You and I, Me and You

“Are you kidding me?” Emma Jan demanded. “ThreeFer got Sussudio started?”

“There’s something freakier than the two dead triplet killers in his basement?”

“Oh yeah. Zimmerman’s a movie buff.” Adrienne’s reaction to his poster collection was why backup—or help, I guess, since we weren’t real—had shown up faster than we expected. All kinds of neighbors heard the shots and sensibly called 911. Anyone who tells you gunshots sound like fireworks and thus they didn’t bother calling the police has never heard gunshots, only fireworks.

Hours later, after the real cops were done processing the scene, after we’d given our statements and bewildered Lynn Rivers (“What do you mean, you’re not real? You’re standing here, aren’t you?”) and watched Zimmerman hauled away by bemused cops (“Thanks for coming and arresting me yourself, Cadence and Shiro and Adrienne. Let’s keep in touch, okay? You smell nice, by the way! Your partner is a horrible man!”), I finally remembered to call Emma Jan and fill her in on what had happened. Like all true fake law-enforcement agents, she was pissed she’d missed the fun.

“Stuck with all Paul’s paperwork,” she groaned, “Making sure he hadn’t set up any other working girls. He hasn’t, as far as we can tell, but still. He’s still zonked, by the way—what did Michaela say to him? You’re both horrible for not calling me earlier.”

I said nothing, but perhaps her friend Shiro would explain the next time they went to the range together.

(“Those two morons were on a pseudo-suicide mission because the stress had temporarily fractured their good sense. Cadence’s good sense; George is deficient. They did not call you because they know you have no ambivalence about your life; they did not call because you would not entertain a suicidal thought if someone stuck a gun in your ear. It could almost be considered a compliment. A stupid, thoughtless compliment.”)

“Zimmerman was plenty obsessed before two of the ThreeFer came along, but they got him drunk on the nobility of suicide, how it was a sacred calling and anyone who chickened out should be forced to keep their word, also known as ‘murdered.’ You know, just your everyday fixation. And get this—they let him practice on them.”

Emma Jan groaned. “Of course they did. And I bet he didn’t even warn you he had a couple of serial Popsicles waiting for you.”

(To arrest me for killing Wayne Seben, Rita McNamm, Carrie Cyrus, Wendy Dennison, Mike Perry, Sara Torp, Roger Phillips, and Mark Graham. Oh, and I almost forgot—)

I said nothing to that, either; I wasn’t sure how common knowledge about BOFFO’s disappearance (if something that was never real could disappear) was among our colleagues. Michaela seemed determined to pull a rabbit—or a fat wad of cash—out of a hat, and I believed if anyone could do it, she could. Whether or not I’d/we’d stay if she could was something else.

“You know, I’m here listening to this, and even after the weirdness we’ve seen, I’m amazed they let him practice on them. And it’s stupid that I’m amazed. I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“Well, they were definitely dead. Ah, shit…” George was waving me over. I’d gone to get the car so he wouldn’t have to walk up the block in the cold, and used the chance to call Emma Jan. I had to drop him back at BOFFO, pray we avoided Michaela for another day or so, run inside to tend to some personal business, then make one more stop on my way home. My way to bed, actually, because tonight I couldn’t sleep at Patrick’s house. After my next-to-last stop, it wouldn’t be home anymore. Hope there’s a Super 8 in the area. Hope the credit card company got my check! How long does it take to pay off a $5,000 balance if you keep paying the minimum? “I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow and regale you, I promise.”

I hung up. Nothing against her; I was just talked out. My brain was too crowded for conversation.

To think just hours earlier I’d been telling myself that in real life there aren’t scary cobwebby basements full of dead bodies killed in interesting ways. George was right. Shiro was right. I was an idiot.

Zimmerman’s basement wasn’t cobwebby, and it wasn’t gloomy or filled with rotting wood furniture. There was no rustling of vermin and nothing squeaked or creaked. It was very like he said it was: a room kept for stocking a restaurant, complete with walk-in freezer.

The only things in the walk-in were Jeremy; his sister, Tracy; and several packets of sliders (cheddar and bacon, and mushroom and Swiss, and guess what I’m never having for lunch ever again?).

Tracy and Jeremy, now frozen treats in Ian Zimmerman’s dead father’s walk-in freezer. Michaela had executed their brother, the third of three. His name was Opus, and he was a former colleague of mine who had been operating under our noses. They’d managed to frame George convincingly

and set things up so they could get away with their nasty crimes. (This may seem unbelievable, but the ThreeFer triplets liked to kill people in threes, then leave clues for the police written in their victims’ blood … weird, right?) Opus knew about my sisters, and discussed us with his siblings. The triplets, who survived a childhood much like (I imagine) George’s, decided that Shiro, Adrienne, and I would be the perfect spouses for Jeremy, Tracy, and Opus. Their crimes and framing George led up to the dramatic announcement that it had all been a sort of murderous dating game.

They did not take our scorn, refusal, and hysterical laughter well. Fortunately, before things got worse (which they always can, you know) Michaela showed up and let her gun do the talking. (This is not a criticism of Michaela or her gun!)

All that work, all that death, all that waste, to end up in the Zimmerman family freezer. Jeremy had been poisoned. No idea what he drank, but he’d died in terrible pain, if his tortured expression was any indication, and the acidic vomit around his mouth and down his neck had frozen in drips like points.

Tracy had let Zimmerman lock her in with her dead brother; she had frozen to death. I couldn’t tell if it had been days or weeks later—the ME would be able to figure it out—but Jeremy had died first, and his sister had died holding his frozen hand.

What were her last thoughts? What were his? I could only imagine, and thank God. I didn’t want to be able to ask them. I was glad they were dead, and I wasn’t sad I was glad. They had abandoned Opus to his death; they had fled knowing Michaela would kill him. Since then they had been a broken thing, a machine that would never again work right. Like something broken, they could never truly comprehend what had happened; they could never see their part in it.

Once, they tried to communicate their guilt and grief to me, but, like all true narcissists, they took no responsibility for the consequences of their cowardice.

How we have missed you! Life is simply not the same. We apologize for having to leave the party so soon this past summer; terribly rude.

You may recall that through your actions, you created a vacancy in our family. After giving it some thought, we have decided you are responsible for filling it. Any one of you will do. Or all of you! My. Wouldn’t that be an embarrassment of riches?

We are thrilled to see you working the June Boy Jobs; you do have experience in these matters … need we remind you just what kind? But we disapprove of JBJ’s agenda; our murders were puzzle pieces you eventually put together. JBJ’s murders are simply fuel for a blood-hungry malcontent.

We want only your happiness, ladies, and thus would like you to keep in mind that the trite clichés about the racial demographics of serial killers are not always cold truth.

If you don’t believe us, then look at the three of us! Oh. Excuse us. The two of us.

With all our love and respect,

Two of the ThreeFer

And then there were none. Which was fine with me.