My eyes are still closed as I recall these details.
The officers in the hospital room are talking. They’re saying something about turning me over to the Feds, but threats are meaningless to a man who feels as though he’s dying. I doubt I could feel any worse than I do right now. I need to zone out and figure out how I ended up in a psych ward.
My thinking runs to hazy memories, wanting to make sense of the past few days, and the fog in my mind begins to clear.
Sharon and Mark were arguing with someone on the sidewalk as I walked down the steps of our shared brownstone. I didn’t think too much of it until shots were fired.
Gunfire in New York evokes a certain kind of contradiction. The city that never sleeps suddenly falls silent. It’s only for a second or two, and I’m hard pressed to figure out if it’s just psychological, and I’m imagining the silence in stark contrast to the deafening report of gunshots, or if there really is a moment when the city falls quiet and the bustle of life stops for a second.
Mark crumples to the pavement, but he’s got an arm outstretched, firing at a black sedan as it pulls away.
Tires screech.
The engine roars.
More shots ring out from the passenger window, and yet all I can think is: What is it with black sedans? Black is so cliché for bad guys.
Brilliant red blood sprays out across the murky grey snow, snapping me back to reality. Winter is lifeless. The trees are skeletons. The cars are covered in ice. Snow blankets the stairs. Everything’s white or an off-grey. Everything except the deep crimson stains on the snow behind Mark.
Sharon screams.
I run down the stairs, almost losing my footing on a patch of ice. Sharon holds Mark, cradling his head. Blood seeps through a wound in the center of his chest. His eyes stare blindly up at the blue sky.
“I—”
I’m speechless. I’m in shock. I’m vaguely aware that I’ve become a witness to a violent crime, and will be called on at some point to give a statement to the police, or to testify in court, but already my recollection of events is murky. I don’t know what Mark was arguing about. I couldn’t pick out the shooter in a lineup if he was six foot four and surrounded by dwarfs. I didn’t catch the license plate. About all I caught was a black sedan, but I can’t recall the make. It could have been a Cadillac. It could have been a Toyota Prius. I have no idea.
Sharon says, “Help me get him inside.”
“He’s dead,” I say, stating the obvious.
“We can save him,” she replies, handing me the keys to her apartment. “Put him in the bathtub. Quick!”
Before my stunned brain has time to realize what’s happening, I’m staggering up the stairs cradling Mark’s lifeless body in my arms. Blood drips on my shoes.
Sharon is gone.
I back through the front door. My heel catches on the carpet in the lobby and it’s all I can do not to fall backwards. Fumbling with her keys, I struggle to raise Mark high enough so my hand can reach the lock. I could put him down, but for some reason that feels wrong, and so I persevere until finally the door unlocks.
The door swings open. I accidentally bump Mark’s head against the doorframe in my rush to get to the bathtub—as though getting there actually matters. Turning sideways, I shimmy down the hall.
The apartment is empty. Mark and Sharon have lived here for years, but there’s no carpet, no furniture. There’s a fridge in the kitchen, but no table, no chairs. No couch in the living room. No beds in the bedrooms.
The apartment layout is the same as mine, so I head straight for the bathroom. It feels stupid, but I lay Mark in the bathtub just as Sharon instructed. I’m a little clumsy and his head hits the tap. Thinking about it, I realize I’ve put him in the wrong way, with his head by the faucet. Blood runs down the drain.
“Shit.”
I go to move him, but he’s heavy, and it’s awkward leaning down to grab his legs and twist him around. After a few tugs, I give up. What difference does it make? He’s dead.
I look at myself in the mirror. Blood has soaked into my jacket.
Sharon squeezes into the bathroom behind me. She’s dragging two metal trash cans full of packed snow and ice. She dumps them on Mark, covering him in slush.
“Ice,” she says, as Mark’s head disappears beneath the dirty snow. “I need more ice.”
“There’s an ice machine on the second floor,” I say, trying to be helpful, but very much still in shock. Did she just bury her brother in ice?
“Brilliant,” she replies, kissing me on the cheek. “Stay here with him.”
“Ah.”
She kissed me. Why did she kiss me? Her brother has just been murdered, and she’s kissing me?
Sharon’s gone before I can say anything. I can hear her rummaging around in the kitchen, frantically opening and then slamming drawers and cupboards. She runs out the door and pounds up the stairs.
I stand there feeling stupid. I should be doing something. There’s a dead body lying in the bathtub beneath the snow and ice. What is there to be done? Nothing. I stack the two empty trashcans together and sit them on the toilet seat. For some bizarre reason, tidying up makes sense of a senseless situation.
Sirens sound in the distance. Pulling back the curtain, I peer out through the tiny bathroom window.
A cop car skids to a halt in front of the building. There aren’t any parking spots, so he noses his cruiser into a slight gap, leaving its fat ass blocking the road. Blue and red lights push back the twilight, flickering over the snow and ice.
I look back at Mark. Two legs protrude from beneath the slush in the tub.
“This is so wrong,” I mumble to myself, but I haven’t done anything wrong. Have I? I don’t think so. Outside, a cop stands beside the blood-splattered snow on the sidewalk, talking to one of the neighbors from across the road. A small crowd forms as another cop car arrives from the opposite direction.
Sharon jogs back into the cramped bathroom still catching her breath. She’s carrying three plastic bags full of ice cubes, and she’s got a roll of Saran Wrap under her arm, along with a roll of tinfoil. She raises her elbow and both rolls drop to the bathroom floor. The bags of ice are unceremoniously dumped on the tiles. Ice cubes skate across the floor.
“Help me get him up.”
Sharon plunges her hands into the snow and slush covering Mark’s body. I’m more cautious, not wanting to touch him. She drags him up by the front of his jacket, and leans him against the side of the tub. Mark’s head lolls to one side. Ice sticks to his hair. His lips are blue. His eyes stare blindly ahead.
“You’ve only got three minutes,” I say, not sure what she thinks she can accomplish. I’ve heard of people doing some pretty weird shit when someone dies, but this wins first prize at the county fair.
“You might have three minutes,” she replies. “He has thirty.”
I start to say something but Sharon cuts me off. “Hold this.”
She positions the bags of ice around his head and grabs my hands, pushing them in place against the cold plastic. I do as I’m told.
Sharon pulls at the roll of Saran Wrap and starts winding the thin plastic sheet around Mark’s head. She dodges my arms as she wraps the bags against his face and the sides of his skull. I get the gist of what she’s doing and alternate my hands, making sure the ice is hard up against his skin. Sharon packs the ice carefully, patting it down and moving it around so none of Mark’s facial features can be seen.
“We’re scientists,” she says as she works. “We’re not from around here.”
“Brooklyn?” I ask, detecting a familiar twang in her accent.