Good & Dead #1 (9 page)

Maybe there was a way.

He would need his costume.

Everyone was in a hurry.  The energy was panicked, which was unsettling. 

“Hi, Michael.” Charlotte barely looked at him as she hurried past with her clipboard.

Michael tried to say hi in return, but all that came out was a choked sort of gurgle.  He had spent the day either asleep or on his computer, with his phone shut off and his curtains closed.  Bell’s words regarding the coming hunger had haunted his dreams.  He didn’t want to take any chances. 

Just get through the play
, he told himself sternly,
and get away with the costume
.

He pushed his way past the scurrying cast members and into the guys’ dressing room.  You couldn’t really be shy if you were going to be in theatre.  Michael had the luxury of wearing a costume that he didn’t have to undress first to wear, but the people wearing skin-tight black leotards were not so lucky.  He averted his eyes and shuffled along the locker-room-style bench all the way to the end.  He sat down and untied his sneakers, trying to unsee the things he had passed.  People ran around him in every direction.  Michael wondered why everything was so rushed.  It hadn’t been so bad opening night. 

He got into his costume quickly, anxiety making him clumsy with the buttons as he thought of going out on stage.

“Hey Michael,” Carter said, eyes on his clipboard as he rushed past.  “Have you talked to them yet?”

“Talked to who?”

Carter stopped what he was doing.  “The cops.  They’re in the prop room interviewing everyone.”

He could swear his heart was going to beat out of his chest.  Cops.  Questioning everyone. 
I should have seen this coming
, he thought desperately. 

“They told Charlotte they would be staying around for the show and that no one was allowed to leave until they had talked to everyone.” He gestured toward the lobby with his pen. “They’ve got a guard at the door with a list of our names checking them off as they go.”

“But right before the show?” Michael asked incredulously. 

“Don’t get me started,” Carter said. “Charlotte looked like she might start crying, she was so mad.  No one is ready, and it’s already—” Carter looked at his watch.  “Seven minutes to curtain.  They’ll just have to get to you after.  You can blame the stage manager.  Hurry!”

Michael snatched up the scythe and attached the mesh face piece on his way out the door.

“Where are my candleholders?” Michael heard Carter yell as he stepped around to the back of the stage.

Michael looked into the dark space and was surprised to realize he could see every leg of the frame even through the costume.  He stepped over each one easily and waited in silence for the announcements to start.

I should have seen that coming.
Michael pressed the cool wooden shaft of the scythe against his forehead.  He felt that same burgeoning panic that heated his insides the night before boiling up again. 
What will I say?  Can I try to sneak out?  No.  That would just make me look like I’ve got something to hide
.  He decided he would just say that he went home and that he hadn’t heard anything on his way by.  There was no reason for anyone to not believe him; after all, that is what every other cast member was bound to be saying.  He just had to lie really well. 

Not my strong suit
.

Michael sighed.  That familiar panic would swell up in him, he knew.  He would start babbling.  He would give himself away.  He was going to have to try to sneak out.

“Welcome to the Destin College Dinner Theater,” said the booming recording.

Michael groaned. 
One problem at a time
. He adjusted his posture, remembering how uncomfortable he had become after an hour in a confined space on opening night, and took one last deep breath as the lights dimmed and the bells tolled.

The show went very well.  Tom remembered his lines.  The cues were executed and responded to with perfect timing, despite the fact that things backstage could not have been worse.  The theater tends to draw people who thrive on chaos. 

Michael jumped down off the stage and made a beeline for the doors that led to the lobby.  He had already changed out of his costume and stuffed it into his backpack.  His plan was to blend in with the theater-goers as they trickled out the front doors.

“We did it!” Randy said excitedly as he came down the ladder from the sound booth, startling Michael.  “Perfect show!”

“Yup,” Michael said, stepping aside for a couple of lingering patrons who were chatting as they moved toward the exit.  He planted the scythe on the thick carpet of the theater and hoped Randy wouldn’t ask about it.

The auditorium was set up like most auditoriums were, with rising levels in the floor on the audience side.  But instead of lots of narrow risers, they had just 6 different levels, each one holding 10 tables, with an aisle down the middle for waiters and waitresses to travel without impeding anyone’s view.  The aisles on the sides were extra wide, too, to enable silent rolling carts to bring the mediocre food to the diners.  The theatre could seat up to 240 people, and they had been full tonight.

“Amazing!” Randy said, “A full house, and a perfect show.  That never happens!”

“Yup,” Michael said again. 

Randy was bouncing on his heels in satisfaction.  Michael looked around him into the lobby.  There was a young cop standing at the exit.

“Okay, don’t be mad,” Randy said.

“What?”

“I called the guys,” Randy said. “I know your midterms are practically over now, so you can’t use that as an excuse!”

“I’ve got—” Michael began, but he saw the assortment of geeks that made up their Dungeons and Dragons group file in through the door behind Randy.  They all had their books and pencils ready.

“Come on, Michael,” Randy said, joining their friends, “You don’t have anything else going on, do you?”

Joe, James, Brian and Hope gathered around Randy, and all of them joined in the choir. 

“I didn’t bring anything with me,” Michael said.

“Well,” Randy said with a faux-guilty look on his face. “I sort of stole this from your place,” he said, rifling through his over-the-shoulder laptop bag and pulling out Michael’s
Dungeon Master’s Guide
and
Player’s Handbook
, as well as the folder that contained their character sheets.

“Randy, that key was for emergencies.”

“Emergencies like you locking yourself out for the zillionth time?” Randy asked, “I already asked Charlotte and she said she didn’t mind us using the dressing room.”

“I really can’t,” Michael said. “I’m sorry.”

“C’mon,” Joe said behind his thick glasses, shouldering his iPhone in his gadget holster. “We haven’t played in over a month!”

Behind him, Michael saw the young uniformed cop accept a tray of coffee and turn past the lobby doors toward the prop room.  This might be his only chance.

“I’m sorry, guys,” he said, pushing past James’ bulky back pack as he spoke. “Y’all pick a day and we’ll play, I promise!”

They all shouted their protests behind him, but he was already to the door.  He looked into the lobby.  There were several loitering patrons, and one tiny old man arguing with the girl in the ticket booth, but no cops.  Michael made for the open double doors that led to the street.

His sneakers hit the sidewalk and his heart fluttered with adrenaline.

“Hey, you!”

Michael turned around.  A clone of the coffee-carrying cop leaned against their squad car.

“You a cast member?” he gestured to the scythe in Michael’s hand.

Michael nodded, and tried to look innocent.

“Have you talked to the detective yet?”

“Oh,” Michael said, adjusting the wide strap of his bag. “No.”

“Where are you running off to then?”

“I have an overdue paper.  I was going to run home and get it turned in—my professor said it was my last chance.”  Michael knew his cheeks were turning crimson.

The officer smirked at Michael and sipped his coffee.  He lifted his handheld radio to his lips and pressed a button.  “Mitchell,” he said, “Tell the Detective we’ve got at least one more.”

“What’s your name, kid?”
“Michael,” he stuttered, “Michael Wallace.”

“The reaper kid, Michael Wallace,” he said into the radio.

“I thought you were in a hurry, kid,” he gestured back inside. “Go!”

“Oh,” Michael mumbled. “Thank you.”

Michael took the steps two at a time.  The coffee cop passed him on the way out. 

Well, I tried
. 

Michael stopped on his way to the prop room to deposit his bag and scythe just inside the auditorium, where no one would notice them.  He’d just grab them easily on the way out.  Fewer questions that way.

“There you are.  Where’d you go?” Randy had spotted him.

“I—I was—”

“C’mon,” Randy said, leading the way to the prop room, “You have to see this cop.  He looks just like Columbo.”

Randy opened the door and Michael walked in, already trembling with nerves.  The police were standing in a corner near the door.  There were two uniformed officers and one plainclothes detective.  They were already wearing their coats.  One of the beat cops was tall and very young.  The other was shorter, with a tired-looking face and darker hair and eyes. 

“Hey,” Randy said, nudging Michael with his elbow. “See what I mean?”

If Michael hadn’t been frantically remembering what he had decided to say, he would have agreed.  The detective sat at the dingy metal craft table, a coffee sitting next to a tall notepad.  He had dark hair and narrow, light brown eyes.  He wore a long beige coat and scuffed-up leather shoes.  One of the candleholders sat in the chair opposite him, answering questions.  He picked up his pen and jotted something down.  His thick eyebrows were drawn into a suspicious scowl. 

“Oh, and I talked to the guys,” Randy said quickly, as the tired-looking cop made his way toward them. “We’ll be at your place the day after tomorrow.”

“Randy, I—”

“You said pick a date,” he brushed Michael off and waved happily to the cop.

“I’m Officer Mitchell,” he said, “I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Sure,” Randy said. “Shoot.”

The man smirked but pressed on.  “Are you both part of the show?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Randy said.

“Were you here on Wednesday night?” he asked Randy.

“Yes,” Randy said, “We both were.  We were here for the opening night party, too.”

“What time would you say you left?” asked Officer Mitchell.

Randy glanced at Michael.  They hadn’t really been watching the clock.  “I don’t know…what do you think, Michael?  Around…” He looked toward the ceiling, apparently doing the math.

Michael noticed that the Columbo cop was eyeing him.

“It was two,” Michael said, louder than he had intended to.

Officer Mitchell opened his mouth to ask another question, but the Detective walked up behind him and placed a hand on his arm.

“What is your name, son?” the detective asked Michael, his brown eyes calculating.

“Um…Michael, sir.  Michael Wallace,” he said, sounding as though he was giving puberty another go-round.

The detective’s eyebrows twitched.  He looked down at his notepad and pointed to an entry with his short pencil.  “What time did you say you left?”

Michael cleared his throat.  Randy stared at him questioningly.  “It was two a.m., sir,” he said.

“You sure?” The detective smiled. 

Michael nodded. 

“The play started at midnight.  It’s almost two hours long.  Your friend,” he gestured to Randy, “says you were at the party with him.  Unless you only stayed about a minute,” he laughed quietly, “you couldn’t have gotten out by two.”

“Oh,” Michael said, “I guess it was a little later.”

The detective smiled. “Alrighty, Michael,” he said, writing in his notepad, “is it W-a-double l-a-c-e?”

“Yes, sir.” Michael swallowed hard.

“Did either of you see anything out of the ordinary when you left the party?” he asked, his piercing gaze never wavering from Michael’s face.

“No, sir,” Michael said quickly. 
Calm down
.

The officer reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of thick glossy paper.  He held it up for them to see.  It was her.  Her hair was plastered with blood and her upper body lay at an unnatural angle from her lower body.  Here was the face that had been shrouded in the darkness of his nightmares divulged in stark daylight.  Michael cringed. 

“Seen her before?”

Michael’s stomach churned, and he forced himself to look at the photo again.  He shook his head. 

“No sir,” Randy said, glancing at Michael, “and I think it was probably around 2:30 or 3:00 when we left.  I don’t remember.  I went home and downed a two liter of Mountain Dew then wrote a ten page paper before bed so it’s all kind of hazy.  I’m sorry we’re not more helpful.”