by Ezra Blake
“Dunno if you wanna sleep under that,” he says. “Pretty sure someone pissed on it a few weeks ago.” He steps closer. Faint shadows leer at Ash’s bedside, circling him like vultures. Speed demons. Typical. “Anyway,” he says, shaking his head, “I saw Gavin. He gave me a gram for the dog and my FIFA games, can you believe it? But that’s not much with the way you’re burning through it, so—”
He flips on the lights, and the shadows disperse.
Ash swims into horrible focus: blue swollen lips, slack mouth, eyes open. The room is alive but everything inside is dead. Dead. Needle on the side table—no, stop. It’s a hallucination. His fault for relapsing.
“Ash?” He steps gingerly, avoiding heaps of junk and whirls of black ink. He lays the back of his hand against Ash’s cold cheek. Blue lips. No movement.
This is what he wanted.
“Shut up!” He grips Ash’s shoulder and shakes him hard, but when his skull hits the headboard, it stays there. This is what he wanted. This is why you met him.
“Fuck you!” Smack. “Wake the fuck up!”
His cheek doesn’t turn pink and his head doesn’t move. His eyes don’t twitch. They’re milky dogshit brown and half-lidded, and when Jake presses his ear to his button nose there’s no breath—to his chest, no breath. No beat. Nothing. He rips off the quilt.
The stench of shit and bile smacks him in the face. He scrambles back. Ash’s intestines bulge out of his stomach like prehistoric worms, black and glossy, writhing—no—radiating heat—no. Jake blinks. Blinks. Blinks.
He’s speaking, praying; half of his brain is praying without his input, please God Universe Gaia Whoever, please wake him up, wake him up, I’ll stop doing drugs, I’ll go to therapy, I’ll call my dad and get a job—
“No, no—” and please wake him up I’ll devote my life to helping others and “—Ash, fuck, please don’t be dead.”
His mouth snaps shut. The lights flicker. He sits on the bed and releases a creaking sigh like the air trapped in the bowels of industrial machinery, stagnant and fetid from decades spent untouched, rusting in the scorched countryside.
Elliot did this. He’s been working for Them all along. Sending thoughts through the radio, curating his cable. All those fake credit card offers were warning Jake about him.
Or else he’s a lone actor, determined to dispense punishment like some hotshot angel of wrath. Fucking egotist. The shadows spilled Jake’s secrets, which explains the radio reading his thoughts. They talk to Elliot too. They sweet-talked Elliot into this.
You kill things too, but we’d never hurt you! We just want to play. We like you this way!
He scowls. They have a point. Though plenty of agencies keep an eye on Jake, he can only think of one person who truly wants him to suffer.
Arther Caruso. This is so like him. He used his network to track down Elliot, arranged their chance encounter, and ordered the hit, assuming that Jake would come crying to mommy and daddy once he hit rock bottom. So obvious. It’s been his father all along.
“You’ve reached Arthur Caruso. I can’t make it to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” Beep.
“You won’t get away with this,” Jake hisses. “I know everything. Everything. Friends in high places, huh, Dad? I know about your buddies at the radio station. I know about your satellite vans. Well, your little scheme failed because I am never fucking coming home.”
Good. Perfect. And Elliot isn’t innocent, either.
“And you—” Beep. “I know what you did. When this gets out, it’ll set you people back fifty years. And trust me, it’ll get out.” He hangs up, and it’s not enough.
Beep. “‘Do no harm,’ don’t they teach you that in school? He was fucking innocent. He was the most innocent person I’ve ever met. I hope you’re happy.”
Beep. “And you should know, my father won’t protect you. He’s on nobody’s side but his own, he’ll throw you under the bus in a second and you’ll go to prison.”
Beep. “And by the way, fuck you. You don’t even deserve prison, I hope you fucking—”
That’s it.
“—die. Bastard.”
He hangs up the phone. It’s so goddamn obvious. He has to kill Elliot.
I’m sorry, wake him up and I’ll never hurt another one of your creations.
He’s going to kill Elliot.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ever get him high.
He’ll take the gun to Elliot’s house and shoot him in the fucking guts, chain him up and let his body eat itself alive.
Forgive me.
An eye for an eye. That’ll show him.
Please give him back.
And then what?
Should he kill the guy who cut that shit with fentanyl, too? The door-to-door salesman who sold him the knife? He could slaughter the entire city of Philadelphia and it wouldn’t bring Ash back.
Nothing will move the stagnant air in this room.
Nothing will siphon the poison out.
Nothing gathers in black, viscous swirls on the carpet.
You could stop this, messiah.
And Jake laughs. Now it’s psychosis—when the voices tell you to kill yourself, you’re officially crazy. He picks up the gun and turns it over in his hands, thumbing the barrel, fondling the trigger.
Keep it close. It’s important.
“Cool,” he says. “Thanks.”
And he opens his mouth and jams the barrel inside.
Elliot’s heart whips against his pericardium until he’s sure the sac will burst. His blood rushes inward to protect his vital organs, leaving his hands cold and shaky, his feet blistered pockets of bloody serum. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores everything. Frost is right. He’s no genius. He’s the stupidest asshole to ever mar the face of the Earth.
If he’d left well enough alone, the coroner would have ruled it an overdose and the police would have pretended to investigate. Nothing would happen and it would be over. It would look like an accident because it was an accident. What the hell was he thinking?
Mine, mine, this belongs to me.
If he’d grabbed his shit and run, Ash would be another dead junkie, and Elliot would be home free. Guilt free. It wasn’t even his fault—Ash was fine when his heart stopped on the operating table. It’s the same heroin. The dose looked reasonable, and obviously he wasn’t trying to kill Ash because he needed Ash alive for the experiments. He needed to understand the bleeding or lack thereof. His bag was stuffed with stolen sterile scalpels, but they weren’t for gutting him, and that’s exactly what Elliot did and now he’s going to prison, all because of one stupid, drug-induced impulse:
He’s already dead. Just take a little peek inside.
By the time he reaches Brewerytown, he’s worked through eighty percent of the anguish and can bury the rest. He needs a plan, and “beg to be put in solitary confinement” is not a plan.
If he gets a decent public defender, he can take a plea deal and maybe rat out Vic and Frost and Max and Paul. His mom would only be alone for ten years or so. Fuck.
If they can escape tonight, maybe he won’t get caught. They’ll get a greyhound out of town, anywhere; he’ll find a hostel with disabled access.
He isn’t present when she ambushes him. He isn’t even sure he’s awake. When he stole a brief shower at Jake’s house, he spent fifteen minutes staring at his own body and wondering where the hell it came from, what it’s supposed to be doing, and to whom it actually belongs—and if he doesn’t live here on the best of days, how is he supposed to convince himself the worst is real?
Her script veers off track around the part where society is terrifying and everyone is out to get him. He hasn’t seen this rendition before. Someone’s rewriting lines in real time.
“Have you seen the news today, Eli?”
He stares at the battered nightstand. It looks flat and unreal. “No,” he says. “I told you I fell asleep at the library.”
“No. It’s a library.”
She huffs and brushes her dark hair out of her face. “I can’t believe you haven’t seen it. A woman in Cherry Hill was kidnapped and had her kidney stolen. Please tell me that’s not what happened to you, baby.”
The orchestra stops. The spotlight pans to him.
He detaches his cotton tongue from the roof of his mouth and says, “No. Of course not.” Swallows dry spit.
This complicates things. This is bigger than Philly PD. The FBI can search across state lines. It isn’t safe to stay in the country, but they don’t have passports, and getting them could take weeks. Way too long. Maybe Puerto Rico, where jurisdiction gets fuzzier. Maybe Vic knows where to buy passports.
“Mom,” he says, “I need to make a phone call.”
“I’m talking to you, Elliot—”
He dashes to his room and pounds the power button on his computer tower. “Come on, come on,” he mutters. He doesn’t have thirty seconds to spare, so he grabs a pen and paper and starts scribbling down a packing list. The monitor blinks to life. He searches Destiny Hardwick and waits.
“Come on,” he mutters, scraping his nails across his scalp. The results load like it’s 2000 and Al Gore is running for office. “Come on come on come on.”
The text appears first. He absorbs it in an instant and rereads it several times while the images load. The article is titled Organ Thieves in Philadelphia? And it answers that question with a resounding “maybe.” Maybe it’s an isolated incident. Maybe not. Either way, the article implies that the public should panic.
They interview Destiny, who is oddly nonchalant about the kidney but is furious about the medical bills. Apparently, her coverage doesn’t extend to New Jersey. He scratches his nails across his scalp as he reads and rereads her statement to the press until finally—finally—the sketches load.
He takes more Adderall. A lot more. He needs to plan fast. He to think this through from every conceivable angle.
His mental snapshots of Max and Paul are blurry, but he sure as hell knows what Vic looks like. She looks like the drawing staring out from his computer screen. Elliot’s portrait is inaccurate—he’s missing his stubble, and the sketch artist utterly failed to render his awkward mix of black, white, and East Asian ancestry—but it’s close enough, and his face isn’t the only clue they’ll have. Frost knows. Max and Paul know. Vic knows, and if they arrest her, if she’s alive, they’ll definitely search her phone. What if his DNA is at her apartment? What if she rats him out? Would she do that?
You know she would.
Elliot kicks the baseboard. His toes crack. He hops to the bed, buries his face in the pillow, and screams and screams and screams. His mother yells down the hall.
No, he shouldn’t jump to conclusions. He should call her. Vic may be a shitty doctor, but she’s been a criminal much longer than Elliot has. She’ll have a plan or at least a suggestion. If he gets to her before the cops, they might be able to work together.
Four voicemails await him. That’s a good sign. She’s been trying to warn him; maybe she has a plan. He clicks play:
Beep. “And you, I know what you did.” It isn’t Vic. “When this gets out, it’ll set you people back fifty years. And trust me, it’ll get out.”
His grip tightens on the phone. His parents gave him plenty of lectures about staying in line, but never from this angle: be a good minority. Your indiscretions make everyone else look bad. Delete.
Beep. “‘Do no harm,’ don’t they teach you that in school? He was fucking innocent—” Delete.
Beep. “And you should know, my father—” Delete.
Beep. “And by the way—” Delete.
He hurls the phone across the room. It thumps into the curtain and drops, unharmed, to the carpet.
His mom will hear him if he screams, so he flops onto the bed and beats the living shit out of his pillow. Then he breathes, steadies himself, and dials Vic for real.
The number you have dialed is not in service. Please hang up and— “FUCK.”
His mom’s voice rings down the hall, but what can he do? What can he say to her? If they left tonight, how the fuck would she get her medication? Their insurance won’t—
There.
Insurance.
He dials the number and prays, “Please pick up please please please pick up.”
“Your call is being screened. Please state—”
“Elliot! It’s Elliot, please pick up, please please pick up the phone, I need—”
“Yes?”
“Latzke!” Exhale. “Thank you, thank you. Everything went bad, that junkie told the news and—”
“I’m aware,” he says. “I told you to destroy your phone.”
“I know, please, I just need your help. They know what I look like and I can’t run, my mom is in a wheelchair and—”
“And you want me to relocate you.” He hums. “We do not generally—”
“Please, I’m begging you, I’ll work for free.”
“Quiet. Let me finish,” Latzke snaps. Elliot bites his lip and zeroes in on the pain. “We do not provide benefits such as this as our employees rarely outlive their positions; however, you are a special case. I could accept you as my personal assistant if you are willing to make that commitment.”
“Yes!” Elliot squeaks. “Thank you, thank you, I won’t let you down—”
“Good. This is your opportunity to prove it. You have access to something I need.”
“Anything. I’ll bring whatever you—”
“A client of yours. Ashton Webster.”
Elliot lies back on the bed. He is Agatha, his freshman cadaver. He’s Ash, soaking into the mattress.
“Please confirm the details of the report. Stop me if these are incorrect—he was successfully nullified, yes? Caucasian, brown eyes, weighs approximately sixty-three kilos and…” the muffled sound of shuffling paper filters through the tinny speaker. “One hundred and sixty centimeters tall?”
He nods. Latzke can’t see him.
“I…yeah,” he says. “But you should know—”
“He was interested in consensual homicide?”
Elliot furrows his brow. “What?”
“The report reads ‘consensual homicide.’ Is that correct?”
“I mean—maybe? He seemed—”
“Would you say he ‘has a future’?”
“…I don’t think so.”
“Find out,” Latzke says. “I have a private jet waiting to relocate those involved. You may bring one guest. I recommend against it unless they are comfortable with the nature of the work, but should you choose to disregard this warning, the jet is wheelchair accessible. When you are with Ashton, confirm the details, text me your pick-up address, and destroy your phone. Is that clear?”
There’s a pause on the other line.
“Elliot? Is that clear?”
He crumples the bedsheet in his palm and says, “I don’t know if I can—”
“If all goes well, there is also a small finder’s fee.”
Elliot seals his lips. Outside, water crashes through the gutters. The drizzle is turning into a downpour.
“I understand,” he says at last.
It’s true. He understands exactly what he threw away.
He lies motionless in bed for a few minutes. It’s more punishment than anything; he fights the restless energy in his limbs and tries to clear his mind, which is never going to happen.
This is it.
Latzke won’t save them. Vic won’t sell them passports. Even if he gets a bus out of town, she can’t come. She can’t get Medicaid or disability payments if they’re off the grid. No Baclofen, no Midodrine, no Methylprednisolone. She’d die suffering, and it would be Elliot’s fault.
If he leaves now, he can make an anonymous call to adult protective services and they’ll take care of her. There’s a duffle bag in the back of his closet; he kicks a box of old toys o
ut of the way—microscopes, chemistry sets, anatomy models—and piles clothes on top as he digs deeper. He’s almost made it to the bag when she knocks.
He flinches and turns off his monitor, stashes his nearly-empty squeeze bottle in the drawer. The webcam light flashes green.
“Let me in, baby.”
She’s sitting in her wheelchair, sweating. Her hair’s a mess. She uses the chair so infrequently that climbing in nearly killed her, and Elliot can’t repress the twist of guilt, the accusatory scowl: how dare you make me feel guilty. Can’t she see how hard he’s trying?
“You look like death,” she says. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.”
She shakes her head and rolls into his room. “You must think I’m a fool, huh?” A sigh. She gestures to the bed, where he reluctantly sits, foot bouncing.
“I’m fine, Mom. I just had a really bad day. Look, I need to…”
She presses her lips together and looks him over. Several times she seems to be on the verge of speaking, but then she closes her eyes and shakes her head.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says. “It’s been a long time since I last saw you in the sunlight.”
“It’s raining.”
“You look different. When did your face get so…”
“Mom, uh.” He works his lip between his teeth.
He can’t tell her. But if he can’t talk to his mother, who does he have?
“Mom, did you ever have one of those moments when you realize, like…you can’t undo something you did, and now your life is going to change completely? And you’re going to change completely but maybe it’s already happened and you just didn’t notice?”
“When I gave birth to your brother,” she says, without hesitation. “The first time I held him, I realized that life wasn’t about me anymore. Again with you.”
“I’m sorry,” Elliot whispers.
“You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”
“If I hadn’t been so difficult, though, if you hadn’t gotten the epidural—”
“Do you know what I was worried about when my legs went numb in that hospital bed?”
He looks at his feet. “That they messed it up and hurt your spine.”