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

  Marci grabbed my hand and plowed her way through the crowd, almost instantly separating us from Brad and Rachel. I followed her, holding tightly to her wrist and apologizing mutely to everyone we bumped into on the way. Nearly everyone smiled and waved at Marci, followed by a polite wave to me. People were accustomed to seeing us together, but that didn’t mean they knew how to react to us. To them I was still just the weird kid who lived over the mortuary.

  When we reached the center of the room, Marci turned around, cheered loudly, and started dancing. I did my best to follow along, which mostly just meant shifting my weight back and forth from one foot to the other. I decided in that moment that I was never meant to be a dancer. I also decided that of all the torture I’d experienced in Agent Forman’s house of death, nothing could compare to the torture of a high school dance.

  Marci laughed, tried to show me what to do, then laughed again as I continued to suck. A more empathetic person would have said, “at least she’s enjoying herself,” but I was ready to turn around and run. Thankfully, blissfully, the song ended and the dancing stopped. There was a chorus of cheers from the eager crowd, and then another song started—slow and bluesy. Marci stepped in close, wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and began to sway softly.

  “You know,” she said, “this works a lot better if you touch me back.” I glanced at the other couples around us, saw how they did it, and tentatively put my hands on Marci’s waist. It was soft, and perfectly curved, and I touched her lightly, like a balloon I was afraid of popping. She chuckled and sighed.

  “How are you liking your first dance?”

  “A few seconds ago it was also my last dance,” I said. “But I have to admit that this part is pretty nice.”

  “It is,” she said, stepping in closer. We moved back and forth, hesitantly awkward and blissfully comfortable at the same time.

  We were close to each other, yet still worlds apart. I have rarely felt truly connected to anyone, but those few connections all were powerful memories: brandishing a knife at my mom, staring hungrily at Brooke in Forman’s house. Each event was a scar in my mind, violent and intense, like a white-knuckle ride in a speeding car. I lived my whole life behind a hazy, emotionless curtain, cut off from the rest of the world, but for just a few seconds here and there I’d been able to break through it; I had been connected, sharing my emotions with another person just like a real, empathetic human being. Even then it was limited—not in the depth of emotion, but in the variety. It only ever worked with fear and control.

  Then Marci shifted slightly, beginning to rotate, and without thinking I went along with her: step forward with one foot, step back with the other. Forward with one foot, back with the other. Words were unnecessary; we were perfectly coordinated. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Perhaps we were thinking the same thoughts. Perhaps …

  Perhaps it was best to think no thoughts at all.

  We danced that way for an eternity, locked in perfect sync, moving and turning and shifting in a harmony I’d never known. This is real. The song faded and still I clung to Marci, desperate to keep going, to hold onto that connection like a lifeline to humanity.

  Another grinding dance song exploded over the speakers, and the crowd cheered loudly. They shook the floor, stomping and waving, and I cocked my head toward the refreshment table on the side.

  “Can we sit this one out?”

  “What?”

  I leaned in close, whispering in her ear, feeling her hair on my face. “Can we get a drink?”

  “Sure!”

  We made our way toward the side of the room, ducking into an alcove where the sound was less oppressive. We reached the drink table just as Rachel found us in tears and grabbed hold of Marci’s arms.

  “Rach, what’s wrong?”

  Rachel was too much of a mess to speak, and I turned to the punch bowl while she composed herself. I reached for the ladle just as another hand got there first—slender and pale, flanked by a flash of blue in the corner of my eye. Brooke. I looked up just as she did; we stared at each other a moment, faces blank. She poured her drink, offered me the ladle, and slipped into the crowd.

  “This whole night is a disaster!” cried Rachel, while Marci clucked and cooed to try to soothe her. “This dress looks horrible, I spilled some salad dressing on it, and Brad was just looking at you the whole time anyway.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Marci, pulling her into a hug. “You’re gorgeous, and he can’t take his eyes off you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” said Marci. “You look great, and he looks great, and he’s had a thing for you since last year. You need to get out there and enjoy yourself!”

  “Thank you,” said Rachel, crying. “I wish I was as happy as you, or as pretty.”

  “Seriously, Rachel, you’re gorgeous.”

  “You’re the best friend ever. I wish I could be…” And then she left, melting back into the crowd, and Marci stepped next to me.

  “Sometimes I don’t know what to do with that girl,” she sighed. “She is an emotional issue with legs.”

  “She’s right, though, you know.” I turned to face her. “You’re always happy, you’re always … there. I can read people really well most of the time—I can look at a face and figure out almost exactly what they’re thinking. But that’s as far as I can go. I know what people are feeling, but I don’t know what I should be feeling about it. You can do the same thing, and then you actually use that knowledge productively.”

  Marci smiled and leaned in closer, grabbing my hands. “John Wayne Cleaver, you give the weirdest compliments in the entire world.”

  “You have empathy like I’ve never seen,” I said. “You know exactly how to talk to people, exactly how to connect. You think it’s weird because it’s easy for you, but for people like me, it’s…” How could I explain what she had done?

  “People like you, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what kind of people are you, precisely?”

  In her heels she was nearly the same height as I am, and standing this close our eyes were perfectly level; our lips were level; our noses were almost touching. I stared deeply into her eyes. Does she really want to know what I am? Do I even dare to tell her?

  No, I don’t. I can’t. But if she could figure it out on her own …

  “You’re the social genius here,” I said, pasting on a smile. “Why don’t you tell me what kind of person I am?”

  “Well,” she said, grinning, “you’re smart, but very eclectic about it—you focus on the things that interest you and ignore everything else.” While she was speaking a movement caught my eye—not an individual motion but a wave of activity rippling across the crowd, accompanied by a rustle of voices audible above the music. I stood on my toes to get a better look, and Marci turned, crinkling her brow. “You have a … What’s that?”

  Someone shouted, though I couldn’t hear the words. The music stopped abruptly and in the sudden silence a girl screamed, harsh and terrified.

  “Get away from me!”

  The shout was like a signal for the dance to collapse into chaos, and the whole crowd started screaming and backing into the walls. Marci and I were pressed back; the drink table tipped and crashed to the floor, and a swarm of terrified dancers surged into it, scrambling on the wet floor, trapping people behind the overturned table, desperate to get away from … what? There was an old radiator behind us, and I stepped up on it to get a better view.

  “That scream sounded like Ashley,” said Marci.

  “It is,” I said, looking over the heads of the maddened crowd. Ashley Ohrn, a girl from school, was walking through the center of the hall, eyes squeezed shut and sobbing hysterically. There was a black harness draped over her satin dress, a web of straps holding six brown blocks to her chest. It was an image I’d seen in a hundred movies, now horribly real and barely fifty feet away—bricks of C4, strung together with brightly colored wires. “She’s wearing a bom
b.”

  “Ashley,” called someone, “what are you—”

  “Don’t talk to me!” she shrieked. The crowd by the doors was fleeing in a trickling line, but the rest of us were being pushed back into the walls, leaving a wide circle of terror with Ashley at the center. “Everybody just get away!”

  “What’s going on?” asked Marci.

  “She’s here for me,” I whispered. Nobody’s here, but she doesn’t know who I am—she narrowed it down and discovered I was a teenager, but not which one. She stole Ashley’s body, not Officer Jensen’s, and made a bomb big enough to kill every teenager in town.

  Ashley reached the center of the room, crying hysterically. Marci grabbed hold of my arm and stood on the radiator with me, balancing precariously against the wall.

  “She’s really going to do it,” I said.

  “She’s terrified,” said Marci. “If that’s a bomb, she didn’t put it on herself.”

  I glanced back at the door and the black night beyond. Marci’s right. Ashley’s not the killer, she’s the pawn. Nobody’s out there somewhere, watching from a safe distance. I flexed my fingers in frustration, curling them around imaginary weapons. I had nothing—there was no way I could confront her. I didn’t even know if I could reach the door, and the window behind me was too high to reach. I thought about calling Nobody, begging her to call off the attack, but Forman’s phone was still at home, hidden away. There’s nothing I can do.

  The press of people surged against us, squishing screaming students into the wall and almost jostling us down from our perch on the radiator. Someone else was scrambling up now, pulling heavily on Marci, and I shoved him back.

  “I can’t just stand here,” I said, staring out at Ashley. She had something in her hands; her knuckles were white around it. “I’ve got to do something.”

  “Are you crazy?” asked Marci.

  “Technically, yes.” But what could I do? I caught a glimpse of Brooke on the far side of the ring, eyes wide with terror, and I made my decision. “Do you have your phone?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to stop this,” I said. “Do you have your cell phone?”

  “Where would I hide a cell phone in this dress?”

  “Then find someone who does,” I said, “and call the police. And stay here.”

  She shouted after me again but I ignored her, jumping down into the crowd and shoving my way through a sea of stomping feet and frightened faces. Ashley’s voice rang out, wet and hoarse with tears. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

  “Let me through!” I shouted, but the only people lucid enough to pay attention merely shouted back insults as they pushed past me in a futile rush toward safety. I struggled against the current and finally pushed my way through, stumbling into the wide circle that had formed around Ashley. Students and teachers and chaperones were pressed tight against all four walls, eyes wide with terror.

  “John, get back!” shouted a teacher. “You’ll get us all killed!”

  “She’s doesn’t want to kill everyone,” I said. The next words stuck in my throat, but I forced them out. “This doesn’t have to happen.”

  “It’s not me!” shouted Ashley, her voice cracking. “I swear it’s not me!”

  “I know,” I said, walking slowly toward her. “I know it’s not you, it’s the woman who put the bomb on you.”

  “What woman?”

  I stopped. “The woman who’s making you do this.”

  “It was a man,” she cried, “only a man, I didn’t see a woman.”

  So I was right; she’s taken a new body somehow. “That’s fine,” I said, taking a step closer. “It was a man. What did he tell you?”

  “Stay back,” shouted the principal. “It’s not safe!”

  “It’s fine!” I shouted. “Ashley is not going to hurt anybody, and nobody is going to hurt Ashley. Isn’t that right?”

  She nodded, and I took another step forward. “What did he tell you?”

  “He said—” She choked on her tears, swallowed, and continued, “He said he’d push the button and kill us all.”

  There has to be some way out of this. “He’ll kill us no matter what?” I asked. “Is that all he said?”

  “He said I had to read this letter.” She held up her hands. She’d been clutching a sheet of paper.

  “That’s good,” I said, nodding and grasping at the sliver of hope. “If he wants us to hear something then he’s not gonna kill us—there’s no point. He needs us alive so the message can get out.” I nodded again. “Just do what he said. Just read it.”

  She trembled, and I could hear the paper rattling in her hands. “‘Why won’t anybody listen,’” she began.

  That’s right, I thought. We’re listening now. Just don’t kill us.

  “‘I have tried to be reasonable. I have tried to be—’” She swallowed. “‘—polite. Your city is plagued by evil, and I am trying to destroy it, but all you do is fight against me.’”

  Am I the evil she’s fighting against? But these four killings seem designed to lead me toward her, not drive me away—it doesn’t make sense.

  “‘When I—’” She sobbed, squinting through her tears. “‘—killed the … the great liar, I sent a letter to the newspaper, which they refused to print. When I killed the pedophile I talked to them directly, but they still refused to share my teachings.’”

  Slowly it dawned on me: this isn’t about me at all. It’s not a plan or a trick or anything else—the Handyman really cares about his message, more than anything else.

  “‘Now this is the final straw,’” Ashley continued, fighting back sobs. “‘You have understood my teachings, but you have turned against them. You have tried to protect the adulterer. But still I am merciful, and I have slain the one who led you astray.’” Ashley dissolved into tears, too terrified to continue, and I took a step forward again.

  “Is that all?” I asked. “Ashley, look at me. Look at me.” She looked up, and I held her gaze. “He said you’d be safe if you read it,” I told her. “You have to read it all.”

  She nodded and looked back at the paper. “‘I didn’t want to put these innocent children in danger, but it was the only way to make you listen. This is your final warning. Walk in the ways of the Lord, and make his paths straight. Thus you shall be purified…’” She trailed off, then looked up. “‘… by fire.’”

  The hall was silent, no one daring to move or breath, everyone waiting. A single second ticked by, as long as an hour. Nothing exploded.

  “Is that all?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure? There’s nothing else at all?”

  “That’s every word, I promise!”

  I took a step forward. “Then I want you to drop the paper, and turn around.” I was only ten steps away now, and walked slowly forward. “Just turn around so I can undo that harness.” She turned slowly, gingerly, as if expecting to blow up at any second. I was three steps away, two steps, one. The harness was a simple web of straps and plastic buckles hanging loosely over her shoulders and around her chest; he hadn’t even tightened it. I inspected the first buckle carefully for wires or metal contacts, saw nothing, and slowly squeezed the plastic nubs until the buckle popped loose. Nothing happened. I undid the next one, then the next, then reached around to grab the pack of explosives before opening the last clasp.

  Something’s not right.

  I didn’t know anything about explosives, but I’d seen enough movies to know what a block of C4 was supposed to be like: like dough, like a heavy brick of clay that you pressed the detonators into. This wasn’t anything like I had expected. I moved around to face Ashley directly, getting a better look at the blocks.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Quiet.”

  I’d assumed that the subtle differences between the Hollywood image and the bomb on Ashley’s chest were because the ones on TV were inaccurate, but I could see now that it was more. Seen up cl
ose these bombs were completely different—almost handmade. Almost fake. I reached out and grabbed the edge of the paper wrapping, digging my finger into a crease, and tore it away.

  “No!” shouted Ashley, but nothing happened. The torn paper revealed wood grain, saw marks and the bright red stamp of a lumberyard.

  “They’re made of wood.” I pulled the paper on the others away and found the same: long, wooden blocks wrapped in paper. The wires that ran into them were held by hidden nails. There was no explosive, no power source, and no detonators, just a carefully crafted prop designed to remind us of the movies. “The whole thing’s a fake.”

  Ashley pulled away from me, reaching behind her back in a frenzy and pulling apart the last buckle. She tore the fake bomb off and held it up, grimacing, then threw it down and backed up a step. The crowd gasped. The wooden blocks knocked against the marble floor, echoing in the high room. Nothing happened.

  I jumped forward and grabbed Ashley’s arm, whispering urgently. “What did you see out there? What happened?”

  “It was a man,” she said, trying to pull away. I held her with a grip like a vise. “He had a gun. He told me to put the vest on or he’d shoot, and then he said to come in here and read the letter or he’d blow me up.”

  “Did you see him? Can you describe him?”

  “No, no!” she cried. “It was dark, and I couldn’t see a thing—just his outline. He was short, maybe … five feet tall, I don’t know!”

  “And his voice,” I demanded. “Describe his voice.”

  “He didn’t say anything,” she said, “it was all written on a note. Let me go!”

  The crowd was parting in the back, and police were coming in. I let go of her just as the police caught up to us, shouting for paramedics, and they pulled Ashley and me outside. More cops were directing traffic through the double doors, trying to get everyone out of the building. A bomb squad rushed past us going in, but I shook my head. “It’s fake,” I called after them. “He was never going to blow up anything.”