The Dead and the Dying

by Amy Cross

  "You know," he continues, "my fee includes up to ten minutes of pillow talk at the end. You never take me up on that part of the deal. If I didn't know better, I'd think you only wanted me for my cock."

  "I certainly don't come to you for your conversation," I mutter as I step into my underwear. "You can work the rest out from there."

  "Have you noticed," he adds, standing up and walking over to the window, "that the only thing we ever talk about is the fact that we never have a proper conversation." He turns and stares at me, letting his softening penis hang between his legs on full display. Twenty-six years old and with the kind of firm, buff body you normally only see on an ancient Greek statue, he's certainly a seductive sight. Too bad he always tries to make conversation. "I know you come for my skills in the sack, but don't you ever want to relax when we're done? You always shoot off so fast."

  "Do you try to make friends with all your clients?" I ask, re-buttoning my jeans.

  "Just the interesting ones."

  I can't help but stifle a caustic smirk.

  "How was your day?" he asks.

  "Just perfect," I mutter. "I ended up calling you up to arrange an extra session. Doesn't that tell you something?"

  "I heard they executed that Sam Gazade guy -"

  "Can you please shut the fuck up?" I ask, finally losing my temper at the merest mention of that name. I pause for a moment as I realize that my anger probably revealed too much. "I think there was a problem," I say eventually. "They didn't kill him. And before you ask, no, I have no desire to..." My voice trails off as I realize that I'm in a hell of a mess right now.

  "So I should really charge you extra," he continues, still naked, still staring at me. "This is kinda out of hours. Fortunately, since you're one of my oldest clients -"

  "Thanks a lot," I mutter.

  "Oldest as in longest-serving," he adds. "Not oldest in terms of age. How long's it been? Five years? Do you realize you've been coming to me for sex longer than my parents were married? The fucking modern world, huh?"

  "Careful," I say, putting my leather jacket back on. "You're starting to sound decidedly mawkish." I reach down for my socks, but after a moment I realize that Jason has wandered over to the old TV in the corner of the room. "Don't turn that on," I say, keen to avoid the fallout from everything that happened with Sam Gazade a few hours earlier. I came straight to Jason after leaving the prison, and I was careful to turn my phone off in order to avoid any awkward calls.

  "What's got into you?" he asks. "I mean, you're always kinda jumpy, but you're off the scale tonight. If you wanna talk about it -"

  "I don't want to talk about," I say firmly, "and if I did -"

  "I know," he replies with a sigh, "it wouldn't be with me."

  "Bingo," I say, standing up and taking some cash from my pocket. "So how much do I owe you? Including the out of hours call-out fee."

  "Just call it the usual hundred," he says, still grinning as he stands and watches me.

  "I don't want any favors," I say, walking over to the nightstand and counting out a hundred dollars, before adding fifty. "That enough?"

  "Depends," he replies with a smile. "Was it good for you?"

  "It was fine," I mutter. "It was better than doing it myself."

  "Huh," he says, joining me by the dresser and picking up the money, "you know, I think that's the biggest compliment you've ever paid me. Better than doing it yourself. I'm glad to be one step above a wank in the shower for you, Jo."

  "I have to go," I say, even though I'm dreading going back out into the real world. I know I can't hide forever. Sooner or later, I'm gonna get a whole load of crap rained down on me after everything that happened at the prison. I'm sure Lockley has put her own spin on events, making it seem as if I'm completely to blame. Hopefully Dawson has been there to defend me, but I'm already pretty unpopular in my department. With my head still a little foggy and no more leads in the copycat case, I'm starting to think that I might be hitting the buffers. As I turn to the door, however, I feel a brief stabbing pain in my side, and I stop for a moment, waiting for it to pass.

  "You okay?" Jason asks, hurrying over and putting a hand on my waist.

  "Fine," I grimace, as the pain continues to build. I should take a pill, but I can't afford to cloud my judgment. Not until I've worked out who's behind the copycat murders. The old Joanna Mason would have cleared this whole mess up already, but in my current state I'm next to useless.

  "Bullshit," Jason replies. "I know something's wrong, Jo. It's been fucking obvious for months, so you might as well -"

  "Tell you?" I ask, turning to him. The pain is still intense, but I'm fired up by his pathetic attempt to act as if he cares. "You want me to open up? Sorry, but it's not happening. I'm fine. I've just got a little cramp. I guess I pulled a muscle while you were going down on me. Happy now? You were that good! You actually injured me. You should be proud."

  He stares at me, and even though it's obvious that he doesn't believe my explanation, he takes his hand from my waist and steps back.

  "This is the last time I'll be coming to you," I say after a moment, feeling as if I need to cut this whole thing off dead before Jason tries to get too far under my skin. He's just a whore, nothing more, and if I really need to get laid again I can easily find someone else. "I won't be needing your services again."

  "Got yourself an actual boyfriend?" he asks.

  "I just won't be needing you."

  "You say that every time," he points out.

  "This time I mean it." I open the door and step out into the corridor, and although there's a part of me that regrets my decision, I know it's for the best. Once I've had my operation, there's no way I ever want to come anywhere near a guy again. It's a shame, but I can't change the facts. The last thing I want is to see some guy's face as he tries to pretend that he's not grossed out by my mastectomy. After my breasts come off, it's probably best if I stick to the shower nozzle when I need a little excitement.

  "So I'm never gonna get to see those pretty little titties bounce again?" he asks, standing naked by the nightstand, with the money in his hand.

  "No," I say, feeling a shiver pass through my body. "You're not." With that, I reach out and grab the handle, pulling the door shut and leaving myself standing alone in the dark corridor. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my cellphone and switch it on. By the time I get out of the building and into the dirty night air, I see that I've got fifteen missed calls and a whole load of messages. As I'd feared, the events at the prison didn't go down too well. Sighing, I figure I've got another battle on my hands. Sam Gazade's alive, and somewhere in this city there's a copycat who's probably already lining up some more victims. I need to get my head straight.

  As I walk across the dark, cold parking lot, I take the bottle of pills from my pocket and toss them into a trashcan. Damn it, I'm gonna regret that later when the pain comes back, but I have no choice. I need to keep my head together.

  Paula Clarke

  He lives in Queens.

  It's a little after 3am, and I've been following the guy for hours. He took a slow, meandering route home, stopping off along the way to do a little shopping at a late-night convenience store. Finally, however, the old idiot returned to his house, and I stand in the shadows on the other side of the street and watch as he slowly, painfully hauls his aching body up the steps. It's pathetic, really, to see the way he forces himself to keep going.

  I don't know why, but he pissed me off from the moment he offered me his coat while we were all waiting outside the prison. There was just something about the way he assumed I'd need his help. It was as if he saw me as some desperate little asshole who'd come out into the night and was now shivering, as if I couldn't look after myself. I hate when people treat me like that. It's as if they only see me as some kind of weak little woman, and their paternal instinct kicks in. I'm sure he thought he was doing a good deed, but he's a perfect example of the kind of guy who just helps to prolong the problems that e
xist in the world.

  Once he's headed inside, I pause for a moment. I should just turn around and go home, and I don't even know why I bothered to follow him; still, I feel as if I need to get closer, to understand more about this guy. Hurrying across the dark street, I make my way down the side of his house and finally, without really having any kind of plan, I haul myself over the fence and into his garden. My heart's racing and I have no idea what I'm going to do next, but I feel as if I desperately need to get closer to this guy. He's a perfect example of the kind of person I hate, and I need to see him in his natural habitat.

  Creeping through the bushes, I eventually reach the house and peer through the window. It's mostly dark inside, but there seems to be a light in one of the other rooms, so I make my way through the shadows until I'm huddled beneath a brightly-lit window. I can hear him shuffling about inside, clanking cups and occasionally coughing. Figuring that there's no way he'll spot me, I lean up and take a look inside. Sure enough, he's in there, taking a seat at the kitchen table and warming his hands over a steaming cup of coffee. For a moment, I'm filled with pity for him, but finally I recognize him for what he really is: he's a part of the cancer that's destroying this world. He's a part of the problem, and I'm a part of the solution.

  I take a deep breath as I try to decide what to do next. I know from bitter experience that there's no point trying to talk to this kind of person. After all, how do you explain to an idiot that he's an idiot? Still, I hate the idea of just walking away and leaving him to get on with his pathetic existence, and I'm particularly incensed by the thought that he might go to his grave without every realizing the true nature of his stupidity. I hate the way that so many monsters live in this world and never have to face the truth about their existence. Hell, this old idiot would probably be shocked if he realized that he's a monster. He'd defend himself, and he'd act as if he was hurt by such an accusation. It wouldn't change anything, though. He's still a monster, like almost everyone else in the world. Someone should make him understand the truth about his disgusting life before he dies.

  And that's when I realize I could kill him.

  A kind of cold chill passes through my body as it occurs to me that it would be insanely easy to just go into his house, smash him over the head, and leave. No-one would ever be able to connect me to this guy, so long as I was careful to not leave any fingerprints, and it's startling to realize that in effect this would be the perfect crime. I really, truly could just go in there and kill him.

  It's so simple, I can't work out why I never thought of it before. It's unnatural for stronger people to let weaker people live. Why shouldn't I kill someone who makes the world a worse place? Why shouldn't I go in there and wipe out some old guy who's probably spent his whole life supporting the hegemonic status quo?

  I take another deep breath as I try to think of a reason why I shouldn't take matters into my own hands, and I come up with nothing. Sure, I've never considered myself to be a killer before, but the idea actually seems vaguely appealing. I figure most people would recoil in horror at the idea, but not me; instead, I'm calmly weighing up the advantages and disadvantages. It's a little surprising to realize that I have this capacity, and there's a part of me that wonders whether I could actually go through with it.

  Maybe it's time to find out.

  I watch as the old man drinks from his cup. He has no idea that I'm out here, no idea that his life could be about to end. Figuring that I need to test myself, and to prove to myself that I'm able to take direct action, I hurry around to the other side of the house and reach out to open the back door. Carefully, quietly, I take hold of the handle and try to turn it, but it's locked. With the sleeve of my coat, I quickly wipe away the fingerprints before turning to look back at the window. I don't mind the idea of going into the house and killing the old man, but I don't want to have to actually talk to him, so knocking on the door is out of the question.

  Finally, I decide that maybe tonight isn't the night. I feel as if anger is rising through my body, but if I'm going to kill someone, I need to plan more carefully. Besides, as I turn and hurry away into the night, a chill wind blows past and I realize I'm actually feeling pretty cold.

  Joanna Mason

  "Schumacher wants to see you," Dawson says as he takes a seat opposite me. It's 9am and, having barely slept all night, I'm sitting in a coffee shop while I wait for the side-effects of the pills to completely subside. It's not an easy process, almost my pee has been a little less green over the past twenty-four hours and I'm hopeful that my brain will eventually settle back into its normal patterns. "He wants to see you real bad."

  "That's nice," I mutter, sipping from my coffee. "Tell him I miss him too." Grabbing his newspaper, I take a look at the front cover. "Lou Reed died? That sucks."

  "Don't change the subject," he says firmly.

  "I saw him live a few years ago," I continue. "Down at this place in Greenwich Village -"

  "Don't change the subject!" he says again.

  "Then don't bore me," I mutter, finally giving up.

  "Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in?" he continues. "Hazel Lockley has made it seem as if you basically stormed into that execution chamber and broke the last vial deliberately. I know that's not true, but she's doing a damn good job of portraying you as some kind of loose cannon. She's trying to cover her own ass by giving the media a scapegoat, and she's doing a pretty good job."

  "That's not what happened," I point out.

  "I know. I was there."

  "Schumacher won't believe all that bullshit," I reply dismissively.

  "From what I've heard," he mutters, "he already does believe it." He pauses for a moment. "There are a lot of very powerful people who want your head, Jo," he continues eventually. "Schumacher's not gonna defend you forever. If it comes down to it, he'll have your badge. Hazel Lockley has powerful friends, and if they can save her career by sacrificing you, they'll do it."

  "For what?" I ask, shocked that anyone could even contemplate taking things this far. "For doing my job?"

  "Did you get any answers from Gazade?"

  Sighing, I take another sip from my coffee.

  "Your job, like mine, is to catch this copycat killer." He sighs. "So far, neither of us can say we're doing our job. Not very well, anyway."

  "I'm just waiting for inspiration to strike," I reply, even though I know my voice sounds weak.

  "If this new killer is a copycat," Dawson says after a moment, "there's going to be a new murder today. If that happens and the media picks up on the story, you're going to be screwed. They're going to portray you as some kind of idiot who's hellbent on keeping Gazade alive for your own perverted reasons, and they're going to claim that you can't do your job. They're going to rid you to shreds and feed you to the media, and they're going to claim that you're out of control."

  "I thought this was your case," I point out.

  "You're the one in the cross-hairs," he replies. "You're making a hell of a lot of trouble, Jo, and you're not getting results." He pauses. "This isn't like you. The trouble side of things is old news, but you usually turn something up at the same time. That's kind of what you're known for. You make waves, but you get the bad guy. Your reputation -"

  "Screw my reputation," I mutter darkly, inexplicably feeling as if I might suddenly burst into tears.

  "You don't seem like yourself, Jo," he says after a moment.

  I want to tell him about the pills. I want to tell him that I've been doped up on drugs to fight my cancer, and that they've been clouding my judgment. Unfortunately, if I tell him all those things, I'll also have to tell him about the fact that I'm sick again, and then inevitably it'll get out that I'm going to have a mastectomy. He knows that I fought cancer before, and he was a good friend back then, but things have changed. He's married now, and the world has moved on. The last thing I want is to have people gossiping about me. Besides, I know what they'd all think; they'd all think I was going to die. They might be
right, but I don't want to feel like a dead woman walking. Not yet, at least.

  "If you can't tell me," he says eventually, "who are you gonna tell? 'Cause you have to tell someone, or it's gonna burn you up. What the hell's wrong with you?"

  "Nothing that can't be fixed by finding Sam Gazade's diary," I reply. "When he told us about that damn thing twelve years ago, we all thought it was a lie. He said he'd left clues when he was testifying at his trial, and he said we'd never be able to solve those clues and locate the diary. We thought he was trying to waste our time, but now it's clear that it really existed and someone else obviously went through his trial testimony and found those clues. Someone beat us to it."

  "And that pisses you off?"

  "It's more than that!" I say, raising my voice for a moment before realizing that I'm starting to draw attention to myself. I take another sip of coffee. "Some asshole saw something that we didn't."

  "Is that what's wrong?" he asks. "You're pissed off that someone got there first? You can't solve every problem, Jo. No-one has a perfect track record, not even you."

  "I was arrogant," I continue. "I couldn't find any clues, so I assumed they weren't there. Now someone has got the diary and they're using it to copy his murders. Whoever we're dealing with, they're smart. Real smart." I pause for a moment, still feeling as if tears might flow down my cheeks at any moment. My mind is foggy, and I don't know how long the side-effects of these pills are going to last, but I need to get my head straight as soon as possible. "If we can follow the trail to the diary," I say eventually, "we can get a better idea about who found it the first time."

  "Maybe you should take some time off," he says suddenly.

  "What the hell does that mean?" I ask, shocked by the suggestion.