J.T. Siemens

To Those Who Killed Me

Crime Fiction written by J.T. Siemens

Nominated: Arthur Ellis Unhanged Award

Published by NeWest Press April 2022

Chapter 1

Thursday, October 10, 2019

The brunette in the silver Audi convertible was dead. Even from thirty feet away, I knew from the level of stillness and the angle of her slumped head, down and to the right. I had seen that angle before. As I approached the rear of the vehicle, blood slammed through my neck and temples, my body still buzzing with endorphins from my twelve-mile run up and down the hills of West Vancouver. As I came closer I saw the small woven dreamcatcher hanging from the rear-view mirror. My throat made a strangled sound as I stopped breathing.

It was my friend Geri’s car, and she was in the driver’s seat.

Geri, oh my God.  

I sprinted to the convertible, shouting her name as I reached in and shook her shoulders. Her head lolled further down and her skin was pale where normally it was olive. I pushed my fingers through her thick hair to check for a pulse that wasn’t there.

Bringing my face near hers, I couldn’t feel any breath, though the smell of wine was strong. An open S’well bottle sat in the centre console.  

The car’s digital clock read: 4:24 PM

An unsealed white envelope and an iPhone sat on her lap. On the floor mat of the passenger side was an open bottle of prescription pills, some of which had spilled out. Zolpidem. Sleeping pills.

I pulled out my phone and called 911. “My name is Sloane Donovan. I found a woman in her car who seems to have OD’ed on sleeping pills. No vitals. Hillside Country Club. 930 Crosscreek Road, West Vancouver. End of the south service road.”

Yanking open the driver’s door, I got my hands under her armpits and dragged her onto the road. Her phone clattered onto the gravel nearby. As I knelt to begin CPR, everything around me constricted, swirled, and blurred: the trees, the car, my friend on the road. A second later, reality came roaring back. Impossible. I’d spoken to her only a few days earlier. This was wrong, a waking nightmare, a sick joke. Interlacing my fists together, I pumped her sternum.

After thirty compressions, I tilted her head back, pinched her nose, lowered my lips to hers, and gave two breaths. Following three more cycles of CPR, I thought I saw her facial muscles twitch. Another cycle. One of her brown eyes was partially open.

Five cycles.

No response.

Another cycle.

Nothing.

In the polished chrome rim of the rear wheel, I caught a distorted reflection of myself, eyes wild, red ponytail bobbing up and down. In the branches of a hemlock above, a crow mocked me and flew off.

Give up, it seemed to say.

No.

A drop of sweat from my face splashed onto Geri’s blue lips, rolled down her cheek before getting lost in the twisted gulley of her ear. After countless rounds of CPR, I got dizzy and had to stop and breathe and shake out my hands. Only then did I take in the curve-hugging red and black silk cocktail dress she wore, its pattern like angry Japanese characters. Her fingernails were painted the same red as her dress. Her wedding ring was off. So was one of her black leather pumps, probably still in the car.

Twenty feet in front of us sat a rusty blue shipping container. Beside it were several stacks of old tires and a pile of discarded lumber. Country club junkyard.

I continued CPR.

Blink. My sister, Stephanie, her nails bitten to the quick. Blink. Little Charlie, blond hair neatly parted, purple Barney dinosaur beside him. Blink. Blue-faced baby Emma, snuggled into Steph’s cold bosom. Blink. Steph’s head cocked down at that same final angle Geri’s had been.

The phone buzzed on the gravel nearby. As I pumped her chest, I glanced over. The display read: PAYPHONE 604-615-6761.

From habit, I quickly recited the number under my breath before going back to mouth-to-mouth, running the digits through my head a few times so they stuck.

Sirens howled beyond the trees. I saw the envelope a few feet away.

The sirens grew louder. I remembered finding Steph’s note on the bedside table and reading the words that would haunt me forever. I’d made the mistake of showing the note to my mother, thinking she needed to know. She didn’t. I grabbed the envelope and shoved it into the waistband of my tights, pulling my shirt over it just before a fire engine crested the rise.

*

Short Stories

To Those Who Killed Me

”Dogger and I stood shoulder-to-shoulder on his balcony, looking down over LoLo and its revolving red, neon Q. The SeaBus chugged across the Inlet toward the downtown lights. ‘Sweet view,’ I said. He looked directly at me from two inches away. ‘I agree.’ I sipped my vodka gimlet. “Ohhhh, man, like that’s not the thousandth time you’ve used that line.” He laughed and finished his drink. I gave him a sidelong glance. ‘How long we’re you with Geri?’”

*

“Standing 20 feet away, by Geri’s headstone, was Grady Harp. He looked thinner than I remembered, cheeks hollow and face lined. I turned to go, then looked at the letter in my hand. I ended up standing by his side. He didn’t look at me. ‘One phone call and you’re arrested.’”

*

“Cash-filled backpack stowed beneath our table, the three of us sat in a back booth of Funky’s on Hastings. Yet another bar sliding inexorably toward gentrification, it still had cheap beer, sticky floors, last-ditch barflies, and washrooms that would gag a maggot.”

*

“A chain-link fence separated the park from the steep brambly embankment leading to the train tracks below. At the end of the path, stairs descended into the shadows, illuminated by the glow of a cigarette ember. I started down the stairs and then stopped. Moving toward me I could make out the black pompadour, leather jacket, and silenced pistol.”

*

“‘Oh my God!’ Karin said. ‘Something’s wrong.’ She pulled out her phone and dialled 911. ‘Tell them we’re in Oppenheimer Park,’ I said. Karin spoke to the dispatch as I made a move for the girl. She whirled at let out a scream, a look of fear and confusion in her eyes.”

*

“Her free hand grasped a weather-stripped arbutus tree as she stared at the dark grey horizon. ‘I wonder where she is now. Ten days ago she was here and now she isn’t. Do you think she’s out there somewhere?’”

*

“The Ballhaven pub was a dark cave that reeked of 100 years of cigarettes, spilled beer, and beshatted trousers. Kind of place that made your liver ache just from walking in. At this hour it was mostly empty, except for a few half dead barflies. The bloated toad bartender eyeballed Tia’s ass as we walked by. The ancient jukebox blared ‘Ring of Fire.’ Dark and faceless forms slouched in the shadows, clutching glasses of their favourite poison.”

*

TO THOSE WHO KILLED ME

*

“In an alley across the street, a teenage drug dealer wearing a fur-lined parka sold to a shivering blonde in a baggie blue sweatsuit. The woman wore soiled pink slippers and hopped from foot to foot, doing the jonesing junkie jig. She was a flailing mess. I recognized her from Geri’s funeral. The girl with the damaged face.”

*

“As I stepped through the door of the No. 5 Orange, bass from a Jay-Z song vibrated through the floor and up my legs. Last time I was in ‘the Five,’ it was to bust some bikers unloading Smith & Wessons out the back door. As my eyes adjusted to the frenetic purple and red strobe lights in the packed club, I saw a leggy dancer undulating in nothing but red devil horns and white, feathery wings.”

*

To Those Who Killed Me

*

“Yuri looked up as our cruiser turned the corner into the alley, said something to his waifish redhead companion who spun around, and booked it in the other direction as fast as her black pleather pants would let her. ‘That would be the lovely Neko,’ I said.‘What do you want to bet she’s holding his stash,’ Quin said, aiming the nose of the cruiser toward Yuri’s kneecaps. At the last second, he breaked hard, putting the bumper a few yards from crippling a man. Yuri didn’t flinch, merely gave a small smile.”

*

“Back in my cop days, the Mount Pleasant Inn had a reputation for bedbugs and portable meth labs. It also accepted pay by the month, day, or hour, and was one of the few remaining motels around that accepted cash over credit card, making it the lodging of choice among crooks, cheating spouses, and people on the lam. Judging from the dilapidated exterior I saw no reason to assume anything had changed for the better.”

*

All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without prior permission. Copyright 2022.