After Midnight

I was looking for the Excedrin and the water glass, but the first thing I saw was Murphy’s book. The one that he’d autographed for me. Deep Dead Eyes.

It wasn’t something I wanted to be seeing just then.

I looked away from it fast.

When I spotted the plastic bottle of Excedrin, I reached out and grabbed it. I pulled it over to me, then got hold of the glass.

It was half full of water.

I tossed four Excedrin tablets into my mouth. Then, with a shuddering hand, I picked up the glass. I gulped the water and swallowed the tablets.

They went down fine.

I was still awfully thirsty, though. Holding on to the glass, I struggled to my feet. I staggered into the kitchen, turned on the faucet, and filled the glass with cold water. I drank it all. Then I refilled the glass. This time, I sipped it slowly and looked around.

Murphy’s kitchen seemed to double for an office. Its breakfast table held a computer, piles of paper and stacks of books. I could almost see him sitting at the table, rubbing his hair and frowning with thought.

No more books for him.

Starting to feel worse, I turned away and saw a clock above the kitchen’s entryway.

1:25

Early afternoon. A lot earlier than I would’ve thought.

What’ll I do?

I wanted to lie down on a nice bed and sleep. Make my headache go away. Make all this go away. At least for a while.

Lie down in my own bed…

But I couldn’t do that, couldn’t leave, not without taking care of the evidence.

A major clean-up to get rid of every trace of me.

It seemed like a huge, impossible job.

The way I felt…

I filled the glass once more with water, then carried it out of the kitchen and into Murphy’s bedroom.

As I made my way toward the bed, I saw three of the ropes he’d used on me. They lay on the carpet like pale, dead snakes. Each was still tied to a leg of the bed.

I’ll have to take those…

I saw the condom, too. On the floor where I’d dropped it when I took Murphy into my mouth.

The pale white disk looked like a sea creature you might find washed up on a beach, dead.

I’ll have to get rid of it.

But I could do nothing, now.

I set the glass of water on the nightstand, then crawled onto the bed, sprawled myself out on its rumpled sheet, and buried my face in the pillow.

39

SO LONG, MY SWEET

Most of my headache was gone when I woke up.

I was still facedown on Murphy’s bed, as if I hadn’t moved at all during my nap.

I’d drooled all over his pillow.

The sheet underneath me was sodden with my sweat.

I thought how nice it might be to take a shower, but then I remembered that Murphy was in the tub.

Dead.

I’d killed him.

I hadn’t meant to, but that didn’t count for much: he was just as dead, either way.

And here I was, sprawled on his bed like Goldilocks.

What if somebody shows up?

I’ve gotta get out of here.

So I rolled over, twisted sideways until my legs fell off the edge of the mattress, and sat up. I groaned. My body felt ruined. I was sore and stiff and achy almost everywhere. But at least my head no longer burned with pain.

I could think again.

I could function.

I could, but didn’t.

Not for a while, anyway.

For a while, I just sat on the edge of the bed, my head hanging, my back bent, my elbows on my thighs, my feet on the floor.

Almost like that statue, The Thinker.

But if anyone did a statue of how I looked then, he’d have to name it, The Wasted.

I knew that I needed to get off my butt and destroy every trace of my presence in Murphy’s apartment and go home. But I couldn’t bring myself to get started.

What’s the point?

I felt as if nothing mattered anymore.

Why not just stay here?

Sooner or later, somebody would show up and find me, find Murphy, call the cops.

Who cares?

Why not go to the phone and call the cops, myself? Tell them everything. Put an end to all this.

But doing even that would’ve taken too much effort.

So I just kept sitting there.

Finally, I had to get up. It was either that, or flood the bedroom. Gritting my teeth, I made it to my feet. But I couldn’t stand up straight. Hunched over slightly, I hurried to the bathroom. I slipped on the wet tile floor, but didn’t fall. With my eyes fixed on the floor just in front of my feet, I found my way to the toilet and sat down without looking at Murphy.

I kept my head low while I went.

Stared at the floor.

But I could see him, anyway. That peripheral vision thing. The tub was a short distance over to my right. Even with my eyes down, I could see its long, white side. And Murphy’s legs sticking out over the edge. And his face. He seemed to be peeking at me from around the side of his left knee.

Finally, I looked at him.

His eyes were open, but he wasn’t seeing me.

He wasn’t exactly Murphy, anymore. Whatever’d been Murphy was gone. The thing in the tub was just a fair likeness, that’s all. Somebody might’ve dropped by while I was asleep, snatched his body and replaced it with a dummy from a wax museum.

A dummy that didn’t quite get it right.

Which was a good thing, I guess. I couldn’t have stood it if my Murphy’d been in the tub.

But he wasn’t.

When I finished on the toilet, I flushed and stood up and walked across the wet tiles to the side of the tub.

I stared down at the body.