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

by Kelley Armstrong

  But Doug surprised me. Like a lot of people who had never been in an actual fight, Doug sought to overwhelm his opponent, to simply swarm Jake with the righteous fury of his anger, which Doug imagined would make him burst into flame like the Human Torch, destroying a large portion of the town and killing dozens. The Dougs of the world always thought their hurt feelings were secretly a superpower, and they waited all their lives for that moment.

  Alas, it was not this moment. Jake spun away from Doug, grabbed his collar as he sailed past, and landed a solid kick on his ass that sent him sailing into the dead, brown shrubs in front of the rental.

  Everyone went oooooohhhh. There was, I’m sorry to say, some braying, mocking laughter. I was, I am sorry to say, one of those laughing.

  Doug thrashed around in the shrubs. Jake turned to look around, finally settling on me as his only peer in the general vicinity. “Take him home, Reggie,” he declared, and turned to lead his contingent of clones and backup Jakes back into the house, where the music had started up, louder than before.

  I collected Doug. He was wild-eyed and scratched up, his sleeve torn. He let me guide him, staring straight ahead and walking in silence.

  Back at the room, I was unsurprised to find that Samantha had left, leaving behind just the faint smell of bubble gum. Having done my duty, I turned and left Doug standing there staring at the rumpled sheets, a man clearly questioning not only his entire existence but every decision he’d ever made. The sight of my own empty, peppermint-scented bed made me realize that I’d lost my sister in the excitement.

  * * *

  There are certain evenings in your youth that are imbued with a sort of timeless drama, at least while you’re living them. The sunrise never comes, everything is incredibly important, and you are the point-of-view character. This was one of those nights.

  I took my time with the urgent search for Regina, smoking a cigarette as I wandered, composing a moving eulogy that made this point: We’d all had more Regina than anyone could possibly have predicted. Instead of being sad to have lost her at sixteen, we should be happy to have had her the extra twelve or thirteen years she’d unexpectedly survived. She’d spent her first few years unsteady, easily distracted, and sticky, after all.

  When I finally got back to Jake’s house, the party had metastasized into a rager—lights on, windows open to vent the sweaty crowd, music blaring, cops parked outside negotiating with idiots like it was a hostage situation. I walked in, hit in the face by a wall of humid humanity. As I swung onto the stairs, I stopped suddenly, confused, because coming down the stairs was Doug Pembriss.

  He didn’t see me. Face red, eyes watching his shoes, he shoved past me with uncharacteristic violence, then caused a series of small scenes as he fought his way out of the house, apparently and mystifyingly ready to throw down with anyone who got in his way. It was disconcerting. It was like watching a dog do math.

  Confused, I raced upstairs. Throwing open doors and making enemies. The third bedroom was empty, which seemed impossible at a party of this size and advanced state of societal decay. I stood for a moment, uncertain. As I stood there, breathing in what were likely Jake Wismau spores, I noticed an en suite bathroom in the back.

  I stood there for a moment, staring. The lights were off, so it took me a second to see him.

  Jake Wismau was sprawled on the floor, his head almost completely in the toilet, face down in the water. He was pretty obviously dead.

  I’d never seen a dead body before. Raymond, Dad, Mom—they’d all had the decency to crawl off to a dark hospital room when their time came, like pigeons seeking a place to hide. I’d been informed of their deaths, but had never actually seen their bodies. The funerals had all been closed casket; it was like they’d just dissolved one day.

  What struck me was the slackness about him. The lack of purpose. There was a subtle difference from unconsciousness. This was nothing, this was an empty shell. The sight of it filled me with horror, because all I could see was myself, just as rubbery, just as empty.

  I suddenly felt seventeen, for the first time.

  5.

  When I got back to the dorm, Doug was sleeping in his bed, facedown, still dressed. Regina was curled up in mine, her makeup smeared on my pillowcase, her tiny hands curled into fists. I was relieved that at least I wouldn’t have to explain her death to my family.

  I found the bottle she’d snagged from Uncle Jimmy’s in her bag and took it. I intended to get plastered, to fill myself up until I vibrated and channeled Our Father and his tendency to sing Irish folk songs, off-key, without rhythm.

  But when I got the cork out, the smell of the liquor made me nauseous. I stuck it in my desk for safekeeping.

  When Jake was found, the investigation concluded in lazy, disinterested fashion: Idiot drowns in toilet, death by misadventure. Everyone just accepted that conclusion, including Samantha, who briefly went straight edge, somehow deciding that his gruesome, untimely death made his abusive, monstrous life forgivable.

  * * *

  A few days later, I lay on the floor and stared at the ceiling, listening to the soft murmuring of my soft roommate. We were just a few months into freshman year, and Doug was a year and a half, two years older than me, but I saw my life stretching out in front of me, and it was just a series of misadventures in which I saved Doug’s life multiple times while he made his snaillike, Mr. Magoo-ish progress.

  I tried to imagine Jake crawling into the bathroom to puke and accidentally drowning; couldn’t. I tried to imagine Doug dragging a prone Jake Wismau to the toilet and holding him under; couldn’t. The Jake Wismaus of the world were roaches. They bred, they propagated. They didn’t die.

  I got up and got dressed.

  Jake’s house was dark and abandoned, still trashed and damp from the party. The detritus of the party was everywhere, like someone had turned off gravity for a few seconds, waited for everything to be suspended in midair, then switched it back on. The place reeked of stale beer and smoke, and every surface glistened with syrupy spills. I crept up the stairs using my phone’s flashlight and headed to the bedroom in the back. The door was crisscrossed with yellow police tape, but it was easy to just slip through.

  The room was just as I remembered it: dark and still, stuffy and cluttered. I had no idea what I was looking for. Something to put my mind at rest. Anything. I wandered the room and the bathroom for a bit, then I sat down on the bed, feeling hot and ridiculous. There was something in my mind, some dark thought that got bigger by eating all my other thoughts, bloating and swelling until there was nothing else, but I still couldn’t see it.

  I realized I could smell something. Something that didn’t belong in Jake Wismau’s universe, a universe composed of beer, Jägermeister, AXE body spray, and sweat.

  Against all my instincts, I leaned down to put my face near the pillow, and recognized the scent.

  Peppermint.

  * * *

  Back at the dorm it was starting to get light out, but the place was still quiet as a tomb. It reminded me of my house as a kid, sneaking in after Mom and Dad had stopped fighting, walking through the immaculate living room straining to hear any signs of life, and wondering if this was finally the night they’d gone and killed each other.

  I found Regina’s bag, the green backpack, the Bag of Holding. Her journal, or diary, or whatever you wanted to call it, was right on top. It was a cheap little dime-store notebook with a purple cover, college ruled. I opened it up and started reading, heart pounding, listening hard for the sound of Regina, the Destroyer of Worlds, shucking her chrysalis and spreading her dripping wings.

  Jake Wismau

  The handwriting was shaky and wild, with huge loops, slanted way down to the right of the page, like she’d been writing furiously with the notebook on her lap.

  the feel of him on me, insistent, heavy, eager and i told him, i told him, i told him but he didn’t care, didn’t care. i hate him, hate him. i hate him, hate him. i can’t get the smell out o
f my nostrils, the taste out of my mouth.

  his grin out of my eyes.

  he left something behind, inside of me and i can feel it scratching, writhing. i can feel it, feel it. the feel of him on top of me and me and me and only me.

  The worst part: Each ragged letter i had a tiny heart above it. The second-worst part was the sudden appearance of a clean, neat line, all in block letters, so crisp you knew she’d paused to take a deep breath and center herself before writing it:

  I AM GOING TO KILL HIM, KILL HIM.

  I closed the book like it was on fire. I had the experience that some folks refer to as a moment of clarity, when everything just snaps into place. Regina’s attitude shift after the party, the first party with Jake. Her crashing down the stairs all smeary and ragey.

  It all made sense now. The Boy Genius had missed the obvious signs. The idea of anyone harming Regina seemed utterly impossible. Regina was me. She was a Reloux. She’d survived Our Mother and escaped. The idea of Jake Wismau hurting her was the worst thing I’d ever imagined. For one superheated moment I imagined it, Jake on top of her, Jake’s hands on her, and I was intensely, ecstatically happy that she’d killed him, and wished fervently to have the chance to someday desecrate his grave.

  It all made sense now. She’d gone home to incubate and molt, and returned with the calm icy demeanor of an instrument of justice, and she’d gotten it. And how had she gotten it?

  I opened my desk drawer and extracted the brown bottle Regina had brought from home on her last visit. I uncorked it; it was half empty. I took a small swig.

  And froze.

  The taste was instantly recognizable. It was the same bitter aftertaste I remembered from childhood, the same bitter aftertaste that inevitably followed any crime, imagined or real, that upset Our Mother.

  The same thing I’d smelled on my father’s breath as he lay dying, the same thing.

  I turned my head. Regina was staring at me.

  I know that someday she’s going to kill me, just like she killed Jake Wismau.

  How do I know this?

  Because she’d become Our Mother, the Destroyer of Worlds.

  CONCEALMENT

  By Eileen Rendahl

  They’d told us the drill was going to happen. Not exactly when, but that it would and that no one should panic. The school was ticking off the boxes, making sure we complied with what was expected. Mr. Carmichael, my homeroom teacher, went over the instructions, explaining where we should go, what we should do, how we should act. The school district now required one active shooter or intruder drill per semester.

  When the drill started, Vice Principal Mendoza’s voice came over the intercom. “We are now in lockdown. Everyone please begin the protocol.”

  Mr. Carmichael locked the door and pulled the blind down on the little window. Two kids moved a heavy metal table up against it. Another kid shut off the lights. I got smashed up against the cabinet where Mr. Carmichael stored supplies as we pressed into the corner, staying on our feet to take up the least amount of floor space.

  Gwen Milligan whispered to Brian Lesen, “What do you think you would do if this was, like, real?” She sounded a little breathless, as if maybe she was doing too good a job of imagining it.

  Brian shrugged. “My dad says these drills are stupid. He says we’re like sitting ducks in the corner. A table and a crappy lock on a cheap door wouldn’t keep anybody out.”

  I opened my mouth to point out the lock and the table were just supposed to buy us time because someone would have already called the cops if it was real. No words came out, though. Instead, I nearly choked on Gwen’s Apple Blossom perfume. She was clearly trying to cover up the clove cigarette smell that clung to her clothes. It wasn’t working.

  Brian said, “My dad says we should all be near the door with stuff to throw at him. Books and stuff like that. Then we should rush him. Tackle him.”

  “Your dad said to do that?” I asked. I could not imagine my father ever suggesting I rush an armed intruder. Dad didn’t even like me playing defense in soccer games, even though I was pretty much always the best slide tackler on the field.

  “Ssssh.” Mr. Carmichael glared at us and shooed us deeper into the corner. Everyone shuffled back. My shoulder scraped the cabinet. A waft of sawdust mingled with Gwen’s perfume, making me want to sneeze.

  “What did he mean we’d be sitting ducks?” Gwen whispered.

  “Think about it. All his targets jammed together. He could come in and go bang bang bang and we’d all be dead.” Brian made a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pulled the imaginary trigger three times.

  My throat felt tight. I tried taking a deep breath in through my nose, but it felt like none of the air got into my lungs.

  Gwen turned and looked at me, mouth a little agape. “Are you okay, Lucy?”

  I nodded, even though I didn’t think I was. My heart beat fast, like I’d been running laps. I swallowed, but it felt like my throat was swollen shut.

  Scenes flashed in my mind. Things I didn’t remember ever seeing or hearing. Voices. A loud bang. The smell of apples and smoke and fresh-cut wood. The color red. A door slamming.

  Gwen and Brian tried to move away from me, like I might suddenly start drooling or twitching, but they couldn’t. We were too mashed in.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Gwen repeated.

  This time I shook my head. I wasn’t okay. My chest hurt. The room whirled around me. I heard Gwen yelling “Mr. Carmichael!” as my knees gave out and I slumped toward the floor.

  * * *

  “What happened, Lucy?” Dad asked as he drove me home.

  “I’m not sure.” I’d felt better the second he came into the nurse’s office. He filled up the room with his broad shoulders and deep voice. My heartbeat slowed as he signed me out and ushered me into the Subaru. I folded myself into the smallest shape I could and pressed up against the door.

  “Describe it.” He didn’t look at me. He kept his eyes on the road and his hands at ten and two on the wheel.

  “All of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe. I kept seeing flashes of things in my head.” How to describe them? The banging noise. Voices. The color red. Apples and cinnamon. There wasn’t enough there to hold on to. It kept slipping away.

  “Flashes? What does that mean? Like bright lights?” He glanced my way.

  I rolled my eyes. He was so literal sometimes. “No. Not like lights. Like memories. Like sounds and smells and stuff.” I described them as best I could, then drew my knees up and gnawed a little on the cuff of my sweatshirt.

  Dad reached over and gently lowered my hand. “What do you think they mean?”

  I shrugged, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. He’d returned his attention to the road. “Don’t know. Probably nothing. I probably should have eaten breakfast.”

  He gave me a little side-eye on that one but knew better than to say “I told you so.”

  * * *

  The next morning, I dutifully ate the scrambled eggs and toast Dad set out for me, without arguing.

  “You sure you feel well enough to go back?” he asked. “Do you need to take a day?”

  “I’m fine. That was like some weird one-time thing. It’s not going to happen again.” That’s all it had been, right? The dream from last night, the one with the bangs and the flashes and the spreading lake of red, that hadn’t been anything either, right?

  He sat down across from me. He looked tired, like maybe he hadn’t slept. There were bags under his blue eyes and stubble on his jaw. “You’d tell me if there was something I needed to know?”

  I looked up from my eggs and toast. He wasn’t tired. He was worried. “Like what?”

  He straightened his knife and fork on the table so they were exactly parallel to each other. “You’d tell me if you were … you know, in trouble.”

  It took me a few seconds to process what he was saying. “Are you asking if I’m pregnant? How on earth would I have gotten pregnant?”

 
That made him look up. “I’m pretty sure I explained that.” He had. It hadn’t been an easy conversation. Both of us blushed now just thinking about it. “Your mom … she fainted a few times when she was pregnant, right at the beginning. Something about her blood pressure dropping. And you … well, you’re so much like her. More every day.”

  I savored that little bit of information for a moment. I didn’t know much about my mom. Dad had told me some stuff. We had photos. A wedding portrait. Snapshots of her holding me as a baby. Things like that. She’d died in an accident. A drunk driver crossed the yellow line and slammed into her as she traveled north on the Beeline Highway, one of the four most dangerous roads in Arizona.

  I pushed back from the table and dropped my crumpled-up napkin onto my plate. I was done. With the eggs and the conversation. “I’m not pregnant.”

  He didn’t budge. He didn’t even complain about my unfinished breakfast. “You know you could tell me if you were. We’d figure it out together.”

  I opened my mouth to say something snarky, but something about the look on his face made me stop. Something naked. Something vulnerable. My dad would do anything for me. He’d step in front of a bullet for me. “Of course I would. It’s like you always say…”

  “You and me. Back to back. Nothing can stop us.” He finished my sentence.

  * * *

  But I wasn’t fine. Not really. I felt funny. Prickly. Like electricity buzzed along my skin. Flashes kept coming, triggered by the strangest things. A puddle of ketchup next to cafeteria Tater Tots. The door to the gym banging shut. Cinnamon-flavored chewing gum. The flashes lasted longer and became more distinct. The voices were angry. I couldn’t make out words, but I knew they were unhappy.