I pull down the alleyway and stop at the end of the narrow passage, slightly confused by the various dumpsters and the general disarray of this pickup location. This is clearly not an official medical transport bay.
There’s a soft thump as I pop open the glove compartment and pull out my holstered pistol, clipping the gun to my belt, then I leap from the vehicle. I hurry over to a nearby metal door. It’s propped open ever so slightly, just like my client promised.
The wordstoo easyflash across my mind like a brilliantneon sign, but I move past them.
Slipping inside, I find myself in a long hallway. This part of the facility is surprisingly officelike—not even the slightest hint of medical paraphernalia—and the one cracked door I can see through reveals a printer and a filing cabinet. The lights are dimmed and it’s deathly quiet, the only sound coming from various computer towers as they hum away under distant desks.
This hallway is lined with small rooms, rows and rows of partitioned spaces leading off into the darkness. It’s here, in the inky shadows, that a stainless-steel gurney rests.
On top of the gurney is an oblong bag.
Everything about this situation feelsslightlyoff, but not quite enough to cut and run. It’s a simmering, instinctual discomfort, an abstract tension in my body that only comes when things are one degree away from making sense. For instance, this part of the building is clearly not where the bodies are kept, yet here sits my five-million-dollar payday. No security guards to avoid. No after-hours medical staff to charm.
I approach slowly, more apprehensive than I expected to be. Unlike the funeral home bags I’m used to, this one is jet black, but there’s no mistaking the shape within.
I slowly unzip the plastic cover, just enough to get a good look at Eddie’s face. Sure enough, what once was Eddie Michaels stares directly upward from this morbid cocoon, his eyes unblinking and frozen in shock. His irises are green, just like mine, and long ago, the hue of our auburn hair also matched. Eddie’s mop went stark whitehalfway through his career, but he embraced the vibe with a gusto rivaled only by Steve Martin.
Eddie is still wearing the shimmering gold-and-white pinstripe outfit, his corpse not yet opened up and rearranged. The trauma on his neck, however, is more than apparent, a massive bruise erupting like a blooming purple flower. The pale flesh here has been torn in quite a few places, shattered bones puncturing the skin in strange white nubs.
This is no time for reverence, though. Eddie—the artist I loved—has little to do with this hunk of cold meat lying before me.
I zip up the bag and grab the gurney’s edge, dragging it along as I back through the exit door. There’s a soft metal click as the door swings wide, night air wrapping itself around me.
It feels good. It feels like success.
I open my truck and arrange the gurney before it. From here, I climb into the refrigerated chamber and use all my strength to pull Eddie’s body onto the flatbed. Unlike my last trip, all six of the cubbies are empty, meaning it takes little effort to carefully slide Eddie into one of the lower compartments and strap him into place.
My heart is galloping, slamming so hard that I can feel it in my ears.
Go!my mind screams.Get the fuck out of here!
I leap from my truck and shut the doors, kicking the gurney away and then sprinting to the cab. Once inside, I toss my pistol into the glove compartment and stepon the gas, lurching backward before remembering the importance of casual confidence in situations like this. Not too fast, not too slow.
I pull off the mask. This is nothing but a simple, routine office supply drop-off… in the middle of the night … at the medical examiner’s office.
“Fuck yes,” I murmur, every passing second bringing me closer and closer to freedom. My hand involuntarily punches the steering wheel and I repeat the phrase again, only this time I shout it at the top of my lungs. “Fuck yes!”
At the other end of the parking lot, the gathering of news vans remains silent and undisturbed, waiting for their big scoop. They’ll certainly get it once someone notices Eddie’s body is missing, but until then this little corner of Palm Springs remains at rest.
I pull onto the main road, steadily pushing down on the gas until I’ve reached the speed limit. I focus. I breathe. I settle my heart.
I become one with the evening traffic, a hidden predator in this school of fish.
It’s smooth sailing from here.
***
The bang is so loud that it makes me tug the wheel. It’s a split-second reaction, completely instinctual as the information hits my brain stem, then course corrects on its journey through the rest of my head. That’s the way our bodies handle this kind of stimulation—action first, then rational thought.
Unfortunately, rational thought does little to quell my fear. When I glance at the driver’s side mirror, I immediately notice that the back doors of my truck are wide open, swinging haphazardly from the momentum.
My body reacts again, adrenaline surging through me as I slam on the brakes and pull over in a massive plume of dust.
I’m just outside the city limits, Palm Springs barely giving way to the wide-open desert. The lights glow warm and luminous behind me, a flat plane of twinkling stars coalescing against the base of a giant mountain range, but right now I’m in no position to admire the beauty.
Right now, I’m thinking about how fucked I am.
I leap from the truck to find myself in the middle of nowhere, an underused stretch of highway that disappears into the night both ahead and behind. I often aim for this route to avoid other cars, and tonight it has served me well. There are no headlights or taillights to be seen.
