They Ate the Waitress Page 9

  He described what he had discovered in Clayton’s house. “I’ll send you the video later. Let me know what you think.”

  As he walked back to the van, Sophia tried to stop him, wanting to talk, but he simply brushed past her. For a moment, he watched her in his rearview mirror, shrinking in the distance. “Go back,” he thought. “Just talk to her. What’s the worst that can happen? Embarrassment, rejection, humiliation, drinking to escape the pain, and driving into a tree, sure. But other than that, what could go wrong?”

  He returned to Notable Furniture and grabbed the nearest salesclerk, an older woman in a white cardigan. “Hello there!” he said. “Earlier today, I bought a living room set from one of your coworkers. I would like to return it.”

  “Was there a problem with the furniture, sir?”

  “Yes, actually. I’m pretty sure the couch is haunted.”

  “I’m going to have to check with my manager…”

  The manager decided that giving him a refund was easier than debating the existence of the afterlife. Nick left the store and drove the van back to the rental lot. He returned to his car and, once he was back on the road, some cigarettes and pills helped take his mind off her.

  He circled his apartment building, looking for a parking space. All of the nearby spots were filled, forcing him to park two blocks away. Someone must have been throwing a party. As he trudged up the hill to his apartment, he vowed revenge against the orange motorcycle parked in his usual space. “I can’t believe this! That guy doesn’t even need a whole space. Can’t he just park on the sidewalk? – Wait, what’s that in the sky? Is that… a pool table?”

  Of course, it would make no sense for a pool table to be falling from the sky. Technically, it was a billiard table. He leapt out of the way, landing in some nearby azalea bushes.

  The table crashed to the ground, spraying felt-covered shrapnel. He picked himself up, brushing off his jacket. Scouring the ground, he found a piece of debris with the name “Amidon Game Rental” engraved on a brass plate. “Looks like someone just lost their deposit.”

  Coming home, he stepped through the door and carefully wiped his feet on his Schlock Products™ self-cleaning doormat. Its chemical coating dissolved dirt, mud, grass, rubber, leather, cotton, and eventually, human skin. It kept your carpets from getting dirty, but you had to move quickly.

  He brought his transmitter into the living room, where he copied the footage of Clayton West’s apartment to his computer and sent it to Margery Sweeney. A light on the computer flashed, alerting him to a new video mail. Todd Sweeney appeared on the screen. He was sitting in an overstuffed, leather chair, apparently in his office. A large oil painting on the wall behind him showed a smiling, white-haired man. A brass plaque identified the man as “Our first volunteer.”

  “Mr. Wergild, one of my waiters has not returned to work since the day you came to the restaurant. If he is the killer, he might have discovered the investigation and become too scared to return.”

  “Or perhaps,” Nick thought, “he found a new job, one that doesn’t involve serving People Burgers.”

  “I need you to surveil him. His name is Aaron Spinner. I am sending you a recent photo and a map to his house.”

  “It looks like the killer is Clayton West,” Nick thought, “but it’s Sweeney’s money, so I’ll do what he wants… Aaron has already met me once, but he didn’t know I was a manhunter, so I should be okay. Plus, he must see dozens of customers each day. What are the odds he’ll remember me?” Nick didn’t consider himself very memorable. Some of his best friends hadn’t talked to him in decades.

  He printed a copy of Todd’s map and walked to the door. Sensing him approach, the coat rack tossed his jacket into the air. Catching it deftly, he stepped outside.

  ◊

  Todd’s records were out of date. The apartment building listed as Aaron’s address had been torn down several months earlier. Apparently it had been full of mold, asbestos, and snakes. Fortunately, there was another address on the records. At Aaron’s request, Todd sent a third of his paycheck to the Dale Brothers’ Youth Shelter. “Those shelters are only for the unemployed,” Nick thought, “but it’s worth a shot. It’s open to the public, so I should get inside with no problems.”

  The youth shelter was an immense, underground building that had once been a government missile complex. There were three subterranean silos connected by tunnels, for a total of sixty thousand square feet of space. There were about four hundred beds, most filled with homeless teenagers and runaways. The shelter also had a few dozen cribs, for those teenagers who had trouble remembering how condoms worked.

  Walking down the long ramp into the complex, Nick heard the sound of music coming from the chapel. The midweek service was starting. He hurried into the chapel and took a seat near the back.

  The preacher was a short, burly man with skin like fried ham. He wore a rumpled, wool suit that looked like it had been rescued from a newly-buried corpse. More than once. “Children, children,” he said, already perspiring heavily under the stage lights, “people are selfish! People say, if I can’t make a dollar helping others, why should I? But we need to be there for each other!” The large man wiped a meaty hand across his brow. He opened a leather-bound Bible to read aloud from Second Kings, chapter six.

  “In a time of great famine, the king of Israel surveyed the land. The king passed by when a woman cried out to him, ‘Help me my lord, oh my king!’ And the king said, ‘What is wrong?’ And she replied, ‘This woman said to me, give your son, so that we may eat him today, and we will eat my son tomorrow. So we boiled my son, and we ate him. I said to her the next day, give me your son, that we may eat him. But she has hidden her son from me!’ …You see, children? Selfish!”

  Coughing loudly, the preacher paused to pour himself a drink of water. “And that, my children, is why Jesus said to love your neighbor! As he said in the book of John, chapter six: ‘I am the bread from heaven. If anyone eats this bread, he will live forever. The bread that is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world. Whoever eats my flesh, and drinks my blood, has eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is real meat and my blood is real drink. He that eats my flesh, and drinks my blood, dwells in me, and I dwell in him.’ And in Ecclesiastes chapter six, verse seven, we read this…”

  After the long and rather disturbing sermon, Nick waited by the door, watching the crowd line up to leave. Finally Aaron appeared, stopping to shake the preacher’s hand on his way out. Aaron looked as if he hadn’t showered in days. Nick couldn’t quite hear what he said to the preacher, but they were both smiling. It looked like Aaron had appreciated his message.

  Cautiously, Nick followed Aaron to the parking lot, watched him get in his car, and followed him to the highway. A few miles later, they drove past a rundown farmhouse that Nick recognized from a documentary he had seen a few years earlier, America’s Greatest Crackpots. It was the home of Lester Brown, a man who claimed to have invented the printing press, gunpowder, periwinkles, and Belgium. In reality, he had only ever invented one thing: the commbang. The commbang was a combination comma and exclamation point, used whenever a writer needed an emphatic pause.

  At last, Nick stopped across the street from Aaron’s house. Aaron Spinner lived in an old, Victorian-style home near the cemetery off of highway 205. Nick’s navigation system said that the house was owned by an Edith Spinner.

  Before that, the place had been a funeral home, back when people had been buried whole instead of just cremated. The increasing price of land meant that cemeteries no longer offered individual plots. Instead, most people ended up in columbariums, concrete filing cabinets for urns. Forty-three people could fit in the space of one old-fashioned grave. Only the extremely wealthy weren’t cremated. Most of them had their bodies shot into space, to spend eternity flying through the cosmos. Nick always wondered if someday aliens would contact the earth to say “Hey, stop sending us your garbage!”

 
He put on a cheap, disposable necktie and a phony Vancouver Bank and Trust ID badge. Strapping an electronic clipboard to his arm, he strode confidently to the door and banged the knocker.

  Aaron answered immediately. “What? What’s the problem?”

  “Mr. Spinner?”

  “Yeah, I’m Aaron Spinner. More importantly, who are you?”

  “I’m Rick Welding with Vancouver Bank and Trust. Our records show that you are six months behind on your mortgage payments. We will repossess your house next week if you don’t pay up.”

  Aaron shook his head like he was making a martini in his skull. “What do mean? My mother bought this house twenty years ago directly from the former owner. She never had a mortgage.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Spinner,” Nick said, tapping the clipboard, “but, if you don’t make a payment by Monday, we’ll have to send a security patrol out here to burn your house to the ground.”

  “I thought the bank was going to repossess it..?”

  “Standard procedure. We’ll set the place on fire Monday morning, whether you’re in there or not.”

  “Look, look,” Aaron said nervously, “Why don’t you come inside, and I’ll find my mom’s copy of the deed? I’m sure we can resolve this peaceably… peacefully… Whichever you prefer.” Aaron led Nick into the living room and motioned for him to have a seat on an overstuffed, high-backed sofa. Aaron excused himself and walked down the hall.

  The living room reminded Nick of his grandmother’s house. Everything was floral prints and lace doilies and candy dishes filled with striped mints so old that they were gray with dust. The only thing missing was the antique dollhouse filled with half-empty whisky bottles.

  Nick blew on a piece of candy and popped it in his mouth. Walking in a slow circle, he examined the photos and knickknacks spread throughout the room. Several statues of the Virgin Mary were gathered on a shelf like a flock of pigeons. A poster of the crucifixion hung on the wall over the couch. A motion sensor in the poster made the eyes move to follow him around the room. The only evidence that a young man lived in the house was a battered guitar leaning against a wall. “Mom’s a religious nut, but that doesn’t make Aaron a killer. At least, not automatically…”

  He peaked down the hall. No sign of Aaron. Stepping through a door, he found himself in the kitchen. Rows of glass-fronted cabinets were filled with floral print china and historical disaster collector’s plates. The collector’s plates looked as if they had never been used, which made sense; it would be hard to enjoy a meal while you looked at the Hindenburg crash.

  The next room was a bedroom, obviously Aaron’s mother’s. The closet was filled with denim dresses and gaudy appliqué vests, the kind of clothes usually worn by a children’s librarian, kindergarten teacher, or raving lunatic. A drawer in the bedside table held an autographed Bible, which was probably not authentic.

  The bed was covered in emerald green sheets and a thick patchwork quilt. Each patch was embroidered with a different scene from the Bible. Whoever had made the quilt hadn’t followed the stories very closely. A patch in the center showed Moses parting the Hudson River and Noah’s ark running aground.

  An old bath towel lay across the bed at an odd angle. Nick pulled a pen from his jacket and used it to lift the corner of the towel. The quilt underneath was stained with blood. A voice from behind him: “Do all bankers search through their customer’s personal belongings?” Aaron stood in the doorway, a thick, manila folder clutched tightly in his hands.

  “What happened here?” Nick asked casually.

  “It’s red wine.”

  “Wine doesn’t turn rusty brown when it dries.”

  “Alright, you caught me. It’s blood.” Aaron’s eyes focused on the wall next to Nick, avoiding his gaze. “I slaughtered a lamb. The damn thing bled all over the place.”

  “That’s just about the worst lie I’ve ever heard. Who slaughters animals in the bedroom? What the hell do you think the garage is for?” Nick picked up the towel and tossed it aside. “We both know where this blood came from. Why didn’t you replace the sheets? You certainly had enough time to get rid of them.”

  “You aren’t with the bank.” He tossed the folder on the floor. “Who do you really work for?”

  “Your boss. He noticed you haven’t been at work for a few days, so he sent me here to check on you.”

  “It’s his fault!” Aaron howled, suddenly furious. “I told him to let me keep working in the butcher shop! But no, he made me switch to the wait staff. How am I supposed to–?” He gazed up at the ceiling, as if the answer might be written there. “I just need to work in the butcher shop, alright?”

  “Aaron,” Nick said calmly, “Did you murder Flockhart? It’s alright if you did. I’m sure you had a good reason.”

  “I didn’t kill her!” he insisted, his voice cracking with strain. “Not that I didn’t want to. I didn’t need to kill anyone until Mr. Sweeney forced me to switch positions at work. Everything was alright when I was working in the butcher shop. I could take care of everything then.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat so we can talk?” Nick put his hand on Aaron’s shoulder and led him into the living room. Aaron took a seat on the couch and Nick sat down across from him on a rocking chair. “Now, take care of what?”

  Aaron took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I’m a sinner… I tried different churches – Catholic, Protestant, Mormon, Christianarchist – but the guilt never went away. The preacher at the youth center is good, but he can’t help me. I take communion and feel ashamed, like the bread and wine could never make me clean. But then I discovered that God had special instructions for me.” Aaron opened one of the Bibles on the coffee table and handed it to Nick, pointing at an underlined passage.

  And Aaron will lay his hands upon the head of the goat and put all the sins of Israel upon its head. The goat shall bear all their sins. And Aaron shall wash his skin with water in the holy place, put on his clothes, and offer the sacrifice. The goat is for the sin offering. Its blood was brought in to make atonement in the holy place. Aaron will carry it forth in the camp and they shall burn its flesh in the fire.

  Aaron took back the Bible and closed it, gently stroking the cover with his fingertips. “When I was working in the butcher shop, I could pray and lay my hands on a corpse’s forehead and God would put my sins onto it. It would be cooked and eaten by those rich folks, and they would take my sin into themselves. But Todd fired a couple of waiters and forced me to take their place. So I had to get my own flesh. I showed my mother the passages I found in the Bible, and she agreed that I was doing the right thing. That’s why she…” He gasped, fighting back tears.

  “She what, Aaron? What did she do?” Nick’s hand moved automatically for the handle of his laser stunner.

  “She volunteered. She sacrificed herself to save me from my sins. My mother was a saint, and I killed her. She was my own personal Jesus Christ.”

  “What did you do with the body?”

  “I buried her. God help me, I buried her in the floor of the cellar. She’s still down there, and it’s already been three days… I waited three days, just like the Bible says! I don’t understand it!”

  Nick left Aaron moaning on the couch. He stepped into the kitchen and contacted a security patrol. They arrived a few minutes later with their DNA testing equipment, a stun net, and a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist recommended that Aaron take a long rest at a high-security mental hospital. “And Aaron,” he said, “When you get out, find a new line of work.”

  The security patrol went down to the cellar and exhumed Mrs. Spinner’s body. The arteries in the neck were severed cleanly and there was no evidence of a struggle. Testing showed that the blood on the bed was hers. There was a duffle bag of money in Aaron’s car but, as the vehicle was low on fuel and in a poor state of repair, it did not look like he had been planning to leave town. More importantly, with the psychiatrist’s examination taken into account, Aaron was almost guaranteed to be found
mentally ill.

  Nick contacted Todd and explained what had happened. “So, it seems that Aaron didn’t kill Flockhart. But you should probably fire him anyway.”

  “I would say so!” Todd gasped. “Is there anything else you wanted to…” He paused to yell at someone out of view. “Would you please be quiet? I am trying to transmit!”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing important, my apologies.” He sighed sadly. “That singer Gabrielle is arguing with my staff again. Insufferable woman! I really ought to ban her from the restaurant.”

  “No, hold on.” Nick stepped outside, headed for his car. “Listen, Sweeney, I need you to make sure Gabrielle stays at Hand to Mouth for another twenty minutes or so. I have to talk to her in person.”

  He sped to the restaurant, parking next to Gabrielle’s car. It was easy to spot, as it was the same pink as her hair. He ducked behind a lamp post and watched the door. At last, Gabrielle came outside. He waited until she was almost to her car door. “I thought I’d find you here,” he said darkly, stepping into view.

  “Nick! I… I didn’t expect to run into you.”

  “I’ll ask the questions around here! Why did you try to kill me?”

  “Kill you?” Gabrielle sputtered, taking a deep breath. “Was that you in my house the other night?”

  “You know damn well who it was. You asked to see me, and when I got to your place, you tried to blow my head off! Not the worst date I’ve ever had, but still…”

  “I thought it was a prowler!” she insisted, throwing up her hands. “I was dressing, I heard a noise, and I saw someone standing in the doorway, so I pulled my gun from the nightstand and fired. I had no idea it was you, I swear. You practically promised me a job at your club. Why on earth would I want to kill you?”

  “I still haven’t figured that one out. Most people don’t want to murder their boss until their first day at work. Whatever your reason, I’m sure it has something to do with how you know my real name. I gave you an alias when we met, remember?”