Bring Her Back

by Jeff Strand

  Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Inspect the damage.

  Andy was dead. I hadn't decapitated him, but if I repeated the jump, yeah, I genuinely believe that his head would come off, at least most of the way.

  I rolled Wulfe onto his back. He was not dead. His eyes were wide with terror, and his mouth kept opening and closing like a goldfish, except with blood streaming out. You weren't supposed to move somebody with a broken spine, but whether or not he would ever walk again wasn't my primary concern. I wouldn't be calling an ambulance for him.

  "I'm sorry," I told him. It was quite possibly the stupidest thing I'd said in my entire life; still, the words came out and maybe I even meant them. I wasn't sure he deserved this. He was an asshole, no question. And, yes, he was going to kill Marc in an awful way. He did deserve this. He totally deserved it. I wasn't thinking straight.

  I tilted his head to the side so he wouldn't choke on his own blood.

  Though I felt like I should put him out of his misery, he was a bargaining chip if any of his men came after me. They probably wouldn't even want him in this state, but I didn't see an advantage to killing him right now. He wasn't making any noise except for some gasping, and he certainly wasn't going anywhere without being carried. He'd be low maintenance.

  I suddenly slapped my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream.

  It took me almost a minute to feel comfortable removing it.

  I definitely didn't want to scream. No neighbors had come over to tell me to keep the goddamn noise down, so I was in good shape, all things considered. I had a mess to clean up, and a corpse to get rid of—possibly two at some point—but my only injury was that my hand hurt from breaking Wulfe's jaw. I didn't think any of my own bones were broken, though. I could clench and unclench my fist. I was fine.

  If the police showed up I'd throw myself at the mercy of the court, but otherwise I was confident in my ability to get out of this. My first step would be to go down to Marc's apartment to see if he was there. He'd have to be an idiot to stick around, but he'd already solidly established himself to be an idiot. I couldn't imagine that he wouldn't flee; still, he might be frantically packing a suitcase right now.

  No, wait, my first step was to make positively sure that Abigail wasn't on her way. I picked up my cell phone.

  Sorry to hear that, she'd texted with a frowny face. Tomorrow then.

  I don't get full-on migraines but I do get really bad headaches sometimes, she'd continued. I've got this compress that you pop into the microwave to warm up, and then you lie down with it against your forehead. It works miracles.

  I could bring it over...?

  Sorry if that was pushy. Not trying to bother you when you're not feeling well. See you tomorrow!

  Thank God. I wished we were at a point in our relationship where I could tell her that I'd just murdered one drug dealer and paralyzed another and could really use her assistance in disposing of the body, but I didn't think we were quite there yet.

  Then I totally freaked the hell out.

  I didn't shriek or look for a straight razor to slash my wrists, but I completely lost it. The realization of what I'd done hit me so hard that it literally doubled me over, as if a ghost had punched me in the gut. I started sobbing. I've had unkind things to say about my laughter and my dancing, but for true Frank Johnson ugliness, nothing compares to crying. And this was the full deal: red face, heaving shoulders, copious mucus.

  I was probably going to be tortured to death by vengeance-seeking drug dealers or spend the next few decades in prison. I'd never see Abigail again. For Marc. I'd thrown my life away for Marc. When one of Wulfe's men shoved the rusty pliers into my mouth and clamped it over my molar, I'd have to accept that this was happening to me because I didn't want it to happen to Marc.

  Marc was an idiot, but I was worse. At least he was concerned with self-preservation.

  I wish I could say that my breakdown did not involve physically harming myself. I cannot say that. Nothing too bad. Just some slaps.

  It didn't last very long, because I quickly realized that every second I was sitting on the floor blubbering put me one second closer to not catching up with Marc. If I needed to spend the entire night in the bathtub weeping, I'd do it, but first I had to take care of business.

  I went into the bathroom and wiped away the snot and tears. Though this felt like a waste of precious time, it most definitely was not: me wandering the halls looking like I'd just been sobbing was the kind of thing that would stick out in the memory of my neighbors.

  I got myself together. Meltdown later. Action now.

  I returned to the living room and was unsuccessful in my attempt to not look at Wulfe. There was pleading in his eyes. I'm not sure if he wanted me to put him out of his misery or if he wanted me to make everything all right. Wave a magic wand and undo the last few minutes. Sorry, Wulfe. I would if I could.

  After committing murder and paralyzing a guy, theft was a relatively minor crime. I took Wulfe's keys out of his pocket, which I assume pissed him off though I couldn't tell it from his face. Then I took the gun that he did indeed have in his inside jacket pocket. I took Andy's keys and gun as well. I didn't want to carry around two guns, and I had no idea whose was better. I did know that Andy's was a pistol and Wulfe's was a revolver, so I went with the pistol, thinking it might have more bullets. I didn't want to eject the cartridge and check because I might not be able to put it back in correctly. I stuck Wulfe's gun in a kitchen drawer and then, like the experienced criminals, I put on an unseasonably warm jacket and tucked Andy's gun into the inside pocket, where it joined a beef stick I'd forgotten about.

  It seemed cruel to leave Wulfe in the dark, so I left the light on when I walked out of my apartment.

  I could fix this.

  nine

  I knocked on Marc's door. I didn't want to draw attention to myself by saying anything, so I hoped that he'd look through the peephole and see that it was me. Of course, he might think it was me with a gun pointed at my head just out of peephole range.

  I stared at the tiny circle of glass, waiting for it to darken to indicate that he was looking through the other side.

  He'd know that I knew he was peeking out, which would be deadly if Wulfe and Andy were the ones on the other side of his door. So he might be in his apartment, unmoving, trying not to even breathe.

  I knocked again. "Hey, Marc, it's me. Are you around? I've got that CD you wanted to borrow."

  I did not have a CD in my hand, and I'm sure my line delivery made it sound like I was there for any possible reason except to return a CD. I suddenly felt like everybody in the hallway had simultaneously called 911.

  He didn't answer. I could've kicked open the door, but that would not be the best way to continue my efforts to be discreet. Really, if he was hiding in there, that was fine. I could talk to him later.

  Some slobs at the end of the hall had a pizza box and some beer cans outside of their door, as if they expected room service to show up and collect them. I walked over there and picked up a can, then returned to Marc's apartment and placed the can on the floor against his door. He wouldn't knock it over when he opened the door—the door swung into the apartment, not out—but would he leave a beer can sitting right there? He'd probably kick it out of the way, either accidentally or on purpose. And if he figured out what I was trying to do, he wouldn't know to put it back so that the P in Pabst Blue Ribbon was perfectly aligned with the center of the doorknob. It was far from an ingenious scheme, but I hadn't thought to bring any tape for the old "human hair snaps when the door opens" trick.

  Then I went down the stairwell and out of the building. Though I didn't know what specific car I was looking for, Wulfe had said they'd parked close, and both his and Andy's keys had an unlock button, so it would be pretty easy to find. Before that, I'd take a quick walk around the building and see if Marc's car was parked anywhere.

  It wasn't. Damn. That didn't mean for sure that he'd fled, but it wasn't a good sign. I won
dered if I'd missed my window of opportunity to catch him while I was wallowing in mental anguish.

  I pressed the unlock button on Andy's key and the headlights of a black sedan flashed. Not that great of a car. I would've expected much better from a successful drug dealer, although it might have been a decision made not to draw attention, or maybe Wulfe didn't pay Andy very well. I'd get rid of it completely later. For now I just didn't want it to be in the parking lot if somebody came looking for Wulfe.

  I drove about a mile to a grocery store, which isn't where I was going to leave the car but which seemed like a safe place to search it and not worry about anybody going back to review security camera footage. I parked in the row furthest from the store, then opened the glove compartment. Just a random assortment of papers. The back seat was empty except for a candy bar wrapper on the floor. I pulled the lever to pop open the trunk and got out of the car.

  I raised the lid and was pleased that there was not a dead body (or pieces of one) inside. There was a lot of random junk. And also a small blue duffel bag.

  I unzipped it, hoping it would be full of money.

  It was.

  I zipped it back up. I had no idea how much was in there, but my quick glance was enough to make it clear that the answer was "a lot."

  This might have solved my problem. A bag full of their money was a pretty good bargaining tool. I closed the trunk and got back in the car.

  There were a few apartment complexes in the immediate vicinity. I decided to go with the one, four blocks from my own, that seemed the least likely to have security cameras. I didn't know for certain that there were no cameras, but if there were, they sure didn't do much to prevent vandalism. I didn't think the cops would be looking for the car. All I had to do was hide it from Wulfe's men, and I couldn't imagine that they'd do any kind of organized search that spanned several blocks.

  I parked the car, got the bag out of the trunk, and then walked back home.

  I stopped by Marc's apartment. The can hadn't moved.

  I unlocked my door and walked inside. Wulfe and Andy were still on the floor. Obviously, Andy hadn't moved, but I was relieved to see that Wulfe was also just where I'd left him. There was a pretty big pool of blood next to his head. His eyes were closed.

  "Hey," I said.

  Wulfe's eyes snapped open. They'd gone bloodshot. He opened his mouth but there was no sound.

  I didn't want to be a jerk and taunt him with the duffel bag, so I tossed it onto my couch without comment. I crouched down next to him. "Can you understand me?"

  Wulfe didn't move his head.

  "Blink if you understand me."

  After about five seconds, he blinked. I wasn't sure if he was indicating his understanding or if it was just a normal blink.

  "Blink twice if you understand me."

  Wulfe blinked twice.

  "I don't actually have any questions for you right now," I said. "I'm sure I'll have some soon."

  The guy really liked to talk. I wondered if his forced silence was the worst part of this experience for him.

  (I knew it wasn't, of course. The worst part was the agonizing pain or the paralysis or the fear that I was going to kill him. Not being able to use profanity was probably very low on his current list of woes.)

  I took out my cell phone. No new texts from Abigail. I should have replied to her latest one before I left the apartment. It would've been disastrous if she'd gotten worried and decided to come over.

  Not pushy at all, I typed. I appreciate the offer. If I weren't already in bed I'd take you up on it.

  I sent the text, then cursed myself. That sounded like a suggestive text. What if she sent something back equally suggestive? I couldn't have her thinking that I was trying to lure her into my bed. Not now.

  I stared at my screen for about ten seconds until I decided that staring at my screen was unproductive and shoved the phone back into my pocket. I needed to check for Wulfe and Andy's phones. That's something I should have done right away. I felt like I was completing tasks in the wrong order.

  Andy had a phone in his jacket pocket. But it was locked with a passcode, and I wasn't the kind of master interrogator who could get answers from a dead man. I could barely carry on a conversation with a live person.

  I tried to be as gentle as possible as I searched Wulfe for his phone. There was some jostling but nothing that messed him up any worse than he already was. I got the phone out of his back pocket, and he too had a passcode.

  I held the phone up to his face. "Here's what you're doing to do," I said. "You're going to blink the number of times as the first digit in your code. If it's three, you blink three times. If it's seven, you blink seven times. Do you understand?"

  Wulfe did nothing to indicate whether or not he understood.

  "Or maybe it would be easier if I just said numbers and you blink when I get to the right one. Yeah, that's definitely easier. I'll just go 1, 2, 3, and you blink when I say the first digit. Blink if you think that's a good idea."

  Wulfe didn't blink.

  I wasn't sure how I could intimidate him. The problem was that I didn't know if he was desperate to stay alive or if he wanted the release of death. So if I threatened to smother him with a pillow, that might be exactly what he wanted. I could break his fingers, maybe, but what if he didn't have any feeling in his extremities? I hated to resort to such sadism for nothing. Even if he wanted to die and couldn't feel it, he wouldn't be happy if I sawed off his limbs, but that was way too ghastly. I'd be haunted by that for sure. And I didn't have a saw.

  Did it have to be intimidation? What about convincing him that we were working toward a mutual goal?

  "I want to use your phone to contact your employees," I said. "Or at least somebody who cares about you. You're only hurting yourself if you don't cooperate."

  Wulfe's tongue slipped out of his mouth, but it wasn't like he was sticking his tongue out at me. It pushed out a trickle of blood with it. This wasn't going to work. Time to move on to a new job: cleanup.

  I didn't have a plastic tarp handy, and I didn't want to do a "body disposal supplies" shopping trip. But I did have garbage bags and tape, and if I wrapped Andy up enough that he didn't leak, I could drag him into the bathroom and store him in the tub.

  I'm pretty efficient at these kinds of tasks (I mean manual labor, not stuff involving bodies) and it didn't take long. I picked him up by the legs and dragged him. As I did, I realized that a thin line of blood was trailing behind him, but compared to the large pool of blood on my living room floor, it would be no big deal to clean up. Again, if there was any kind of crime scene investigation, I was probably boned no matter how much bleach I used, so I wasn't trying to remove every trace of Andy's DNA.

  I dragged him into the bathtub. His head hit the porcelain pretty hard. It didn't matter, of course, but it still made me wince. I was worried that when I eventually removed the garbage bag his eyeball would be bulging out of its socket or something.

  Now for Wulfe.

  I honestly couldn't think of a good place to put him except for the bathtub. I supposed I could leave him on the bathroom floor with some towels under his head to soak up the blood, but what if Abigail showed up unexpectedly? I couldn't say, "Don't look in the bathroom." But if I pulled the shower curtain, she wouldn't necessarily feel compelled to peek behind it.

  Obviously I wouldn't let her use the toilet. She'd hear him breathing. It would just be good to have that extra layer of security behind the closed bathroom door, just in case.

  I was probably being paranoid, but people hiding bodies in their bathroom should be paranoid.

  "This is going to hurt," I told him. "I apologize for that."

  Would he scream? The way he kept silently opening and closing his mouth made me think that he was incapable of sound, but what if he bellowed when I picked him up?

  I returned to the bathroom and got a washcloth. Then I shoved it into his mouth. I didn't apologize for it; at some point I had to stop saying I w
as sorry.

  Picking him up and carrying him to the bathroom could very well kill him. But leaving him out in the open could very well kill me, so Wulfe was getting carried. I kept reminding myself that he was a horror show of a human being who deserved no sympathy.

  "I assume you're not a big God person," I said. "But if you wanted to make some kind of peace, now would be the time. I can't promise this isn't the end."

  He just kept doing that creepy goldfish-mouth thing, so I picked him up as gently as I could, the way a groom would hold a bride when carrying her over the threshold. His mouth suddenly opened wide but he made no noise.

  I moved as quickly as I could without jiggling him.

  When we got into the bathroom, I very carefully lowered him into the bathtub, on top of Andy. I held on to him long enough to make sure that Andy's body didn't shift beneath him.

  Yes, this was ghoulish.

  Making somebody sleep on top of a corpse was an objectively awful thing to do. But I didn't want to have to keep cleaning up blood; here I could just turn on the shower and wash it all away, no matter how much they bled throughout the night. Andy was covered in garbage bags, so hopefully that made it seem a bit less like Wulfe was trapped on a dead body.

  If he could talk, he probably would've said something about not wanting to sleep so close to another dude.

  "If it gets too scary, signal to me somehow," I said. "Otherwise, this is where you're staying. You know you were going to do worse things to Marc."

  I pulled the shower curtain closed.

  Lights on or lights off? If I were paralyzed on top of a corpse, would I want to be in the dark? I decided that I would. I turned off the bathroom light and left, shutting the door behind me.

  I might have to feed him at some point. I wasn't sure how that would work. I supposed I'd have to blend it up and pour it down his throat. Anyway, that was a problem for later. He could be dead the next time I checked on him.

  Now it was time to clean up some blood.

  I was glad that I didn't have carpeting. Wiping up blood from the linoleum was bad because it wouldn't come out of the cracks as easily as I hoped, but this was nowhere near as difficult as if I had to scrub a carpet. I just used Windex and a lot of paper towels.