The Wrong Side of Dead

Jordan Dane

  The Wrong Side of Dead

To my sisters Denise and Debbie—

in the cookies of life, you’d be the nuts.

CHAPTER 1

Dirty Monty’s Lounge

South Side of Chicago

Thursday, 9:20 P.M.

Late summer

At the end of the bar, Seth Harper slouched, nursing his lukewarm beer and keeping his dark eyes on the door, waiting. Not even a good beer buzz made him forget why he’d come—or why he still sat alone.

Given the grand scheme of the universe, he distracted himself by contemplating the big picture. Dirty Monty’s and places like it existed for a reason. And several libations had given him the clarity of mind to reflect on it. Sleazy dumps gave the socially unacceptable a place to hang out, even on a Thursday night. And if these folks packed a thirst, Monty’s served the cheap stuff and charged enough to trick its marginal clientele into believing it was worth it. When alcohol was involved, things always got real simple. And he appreciated the irony of his half-tanked epiphany, especially since he’d be counted among the socially unacceptable here tonight.

Yet he was a few beers shy of being easily duped by any redeeming nature of the shoddy bar. The pungent odor of cigarette smoke, liquor, and cheap perfume had marked him. And the carpet smelled of mold, a borderline improvement over the collective tang of the bar patrons. His dark tousled hair, well-worn jeans, and favorite black Jerry Springer tee already reeked of the bar’s seedier elements. And well into the night, he’d be hearing a steady thrum of bass in his ears, courtesy of the nonstop jukebox music—a mix of country, classic heavy metal, and top 40 pop. He sighed and stared into his beer mug, bracing himself to accept what had happened and hail a cab home.

What the hell are you doing? The question had stuck in his head, reminding him he’d been played for a sucker. She wasn’t coming this time.

And insult to injury, the piss factor had kicked in again. Every time the bartender shot tonic into a glass or hit the spigot for a draft beer, Seth’s bladder reacted. He made a quick trip to drain the vein and slumped back on his stool. But after another fifteen minutes of nursing his beer and a fragile spirit—shifting his gaze between the front door and his watch—Seth decided to call it a night. He downed the rest of his drink and fumbled in his pocket for a tip.

As he stood, he caught sight of a blond woman near the door.

It had to be her, but from where he stood, her face had morphed into an unrecognizable blur. He narrowed his eyes and struggled for a better image, but nothing more would come. When he moved toward her, he staggered against the edge of the bar, feeling suddenly light-headed. The sensation took him by surprise. He hadn’t drunk that much.

“What…the hell?” he slurred under his breath.

When the room undulated in shadows, he knew something was terribly wrong. He felt sluggish and weak. Out-of-sync voices and warped music amplified into an irritating blare. He looked around, but everything was the same. Faces of strangers and the distant memory of a blond woman jutted in and out of the dark, distorted and overlapping in a jumbled mess. Blinking hard, he couldn’t change what he saw. Colors bled from the ceiling and walls, creating a macabre and shifting canvas.

Fear took a firmer grip.

“Help…m-me.”

He imagined calling out, but wasn’t sure the words were his. Could anyone hear him? His arms went slack. And when standing became a chore, he collapsed. Before he hit the floor, strong hands grabbed him. He turned to look for a face, but the room spiraled out of control. His world switched off.

And he was powerless to stop it.

Thursday—10:10 P.M.

Losing track of time, she worked the keyboard without effort, no longer the novice she’d been when she first started.

For the last two weeks, she had a MySpace account under the name of NascarChic8. Being cautious, she had created the anonymous handle as her main online identity. Most new friends to her page didn’t bother to read her posts. If they did, they would have found the first name of Michelle buried in her blog entries. Anyone taking the time to address her by that name got extra attention when she rechecked their site.

Being picky, she hadn’t gotten above a hundred friends, but she did her best to expand her cyber-reach. Although she’d worked hard to design her page, it hadn’t been easy to attract the right people. With her profile marked as private from public viewing—except for her default photo—most didn’t bother with sending a request to befriend her.

That left her with being the aggressor in searching for “friends” and she liked that.

Creating the most appropriate cyberpersona felt like assembling the pieces to an ever-changing puzzle with no right answer. She’d started with photos of driver Dale Earnhardt Jr., who graced the background of her blog page with his short reddish blond hair, chin stubble, and blue eyes covered in dark shades. Bit by bit she had added more images and designed the page, making sure anyone visiting the site would see her obsessive tribute to all things NASCAR. A cyberspace masterpiece in the making.

But compiling the photos had taken the most time.

The main photo on her blog—the one everyone saw online—had her standing next to a pudgy version of Dale Earnhardt Jr. with longer hair. A sunny day at the races with both of them wearing shades. But over the last week, she had posted a series of photos, each with personal commentary about the swollen pregnant belly she sported and had nicknamed Junior.

After her last photo upload, she got a new friend request that got her attention. And with it came a surprising message.

Hello Michelle—Saw your name at a friend’s site. The young man in your photo is my son. How do you know him?

The message had been straightforward and to the point. She stared at the monitor and reread it.

Before sending a return message, she clicked over to the woman’s blog and began reading. She wrote down the details that interested her. The woman’s birthday checked out from what she knew. And she lived in the same city. So far, so good. But it took reading through a few blog posts and scanning the woman’s online pics and slide shows to find what she’d been looking for. She took a deep breath and e-mailed her reply.

Everything hinged on how she worded her message.

She wrote, Yes, ma’am. Looks like he’s your son, all right. But I have to be honest. He’s not exactly speaking to me since I told him about his baby. I don’t even know where he is.

The woman’s reply came back fast.

Do you know what the baby is? A little girl or boy? Am I going to be a grandma?

She chewed her lower lip and typed a response.