Torn

didn’t move, either. The only part of him that did move was his head. It rocked back and forth, as if trying to pry itself away from the pain of his paralyzed body.

Shaking, Devin forced himself to move in closer. The head steadied. Karston looked at him. “Sorry about stealing your money, Devin,” he said weakly. His voice sounded wet and phlegmy, almost like he was gargling.

Devin scanned the body, torn between trying to do something about the bleeding and wondering if whatever he did might only make it worse. “Forget it. It’s okay.”

“You forgive me?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Not knowing what else he could do, Devin hesitated, but finally took Karston’s hand and squeezed it. It felt cold. It didn’t squeeze back.

“So, I’m still in the band?” Karston said.

The question caught Devin by surprise. Was it really that important to him? Or was he going into some kind of shock?

“Sure. You’re still in the band,” Devin said.

“I’m getting better, right? On the bass? It wasn’t a waste, right?”

“Yeah, Karston. You’re getting better. Really, man. Getting better every time,” Devin said.

“Yeah?” Karston’s voice was tired, distant. His eyes wavered, then steadied, focusing on something Devin couldn’t see.

Blood pooled on the kitchen tile, running along the grout just like the drippings of the filet mignon.

Something sloshed beneath Karston’s wet shirt. It may have just been more blood, or maybe he’d shifted in a funny way, but it looked as if pieces of Karston were tumbling out from beneath the cloth. Even if the ambulance came right now, right this second, Devin doubted it would make any difference.

“Yeah, Karston,” Devin said. “You’re the best. The best.”

7

The funeral parlor was cheap and dark. A huge stain on the thin, crappy carpet gave off a moldy smell, and everywhere you walked, the floorboards creaked. Some of the bulbs in the lamps had blown, and the surface of the old paneling peeled in spots, revealing bits of straw-colored Masonite beneath.

But Karston—Karston looked even worse. His face was gray, and whoever had worked on the corpse had put eyeliner on him, badly, so he looked like some old-style glam rocker. The blue polyester suit he was stuffed into must have been worn last at his middle-school graduation, when he was two or three inches shorter.

It didn’t matter to Karston, though. Karston was dead. If there was any kind of afterlife or whatever, Devin hoped it was at least a place where Karston wouldn’t be afraid anymore. Or embarrassed. Or ashamed. Or picked on.

As he stood and stared at the body, Devin became aware that his own suit felt really hot, and the too-tight shirt neck was suffocating. If he puffed out his neck, he might be able to get the button to pop.

“Come on, you keep standing there like something’s going to happen. Sit with me,” Cheryl said, tugging at his arm. She looked funny in a black dress. It flattered her figure, but that seemed wrong under the circumstances. Her eyes were puffy from crying.

Devin nodded numbly. He let her lead him to the third row of folding seats, in front of his parents, where they sat down together.

As he settled, or tried to, Devin felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing, patting. “Stay in your seat,” his mother said, eyeing whoever came in. “Just stay down, Devin, please.”

She’d been such a wreck after getting called back in the middle of her short vacation to learn that her home had been invaded, not only by some killer, but by scores of police. They’d grilled Devin for hours. He told them about the Slits, but nothing about how strange the attacker had looked in the shadow, except to say he was short, stout, and strong.

They said the damage in the house looked like standard vandalism, but it didn’t look that way to Devin. A heavy end table had been splintered into firewood while a shelf of his mom’s Hummel figures was left untouched. There was a shoulder-high crack in the plasterboard right next to a full-size mirror that hadn’t been smashed. There were tears high up in the wall and even on the ceiling. But he supposed the police knew what they were doing.

After all, what was standard vandalism?

Still feeling hot and antsy, Devin looked around. Toward the back were a bunch of kids from Argus High School. Devin figured they didn’t even know Karston, but were just here to gawk. Half were in street clothes, which Devin thought disrespectful, but at least they all wore the green armbands that had been given out in school in memoriam. He hadn’t been back to Argus yet himself, but he knew that was all anyone was talking about. The story of the murder was the biggest thing to hit town in years.

“Look at the flowers my mother sent,” he whispered to Cheryl. “They’re huge and gaudy. Bigger than the ones from his mother. It’s embarrassing.”

Cheryl shrugged a little. “They’re beautiful. But yeah, tacky. Aren’t all the flowers tacky? Try to calm down.”

“It’s just…it’s just…I guess seeing him again made me realize he’s dead,” Devin said. “I’d sort of forgotten that part.”

“Yeah,” Cheryl said. She took his hand and patted it, trying to make him feel better. But he didn’t. Even her hand felt uncomfortable. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

Isn’t it? Are you sure? If I had jumped out when he called me the first time, instead of waiting, Karston might still be alive.

He looked around again. Seeing Torn’s keyboard player a few rows back, Devin managed a weak wave of his fingers.

“There’s One Word Ben,” Devin whispered to Cheryl. “But where the hell is Cody? He should be here.”

“His little brother has a fever. They had to find a sitter,” Cheryl said.

Devin was about to ask how she happened to know that when, with a loud creak of floorboard, Cody stepped in, looking totally surreal. He had on a dark suit and black T-shirt, but no tie. His savage white hair was actually de-spiked and combed into a part, like he was some lame gangster wannabe.

He cracked his neck, then walked up to Karston’s mom, leaned forward, and whispered to her.

At least he’s being respectful.

She didn’t seem to be paying much attention to whatever Cody was saying. She looked drugged or drunk, but maybe it was grief. Cody straightened and motioned for Devin to join him at the casket.

He felt a pull from Cheryl’s hands and heard an exasperated whisper from his mother, but ignored both and went back up to the casket for what was probably the tenth time. After Cody crossed himself, they stood side by side, facing the body.

“Check out my hair,” Cody whispered. “You believe what my stepmother made me do to it?”

Devin looked over his shoulder and saw Cody’s parents walk in with a few of his brothers and sisters. His father was tall and broad. He’d been some kind of athlete years back and even now had no paunch. His stepmother had insanely curly hair and a few of the kids had a familiar wild glint in their eyes. Despite the glint, Devin had always been disappointed by how normal they all seemed compared to Cody.

“Your hair looks like crap,” Devin said stiffly. “Is that what you want to talk about?”

Cody looked at him a second, then shook his head, deciding to let it go. “Nah. Got good news for you. You know our two friends, Nick and Jake from the Slits?”

“Yeah?”

“My dad just got the call. They arrested them with like two sacks of crystal meth. Even if they can’t pin the murder on them, they’re gone, man, gone for a long, long time. Rumor is they’re ratting out their brothers for reduced sentences, so even the rest of the Slits won’t care what happens to them.”

Cody slapped Devin in the shoulder and grinned. “We’re clear, man, free and clear!”

Devin should have felt relieved, but he didn’t. Instead he said, “Shh! It’s Karston’s funeral! Keep it