It's No Picnic (6 page)

“How about now?” the man said in a bold tone.

Then—with a balmy and banal look, Alex said, “I suppose.”

B
OTH
G
OT
O
UT
O
F
T
HE
C
HAIRS
, the man first, followed by Alex. After all, one might get lost in the labyrinth of the Franktown police station without a guide, ending up in who knows what kind of mess.

Alex followed the detective down a circuitous and crooked flight of stairs, where at the bottom stood a woman in police uniform. Seeing Alex and the man nearing, she immediately adopted the posture of a burrowing rodent; hunkering down; pulling a set of keys from a shirt pocket; turning; walking about five feet into what looked like a small shaft or crawl space; unlocking a door all of four feet tall. Alex and the man followed in kind, acting out this strange posture modification to fit the rather inane and rare shape of the entrance.

The ordeal ended when the shaft expanded into what looked like an underground bomb shelter.

“This doubles as a tornado and bomb shelter. Mostly tornadoes these days, but we still have those pesky
activists
, don’t we?” the man said.

Alex said nothing, looking at all of this as if a dream equipped with lighting from a Kubrick film. For obvious reasons, most of the space was unused, the exception being a row of three jail cells, all new, clean and well maintained. Don was in the last cell, the other two empty, seemingly kept to house the usual suspects.

Don was fast asleep, not moving a muscle. Maybe the medication made it after all. Perhaps he stopped thinking and fell into a dream.

Then—the man, Chief Detective that is, took a metal plate lying on the floor outside the cell, running it back and forth over the bars. The sound moved through the room, echoing; one chorus adding to the next like a poorly constructed canon by a badly tempered Bach. It was enough to wake the dead; speaking of which, Don jumped to attention, like a soldier answering to reveille. “We’re lucky he didn’t throw us a salute,” Alex said quietly.

Now the two, that is, Alex and the man, stood there, staring, seemly waiting for the other to say something, when—Alex said, “So Don; how are they treating you?”

To which Don replied, “Fine, I guess.”

And
naturally
, the man interjected, saying, “So Don, tell us what you did with Nadie.”

Don just stood there, motionless, silent, a face painted with fear, appearing as if he might talk, yet showing no signs of cooperation.

“You see Alex, this is all he does. We can’t get a word out of him,” the man said.

Alex believed Don was the killer. Yet, it was all too neat. Maybe Don was telling the truth. Perhaps somebody wants him framed. If so, why doesn’t he talk? Why hide what need not remain hidden? It makes no sense.

So, Alex decided to ask Don, “Well Don, if you didn’t murder Nadie K., who did?”

Now Don got up, posture improved, staring for a moment at Alex, saying, “First off, I really want you to understand that I didn’t kill Nadie. But, I know who did. I promise to cooperate provided the police drop all charges. Like I said, I had no part in the killing.”

Alex said, “Of course, I can’t promise you anything. That’s up to Detective Smith.”

The man stood, pondering—saying, “Okay. If you give us a name and it pans out, I’ll talk to the D.A.”

“No,” Don said, “Complete immunity or nothing.”

“Fine,” the man said with a deferred look, “Tell us.”

Don looked at Alex and the man; pupils dilated, face pale, lips trembling as if about to speak; at once—collapsing to the floor.

“Guard, open this cell,” Alex said; afterward, rushing inside, properly placing the index and middle finger on the neck to check for pulse

—
NOTHING
—

looking back at the man saying, “He’s dead.”

T
HE
A
UTOPSY
R
EVEALED
A M
ASSIVE
C
ORONARY
, inviting all manner of talk from the residents of Longport; some saying, “Don, what a ham, wittingly dying in such a melodramatic fashion,” others, “Chance plays no favorites when it comes to time and place.” At any rate, the fact remained
Don was dead
.

Alex sat calmly in the rear of the church, watching, noting as people marshaled inside—jostling here and there—each trying to find that one fitting seat. Most passed and nodded, giving no sign of affecting position. However, some, as they passed, faced Alex with contempt, not in the least pleased. After all, who was he to be judge, jury, and executioner? Yet, Alex felt the sincere air; thin, simple—trembling with the unease of passing.

The attendant, seeing Alex, stopped and said, “Don is it?”

Alex turned, and with a stuck look coolly replied, “No. He’s the one in the box.”

“Oh, I see.” said the attendant, “What’s he doing in a box?”

What must it be like to be lost; suspended in a skull that floats in an unending, lifeless, space and elicits only drivel, completely out of touch?

“I suppose he was put there,” Alex said in a frigid tone.

“Put there. Yeah. That makes sense. You know, I thought you were a fool. But sometimes, you’re pretty clever.”

Pressed, the attendant abbreviated, moving up the aisle, taking a seat in the second row.

As if adding libel to loss, the twins then spotted Alex, hurriedly pushing toward him, stopping; one composing, “Here you are,” and the second dislocating, “And go you there…”

“Hello. What brings you here?” Alex said playfully.

“Death, silly fool,” one said, “And life…” the second.

Then—the assistant to the reverend, walked up to the podium, tapping the microphone, saying, “Could I please get everybody to have a seat.”

One minute
—nobody was standing. You could hear a pen drop; possibly a pin given one had wings for hands and a nocturnal appetite for insects.

“The Reverend sends the deepest of regards, unable to preside over today’s funeral services. Instead, I’ll conduct the services.”

A sigh came from the audience, naming as it were the chagrin with the assistant. The assistant simply shrugged it off as he had many times in the past, realizing people in numbers often possess a different spirit from that of the holy.

A picture stood next to the casket, obviously one taken many years ago, featuring a younger, more alert Don receiving some sort of award from the president of the U.S.

“As we all know, Don was passionate about teaching,” said the assistant in a
venerable
tone, “He won the Presidential Teaching Award…”

Accolades and awards, the
true
measure of life. Alex understood these emblems nothing more than thinly veiled attempts to hide character. Smoke and mirrors with an occasional revealing reflection manifesting out of the fog. If lucky, a reflection seen and recognized, baring the genuine character of a person.

Yet, Don remained hidden; and now, in death, will remain hidden forever. Who was he to reveal?

“…and good friends, Eli and Cap. He’ll be sorely missed by us all,” the assistant said; “And now Eli would like to say a few words.”

Eli took the pulpit; eyes sad, face sagging, yet composed, saying, “I loved Don like a brother. Passing is hard, but I’m sure we’ll persevere. It is difficult to imagine the accusations and arrest. Don was hardly the type for such a heinous act as murder. I can only believe that someone had it in for him. Someone wanted him to take the blame for something he didn’t do. And all for Nadie K. That no good manipulative…I’m sorry, but he deserved so much more.”

The audience resounded with an “Amen.”

“And then—then, there’s Miss K., snooping around, hiring that bedraggled old mystery writer, getting the community all up in a riot over nothing. I mean, we knew, we knew Nadie.”

Alex sat calmly, coolly; analyzing each word as it reached in; indeed, finding it hard to believe, yet, not reacting in the least.

“I’m sorry. Sorry the truth hurts. But it does, so I must sing it. And if it sheds some light on innocence, then all the better.”

Eli left the pulpit, leaving the assistant to pick up the pieces. “We should all reflect on passing today, remembering the good as well as the bad. For no person is without sin, and all shall be judged accordingly.”

Anticipating the end, Alex quietly left the church, making a quick pace home. Once there, he felt elation, relieved to be alone and in bed.

5

N
OBODY
K
NEW
M
ORE
T
HAN
A
LEX
there’s nothing like a morning cup of coffee at Longport’s finest. And there he stood, waiting, wanting that morning cup only they could provide.

“Something told me you’d be here,” Alex said in a wry tone as he sat down at the table, carefully balancing the coffee cup.

Eli looked at Alex, eyes fixated—
blank
—looking as if out of the sockets, bulging as if seeing a ghost.

“You should be dead,” Eli said in a numb tone, “At least that’s what the lord told me. The lord has, S
ENTENCED
Y
OU
T
O
D
EATH
.”

The evidence shows that when the lord—any lord for that matter—starts briefing you on matters of life and death, well, it’s time to check in, or out, depending on how one leans. No doubt, Eli was erratic, but had he derailed too? After all, the residents of Longport are well, each eccentric. Yet, they all still rail rapidly down the tracks.

“Sentenced to death. Why?” Alex said, blandly.

“The nose, the nose. Always putting it where it doesn’t go.” Eli said with a flat tenor.

“I don’t get it. You brought me the evidence.”

“Only because the lord instructed me so,” Eli said in a reverent manner.

Then—Alex, owning a bold aspect, said, “So, the
lord
made you bring me the evidence?”

“Yes, the lord made me
do it
,” Eli said emphatically.

“Did
this
lord ask you to speak at the funeral?”

“Yes. The lord made me
do that too
.”

“Did the lord instruct you on what to say?” Alex said, dryly.

“The lord tells me what to
say
always. I do not speak unless instructed by him. He lies me down in beds of silver and gold, guides me to paths of justice, forms thoughts, and provides wishes.”

“He?” Alex said, “I noticed you said, he.”

“Of course, who else could
he
be,” Eli said, shocked.

“So, who is this lord?” Alex said.

Alex sat back, coolly pausing…taking in the surroundings. After all, what a perfectly blue day it was in this low spot on the hill. Besides, how much more interesting could this get?

“I can’t say. He is always present, watching, listening. If I speak, he hears words.
You
can hear him scratching behind the walls if you listen carefully. There, don’t you hear it?” Eli said in an anxious tone.

As it goes, once one has granted room for the lord—
any lord
—worship becomes second nature. Obviously, Eli had granted room and then some. In fact, so much room, it raised the question if he, Eli that is, was in there, present, occupying even the remotest of corners. If he was, it seemed little remained, eaten away as it was by the scratching behind the wall.

“Now Eli, we all know who the lord is. But tell me, who is he?” Alex said flatly.

“I can’t or I will end up like you, C
ONDEMNED
T
O
D
EATH
.” Eli said with increasing stress.

“If you tell me, I’m sure we can put him away before that happens,” Alex said evenly.

“No. No. You don’t understand. The lord will kill me, and he’ll kill you too,” Eli said, nervously rocking back and forth in the chair.

Then—in a panic, Eli got up, running out of the coffee shop, screaming, “Help, help. A madman is trying to kill me!”

T
HE
N
INTH
O
F
A
LEX
, and because of Eli, unfinished cup of coffee. Nothing irritates him more, or well, almost nothing. Perhaps childhood memories or lapse of reason. Maybe having to get up and chase a madman.

However, before dashing out in mad pursuit, he thought it apt with a final sip he say, “I dedicate this to the lord, wherever
he
may be.”

Pushing out the way in, he felt the downcast heavens taxing movement, making apathy of action. Pressed, he pushed on, seeing Eli running at an absurd clip for such a crude man.

Then—Eli left the path, running into the misty forest, at last leaving behind the guise of certainty.

Alex could see nothing, nobody. Instead, feeling only dark points with a certain eerie presence, poking him here and there. As he moved on, the gluey, gooey ground made him push harder, as a result, stirring the matter on, pushing back even more as if in a kind of tug of war.

Looking down, Alex noticed what he thought items of clothing; one article here, another there. He picked up what looked like a pair of pants, realizing once laying eyes on them; they were.

Wrapped in silence, Alex could hear himself thinking, so much so in fact, that he found the feeling gratifying, as if a keen loss waking a cool gain. Yet, the aim was empty, having little to say and nothing to give. Void of all matter and purpose. Still it was filling.

At once—the mist lifted, leaving exposed the forest floor and with it Alex and Eli. Alex could see Eli ahead, lying naked in the mire, repeatedly mumbling in a base tone, “A madman is trying to kill me.”

Alex, eyes on fire, reached down, clawing into Eli’s chest, digging his nails in deep so as to tear the skin from the body, ripping into the chasm of the chest, puncturing the aorta; thus spewing forth an ocean of blood covering his face and hands, conquering the beast once and for all.