Black Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #2 (Watty Winner)

Chapter 63

Zandra begins to apologize to Dvorak for bothering him, all the while her body tensing for what happens next. In mid-sentence, she picks up the lawnmower knife, takes a wobbly step forward and falls into Dvorak, letting the weight of her rapid descent drive the point into his chest.

The blood is more than she expected, not that she could've possible predicted it. She also didn't anticipate how difficult it would be to take the knife out, or how much Dvorak would struggle in his last moments. The sweat running down her back is another surprise. It feels like the room went up 50 degrees.

The silence, though, is what disturbs her the most, far more than the gore. It's as if she went momentarily deaf as her entire world collapsed into the tip of the lawnmower knife.

I love you, David.

In a haze, Zandra cleans the lawnmower knife on the fabric of the gown and slips it up her sleeve. She wore one with the sheath just in case, and now she knows why. It'll be the last time she wears this one. Dvorak's blood turned it a dark, eggplant shade of purple. It matches the one on the carpet of the floor. It's brighter on top of the pizza boxes, though, and on the mirror.

Her body feels like it's floating when she turns toward the door, but her mind drifts to what happens next. Dvorak's body won't just disappear, especially during a fire alarm. Police and firefighters will find him after his miscreant buddies notice he's missing.

Green, red and blue. My prediction came true after all, with blue and red lights from the first responders hauling away a body from the green room. Close enough.

It's inappropriate, but Zandra chuckles at the coincidence as she locks the door behind her and steps into the hallway. It's just as empty as she left it. She pauses to get her bearings.

Show me the way again, David.

Only two routes present themselves, and one is in the direction Dvorak's crew took to leave. Zandra heads in the opposite direction. That takes her toward the stage, where she slips into a shadow behind a curtain and peeks out into the auditorium. The seats lay vacant, with the only movement coming from a pair of police officers headed toward the stage. The siren from the fire alarm stops drilling holes in her ears as they come closer.

Oh, shit.

Zandra looks back at the route she took to the curtain. A clear, bloody line connects her current position back to the hallway. Between her blood-soaked purple gown dragging on the floor and her bad ankle, she mopped the floor with Dvorak's blood. There's no way the police will miss it.

She searches for something to clean up. The backstage area overflows with props from plays of years past, but the only mop she can find doubles as a wig. Nothing short of a total clean up will do.

The police officers get close enough to the stage for Zandra to hear them talking. She slips back into the shadow by the curtain, hoping the smell of the carnage doesn't tip them off even if they can't see her.

"...alarm was tripped backstage," the first one says.

"Yeah, this will be the last check. They'll open the doors after the all-clear," the second one says. "And here I thought this was going to be easy overtime pay."

"The thing is, moving that many people in and out of the auditorium in an emergency is more likely to get people hurt than a little fire that can be put out with a boot."

"Hey, hold on a minute."

Zandra sucks in a breath and keeps it deep in her gut.

They know I'm here.

But the officers don't storm toward Zandra. Instead, the second officer talks with a third over a radio. Zandra doesn't understand the words they use over the air, but she does once the second officer finishes up and turns to the first.

"One of the stagehands ratted Zandra out for smoking in her green room a little earlier. Says that's probably what it was," the second officer says. "They don't know where our two guests of honor are, though."

"Let's check it out for good measure," the first officer says. "It's policy anyway."

"Let it be, man. You really want to step into that shit show? If she lights herself on fire with a cigarette, I'll sleep fine. Burn the witch," the second officer says. "Look, if there was a real problem, at least one of those two would've come out from back there. This is a whole lot of nothing. I used to smoke in the bathroom back in the day, too."

Burn the witch? This is a school. Quit embarrassing yourselves. Or did someone get to you two, too?

"Alright, I'll call in the all-clear then," the first officer says. "Let's not let anyone else backstage, though. That bald guy came with a bunch of friends, I don't want them complicating things. Keep the area clean back there in case it happens again."

"Sounds good."

With that, the officers head out of the auditorium, away from Zandra's hiding spot behind the curtain. A moment later, a steady stream of people quickly returns to their seats.

Zandra smells the salty rot of drying blood on her purple gown as she breathes in the heat of the bodies filling the auditorium.

This town can no longer ignore its sins. It's time for the nuclear option.

She waits until the auditorium returns to capacity and for Sloggins to reclaim his perch at the podium to make her move.

This is for you, David. I hope you're watching.