The Posthumous Man Page 7

  "I'm not some psycho, Felicia. The man had a gun pointed at me. What was I supposed to do? Talk things over?"

  "I guess not," she said. "I'm sorry. I'm just scared."

  "Fair enough," Stan said. "Now take off your clothes."

  I was still in shock. I couldn't think about much except the men at our feet bleeding into the carpet. I'd been dead the day before. And Stan still had a gun.

  But Felicia had bundled up whatever she felt and stuck it somewhere it wouldn't distract her. "What do you mean?" she asked Stan.

  "The two of you need to carry these corpses," Stan explained. "It will be a messy job and, as you will need your clothes later on, you'll have to do this work naked."

  "We could wear some ... clothes," Felicia said. "Burn them later or something."

  Stan shook his head. "No," he said. "There's no use bloodying more clothes. Just more potential evidence."

  Felicia was silent.

  Stan smirked. "It's nothing I haven't seen before," he told her.

  She turned to me and looked in my eyes. "Take off your clothes," she said.

  I felt almost drunk. There was none of the euphoria of drunkenness, of course, but there was the same slowing thickness. I unbuttoned my shirt, my fingers useless like Styrofoam. Beside me, Felicia locked eyes with Stan and pulled off her tank-top. Her wine-colored bra made her skin look pale. She kicked off her shoes and took off her jeans. Her underwear was the color of wine, too. I watched her.

  Stan said, "Shock or no shock, he still wants to look at you naked. Isn't that funny?"

  "Hilarious," Felicia said and took off her bra and panties. She folded her clothes and left them on the love seat. I looked at her and she let me look, figuring perhaps the time for modesty was past, or perhaps she just thought it made sense to let me get the look over with.

  She was pale. Her breasts were small and her stomach soft. Her legs were skinny and dotted here and there with yellow bruises. I watched her move and it seemed as if we were both moving in water.

  "Okay," Stan said. "Get him up and at it."

  Felicia took my face in her hands and peeled my eyelids back with the tips of her fingers.

  "He's still in shock," she said.

  "Get him unshocked," Stan said.

  "That's not the way it works," Felicia said, but she jostled me and said, "You in there? Say something to me."

  "Hello," I said.

  "Hello," she replied. "Let's get your clothes off."

  With her help, I took off my clothes. My body was paler and softer than hers, my dick shrunken to the size of a packing peanut. I closed my eyes and reopened them. It was like I was waking up from a long sleep.

  Stan dropped the shower liners on the floor and gestured at the twins. "Now put Tom there on one of these."

  Felicia pulled me toward the bodies and stepped over Tom. She took a shower liner and opened it up. I bent down.

  "Roll him," she told me. "Don't try lifting him. Don't look at his head. Just think about the job. Help me roll him."

  I took his forearm. It was bloody and still warm. Ignoring the blood, I tightened my grip and pulled him toward the shower curtain. I didn't look at the hole in the back of his head or the bits of mushroom-colored brain on his shirt. I didn't think about the gross smoothness of his skin, how it was hairy and too soft. I didn't think about the dead man I was touching. I concentrated on the job.

  We had some difficulty pulling him to the center of the liner because the plastic kept bunching up in his left armpit, yet we managed. Felicia covered him with the ends of the curtain.

  "Now the other one," Stan said.

  Felicia spread out the second liner, and we took DB by the arms and legs and turned him over, but his eyes and mouth were open. I fell back onto the carpet.

  Stan grimaced.

  "It's okay," Felicia told me. "It happens. It's okay. Let's just do this. Don't look at it."

  I picked myself up and crawled back over.

  "Christ," I said.

  She said, "It's good that you're jolted," she said.

  "Jesus," I said. I wiped sweat from my face and noticed blood on my hands. "Jesus."

  We rolled DB over. I didn't look at his face. When Felicia covered him up, I took a deep breath and looked up at Stan.

  He stood by the door, legs spread, arms folded across his chest, and watched us without the benefit of mercy. It was impossible to know what he was thinking. Maybe about the task at hand. Maybe about God. Maybe nothing.

  "Pick up Tom," he told us. "Carry him to the bathroom. First, fold the ends of the curtain so no blood drips out."

  We did as we were told, but the body slumped in the middle, like a hinge snapping shut. It dropped to the floor.

  "Turn him over," Stan instructed. "Carry him upside down so he's facing the floor. It'll keep him from buckling up like that. When you get him to the bathroom, put him in the tub with his head facing the drain."

  Felicia and I folded the ends of the plastic again and turned the body over.

  "Carry him at the knees, Felicia," Stan said.

  We lifted the body. He was short, but he was thick. Stan backed out of the way. We shuffled forward with the body and moved into the brown-paneled hallway. I heard my teeth chattering and clamped my mouth shut. We moved into the bathroom where the linoleum was cold. Without Stan saying anything more, we lowered Tom into the bathtub, his head against the silver faucet. Then, we went back to get DB. We folded the curtain, turned him over and lifted him as we had his brother. We lay DB on top of his brother.

  "Both of you stay in there," Stan said.

  We stood side by side, Felicia's skin touching mine. There was nothing sexual in it, but there was something primal. As we stood there blinking at Stan, waiting for the horror of our situation to sink to the next level, it felt as if she were part of me.

  "Turn on the shower," Stan said. "Warm and on low, and make sure the drain is open."

  I reached over and switched on the shower. The showerhead spat out water that bounced off the dead men like a waterfall hitting rocks. In seconds, the spray covered me. It was freezing, but it cleared my head a little. Felicia didn't pay any attention to the water. Glaring at Stan, she asked, "What now?"

  "Unwrap them. Rinse off the liners and put them in the sink."

  Unwrapping the bodies was a chore, especially Tom because he was on bottom, but eventually I pulled the liners clear of the dead men, let the shower rinse the blood and specks of skin and brain off, and then stuck them in the sink.

  Stan handed Felicia Tom's butcher knife. I had not noticed Stan picking it up.

  Felicia took the knife with a trembling hand. "What?" she asked in a small voice. "What do you want me to do?"

  "Cut off their clothes. Cut away from your hand."

  Felicia seemed relieved. She knelt down on the blue bathmat and ran the knife under DB's blood-soaked T-shirt and sliced it off of him. She unbuckled his belt and sliced open his pants and boxers. Then she did the same with Tom, peeling the clothes off of the dead men like layers of skin. Then she pulled off their shoes and socks.

  "Reach under the sink there, Elliot," Stan said, as casually as if we were grouting the bathroom tile. "See if there's a trashcan with a plastic liner."

  I opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a small wastebasket. It was empty and lined with a blue plastic Walmart shopping bag.

  "Put the clothes in the bag," he said.

  I pulled the bag out and stuffed the sopping clothes into it.

  Stan nodded to himself and muttered, "Should have waited until they were out of their clothes to turn on the water. Live and learn."

  "The shoes won't fit," I told him.

  "Put them in the trashcan," he said. "It's all going in a larger trash bag later, anyway."

  Beside me, Felicia was curled up, covering herself. She set down the knife.

  "Not yet, dear," Stan said.

  Felicia stared hard at him. "What?"

  "We need to drain the
m."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Cut their throats open and let that gallon or so of blood slopping around in them leak out."

  Felicia shook her head. "Please," she said. "Please, Stan. They've already bled a lot."

  "They're going to bleed a lot more. Better to do it here before we move them."

  She looked at the knife, slick and shining, lying on the floor.

  "You always wanted to be a doctor," Stan said. "Here's your chance. Think of it as surgery."

  Felicia closed her eyes. "Please," she said. Under the cold current of the shower and the gurgling of water down the drain, her voice was just a whisper.

  Stan stood there, as inarguable as nature, and stared down at her.

  When she opened her eyes, she raised them to him for just a moment, saw what the situation was, took a deep breath and picked up the knife. Then she turned to me and said, "I'm so sorry I got you into this."

  I shook my head. "You can do this," I told her. "Think of it as a job. Think of it as surgery like he said."

  She nodded and leaned into the tub. I didn't want to watch, but I didn't want make her do it alone. I leaned into the cold mist with her. Water bounced off the naked bodies and spit in our faces.

  "The jugular," she told me. "That's what we need. It and the carotid are right next to each other."

  She pushed the twin's head to the left side with the heel of her hand. When she sunk in the knife just above his collarbone on the right side, blood seeped out around the blade and ran down the twin's neck and face in rivulets with the shower water. One of his eyelids had opened when we unwrapped him, and his eye—yellow and dead and bubbled with fat water droplets—stared at the wall, but his slacked mouth and bloodied teeth didn't flinch.

  I had to turn away. Next to me, Felicia's shoulder blades shifted beneath her pale skin as she worked. After a moment, she dropped the knife in the tub and rinsed her hands in the shower. She slumped against the tub, her blue lips trembling, her clean wet fists tight against her abdomen. She started to cry.

  We lay there, naked and shivering, Stan watching us like a prison guard in some special hell. Behind us, the water rained down on the brothers and washed away their blood like mud.

  Stan had the oddest look on his face—understanding, almost sad. He said, "It's enough to make you think God has turned his face away from us completely, isn't it?"

  -CHAPTER ELEVEN-

  Divisions of Labor

  When Stan felt enough time had passed, we pulled the twins out of the tub one at a time and wrapped them in the shower liners. We bundled the packages with duct tape Stan found in the garage and laid them side by side in the hallway. Then he instructed us to shower.

  Felicia went first, turning the water to hot, and washing herself with soap and shampoo. I didn't watch her. I sat naked on the floor, legs against my chest, and shivered. When I looked up at all, it was to watch Stan watching her, a frown on his face. I didn't know what he was thinking or feeling. It's possible he was feeling nothing at all, though I doubt it. I'd dealt with enough screwed up people trying to project detachment; I knew what it looked like. Stan the Man was cold-blooded, but he was human. He was feeling something in there. Some signal from his conscience twisted up through his wiring and bothered him.

  Maybe.

  Or maybe he was simply planning what to do next. When Felicia finished, he handed her a towel and nodded at me.

  "Your turn."

  I climbed in and eased the hot water up. It ran over my body like water over ice, and I felt as if I were melting beneath it.

  I washed, the lather dripping down my hands pink with blood. Felicia wrapped the towel around her chest and sat down on the toilet lid.

  After I'd rinsed my hair, Stan said, "Enough."

  I shut off the water, and he threw me a towel.

  "We'll go in the bedroom. You'll get dressed, and then we'll take the boys for a ride."

  While Stan moved the Armada, I followed Felicia through the hallway and into the bedroom. We dressed in silence, without looking at each other. My clothes stuck to my chest and arms because I hadn't properly dried off. Felicia's hair dripped on her shoulders.

  When we came out, Stan pointed at the bodies. "One at a time out the front. Elliot, you carry the upper body and Felicia carries the legs."

  We did as we were told. We turned off the front porch light and Stan waited beside the Armada in the dark as we carried out the first body. I wasn't sure which body was which anymore. I didn't think about it, didn't think at all about the dead man wrapped in plastic. I just concentrated on not dropping him.

  We crowded around the back of the SUV. Stan lowered the tailgate and lifted the hatch. He pushed down the seats in the third row. Felicia and I struggled to hoist the body into it, and Stan stood behind me, watching.

  We pushed the stiffening body into the storage space.

  "One more time," Stan said.

  "Thanks for the help," Felicia grumbled.

  "I kill 'em, you carry 'em," Stan said. "Division of labor."

  We trudged back up the stairs. Felicia and I sweated. Stan hummed the hymn, "Bringing in the Sheaves." We lifted the body, carried it down the stairs as we had before, and lugged it into the garage.

  "Is there going to be space?" Felicia asked.

  Stan smiled. "It's supposed to seat eight comfortably. I'm sure it will accommodate a couple of dead guys."

  And it did. We lowered the second man onto his brother, and Stan covered them with a dirty blue tarp he found in the garage. When he dropped the hatchback, I felt as if the brothers had been loaded into a hearse.

  * * *

  I drove. Felicia sat beside me, and Stan sat behind her. When I pulled onto the blacktop I asked, "Where are we going?"

  "Go back to the interstate and head north," Stan answered.

  For the first time, I noticed the moon bright above the scraps of gray clouds littering the night sky. I thought of the dead men in the back, thought of the moon resuscitating them like zombies in a horror movie, giving life to them like the sun gives life to trees and flowers.

  I pulled onto I-40 North. Felicia sat beside me sucking her bottom lip.

  She turned to me. "What?" she asked.

  "Nothing," I said.

  I glanced back at Stan. He watched me, and it didn't seem as if he were simply sitting. He seemed both relaxed and perched at the same time. He stared at me.

  "Go the speed limit," he said. "Nobody wants to get pulled over."

  I hadn't realized I was speeding, but I was cruising along at about 85 miles an hour. I pulled it back down to the speed limit.

  "Anxious, I guess," I told him.

  "Who wouldn't be?" He looked at the back of Felicia's head. "What about you, princess? You nervous?"

  She crossed her arms and looked out the window.

  "Sullen," Stan told me.

  "You're baiting her," I said. "Leave her alone for a while."

  He watched me in the rearview mirror. "What was your wife's name, Elliot? The one you used to have."

  I looked at the road ahead of me. "Carrie."

  "What did you say happened to her?"

  "We got divorced."

  "That's right. I don't think you ever told us why. Don't you think Felicia has a right to know why you got divorced? Might tell her something important about her knight in shining armor."

  Felicia looked at me.

  To Stan I said, "I'm no one's knight in shining armor."

  He smiled. "How come I feel like you keep skimping on the story of your life, Elliot?"

  I shook my head.

  "I don't want to talk about it," I said.

  Felicia turned away from me and leaned her head against the passenger's side window and watched the night sky.

  Stan watched me in the mirror.

  I didn't say anything to him, and we rode in silence. I don't know what Felicia was thinking about. Maybe she was too scared to think. Maybe she was plotting her next move. I'm certain t
hat's what Stan was doing.

  I wasn't. I was watching the road slip beneath us. I was thinking about the road slipping away behind me.

  I thought about Carrie getting out of that man's car and walking into the hospital to see me. It seemed like a memory from my childhood, or worse, like one of those faint recollections that could be equal parts memory and invention. Maybe I hadn't really seen her at all. Maybe I only thought I had. Either way, it seemed so far away from where I was, driving up Interstate 40 with two strangers and two dead bodies, as to not really matter.

  -CHAPTER TWELVE-

  Garbage

  Stan directed me toward an exit. "Stop at the big gas station," he said. "Pull around back."

  I did as he told me, shouldering in front of a church bus full of teenagers and then sliding onto the exit. Just off the service road a fluorescent Exxon station shone like a gaudy beacon in the night. I drove around back.

  One light bulb burned over the back door of the gas station. Shadows crowded around the dim circle of light on the door step.

  "Park by the door and shut the car off," Stan told me.

  Again I did as he said, and we climbed out of the SUV. The parking lot behind the store was tiny. A dozen feet beyond the backdoor, the crumbling pavement simply dissolved into the woods. Stan nodded toward the door. A sign on it read: Do Not Enter. Employees Only.

  "Push the buzzer there," he said.

  Felicia pushed a dirty little button by the doorknob and a minute later, a dumpy, middle-aged man with feathered brown hair opened the door.

  "Yes?" he said. He looked past Felicia and me and saw Stan. For a moment, panic darted across his face. "Stan."

  "Bruce, need your office."

  "My office?"

  "Yes. Now."

  Bruce looked at Felicia and me. He had the red nose and splotchy pallor of an alcoholic. He bit his sweaty lip and turned back to Stan.

  "Sure," he said. "Course, Stan."

  Bruce backed out of the way, and we walked through a surprisingly large storeroom and into a rat-hole of an office.

  "Go back to work," Stan said over his shoulder, and the middle-aged man turned around without a word and left us.