Acting Dead (Michael Quinn Thriller)

by John Moralee

  “I’ll have a word with her later,” Dad said. “She’s a sweet kid, if a little lacking in self-esteem. She doesn’t have any parents, you know. I think she lives in the trailer park all by herself. I can imagine why she’d be so scared.”

  We talked until the pain turned up a few notches. I managed to press the panic button myself, primarily to test it. A nurse entered the room and looked at the machines by the bed.

  “It’s time for Mr Quinn’s next injection, everyone. You’ll have to leave now, thank you. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  Chapter 25

  At one point – it must have been late since no one else was there, and the lights were turned down to a barest glimmer – Abby looked in the room. I wanted to say something, but the doctor had administered something; I could see her, but I couldn’t move. I was somewhere between being awake and being asleep, that dreamy state of almost being one or the other. There was nothing physical I could do. I could just look. Abby stood in the doorway, stepped forward, then changed her mind. She stayed in the doorway, half lit by the light from the corridor. Her illuminated cheek was shiny with tears. She put her clenched fist to her mouth and bit into the side of her index finger. Her shoulders shuddered. She moaned. She lowered her hand. It was red where her teeth had made a damp ring.

  She left without saying a word.

  It was almost like a dream, and afterwards I was only certain it wasn’t because I could smell cherries lingering in the air, like a soft kiss on the cheek.

  That night, I had a strange dream. I was driving my father’s old car. The one Billy had died in. I had never driven it in reality, I had been too young, but I was driving it in the dream. I was driving away from the high school, sipping vodka from a bottle. Weirder, Hanna Devereaux was by my side. I knew she was dead, but that didn’t matter. She was alive now. She looked radiant in her lavender-blue prom dress. For some reason, she was calling me Billy.

  It was dark. We were looking for somewhere romantic to stop after the prom, but could find nowhere. All of the good places were taken. I was driving fast, turning corners without slowing down. Hanna was telling me to slow down. I wasn’t listening. I wanted to get somewhere fast. I took a long drink, letting the vodka spill onto my tuxedo and shirt. I had to find somewhere to stop.

  There was something horribly familiar about the road ahead.

  I saw the fork in the road, the roads snaking away into darkness.

  Left or right?

  I couldn’t decide.

  The headlights lit up a large tree coming towards us. I felt as if I had been expecting that tree.

  Hanna squirmed in her seat. “Slow down, Billy! Slow down!”

  “I’m not Billy!” I cried out. “I’m Michael! Billy’s dead!”

  “Slow down, Billy!”

  “I’m not Billy! Billy’s dead! Billy’s dead!”

  “Slow down, Billy!”

  I wanted to prove I wasn’t Billy. I looked in the rear view mirror.

  When I looked at myself in the mirror, I could see Billy’s reflection, not my own.

  Billy was driving the car. He looked feverish, gripping the wheel hard. Suddenly his features became twisted in pain. Now I could see a new face, his face after the accident, the accident that was about to occur. His once handsome face was ripped and torn by shards of glass. He seemed to be sneering, but that was because his upper lip was a sliver hanging down in front of his exposed teeth. Blood oozed from a dozen wounds, running down his cheeks, running down his nose, thick black globs of it.

  He was dead. I was dead. I was going to crash.

  The tree was coming for me.

  Left or right?

  Make a decision, I thought.

  The decision’s already made.

  I wanted to steer away, but suddenly Hanna’s cold, dead hand clamped onto mine and fixed the steering wheel on its fatal course. “We’re going to die together, Billy.” Her face looked worse than Billy’s, the beauty smeared away by blood and glass. She was laughing and screaming and dying and -

  Impact.

  The pain woke me up screaming.

  I spent the first twenty-four hours in bed, sleeping off and on, wincing each time I foolishly tried moving. I was glad to see Sarah and some of her marine biologist friends. They were an eclectic group, ranging from a thin guy wearing a wrinkled JC Penney suit, who worked at the Marine Institute, to some female punks armed with nose-rings, tongue-studs and tattoos. Sarah was wearing a blue work shirt faded by sun that made her look like a cowgirl; I liked the look. She told me she’d been in a couple of times, but I couldn’t remember. She said she wasn’t surprised; I had been pretty out of it. She kissed me tenderly on my cheek, where it didn’t hurt.

  “Hi,” someone said behind her.

  “Meet Betsy and Joely, my sisters,” Sarah said. “Hi,” they said. They stepped forward into my view. Her sisters crowded around the bed. One was in her mid-twenties and the other one was about eighteen. The older one was wearing a yellow sundress, gold bracelets and gold earrings. I could picture her drinking iced tea at garden parties. The younger one had a long black skirt, a Star Trek T-shirt of Worf, the Klingon, and ultra-white hair, like a patch of snow on her head. She slouched with teen apathy. She was skinny and pale.

  “I’m Joely,” said the teenager. “Joely Beck. Her sister. And you’re a movie star.”

  “And I’m Betsy. Pleased to meet you.”

  I shook their hands and thanked them for coming. The younger one – Joely – trembled as she shook my hand.

  “It’s really you,” she giggled. “I’ve shaken the hand of the Michael Quinn. I don’t believe it. Sarah told me on the phone it was you, but I didn’t believe her until now. This is the most exciting thing that has ever, ever happened to me. That’s sad – I know – but we don’t have stars in Iowa, unless you count the ones in the sky. I’m blabbering. God – I’ve got the heebie-jeebies. I am so wired. I am actually in a room with Michael Quinn. You’ve been in Star Trek Voyager. Wow. You are so cool. I can’t believe you’re dating my sister. If you ever dump her, I’m available.”

  “Joely!” Sarah chastised.

  “What? I’m just saying, is all.” Joely pouted and rolled her eyes. “Boy, my sister can be so serious. She’s been really worried about you – don’t go getting yourself beat up again, okay?”

  “I wasn’t too keen on it the first time.”

  “But you did get in a few shots, right? Pounded the tar out of them?”

  “Some.”

  “Good. You’re like the first guy she’s been interested in for years. You’d think she was a nun. Only my sister could meet someone like you and not have seen a single movie you’ve been in. I told her to watch one of your movies – it’d be great foreplay.”

  “Joely!”

  “See? That reaction? My sister is hot for you, but she won’t admit it. She’s sort of repressed about sex, like she’s a Victorian or something. The other day, on the phone, she did tell me how much she found you interesting. For her, that’s like a big thing, like me saying I want to go to bed with someone. I’m not supposed to say that, though. She gets embarrassed if I talk about sex. My big sister has been so involved in her research she hasn’t had much experience with guys. Unlike me. The kama sutra is like my favourite textbook.”

  “Joely, you are incorrigible,” Sarah said.

  “I hope so,” Joely replied. “If I get a pen, will you sign my T-shirt?”

  Sarah’s sisters were living in her house, acting as a sort of posse. They were organising a campaign against the Emerald Point development and Heaven and Earth Enterprises. Ecowarriors had already camped outside the construction site to the annoyance of Van Morgan. Sarah and her marine biologist friends tried cheering me up with revenge fantasies, but the good mood faded quickly once they left. I wasn’t in the mood for revenge. Not yet. I was too tired.

  I slept some more. I dreamt about devouring thick, juicy hamburgers for some reason, so I assumed I had to be fe
eling better. I was certainly hungry, and I ate the bland hospital food like it was going out of style and asked for more. After that, I managed to sit up and talk for a reasonably long time with the visitors, though I ached all over. The bruises were spectacular colours – particularly on my back, where the baseball bat had slammed into me in six, meaty places. My chest dressing was removed and I saw the knife wound for the first time. It wasn’t very large – it was just a small red line. The doctor explained that was because the knife had a thin and sharp stiletto blade. It had gone deep into me with little resistance. Pure luck had saved me from a fatal injury.

  On the second morning I ventured to the bathroom in a wheelchair, then stood up at the urinal and urinated a dark stream. They’d hit me some good ones to the kidneys, I realised. There was nothing worse than seeing blood in my urine even if it was expected. It gave me a giddy sensation, like falling. I had to steady myself and finish urinating with my eyes closed. Really brave. My groin hurt incredibly. It felt as if I were urinating hot acid.

  I needed a long lie down after that experience.

  Later, my dad brought some movie magazines for me to read: Variety, Empire, Premiere. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was no longer interested in the movie business, not even as a customer, because he’d gone to great effort. I greatly appreciated the gesture, and after he’d gone I cried a little, for what, I didn’t know, but it released something bottled up inside my mind and allowed the healing process to begin. I felt better in the afternoon. My urine was clear, for one thing. I wouldn’t advise anyone to drink it, but it would have passed a colour test. Red is dead, yellow is mellow. Bored, I read the magazines, losing a few lazy hours in the Hollywood Dream.

  Sarah came in and said she’d kept Van Morgan awake all night by making her computer call his number on automatic redial. If he tried to trace the number, he would just get an Internet server in Cleveland.

  “You’re a wicked woman, Sarah.”

  She kissed me in the hair, stroking my cheek with her fingers. “I know. You’re looking a lot better, Mike. For a time, I was scared the bastards had killed you.”

  “You, scared?”

  She pursed her lips. “Yeah, but don’t tell anyone. It’d ruin my reputation.”

  Chapter 26

  The next morning, I was released, after signing the medical insurance claim forms. My dad drove me home. He treated me with kid gloves, so I told him to relax. “I’ll be fit in a week, Dad. The doctor said so.”

  “You rest easy, son.”

  I tried to do as he said, but I was never a good patient. I needed to get on with things, but frankly I was too weak. I spent a couple of days resting on the couch in front of the TV, learning everything TV Guide could tell me about life, the universe and everything. The TV was narcotic brain-fodder, an IQ-lowering habit. I could see what Sarah had against it. There’s only so many Ricki Lake’s, Oprah’s and Jerry Springer’s you can watch before your mind melts. But you have to keep watching and watching because you can’t believe you’re watching such inane drivel, you need some kind of proof that it’s real. Then, before you know it, you’re watching a show about two-timing lesbian transsexual serial-killers, hoping to see a big fight between two white-trash losers, maybe an eye-gouging or three. It’s a descent into madness. It happened; I had to pull myself out of the TV world and take refuge in books. I finished the Martin Amis book I’d started at Sarah’s, and Sarah gave me some others to try. I think she was trying to educate me or something. My IQ climbed back to its previous level and had a look up at the mountaintop.

  Fiona visited a few times, but she was too stressed at seeing my bruises and pain to stay long.

  I used some time to find out what was happening with the sale of my LA condo. My estate agent had called about a week ago to tell me that he had a potential buyer at the asking price. I could have really done with that money. The forty grand I’d had when returning to Cape Mistral was now down to thirty and I had no time for getting a 9 to 5 job as long as so much was going on. The first time I called my estate agent his secretary said Mr Santez was with a client and would call me back. When he didn’t, I called again. This time he did answer the phone. There was a pause and some coughing before he said anything.

  “Mr Quinn … I’ve got bad news.”

  “They backed out?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “But you said they liked the condo. It was just where they wanted to be. And they weren’t bothered by the quake damage.”

  “I know,” he said. “They were all ready to sign the papers when they changed their minds. I got the impression someone put them off. Someone’s spreading rumours about the damage being much more serious.”

  “Who’s doing that?”

  He did not give me a name. But it had to be Van Morgan. Van Morgan had interests in LA. He could easily have someone discourage any buyers.

  “I’ve still got the property on the market at your asking price, but frankly I don’t think it will sell at $300,000.”

  “But the condo is worth twice that!”

  “I know, I know. But what with the damage and … well, I’d seriously consider lowering the price by another hundred thousand.”

  “You want to sell it for $200,000? That’s less than a third of the real value.”

  “Even then you wouldn’t be sure of a sale. Not many people want to make repairs to a house before moving in, not in Beverly Hills. You could spend maybe a hundred grand on fixing it up?”

  “I can’t afford that.”

  “Well, the only other choice is to lower the price. Is that what you want me to do?”

  “Hell, try lowering the price if that will help.” I hung up, furious. I doubted I could ever sell the condo. I would have an easier time selling Amityville.

  Doug Clarke showed up to tell me more about Vernon and to ask if I felt like giving him a story. I told him my reasons for holding back, which he accepted with good grace. “Vernon doesn’t look too well, if you don’t mind my saying. He got drunk and fought an employee of Van Morgan.”

  “But Vernon’s okay, right?”

  “Vernon’s okay. It’s the other guy who has the bruises. They got into a fight in a bar. Vernon was playing his guitar on stage for tips when this big guy started talking over his music. Vernon hit him with a guitar of all things, smashed out his teeth. There are string marks on the man’s face. Vernon was arrested, but he was released a few hours later. The guy didn’t want to press charges, apparently.”

  “That’s bizarre. Any reason for the change of heart?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Doug said, his brow furrowing.

  “I don’t know.” He was looking at me as if he didn’t accept my answer. “I really don’t know. Where’s Vernon now?”

  “Gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Nobody’s seen him since.”

  I had a bad feeling about that. Now I could see a reason for dropping charges – to have him released so he could be made to disappear. Who would miss a half-crazy hippie?

  “What was the name of the guy who started the fight?”

  Doug looked at his notes. “Ecker.”

  “Ecker,” I said. The name tasted sour.

  “Mean anything?”

  “Trouble,” I said.

  “I wish you would talk to me. You know I’m there for you if you need public support.”

  “I know it, Doug. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I don’t know what to say. It’s a problem I have to solve. Maybe you could look out for Vernon?”

  “I can do that,” Doug said, but I doubted he would have any success.

  Sarah brought Joely and Betsy with her and they spent a whole afternoon. Joley’s tank top had the words SLACKER GENERATION across it, with WHY BOTHER? below it. Betsy was a caterer for weddings and birthday parties, so she arrived with a bag of freshly baked cakes and cookies that we all munched through. There was so much sugar in her cakes we needed insulin injections. Betsy was
very quiet, preferring to listen rather than speak, in contrast to Joely. She talked non-stop. She talked like her tongue would stop working if she didn’t keep it exercised. Joely was a big fan of my science fiction movies Cyber Shadows and The Electric Web. She begged me to sign her new Cyber Shadows T-shirt with an indelible pen. She was going to college in the fall and wanted every T-shirt she owned to have my signature on it. She wanted to be a computer game designer or in a rock band or a science fiction writer or in a movie like Alien – she hadn’t decided which. She’d dyed her hair white like a character in movie she loved, but intended to dye it blonde when she went to college because “blondes had more fun.” Her sister Betsy gave her some more cookies, which was probably her method of stopping her talking. Betsy had an enigmatic quality. The three sisters looked very similar, but their personalities were completely different.

  Sarah was planning an offensive. She’d hired camcorders for recording what was going on at Emerald Point. She had plans on making a short video – Emerald Point Past, Present and Future – informing the public of the situation. I volunteered to do the voice-over. Hopefully, the media would do the story if we made it good. We hoped to get coverage and publicity for the cause.

  “Save the snails,” Joely said, through a mouthful of caramel cookies. Then she mocked cheerleading, “Ra, ra, ra!”

  “Joely’s enthusiastic,” Betsy said, dryly.

  “Should make Van Morgan hurt in the wallet,” Joely added, with a sneer.

  “Don’t break the law,” Betsy said, sounding like a prude.

  “Me? I’m not the environmentalist. My big sister is the one who does that.”

  “Only when the law is wrong,” Sarah said.

  “Michael,” Joely said, “did my sister tell you she went to a rally against GM crops?”

  “I don’t believe she did.”

  “She threw some eggs. Lots of eggs. Hit this guy – whap – right in the face. He was the CEO of a company. It was in the papers. This was when she was fifteen.” Joely slapped her fist into her other palm. “It’s time I did something like that. Van Morgan won’t be able to ignore me. He’ll wish he never even thought about putting a golf course up there. This is gonna be so much fun. I can’t wait. It’s gonna be like the Borg attacking the Federation – adapting to beat the enemy. We are Borg.”