Catharsis [Novel]

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

           

Flipping the phone over, I check the caller ID.  No name.  Just a number, and not one I recognize.  Of course if I had recognized the number that would have only added to the weirdness of the night.

            Clicking the red END button, I silence the annoying tune of the ringer.  I need a few minutes to think.  Sitting down with my back against the light pole and facing the darkened alley, I give myself a few moments of calm to collect my thoughts.

            But I can’t. 

I mean, I can sit down, but I can’t calm myself with the annoying buzz being generated by the light right above me.  Now that I’m looking at it (Or near it, really.  It’s too bright for a direct gaze.), I realize there’s too much annoying glare around for me to relax.

            After standing up and moving several yards back down into the alley, I find a relatively comfortable spot against a bare section of wall.  I feel the need to stress the "relatively" part over the "comfortable" part here.  I was still in an alley in a bad part of town, and I was sitting several dozen yards from a dead guy.  Let's not forget that little nugget of joy.

            Looking deeper into the alley towards the old guy, I realize I can make out his form surprisingly well.  The alley’s dark, but I can still see his ghostly visage staring up at the sky.  That shouldn't be possible.

            I’m starting to get the impression there might be something wrong with me.  Or it’s incredibly "right", depending on how one wanted to look at the situation.  Essentially, I’m seeing in the dark.  The old man is a quarter of a football field away, in a dark alley, on a dark night, partway behind a dumpster...and I can see him.  I can see him clearly enough to recognize that his eyes are still open and staring at me.  I shouldn't be able to do that.  Nobody should be able to do that.

            I'll have to file that interesting tidbit away for further speculation.  Priority number one is getting away from here and getting home.  Safely.

            I have no desire to go to the police now.  I'm not sure what's going on, but I am sure that whatever it is is over my head.  Going to the police might be a solid idea later, but right now I don't want that. 

            You can't just leave the old guy sitting in the alley, I tell myself.  That doesn't seem right, either.  If I am the one responsible for killing him (Still not positive on that one, but it’s not looking good for me.  Especially in light of these other "developments".), then I really hope I had a good reason for it.  Good reason or not, I can't just leave his body lying in an alley to be discovered by rats or garbage men or whoever else wanders the alleys in a city.

            Dropping my head into my hands to think, I DONK my head against the hard plastic body of the cellphone still clutched in my right fist.  Already I’d forgotten about that little thing, again.

            And then it hits me like a, well, like a cell phone to the head.  I can use the phone to call 911 and alert them to the guy's body.  I certainly don't have to stick around for that.  I can call them and then call a taxi and scoot on home.

            "But what if they trace the number when I call it in?"  I ask out loud trying to think of possible screw-ups to this rather simple plan.

            "Not a problem.  Not my phone.  It won't trace back to me."

            "But it will trace back to the albino stick-boy."

            "So," I argue with myself.  "That shouldn't affect me at all."

            "But he's seen you.  He knows you were here.  He can describe you to the police if they question him."

            "Good point." 

Pondering on that for a moment, I continue.  "I don't think that will matter.  All he can describe is a short, angry Mexican chick wearing some nice clothes with blood on them.  If he even remembers that much.  His smell was pretty off so something tells me he won't be cognizant of too many details (Why would that even register with me?).  Plus, he'll probably put my age as somewhere in the low double digits.  That will keep me safe by a few years."

            "But what about fingerprints on the phone?"

            "I'm going to wipe it down, and then I'll throw it in the canal on the way home.  That should kill any trace of it."

            "If you call for a taxi to pick you up here, then the police can easily trace that back if they search for any connections to the old guy."

            "Another solid point.  I hadn't thought about that.  Well, I mean, I guess I had since I’m arguing with myself, but whatever...  It's been a long night already.  Let's wrap this up."  I pause.  "Where was I?"

            I pause and go back over my last few seconds of conversation in my head.

            "Oh yeah.  The taxi.  Well, I can solve that by not getting picked up here.  I'll just run down a few blocks until I get tired, and then I'll call from there.  I'll try to get far enough away that there won't be a connection.  And I won't have the taxi drop me off near my neighborhood.  That will keep me clean on both ends."

            "What about clothes?"

            "What about them?"  I look down and notice the front of my blouse is covered in blood.  Blood I'm pretty sure isn't mine.  It won't do to run down streets in a gore-soaked outfit.  That’s bound to attract attention regardless of which part of town I'm in.

            Unbuttoning my nice blouse (Sorry Nana about your expensive birthday gift.), I take it off.  My green Save the Narwhals t-shirt only has a few blotches of blood on it, so I turn it inside out.  Not a perfect disguise, but it certainly works better than the splatter-paint fashion show I was sporting before.  I briefly consider ditching the shirt into a trashcan, and then I realize that is exactly what stupid criminals do before getting caught (I've watched my share of crime shows.). 

            Stuffing the mobile phone into a pocket of my jeans (It's gone off twice.  Same number both times, so I just put it on vibrate.), I step out into the baking yellowness of the accursed lamp to check for street signs.

            Noting the names of the cross streets two blocks away, I judge the distance to the alley so I can give directions to the police.

            As a last measure, I look around where I've been standing for any evidence of my stay.  I notice the glint of the switchblade on the ground near the street lamp and consider picking it up.  I haven't touched it yet, so I have no connection to it.  No prints from me, and if I take it it will just become one more thing I have to worry about hiding or destroying.  I leave it where it is and begin a slow jog north towards the outskirts of the city and my family’s house. 

            After several minutes of jogging I stop and decide I've gone far enough to safely make the emergency call.

            The call is quick and one of the more painless experiences of the evening so far.  Once that is done, I make the decision to continue moving towards home.  I figure I can just keep running until I get tired.  That should be a safe distance from the alley for a taxi to pick me up without it being connected to the crime scene.

            As I run I discover a problem with my plan:  I don't get tired.  Running for several more minutes and increasing my pace, I never even break a sweat.  I don't even breathe hard.  I’ve always been an athlete, but I'm not a natural runner.  I'm too small for distance.  I run for soccer and for the occasional Maga workout, but I am not known for endurance.

            But this night I can run, and I don’t feel anything holding me back.