Kiss of Life (6 page)

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off of his hands, but Phoebe could still see it embedded in his fingernails and in the ridges of his fingertips. He didn't smile often, but his eyes softened at their weathered and wrinkled corners as she led Adam by the hand into the room.

"Johnny's warming up the car. You look good, son," Joe said, his voice like the starting rumble of the '66 El Dorado parked on the front lawn that he tinkered with on occasion. He clapped a thick, calloused hand on Adam's shoulder.

Phoebe waited for Adam to respond, but he didn't.

"Blue is a good color for you," she said, as much to distract herself from her thoughts as to cover up the awkwardness. She patted his arm, and in doing so was reminded that he was wearing the same suit he'd worn at the homecoming dance on the night he died. The jacket and tie came off sometime at the Haunted House, which saved it from being ruined when Pete Martinsburg killed him.

Mrs. Garrity moved to hug her son. Phoebe turned away, because there was something in the way that Mrs. Garrity hugged him--which she did often--that always brought tears to her eyes. She'd make furtive touching motions on his arms and shoulders, the movements of her hands like the fluttering of butterflies unsure of where to alight, and then she would seem to collapse into his broad chest. Adam was at least a foot taller than his mother, and although his body wasn't fully under his control, Phoebe thought she could see his shoulders hitch forward whenever his mother embraced him, as though he were trying to will his arms to enfold her.

Phoebe stopped watching, because it wasn't her tears that

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Adam needed now, it was her strength. Adam had enough people crying and showering him with pity, and he didn't need either from her. She wiped her eyes as Mrs. Garrity's sobs became more audible.

"Let's go," Joe said, shoving open the door. Phoebe followed him down the front steps, noticing as she did that Joe was wiping at his eyes with an oil-stained thumb, flicking away an invisible tear. Johnny saw them coming and turned down the heavy-metal CD he'd been listening to.

Joe turned back to Phoebe and gave a mirthless laugh.

"Every day is a goddam funeral," he said so that only she could hear. Then he called up for his wife and son to get moving, and as he climbed into the front seat of the waiting car, he yelled at his living son to not play his goddam music so goddam loud. There were two groups of people outside the steps of the courthouse. Three, counting the thin row of policemen standing between the two main groups. On the right, a dozen or so people clustered around a middle-aged man in a suit. He was shouting into a megaphone and holding a placard that said "Free Peter Martinsburg." Beside him a woman wearing equally conservative clothing had a sign that said "Pro Life" in bold black letters. There was a biblical quote or two which, bizarrely, were accompanied by a photograph of Reverend Nathan Mathers, who had a number of books out condemning the zombies as evil harbingers of an impending apocalypse. Phoebe wondered if the protestors thought the quotes they bore were actually attributable to Mathers and not the authors of the Bible.

Across from them were a loose collection of mostly young

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people, some dead, most of whom were sporting black Slydellco T-shirts, the ones with semi-humorous, semi-political sayings like "Some of My Best Friends Are Dead" or "Got Zombie?" Karen was there, along with Colette and Margi. Thorny and his supposedly ex-girlfriend Haley were holding hands. Phoebe spotted Tayshawn toward the back, talking to Kevin Zumbrowski. The zombie contingent didn't have any signs, unless you counted the slogans on their T-shirts, and spent most of their time watching the more organized, vocal demonstrators along the way. One surprise was that a few of Adam's football teammates were there, wearing their Badger letter jackets.

"Look, Adam," she said, pointing to them, "look at all your friends."

Adam stared out the window. One of the football players was taking pictures of the protestors with his cell phone.

"Get ...hurt," he said. Johnny had already found a parking spot by the time he finished his sentence.

"They won't get hurt," she said. "The police will keep things quiet." She was trying to believe that, but there was real anger in some of the faces in the "Free Peter" crowd. That killing a teenaged boy could be in any way justifiable seemed an insane concept, but she knew that Pete had plenty of supporters because of his stated intention, of "protecting a living girl" from a zombie.

She didn't know if prison was the right answer, but Pete Martinsburg definitely needed help of some sort.

"There's a side door over here," Joe said. "Let's try to avoid the crowd."

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Phoebe looked back, praying that no one on either side would do anything foolish. She was looking at Tayshawn as she whispered her prayer.

She led Adam into the empty courtroom, where a lone, unsmiling bailiff stood by the American flag at the front of the room.

"There's a step," she said, leading Adam toward the front row, just behind the tables where the defense and the prosecution set up. A low hum came from gratings high in the wall where ductwork pumped warm air into the room. Outside, it was chilly, even for a New England November. Adam was still taking his seat when Joe, Adam's mother, and his stepbrother Johnny entered the courtroom in a noisy bustle. They were followed by State's Attorney Lainey, who looked like she already had a headache as she fielded questions from Joe and his wife.

The springs on the stadium-style seat squealed as Adam sat. Phoebe tapped his arm.

"Are you nervous?" she asked.

The shake of his head was barely perceptible.

Tommy appeared at the door of the courtroom with his mother, Faith. His appearance startled Phoebe into giving him a quick wave. She hadn't expected to see him. She should have known, though, that if anything powered Tommy, it was his conscience. He and Faith crossed the courtroom and took seats a few rows from the Garrity family, Faith pausing to say hello to Phoebe with a smile that seemed tinged with sadness. Phoebe felt herself flush.

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TC Stavis arrived next, sweaty and uncomfortable in a tight sport jacket and knit tie that was too short for his long, wide body. A large, wheezing man was with him. Stavis didn't look at anyone as he took his seat.

Pete Martinsburg had no problem looking at anyone and everyone. He entered the room with his parents and the rest of the defense team, glaring at Phoebe and Adam as he did so. There was nothing in his expression, not malice, hatred, or regret.

She held Adam's ice-cold hand and prayed that he'd be able to speak when it was his turn.

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CHAPTER NINE

LEFT LEG. RIGHT LEG.
Joe help don't want help. Light all wrong. Amber. Sick. Light hot can't feel heat Phoebe sweating. Pete not sweating. Like a lizard.

Step. Right leg. Left. Face in mirror one pupil wide one smile. My face not my face right leg. All looking. All watching FrankenAdam right leg left right. Waiting to fall. Won't fall. Staring right leg walk walk.

"Bailiff," judge says. "Please help Mr. Layman to the stand." Bailiff takes arm can't feel feel only his disgust. Steers pulls right left leg turn. Sit. Sit Sit. "Please sit, Mr. Layman." Sit. Sitting.

Right arm. Right arm.

"Please raise your right arm. "Do you solemnly swear ...Mr. Layman?"

Right arm. Right arm!

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"Mr. Layman, please raise ...thank you. Do you ..." Speak. Speak. Speak. Speak. "...so help you God?" Speak. Speak.

"Miss Jensen," said judge, "please enter in the record that Mr. Layman nodded, indicating that he does intend to tell the truth, so help him God. Thank you."

Light all wrong. Amber light. Sick like flypaper film on eyes. Eyes one dilated one not. Fat man approaches bench. Guttridge. Guttridge in suit.

"Mr. Layman," says Guttridge, "please, in your own words, tell us what happened on the night of the Oakvale homecoming dance."

Speak. Speak. Speak!

"Mr. Layman?"

Speak. Speak.

"Mr. Layman?"

Speak.

Guttridge turns. "Your Honor, Mr. Layman is behaving as an uncooperative witness." Speak.

"He is trying to speak, Counselor. Give him a moment."

Guttridge throws hands in the air. Speak. Speak. Guttridge turns. Looks in eyes.

"I withdraw the question," Guttridge says. "Let me ask something simpler. Mr. Layman, we are here to determine whether or not my client, Pete Martinsburg, is guilty of murder, are we not?"

Speak. Speak. Spoke.

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"I'm sorry. I didn't quite understand your comment just then. The question is, are you aware we are here to determine whether or not Pete Martinsburg is guilty of murder."

Nod.

"Do you believe that Pete Martinsburg went into the Oxoboxo forest with any premeditation of killing you?"

"Objection. How could the witness possibly know what was in the defendant's head?"

Guttridge puts on an angry face. "Your Honor, if we have to go through the charade of a murder trial when the supposed victim walked into the room under his own power, can't I at least ask whether or not he felt he was murdered?"

"I think 'under his own power' is an exaggeration," says judge, "but I will allow the question. Mr. Layman?"

Speak. Speak speak speak speak.

Speak. "No."

Didn't sound like "no" sounded like crack crash like explosion deep inside a mountain. Someone screamed.

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CHAPTER TEN

TAK WATCHED
George drag his carcass over to a squat mausoleum, following Popeye around the graveyard like an imprinted duck. George held his arms in front of him, his fingers grubby, his nails long and black. He was carrying a box of paper sheets that bore his likeness.

Wind whipped through Tak's smile as he ripped off a thick band of electrical tape and slapped another sheet onto a tombstone. He stepped back to view Popeye's creation.

I
want you , the flyer read, over a murky picture of George he'd taken at the Haunted House. George's head was cocked to the side, his ragged corduroy jacket open, revealing a shredded T-shirt that gave glimpses of his rib cage. The flash of the camera had put a maniacal glint in his eyes, and he looked like he was smiling. He was pointing at the camera, his obviously broken pinky askew at an impossible angle, some of his

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knucklebones visible beneath skin that looked ready to slide off his hands. The words
FOR THE U.S. ARMY!
were in the same red, white, and blue lettering below his picture.

And beneath this, in a smaller blocky type,
SPONSORED BY THE UNDEAD STATES OF AMERICA ARMY.

Tak thought the flyer was genius. In addition to plastering the cemetery with the flyers, Tayshawn and other trulydeads-- zombies who had no interest in rejoining beating heart society--were putting up still more of the copies at local funeral homes and at Oakvale High.

When they were done, Popeye and Tak met beneath a stone angel, waiting for George to catch up.

"Does he ...have any copies ...left?" Tak asked.

Popeye nodded. "We've got a quarter box, maybe. You know, there is ... a real... recruiting station a couple miles up."

"Let's do ...it," Tak said. Popeye had fewer gaps in his speech when he was in the act of making one of his art pieces a reality. "We have a few hours ...until the breathers awake."

Popeye called for George, who was rooting around in a pile of leaves that had collected in the doorway of a mausoleum. George lifted his head at the sound of his name and shuffled toward them.

"What has he ... got there?" Tak asked. George had the box of flyers under one arm and was holding something in his other hand.

George tripped over a low headstone and went face-first into the frost covered earth. The box of flyers tumbled open, some of them blowing across the cemetery. Popeye shook his head.

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"We haven't got... all night," he said. He and Tak went to salvage what flyers they could as George slowly got to his feet. When he rose they saw that he was clutching a dead squirrel by the tail.

"Nice," Popeye said, smiling. "Did you just ...catch him, George? Or was he already dead?"

They watched as George brought the squirrel to the ragged slash of his mouth and bit into it.

"Why does he ... do that?" Popeye asked. George was munching on the creature, bones, fur, and all, with a suspicious, greedy expression on his face, as though he were afraid that Tak and Popeye might want to take it from him.

"He thinks he's ...supposed to," Tak said.

"Dying must have ...fried his brain," Popeye said as George looked up at him, the squirrel clenched firmly in his teeth. "Now there's the picture ... we should have used on the flyers."

"Who's to ...say?" Tak said. "Maybe ...George ... is doing what he's supposed ... to be doing."

George stared back at him, and Tak thought there may have been the briefest flicker of emotion on his gray, puttylike face as he chewed, but probably not. George was the least expressive zombie that Tak had ever seen. It was almost as if George had no interest in trying to become more like the traditionally biotic boy he'd been prior to death. Tak didn't know if he walked with his arms outstretched because he had to, or because he wanted to. Nobody knew where George came from or how he'd found the Haunted House. He just showed up on