Medium Dead

by Chris Dolley

  Not to mention Brian.

  And as for friends – the only people she knew well enough to ask would have the same set of questions.

  She climbed into the pick-up, still wondering. The only thing she was certain of was that she had to memorize this location. She’d have to come back later and pick Brian up. But the place was so featureless. She took a long last look from the window. Corn for miles. Lines of trees in the distance. A road without a bend or a useful pothole. A grass verge without a distinctive tall weed...

  Then she saw it. About thirty yards away on the other side of the road there was a patch of earth about the size of car where the corn was small or had failed to germinate. She committed it to memory. And checked the pick-up’s odometer. Now all she had to do was find a way to return.

  “Is the nearest town far?” she asked as the driver pulled away.

  “Wellesley’s about ten miles.”

  Wellesley? That was miles from home – an hour and half’s drive at least. Bang went the idea of hiring a taxi. By the time she’d got home and driven back in her car, more than three hours would have passed. She hadn’t hidden Brian that well.

  “Is there a car dealer nearby?” she asked.

  Good plan. She’d rent a car. Drive straight back and pick Brian up.

  “There is. I can drop you there if you like.”

  “That would be very kind.” She dabbed at her eyes with the side of her index finger, keeping in character as the sad, abandoned heroine while memorizing the route for later.

  Everything was going well until the driver sniffed the air for the third time and shot Brenda a curious look.

  “Have you been near a bonfire?”

  “We went to a barbecue,” said Brenda thinking quickly. “It was more smoke than steak.”

  She let her lower lip tremble and turned away, stifling a bogus sob. She didn’t want to engage in any more small talk just in case her imagination developed a conscience and stopped furnishing her with appropriate lies.

  And she needed to concentrate. She’d just had a worrying thought. She’d need ID to rent a car. A driver’s license and proof of insurance. All she had was sixty thousand dollars and a cute smile.

  She controlled the urge to bang her head on the dashboard. Could she even buy a car? Wouldn’t they insist on ID for that too? Was she going to have to hire a taxi after all?

  Thoughts tumbled and churned inside her brain. She had sixty thousand dollars! That ought to solve any problem. She’d find some college kid and offer him ten grand to borrow his car, no questions asked. Except that usually guaranteed plenty of questions asked. He might follow her in a friend’s car, watch her drag Brian out of the cornfield and blackmail her for the rest of her life.

  By the time she was dropped off at the dealer’s lot, she’d exhausted every possibility. Except one.

  Brenda thanked her good Samaritan and, as he drove away, switched – goodbye tearful, abandoned girlfriend, hello rich, confident lottery winner. She ran a hand through the outer margins of her eighties hair checking for singed ends and sniffed her dress – not too smoky. And so what if it was – she was a woman with sixty thousand dollars in cash. She had a right to be eccentric.

  She eyed the car lot. Small, but select. Two dozen or so used cars outside, maybe seven or eight new models inside. She’d need to find the owner. Someone who could make decisions without clearing it with someone else first.

  She sashayed into the building, using her dress to its maximum effect – while hoping it didn’t set off the sprinkler system – and made her way straight to the most expensive car in the showroom. A Winter Gold Jaguar XF. Price tag: $49,975.

  A salesman came rushing over. Just the one salesman in the showroom from what Brenda could see.

  “Are y’all the manager of this fine establishment?” asked Brenda affecting a generic southern drawl.

  “I have that honor.” He was in his early fifties, dressed in a sharp suit and if he wasn’t wearing a wig, then someone had been doing some serious experimentation on his hair follicles. His hair shone as black and shiny as tar.

  Brenda turned to admire the golden Jaguar and ran a hand over its bonnet. “I jess lo-ve this here car.”

  “It’s a beauty,” said the salesman. “Four-point-two liter V8 engine–”

  Brenda waved away the technical spiel.

  “I have to take this car for a test drive.”

  “Certainly, madam.”

  “Now y’all might think I’m some kinda crazy woman, but I only buy cars that I feel one hundred per cent comfortable with.”

  “I quite understand.” He wasn’t exactly rubbing his hands together, but he was coming close.

  “And the only way I can know – I mean really know – is to take them on a long test drive ... by myself.”

  She could hear the first chime of a warning bell as it swung behind his eyebrows. She held up her hand.

  “Stop right there,” she said. “I know exactly what y’all gonna say. Which is why I always bring a li’l something with me for a deposit.”

  She flashed twenty thousand dollars, waving the two bundles enticingly in front of his face.

  “I ain’t no time waster and I ain’t no thief. I’m just mighty particular in my purchases.”

  He brightened, mesmerized by the sight of so many Ben Franklyns.

  “I understand. If I may have your details....”

  What name would she be this afternoon? She didn’t want any paper trail leading back to Harriet Vane.

  “Jessica Fletcher,” she said.

  “Like the TV detective?”

  “My mom’s favorite,” she said, adding a beaming smile.

  “May I see your driving license?”

  “Of course.”

  She made a play of looking inside her envelope. “That’s strange. It ain’t here. Why ain’t it here? Carl said he’d put it in with the money. Can you believe that?”

  She turned and gave the salesman her best pout. “My stupid husband’s taken my driving license to Cincinnati. And I so wanted this car.”

  She gave it her fondest look, then bestowed the salesman with an even fonder one. “Is there any way I can test drive this wonderful car without a license?”

  “Well....” He looked apologetic. “I could always sit in the back.”

  She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be the same. Do y’all believe in auras?”

  A moment of doubt crossed his face before the lure of selling a fifty thousand dollar car brought him to his senses.

  “Then y’all can see why I jess have to be alone with this car. Otherwise I can’t tell if she’s right for me.”

  She dropped her head, crestfallen. “I guess maybe this Jaguar and me jess weren’t meant to be.”

  “Could you come back tomorrow?” asked the salesman.

  She shook her head, adding a sniff for effect.

  “No, sir. I’m joining Carl in Cincinnati tomorrow. Then we’re heading west. Do they have Jaguars like this in California?”

  The salesman was wavering. Brenda beamed him encouraging thoughts. Take the risk. What harm can she do? Ask for the full purchase price of the car as a deposit. You’ll lose her otherwise.

  And she nervously fingered her manila envelope, folding it to show the contents inside were substantial and money-shaped.

  “Maybe we ... could work something out?” he said.

  She raised her head slightly, going for the hopeful puppy dog look. She thought about batting her eyelashes, but wisely refrained.

  “Y’all could?”

  “Yes, um, maybe if you left a more sizeable deposit?”

  “How much?”

  “For an unaccompanied test drive with no documentation....” She could see the calculation going on behind his eyes. “I’m afraid head office would insist on the full purchase price.”

  He sounded more hopeful than insistent, but Brenda wasn’t going to waste time haggling.

  “Done. Hold this.” She gave him the
twenty thousand and rummaged in the envelope for another three bundles. She handed them over. “Keep the change.”

  The Jaguar drove like a dream, with its push button starter and a gearshift that looked like it came straight out of a spaceship. I could get used to this, she thought.

  A thought that was too much for the inner Brenda. Are you mad? You’ve practically stolen it! With money you stole from a crime lord! Did you check the serial numbers to see if they were consecutive? The FBI probably have whole teams doing nothing but waiting for that money to surface.

  Brenda wasn’t handing over her conscience without a fight. She was borrowing the car. She’d give it back. The money, too. Not to Abbiati, but to a good cause. She wouldn’t benefit in any way.

  You say that now, but ... it’s addictive, Brenda. You haven’t had the money an hour and already you’ve blown fifty grand on a test drive. You’ll be tempted again the next time you’re in trouble. And the next.

  Brenda disagreed. She was stronger than that. Though a small part of her thought Abbiati owed her at least the fare home. After all, he’d abducted her and tied her to a chair. If she took him to court she’d be awarded far more than fifty grand. He owed her a Jaguar.

  There you go! Justifying your actions. You’ve watched Charmed. You know the danger of using magic for personal gain. Brian used magic to open the safe. The money came from the safe and you’re sitting in the proceeds. How do you think The Powers That Be are going to view that?

  Suddenly Brenda became very aware of the traffic on the road. Would Fate tamper with someone’s steering and brakes, sending them hurtling towards her head on? Or tamper with her own steering and make her drive straight into a tree? Like that big one over there.

  She gripped the wheel tighter, fighting the siren call of the magnetic oak. She’d be extra vigilant. And hand back the car as soon as possible.

  Maybe.

  Then the trip odometer approached ten miles and Brenda eased off the gas. That hole in the corn couldn’t be far.

  She saw it up ahead on the left and slowed even more. Brian had to be about sixty yards away on the right.

  She pulled over, stopping part way on the grass verge. She waited until a car passed, unlocked the trunk and the rear right door, then ran for the corn. It didn’t take long to find him – just long enough to have a mini-panic and convince herself that she was looking in the wrong place, the police had already discovered Brian, and her face was plastered all over the local media. In other words – about twenty seconds.

  Brian was still unconscious, still breathing, and still surrounded by large piles of exquisite looking – and exceedingly spendable – money.

  Brenda!

  She took another look up and down the road, grabbed Brian by the shoulders and hauled him over to the car. So far so good. At least neither of his arms had fallen off. She propped his shoulders against the lip of the rear seat, then pushed, shoved, slid and squeezed him aboard. Not exactly the recommended procedure for transporting injured and unconscious patients, but she was under severe time constraints. Any second someone could drive by.

  Someone did.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Brenda had closed the back door and was readying herself for a run to the corn when she heard the car. Panic and guilt took it in turns to wring her insides. She had a charred corpse stuffed in the back seat and a million dollars in the cornfield! And an overpowering urge to put her hands behind her back and saunter along the grass verge whistling nonchalantly. Drive by, drive by. Don’t look!

  They slowed – probably dazzled by her dress – but they didn’t veer into the cornfield, or stop. Brenda waited for them to drive out of sight before rushing into the corn. She grabbed the computer, placed it carefully in the trunk, then ran back for the drawer, taking special care of the gun. She wasn’t even sure if it was loaded. And she wasn’t going to risk covering it in fingerprints to check.

  The trip home was uneventful – as journeys in an appropriated car with a charred corpse, one million dollars and a murder weapon go. Brenda only had the one coronary, and a ninety-minute panic attack.

  She didn’t think Brian was visible in the back seat, but she wasn’t sure. A bicyclist might see him if one pulled up next to her at an intersection. Perhaps she should stop somewhere and put Brian in the trunk? A thought that came to the fore every time she approached an intersection or saw a cyclist. And promptly disappeared every time she found a stretch of quiet open road. Wouldn’t the Powers That Be be waiting for such a moment? Lure Brenda into thinking she was unobserved, then produce the squad car just as she had the trunk open and the charred corpse in her arms.

  The same went for if she stopped to buy a coat or a blanket to throw over him. Wherever she parked, she’d return to find a cop staring into the back of the car.

  Even the sight of her house didn’t make her feel any easier. She’d have curious neighbors to contend with. Who was that woman in the toxic dress and new car?

  She pulled into her driveway, sinking lower in the seat. Some kids were playing in the yard three doors down, but they looked more interested in each other. She took a deep breath, opened the car door, and talked herself into the role of Candy – an old school friend coming to stay. Brenda was going to be out, so she’d told Candy about the garage key she kept under a stone in the flower border by the house. Candy walked confidently from the car to the flowerbed. She didn’t act furtively. She didn’t glance left or right before scrabbling in the dirt. She didn’t run to the garage upon finding the key. She did just what she had to, placing a firm lid on her nerves until the garage door closed behind her and manic Brenda could re-emerge and show headless chickens what real hysteria looked like.

  First, she had to get inside her house. She kept a spare key under a flowerpot on the top shelf of the garage. Once inside the house, she had to grab her car keys, move her own car out of the garage and swap it with the Jaguar. Only then, away from the watchful eyes of her neighbors, could she drag Brian into the house via the garage door.

  Brenda executed a slightly longer version of the above – with extra running caused by frequent changes of mind – and bouts of hyperventilation. Should I ditch the dress? Ditch the Candy persona? No! Yes! No! Hide Brian upstairs? Drag him to the sofa? No! Yes! No! Breathe!

  Only when she’d sat Brian in her armchair could she relax – using a definition of ‘relax’ only found within the pages of the Bipolar Dictionary. She was totally wired and there was still so much to worry about. Top of the list being – what if Brian never recovers? She’d be stuck with her new nose and boobs for life. Unless she used part of the million dollars to pay for cosmetic surgery to put her back to how she used to look?

  Slippery slope, Brenda. Personal gain. You’re going to go through that million within the week.

  It’s not personal gain! It’s putting everything back to how it was. How it should be!

  The inner Brenda shook her inner head. Sophistry, Brenda. As long as you have access to that money, it’ll be a temptation.

  Brenda turned to the body slumped in her armchair. Was he looking any better? The three holes in his chest weren’t so noticeable. She moved closer. They were definitely smaller and not so angry looking.

  Brian stirred. His head moved slightly and his chest rose. He coughed.

  “Ow,” he said in a small, tired voice.

  Brenda moved closer still. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

  “Food.” His eyes still hadn’t opened and his lips barely moved.

  “You eat?” Brenda was surprised, and drawn to the three holes in his chest. Was there an alimentary canal in there somewhere? Would food fall out of the holes?

  Brian smiled weakly and opened half an eye. “Better stand back while I drink.”

  He tried to sit up, straining under the effort before falling back. Brenda darted forward to help him.

  “Do you want to sit up?”

  “Please. And food. Lots of sugar.” He spoke between gasps,
wincing with the effort each word was costing. “Have you ... Grape Nuts?”

  “No. I have granola.”

  “Have to do ... big bowl ... plenty milk ... extra sugar. And chocolate ... with nuts.”

  “Will that make you better? Are you ... sick?” She looked at the three bullet holes. Did they need dressing, antibiotics?

  “Apparently I’m allergic ... to armor-piercing bullets ... And I overdid the magic ... head killing me.”

  “So you’ll recover?”

  “Hope so ... never been shot before ... like that. I’ll ... I’ll know more tomorrow. Assuming I eat.”

  He attempted another smile and made it about half way. Brenda headed for the kitchen. She was hungry, too. Too hungry to spend time preparing a proper meal, so she went to the freezer and pulled out a pizza.

  She carried Brian’s bowl of extra sugary granola through to him and held it for him while he ate. His left arm was useless and he ate slowly as though every chew was an effort.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” she asked. “You don’t have to talk. You can send me your thoughts.”

  He waited until he’d finished chewing before replying. “Can’t. Need magic to send thoughts.”

  “Oh.” Brenda’s curiosity would have to wait.

  Another bowl of granola – with an extra sprinkling of sugar – two bars of chocolate and a packet of peanuts later, he at last began to tell her what had happened. His attempted mind meld with Abbiati. The recovered memories that appeared to show him helping Frank Cassini rather than threatening him. Abbiati’s intriguing phone call for help, the fire, and how he’d got shot.

  “You teleported in front of witnesses?”

  “No choice. It was that or ... die. Maybe?”

  His speech became less labored with time. But he’d still sometimes stop in mid-sentence, his eyes screwed up in pain for several seconds.

  “Who do you think Abbiati was calling?” she asked.

  “Don’t know. That’s why we need all this.” He pointed to the computer and the drawer of papers. “Must be something in there. Address book. Phone numbers.”