Sixteen Small Deaths (9 page)

Time floats past me on the sidewalk in the form of a thousand blurred faces. Slivers of black static glow with the wrinkled echoes of abandon, the loss of hope bruised into every lonely ghost. I finish my cigarette and toss it into a puddle of ash and
rainwater, smoldering decay dissipating into the radiant blush of downtown’s neon globes. I ignore the floundering voices in the back of my head, try to flush them out with my wife’s sweet whispers. She’s been dead for ten weeks and I’m worried if I sleep long enough I’ll forget what she sounded like.

I find my way to The December Club on the corner of Tremont and Boylston. I nod at the bartender and she waves a tattooed palm to the dirty air. The elevator takes me to the third floor. My room is on the very edge of the right side of the building, past the ice dispenser and cigarette machine. I slide the key into the lock with one hand and draw my gun with the other. I’m greeted with the thrush of silence. Shavings of moonlight peek into the room and slice the wooden floor into a dozen broken pieces. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the odd hum of exploding stars and a moon that’s slowly drifting away from its mother.

#

Eyes open to the bright edges of a liquid sky. I roll off the bed and swing my legs to the ground. I peer out the window, flounce of purple sky shining down on a bustling world. Two years since the end of the world and I still can’t adjust to a sky that’s not blue. I pull on a black t-shirt and stare at myself in the mirror for at least a full minute. Gurgle of mouthwash and a splash of water. I slip the gun into the back of my jeans and lock the door behind me. Another day and another broken heart.

#

Lynne was the first to wake when it happened. It started with a geyser of orange glitter and fire on the moon, followed by hundreds of planes falling to the ground. A steady stream of dark green rain beat the earth and we stayed indoors for what felt like weeks. Lynne would sit at the edge of the kitchen table, fingers
twirling the golden brown bangs dangling in front of her face. She’d sit and stare for hours. The radio and television were devoid of human voices, replaced by an ethereal resonance of buzzing hums and disparate clicks and whirls.

When the rain cleared, the blue sky was replaced with an endless pastel of purple, clouds floating beyond the horizon like a million rose petals of blush. Society didn’t break down but our minds suffered the consequences of the event. Not a single soul could dream, our slumber padded with the same drone that spilled from the skies and the oceans. Some said it was the far reaches of heaven communicating with our race, while others said we were living the depths of hell on earth.

Lynne and I went on with our lives but it was only a matter of time before her only secret was crushed between a bullet and the envy of the very people I now hoped to hunt down.

#

Delilah was the first. She was Lynne’s other half, her sister and best friend. She was the one who placed the frantic call ten weeks ago, told the police the two of them were assaulted in the parking lot behind our apartment building. I could see the lie in her eyes when she told me at the hospital, each speckle of green lost in the dewy escape of fear. Delilah’s tears were as cold as morning frost, and as the paramedics wheeled away Lynne, it didn’t take much more than the quiver in her voice to tell me that her tale was wrapped in a spool of deception.

I yawn and intake the first of many waves of black noise from the open sky. Downtown squirms with city dwellers and office workers. I finger the edge of a fresh pack of smokes and hail a cab before I waste any more time. The rusted yellow sedan parks halfway onto the sidewalk and I hop in. The inside smells like a Mexican restaurant.

“Where you go?” The driver looks at me with mirrored eyes.

I point to nowhere. “D Street. Max’s Place.”

The driver nods and fiddles with the radio. It takes him five full minutes before he finds an actual broadcast. Nowadays, the majority of radio stations can’t break through the barrier of The Noise. Only the major market stations have the physical power to push their programs through the thick wall of clatter.

We pass the edge of Boston Harbor, its whittled gray surface rippling in the autumn wind. If you look just hard enough, you can still see the shark fin of the last plane to go down a couple years ago. Boston’s mayor wanted to leave the wreckage in the water as a memorial. I strain my eyes to catch a view but the taxi is speeding too fast along the road. We reach Max’s Place, an out-of-place bar on the corner of D Street and Broadway. Max usually keeps the neon lights on all day and night and their bright essence radiates the entire street. I flip the driver a sawbuck and slam the door behind me. On this side of town, there isn’t much action. It’s early enough in the day where I can talk to Max without a barrage of drunkards and whores.

I push the velvet doors open and drop my sunglasses into my inside jacket pocket. There’s a few scattered souls spread amongst the bar, a bunch of haggard and unemployed men swallowing their sorrows drop-by-drop. Max calls out to me and I lean over the side of the bar. Flop of hair the color of dirty snow hangs in front of his face. He nods to the side and turns around.

“In the back,” he says.

I flip up the bar gate and follow him into the back room, past the kitchen and into what he calls an office, which is more-or-less a small room with a poster of Dennis Eckersley below the dead clock above the desk. He sits with a sigh and pushes a stack of papers away from the center of the table.

“Close the door and sit down.”

I do what he asks and plop myself into the plushy leather chair across from his desk. I clear my throat and remove the gun from the back of my jeans. “Delilah’s gone, Max.”

He smiles and throws his sandaled feet on the side of the desk. “I know. Saw the paper this morning. You should do this for a living, you know. I bet there are many, many people who would kill for someone like you.”

I shake my head. “Where can I find the third one?”

“Right down to business, I see.” He leans over the desk, blue steel eyes beaming with drops of stoicism. He opens the top desk drawer and removes a thick manila envelope.

“You’ve known me for over a decade, Max. You know I need to finish this. I know where Doc is and I know I need a few days before I find him. Where’s the third?” I take a deep breath, remember my dead wife and the way she would kiss the back of my neck when she woke up in the morning.

Max nods, strokes the fuzzy tip of his beard. “Right here, my friend. The address, pictures and whatnot. Everything you need. I imagine you know where Doc can be found, but this other guy wasn’t so easy to track down. You did what you had to last night, but please; careful, careful, careful. I like to not think that last night you were just
lucky.”

“Luck has
nothing
to do with this. Lynne’s dead, buried and gone because of them. And for what? Because she could do something that no one else could?” Fury beams in my voice and it’s too late to realize I’m yelling at the wrong person. I’m yelling at a guy who knew my father, a guy who’s actively helping me track down and erase the ones who killed my wife.

“Sit down, please. Just relax for a second. Your wife had a gift in this crazy new world. Look at the people who killed her. She saw what they would become, saw
everything
that would happen. They thought that gift was too powerful and they were afraid of it, my friend. Fear drives a man to do unspeakable things.”

“Not a good enough excuse.” I snatch the envelope from the table and follow the trail of music from the bar and out into the street. I light a cigarette and inhale at least half of it in a single
splurge. I watch an elderly woman hail a cab across the street. Gunmetal-blue hair, eyes of a tired spirit. I bet she hasn’t smiled in years. I shake my head and lean against the edge of the brick wall, forget who I am for a second. When my body falls asleep at night, all the brain can see is black. All we can hear is that same goddamn drone radiating from the sky and from the ocean. My wife, she was different. She could close her eyes at night and nothing was different from before. She could dream and no other living piece of flesh could do so. And her dreams weren’t just rehashed celluloid from a weary day. She saw what her friends and family would become. She gave her sister a palmful of news, told her that the baby wouldn’t make it. She told Doc and Delilah what was in store for their future and the third man in this adventure informed them the only way to alter the timeline was erase the source of the dreams.

My wife opened her soul to Delilah and the others. And they killed her for it.

#

I throw back a shot of rum like it could douse the fire in my heart. An old Bruce Springsteen tune plays on the jukebox, twangy guitars and a pinch of bluegrass. I slide the glass to the edge of the bar and toss a ten next to the napkin holder. The bartender nods and smiles, wrinkles in his forehead shining in the pale light. Night has fallen outside and still the eager traces of purple paint a sky that has no end. I slam a cigarette into my mouth, silently hope that there’s enough cash in my pocket for a cab ride back to my hotel.

A halo cloud of smoke and cool breath escapes from lips and disappears into the night. The October breeze is light and welcoming so I avoid the taxis and begin my walk to Doc’s auto repair shop on the edge of town. I imagine he’ll be upset and angry, because just a few days ago I grabbed his wife’s throat and
shoved her through a plate glass window and watched her fall nearly a hundred feet to the ground.

#

Doc and I grew up in Southie. Our families were close and we played little league together. Flash forward to twenty years later and there’s half a moon in the sky and he’s killed my wife. Back Bay Repair is open past eight o’clock and I’m lucky enough to beat feet around the corner at half past seven. I imagine a man needs time to get over his wife’s death but Doc was always one to work through the pain. I have no idea when or where Delilah’s funeral happened nor do I care; all I want is ten seconds alone with him.

I see Doc’s dirty Mustang parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant. Slow steps beyond the dark street light, past the neon allure of the strip club two doors down. This used to be a nice part of town but nowadays no part of Boston can handle an upper class overhaul. An older couple, man in a blue suit and his partner in jeans and a light pastel jacket, exit the front door and pop into a Cadillac a block away. The less people in this place, the better.

I push the door open and the jingle startles my heart. A woman at the front desk with deep black hair and apple-red cheeks smiles.

“Can I help you?” She turns from the computer monitor and faces me.

I peer into the window behind her. Doc’s head of brown hair is huddled below an SUV on the lift. “I’m a friend of Doc’s. I came by to see how he was doing.”

The woman frowns. “He’s holding up, dear. Shouldn’t be back to work so soon, but…you know how he is.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll let him know he has a visitor. What’s your—”

The door handle rattles and Doc’s standing next to the desk, wide eyes and the look of desperation built into his scruffy face. “What are you doing here?” He rubs his oily hands with a crimson handkerchief.

I smile and reach for the gun. “Now you know how it feels.” I pull the trigger twice and the nice lady at the desk howls with fear. Doc falls to the ground and what’s left of the back of his skull strikes the ground in a goopy mess. I nod at the woman and head for the door. Frantic steps turn into a jog turns into a full run. When I’m at least a half mile away I collapse into an alley and breathe for the first time in God knows how many seconds.

Doc and I hadn’t seen each other since Lynne’s funeral. He could barely look me in the eye during the ceremony. Lynne had told Doc and Delilah that their three-month-old daughter wouldn’t survive the fourth month. When the couple found their baby breathless and blue in her crib a week afterwards, they blamed my wife. And when Lynne informed them of a car accident involving Doc, Delilah and a third person, they put a stop to it.

#

The stars lead me back to the hotel. When I walked past the Charles River, The Noise was louder than it had ever been before. It pounced on my temples, beat the sides of my brain with sound waves that could have shattered the weakest parts of my skull.

The hotel lobby is empty save for the doorman and a few scattered women. I waste no time in hurrying into an elevator and into my room. It’s only a matter of time before I’m caught and this final character needs to be finished tomorrow. I toss my jacket onto the bed and remove the envelope from beneath the mattress. Two sheets of paper and a photograph fall out. The first is a black-and-white copy of Ramon Humbart’s driver’s license, and the second is a map to his apartment building in the North
End of Boston. I lay back into the plushy comfort of the bed, let my mind relax as best it can. The Noise subsides for a few seconds and I can hear Lynne’s voice. It cuts through the static like music battling on the far reaches of an AM station. Soft traces of whispers, the momentary display of rasping words that are the most beautiful sounds I’ve ever heard. I can almost see the brown hairline above her thin eyebrows, summer eyes with a tinge of blue.

I force myself off the bed and take deep breaths until I’m back into consciousness. My suitcase is in the corner of the room and before long I dive into it, toss clothes and jeans and t-shirts aside until I can find the crumpled stationery below the assortment of socks and underwear. I hold it to the light, glittery drops of blue and black ink glistening with artificial love. My back to the carpet, I read every line as if it were the first time. It’s a letter from Lynne written two days before she died. She sealed it into an envelope and hid it her dresser, unbeknownst to me until a week after she was killed. She said she had a dream and it was only a few minutes in length. It details my brief future and every time I read it the words shake me more and more. I fold it up and gently ease it into my front jeans pocket. With any luck, I won’t need to read it again after tomorrow.