I stepped inside, found that I was not ablaze, and called out to John. No reply. His Yorkshire terrier—named Diogee—was at my ankles, barking his stupid head off. I told him to shut up. I started to reach down to him, then noticed I had the pink Disney phone in my hand. I’d grabbed it before I’d left the car, apparently, though I couldn’t fathom why. I tossed it aside.
In the photo on Nymph’s phone, John was sprawled on the sofa, a cascade of dried vomit from his body having desperately spasmed out its contents prior to death …
Entering from the back meant passing through the kitchen and into a partially open dining room/living room space that John had turned into what he called the “parlor.” John had decorated his home—either by accident or on purpose—to look like a more affordable replica of a rich person’s house in a 1980s action movie. Furniture of black “leather,” chrome and glass end tables, massive sound system surrounding an even bigger TV, both purchased used. It was unspeakably awesome, in my opinion—cocaine decor on a crack budget.
John and I don’t talk about finances, just like we don’t talk about a lot of things. Each of us could see the argument lurking in the dark, so we just never flip on the light. I said earlier that there are reasons I don’t try to cash in on the freak show aspect of our lives, but those are my reasons, not his. John was never much for the nine-to-five and I have caught wind of him doing everything from charging for e-mail “consultations” for haunting victims to selling T-shirts. Occasionally, he’ll ask if I want in on it and I’ll say no, and assume he knows I mean I don’t want it to happen at all. He takes it to mean I just didn’t want any of the money …
The living room area was just ahead, the sofa obscured from view behind a section of wall to my right. I didn’t move. I knew I was stalling. I didn’t care.
In the photo there were drugs on the glass coffee table, a variety of them, an overdose buffet …
I called out for John a second time, and once again got no answer. I didn’t expect one.
Where a lesser person would have had a dining room table, John had a pool table. On the green surface were painted the words: IN HERE? DOOM. I ran my hand along the felt as I glanced around the room. One end of the pool table was too close to the wall, and you couldn’t extend your cue fully on the shots—it was a key part of the strategy to keep your balls away from that rail. The white wall bore scuff marks from the butts of cues striking it on the backswing, each mark representing a ruined shot. In the corner were stains on the carpet from where Crystal and Nicky had spent two hours on the body-paint job that would get John arrested (it was Halloween, all right?). On the ceiling was a faint chili stain from the rowdy aftermath of Guilty Pleasure Movie Night (Amy’s had been Twilight, mine was Weird Science, John’s was Dude, Where’s My Car?). All these memories. Maybe I’ll just stand here forever, thinking about them, instead of going into the living room and seeing what’s in there. I thought, If you never look, it’s never real and for some reason I heard it in John’s voice.
Peering into the living room, I could see where above the mantel of the fireplace John had mounted two huge chainsaws, their thirty-six-inch blades forming an X. Diogee was still yapping away, bouncing on his little paws with each bark. It was driving me fucking crazy.
I forced my legs to move.
The sofa slowly came into view and I saw the bottom of one of John’s Converse All Stars jutting out over the armrest. Lying at an unnatural angle, not moving. I could smell the gut-turning odor of a body that had purged itself at the moment of catastrophic failure.
I came around and there he was, and there was the stream of drying vomit, and there on the coffee table was a lightbulb with a plastic straw jutting out the back—a homemade pipe. One half of the bulb was charred from where he’d touched it with the lighter, again and again. And there was a bottle of pills and there was a syringe full of … whatever. This was not the aftermath of a quick midday pick-me-up. This was someone coming home and cooking up a combination intended specifically to stop his heart in a way that would be painless. I know, because I had spent some time researching the method myself.
I felt for a pulse. No need. He was cold.
Half of my universe went dark.
I collapsed into the black leatherish chair opposite the sofa. The dog, maybe sensing my mood, finally stopped barking.
im sorry
His last words had been a fucking text message.
I would have to tell Amy. I tried to imagine the conversation. I would have to track down John’s father in whatever city his rockabilly band was playing. I would have to track down his brother, assuming he’s still alive. I would have to help arrange for a funeral and go through John’s stuff. Or maybe I wouldn’t have to do any of those things. Maybe I didn’t owe him any of that, because he had abandoned me. After he had talked me down half a dozen times, here he was taking the same easy way out he’d scolded me for. That was his final message. “It turns out, you were right. There is no other escape.”
Why don’t you just fucking—
There was a noise, from the direction of the bedrooms.
Footsteps.
7. THE BATTLE OF JOHN’S LIVING ROOM
John walked into the room carrying a package of cookies. He said, “Hey, do you like Oreos? There’s something I want to try.”
I jumped out of the chair and backed up, toward the kitchen. I looked back and forth from Dead John to Alive John.
I said, “Back the fuck up!”
John gestured toward the corpse with a cookie and said, “He’s not real.”
“What’s the password?”
“It’s ‘bushmaster’ but that doesn’t matter. He knew it, too, and the real Ted is still alive. The password thing doesn’t work, the clones or doppelgangers can imitate that, the same as everything else. I think they can dig into your brain or something.”
I said, “Don’t move.”
I cautiously approached and poked the standing John with a finger, to see if he seemed solid. He did. To be sure, I wrapped my arms around his torso and squeezed, to detect any anomalous reaction. I found none.
“Okay. Yes, it is good that you are not dead. That is a positive. Wait, what’s this about Ted?”
John glanced down at the sofa. “Wait, who do you see there?”
“I see you. Dead from a drug cocktail.”
“Huh. I see Ted. Face blown off. From when I shot him.”
“From when you what?”
John circled back and told me the entire story. I dropped back into the armchair, staring off into the middle distance, trying to make sense of it all.
“First of all, the entire roof of the church didn’t blow off, I was there afterward. It was one corner, a few chunks of roofing and plywood. Second, did you say when you opened the door that doves flew out? Like in a John Woo film? Are you trying to parlay this series of events into a movie deal?”
“What matters is, I find out five minutes later that the real Ted is still alive. I talked to him. It was the exact kind of trick we were expecting. It’s kind of encouraging, I feel like we were ahead of them this time.”