The Complete John Wayne Cleaver Series: I Am Not a Serial Killer, Mr. Monster, I Don't Want to Kill You, Devil's Only Friend, Over Your Dead Body, Nothing Left to Lose

by Dan Wells

  I did it for them, and now they were going to kill me.

  I never slept much, but after my meeting with Forman I began sleeping even less. Mom and I would watch the news, hearing arguments and speculation and no real information about the new corpse, and then she would go to sleep and I’d stay up to watch a talk show or a late movie, and then when there was nothing tolerable left on TV I drifted into my room and read—books, magazines, anything I could find to keep my mind active, because as soon as I drifted off, I relinquished control, and something inside took over. Something deep and dark.

  Because when I wasn’t using my mind, Mr. Monster was.

  Mr. Monster’s thoughts were like the grating background static of my own thoughts. When there was something else to drown them out they were just a low buzz, but as my other distractions faded their static grew louder, harsher, and more chaotic. Random white noise devolved into nightmare shapes and sounds, bodies and limbs and screams that never let me rest. At three or sometimes four in the morning I’d surrender to them, hoping to get at least a little rest, however fitful, before Mom woke me up at six-thirty and I started a new day. During those few hours Mr. Monster reigned, and I was a captive audience to his thrashing horrors.

  The police kept a tight lid on their investigation, revealing virtually nothing about the autopsy results. If there was a stolen body part to link this victim to another demon, I didn’t know. I was desperate for facts, but there were none to be had.

  I’d have to go back to the warehouse soon. I really needed to burn something.

  “Calm down,” said Margaret, chopping lettuce in the kitchen. She was my mom’s twin sister, and her partner in the mortuary. “You act like you haven’t seen her in years.”

  “I barely have,” said Mom, tweaking the placement of a fork on the table. “Not socially, I mean—the mortuary doesn’t count, we barely talk.”

  It was Mother’s Day, and my sister was coming. This was a big deal, because she never came to anything. I’d even baked a cake.

  I’d taken up cooking as one of my many hobbies designed to occupy my mind and keep Mr. Monster down. Mom was a big fan of the Food Network, and I was a big fan of food, so one day when I was daydreaming about corpses and trying to clear my head I happened to catch a special on chocolate chip cookies, and decided to follow along. It grew pretty quickly from there, and soon I was making all kinds of food for every different meal. Mom wasn’t much of a chef anyway, so she didn’t mind.

  The cake was already done and cooling on the counter, so I was browsing through the paper. I noted with pleasure that Karla Soder had been admitted to the hospital for extended care; she was one of the oldest people in Clayton, and I’d been waiting for her to die for a while now. We hadn’t embalmed anybody in more than a month.

  “Lauren was here at Christmas,” said Margaret, laying out silverware, “and our birthday.”

  “She got here half an hour late for the birthday party and left early,” said Mom. “Of course you’re not nervous—she likes you. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be estranged from your own daughter?”

  “Just don’t overdo it,” said Margaret, placing the lettuce onto salad plates. “Don’t try to be her mother, just be her friend. Work your way up from there.”

  “Maybe she needs a mother,” said Mom, garnishing each lettuce pile with a wedge of tomato. “I don’t even know what she does outside of work.”

  A knock sounded from the door, and the two women froze. I shifted on the couch to get a better view of the door.

  “Come on in,” said Mom, “it’s unlocked.”

  The door opened and Lauren walked in, smiling bigger than I’d seen in a long time. Mom grinned back, wide-eyed, as if she didn’t know what was so wonderful but wasn’t willing to let it slip by uncelebrated.

  “Guess what?” said Lauren, practically dancing. Mom shook her head in a daze, and Lauren gestured at the open doorway. I could hear someone waiting just outside. “I brought someone for you to meet. Please say hello to my boyfriend, Curt.”

  A huge man barreled through the doorway and swept Lauren up in a massive hug. He twirled her around while she shrieked, then set her down and grinned wolfishly at Mom and Margaret. He was tall and wide, like a football player, with short sandy hair and a rough swath of sandy five o’clock shadow.

  I hated him instantly.

  “Lauren wanted to surprise you,” he said, “so I figured I may as well make it exciting. Holy hell, you really are twins.” He looked back and forth from Mom to Margaret, sizing them up, then laughed loudly. “I give up. Which one’s Mom?”

  Mom stepped forward, trying to get her bearings, and extended her hand. “That would be me,” she said. “It’s very nice to meet you . . .” She trailed off, not remembering his name.

  “Curt,” said Curt, “with a C, like Curtis, but I’ll smack anyone who calls me that.” He laughed again, gregarious and authoritative. This was a man who was accustomed to being the center of attention.

  Mom’s face had become a mask—stiff and smiling, which meant she was upset and trying to conceal it. I glanced at Lauren to see if she saw the same thing, but she was too busy smiling at Curt. I looked back at Mom and saw her walk stiffly to the table.

  “This is such a surprise,” she said. “We’ll have to . . . set another place. Margaret, could you get another plate, please?” While they shifted the table around, trying to find the best place for a fifth person, Lauren finally noticed me.

  “John!” she said, grabbing Curt by the shoulder and turning him to face the living room. He resisted the pull, delaying just long enough to make it obvious it was his own choice to turn, and not Lauren’s. “Curt, this is my little brother, John. You’ve heard me talk about him.”

  “Nothing good,” said Curt, and winked at me. I stared back, not certain what to say.

  “Whoa, we got a shy one here,” said Curt, laughing. “Don’t worry, sport, I don’t bite . . . hard.” He laughed again, and elbowed Lauren a little harder than was strictly necessary. My reflexes kicked in and I started searching for something to compliment him on.

  “That’s a very nice shirt,” said Mom, and I shot her a stunned look. She glanced back at me, shrugged, and turned back to her work. “John, honey, can you grab the folding chair by my computer?” I retrieved the chair from her bedroom while Curt loudly proclaimed the merits of his shirt.

  I took the folding chair into the kitchen and set it up next to Lauren’s seat, leaving that side of the table just slightly crowded with two chairs. Curt, not even looking at me, sat down at the head of the table, on Lauren’s other side. I glowered and sat in the folding chair myself; it was an inch or so lower than the kitchen chairs, and I felt short and awkward.

  Every rule I had seemed to cry out to me to do something—compliment him, shake his hand, show him how normal I was—but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Something about him made me so mad, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. He was rude and loud and boorish, certainly, but I knew a lot of people like that, and I could talk to them just fine. Why was Curt different? His comment that I was too shy to talk burned in my ears, but I didn’t correct him; if he thought I was shy he might leave me alone, and I could ignore him.

  Ignoring him proved even more difficult than speaking to him, because he barely ever stopped talking.

  “I can’t believe I’m still driving around in that old piece of junk,” he said, jerking his thumb in the general direction of the curb and shaking his head. “It was a nice enough truck when I bought it, but it’s ancient now—I’m embarrassed to be seen in it.”

  “It’s only four years old,” said Lauren, “and it’s gorgeous.”

  “It might be good enough for you,” he said, “but you haven’t seen the new ones. I know it’s Japanese, but that new model truck they’ve got at the lot makes this one look like a piece of crap. It’s like a luxury car in there—driver-side memory settings that adjust the seat and the steering wheel and the mirrors automatica
lly, so I wouldn’t have to fix it all myself every time Shorty here drives it.”

  He waved at Lauren with a smile. Lauren laughed at the comment, and Margaret seemed to be listening closely, but Mom was still at the counter carefully rearranging our four salads across five plates. I watched as she placed each leaf of lettuce slowly, deliberately, not stalling for time but honestly trying to make each salad the best it could be. Her mouth was a thin, frozen smile; she was determined to make this dinner work.

  “The seats are all leather, and they’re heated,” said Curt, “and the stereo system has Bluetooth—standard, not optional—”

  “Your seats are leather,” said Lauren.

  “But not heated,” said Curt. He looked at me. “She wouldn’t know a nice car if it bit her, eh sport?”

  Mom brought the reapportioned salads to the table, passing them out and then sitting down next to me—and as far from Curt as possible. It was the only seat left, of course, but I could tell by the way she sat subtly sideways, focusing on Lauren instead of on him, that she was grateful for the distance.

  “Eat up,” she said. “The chicken’s ready to eat as soon as we’re done with the salads.”

  “Lauren didn’t cook it, did she?” asked Curt, grinning like a cat. Lauren smiled and shook her head. “She’s beautiful,” he said, “but she can’t cook to save her life.”

  Mom set down her fork abruptly, staring at Curt. “That’s no way to talk about your girlfriend.”

  “Hey, I’m just calling it like I see it,” said Curt, stabbing another piece of lettuce and shaking his head dismissively. He’d already moved on; if he’d noticed how upset Mom was, he didn’t show it.

  Mom started to talk again, jumping into the empty space while Curt chewed, but Margaret caught her eye and shook her head almost imperceptibly. Mom and Margaret could communicate completely wordlessly sometimes, after knowing each other for so long. Mom stared back, her nostrils flared, and I could tell she was mad. Lauren, when I glanced at her, was looking at Curt and ignoring the two women altogether.

  “Course, she can do a damn fine bag of popcorn,” said Curt with a smile. “It’s just anything with a stove that gives her trouble.”

  “You remember how bad I am with baking,” said Lauren. “Remember that time I tried to make brownies in junior high, and they ended up burned on the edges and raw in the middle?”

  “Yep, she still does that,” said Curt, picking up his water glass and taking a long drink. I found it fascinating the way he responded to her in the third person, answering her comments directly but without addressing her or looking at her—or at anyone else, for that matter. He wasn’t talking to us, singly or as a group, he was simply talking, and we were the nearest audience. Mr. Monster perked up his ears, shifting restlessly inside my mind. He wanted to crush this blowhard’s veneer of security and confidence and make him cry in terror; he wanted to make him beg for mercy.

  I retreated deeper into myself, forcing myself to ignore Curt and the dinner. I thought about Agent Forman instead, wondering what his plan was; was he focused on me as a suspect, or did he have others? Was he even suspicious at all, or just trying to scare me into divulging some other information? Nothing that incriminated me, maybe, but something that might give him a clue he’d missed so far. There were unanswered questions galore in this case, and I knew they must have been bugging him more and more as time went on. How long had Mrs. Crowley been tied up? Could the same person have done that and killed Dr. Neblin? Why had Mr. Crowley’s body never been found, when all of the previous killings had left behind a dismembered corpse? Even if Forman didn’t suspect that I did it, he must have suspected I knew more than I was telling.

  “Actually,” said Mom, “John baked the cake.”

  I looked up and saw all four people looking at me. How much had I missed?

  “Jim?” said Curt.

  “John,” said Mom, Margaret, and Lauren in unison.

  I nodded.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” said Curt. “Home Ec assignment or something?”

  “He does most of the baking around here,” said Mom. “He’s really very good, and he loves to do it.”

  “Baking,” said Curt, balling his fist in a show of mock solidarity. “It’s a manly pursuit.”

  “It is,” said Lauren. It was the first time I’d heard her take a defiant tone with Curt. “I wish you’d cook for me sometime.”

  “That’s because there’s no good restaurants in this podunk town,” said Curt.

  “And,” insisted Lauren, “it’s because women appreciate it when men take time to do things for them.”

  “I bought you that pair of shoes,” said Curt.

  “I love those shoes,” said Lauren, rolling her head back in ecstasy.

  “I hope so,” said Curt with a laugh, “they were expensive.”

  “We’re going to have girls beating down our door once they find out how well John cooks,” said Mom, getting up to clear the salad plates.

  “Well, bring it on,” said Curt, spreading his arms. “Guy food’s usually better anyway, right? No whining about calories and fat and crap like that—just great big piles of the good stuff.” He looked at the counter and sniffed deeply. “He make the chicken too?”

  Mom and I looked at each other, suddenly wary of what to say. I’d stopped cooking meat six weeks ago because it ruined the whole point—instead of getting my mind off of dead bodies, it made me think of them more and more, chopping up soft red meat with a cleaver and squishing my fingers into bloody mounds of ground beef. I’d stopped eating meat altogether.

  “John’s a vegetarian,” said Mom.

  I didn’t really think of it in those terms; “vegetarian” seems so much more zealous than “doesn’t eat meat.” I didn’t think meat was murder or anything, I just . . . well, actually I guess I did. For me, anyway. But how many other vegetarians fantasized about murdering their own meat?

  “A vegetarian!” cried Curt. “What on Earth would possess a sane man to do that?”

  It’s so I don’t hurt idiots like you, I thought.

  “He bakes the desserts and I do most of the meals,” said Mom, serving chicken breasts from a baking pan one by one onto plates at the counter. “I barely eat meat anymore these days, either, just because it’s easier than making two meals, but I still like it for special occasions.” She gave each plate a scoop of rice and placed them two-by-two on the table; the last to come was mine, the meat replaced by a lentil soup I’d really started to like.

  “Dude,” said Curt, leaning seriously over the table. He was staring at me intently. “That’s not even food. That’s what food eats.” He burst into laughter at his own joke, and Lauren laughed along. Margaret smiled politely, and I could see now from the way she smiled—curling the edges of her lips, but without moving a muscle around her eyes—that her close attention was all an act, and she really didn’t care about anything Curt said. I smiled, and ate a piece of broccoli.

  “Seriously, though,” said Curt, glancing at Lauren. “Maybe you ought to be eating the same as him; you’re never going to fit your skinny jeans if you keep eating like this.”

  “Honestly!” said Mom, slamming down her fork again. “Who talks like that?”

  “It’s true!” said Lauren, “I haven’t fit my skinny jeans in months—Curt’s never even seen me in them.”

  “That’s no excuse for talking to you that way,” said Mom.

  “I don’t need an excuse when it’s true,” said Curt. I could see from the way he was grinning that he thought he’d said something funny; a joke to cut the tension. Amazing—even I knew that was a stupid thing to say.

  “She’s sitting right here,” said Mom, gesturing to Lauren. “Show a little courtesy, for crying out loud!”

  “I knew this was going to happen,” said Lauren, closing her eyes. “Dammit, Mom, why can’t you be civil for one meal? For even half a meal? We’ve only been here twenty minutes.”

  “I’m the one who’s not
being civil?” said Mom. “He hasn’t stopped insulting you since you got here.”

  “Oh come on!” said Lauren, throwing down her napkin and standing up. “He’s trying to liven this place up! The rest of you are dead in here—John hasn’t said word one the entire time!”

  That’s not because I’m dead, it’s because I’m smart.

  “She told me you two didn’t get along,” said Curt, glaring at Mom, “but I had no idea how bad she had it.”

  “Amazing,” said Mom, folding her arms and staring at Lauren. “He’s the most sensitive man in the world. Where did you find such a catch?”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me about choosing men,” said Lauren, jabbing her finger at Mom. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re some kind of expert at the dumbest thing you ever did!”

  “I don’t have to take this,” said Curt, standing, “and neither do you.” He took Lauren by the elbow and herded her to the door.

  “Don’t you walk away from me!” shouted Mom.

  “Why on Earth would I stay?” shouted Lauren. She broke away from Curt’s grip and stomped back to the table. “You have been cutting me down my entire life, like I’m some kind of . . . what do you even think of me? Can I make any good decisions at all? Am I just a . . . mistake machine that spits out stupid all day?”

  Mom folded her arms. “How am I supposed to talk to you when you take that attitude?”

  “You talking to me is the last thing I need,” said Lauren. Curt took her elbow again and guided her to the door, ominously quiet now that the two women were fighting. This time Lauren didn’t break away, and he led her outside and closed the door behind him.