.”

  Glen shakes his head. His eyes water and he whimpers, “I didn’t do anything.”

  His simpering makes Peter loathe the man even more. He feels the heft of the knife in his hand and moves close to Glen again. For the first time since this all started, his mind is free of worry and self-doubt.

  Shuddering in the chair, trying to break free of the ties holding him down, Glen weeps. The rope digs into his skin as he struggles. A knot loosens under the strain of his movements. Peter sees it slip free. He lunges forward.

  The knife sinks into Glen with ease the first time, but the second pass hits bone and Peter has to push his weight behind the handle to get it in. Hot blood leaks in pulsing waves over his hands, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, feeling Glen’s life source pour out urges him on. The knife slices through a band of rope and it snaps free.

  Glen bucks his legs, and the footrest collapses, allowing him to fight his way out of the armchair. His heavy breath sounds wet and wheezing as he tries to push Peter down. Peter’s grip on the knife slips. When he readjusts his hold over the tang, the knife slashes Glen’s thigh. The large man loses his balance and falls to the floor. His legs tangle themselves in the loose rope. A gurgling noise bubbles from inside his chest as he claws at the carpet, trying to pull himself toward the front door.

  Peter straddles him, and the knife finds him again.

  He doesn’t know how many times the blade slices through Glen’s flesh before he stops struggling. When he does, Peter tries to stop moving, too. He pants, each breath filled with the metallic tinge of blood.

  Once again becoming aware of his surroundings, he realizes he’s still straddling the body. Glen’s shirt is soaked through with blood, and a pool of the sticky liquid collects in the surrounding carpet.

  There’s a moment of intense relief when he realizes the battle is over. He closes his eyes, enjoying the quiet of the room. When he opens them again, the peace is cut short by the horror of what he’s done.

  He has to work his joints loose before he can let go of the knife. Blood drips from the blade. He drops it on Glen’s crimson back and stands, a panic attack building in the deep recesses of his chest. Peter tries to wipe the blood from his clothes, but the stains merely spread across the fabric.

  He wraps his arms around himself. He has to calm down so he can figure out what to do. Glen’s dead mass is sprawled across the floor. Peter wishes it weren’t. He wants to go back in time. To stop himself from losing control. His eyes water as he takes it all in.

  Thoughts of his father worm their way through his fear. Oliver would never get caught in a house with a bloody body. He can still walk away from this mayhem. If they can’t find a trace of him in the house, he can go back to normal life. He’ll go back to work tomorrow. Try harder to find some friends. Maybe he’ll even call Valorie and beg her to give him another chance.

  Returning to the kitchen, Peter nudges cabinets open with the toe of his shoe to keep his handprints off the wood. He looks for gloves, rags or wipes, and curses when he finds none. He turns around to look elsewhere and realizes his shoes have tracked rust-colored footprints across the linoleum.

  He kicks his shoes off and tries to stay off the stains. Crossing the house, he finds the bathroom. A single ratty towel hangs across the shower rod. Peter opens the bathroom cabinets and finds two more towels, both as threadbare and tattered as the one on the rod.

  Washing his hands in the sink, he worries at how long it’s taking for the warm water to run clear. There isn’t enough soap. Not enough time. He drapes the towel over his wet hand in a makeshift glove, patting the other hand dry as he searches the bathroom. He rechecks the cupboards under the sink, a cabinet in the corner, and leaves the bathroom to search the home’s closets. There isn’t much more in the house to clean with, aside from a bar of hair-covered soap in the shower, and an empty bottle of hand sanitizer.

  With the bundle of rag-tag supplies in his arms, Peter moves back to the living room and stands outside the growing ring of blood working its way through the carpet. He’s locked in a mental battle with himself over what to do next when someone’s knuckles rap at the front door. The terrifying sound is brief, followed by a shadow passing the front window. Peter dives backward, hiding behind the wall dividing the living room and entryway. In his haste, he steps on the edge of the now-sticky bloodstain.

  The sound of a truck rumbles through the house. The engine roars. It’s only a moment before the noise fades away. Peter steps toward the door, a red footprint appearing in the carpet behind him.

  “Shit!” Peter peels the wet sock off and leans over to dab it in more blood. He scrubs the fabric across the footprint, disfiguring it until it’s more blob than print. He tucks the bloodied sock in his pants pocket, then picks up a towel and uses it to wipe his foot. The blood is stubborn. Peter resorts to wrapping the whole towel around his foot like a slipper. He tucks the dirty side of the fabric against his skin and keeps the clean side out of the mess on the floor.

  Crawling on all fours so his foot’s makeshift covering won’t fall off, he collects the pitiful bundle of cleaning supplies he found. He returns to the kitchen, holding the wad of soap and towels against his chest with one arm, shuffling forward like a three-legged dog.

  Retrieving his shoes, he goes to the sink. He stands and twists the knobs to turn on the water. He scrubs the shoes with the scavenged half-bar of soap. The scarlet stains bleed to pink, but refuse to lighten further. Frustrated, he ties their laces together and drapes them over his neck. He wipes at the quickly drying footprints on the linoleum, but he can’t fully remove the bloodstains from the floor. He shudders his way through another panic attack and tells himself the scrubbing has disfigured the shoe prints enough.

  He inches around to the front door, doing his best to keep the floor behind him clean. Peter cracks the door open, using the one blood-free towel to wipe his prints from the door. The neighborhood is silent. He pushes the screen door open, and it shudders as it stops against a cardboard box.

  Pushing harder, he uses the door to move the box away, opening the exit wide enough to pass through. He hesitates, stopping to read the label before standing upright.

  A Hollywood address is listed on the sender’s information. Peter wonders if Glen figured out a way to order his crossbow after all.

  Sixty-Three

  Peter jumps with a start as he flips on the light, finding Dougy sitting on the couch in his living room. He freezes on the threshold, mind racing as he scrambles for an explanation for the bundle of bloodstained towels in his arms and shoes tied around his neck.

  Despite his disheveled appearance, Dougy doesn’t get up. “Took you long enough.”

  “I had a few errands to run after work.”

  “You didn’t go to work.” The inspector’s voice is flat and tired. He picks up Peter’s pocket notebook, left behind when he flew out the door before his rampage. He flips slowly through the pages.

  Feet twitching beneath him, Peter wants to run. He looks around the apartment but doesn’t see any sign of Special Agent Jones. “I needed to clear my head.”

  “My contact says
you drove erratically.” Inspector Douglas pauses, gazing at one of the pages. A moment later, he moves on.

  “It’s hard to concentrate on the road with your shoes tied around your neck,” Peter jokes.

  Dougy sighs. He slouches against the couch cushions. The last of the prizes have been gathered in the living room. The inspector rests his head on a giant stuffed caterpillar stretched out across the length of the sofa. He closes his eyes. For a minute, Peter thinks he’s fallen asleep.

  A tsunami of nausea undoes his gut as he realizes how little a threat the inspector thinks he is. But Dougy doesn’t know what he’s done. Peter drops the towels and walks to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The shoes get in his way at the sink, so he unwraps the laces and sets them on the counter as neatly as a person can arrange blood-soaked sneakers.

  “I could have helped you.” The strength of Dougy’s voice fills the apartment.

  Retrieving his glass, Peter returns to the living room. Between the inspector’s broad body and the stash of toys, there isn’t room for Peter on the couch. He sits, cross-legged, on the floor beside the coffee table and takes a long drink of water. “I thought you were helping me.”

  The inspector’s eyes open and fix on Peter. “I helped you maintain contact with your father. The rest of this...” He gestures to the collection of gifts. “I would have helped if you’d asked.”

  Weighed down by desperation, Peter shakes his head. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I’ve done. I wasn’t giving away presents for charity.”

  The smile hanging on Inspector Douglas’s lips amplifies his fatigue. He looks like a parent at the end of a long day chasing a toddler. “I know.”

  Peter gulps, choking on his water. He sets the glass down as he sputters, “You do?”

  Dougy closes his eyes again. “You’ve been under surveillance since Oliver asked to work with you.” One eye opens a slit and peers at Peter. “Though my team didn’t have to work very hard at it. You’re a terrible criminal.”