15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

“Sleeping on the damn job,” I said to myself, still wondering why on earth I was experiencing such vivid dreams at all.

  In Sunday school, no one ever told us that in death we’d be dreaming up all sorts of weird dreams. They had also forgotten to mention the fact that death wasn’t all it was cut out to be, either. I didn’t think I’d actually come back from it and experience a weird half transition between life and death. Dark and light.

  “I have to find out what is happening to me,” I said, sitting up and cradling myself in an embrace that I could only imagine was supposed to be of comfort to me. I was at a loss as to what to think. I was broken. I felt like my whole existence was a shambles, and whatever was happening to me was akin to some sick joke by whoever was responsible for the afterlife. I wasn’t a religious man at all before my death, but coming back the way I did made me wonder about certain things. Take Christianity, for instance. In my mind, it was nothing but evil, nothing but corruption. I had always thought of it in that way. Not because of the message it held, but because of the serious focus it gives on money and materialism. But one thing was playing on my mind. Jesus had supposedly risen from the dead. I never believed that story at all. But if it happened to me, then surely it could happen to the Son of God?

  A lot of other people believed in reincarnation. Was that what was happening to me?

  “I need to know,” I whispered. I was tempted to pray. I never did it before, but I was about to. I was on my knees and everything before the back of the trailer was engulfed in light once again when the doors were opened.

  “Welcome to Mexico,” I heard Bill say.

  I was still on my knees, behind the stacked boxes. I didn’t say anything, I just closed my eyes and attempted to be at one with myself.

  “Hello? You still alive, buddy?” Bill laughed.

  “Yeah,” I said, quickly giving up and getting onto my feet. I left the water and chips where they were and stretched.

  “Don’t forget your ticket,” Bill said.

  I rolled my eyes and grabbed the metal briefcase. “What the hell is in this thing?” I said as I moved toward the back doors of the trailer. As I grew nearer, I could see that the light projecting through the trailer wasn’t coming from dawn, because it was still nighttime. The light was emanating from the moon. It was the biggest moon I had ever seen.

  “What time is it?” I asked as I looked up at the oval white satellite in the sky.

  “’Bout 2 a.m.,” Wild Bill said as he glanced at his watch. He then shot me a smile and looked back up at me, standing on the edge of the trailer’s tailgate. “Mexico is mighty pretty at night. I should know — I’m always down here. I’d live here if it wasn’t for all the drug cartels and murders.” He chuckled, extending a hand and helping me to my feet as I landed on the solid asphalt.

  I saw that we were parked on a secluded dirt road. It was surrounded by trees and bushes. The road wound back a few miles, and as I turned around, I saw an array of lights on the horizon. It looked beautiful.

  “That is Tijuana,” Bill said, pointing at the lights on the horizon. “And we’re about five minutes away.”

  I shrugged and asked, “But why are we stopped, then?”

  “You can walk the rest of the way,” he said to me, shutting the trailer and giving me another smile. “You have your ticket. You’ll be just fine, amigo.”

  Bill brushed his hands off on his sides and winked at me. He then walked past me and headed back toward his cab. I stood there, looking at him in awe. Was he really ditching me on the side of the road in Mexico?

  “But what about my safety? Surely an American like me shouldn’t be walking down the road in the middle of the night. I’ll be kidnapped or worse!”

  Bill turned around and pointed at me. “That case right there will get you to where you need to be. There’s a bar near the city limits. It’s called Corazón fuerte y cerveza débil, which translates to ‘Strong heart and weak beer,’” Bill said, opening his cab and climbing in. I watched as the truck’s suspension buckled a little as he got in and shut the door. He poked his head out of the window and waved at me.

  “Have a good one, kid. You’d better deliver that damn briefcase. That’s your payment to me. If you don’t, the people it belongs to will find you and kill you.”

  I jogged up to the cab and waved my hands. “Wait a sec, but how will they find me and kill me?” I asked, holding the briefcase with a death grip.

  “Well, that’s simple, kid. They’ll find you and kill you because I’ll tell them where I dropped you off. Shouldn’t be too hard to find you. You have a distinct look about yourself.”

  I shook my head. “But why would you tell them where I am?”

  The truck’s engine roared to life, and Bill switched on the headlights, momentarily illuminating the dirt road for what seemed like miles ahead. “I’ll tell them where you are because I’ll have to. You see, the people who own that case won’t think twice about hurting me. And as much as I’ve grown accustomed to your company, a bit of torture may sway me to tell them the truth.”

  Without saying anything else, Bill drove off. I hadn’t had time to thank him. I didn’t want to, anyway. The guy had suckered me into delivering a damn briefcase full of stuff men kill for, apparently.

  “Welcome to Mexico, Derrick,” I said to myself, watching the eighteen-wheeler drive up the dirt road. I saw that the truck was turning onto the highway. I decided to walk toward the horizon. Tijuana was my destination. I’d be lying if I told you I hadn’t thought about hitching a ride back into America.

  But I had a purpose for being in Mexico. And it wasn’t to hand in any damn briefcase, although I’d obviously make sure the right people got it. I wouldn’t want to risk my life in hiding for a simple errand. They’d get the damn case, all right. They’d be getting it tonight. I didn’t care if the bars closed at 2 a.m. or whatever. I’d make sure somebody took the damn thing off me. I wasn’t going to risk being arrested for drug trafficking in Mexico.

  They are a little tougher on criminals here, for some unknown reason….

  Forty

  Walking down a dirt road toward the unknown brings out the coward in me. I’d be the first to admit that I’m not exactly the bravest hombre in the land, but I did also feel a slight underlying tinge of adrenaline flowing through me. It was exciting being in a foreign land that I didn’t understand. It was a little bit sweet, if not a tad sour, knowing that my life was on the edge of a sharp blade from now on.

  I guess it gave me a sort of second wind. Not knowing your fate is a wonderful gift to attain. Most people should cherish the unknown. It is not knowing that drives most people’s ambitions; even when they know what they want, it’s the journey getting there that is usually laden with intrigue and self-worth.

  I vowed that I wouldn’t cower while in Mexico. My goal was to know more. Knowing more about why I was back from the dead and what I could do would help me in finding out the why’s and hopefully the when’s of my future. I was in a unique position, after all. Not many could claim to be immortal. I didn’t like the idea of immortality. It takes away the whole not knowing thing I was talking about. Life wouldn’t be fun if you knew you were doomed to a lot more of it than you know you can handle.

  The thing was, I didn’t know if I was immortal. I didn’t even know if what the doctors found in America was real. Maybe I’d find answers in this land. And if I didn’t, at least I’d be as far away from the feds as possible. I was fine in not knowing my future, but for some reason, a voice in my head was begging me, pleading with me, to find out why on earth the authorities in L.A. were so gung-ho on trying to capture me. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I knew that. So did they. But the feds were framing me for murder. They were telling the public that I was faking my own death and going on a killing spree. But why? What would they get out of it? That was why I was in Mexico. As I said, I was fine in not knowing my fate. That’s probably why I wasn’t one for religion. I liked not knowing. Religion took all the magi
c out of it. So did science. That’s why I held my own beliefs, but now that I was the exception, now that I was the walking dead, so to speak, I wanted to know everything.

  I guess what they say is true. Everybody is a hypocrite.

  Walking up the dirt road toward the horizon filled me with dread. The trees around me seemed to whisper in the wind. They painted pictures of cartels in my mind. Decapitated bodies. Drugs and money stacked high to ceilings. Drug barons with scars on their faces. The whole nine yards. Every Hollywood movie stereotype was running through my head. A world of danger and intrigue stood a mere mile or two down the road. I was definitely ready to see what my future held.

  I made a left on the dirt road and noticed that it started to widen. I looked behind me and saw that the dirt road was now linking with a larger highway. A few cars were cruising by me. Their windows seemed to be tinted, but it was too dark to see if they were. The headlights penetrating the night sky filled me with fear. I was really doing it. I had really made it.

  But then thoughts of my family ran through my head. What was my mom thinking? Did she believe what she was being told by the police? Did she really believe her son had faked his own death and was ready to rip the world an asshole bigger than the Grand Canyon?

  I slowly trudged up the side of the widened main road. The lights in the distance were now close enough to be touching my skin. They bounced off my retinas like fireworks on New Year’s. I smiled when I saw the city limits sign. I couldn’t read it — obviously, it was in Spanish — but what I could read was the name “Tijuana.” I felt a sigh of relief as I stepped into the bright lights and on toward my destination. Everything was going as planned until something strange happened. Most of the cars that had been passing me by weren’t paying me much attention. But one car was riding beside me now, slowly, as if they were trying to get a glimpse of me. I tried not to look, for fear of getting shot in the face. I knew it was yards from me, driving at a low speed of six or seven miles an hour. The car then suddenly sped off away from me and moved into the second lane. I then saw what sort of car it was. My throat felt like it was closing up at what I had just seen.

  It was a police car. Its blue lights flashed, and its siren blared out. But it wasn’t stopping for me. It was racing off into the distance. The city of Tijuana was its destination. As was mine. But why had it given me the once-over?

  I guess they were curious as to why a strange man was walking the city limits, alone. But that didn’t explain why it sped off like that. It was as if they had seen something they didn’t like.

  I wouldn’t know until later. I didn’t know at the time, but everybody had spotted me from a mile away. No one was paying attention to me for one reason, and one reason only.

  They were frightened. I didn’t know it, but I was carrying something that made me immune. It made me one of them. The briefcase in my right hand was my ticket to freedom.

  Forty-One

  My hand was aching a little. Shooting pains were pulsing up my arms all the way to my neck. The case I was carrying wasn’t heavy, but the prolonged weight of it was tugging on my joints. I was seconds away from crossing the city limits into Tijuana. A distinct smell had risen up my nose. It smelled clean and welcoming. For some unknown reason, my guard was a little down. I should have questioned the police car that sped off a mile back. I should have given it more attention, just as I should have questioned the smell.

  Since I had resurrected, I hadn’t been able to smell much. I smelled very little, in fact. But now I was smelling clearly. The air was cold, and my bodily sensations were returning to me. I was a sucker for not realizing it. I was stupid. It was dumb of me not to put two and two together. After all, my dreams and body sensations were returning to me the closer I got to Mexico. And now I was there, they were shooting off at the hip, hitting me with sensation after sensation. I came to a stop just before I entered the city. I could see row after row of buildings. Some were high-rises, while others were one-story hovels. The city was very rustic-looking, yet had a very modern appearance to it at the same time. Small influences of abstract art were intertwined in the architecture of the city. I was at a loss for words as I looked on, marveling at the splendor of this alien culture. I could hear many people. They all seemed happy. It was as if I had just stumbled into a party. I could hear music echoing in the square. I decided to go toward it. If I were to find the place I was looking for, I knew I’d need to follow the sounds that usually came from a bar.

  The city limits were pretty barren. They mostly contained the sorts of buildings you’d find in an industrial district. But, interestingly enough, Bill had told me that the city limits of Tijuana had a bar located near the entrance. All I could see was an intersection. Down the middle of the crossroads I saw a row of buildings. They were all tall, and menacing. I figured they were banks and business buildings. To the left of the patch I was standing on, there were sparsely populated warehouses. I saw a truck sitting in the dark. I wondered if it was Bill’s, but then realized it was a totally different color. To the right of the crossroads was what I could only describe as a seedy-looking road. It stretched for a good mile and a half. I saw people congregating on the corners. All of them looked heavily intoxicated. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. I saw a few holding beer bottles.

  “Must be that way,” I muttered to myself, and crossed the road. I didn’t bother hitting the traffic light button. There was no point. It was 3 a.m. according to the big clock tower I just passed, and the traffic was nonexistent. Just people and plenty of them, which caught me a little off guard.

  When I reached the other side, I saw two girls smiling at me. They were hanging out on the corner of the pathway I was taking. Behind them stood a liquor store that seemed to be closed.

  “At least something is shut,” I said, a little surprised at the sight of so many lights and people at such an early hour of the morning. The two women must have heard me talk, because when I walked past them, they smiled and attempted to make conversation.

  “Holá, gringo bonito!” one of them said, while the other laughed. I brushed them off and walked past them. I was going to carry on down the street, but the intimidating thought of me not knowing where anything was in this city made me turn around and talk to the friendly women, who I assumed were hookers. My assumption was wrong, though. They were just drunk.

  “Excuse me, do you know where the….” I said, at a loss for the name of the bar I was looking for. It then came to me after a few seconds of embarrassing silence. The two girls looked at me with anticipation, sort of smiling while nudging each other. I guess they were messing with me from the get-go. “Do you know where the heart bar is?” I said.

  The two young-looking Latinas gave me a chivalrous smile and pointed down the road.

  “Thank you,” I said to a chorus of giggles from the two provocatively dressed girls. I knew they weren’t hookers because they weren’t throwing themselves at me. They were shy. All they did was laugh. I didn’t know it then, but they would be the nicest people I’d meet in Mexico. Everybody else from this point forward were less than savory characters.

  I nodded at the two beauties and walked off, feeling a little tentative. I gripped the briefcase in my hand, not letting it swing as I walked. The air was still smelling sweet and welcoming. The people on the street were nice. I just didn’t know why.

  I saw the bar I was looking for on the corner. The weird thing was that, out of all the other places where people were hanging out, this particular bar lacked any patrons on the outside. It was a stark contrast to the rest of the street. My immediate instinct told me it was the sort of bar one would want to avoid. And I should have listened to that instinct. I should have run. But, as I said countless times before, since resurrecting from the dead, I’ve been in a constant state of limbo, my own thoughts encasing me in a dream world. I hadn’t been paying attention to my surroundings, and yet again, I didn’t notice the people on the street giving me a wide berth at the sight of me holdi
ng the metal briefcase.

  I walked up to the bar’s entrance and took a deep breath. As the cold air hit the back of my throat, I stuck my chest out like a peacock and opened the door.

  “Play it cool, Derrick,” I said before entering the unknown.

  Forty-Two

  The sound of mariachi music played in the background. The smell of stale beer and smoke clung in the air. The floor felt sticky as I took three steps into the bar. I let the door swing shut behind me. It came to an abrupt close, making a loud noise as the hinges squeaked in protest. I looked around at my surroundings and noticed the distinct lack of people in this particular bar. The room had a normal layout, with a dozen or so chairs lined up in the middle. A few of the chairs were askew, and ashtrays on the tables gave off the scent of fresh cigarette smoke, making me believe I had just missed whoever was occupying those seats.

  I took a few more steps forward and noticed the floor was full of holes. They might have been bullet holes, or just wood rot. In the corner of my right eye I saw a cockroach skittering up the wall parallel to the door. I took another step forward and heard the wet, rotted floor creaking under my weight. The bar was situated to my right. I was just about to go to it when I saw a shadow to my left. I gripped my briefcase while every muscle in my forearm flexed and contorted.

  A man with a cowboy hat was sleeping in the corner of the room. His right hand was holding an empty beer pitcher, his left a burned-out cigarette butt. He was a local. His long mustache curled to the sides. A mesh of black and white hairs stuck out of his face. He didn’t notice me. I took a few more steps forward, still holding my case, still feeling petrified. I wondered why on earth I decided to come into this bar. It was obvious that I was now in a world I shouldn’t be in. I could tell that this particular bar had an ominous atmosphere to it. Anybody could see that. It wasn’t the type of watering hole the U.S. government would advise its citizens to visit while on vacation.