Not Quite Dead Yet, page 10
“I went to the police station, then I went to the burger place on Route 4, then I drove up and down River Street for a while, eating fries, looking for my killer. Walked it too. Pointless, didn’t find anything.”
Billy blinked, eyes coming back even wider.
“I could have come with you. It’s dark, it’s not safe.”
“I wasn’t scared. What’s going to happen, Billy? I’ll get murdered again?”
“Maybe.”
“So, why does it matter?”
“It matters,” he said, scooping up the floor-fries, wiping the grease from his hands. That look in his eyes was bigger than worry. It was fear. Jet thought men weren’t scared of the night, but Billy was made different. And now she felt guilty, for some reason.
“I said I might keep strange hours,” she said, not really an apology, not even close. “I’ve got a murder to solve.”
Billy sniffed, reluctantly took a sagging fry, held it to his lips. “What did the detective say? About the loan thing?” He folded the fry and stuffed it in.
“They’re going to look into it. Not ruling anything out apparently.”
“That’s good.” He chewed. “Yeah, these fries are shit. I’ll get you some good ones before—” He cut himself off, a flush in his cheeks.
Jet helped him out, pretending she hadn’t heard, hanging up her jacket. “I got something from your dad, after Ecker and the chief left the room.”
Billy raised his eyebrows, going for another fry.
“Really? He never tells me anything. All we have is football and the weather,” he sniffed.
“Showed me a photograph,” Jet said. “Of a hair found at the scene. It was under the blood, so either it was there before, or it came from the killer.”
“How long does it take to do a DNA test?”
“It’s a wig hair.” Jet sat down, pulling her notebook across the sofa, opening the page. “A red costume wig hair.” She looked up at Billy. “And we all know who was wearing a red wig for Halloween.”
“Yeah.” He sucked in a breath.
“JJ—”
“—Andrew Smith,” Billy said at the same time.
They stared, pointed at each other.
Spoke at the same time again.
“JJ had one—?”
“—Andrew Smith was wearing a red wig?” Jet’s eyes narrowed, voice lowered.
“He was a clown, Jet.”
Jet searched her memory. “I remember the painted red nose. He had a wig on too?”
“One hundred percent.” Billy dropped down on the sofa next to her.
Jet closed her eyes to peel back the time, to see the scene playing out before her.
“Yeah, but clowns have rainbow-colored hair, don’t they? And it’s curly, like, coiled? This hair at the scene was straight, like five inches long.”
Billy closed his eyes too, trying the same trick. Jet watched him, blew on his face when he took too long.
“You know, you haven’t changed much since you were eleven,” he said.
“Neither have you.” She prodded the side of his head, through to his memory. “Anything?”
Billy nodded. “It was definitely a red wig, just red, and I’m pretty sure the hairs were straight. Fluffy red. Like the clown from It.”
Jet clicked her pen at him. “You sure?”
“No,” Billy said, crumbling under the pressure of the pen. “But we could go ask him. He lives literally three steps from my front door, in the other apartment.” Billy rose up from the sofa. “We can just—”
“—No, we can just not.” Jet pulled him back down, their legs colliding. “We can’t go around and ask him about a wig. If he’s a suspect, that will give him time to get rid of it, destroy it. No one can know about the hair at the scene; your dad wasn’t even supposed to tell me. You’re bad at murders, Billy, god.”
“It’s my first time!” He surrendered, palms up. “How are we going to confirm what wig he was wearing, though? It’s important. Takes you from one suspect to two.”
“Possibly more,” Jet thought aloud. “Almost everyone was in costume. There could have been more red wigs wandering around that fair.”
Billy shrugged, deflating. “I didn’t take any photos.”
Jet didn’t need to close her eyes this time, the memory burrowing its way to the front, riding that tunnel of pain behind her eye. “No, but someone else did.” She clicked her fingers. “Gerry Clay’s son, I think his name is Owen. He was taking the official photos at the fair, with a fancy-ass camera. He’s got photos. A lot of photos.”
Jet grinned, and Billy mirrored it back.
“Come on.” She jumped up, heading for her jacket.
Billy coughed. “You’re not going now, are you? It’s eleven-thirty.”
“I’m kinda on the clock here.”
Billy hesitated.
“I think you’ll get a better reception if you go in the morning. And you look tired.”
“Tired is fine, Billy. Not-dying people get tired too.” She slipped one arm into her jacket.
“There’s something else,” Billy said, dropping his eyes, like his gaze was suddenly an intrusion. “You’re…you’re leaking. Through the bandage at the back.”
Jet stopped, the jacket clattering to the floor, her hand moving to the back of her head. A sharp pain when she pushed, warm and sticky. She winced.
“I’m supposed to change the dressing every day.” But how? She couldn’t see, couldn’t reach.
“I can do it,” Billy offered, before Jet had to ask for help. He’d known her all her life; maybe he knew those hidden parts of her too, that she couldn’t ask for help because it was the same as feeling useless.
“If you really want,” Jet sniffed. Besides, she knew some hidden parts of Billy too: that he always had to help, whoever it was. So this wasn’t even really about her.
“Yeah, come on, sit down.” He patted the sofa, like this was no big deal, a Band-Aid on a grazed knee. He’d probably done that for her at some point too, when they were kids. “I’ve got a first aid kit. Got some gauze pads, and some of that tape. Antiseptic cream.”
“Not sure we need to bother with the cream.” She was going to rot either way.
Billy opened the closet door, beside the TV. The framed photo of his mom peeking out from the top shelf, her eyes watching Jet as she flinched from another throb of pain beneath the bandage. On the shelf below were a tool kit and a little blue first aid box.
“Presents from Dad,” Billy said, “when I moved out. Never used either of them.”
He unzipped the first aid kit and pulled out some plastic-wrapped pads, a little roll of tape.
“OK, look forward. We’ll do the back first, then the one at the side.” He rested his elbows on the back of the sofa, kneeling, so his head was at the same height as hers. “I’m going to go slow, OK?”
“Just do it.”
Jet gritted her teeth, waiting for the pain. Billy’s breath was warm against the back of her neck. And then it wasn’t; he was holding it, concentrating. His fingers soft against her head as he pulled at the old dressing, the tape lifting away, pulling at her skin and the weeping wound.
Jet winced, gripped the sofa cushion.
“Sorry, sorry. Oh god.”
“Are you going to faint, Billy?”
“Not if I can help it. There. Done.”
He lifted the bandage away, the air cool against the exposed back of her head. Too cool.
“Did they shave my head, Billy?”
“Um,” he answered. “It’s…it’s not your best angle. Bit crusty. Little bit bald. Let’s get this covered up, nice and clean.”
The sound of ripping plastic behind her ears.
“Here we go. I’m just going to place this on, very carefully, then tape it down. OK?”
Jet waited for him to get close. Closer.
“AH!” she cried suddenly, making Billy jump out of his skin, falling back into it and off his knees.
“Jet, that’s not funny!”
She cackled, deep and gravelly. Because it was, actually. And so was the look on his face.
“Don’t do that again.”
* * *
—
Jet turned off the bathroom light, closed the door behind her as she stepped into the darkened living room.
Billy was already tucked up on the sofa, his head against one of the patterned cushions, using the matching throw as a blanket. It wasn’t long enough, and neither was the sofa, Billy’s bare feet dangling over the end. Eyes glowing as they watched her approach.
“I’m done in there now, thanks for the toothpaste,” she said.
“No problem.”
Jet picked her way past the sofa, toward the bedroom, the small lamp glowing inside. She hesitated, turned back.
“You can come with me,” she said to the darkness. “In the morning, to talk to Owen Clay. If you want?”
Only because she knew Billy wanted to. Then at least she didn’t have to worry about him worrying, or hear about it after.
“I’ll be there,” his voice found her, across the dark room.
Jet slipped inside the bedroom, the bed ready and made, a glass of water on the nightstand that Billy must have just put there.
“Night, Jet.”
“Night, Billy.”
Tuesday
November 4
Eleven
Jet pressed the doorbell, holding on just longer than was polite.
Number 19, Pleasant Street. Pleasant was the right word: a big house with yellow wooden siding and sleek gray shutters. This must have been a Mason Construction project; it had that look.
Jet reached for the bell again.
“Give them a minute,” Billy said, behind her on the steps.
“I’m running out of minutes.” She ignored him, pressed the bell again, three short bursts.
The door swung inward, Gerry Clay’s face appearing in the crack, his dark skin wrinkling as he blinked them in. Recognized them a second later, the wrinkles becoming smile lines.
“Oh, hello Jet. Nice to see you so early.”
“Hi Gerry.” She arranged a smile to match his. “Got your card. Really thoughtful, thanks.”
Gerry’s smile faltered, eyes trailing to the bandage at the side of her head.
“Do they know who—”
“—Not yet,” Jet cut him off. “We’re working on it. Actually, that’s why we’re here. I remember your son was taking photos at the Halloween Fair. It would be really useful to see those. Is he in?”
Gerry stuttered, trying to take that all in. “Uh, y-yes, he’s here. In the yard, actually, flying his drone. He—he does that a lot.”
“Better than meth.” Jet took another step forward, forcing Gerry’s hand.
“Do you want to come in?” he asked, moving back, holding the door open.
Of course that’s what she wanted. “Thanks,” she said instead, passing him, stepping down the hall, Billy on her heels.
“Come through to the kitchen,” Gerry’s voice sailed past them, the front door clicking shut.
A rectangular mirror was mounted on the far wall of the hallway. Jet watched as their reflections approached, real people meeting mirror people: Jet too small that only the top half of her face showed, Billy too tall that his head was cut off at the top, only one swinging arm of Gerry visible behind.
Jet paused for one second, caught her eye. The right eye. She’d noticed it in the bathroom mirror when she woke up, and it hadn’t gone away. The pupil on this side was dilated, huge, a black hole, not much space for the orbit of hazel around.
“You OK?” Billy asked, catching up. If he’d noticed it too, he hadn’t said anything yet.
“Fine.” Jet dropped her own gaze and turned, following the hall into the bright kitchen at the back, sage-green cabinets and white marble counters. There was a faint high-pitched whine coming from somewhere.
Gerry circled past them, headed for the glass doors into the backyard.
“I need to get to work, but Owen will help you out with those photos.” He rapped his knuckles on the glass.
A teenager was standing in the backyard, lost inside a baggy hoodie, some kind of remote clutched in his hands. He glanced up as Gerry knocked again, beckoning him in with a curt spin of his hand.
The sharp whining grew louder, angry and waspish, as the drone lowered into view, landing in the grass by Owen’s feet. He picked it up and hurried toward the door.
“I’m off to work,” Gerry announced as Owen shut the door behind him, placing the drone down carefully on the kitchen table. “This is Dianne Mason’s daughter. You help her out, OK?”
He didn’t give his son a chance to respond. “I’ll give my best to your mom, Jet,” he said with a wave, heading back to the hallway and the front door. It thudded shut behind him.
Owen stood there, shrinking inside his hoodie, blinking at them.
“I’m Jet,” she said. “This is Billy. You’re Owen.”
He swallowed, studying his own feet. Painfully awkward—the kind you maybe didn’t grow out of.
Jet didn’t have time for awkward.
“We’re here to see the photos you took at the Halloween Fair.”
Owen shuffled, one foot nuzzling the other. “They’re not fully edited yet.”
“That’s really OK. We’re under a bit of time pressure.”
Owen glanced up from his feet, an unasked question on his face.
Jet exhaled. “On Halloween, someone hit me over the head, and now I’m going to die in five days, so it would be really great to look at those photos so we can figure out who killed me. Or we can all stare at our feet some more.”
“Oh, that’s you,” Owen said, a little more life in his voice.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
Owen’s eyes shifted behind Jet, to Billy, trailing up all six feet, two inches of him, across those wide shoulders. He shrank inside his hoodie even more, like he had any reason to.
“I’m just Billy,” Billy said.
He forgot the poor and sweet.
* * *
—
“OK, these are all the files. Six hundred and twenty-eight in total.”
They were in the teenager’s bedroom, Owen sitting at his desk in his spinning chair, two large curved monitors glaring over him, Jet and Billy hovering behind.
“Did you get any drone footage that night too?” Billy asked.
Owen shook his head. “Just photos. Didn’t take her out that night.”
Her. Urgh.
“OK great, we’ll have a look through these, thank you so much.” Jet gestured toward the door.
Owen didn’t budge, hand still cupped around the wireless mouse.
“OK, Owen, that’s great,” Jet said, harder. “We’ll have a look at these now. You can go back to playing with your girlfriend in the backyard.”
“I don’t have a— Oh.”
“Yeah,” Jet said. “Up you get.”
Owen got reluctantly to his feet.
“OK,” he sniffed. “Well, don’t delete anything.”
“Won’t, I promise.” Jet took his chair, eyeballed him until he left his bedroom, disappearing down the stairs.
“He’s definitely got some kind of weird porn downloaded on this computer,” Jet said, turning to the monitor, fingers finding the mouse.
“Stop traumatizing teenage boys.” Billy leaned his elbows on the desk beside her.
“I do not traumatize teenage boys.”
“You did.”
She double-clicked on the first file, and the photo opened full screen. A jack-o’-lantern, glowing eyes and an eerie too-human smile. Jet pressed the arrow, through many more artsy overexposed shots of the pumpkin, until they reached the fair, the sun setting, early darkness, before Jet had even got there.
Kids at the face-painting stall, missing teeth and gummy smiles for the camera. A vampire carrying two pies in foil dishes. Gerry Clay in his full cat costume, holding up two furry peace signs for the camera.
A lot of knockoff superheroes at the costume contest, a shitty plastic gold medal for the winner: Spider-ish-Man.
Jet paused. A photo of Mom and Dad at their stall, grinning behind a huge pile of bagged-up candy corn. Mom’s smile was tight, and Dad’s was pained, his skin a little yellow in the flash, too shiny across the forehead.
“Your dad doing OK?” Billy asked, noticing it too.
Jet dipped her head. “His kidneys are starting to fail. It was always going to happen, once he reached sixty. Might have to think about dialysis or a transplant soon.” She pressed her lips together and clicked on. “Shame my kidneys are no good either.”
“There, stop!” Billy leaned forward, his hand over hers on the mouse. “That’s JJ.”
Yes, it was. Hardly recognizable in his striped shirt and denim overalls, thick black scars painted across his face. A brassy red wig on his head, the hairs static-straight, about five inches long. He was standing with his arm slung around his little brother, Henry, matching smiles they’d both inherited from their Malaysian dad, but not much else because he’d skipped out when they were kids. Henry was wearing a pirate hat, emblazoned with a skull and crossbones, a gold plastic hook for a hand. JJ was resting his head on his brother’s shoulder: younger but taller.
“Does that match the hair from the scene?” Billy asked.
“Think so. Same color, the right length.”
Jet dragged the photo across onto the second monitor, left it there waiting, the Lim brothers staring at them as they kept going.
“Jesus Christ,” Jet hissed as she clicked onto a zoomed-in picture of herself, a photo she didn’t know had been taken, clearly: her eyes glowing red from the flash, nose crisscrossed into a maze as she bit into a candy apple, caramel smears on her cheeks. “I’m deleting that one,” she said, clicking on the icon, the photo shrinking down, dropping into the trash, where it belonged.
