Joe Victim

Before I can even answer, the toothbrush that had my name on it now has Ke

Caleb takes another run at me, and he swings the remaining half of the toothbrush at me and gets me hard in the stomach, only the handle doesn’t penetrate me because it has no sharp point on it—it just slides back through his hand, which is wet with blood, but the impact is enough to fire the storm back up in my stomach. It fires up hard and fast and things in there turn over, they turn and turn and I can’t hold on for much longer—scattered showers and a hurricane are on their way.

The guards come in and drag Caleb, the fight mostly out of him now, away from me. I rip my pants down and squat over the toilet and the relief is sudden and painful, but relief nonetheless. Santa Suit Ke

“Queen,” Santa Suit Ke

I lean my elbows on my knees and do my best to stop from passing out, and we stare at each other—me doing the shitting, Ke

Chapter Fifty-One

Schroder doesn’t want to get out of bed. Ever again. He has somewhat of a headache. Or more accurately somewhat of a hangover. Brought on by somewhat too many drinks and the fact that yesterday was somewhat of a disaster. Jonas Jones loved every second of it. He was all over the news. He was the man the dead detective had come to in order to be found, and the camera loved him. The camera soaked up every second along with the public. Helping the living contact the dead was Jonas’s calling in life. A gift. Proven over and over. People shouldn’t doubt him, and less people doubted him after yesterday, and, if you wanted to know more about Jonas and his abilities, his books can be found at any good bookstore.

Of course the media didn’t know if the body was going to be Calhoun’s—nobody knew that, not for a fact, not until later last night when Kent had rung him and told him about the pin put into Calhoun’s leg five years ago when he’d lost control of his car. No amount of pins would have helped the rapist he was chasing back then, because that guy was pi

“This will be made public tomorrow,” Kent told him, “and if you release that information before then I swear, Carl, I’ll never—”

“I won’t say anything,” he said. “How are you getting on with your three dead bodies?”

“We’re getting on,” she answered, and then she hung up.

So last night he drank to numb the pain of what he had done, of who he had climbed into bed with. He drank because it helped, even though drinking wasn’t helping his marriage, but it wasn’t as though he was drinking every night. Jesus, the last time he even touched a drop was at Detective Inspector Landry’s wake four weeks ago—he hasn’t touched it since because that drink back then was the start of him losing his job. Things keep slipping away from him. A few months ago Kent was the new detective on the force, and now she was talking down to him, like he was worthless. A few months ago he was the one telling her what to do. How. The. fuck. Have things gotten to where they have?

Of course, he knows exactly how.

His daughter has helped wake him by jumping repeatedly on the end of the bed, each bounce like somebody squeezing his brain between their palms. He watches some cartoons with her for five minutes, then jumps in the shower.

The hot water helps wake him, it helps massage the hangover away a little. When he’s done he puts on the same suit he wore yesterday when he was on TV, which is the same suit he wore when he was on the force, which is the only suit he has. His wife is making breakfast for the baby and his daughter. He smiles at her and she frowns at him and it’s not looking like it’s going to be a great day. It’s almost eight thirty and he’s feeling tired again. He shakes a couple of Wake-E pills out a packet from his pocket and takes them when his wife isn’t looking, not needing her to nag him again about how many he’s been taking.

They don’t talk much over breakfast, which is common these days, and their lack of talking is becoming a habit and a problem and he wonders if he’s losing his marriage and hopes like hell he’s not. The baby is looking up and laughing at him, and smiles at her and she laughs some more.

When this is over, all this stuff with the Carver, then he’ll tell Jonas to . . . to what? Shove his job? And then what? Have no money? He can spend more time with his family, as much time as he wants, then they can all starve in the cold, huddled beneath blankets and be together forever.

He finishes his breakfast and his wife wishes him good luck at the trial. Then she kisses him good-bye and he hugs her back and maybe he’s just reading too much into things, maybe his wife is just as tired most of the time and there’s nothing wrong with their marriage because the hug feels good and warm and makes him wish he wasn’t going anywhere at all except back to bed with her. He kisses his baby good-bye and the baby smiles and giggles before a hiccup bubble appears between his lips, popped a moment later by a thick but short stream of undigested milk. He hugs his daughter and heads for the door.

The trial starts at ten o’clock. Joe will arrive at the courthouse at nine forty. That’s thirty minutes away. He starts the drive into town. The airwaves are full of people expressing their opinions. There are reporters at the courthouse already, saying there is a large crowd with more people coming, many carrying signs, many chanting slogans. Then there is another growing group, one of teenagers in costumes—he can see Spider-Man, he can see a couple of Xena Warrior Princesses, he can see four Batmans, and at least half a dozen Waldos from Where’s Waldo?, among dozens of other costumes from Manga characters to popular movie personalities. The reporter says it’s going to be a tough day for everybody, which immediately restores Schroder’s faith in reporters—when they want to, they really can get the facts right.

He turns off the radio. Right now there will be bomb-sniffing dogs going through the court building. If they’d found explosives he would have heard. So the trial is going ahead.

At his next red light, he uses his cell phone to look up the number for a florist and is given several options. At the next red light he calls the number, and is halfway through ordering flowers for his wife when the light turns green. He rolls through the intersection and pulls over and focuses on his order and comes up with a message for the card. He smiles at the thought of his wife getting them. It’s not going to solve any problems—but it’s a step in the right direction.

“Good choice,” the woman tells him, and he’s happy somebody at least thinks he’s making a good decision. “She’ll have them by lunchtime.”