Life Is Short and Then You Die_First Encounters With Murder From Mystery Writers of America

by Kelley Armstrong

  Of course I remember. His mom would make up the couch for me to sleep on, but most nights, after she’d gone to bed, I’d sneak into Michael’s room and curl up in his bed. Some nights, we’d talk for hours. “We stayed up way too late. You’d talk about anything, as long as it was video games.”

  “Yeah. Pick him up, Ellie. But keep looking at me. Keep talking to me.”

  I plant my heels and stand, lifting the body. “I thought you were the coolest guy in the world, with all your posters, and your games, and the stash of old Halloween candy under your bed.” I’d thought I must be cool, too, if Michael Simms liked me. “Why were you so nice to me?” I sidestep to the left, twice, staring right into Michael’s pale blue eyes. Then I squat again and lay the body on the plastic.

  “Because you needed a friend.”

  A friend. By the time I was old enough to realize I wanted more from him than friendship, my mother had moved us out of that apartment. Into this house. It was supposed to be a step up. A nicer, safer place for me to grow up in. And I guess it was. But I lost Michael.

  He still said hi to me in the halls at school, of course. And if I looked sad, he’d show up at my locker with a grape soda or a candy bar. But things between us were different. He’d grown up. Moved on. He’s a senior this year, and no one would have expected him to hang out with a mousy sophomore with stringy hair and crooked teeth. I certainly didn’t.

  But deep down, I’d hoped he still thought about those nights, back when we were kids. That someday he’d see that I had grown up, too.

  “Cover him,” Michael says, and I blink, dragged back into the present by his instruction. “Ellie. Flip the plastic over.”

  I grab one edge of the sheet of plastic and fold it over the body. “We need something to hold it closed.”

  “Bungee cords,” Michael suggests. “From when we picked up your tree last week. I saw them in the garage on the second shelf.”

  “Yes!” I race past him into the garage, and as I pick up the cords, I’m hit with the memory of him using them to secure our sad little tree to the roof of his car. My mom had had to pick up a double shift that night, and I’d wanted to surprise her by having the house all decorated when she came home. But maybe I’d also wanted an excuse to call Michael. To ask for a favor that would put us in his car together. In my house together. An excuse for us to pour some of the rum from the cabinet over the fridge into a couple of glasses of eggnog and …

  Afterward, he’d apologized. He’d said kissing me—touching me—was a mistake. He had a girlfriend, and she deserved better than what he’d done.

  He said I deserved better, too. But I didn’t want better.

  I wanted Michael.

  My jaw clenches as I carry the bungee cords into my bedroom. Michael is staring out my window, one arm propped on the frame. I kneel and work the first cord beneath the corpse’s shoulders, then tie it tightly to hold the plastic closed. I have to wrap the second cord around his ankles four times to get it tight enough.

  “Ellie?” Michael’s footsteps approach me from behind. “You okay?”

  “Of course I’m not okay. I’m trying to sneak a body out of my room and avoid the death penalty. What part of that would make you think I’m okay?”

  “You need to calm down, or you’ll make a mistake.”

  I stand and turn on him, my arms thrown out at my sides. “I’ve already made the mistake! If he’d just … If he’d just listened.”

  Michael stays several feet away. “What makes you think he wasn’t listening?”

  “He didn’t…” I can’t remember, without replaying the whole thing, and I can’t stand to do that.

  “Because he didn’t say what you wanted to hear? Doesn’t that mean you weren’t listening?”

  For a moment, I can only blink at him. “Whose side are you on, anyway?” He stares at me without answering. I turn back to the body, and this time I don’t wait for his help. I just heave the heavy end of the black plastic burrito up and start hauling it backward out of the room.

  Michael follows me down the hall into the garage, through the door I’ve left open. Rather than helping me lift my burden into his trunk, he offers me a single piece of advice. “Lift with your legs, Ellie.”

  I drop the body on the concrete floor and flip him off over one shoulder.

  It turns out I’m not strong enough to lift a hundred and eighty pounds of dead weight into the trunk by myself, and he’s not gentleman enough to help, if that means incriminating himself. And I can’t really blame him. So I drag over the car ramps my mom’s last boyfriend left in our garage and position them in front of the trunk. Then I lift the heavy end of the body again and haul it backward up the ramps, until I can roll most of it—the heaviest half, anyway—into the trunk.

  “Clever,” Michael says. “See, you didn’t really need my help anyway.”

  “I definitely needed your car,” I snap as I shove the body the rest of the way into his trunk, then slam the lid closed.

  “So where are we taking him?” Michael slides into the passenger seat, and I glare at him through the window.

  “Really? You’re going to make me drive? I don’t even have a license.”

  “You didn’t have a license when you brought the car here. And anyway, if we get pulled over, your lack of a license is the least of our worries.”

  I can’t really argue with that. I round the car, punch the button on the wall to open the garage door, and get in behind the steering wheel.

  “What about the park?” I ask as I carefully pull out of the driveway.

  “Sure.” Michael nods. “I mean, if your goal is to scar the poor little kid who finds him for life.”

  “Crap.”

  “What about a dumpster? They only empty the one behind Slice of Life”—the pizza place where Michael’s worked since the day he turned sixteen—“once a week. It could be days before anyone finds him.”

  I turn left, heading for the strip mall where he works. “You going to help me get him in there?”

  “Still not touching a corpse. So, what about behind the dumpster. The point is to keep him from being found in your house, right? So it doesn’t really matter when he’s found.”

  “I guess not.”

  We drive the rest of the way in an uncomfortable silence, and I park behind the dumpster at the back of Slice of Life. While I pull the body from the trunk, Michael stares over the roof of his car at the back door of the restaurant where he works. “I wonder who’ll find him?” He doesn’t seem to want an answer, so I don’t even make a guess.

  When I’ve positioned the body as close to the dumpster as I can, hiding it in thick shadows I hope will still be at least partially shaded in the daylight, I get back into the car. But Michael keeps staring at the building. He seems sad.

  I start the car and roll down the passenger’s side window. “Michael.”

  Finally he gets in. “It won’t be the same between us after this. You know that, right?”

  I shift into gear and pull out of the parking lot the back way. “It hasn’t been the same in a long time.” We park his car at the neighborhood playground again and walk in silence back to my house.

  In my room, Michael sits on my bed and watches while I soak up the blood with paper towels. Then scrub the floor with bleach and more paper towels.

  “Michael … what’s wrong with me?” I ask as I gather the bloody paper towels into a pile. I can’t stop staring at them. I couldn’t look at the body, but I can’t seem to stop looking at the blood.

  “Well, if I had to guess, based on the evidence, I’d say you have a lot of pent-up rage and a hair trigger. And some severe psychological issues.”

  “I’m not talking about this.” I grab the wad of trash in both hands and push myself to my feet using my elbow. He follows me into the living room. “I mean … why am I good enough for you when you’re drinking, but not when you’re sober?”

  Michael studies me with a sad look on his face. “You’re never
going to forgive me for that, are you?”

  Instead of answering, I sink onto my knees in front of the fireplace and toss a handful of the bloody paper towels in. The flames hiss as they devour the moisture.

  “It was just a few kisses, Ellie. But it was wrong. So I stopped. You can’t get mad at me for trying to do the right thing.”

  But it wasn’t just a few kisses. He’d touched my hair. He’d looked right into my eyes and told me I was pretty. That should have meant something.

  That had to mean something.

  “Ellie, you need to talk to someone.” Michael sinks onto the edge of the couch, and his voice is very soft. “It’s time for you to get some help.”

  “That’s why I called you.” Only I didn’t call him, did I? He called me.

  “You need someone other than me. This isn’t normal, Ellie. This isn’t healthy.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” I throw the rest of the towels into the fire and turn on him. “Is this why you like her better than me? Ginger?”

  “Do you really think we should have this conversation again? Don’t you remember what happened last time?”

  No, I don’t remember. All I know is that I can’t let him go. “What if I get help? What if I find someone to talk to?” I take off my bloody shirt and throw it into the fire. “My mom mentioned this therapist she knows from work. If I go see him, will you … Will you give me a chance?”

  Michael shakes his head slowly. “It’s too late for that, Ellie. You know it’s too late.”

  “Then why are you here?” I need to calm down. He’s right. It’s not healthy for me to be this angry. “Why did you call me? What is this about, Michael?”

  He gives me another sad look. “Elodie, if you want to boil it down to one thing, I’d have to say that this is all about a pair of shoes…” He looks down at his feet.

  No.

  I break into a sweat as I follow his focus down to the floor. Where a pair of red Vans peek from beneath the ends of his jeans.

  No …

  “What’s wrong, Ellie?” Michael says as he steps into my living room, out of the cold. “Ginger’s waiting, so I only have a minute.”

  “You need to talk to someone. Your mom’s friend. Or the counselor at school.” His voice is kind, but his words hurt. Why do his words always hurt?

  “I can’t do this with you anymore.” Michael backs away. Headed for my bedroom door. “You know I love you. I always will. But not like that. You’re like my sister, Ellie.”

  “And you should probably just go ahead and tell them what happened, because Ginger knows I was coming over here tonight. And you left paint from my car on your garage shelf. Eventually, the police will come to your door, and it’ll be better for you if you just tell them what happened.”

  “What happened, Michael? I don’t understand. I don’t remember…”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Please don’t go,” I beg him. “Please. You love me. You told me you’ve loved me ever since we were kids.”

  “That’s not … That’s not how I meant it. I’m sorry. I have to go. And I don’t think I should come over anymore.”

  “No!” My pain bleeds into a white-hot anger. If he walks out that door, I will have lost him.

  There’s a knife on my desk, sitting on the empty plate from the dinner I ate alone in my room.

  “You can’t go…”

  “Ellie. I have to go now,” Michael says as firelight dances across his features.

  “I know.” But I also know I don’t have to let him go. Not this time. What I don’t know is when I picked up the knife again. “I know you have to go. But this time I’m coming with you.”

  THE COMPANY I KEEP

  By Jeff Somers

  1.

  The first thing I noticed about my freshman-year dorm roommate, Doug Pembriss, was his small, virginal hands. They were hands made soft and pillowy by the constant application of lotions in the shower during masturbatory expeditions. He thought no one suspected. It may be part of the reason I did not in any way find Doug attractive even though he was, technically, a suave older man.

  Doug looked normal. Average height, brown hair, green eyes. A round, unlined face that hinted at a childhood of action figures and a banana-seat bicycle and so little trauma that he was technically younger than his years.

  Me, I’d skipped two grades; my father used to call me the Boy Genius, so I started college when I’d just turned seventeen. I’d been living with my Aunt Sheila and Uncle Jimmy, and was unreasonably eager to get out of their awful house and on my own. But college wasn’t quite what I expected—and neither was Doug. I had expected some sophisticated older dude. Doug was one of those guys who showed up at college completely unprepared, and before he could finish baking, he ran into Samantha Glees. Which directly led to me seeing my first dead body.

  Doug found himself sitting next to Samantha in class. Doug simply glanced her way, smiled, and said hi. She smiled back and asked him if he had an extra pen. From that moment on, Doug began taking four showers a day.

  Samantha was certain of her own importance, but in all fairness this had already been proved to her by her parents on numerous occasions. The Gleeses had sacrificed everything for their children, and Samantha above her two younger brothers. They were the sort of grim, joyless parents you met from time to time who got thinner and less alive every year, turning into husks while their bright, attractive children grew brighter and more attractive.

  How do I know this? I know everything. I’m Reggie Reloux, Boy Genius. Also: Doug’s passwords were easy to guess, and he was very chatty with his old high school friends online.

  I took an interest because he was my roommate, and he seemed like the sort of kid who got lured into cargo vans with the promise of candy and never seen again. Their friendship was, upon investigation, real enough: Samantha liked Doug, enjoyed his company, and occasionally allowed him to imply she was or might someday be his girlfriend. It was symbiotic.

  Samantha and Doug, for there was no Samantha without Doug. They were the best of friends for three long months.

  And then Samantha met Jake Wismau.

  Stay with me. It all comes together.

  * * *

  That Doug would have set himself on fire at the request of Samantha Glees was obvious. And as always with one-sidedly platonic friendships, they acted like a married couple. Which is to say they dated without actually dating.

  They went out, ate takeout dinners in front of the TV, took long walks. They told each other secrets. They called each other at odd hours and talked until the battery on someone’s phone died, whispering into the dim morning moments. They bought each other gifts and left each other notes. They cried together, emerging from Doug’s room with red, shining eyes and exchanging a lingering embrace at the door, like lovers.

  During this period, their main topic of conversation, as far as I could tell from furtive eavesdropping, was the rogues’ gallery of uncaring, awful boys who were created by the universe solely to wound her, and then, like as not, burst into their composite atoms the moment she had fled the room, their purpose achieved.

  When the Current Boy became the Ex-Boy, their conversation tended toward the maudlin belief that Sam herself was not worthy of true love, which of course devolved into Doug implying as heavily as he could without actually saying it (because saying it under such circumstances would be terribly rude) that she was lovable because he was proof because of course he loved her.

  Truly. Madly. Deeply. Very, very boringly. Very heterosexually.

  So when Doug almost destroyed it, I was delighted.

  * * *

  When Doug decided the time had come to pledge his troth, he opted for the classic disaster move: He wrote her a letter. What may, in fact, have been the worst love letter ever written.

  As with every single surprise love letter delivered by hand throughout history, Samantha read it with exponentially increasing alarm, and then proceeded to cut Doug out of
her life with a cruelty and immediacy that was shocking, if not terribly surprising. I was unsurprised because I was already well experienced with the ruthless nature of teenage girls, because of my sister, Regina, Destroyer of Worlds.

  2.

  When we moved in, after Our Mother killed herself, Uncle Jimmy pulled me aside and asked me what he needed to know. Which was reasonable, because Our Mother had murdered our brother and our father.

  I told him, “Never make soup for dinner.”

  * * *

  Regina said, Raymond did a bad thing.

  This with the calm certainty of a twelve-year-old, in her blue sneakers and hair in a severe ponytail. She was grinning, mischievous, enjoying Raymond’s misery. I’d already heard the story. Raymond was now the Famous Pervert of our street, and I had heard little else over the last few hours.

  Raymond I’d never much cared for. Raymond had always been a burden, fat and socially graceless. Regina, on the other hand, was me, just shorter, a few years younger, slightly prettier. I looked at Regina and saw myself, and the barest flicker of affection was sustained.

  Jenna’s dad wants to murder him, she said delightedly.

  I shrugged. I asked her where Raymond was hiding out.

  Mom’s got him, she said, and my stomach dropped, the bitter taste flooding my mouth.

  I first got wind of it in Geometry, when Carl Miner greeted me with Hey, Reginald, heard your brother got caught wanking it with his pants down spying on Jenna Moonan. Loud. Loud enough for everyone to hear, and his cronies giggled.

  That night, Raymond was sent a special dinner in his room.

  Raymond got sicker, and Dad’s temper got quicker. Mom made Raymond soup, which we all named Punishment Broth. Raymond ate soup and got worse every day. Once I went into his room and sat with him a little while. He looked like a doll, a rumor of my brother. And I knew Raymond was dying. I stared at the bowl of chowder sitting on the little table next to the bed, cold and jellied. I reached out and picked up the spoon, and after a moment’s hesitation, I licked it.