The Death Agreement (10 page)

"Pieces are missing," he had
said.

The drawing was a segmented sketch
of a person. Taylor had used a label maker to mark each section.
Instead of words like "Head," or "Arm," he used names like, "Little
Jon," and "Kyle." Taylor's whole family—all eight of them,
including himself—was represented on the paper in a jagged,
Frankenstein-like fashion.

Pieces.

Unable to look at it anymore, I
turned the page. On the reverse side of the morbid drawing, he'd
sketched a dead tree with long, claw-like branches and at the base
of the tree were piles of leaves drawn in red ink. That little
voice in the back of my mind laughed, then said:
Blood.

I turned off my phone and sat in
the pitch-black darkness, gripping The Death Agreement tightly. No
matter how hard I tried, my hands refused to stop
shaking.

Since learning of Taylor's demise
I had clung to the hope that he had been a victim along with the
rest of his family. Even after talking with Yang at the funeral
home, part of me still refused to believe he had done the horrible
things everyone accused him of doing. But this irrefutable proof,
written by Taylor's own hand, sealed that possibility
forever.

My hands continued to shake. I
thought I understood insanity. I've seen war. I knew men could
break. But that letter…. Words like crazy, or mad, or
psychotic…words like those don't even come close to describing what
Taylor had done.

Once I knew the truth, dying
seemed like the best option. It would have been so easy to just lay
down in the dark until my body starved to death.

"I'm nothing but a worthless
fucking cripple," I said, not for the first time.

No one would have missed me. Hell,
no one would have found me. I wondered how long before every memory
of me disappeared? How long would it be until Jon Randon became
just another missing person poster, another lost piece?

Self-loathing and depression, my
two old friends, tore at me. As hope faded, Taylor's words came to
life and began to play like a movie in the darkness of my
imagination.

I watched Taylor sawing off Little
Jon's head then handing the corpse to his unsuspecting wife, only
to rape her before the terror of seeing her decapitated little boy
had even fully registered. Next he happily cut through the flesh of
his mother and father, blood spraying the room. Then I saw his
brother and sister begging for their lives while the saw ripped off
flesh and limbs.

Each slice, so vivid in the
nothingness. The bodies piled up and the blood continued to flow
like a never-ending waterfall. The corpses pumped out black and
rancid liquid until it filled every corner of the perverse setting.
Even Taylor couldn't escape the onslaught. He laughed hysterically
as the tide rose around him, inch by inch, until only his wild eyes
remained visible in the sea of death.

The container of my mind couldn't
hold all of the horror. I don't know how anyone's mind could. When
the pressure went past the maximum, the scene burst, exploding
outward.

Blood rained down and faded from
dark red to pitch black to the color of dirty water. The walls of
the kill room dried like clay and crumbled in the wind. Then six
corpses, Taylor's discarded trash, his
useless parts
, materialized in that
new pond, some floating, others sinking. Then I saw Taylor's body.
He lay dying not far from water's edge, leg gone and losing blood
fast, resting under a large, white maple tree, surrounded by leaves
soaked with blood. And yet that fucking smirk was still plastered
on his face.

My visualization didn't match up
perfectly to Taylor's words though. I realized the timeline he
described contained a flaw. Six bodies were found in the pond—six,
not seven. Jesse's grandfather was alive and well.

In the confession, Taylor claimed
he would be seeing his grandfather next, before going to the pond.
The plan must have changed. There had to be a reason why Taylor let
him live.

"Yang," I said to the empty pitch
black room that shouldn't exist. He needed to know. I owed him
that.

"Jon, can I call you
back?"

"Wait. You'll want to hear this. I
found Taylor's confession."

"That's great, but I can't talk
right now."

"
That's
great?
Really? What the hell,
Yang?"

"Listen, I need to call you back.
I'm in the middle of something."

"Oh, I also found a picture of
what he did. He drew a fucking picture."

I heard Yang talking to someone
else, shouting an order. Lots of commotion, the sound of picture's
being taken.

"Taylor was going to go after his
grandfather."

"I know." Yang said. "I'm here
now."

"What? How did you
know?"

"Do you think detectives just sit
around and blow each other all day?"

"I'm serious. How did you find out
he had planned on going there?" I asked, annoyed. Then added, "And
how is he doing?" I tried to sound concerned for the old man.
Though I really didn't care about Howard Taylor, I cared about what
Yang thought of me.

"I followed up on that Goodtime
lead. The techs didn't have much from the computers, a forum post
and some web searches for a pawn shop, dead ends mostly, so I
checked on the newly-arrived batch of credit card transactions. A
change in habit tipped me off."

"What kind of change?"

"For the past nine years, Howard
Taylor had gone down to the corner deli each morning for a cup of
coffee. Yet, no charges had come through in weeks. As for how he's
doing…well, not much better than the rest of his family I would
say."

My stomach dropped. "He's
dead?"

"Yes, and he's missing a part,
too."

"Then who…" I swallowed hard. "Who
have I been speaking with? Who sent the fucking
flowers?"

"We'll figure it out all in good
time, but really, I gotta go. Once this crossed the state line, the
FBI had to come in to serve the warrant. I'll be up in Williamsport
PA for the rest of the night."

"But—"

"Listen," Yang said, "fax over
what you got, the number is on my card. Still got it,
right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll either send someone to
pick up the original tomorrow, or I'll collect it
myself."

"Yang?"

"Yeah?"

"Taylor wasn't working
alone."

"I know," he admitted, then let
out a deep breath. "We'll talk tomorrow."

"Christ, Yang. I don't like
this."

"Me neither. Goodnight,
Jon."

"Goodnight."

SECTION VI -
WISHES

I tried not to think as I walked back to the barracks. I had
spoken to Taylor's grandfather on multiple occasions. Or at least I
thought I had. Every question spawned more questions. Like, why was
his grandfather's body left behind when he'd dumped the rest of the
family in the pond? Maybe he loathed the old man so intensely that
those remains weren't good enough to share the same trash
bags.

"You're beginning to think like
him, Jon."

Laughable, I know. Oftentimes what
I say isn't what I think, even when I'm talking to myself. I wanted
to cast my thoughts away as lies, but I knew better. I wasn't
beginning to think like Taylor. Truth is I had always thought like
Taylor.

Best friends share a certain
mental link, a bond that doesn't easily break. If Taylor had the
capacity to snap then so must I. Maybe it had already happened.
Maybe I just hadn't realized it yet?

Before I knew it, I had climbed
the steps and stopped at the front desk. I asked the young night
watch soldier to send a fax for me, then handed him Taylor's
drawing. Next, I took out the handwritten confession, and when I
went to hand the soldier the letter, I could see that the blotches
on the pages were not ink—they were bloody finger
prints.

I folded the letter and put it
back into my coat pocket. I don't think the soldier noticed. He
seemed focused on the picture, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. When he
realized I was staring at him, he tried to hide the revolting look
on his face, but failed miserably.

"L.T.? Are you
sure
you want to send
this?"

"That's what I said, Corporal. Is
there a problem?"

"No, sir. No problem at
all."

The soldier sent the fax without
taking his eyes off me. I didn't blame him for being spooked. A
picture like that would put anyone on edge. I'm actually surprised
he didn't call the MPs. Funny what a brass stick of butter on your
shoulders can get you.

I heard the fax receipt rip from
the roll of paper. He handed it to me along with the original
document.

"Thank you, Corporal."

"Anything else, sir?"

"Yeah. Keep this to yourself. I'll
know if you don't."

Before he could respond, I turned
toward the elevators and strolled away. Too much had been dumped on
my plate that night, and the last thing I needed was Colonel
Litwell getting involved.

I made it to my room and nearly
collapsed the moment I walked through the door. It felt as though
more had gone down in that one day than all my days in Afghanistan
combined. I looked at my bunk like a starving man looks at a
medium-rare steak.

I couldn't recall the last time I
had a full night's sleep. The nightmares had been getting worse,
more vivid, and rest had become a rare commodity. It's amazing I
hadn't developed hypnophobia, or whatever it's called when you're
afraid to close your eyes.

Tired or not, it made no
difference. I couldn't allow myself to fall asleep. One last item
remained on my list of things I needed to do—a game of
Wishes.

Instead of heading toward the
comfort of my pillow, I went into the kitchenette and reached for
the cabinet above the refrigerator. When the door swung open, I
expected to find a wide variety of high-proof spirits, but instead
I found the space nearly empty.

"Damn."

Taylor and I had decimated the
collection, and I had never made it back to the Class 6. I had
hoped to find a half-full bottle of Jameson, at least. St.
Patrick's Day was only a day away, and it would have been perfect
for the occasion. Then I recalled a vague memory of finishing that
off weeks ago, back when I had first heard that Taylor had
died.

I considered the available
options, none were as appetizing as whiskey, however. The choice
was between a bottle of cheap vodka and a bottle of cheap tequila.
Both contained less than a swallow each. Those wouldn't do at
all.

I pushed them aside, reached back
into the shadows, and my fingers gripped the glass neck of
something
near the
corner. I pulled it into the light.

"Ha!" I smiled at the uncovered
hidden gem, an unopened bottle of Disaronno. "Classy."

I grabbed several shot glasses
from the dishwasher and took a seat at the table. While I poured
the caramel-red liquid into each shooter, I thought about the first
time I had played a game of Wishes.

***

Fort Rucker, the month before
senior spring break. Taylor dropped a full duffle bag by the door
and stared at me with his arms crossed.

"I know you don't have anywhere
you want to go," he said. "Come stay at my parents'
house."

"No thanks. I'm too busy this
week."

"You're full of shit."

"No, I'm serious. I have to
study."

"Won't take no for an answer," he
said. "They live on Blackbird Bay. We can take the boat
out."

"I'm good. Really."

"This isn't a request, Randon.
Besides, I can't leave you here alone." He cocked an eyebrow.
"Knowing you, you'll hang yourself in the showers. Actually, the
depression you're radiating is likely to make
everyone
kill themselves. I'm
tempted to slice my arm open just standing here, so stop being a
miserable cunt."