by E. C. Bell
Eddie:
Make It Stop
AFTER I GOT high, I hung around the park, waiting.
What was I waiting for? No clue. Just knew I didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to hit the streets. I was tired, and that was a surprise. I didn’t often feel the need for sleep when I was high. Maybe it was the kind of high I was on, but beggars can’t be choosers. The homeless guy was high on Lysol, so I was, too.
Thinking about that started me thinking about being alive and getting high. That was the one thing I’d been good at, most of my life. Where to score the next fix. I wished, sometimes, that I hadn’t even tried crystal meth once. That stuff—it eats into your soul. And quick, too. You can’t ever get that first high back, but that’s what you’re looking for. Ever after, that’s what you’re looking for.
Heroin addicts call it chasing the dragon. For us meth heads, it’s nothing so romantic.
That’s what I was looking for. And I didn’t care who I hurt to do it. My friends—like Luke—my mom. I’d do anything, hurt them all, for that next high. That wasn’t quite as good as the last one. Not even close to the first one. Mostly, just trying to keep from going into withdrawal. Just trying to keep from crashing.
My whole life was that. Just trying to keep from crashing. What a waste.
I felt my throat close up painfully, and I almost started to cry—but then felt myself slip. Like the biggest case of vertigo I’d ever felt in my life. If I didn’t do something, I was going to end up back at that tree. I knew it.
The feeling scared me, I don’t mind telling you. As a matter of fact, everything was starting to scare me.
I decided to go see that Marie chick again. The blonde had said she could save me, and she seemed to know about this stuff. Maybe she could tell me what was going on. Make it stop. Something.
Anything.
Marie:
Overreact Much? Thank You, I Will
ALL RIGHT, SO I felt like a perfect fool microseconds after I faxed my resume to Leary Millworks Inc. I shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t want to leave this job. I just didn’t want James to know my every secret.
All I had to do was figure out how to get the police to leave Honoria alone, and I’d be safe. I hoped.
I should have called and told whoever answered at Leary that I’d sent the resume in error and to take me out of contention, but I didn’t. I decided to assume I wouldn’t even get a call for an interview, and basically, put the whole thing out of my mind.
Avoidance is my middle name, after all.
Then, as James slept the morning away, I made a file for Honoria and her case. I even went to the Stanley Milner Library, to see if I could find anything about her. All I found was a small article from a few years before (looked like it was the last time she’d gone off her meds, and it hadn’t gone well) and there was a photo, too. Quite possibly the worst photo I’d ever seen. She looked three-quarters high, and her hair was standing out from her head as though she was having the worst hair day of her life. And she was definitely not smiling.
Made me feel a little bit better about not having to deal with her any longer than I had to, to be honest.
As I shoved a copy of a contract in the mostly empty file folder, Eddie pushed through the door and into the room.
“You all right?” I asked.
“Why?”
“You look like crap.”
“Right back atcha.”
“Thanks.” I imagined I did look terrible. “I didn’t get much sleep. What’s your excuse?”
“I’m dead.”
He made me laugh with that one.
“So, how come not much sleep?” Eddie asked.
“I had to sit with our client,” I said. “She was having nightmares, and—”
“Are you talking about the blonde chick?”
“Blonde chick?”
He looked down at the front of the file, at the positively wretched photo I’d stapled to the front. “That chick,” he said. “I’ve seen her look better.”
“That’s Honoria Lowe. Our client.”
Had Honoria been telling the truth about Eddie acting like he’d seen her in her dream? “Why?”
“Just wondered.”
“BS,” I snapped. “Fear factor way up there, buddy. What’s going on?”
“You’d asked me about her before, and I told you I didn’t know her,” he said. “Here’s the thing, though. I didn’t know her name. But I know her—knew her—to see her.” His face twisted. “I kind of saw her dreams.”
Oh wow. “You saw her dreams?”
“Yeah.” He shuddered. “I heard her calling my name, so I went to her, and got caught in her dreams or something. Scary as shit, I must say.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” I said, then shook my head. I needed facts. “She told me about that.”
“So, she saw me, too?”
“Yeah, she did.” I sighed, then dove in. I needed to tell him this bit of business as quickly and painlessly as possible. Like pulling a bandage off a seeping sore. “She told me she saw no old women at your crucifixion.”
“So Mom’s book club didn’t kill me.” He sighed. “Didn’t really think they did, to be honest. Just hoped, you know? But if it wasn’t them, who was it?”
“She couldn’t tell.”
“Oh.” His face froze. “So, what happens next?”
“Well,” I said, “since neither you nor Honoria can identify who was behind the duck masks, I guess this means we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”
I picked up a pad of paper and a pen. “Tell me who would want to hurt you.”
“You mean, like, enemies?”
“Yes.”
“Really?” His face closed as he stared toward the ceiling and thought, hard.
“You really can’t think of anyone past your mother’s book club?” I asked, impatiently. “No one at all?”
“Not really the problem,” he replied. “It’s just, who did I piss off lately?”
“Oh.” That surprised me, but it shouldn’t have. He could be a real pain. “Oh. Well. Maybe think about the park.” Had he ever mentioned being at the park? I couldn’t remember. “You did hang out at Needle Park, didn’t you?”
“Oh yeah!” he said, nodding enthusiastically. “Didn’t go even a day without showing up there. Hell, I was there just last night.”
I looked at him. “You were at the park last night?”
“Yep.”
So, it had been his glow I saw at the park when James and I had left Honoria’s apartment. All I could say was, this boy sure could get around. But I left it alone for the moment. I had to get a list of suspects, and he had to give them to me.
“Can you think of anything that’s happened there lately? Anything at all. Doesn’t matter how insignificant—”
“Well, there was the turf war.”
Did he actually say a war? I goggled at him, and he laughed. “What? Did you actually want me to start on the small stuff and work up to the war?”
“No, no!” I said, and flipped to a fresh page in the notebook. I wrote “Turf War” across the top in block letters, and Eddie smiled.
“What?” I asked. He pointed.
“Takes me back to grade school. But I guess I’m the teacher, this time.”
“Guess so,” I said. “So, tell me about this—war.”
“It started five months ago. Maybe longer. There was a—vacancy created at the top of the food chain, and a couple of guys decided to take over the park for their own.”
“Food chain?”
“I’m talking about selling drugs,” he said.
“Oh.” I felt momentarily foolish. Of course he was talking about drugs. “Why a vacancy?”
“Maxie Lewis got offed. He owned the park.” Eddie frowned. “How come I haven’t seen him if he got killed there?”
“He might have already moved on,” I said absently, still writing.
“But his murder—” He shuddered. “It was a bad o
ne, and in my neck of the woods, that was going some.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean the spirit sticks around,” I said, putting down the pen. “If he was prepared for death, he could have moved on right away. Or maybe he’s gone somewhere else.” I smiled. “After all, you haven’t exactly been stuck like glue to the place where you were killed, now have you?”
Eddie looked confused. “Why? Should I be?”
“Yeah. Usually.”
“Why is that?”
“I’m not sure, exactly,” I replied.
“I thought you were the expert about all this stuff,” he said.
“Well, I’m not,” I said, rather stiffly. I picked up the pen and poised it over the notebook. “Tell me more about the turf war,” I said. “And how you were involved.”
Eddie closed his eyes, as though he was trying to remember.
“After Maxie was offed,” he started, “there was nobody supplying the place regular. So this brought a few gangs into the area. That’s really when the war started.” He shook his head. “I really should be seeing a bunch of dead guys there. Lots of people got gacked this past while.”
“Lots?” I stared at him. “Why hasn’t this been in the news?”
“Some of them have. The drive-bys, and the stuff that happened out in the ’burbs. Those made the news. The rest—well, some of them got dumped, lots of them, actually. And as for the rest, well, if it doesn’t happen close to civilians—”
“Civilians?”
“People not involved in drugs. People like you.”
“Oh.” Made sense. I wrote it all down, and when I underlined “like me,” Eddie laughed, but it didn’t sound real. Not in the least.
“Nobody cares if we kill each other off,” he said. “Less of us to put in jail, less cop time taken up with our BS. Nobody cares. Just as long as we stay away from your kind.”
I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Was he telling me the truth?
“This is where I got involved,” he said. “Even though it looked like Ambrose Welch was going to win the war and take over the park, I decided to try my hand at dealing in the park. Like I said, there was still room—and I figured what the hell. My buddy—Crank—fronted me enough to get me started. And people—my people, anyhow—bought enough that it looked like maybe I was going to be able to do some business. But then R showed up, and suggested strongly that I not come back the next night. If I wanted to keep my head.”
“R?” I asked. “I think I know that name.”
“He’s one of Ambrose Welch’s enforcers.” Eddie stood up and paced. “Man! R came and talked to me four nights before I was killed. I feel sick.”
I almost said, “Take a deep breath,” but stopped myself before that bit of foolishness left my mouth. “Then what happened?”
“I listened to him,” Eddie said. “I did. In fact, didn’t go back to the park for a few nights after that. Didn’t want to get in their line of sight. Plus I owed Crank money, and I didn’t want to see him before I had it. So I went to the churchyard.”
He paced, harder, and I wished there was something I could do for him. He looked distraught.
“The night before—you know—I went and paid back Crank everything I owed him.” He almost smiled. “That was the high point of my week. I honestly thought I was going to do okay after that. Crank was happy. I was happy. And I was out of Ambrose’s territory. Thought I was going to do all right. But the next night. Well.”
He rubbed his hands together, as though trying to warm them. “The next night I met the Donald Ducks. And you know the rest.”
“Could it have been this Ambrose fellow?” I asked.
“Don’t know why it would have been,” he replied. “I did what he told me to do. Moved on. He was left with his territory. Shouldn’t have been a problem.”
“Do you know who owns the church territory?”
Eddie laughed. “God?”
Seriously, Eddie? Jokes? I glared at him until his laughter stopped.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Never saw anybody there, selling. Not before me, anyhow.” He shrugged. “Not too many to sell to, to be honest. Enough for a guy like me, maybe.”
“Okay.” I frowned and looked over my notes, touching the point of my pen to something Eddie’d said, close to the beginning. “So, who killed Maxie?” I asked. “Was it Ambrose Welch?”
“I don’t think so. Like I said, Ambrose showed up after.” Eddie started pacing again, like he couldn’t stop himself.
“So, who did it?”
“There were rumours.” Eddie stood by the window and looked out. I could see past him. The sun was up, and the streets were starting to come alive. People, going to work or whatever. He sighed, deeply. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Why not?”
He sighed again, and it sounded like it was coming from the bottom of his soul. “I think it was because of me.”
“How?” I asked. He didn’t turn around, and he didn’t answer me, so I tried again. “Tell me, Eddie. How do you think—”
“I had a friend,” he said, the words jerking out of him like they were being pulled, like rotten teeth, out of his mouth. “I had a friend, and he came to me to buy drugs. This was just before the war.”
“And?”
“I sent him to Maxie.”
“And?”
“He died.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. His name was Luke Stewart. His dad didn’t take it so good.”
“Stewart?” I asked, and my heart rate spiked. “Is he related to that police officer, Angus Stewart? The one they call Stew?”
“Stay away from him,” he said, and he looked terrified. “He’s dangerous.”
“Oh my God, Eddie,” I whispered. “What did you do?”
Eddie:
I’m Outta Here
I COULDN’T TELL if there was accusation in Marie’s voice. Didn’t care. Didn’t matter if she accused me or not. I was doing enough accusing for both of us. Wished I could get high—high enough so that it didn’t hurt—but knew there wasn’t enough high in the world to wash that one away. I’d killed my friend. My best friend.
I looked out the window, and the sun looked warm. I wished I was out in it, and suddenly the wishing won. There was a soft grey swirl around me, and I didn’t even hear her reply before I was gone.
Marie:
Maybe Mom Will Know . . .
ANOTHER COLOURFUL SWIRL, this time a little more grey than blue, but whatever. He was gone, again.
I looked at what I’d written down on the pad of paper and tried to keep from shuddering. How could stuff like this be going on in a sleepy little city like Edmonton?
Worse than that, it looked like Eddie had been right in the middle of it all when he died.
Even though he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—talk about who he thought killed him, I was pretty sure if I could figure out a way to keep him in the room with me and keep him talking, he would probably lead me right to the people who killed him. He knew a lot, and I got the feeling we were just touching the surface.
But he kept disappearing. What should I do?
Call my mother. That’s what.
I looked at the phone for a long time, not wanting to make that phone call.
“Just get it over with,” I whispered. So I did. Look at me being all brave. Almost put the receiver back down and disconnected when I heard the voice on the other end, though, because it wasn’t my mother. It was my sister, Rhonda.
“Yes?” she snapped. I sat, frozen, long enough for her to bark, “Is anyone there? I’m hanging up if you don’t answer immediately!”
“Hi, Rhonda, it’s me.”
My voice sounded all weak and whiny, the last thing I wanted. I had to sound strong with her. After all, she was the successful one of the family. Meaning she’d found a guy who could actually provide for her. “I need to speak to Mom. Is she there?”
“Oh. Marie. Nice to hear your voice.” She was lyi
ng. She had not been pleased when I’d left town because that left her with Mom. After all, she had that successful life of her own.
I felt the anger quotient jump up a few degrees, but did my best to cool it. I didn’t need to fight with her. I needed to talk to Mom.
Then I did a stupid thing. I asked, “How are things?”
“As good as can be expected.” She sighed. Darn it. I’d given her the opening she always looked for. The “oh poor me, my life is crap” opening. Even though it wasn’t. Her husband, Jasper, was a nice enough guy and did seem to love her, though I didn’t quite understand why. And her kids were well-mannered—another surprise, but hey, I guess a person can be a good mom and a bitch all at the same time. But I didn’t want to hear her complain. I just wanted to talk to Mom.
“That’s great!” I said, as enthusiastically as I could, hoping it would shut her up. “Can I talk to Mom?”
“She’s sleeping,” Rhonda snipped.
“Oh.” I didn’t want to wake Mom up, but I really didn’t want to listen to Rhonda anymore. “When do you think she’ll—”
Then I heard Mom’s voice before Rhonda slapped her hand over the receiver. There was muffled two-way bickering for a moment, then Rhonda came back.
“She’s here.”
The phone clattered as she dropped the receiver. There was scrabbling, and then I heard Mom’s voice. Breathless as always, but she sounded in a much better mood than Rhonda, thank goodness.
“Marie!” she cried. “How are ya, girl?”
“All right, Mom. You?”
“I’m good. Good.” I could hear Rhonda yelling something about not lying to me, but Mom talked over her words. “The medication I’m on seems to be helping a bit, so . . . I’m doing good.”
“I’m glad.”
I stopped talking for a moment, unsure how to proceed. If Mom was sick enough for Rhonda to be there, I needed to know that. But I didn’t feel strong enough to push through her well-intentioned lies. I had a problem, and only she could help me with it, and I think Mom knew that.